rate Whig"!

"Paul," he was wont to observe, "believe me, moderate Whiggism is a most
excellent creed. It adapts itself to every possible change, to every
conceivable variety of circumstance. It is the only politics for us who
are the aristocrats of that free body who rebel against tyrannical laws;
for, hang it, I am none of your democrats. Let there be dungeons and
turnkeys for the low rascals who whip clothes from the hedge where
they hang to dry, or steal down an area in quest of a silver spoon;
but houses of correction are not made for men who have received an
enlightened education,--who abhor your petty thefts as much as a justice
of peace. can do,--who ought never to be termed dishonest in their
dealings, but, if they are found out, 'unlucky in their speculations'!
A pretty thing, indeed, that there should be distinctions of rank among
other members of the community, and none among us! Where's your boasted
British Constitution, I should like to know, where are your privileges
of aristocracy, if I, who am a gentleman born, know Latin, and have
lived in the best society, should be thrust into this abominable place
with a dirty fellow who was born in a cellar, and could never earn more
at a time than would purchase a sausage? No, no! none of your levelling
principles for me! I am liberal, Paul, and love liberty; but, thank
Heaven, I despise your democracies!"

Thus, half in earnest, half veiling a natural turn to sarcasm, would
this moderate Whig run on for the hour together during those long
nights, commencing at half-past four, in which he and Paul bore each
other company.

One evening, when Tomlinson was so bitterly disposed to be prolix that
Paul felt himself somewhat wearied by his eloquence, our hero, desirous
of a change in the conversation, reminded Augustus of his promise to
communicate his history; and the philosophical Whig, nothing loath to
speak of himself, cleared his throat, and began.

"Never mind who was my father, nor what was my native place! My first
ancestor was Tommy Linn (his heir became Tom Linn's son),--you have
heard the ballad made in his praise,

"'Tommy Linn is a Scotchman born,
His head is bald and his beard is shorn;
He had a cap made of a hare skin,
An elder man is Tommy Limn!'

"There was a sort of prophecy respecting my ancestor's descendants
darkly insinuated in the concluding stanza of this ballad:--

"