because he was
tired of it, or thought he could make a better thing of democracy. If he
conquered his passions, it was, like St Evremond--by indulging them.

'"Honest Tom Duncombe!" We never heard him so designated before except
in pleasantry. "As honest as any man living, that is an old man, and not
honester than I." We cannot go further than Verges; it is a stretch of
charity to go so far when we call to mind the magnificent reversion and
the French jobs. A ruined spendthrift, although he may have many good
qualities, can never, strictly speaking, be termed honest. It is absurd
to say of him that he is nobody's enemy but his own--with family,
friends, and tradespeople paying the penalty for his self-indulgence.
He must be satisfied to be called honourable--to be charged with no
transgression of the law of honour; which Paley defines as "a system
of rules constructed by people of fashion, and calculated to facilitate
their intercourse with one another, _AND FOR NO OTHER PURPOSE_."

'There was one quality of honesty, however, which "honest Tom Duncombe"
did possess. He was not a hypocrite. He was not devoid of right feeling.
He had plenty of good sense; and it would have given him a sickening
pang on his death-bed to think that his frailties were to be perpetuated
by his descendants; that he was to be pointed out as a shining star to
guide, instead of a beacon-fire to warn. "No," he would have said, if he
could have anticipated this most ill-chosen, however well-intentioned,
tribute, "spare me this terrible irony. Do not provoke the inevitable
retort. Say of me, if you must say anything, that I was not a bad
man, though an erring one; that I was kindly disposed towards my
fellow-creatures; that I did some good in my generation, and was able
and willing to do more, but that I heedlessly wasted time, money,
health, intellect, personal gifts, social advantages and opportunities;
that my career was a failure, and my whole scheme of life a melancholy
mistake."'(134)

(134) _Times_, Jan. 7, 1868.

This is a terrible rejoinder to a son endeavouring to raise a monument
to his beloved and respected parent. But, if we will rake up rottenness
from the grave--rottenness in which we are interested--we must take our
chance whether we shall find a Hamlet who will say, 'Alas! poor Yorick!'
and say _NO MORE_ than the musing Dane upon the occasion.

WAS THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON A GAMESTER?

A few years after the battle of Wat