_29th January, 1798._--Lord Lansdown, Misses Vernon and Fox, Messrs Lewis, Jekyll,[189] and Beauclerk dined here. Ld. L. never dines out, so his coming was a distinguished mark of favour. His character is a monstrous compound of virtues and failings; the world has never done him justice for his ample portion of the former. A simple, well-meaning man once said, ‘What a pity ’tis that Mr. Fox has no private character, and Ld. L. no public one.’ His temper is violent, and his disposition suspicious; a man with whom it is impossible to live upon an equality, as he expects a deference to his will that few are willing to yield further than his rank and years demand. He is of a noble, generous inclination when he can serve a friend, and all who have been connected with him have felt his liberality in some shape or other. There are those whose fortunes he has made and whose families he has provided for with splendour even. His disputes with Ld. Wycombe ought not to prove him unreasonable, for he has an eccentric and impracticable character to deal with, who is to the full as suspicious as himself and as jealous of control. The collision of two such dispositions frequently kindles up a furious flame, but at the bottom each loves the other too well for the rage to settle into permanent estrangement, but every moment of each of their lives is embittered by interference on one part and resistance on the other. Ld. L., in his old age, surrounded with dignities and wealth, is helpless, and more an object of pity than of envy. He has no friend. Colonel Barré, who went through life with him, he has broken with; the cause of their quarrel is a mystery. He loves the society of women, and has lost two wives. His son, whom he meant to make a tool for his ambition and to live over again in his political career, shuns the line he designed him for, and is an alien to his country. The character of his second son[190] is not yet developed. His home is a vast solitude, and but for the three ladies must be insufferable. Old age and the whole train of infirmities is coming on apace, and he must pass through many wretched hours without hearing the tender, cheering voice of friendship to soothe him. He always makes me melancholy, to fancy the anguish he must at times endure. When he was in Ministry many of the squibs of the day had compared him to the Jesuit Malagrida. Goldsmith, with his usual simplicity, said to him, ‘I wonder, my Lord, at their comparing you to Malagrida, for he was a very honest man.’ [Sidenote: DUKE OF NORFOLK’S SPEECH]