VI.

The Hon. Mr. Candituft had a genius for society. In the marks of a man’s face, he could, he thought, generally interpret the marks of a man’s bank-book. With an unbounded benevolence for all the world, he nevertheless—though he would not avow the instinct—best liked the acquaintance of that portion of society that, raised far above the cares of money, could do the fullest justice to the moral and spiritual and, he would add, the tasteful and elegant man. He looked upon all mankind as brethren; but, still, preferred the elder brethren of the richest branches. And why? Possibly, because it was the condition of humanity to forego so much of its original bloom and goodness in the vulgar pursuit of the vulgar means of life. Not that he did not honour even the horny hand of sordid labour. To be sure; and has been known, on more than one festive occasion, to take the said hand in his own naked palm, at the same time passing a high eulogium on the original profession of Adam. Still, it must be owned, that of the two conditions of Adam, he much preferred the landlord of Eden to the labourer outside.

“Introduce you, my dear sir? To be sure—not that there’s any need of introduction at Jogtrot Hall; think it a family party, sir; a family party.” Such was the cordial outspeaking of the host, Gilbert Carraways, esquire; a fine, simple, hearty, old gentleman; with a bright grey eye; and white, thin, silky[Pg 62] hair. Time had used him like an old friend, kindly, considerately. At three score, Squire Carraways—for such was his dignity throughout Marigolds—carried his years, as a lusty reaper carries a sheaf; with ruddy face and unbent back. “I say to you again, my good friend,” cried the host to Candituft, “think it a family party.”

[Pg 62]

“My dear sir,” said the Hon. Cesar Candituft, catching the hand of his host, and looking almost pathetically into his face, “my dear sir, would that we all had your benevolence! Would that all the world could be brought to think all the world a family party! Look at that man, sir; that very brown man, sir,”—and Candituft pointed to an Indian juggler, who, hired for the day, was crossing the grounds to begin the shew,—“look at that deep-dyed individual, sir; why, I can consider him my brother.”

“Very kind of you,” said Carraways; who, hooking his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets, looked a little slily at the philanthropist. “You never come into the City? Humph! you’d be dreadfully shocked to see so many of your relations with brooms.”

“Of 

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