Would not the truth have burst from any man of common generosity, honour, or honesty?--Would not a man who had any feeling, conscience, or shame, supposing he could have resolved to keep his secret, at this instant, have been ready to sink into the earth with confusion, under this unmerited praise?--In availing himself falsely of a title to esteem and confidence, then fraudulently of another’s talents to obtain favour, honour, and emolument, would not a blush, or silence, some awkwardness, or some hesitation, have betrayed him to eyes far less penetrating than those of Lord Oldborough? Yet nothing of this was felt by Cunningham: he made, with a good grace, all the disqualifying speeches of a modest author, repeated his thanks and assurances of grateful attachment, and retired triumphant.--It must be acknowledged that he was fit for a diplomatist. His credentials were forthwith made out in form, and his instructions, public and private, furnished. No expense was spared in fitting him out for his embassy--his preparations made, his suite appointed, his liveries finished, his carriage at the door, he departed in grand style; and all Commissioner Falconer’s friends, of which, at this time, he could not fail to have many, poured in with congratulations on the rapid advancement of his sons, and on all sides exclamations were heard in favour of _friends in power_. “True--very true, indeed. And see what it is,” said Commissioner Falconer, turning to Buckhurst, “see what it is to have a son so perverse, that he will not make use of a good friend when he has one, and who will not accept the promise of an excellent living when he can get it!” All his friends and acquaintance now joining in one chorus told Buckhurst, in courtly terms, that he was a fool, and Buckhurst began to think they must be right.--“For here,” said he to himself, “are my two precious brothers finely provided for, one an envoy, the other a major _in esse_, and a lieutenant-colonel _in posse_--and I, _in esse_ and _in posse_, what?--Nothing but a good fellow--one day with the four in hand club, the next in my chambers, studying the law, by which I shall never make a penny. And there’s Miss Caroline Percy, who has declined the honour of my hand, no doubt, merely because I have indulged a little in good company, instead of immuring myself with Coke and Blackstone, Viner and Saunders, Bosanquet and Puller, or chaining myself to a special-pleader’s desk, like cousin Alfred, that galley-slave of the law!--No, no, I’ll not make a galley-slave of myself. Besides, at my mother’s, in all that set, and in the higher circles with Hauton and the Clays, and those people, whenever I appear in the character of a poor barrister, I am scouted--should never have _got on_ at all, but for my being a wit--a wit!--and have not I wit enough to make my fortune? As my father says, What hinders me?--My conscience only. And why should my conscience be so cursedly delicate, so unlike other men’s consciences?”