`The colouring of political friends, which concealed his vices,
or rather which gave them a false hue, has long since faded away.
We now know Fox as he _WAS_. In the latest journals of Horace
Walpole his inveterate gambling, his open profligacy, his utter
want of honour, is disclosed by one of his own opinion.
Corrupted ere yet he had left his home, whilst in age a boy,
there is, however, the comfort of reflecting that he outlived his
vices which seem to have "cropped out" by his ancestral
connection in the female line with the reprobate Charles II.,
whom he was thought to resemble in features. Fox,
afterwards, with a green apron tied round his waist, pruning and
nailing up his fruit trees at St Ann's Hill, or amusing himself
innocently with a few friends, is a pleasing object to remember,
even whilst his early career occurs forcibly to the mind.'