t arose
from motives of personal economy; and he objected to Mr. Canning's
pension because it took a farthing a year out of his own pocket.

"Another great sachem at the 'Southampton' was Mr. George Mouncey, of
the firm of Mouncey & Gray, solicitors, Staple's Inn. 'He was,' says
Hazlitt, 'the oldest frequenter of the place and the latest sitter-up;
well-informed, unobtrusive, and that sturdy old English character, a
lover of truth and justice. Mouncey never approved of anything unfair or
illiberal, and, though good-natured and gentleman-like, never let an
absurd or unjust proposition pass him without expressing dissent.' He
was much liked by Hazlitt, for they had mutual friends, and Mouncey had
been intimate with most of the wits and men about town for twenty years
before. 'He had in his time known Tobin, Wordsworth, Porson, Wilson,
Paley, and Erskine. He would speak of Paley's pleasantry and unassuming
manners, and describe Porson's deep potations and long quotations at the
"Cider Cellars."' Warming with his theme, Hazlitt goes on in his essay
to etch one memorable evening at the 'Southampton.' A few only were
left, 'like stars at break of day,' the discourse and the ale were
growing sweeter; but Mouncey, Hazlitt, and a man named Wells, alone
remained. The conversation turned on the frail beauties of Charles II.'s
Court, and from thence passed to Count Grammont, their gallant, gay, and
not over-scrupulous historian. Each one cited his favourite passage in
turn; from Jacob Hall, the rope-dancer, they progressed by pleasant
stages of talk to pale Miss Churchill and her fortunate fall from her
horse. Wells then spoke of 'Apuleius and his Golden Ass,' 'Cupid and
Psyche,' and the romance of 'Heliodorus, Theogenes, and Chariclea,'
which, as he affirmed, opened with a pastoral landscape equal to one of
Claude's. 'The night waned,' says the delightful essayist, 'but our
glasses brightened, enriched with the pearls of Grecian story. Our
cup-bearer slept in a corner of the room, like another Endymion, in the
pale rays of a half-extinguished lamp, and, starting up at a fresh
summons for a further supply, he swore it was too late, and was
inexorable to entreaty. Mouncey sat with his hat on and a hectic flush
in his face while any hope remained, but as soon as we rose to go, he
dashed out of the room as quick as lightning, determined not to be the
last. I said some time after to the waiter that "Mr. Mouncey was no
flincher." "Oh, s