_Mr. Forester._ He condescends much more in being a sycophant. The poorest barber in the poorest borough in England, who will not sell his vote, is a much more honourable character in the estimate of moral comparison than the most self-satisfied dealer in courtly poetry, whose well-paid eulogiums of licentiousness and corruption were ever re-echoed by the ‘most sweet voices’ of hireling gazetteers and pensioned reviewers. The summons to tea and coffee put a stop to the conversation. CHAPTER XVII MUSIC AND DISCORD The evenings were beginning to give symptoms of winter, and a large fire was blazing in the library. Mr. Forester took the opportunity of stigmatising the use of sugar, and had the pleasure of observing that the practice of Anthelia in this respect was the same as his own. He mentioned his intention of giving an anti-saccharine festival at Redrose Abbey, and invited all the party at Melincourt to attend it. He observed that his aunt, Miss Evergreen, who would be there at the time, would send an invitation in due form to the ladies, to remove all scruples on the score of propriety; and added, that if he could hope for the attendance of half as much moral feeling as he was sure there would be of beauty and fashion, he should be satisfied that a great step would be made towards accomplishing the object of the Anti-saccharine Society. The Reverend Mr. Grovelgrub felt extremely indignant at Mr. Forester’s notion ‘of every real enemy to slavery being bound by the strictest moral duty to practical abstinence from the luxury which slavery acquires’; but when he found that the notion was to be developed in the shape of a festival, he determined to suspend his judgment till he had digested the solid arguments that were to be brought forward on the occasion. Mr. O’Scarum was, as usual, very clamorous for music, and was seconded by the unanimous wish of the company, with which Anthelia readily complied, and sang as follows: THE FLOWER OF LOVE ’Tis said the rose is Love’s own flower, Its blush so bright, its thorns so many; And winter on its bloom has power, But has not on its sweetness any. For though young Love’s ethereal rose Will droop on Age’s wintry bosom, Yet still its faded leaves disclose The fragrance of their earliest blossom. But ah! the fragrance lingering there Is like the sweets that mournful duty Bestows with sadly-soothing care, To deck the grave of bloom and beauty. For when its leaves are shrunk and dry, Its blush extinct, to kindle never, That fragrance is but Memory’s sigh, That breathes of pleasures past for ever.