CHAPTER XXXVII. 

What a charming character is a kind old man. --STEPHEN MONTAGUE. 

"Cheer up, my dear boy, " said Talbot, kindly, "we must never despair. What though Lady Westborough has forbidden you the boudoir, a boudoiris a very different thing from a daughter, and you have no right tosuppose that the veto extends to both. But now that we are on thissubject, do let me reason with you seriously. Have you not alreadytasted all the pleasures, and been sufficiently annoyed by some of thepains, of acting the 'Incognito'? Be ruled by me: resume your propername; it is at least one which the proudest might acknowledge; and itsdiscovery will remove the greatest obstacle to the success which youso ardently desire. "

Clarence, who was labouring under strong excitement, paused for somemoments, as if to collect himself, before he replied: "I have beenthrust from my father's home; I have been made the victim of another'scrime; I have been denied the rights and name of son; perhaps (and Isay this bitterly) justly denied them, despite of my own innocence. What would you have me do? Resume a name never conceded to me, --perhaps not righteously mine, --thrust myself upon the unwilling andshrinking hands which disowned and rejected me; blazon my virtues bypretensions which I myself have promised to forego, and foist myselfon the notice of strangers by the very claims which my nearestrelations dispute? Never! never! never! With the simple name I haveassumed; the friend I myself have won, --you, my generous benefactor, my real father, who never forsook nor insulted me for my misfortunes, --with these I have gained some steps in the ladder; with these, andthose gifts of nature, a stout heart and a willing hand, of which nonecan rob me, I will either ascend the rest, even to the summit, or fallto the dust, unknown, but not contemned; unlamented, but notdespised. "

"Well, well, " said Talbot, brushing away a tear which he could notdeny to the feeling, even while he disputed the judgment, of the youngadventurer, --"well, this is all very fine and very foolish; but youshall never want friend or father while I live, or when I have ceasedto live; but come, --sit down, share my dinner, which is not very good, and my dessert, which is: help me to entertain two or three guests whoare coming to me in the evening, to talk on literature, sup, andsleep; and to-morrow you shall return home, and see Lady Flora in thedrawing-room if you cannot in the boudoir. "

And Clarence was easily persuaded to accept the invitation. Talbotwas not one of those men who are forced to exert themselves to beentertaining. He had the pleasant and easy way of imparting his greatgeneral and curious information, that a man, partly humourist, partlyphilosopher, who values himself on being a man of letters, and is inspite of himself a man of the world, always ought to possess. Clarence was soon beguiled from the remembrance of his mortifications, and, by little and little, entirely yielded to the airy and happy flowof Talbot's conversation. 

In the evening, three or four men of literary eminence (as many asTalbot's small Tusculum would accommodate with beds) arrived, and in aconversation, free alike from the jargon of pedants and theinsipidities of fashion, the night fled away swiftly and happily, evento the lover. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

We are here (in the country) among the vast and noble scenes ofNature; we are there (in the town) among the pitiful shifts of policy. We walk here in the light and open ways of the divine bounty, --wegrope therein the dark and confused labyrinths of human malice; oursenses are here feasted with all the clear and genuine taste of theirobjects, which are all sophisticated there, and for the most partoverwhelmed with their contraries: here pleasure, methinks, looks likea beautiful, constant, and modest wife; it is there an impudent, fickle, and painted harlot. --COWLEY. 

Draw up the curtain! The scene is the Opera. 

The pit is crowded; the connoisseurs in the front row are in a veryill humour. It must be confessed that extreme heat is a little tryingto the temper of a critic. 

The Opera then was not what it is now, nor even what it had been in aformer time. It is somewhat amusing to find Goldsmith questioning, inone of his essays, whether the Opera could ever become popular inEngland. But on the night--on which the reader is summoned to that"theatre of sweet sounds" a celebrated singer from the Continent madehis first appearance in London, and all the world thronged to "thatodious Opera-house" to hear, or to say they had heard, the famousSopraniello. 

With a nervous step, Clarence proceeded to Lady Westborough's box; andit was many minutes that he lingered by the door before he summonedcourage to obtain admission. 

He entered; the box was crowded; but Lady Flora was not there. LordBorodaile was sitting next to Lady Westborough. As Clarence entered, Lord Borodaile raised his eyebrows, and Lady Westborough her glass. However disposed a great person may be to drop a lesser one, no one ofreal birth or breeding ever cuts another. Lady Westborough, therefore, though much colder, was no less civil than usual; and LordBorodaile bowed lower than ever to Mr. Linden, as he punctiliouslycalled him. But Clarence's quick eye discovered instantly that he wasno welcome intruder, and that his day with the beautiful marchionesswas over. His visit, consequently, was short and embarrassed. Whenhe left the box, he heard Lord Borodaile's short, slow, sneeringlaugh, followed by Lady Westborough's "hush" of reproof. 

His blood boiled. He hurried along the passage, with his eyes fixedupon the ground and his hand clenched. 

"What ho! Linden, my good fellow; why, you look as if all the ferocityof the great Figg were in your veins, " cried a good-humoured voice. Clarence started, and saw the young and high-spirited Duke ofHaverfield. 

"Are you going behind the scenes?" said his grace. "I have just comethence; and you had much better drop into La Meronville's box with me. You sup with her to-night, do you not?

"No, indeed!" replied Clarence; "I scarcely know her, except bysight. "

"Well, and what think you of her?"

"That she is the prettiest Frenchwoman I ever saw. "

"Commend me to secret sympathies!" cried the duke. "She has asked methree times who you were, and told me three times you were thehandsomest man in London and had quite a foreign air; the latterrecommendation being of course far greater than the former. So, afterthis, you cannot refuse to accompany me to her box and make heracquaintance. "

"Nay, " answered Clarence, "I shall be too happy to profit by the tasteof so discerning a person; but it is cruel in you, Duke, not to feigna little jealousy, --a little reluctance to introduce so formidable arival. "

"Oh, as to me, " said the duke, "I only like her for her mental, nother personal, attractions. She is very agreeable, and a little witty;sufficient attractions for one in her situation. "

"But do tell me a little of her history, " said Clarence, "for, inspite of her renown, I only know her as La belle Meronville. Is shenot living en ami with some one of our acquaintance?"

"To be sure, " replied the duke, "with Lord Borodaile. She isprodigiously extravagant; and Borodaile affects to be prodigiouslyfond: but as there is only a certain fund of affection in the humanheart, and all Lord Borodaile's is centred in Lord Borodaile, thatcannot really be the case. "

"Is he jealous of her?" said Clarence. 

"Not in the least! nor indeed, does she give him any cause. She isvery gay, very talkative, gives excellent suppers, and always has herbox at the Opera crowded with admirers; but that is all. Sheencourages many, and favours but one. Happy Borodaile! My lot isless fortunate! You know, I suppose, that Julia has deserted me?"

"You astonish me, --and for what?"

"Oh, she told me, with a vehement burst of tears, that she wasconvinced I did not love her, and that a hundred pounds a month wasnot sufficient to maintain a milliner's apprentice. I answered thefirst assertion by an assurance that I adored her: but I preserved atotal silence with regard to the latter; and so I found Trevaniontete-a-tete with her the next day. "

"What did you?" said Clarence. 

"Sent my valet to Trevanion with an old coat of mine, my compliments, and my hopes that, as Mr. Trevanion was so fond of my cast-offconveniences, he would honour me by accepting the accompanyingtrifle. "

"He challenged you, without doubt?"

"Challenged me! No: he tells all his friends that I am the wittiestman in Europe. "

"A fool can speak the truth, you see, " said Clarence, laughing. 

"Thank you, Linden; you shall have my good word with La Meronville forthat: mais allons. "

Mademoiselle de la Meronville, as she pointedly entitled herself, wasone of those charming adventuresses, who, making the most of a goodeducation and a prepossessing person, a delicate turn for letter-writing, and a lively vein of conversation, came to England for a yearor two, as Spaniards were wont to go to Mexico, and who return totheir native country with a profound contempt for the barbarians whomthey have so egregiously despoiled. Mademoiselle de la Meronville wassmall, beautifully formed, had the prettiest hands and feet in theworld, and laughed musically. By the by, how difficult it is tolaugh, or even to smile, at once naturally and gracefully! It is oneof Steele's finest touches of character, where he says of WillHoneycombe, "He can smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. "

In a word, the pretty Frenchwoman was precisely formed to turn thehead of a man like Lord Borodaile, who loved to be courted and whorequired to be amused. Mademoiselle de la Meronville receivedClarence with a great deal of grace, and a little reserve, the firstchiefly natural, the last wholly artificial. 

"Well, " said the duke (in French), "you have not told me who are to beof your party this evening, --Borodaile, I suppose, of course?"

"No, he cannot come to-night. "

"Ah, quel malheur! then the hock will not be iced enough: Borodaile'slooks are the best wine-coolers in the world. "

"Fie!" cried La Meronville, glancing towards Clarence, "I cannotendure your malevolence; wit makes you very bitter. "

"And that is exactly the reason why La belle Meronville loves me so:nothing is so sweet to one person as bitterness upon another; it ishuman nature and French nature (which is a very different thing) intothe bargain. "

"Bah! my Lord Duke, you judge of others by yourself. "

"To be sure I do, " cried the duke; "and that is the best way offorming a right judgment. Ah! what a foot, that little figurante has;you don't admire her, Linden?"

"No, Duke; my admiration is like the bird in the cage, --chained here, and cannot fly away!" answered Clarence, with a smile at the fripperyof his compliment. 

"Ah, Monsieur, " cried the pretty Frenchwoman, leaning back, "you havebeen at Paris, I see: one does not learn those graces of language inEngland. I have been five months in your country; brought over theprettiest dresses imaginable, and have only received threecompliments, and (pity me!) two out of the three were upon mypronunciation of 'How do you do?'"

"Well, " said Clarence, "I should have imagined that in England, aboveall other countries, your vanity would have been gratified, for youknow we pique ourselves on our sincerity, and say all we think. "

"Yes? then you always think very unpleasantly. What an alternative!which is the best, to speak ill or to think ill of one?"

"Pour l'amour de Dieu, " cried the duke, "don't ask such puzzlingquestions; "you are always getting into those moral subtleties, whichI suppose you learn from Borodaile. He is a wonderful metaphysician, I hear; I can answer for his chemical powers: the moment he enters aroom the very walls grow damp; as for me, I dissolve; I should flowinto a fountain, like Arethusa, if happily his lordship did not freezeone again into substance as fast as he dampens one into thaw. "

"Fi donc!" cried La Meronville. "I should be very angry had you nottaught me to be very indifferent-"

"To him!" said the duke, dryly. "I'm glad to hear it. He is notworth une grande passion, believe me; but tell me, ma belle, who elsesups with you?"

"D'abord, Monsieur Linden, I trust, " answered La Meronville, with alook of invitation, to which Clarence bowed and smiled his assent, "Milord D----, and Monsieur Trevanion, Mademoiselle Caumartin, and LePrince Pietro del Ordino. "

"Nothing can be better arranged, " said the duke. "But see, they arejust going to drop the curtain. Let me call your carriage. "

"You are too good, milord, " replied La Meronville, with a bow whichsaid, "of course;" and the duke, who would not have stirred threepaces for the first princess of the blood, hurried out of the box(despite of Clarence's offer to undertake the commission) to inquireafter the carriage of the most notorious adventuress of the day. 

Clarence was alone in the box with the beautiful Frenchwoman. To saytruth, Linden was far too much in love with Lady Flora, and toooccupied, as to his other thoughts, with the projects of ambition, tobe easily led into any disreputable or criminal liaison; he thereforeconversed with his usual ease, though with rather more than his usualgallantry, without feeling the least touched by the charms of LaMeronville or the least desirous of supplanting Lord Borodaile in herfavour. 

The duke reappeared, and announced the carriage. As, with LaMeronville leaning on his arm, Clarence hurried out, he accidentallylooked up, and saw on the head of the stairs Lady Westborough with herparty (Lord Borodaile among the rest) in waiting for her carriage. For almost the first time in his life, Clarence felt ashamed ofhimself; his cheek burned like fire, and he involuntarily let go thefair hand which was leaning upon his arm. However, the weaker ourcourse the better face we should put upon it, and Clarence, recoveringhis presence of mind, and vainly hoping he had not been perceived, buried his face as well as he was able in the fur collar of his cloak, and hurried on. 

"You saw Lord Borodaile?" said the duke to La Meronville, as he handedher into her carriage. 

"Yes, I accidentally looked back after we had passed him, and then Isaw him. "

"Looked back!" said the duke; "I wonder he did not turn you into apillar of salt. "

"Fi donc!" cried La belle Meronville, tapping his grace playfully onthe arm, in order to do which she was forced to lean a little harderupon Clarence's, which she had not yet relinquished--" Fi donc!Francois, chez moi!"

"My carriage is just behind, " said the duke. "You will go with me toLa Meronville's, of course?"

"Really, my dear duke, " said Clarence, "I wish I could excuse myselffrom this party. I have another engagement. "

"Excuse yourself? and leave me to the mercy of Mademoiselle Caumartin, who has the face of an ostrich, and talks me out of breath! Never, mydear Linden, never! Besides, I want you to see how well I shallbehave to Trevanion. Here is the carriage. Entrez, mon cher. "

And Clarence, weakly and foolishly (but he was very young and veryunhappy, and so, longing for an escape from his own thoughts) enteredthe carriage, and drove to the supper party, in order to prevent theDuke of Haverfield being talked out of breath by MademoiselleCaumartin, who had the face of an ostrich. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

 Yet truth is keenly sought for, and the wind Charged with rich words, poured out in thought's defence; Whether the Church inspire that eloquence, Or a Platonic piety, confined To the sole temple of the inward mind; And one there is who builds immortal lays, Though doomed to tread in solitary ways; Darkness before, and danger's voice behind! Yet not alone-- WORDSWORTH. 

London, thou Niobe, who sittest in stone, amidst thy stricken andfated children; nurse of the desolate, that hidest in thy bosom theshame, the sorrows, the sins of many sons; in whose arms the fallenand the outcast shroud their distresses, and shelter from the proudman's contumely; Epitome and Focus of the disparities and maddeningcontrasts of this wrong world, that assemblest together in one greatheap the woes, the joys, the elevations, the debasements of thevarious tribes of man; mightiest of levellers, confounding in thywhirlpool all ranks, all minds, the graven labours of knowledge, thestraws of the maniac, purple and rags, the regalities and theloathsomeness of earth, --palace and lazar-house combined! Grave ofthe living, where, mingled and massed together, we couch, but restnot, --"for in that sleep of life what dreams do come, "--each vexedwith a separate vision, --"shadows" which "grieve the heart, " unreal intheir substance, but faithful in their warnings, flitting from theeye, but graving unfleeting memories on the mind, which reproduce newdreams over and over, until the phantasm ceases, and the pall of aheavier torpor falls upon the brain, and all is still and dark andhushed! "From the stir of thy great Babel, " and the fixed tinselglare in which sits pleasure like a star, "which shines, but warms notwith its powerless rays, " we turn to thy deeper and more secrethaunts. Thy wilderness is all before us--where to choose our place ofrest; and, to our eyes, thy hidden recesses are revealed. 

The clock of St. Paul's had tolled the second hour of morning. Withina small and humble apartment in the very heart of the city, there sata writer, whose lucubrations, then obscure and unknown, were destined, years afterwards, to excite the vague admiration of the crowd and thedeeper homage of the wise. They were of that nature which is slow inwinning its way to popular esteem; the result of the hived and hoardedknowledge of years; the produce of deep thought and sublimeaspirations, influencing, in its bearings, the interests of the many, yet only capable of analysis by the judgment of the few. But thestream broke forth at last from the cavern to the daylight, althoughthe source was never traced; or, to change the image, --albeit noneknow the hand which executed and the head which designed, the monumentof a mighty intellect has been at length dug up, as it were, from theenvious earth, the brighter for its past obscurity, and the morecertain of immortality from the temporary neglect it has sustained. 

The room was, as we before said, very small, and meanly furnished; yetwere there a few articles of costliness and luxury scattered about, which told that the tastes of its owner had not been quite humbled tothe level of his fortunes. One side of the narrow chamber was coveredwith shelves, which supported books in various languages, and thoughchiefly on scientific subjects, not utterly confined to them. Amongthe doctrines of the philosopher, and the golden rules of themoralist, were also seen the pleasant dreams of poets, the legends ofSpenser, the refining moralities of Pope, the lofty errors ofLucretius, and the sublime relics of our "dead kings of melody. "[Shakspeare and Milton] And over the hearth was a picture, taken inmore prosperous days, of one who had been and was yet to the tenant ofthat abode, better than fretted roofs and glittering banquets, theobjects of ambition, or even the immortality of fame. It was the faceof one very young and beautiful, and the deep, tender eyes lookeddown, as with a watchful fondness, upon the lucubrator and hislabours. While beneath the window, which was left unclosed, for itwas scarcely June, were simple yet not inelegant vases, filled withflowers, --

 "Those lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave. " [Herrick]

The writer was alone, and had just paused from his employment; he wasleaning his face upon one hand, in a thoughtful and earnest mood, andthe air which came chill, but gentle, from the window, slightlystirred the locks from the broad and marked brow, over which they fellin thin but graceful waves. Partly owing perhaps to the waning lightof the single lamp and the lateness of the hour, his cheek seemed verypale, and the complete though contemplative rest of the featurespartook greatly of the quiet of habitual sadness, and a little of thelanguor of shaken health; yet the expression, despite the proud castof the brow and profile, was rather benevolent than stern or dark inits pensiveness, and the lines spoke more of the wear and harrow ofdeep thought than the inroads of ill-regulated passion. 

There was a slight tap at the door; the latch was raised, and theoriginal of the picture I have described entered the apartment. 

Time had not been idle with her since that portrait had been taken:the round elastic figure had lost much of its youth and freshness; thestep, though light, was languid, and in the centre of the fair, smoothcheek, which was a little sunken, burned one deep bright spot, --fatalsign to those who have watched the progress of the most deadly anddeceitful of our national maladies; yet still the form and countenancewere eminently interesting and lovely; and though the bloom was goneforever, the beauty, which not even death could wholly have despoiled, remained to triumph over debility, misfortune, and disease. 

She approached the student, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. 

"Dearest!" said he, tenderly yet reproachfully, "yet up, and the hourso late and yourself so weak? Fie, I must learn to scold you. "

"And how, " answered the intruder, "how could I sleep or rest while youare consuming your very life in those thankless labours?"

"By which, " interrupted the writer, with a faint smile, "we glean ourscanty subsistence. "

"Yes, " said the wife (for she held that relation to the student), andthe tears stood in her eyes, "I know well that every morsel of bread, every drop of water, is wrung from your very heart's blood, and I--Iam the cause of all; but surely you exert yourself too much, more thancan be requisite? These night damps, this sickly and chilling air, heavy with the rank vapours of the coming morning, are not suited tothoughts and toils which are alone sufficient to sear your mind andexhaust your strength. Come, my own love, to bed; and yet first comeand look upon our child, how sound she sleeps! I have leaned over herfor the last hour, and tried to fancy it was you whom I watched, forshe has learned already your smile and has it even when she sleeps. "

"She has cause to smile, " said the husband, bitterly. 

"She has, for she is yours! and even in poetry and humble hopes, thatis an inheritance which may well teach her pride and joy. Come, love, the air is keen, and the damp rises to your forehead, --yet stay, tillI have kissed it away. "

"Mine own love, " said the student, as he rose and wound his arm roundthe slender waist of his wife, "wrap your shawl closer over yourbosom, and let us look for one instant upon the night. I cannot sleeptill I have slaked the fever of my blood: the air has nothing ofcoldness in its breath for me. "

And they walked to the window and looked forth. All was hushed andstill in the narrow street; the cold gray clouds were hurrying fastalong the sky; and the stars, weak and waning in their light, gleamedforth at rare intervals upon the mute city, like expiring watch-lampsof the dead. 

They leaned out and spoke not; but when they looked above upon themelancholy heavens, they drew nearer to each other, as if it weretheir natural instinct to do so whenever the world without seemeddiscouraging and sad. 

At length the student broke the silence; but his thoughts, which werewandering and disjointed, were breathed less to her than vaguely andunconsciously to himself. "Morn breaks, --another and another!--dayupon day!--while we drag on our load like the blind beast which knowsnot when the burden shall be cast off and the hour of rest be come. "

The woman pressed her hand to her bosom, but made no rejoinder--sheknew his mood--and the student continued, --"And so life frets itselfaway! Four years have passed over our seclusion--four years! a greatsegment in the little circle of our mortality; and of those years whatday has pleasure won from labour, or what night has sleep snatchedwholly from the lamp? Weaker than the miser, the insatiable andrestless mind traverses from east to west; and from the nooks, andcorners, and crevices of earth collects, fragment by fragment, grainby grain, atom by atom, the riches which it gathers to its coffers--for what?--to starve amidst the plenty! The fantasies of theimagination bring a ready and substantial return: not so the treasuresof thought. Better that I had renounced the soul's labour for that ofits hardier frame--better that I had 'sweated in the eye of Phoebus, 'than 'eat my heart with crosses and with cares, '--seeking truth andwanting bread--adding to the indigence of poverty its humiliation;wroth with the arrogance of men, who weigh in the shallow scales oftheir meagre knowledge the product of lavish thought, and of the hardhours for which health, and sleep, and spirit have been exchanged;--sharing the lot of those who would enchant the old serpent of evil, which refuses the voice of the charmer!--struggling against theprejudice and bigoted delusion of the bandaged and fettered herd towhom, in our fond hopes and aspirations, we trusted to give light andfreedom; seeing the slavish judgments we would have redeemed fromerror clashing their chains at us in ire;--made criminal by our verybenevolence;--the martyrs whose zeal is rewarded with persecution, whose prophecies are crowned with contempt!--Better, oh, better that Ihad not listened to the vanity of a heated brain--better that I hadmade my home with the lark and the wild bee, among the fields and thequiet hills, where life, if obscurer, is less debased, and hope, ifless eagerly indulged, is less bitterly disappointed. The frame, itis true, might have been bowed to a harsher labour, but the heartwould at least have had its rest from anxiety, and the mind itsrelaxation from thought. "

The wife's tears fell upon the hand she clasped. The student turned, and his heart smote him for the selfishness of his complaint. He drewher closer and closer to his bosom; and gazing fondly upon those eyeswhich years of indigence and care might have robbed of their younglustre, but not of their undying tenderness, he kissed away her tears, and addressed her in a voice which never failed to charm her griefinto forgetfulness. 

"Dearest and kindest, " he said, "was I not to blame for accusing thoseprivations or regrets which have only made us love each other themore? Trust me, mine own treasure, that it is only in the peevishnessof an inconstant and fretful humour that I have murmured against myfortune. For, in the midst of all, I look upon you, my angel, mycomforter, my young dream of love, which God, in His mercy, breathedinto waking life--I look upon you, and am blessed and grateful. Norin my juster moments do I accuse even the nature of these studies, though they bring us so scanty a reward. Have I not hours of secretand overflowing delight, the triumphs of gratified research--flashesof sudden light, which reward the darkness of thought, and light up mysolitude as a revel?--These feelings of rapture, which nought butScience can afford, amply repay her disciples for worse evils andseverer handships than it has been my destiny to endure. Look alongthe sky, how the vapours struggle with the still yet feeble stars:even so have the mists of error been pierced, though not scattered, bythe dim but holy lights of past wisdom, and now the morning is athand, and in that hope we journey on, doubtful, but not utterly indarkness. Nor is this all my hope; there is a loftier and more steadycomfort than that which mere philosophy can bestow. If the certaintyof future fame bore Milton rejoicing through his blindness, or cheeredGalileo in his dungeon, what stronger and holier support shall not begiven to him who has loved mankind as his brothers, and devoted hislabours to their cause?--who has not sought, but relinquished, his ownrenown?---who has braved the present censures of men for their futurebenefit, and trampled upon glory in the energy of benevolence? Willthere not be for him something more powerful than fame to comfort hissufferings and to sustain his hopes? If the wish of mere posthumoushonour be a feeling rather vain than exalted, the love of our raceaffords us a more rational and noble desire of remembrance. Come whatwill, that love, if it animates our toils and directs our studies, shall when we are dust make our relics of value, our efforts of avail, and consecrate the desire of fame, which were else a passion selfishand impure, by connecting it with the welfare of ages and the eternalinterests of the world and its Creator! Come, we will to bed. "

CHAPTER XL. 

A man may be formed by nature for an admirable citizen, and yet, fromthe purest motives, be a dangerous one to the State in which theaccident of birth has placed him. --STEPHEN MONTAGUE. 

The night again closed. , and the student once more resumed hislabours. The spirit of his hope and comforter of his toils sat byhim, ever and anon lifting her fond eyes from her work to gaze uponhis countenance, to sigh, and to return sadly and quietly to heremployment. 

A heavy step ascended the stairs, the door opened, and the tall figureof Wolfe, the republican, presented itself. The female rose, pushed achair towards him with a smile and grace suited to better fortunes, and, retiring from the table, reseated herself silent and apart. 

"It is a fine night, " said the student, when the mutual greetings wereover. "Whence come you?"

"From contemplating human misery and worse than human degradation, "replied Wolfe, slowly seating himself. 

"Those words specify no place: they apply universally, " said thestudent, with a sigh. 

"Ay, Glendower, for misgovernment is universal, " rejoined Wolfe. 

Glendower made no answer. 

"Oh!" said Wolfe, in the low, suppressed tone of intense passion whichwas customary to him, "it maddens me to look upon the willingness withwhich men hug their trappings of slavery, --bears, proud of the ragswhich deck and the monkeys which ride them. But it frets me yet morewhen some lordling sweeps along, lifting his dull eyes above the foolswhose only crime and debasement are--what?--their subjection to him!Such a one I encountered a few nights since; and he will remember themeeting longer than I shall. I taught that 'god to tremble. '"

The female rose, glanced towards her husband, and silently withdrew. 

Wolfe paused for a few moments, looked curiously and pryingly round, and then rising went forth into the passage to see that no loiterer orlistener was near; returned, and drawing his chair close to Glendower, fixed his dark eye upon him, and said, --

"You are poor, and your spirit rises against your lot, you are just, and your heart swells against the general oppression you behold: canyou not dare to remedy your ills and those of mankind?"

"I can dare, " said Glendower, calmly, though haughtily, all things butcrime. "

"And which is crime?--the rising against, or the submission to, evilgovernment? Which is crime, I ask you?"

"That which is the most imprudent, " answered Glendower. 

"We may sport in ordinary cases with our own safeties, but only inrare cases with the safety of others. "

Wolfe rose, and paced the narrow room impatiently to and fro. Hepaused by the window and threw it open. "Come here, " he cried, --"comeand look out. "

Glendower did so; all was still and quiet. 

"Why did you call me?" said he; "I see nothing. "

"Nothing!" exclaimed Wolfe; "look again; look on yon sordid andsqualid huts; look at yon court, that from this wretched street leadsto abodes to which these are as palaces; look at yon victims of viceand famine, plying beneath the midnight skies their filthy andinfectious trade. Wherever you turn your eyes, what see you? Misery, loathsomeness, sin! Are you a man, and call you these nothing? Andnow lean forth still more; see afar off, by yonder lamp, the mansionof ill-gotten and griping wealth. He who owns those buildings, whatdid he that he should riot while we starve? He wrung from the negro'stears and bloody sweat the luxuries of a pampered and vitiated taste;he pandered to the excesses of the rich; he heaped their tables withthe product of a nation's groans. Lo!--his reward! He is rich, prosperous, honoured! He sits in the legislative assembly; hedeclaims against immorality; he contends for the safety of propertyand the equilibrium of ranks. Transport yourself from this spot foran instant; imagine that you survey the gorgeous homes of aristocracyand power, the palaces of the west. What see you there?--the fewsucking, draining, exhausting the blood, the treasure, the veryexistence of the many. Are we, who are of the many, wise to sufferit?"

"Are we of the many?" said Glendower. 

"We could be, " said Wolfe, hastily. 

"I doubt it;" replied Glendower. 

"Listen, " said the republican, laying his hand upon Glendower'sshoulder, "listen to me. There are in this country men whose spiritsnot years of delayed hope, wearisome persecution, and, bitterer thanall, misrepresentation from some and contempt from others, have yetquelled and tamed. We watch our opportunity; the growing distress ofthe country, the increasing severity and misrule of theadministration, will soon afford it us. Your talents, yourbenevolence, render you worthy to join us. Do so, and--"

"Hush!" interrupted the student; "you know not what you say: you weighnot the folly, the madness of your design! I am a man more fallen, more sunken, more disappointed than you. I, too, have had at my heartthe burning and lonely hope which, through years of misfortune andwant, has comforted me with the thought of serving and enlighteningmankind, --I, too, have devoted to the fulfilment of that hope, daysand nights, in which the brain grew dizzy and the heart heavy andclogged with the intensity of my pursuits. Were the dungeon and thescaffold my reward Heaven knows that I would not flinch eye or hand orabate a jot of heart and hope in the thankless prosecution of mytoils. Know me, then, as one of fortunes more desperate than yourown; of an ambition more unquenchable; of a philanthropy no lessardent; and, I will add, of a courage no less firm: and behold theutter hopelessness of your projects with others, when to me they onlyappear the visions of an enthusiast. "

Wolfe sank down in the chair. 

"Is it even so?" said he, slowly and musingly. "Are my hopes butdelusions? Has my life been but one idle, though convulsive dream?Is the goddess of our religion banished from this great and populousearth to the seared and barren hearts of a few solitary worshippers, whom all else despise as madmen or persecute as idolaters? And if so, shall we adore her the less?---No! though we perish in her cause, itis around her altar that our corpses shall be found!"

"My friend, " said Glendower, kindly, for he was touched by thesincerity though opposed to the opinions of the republican, "the nightis yet early: we will sit down to discuss our several doctrines calmlyand in the spirit of truth and investigation. "

"Away!" cried Wolfe, rising and slouching his hat over his bent andlowering brows; "away! I will not listen to you: I dread yourreasonings; I would not have a particle of my faith shaken. If I err, I have erred from my birth, --erred with Brutus and Tell, Hampden andMilton, and all whom the thousand tribes and parties of earthconsecrate with their common gratitude and eternal reverence. In thaterror I will die! If our party can struggle not with hosts, there mayyet arise some minister with the ambition of Caesar, if not hisgenius, --of whom a single dagger can rid the earth!"

"And if not?" said Glendower. 

"I have the same dagger for myself!" replied Wolfe, as he closed thedoor. 

CHAPTER XLI. 

Bolingbroke has said that "Man is his own sharper and his own bubble;"and certainly he who is acutest in duping others is ever the mostingenious in outwitting himself. The criminal is always a sophist;and finds in his own reason a special pleader to twist laws human anddivine into a sanction of his crime. The rogue is so much in thehabit of cheating, that he packs the cards even when playing atPatience with himself. --STEPHEN MONTAGUE. 

The only two acquaintances in this populous city whom Glendowerpossessed who were aware that in a former time he had known a betterfortune were Wolfe and a person of far higher worldly estimation, ofthe name of Crauford. With the former the student had becomeacquainted by the favour of chance, which had for a short time madethem lodgers in the same house. Of the particulars of Glendower'searliest history Wolfe was utterly ignorant; but the addresses uponsome old letters, which he had accidentally seen, had informed himthat Glendower had formerly borne another name; and it was easy toglean from the student's conversation that something of greaterdistinction and prosperity than he now enjoyed was coupled with theappellation he had renounced. Proud, melancholy, austere, --broodingupon thoughts whose very loftiness received somewhat of additionalgrandeur from the gloom which encircled it, --Glendower found, in theruined hopes and the solitary lot of the republican, that congenialitywhich neither Wolfe's habits nor the excess of his political fervourmight have afforded to a nature which philosophy had rendered moderateand early circumstances refined. Crauford was far better acquaintedthan Wolfe with the reverses Glendower had undergone. Many years agohe had known and indeed travelled with him upon the Continent; sincethen they had not met till about six months prior to the time in whichGlendower is presented to the reader. It was in an obscure street ofthe city that Crauford had then encountered Glendower, whose hauntswere so little frequented by the higher orders of society thatCrauford was the first, and the only one of his former acquaintancewith whom for years he had been brought into contact. That personrecognized him at once, accosted him, followed him home, and threedays afterwards surprised him with a visit. Of manners which, intheir dissimulation, extended far beyond the ordinary ease andbreeding of the world, Crauford readily appeared not to notice thealtered circumstances of his old acquaintance; and, by a tone ofconversation artfully respectful, he endeavoured to remove fromGlendower's mind that soreness which his knowledge of human naturetold him his visit was calculated to create. 

There is a certain species of pride which contradicts the ordinarysymptoms of the feeling, and appears most elevated when it would bereasonable to expect it should be most depressed. Of this sort wasGlendower's. When he received the guest who had known him in hisformer prosperity, some natural sentiment of emotion called, it istrue, to his pale cheek a momentary flush, as he looked round hishumble apartment, and the evident signs of poverty it contained; buthis address was calm and self-possessed, and whatever mortification hemight have felt, no intonation of his voice, no tell-taleembarrassment of manner, revealed it. Encouraged by this air, evenwhile he was secretly vexed by it, and perfectly unable to do justiceto the dignity of mind which gave something of majesty rather thanhumiliation to misfortune, Crauford resolved to repeat his visit, andby intervals, gradually lessening, renewed it, till acquaintanceseemed, though little tinctured, at least on Glendower's side, byfriendship, to assume the semblance of intimacy. It was true, however, that he had something to struggle against in Glendower'smanner, which certainly grew colder in proportion to the repetition ofthe visits; and at length Glendower said, with an ease and quiet whichabashed for a moment an effrontery of mind and manner which was almostparallel, "Believe me, Mr. Crauford, I feel fully sensible of yourattentions; but as circumstances at present are such as to render anintercourse between us little congenial to the habits and sentimentsof either, you will probably understand and forgive my motives inwishing no longer to receive civilities which, however I may feelthem, I am unable to return. "

Crauford coloured and hesitated before he replied. "Forgive me then, "said he, "for my fault. I did venture to hope that no circumstanceswould break off an acquaintance to me so valuable. Forgive me if Idid imagine that an intercourse between mind and mind could be equallycarried on, whether the mere body were lodged in a palace or a hovel;"and then suddenly changing his tone into that of affectionate warmth, Crauford continued, "My dear Glendower, my dear friend, I would say, if I durst, is not your pride rather to blame here? Believe me, in myturn, I fully comprehend and bow to it; but it wounds me beyondexpression. Were you in your proper station, a station much higherthan my own, I would come to you at once, and proffer my friendship:as it is, I cannot; but your pride wrongs me, Glendower, --indeed itdoes. "

And Crauford turned away, apparently in the bitterness of woundedfeeling. 

Glendower was touched: and his nature, as kind as it was proud, immediately smote him for conduct certainly ungracious and perhapsungrateful. He held out his hand to Crauford; with the mostrespectful warmth that personage seized and pressed it: and from thattime Crauford's visits appeared to receive a license which, if notperfectly welcome, was at least never again questioned. 

"I shall have this man now, " muttered Crauford, between his groundteeth, as he left the house, and took his way to his counting-house. There, cool, bland, fawning, and weaving in his close and dark mindvarious speculations of guilt and craft, he sat among his bills andgold, like the very gnome and personification of that Mammon of gainto which he was the most supple though concealed adherent. 

Richard Crauford was of a new but not unimportant family. His fatherhad entered into commerce, and left a flourishing firm and a name ofgreat respectability in his profession to his son. That son was a manwhom many and opposite qualities rendered a character of very singularand uncommon stamp. Fond of the laborious acquisition of money, hewas equally attached to the ostentatious pageantries of expense. Profoundly skilled in the calculating business of his profession, hewas devoted equally to the luxuries of pleasure; but the pleasure wassuited well to the mind which pursued it. The divine intoxication ofthat love where the delicacies and purities of affection consecratethe humanity of passion was to him a thing of which not even hisyoungest imagination had ever dreamed. The social concomitants of thewine-cup (which have for the lenient an excuse, for the austere atemptation), the generous expanding of the heart, the increasedyearning to kindly affection, the lavish spirit throwing off itsexuberance in the thousand lights and emanations of wit, --these, whichhave rendered the molten grape, despite of its excesses, not unworthyof the praises of immortal hymns, and taken harshness from thejudgment of those averse to its enjoyment, --these never presented aninducement to the stony temperament and dormant heart of RichardCrauford. 

He looked upon the essences of things internal as the common eye uponoutward nature, and loved the many shapes of evil as the latter doesthe varieties of earth, not for their graces, but their utility. Hisloves, coarse and low, fed their rank fires from an unmingled andgross depravity. His devotion to wine was either solitary and unseen--for he loved safety better than mirth--or in company with those whosestation flattered his vanity, not whose fellowship ripened his crudeand nipped affections. Even the recklessness of vice in him had thecharacter of prudence; and in the most rapid and turbulent stream ofhis excesses, one might detect the rocky and unmoved heart of thecalculator at the bottom. 

Cool, sagacious, profound in dissimulation, and not only observant of, but deducing sage consequences from, those human inconsistencies andfrailties by which it was his aim to profit, he cloaked his deepervices with a masterly hypocrisy; and for those too dear to forego andtoo difficult to conceal he obtained pardon by the intercession ofvirtues it cost him nothing to assume. Regular in his attendance atworship; professing rigidness of faith beyond the tenets of theorthodox church; subscribing to the public charities, where the commoneye knoweth what the private hand giveth; methodically constant to theforms of business; primitively scrupulous in the proprieties ofspeech; hospitable, at least to his superiors, and, being naturallysmooth, both of temper and address, popular with his inferiors, --itwas no marvel that one part of the world forgave to a man rich andyoung the irregularities of dissipation, that another forgot realimmorality in favour of affected religion, or that the remainderallowed the most unexceptionable excellence of words to atone for theunobtrusive errors of a conduct which did not prejudice them. 

"It is true, " said his friends, "that he loves women too much: but heis young; he will marry and amend. "

Mr. Crauford did marry; and, strange as it may seem, for love, --atleast for that brute-like love, of which alone he was capable. Aftera few years of ill-usage on his side, and endurance on his wife's, they parted. Tired of her person, and profiting by her gentleness oftemper, he sent her to an obscure corner of the country, to starveupon the miserable pittance which was all he allowed her from hissuperfluities. Even then--such is the effect of the showy proprietiesof form and word--Mr. Crauford sank not in the estimation of theworld. 

"It was easy to see, " said the spectators of his domestic drama, "thata man in temper so mild, in his business so honourable, so civil ofspeech, so attentive to the stocks and the sermon, could not have beenthe party to blame. One never knew the rights of matrimonialdisagreements, nor could sufficiently estimate the provokingdisparities of temper. Certainly Mrs. Crauford never did look in goodhumour, and had not the open countenance of her husband; and certainlythe very excesses of Mr. Crauford betokened a generous warmth ofheart, which the sullenness of his conjugal partner might easily chilland revolt. "

And thus, unquestioned and unblamed, Mr. Crauford walked onward in hisbeaten way; and, secretly laughing at the toleration of the crowd, continued at his luxurious villa the orgies of a passionless yetbrutal sensuality. 

So far might the character of Richard Crauford find parallels inhypocrisy and its success. Dive we now deeper into his soul. Possessed of talents which, though of a secondary rank, were in thatrank consummate, Mr. Crauford could not be a villain by intuition orthe irregular bias of his nature: he was a villain upon a granderscale; he was a villain upon system. Having little learning and lessknowledge, out of his profession his reflection expended itself uponapparently obvious deductions from the great and mysterious book oflife. He saw vice prosperous in externals, and from this sight hisconclusion was drawn. "Vice, " said he, "is not an obstacle tosuccess; and if so, it is at least a pleasanter road to it than yournarrow and thorny ways of virtue. " But there are certain vices whichrequire the mask of virtue, and Crauford thought it easier to wear themask than to school his soul to the reality. So to the villain headded the hypocrite. He found the success equalled his hopes, for hehad both craft and genius; nor was he naturally without the minoramiabilities, which to the ignorance of the herd seem more valuablethan coin of a more important amount. Blinded as we are by prejudice, we not only mistake but prefer decencies to moralities; and, like theinhabitants of Cos, when offered the choice of two statues of the samegoddess, we choose, not that which is the most beautiful, but thatwhich is the most dressed. 

Accustomed easily to dupe mankind, Crauford soon grew to despise them;and from justifying roguery by his own interest, he now justified itby the folly of others; and as no wretch is so unredeemed as to bewithout excuse to himself, Crauford actually persuaded his reason thathe was vicious upon principle, and a rascal on a system of morality. But why the desire of this man, so consummately worldly and heartless, for an intimacy with the impoverished and powerless student? Thisquestion is easily answered. In the first place, during Crauford'sacquaintance with Glendower abroad, the latter had often, thoughinnocently, galled the vanity and self-pride of the parvenu affectingthe aristocrat, and in poverty the parvenu was anxious to retaliate. But this desire would probably have passed away after he had satisfiedhis curiosity, or gloated his spite, by one or two insights intoGlendower's home, --for Crauford, though at times a malicious, was nota vindictive, man, --had it not been for a much more powerful objectwhich afterwards occurred to him. In an extensive scheme of fraud, which for many years this man had carried on and which for secrecy andboldness was almost unequalled, it had of late become necessary to hissafety to have a partner, or rather tool. A man of education, talent, and courage was indispensable, and Crauford had resolved thatGlendower should be that man. With the supreme confidence in his ownpowers which long success had given him; with a sovereign contemptfor, or rather disbelief in, human integrity; and with a thoroughconviction that the bribe to him was the bribe with all, and that nonewould on any account be poor if they had the offer to be rich, --Crauford did not bestow a moment's consideration upon the difficultyof his task, or conceive that in the nature and mind of Glendowerthere could exist any obstacle to his design. 

Men addicted to calculation are accustomed to suppose those employedin the same mental pursuit arrive, or ought to arrive, at the samefinal conclusion. Now, looking upon Glendower as a philosopher, Crauford looked upon him as a man who, however he might conceal hisreal opinions, secretly laughed, like Crauford's self, not only at theestablished customs, but at the established moralities of the world. Ill-acquainted with books, the worthy Richard was, like all mensimilarly situated, somewhat infected by the very prejudices heaffected to despise; and he shared the vulgar disposition to doubt thehearts of those who cultivate the head. Glendower himself hadconfirmed this opinion by lauding, though he did not entirelysubscribe to, those moralists who have made an enlightened self-interest the proper measure of all human conduct; and Crauford, utterly unable to comprehend this system in its grand, naturallyinterpreted it in a partial, sense. Espousing self-interest as hisown code, he deemed that in reality Glendower's principles did notdiffer greatly from his; and, as there is no pleasure to a hypocritelike that of finding a fit opportunity to unburden some of his realsentiments, Crauford was occasionally wont to hold some conference andargument with the student, in which his opinions were not utterlycloaked in their usual disguise; but cautious even in his candour, healways forbore stating such opinions as his own: he merely mentionedthem as those which a man beholding the villanies and follies of hiskind, might be tempted to form; and thus Glendower, though not greatlyesteeming his acquaintance, looked upon him as one ignorant in hisopinions, but not likely to err in his conduct. 

These conversations did, however, it is true, increase Crauford'sestimate of Glendower's integrity, but they by no means diminished hisconfidence of subduing it. Honour, a deep and pure sense of thedivinity of good, the steady desire of rectitude, and the supportingaid of a sincere religion, --these he did not deny to his intendedtool: he rather rejoiced that he possessed them. With the profoundarrogance, the sense of immeasurable superiority, which men of noprinciple invariably feel for those who have it, Crauford said tohimself, "Those very virtues will be my best dupes; they cannot resistthe temptations I shall offer; but they can resist any offer to betrayme afterwards; for no man can resist hunger: but your fine feelings, your nice honour, your precise religion, --he! he! he!--these can teacha man very well to resist a common inducement; they cannot make himsubmit to be his own executioner; but they can prevent his turningking's evidence and being executioner to another. No, no: it is notto your common rogues that I may dare trust my secret, --my secret, which is my life! It is precisely of such a fine, Athenian, moralrogue as I shall make my proud friend that I am in want. But he hassome silly scruples; we must beat them away: we must not be too rash;and above all, we must leave the best argument to poverty. Want isyour finest orator; a starving wife, a famished brat, --he! he!--theseare your true tempters, --your true fathers of crime, and fillers ofjails and gibbets. Let me see: he has no money, I know, but what hegets from that bookseller. What bookseller, by the by? Ah, rarethought! I'll find out, and cut off that supply. My lady wife'scheek will look somewhat thinner next month, I fancy--he! he! But 'tis a pity, for she is a glorious creature! Who knows but I may servetwo purposes? However, one at present! business first, and pleasureafterwards; and, faith, the business is damnably like that of life anddeath. "

Muttering such thoughts as these, Crauford took his way one evening toGlendower's house. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

Iago. --Virtue; a fig!--'t is in ourselves that we are thus and thus. --Othello. 

"So, so, my little one, don't let me disturb you. Madam, dare Iventure to hope your acceptance of this fruit? I chose it myself, andI am somewhat of a judge. Oh! Glendower, here is the pamphlet youwished to see. "

With this salutation, Crauford drew his chair to the table by whichGlendower sat, and entered into conversation with his purposed victim. A comely and a pleasing countenance had Richard Crauford! the lonelylight of the room fell upon a face which, though forty years of guilehad gone over it, was as fair and unwrinkled as a boy's. Small, well-cut features; a blooming complexion; eyes of the lightest blue; aforehead high, though narrow; and a mouth from which the smile wasnever absent, --these, joined to a manner at once soft and confident, and an elegant though unaffected study of dress, gave to Crauford apersonal appearance well suited to aid the effect of his hypocriticaland dissembling mind. 

"Well, my friend, " said he, "always at your books, eh? Ah! it is ahappy taste; would that I had cultivated it more; but we who arecondemned to business have little leisure to follow our owninclinations. It is only on Sundays that I have time to read; andthen (to say truth) I am an old-fashioned man, whom the gayer part ofthe world laughs at, and then I am too occupied with the Book of Booksto think of any less important study. "

Not deeming that a peculiar reply was required to this pious speech, Glendower did not take that advantage of Crauford's pause which it wasevidently intended that he should. With a glance towards thestudent's wife, our mercantile friend continued: "I did once--once inmy young dreams--intend that whenever I married I would relinquish aprofession for which, after all, I am but little calculated. Ipictured to myself a country retreat, well stored with books; andhaving concentrated in one home all the attractions which would havetempted my thoughts abroad, I had designed to surrender myself solelyto those studies which, I lament to say, were but ill attended to inmy earlier education. But--but" (here Mr. Crauford sighed deeply, andaverted his face) "fate willed it otherwise!"

Whatever reply of sympathetic admiration or condolence Glendower mighthave made was interrupted by one of those sudden and overpoweringattacks of faintness which had of late seized the delicate anddeclining health of his wife. He rose, and leaned over her with afondness and alarm which curled the lip of his visitor. 

"Thus it is, " said Crauford to himself, "with weak minds, under theinfluence of habit. The love of lust becomes the love of custom, andthe last is as strong as the first. "

When--she had recovered, she rose, and (with her child) retired torest, the only restorative she ever found effectual for her complaint. Glendower went with her, and, after having seen her eyes, which swamwith tears of gratitude at his love, close in the seeming slumber sheaffected in order to release him from his watch, he returned toCrauford. He found that gentleman leaning against the chimney-piecewith folded arms, and apparently immersed in thought. A very goodopportunity had Glendower's absence afforded to a man whose boast itwas never to lose one. Looking over the papers on the table, he hadseen and possessed himself of the address of the bookseller thestudent dealt with. "So much for business, now for philanthropy, "said Mr. Crauford, in his favorite antithetical phrase, throwinghimself in his attitude against the chimney-piece. 

As Glendower entered, Crauford started from his revery, and with amelancholy air and pensive voice said, --

"Alas, my friend, when I look upon this humble apartment, the weakhealth of your unequalled wife, your obscurity, your misfortunes; whenI look upon these, and contrast them with your mind, your talents, andall that you were born and fitted for, I cannot but feel tempted tobelieve with those who imagine the pursuit of virtue a chimera, andwho justify their own worldly policy by the example of all theirkind. "

"Virtue, " said Glendower, "would indeed be a chimera, did it requiresupport from those whom you have cited. "

"True, --most true, " answered Crauford, somewhat disconcerted inreality, though not in appearance; "and yet, strange as it may seem, Ihave known some of those persons very good, admirably good men. Theywere extremely moral and religious: they only played the great gamefor worldly advantage upon the same terms as the other players; nay, they never made a move in it without most fervently and sincerelypraying for divine assistance. "

"I readily believe you, " said Glendower, who always, if possible, avoided a controversy: "the easiest person to deceive is one's ownself. "

"Admirably said, " answered Crauford, who thought it nevertheless oneof the most foolish observations he had ever heard, "admirably said!and yet my heart does grieve bitterly for the trials and distresses itsurveys. One must make excuses for poor human frailty; and one isoften placed in such circumstances as to render it scarcely possiblewithout the grace of God" (here Crauford lifted up his eyes) "not tobe urged, as it were, into the reasonings and actions of the world. "

Not exactly comprehending this observation, and not very closelyattending to it, Glendower merely bowed, as in assent, and Craufordcontinued, --

"I remember a remarkable instance of this truth. One of my partner'sclerks had, through misfortune or imprudence, fallen into the greatestdistress. His wife, his children (he had a numerous family), were onthe literal and absolute verge of starvation. Another clerk, takingadvantage of these circumstances, communicated to the distressed man aplan for defrauding his employer. The poor fellow yielded to thetemptation, and was at last discovered. I spoke to him myself, for Iwas interested in his fate, and had always esteemed him. 'What, ' saidI, 'was your motive for this fraud?' 'My duty!' answered the man, fervently; 'my duty! Was I to suffer my wife, my children, to starvebefore my face, when I could save them at a little personal risk? No:my duty forbade it!' and in truth, Glendower, there was something veryplausible in this manner of putting the question. "

"You might, in answering it, " said Glendower, "have put the point in amanner equally plausible and more true: was he to commit a great crimeagainst the millions connected by social order, for the sake ofserving a single family, and that his own?"

"Quite right, " answered Crauford: "that was just the point of view inwhich I did put it; but the man, who was something of a reasoner, replied, 'Public law is instituted for public happiness. Now if mineand my children's happiness is infinitely and immeasurably more servedby this comparatively petty fraud than my employer's is advanced by myabstaining from, or injured by my committing it, why, the origin oflaw itself allows me to do it. ' What say you to that, Glendower? Itis something in your Utilitarian, or, as you term it, Epicurean [Seethe article on Mr. Moore's "Epicurean" in the "Westminster Review. "Though the strictures on that work are harsh and unjust, yet the partrelating to the real philosophy of Epicurus is one of the mostmasterly things in criticism. ] principle; is it not?" and Crauford, shading his eyes, as if from the light, watched narrowly Glendower'scountenance, while he concealed his own. 

"Poor fool!" said Glendower; "the man was ignorant of the first lessonin his moral primer. Did he not know that no rule is to be applied toa peculiar instance, but extended to its most general bearings? Is itnecessary even to observe that the particular consequence of fraud inthis man might, it is true, be but the ridding his employer ofsuperfluities, scarcely missed, for the relief of most urgent want intwo or three individuals; but the general consequences of fraud andtreachery would be the disorganization of all society? Do not think, therefore, that this man was a disciple of my, or of any, system ofmorality. "

"It is very just, very, " said Mr. Crauford, with a benevolent sigh;"but you will own that want seldom allows great nicety in moraldistinctions, and that when those whom you love most in the world arestarving, you may be pitied, if not forgiven, for losing sight of theafter laws of Nature and recurring to her first ordinance, self-preservation. "

"We should be harsh, indeed, " answered Glendower, "if we did not pity;or, even while the law condemned, if the individual did not forgive. "

"So I said, so I said, " cried Crauford; "and in interceding for thepoor fellow, whose pardon I am happy to say I procured, I could nothelp declaring that, if I were placed in the same circumstances, I amnot sure that my crime would not have been the same. "

"No man could feel sure!" said Glendower, dejectedly. Delighted andsurprised with this confession, Crauford continued: "I believe, --Ifear not; thank God, our virtue can never be so tried: but even you, Glendower, even you, philosopher, moralist as you are, --just, good, wise, religious, --even you might be tempted, if you saw your angelwife dying for want of the aid, the very sustenance, necessary toexistence, and your innocent and beautiful daughter stretch her littlehands to you and cry in the accents of famine for bread. "

The student made no reply for a few moments, but averted hiscountenance, and then in a slow tone said, "Let us drop this subject:none know their strength till they are tried; self-confidence shouldaccompany virtue, but not precede it. "

A momentary flash broke from the usually calm, cold eye of RichardCrauford. "He is mine, " thought he: "the very name of want abases hispride: what will the reality do? O human nature, how I know and mockthee!"

"You are right, " said Crauford, aloud; "let us talk of the pamphlet. "

And after a short conversation upon indifferent subjects, the visitordeparted. Early the next morning was Mr. Crauford seen on foot, taking his way to the bookseller whose address he had learnt. Thebookseller was known as a man of a strongly evangelical bias. "Wemust insinuate a lie or two, " said Crauford, inly, "about Glendower'sprinciples. He! he! it will be a fine stroke of genius to make theupright tradesman suffer Glendower to starve out of a principle ofreligion. But who would have thought my prey had been so easilysnared? why, if I had proposed the matter last night, I verily thinkhe would have agreed to it. "

Amusing himself with these thoughts, Crauford arrived at thebookseller's. There he found Fate had saved him from one crime atleast. The whole house was in confusion: the bookseller had thatmorning died of an apoplectic fit. 

"Good God! how shocking!" said Crauford to the foreman; but he was amost worthy man, and Providence could no longer spare him. The waysof Heaven are inscrutable! Oblige me with three copies of thatprecious tract termed the 'Divine Call. ' I should like to be allowedpermission to attend the funeral of so excellent a man. Good morning, sir. Alas! alas!" and, shaking his head piteously, Mr. Crauford leftthe shop. 

"Hurra!" said he, almost audibly, when he was once more in the street, "hurra! my victim is made; my game is won: death or the devil fightsfor me. But, hold: there are other booksellers in this monstrouscity!--ay, but not above two or three in our philosopher's way. Imust forestall him there, --so, so, --that is soon settled. Now, then, I must leave him a little while, undisturbed, to his fate. Perhaps mynext visit may be to him in jail: your debtor's side of the Fleet isalmost as good a pleader as an empty stomach, --he! he! He!--but thestroke must be made soon, for time presses, and this d--d businessspreads so fast that if I don't have a speedy help, it will be toomuch for my hands, griping as they are. However, if it holds on ayear longer, I will change my seat in the Lower House for one in theUpper; twenty thousand pounds to the minister may make a merchant avery pretty peer. O brave Richard Crauford, wise Richard Crauford, fortunate Richard Crauford, noble Richard Crauford! Why, if thou artever hanged, it will be by a jury of peers. 'Gad, the rope would thenhave a dignity in it, instead of disgrace. But stay, here comes theDean of ----; not orthodox, it is said, --rigid Calvinist! out with the'Divine Call'!"

When Mr. Richard Crauford repaired next to Glendower, what was hisastonishment and dismay at hearing he had left his home, none knewwhither nor could give the inquirer the slightest clew. 

"How long has he left?" said Crauford to the landlady. 

"Five days, sir. "

"And will he not return to settle any little debts he may haveincurred?" said Crauford. 

"Oh, no, sir: he paid them all before he went. Poor gentleman, --forthough he was poor, he was the finest and most thorough gentleman Iever saw!--my heart bled for him. They parted with all theirvaluables to discharge their debts: the books and instruments andbusts, --all went; and what I saw, though he spoke so indifferentlyabout it, hurt him the most, --he sold even the lady's picture. 'Mrs. Croftson, ' said he, 'Mr. ----, the painter, will send for that picturethe day after I leave you. See that he has it, and that the greatestcare is taken of it in delivery. '"

"And you cannot even guess where he has gone to?"

"No, sir; a single porter was sufficient to convey his remaininggoods, and he took him from some distant part of the town. "

"Ten thousand devils!" muttered Crauford, as he turned away; "I shouldhave foreseen this! He is lost now. Of course he will again changehis name; and in the d--d holes and corners of this gigantic puzzle ofhouses, how shall I ever find him out? and time presses too! Well, well, well! there is a fine prize for being cleverer, or, as foolswould say, more rascally than others; but there is a world of troublein winning it. But come; I will go home, lock myself up, and getdrunk! I am as melancholy as a cat in love, and about as stupid; and, faith, one must get spirits in order to hit on a new invention. Butif there be consistency in fortune, or success in perseverance, or witin Richard Crauford, that man shall yet be my victim--and preserver!"

CHAPTER XLIII. 

 Revenge is now the cud That I do chew. --I'll challenge him. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 

We return to "the world of fashion, " as the admirers of the politenovel of would say. The noon-day sun broke hot and sultry throughhalf-closed curtains of roseate silk, playing in broken beams uponrare and fragrant exotics, which cast the perfumes of southern summersover a chamber, moderate, indeed, as to its dimensions, but decoratedwith a splendour rather gaudy than graceful, and indicating much morea passion for luxury than a refinement of taste. 

At a small writing-table sat the beautiful La Meronville. She hadjust finished a note, written (how Jean Jacques would have beenenchanted) upon paper couleur de rose, with a mother-of-pearl pen, formed as one of Cupid's darts, dipped into an ink-stand of the samematerial, which was shaped as a quiver, and placed at the back of alittle Love, exquisitely wrought. She was folding this billet when apage, fantastically dressed, entered, and, announcing Lord Borodaile, was immediately followed by that nobleman. Eagerly and almostblushingly did La Meronville thrust the note into her bosom, andhasten to greet and to embrace her adorer. Lord Borodaile flunghimself on one of the sofas with a listless and discontented air. Theexperienced Frenchwoman saw that there was a cloud on his brow. 

"My dear friend, " said she, in her own tongue, "you seem vexed: hasanything annoyed you?"

"No, Cecile, no. By the by, who supped with you last night?"

"Oh! the Duke of Haverfield, your friend. "

"My friend!" interrupted Borodaile, haughtily: "he's no friend ofmine; a vulgar, talkative fellow; my friend, indeed!"

"Well, I beg your pardon: then there was Mademoiselle Caumartin, andthe Prince Pietro del Orbino, and Mr. Trevanion, and Mr. Lin--Lin--Linten, or Linden. "

"And pray, will you allow me to ask how you became acquainted with Mr. Lin--Lin--Linten, or Linden?"

"Assuredly; through the Duke of Haverfield. "

"Humph! Cecile, my love, that young man is not fit to be theacquaintance of my friend: allow me to strike him from your list. "

"Certainly, certainly!" said La Meronville, hastily; and stooping asif to pick up a fallen glove, though, in reality, to hide her facefrom Lord Borodaile's searching eye, the letter she had written fellfrom her bosom. Lord Borodaile's glance detected the superscription, and before La Meronville could regain the note he had possessedhimself of it. 

"A Monsieur, Monsieur Linden!" said he, coldly, reading the address;"and, pray, how long have you corresponded with that gentleman?"

Now La Meronville's situation at that moment was by no meansagreeable. She saw at one glance that no falsehood or artifice couldavail her; for Lord Borodaile might deem himself fully justified inreading the note, which would contradict any glossing statement shemight make. She saw this. She was a woman of independence; cared nota straw for Lord Borodaile at present, though she had had a capricefor him; knew that she might choose her bon ami out of all London, andreplied, --

"That is the first letter I ever wrote to him; but I own that it willnot be the last. "

Lord Borodaile turned pale. 

"And will you suffer me to read it?" said he; for even in these caseshe was punctiliously honourable. 

La Meronville hesitated. She did not know him. "If I do notconsent, " thought she, "he will do it without the consent: bettersubmit with a good grace. --Certainly!" she answered, with an air ofindifference. 

Borodaile opened and read the note; it was as follows:--

You have inspired me with a feeling for you which astonishes myself. Ah, why should that love be the strongest which is the swiftest in itsgrowth? I used to love Lord Borodaile: I now only esteem him; thelove has flown to you. If I judge rightly from your words and youreyes, this avowal will not be unwelcome to you. Come and assure me, in person, of a persuasion so dear to my heart. C. L. M. 

"A very pretty effusion!" said Lord Borodaile, sarcastically, and onlyshowing his inward rage by the increasing paleness of his complexionand a slight compression of his lip. "I thank you for your confidencein me. All I ask is that you will not send this note till to-morrow. Allow me to take my leave of you first, and to find in Mr. Linden asuccessor rather than a rival. "

"Your request, my friend, " said La Meronville, adjusting her hair, "isbut reasonable. I see that you understand these arrangements; and, for my part, I think that the end of love should always be thebeginning of friendship: let it be so with us!"

"You do me too much honour, " said Borodaile, bowing profoundly. "Meanwhile I depend upon your promise, and bid you, as a lover, farewell forever. "

With his usual slow step Lord Borodaile descended the stairs, andwalked towards the central quartier of town. His meditations were ofno soothing nature. "To be seen by that man in a ridiculous anddegrading situation; to be pestered with his d--d civility; to berivalled by him with Lady Flora; to be duped and outdone by him withmy mistress! Ay, all this have I been; but vengeance shall come yet. As for La Meronville, the loss is a gain; and, thank Heaven, I did notbetray myself by venting my passion and making a scene. But it was I. Who ought to have discarded her, not the reverse; and--death andconfusion--for that upstart, above all men! And she talked in herletter about his eyes and words. Insolent coxcomb, to dare to haveeyes and words for one who belonged to me. Well, well, he shall smartfor this. But let me consider: I must not play the jealous fool, mustnot fight for a ----, must not show the world that a man, nobody knowswho, could really outwit and outdo me, --me, --Francis Borodaile! No, no: I must throw the insult upon him, must myself be the aggressor andthe challenged; then, too, I shall have the choice of weapons, --pistols of course. Where shall I hit him, by the by? I wish I shotas well as I used to do at Naples. I was in full practice then. Cursed place, where there was nothing else to do but to practise!"

Immersed in these or somewhat similar reflections did Lord Borodaileenter Pall Mall. 

"Ah, Borodaile!" said Lord St. George, suddenly emerging from a shop. "This is really fortunate: you are going my way exactly; allow me tojoin you. "

Now Lord Borodaile, to say nothing of his happening at that time to bein a mood more than usually unsocial, could never at any time bear thethought of being made an instrument of convenience, pleasure, or goodfortune to another. He therefore, with a little resentment at LordSt. George's familiarity, coldly replied, "I am sorry that I cannotavail myself of your offer. I am sure my way is not the same asyours. "

"Then, " replied Lord St. George, who was a good-natured, indolent man, who imagined everybody was as averse to walking alone as he was, "thenI will make mine the same as yours. "

Borodaile coloured: though always uncivil, he did not like to beexcelled in good manners; and therefore replied, that nothing butextreme business at White's could have induced him to prefer his ownway to that of Lord St. George. 

The good-natured peer took Lord Borodaile's arm. It was a naturalincident, but it vexed the punctilious viscount that any man shouldtake, not offer, the support. 

"So, they say, " observed Lord St. George, "that young Linden is tomarry Lady Flora Ardenne. "

"Les on-dits font la gazette des fous, " rejoined Borodaile with asneer. "I believe that Lady Flora is little likely to contract such amisalliance. "

"Misalliance!" replied Lord St. George. "I thought Linden was of avery old family; which you know the Westboroughs are not, and he hasgreat expectations--"

"Which are never to be realized, " interrupted Borodaile, laughingscornfully. 

"Ah, indeed!" said Lord St. George, seriously. "Well, at all eventshe is a very agreeable, unaffected young man: and, by the by, Borodaile, you will meet him chez moi to-day; you know you dine withme?"

"Meet Mr. Linden! I shall be proud to have that honour, " saidBorodaile, with sparkling eyes; "will Lady Westborough be also of theparty?"

"No, poor Lady St. George is very ill, and I have taken theopportunity to ask only men. "

"You have done wisely, my lord, " said Borodaile, secum multarevolvens; "and I assure you I wanted no hint to remind me of yourinvitation. "

Here the Duke of Haverfield joined them. The duke never bowed to anyone of the male sex; he therefore nodded to Borodaile, who, with avery supercilious formality, took off his hat in returning thesalutation. The viscount had at least this merit in his pride, --thatif it was reserved to the humble, it was contemptuous to the high: hisinferiors he wished to remain where they were; his equals he longed tolower. 

"So I dine with you, Lord St. George, to-day, " said the duke; "whomshall I meet?"

"Lord Borodaile, for one, " answered St. George; "my brother, Aspeden, Findlater, Orbino, and Linden. "

"Linden!" cried the duke; "I'm very glad to hear it, c'est un hommefait expres pour moi. He is very clever, and not above playing thefool; has humour without setting up for a wit, and is a good fellowwithout being a bad man. I like him excessively. "

"Lord St. George;" said Borodaile, who seemed that day to be the verymartyr of the unconscious Clarence, "I wish you good morning. I haveonly just remembered an engagement which I must keep before I go toWhite's. "

And with a bow to the duke, and a remonstrance from Lord St. George, Borodaile effected his escape. His complexion was, insensibly tohimself, more raised than usual, his step more stately; his mind, forthe first time for years, was fully excited and engrossed. Ah, what adelightful thing it is for an idle man, who has been dying of ennui, to find an enemy!

CHAPTER XLIV. 

 You must challenge him There's no avoiding; one or both must drop. BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. 

"Ha! ha! ha! bravo, Linden!" cried Lord St. George, from the head ofhis splendid board, in approbation of some witticism of Clarence's;and ha! ha! ha! or he! he! he! according to the cachinnatoryintonations of the guests rang around. 

"Your lordship seems unwell, " said Lord Aspeden to Borodaile; "allowme to take wine with you. "

Lord Borodaile bowed his assent. 

"Pray, " said Mr. St. George to Clarence, "have you seen my friendTalbot lately?"

"This very morning, " replied Linden: "indeed, I generally visit himthree or four times a week; he often asks after you. "

"Indeed!" said Mr. St. George, rather flattered; "he does me muchhonour; but he is a distant connection of mine, and I suppose I mustattribute his recollection of me to that cause. He is a near relationof yours, too, I think: is he not?"

"I am related to him, " answered Clarence, colouring. 

Lord Borodaile leaned forward, and his lip curled. Though, in somerespects, a very unamiable man, he had, as we have said, his goodpoints. He hated a lie as much as Achilles did; and he believed inhis heart of hearts that Clarence had just uttered one. 

"Why, " observed Lord Aspeden, "why, Lord Borodaile, the Talbots ofScarsdale are branches of your genealogical tree; therefore yourlordship must be related to Linden; "you are two cherries on onestalk'!"

"We are by no means related, " said Lord Borodaile, with a distinct andclear voice, intended expressly for Clarence; "that is an honour whichI must beg leave most positively to disclaim. "

There was a dead silence; the eyes of all who heard a remark sointentionally rude were turned immediately towards Clarence. Hischeek burned like fire; he hesitated a moment, and then said, in thesame key, though with a little trembling in his intonation, --

"Lord Borodaile cannot be more anxious to disclaim it than I am. "

"And yet, " returned the viscount, stung to the soul, "they who advancefalse pretensions ought at least to support them!"

"I do not understand you, my lord, " said Clarence. 

"Possibly not, " answered Borodaile, carelessly: "there is a maximwhich says that people not accustomed to speak truth cannot comprehendit in others. "

Unlike the generality of modern heroes, who are always in a passion, --off-hand, dashing fellows, in whom irascibility is a virtue, --Clarencewas peculiarly sweet-tempered by nature, and had, by habit, acquired acommand over all his passions to a degree very uncommon in so young aman. He made no reply to the inexcusable affront he had received. His lip quivered a little, and the flush of his countenance wassucceeded by an extreme paleness; this was all: he did not even leavethe room immediately, but waited till the silence was broken by somewell-bred member of the party; and then, pleading an early engagementas an excuse for his retiring so soon, he rose and departed. 

There was throughout the room a universal feeling of sympathy with theaffront and indignation against the offender; for, to say nothing ofClarence's popularity and the extreme dislike in which Lord Borodailewas held, there could be no doubt as to the wantonness of the outrageor the moderation of the aggrieved party. Lord Borodaile already feltthe punishment of his offence: his very pride, while it rendered himindifferent to the spirit, had hitherto kept him scrupulous as to theformalities of social politeness; and he could not but see thegrossness with which he had suffered himself to violate them and thelight in which his conduct was regarded. However, this internaldiscomfort only rendered him the more embittered against Clarence andthe more confirmed in his revenge. Resuming, by a strong effort, allthe external indifference habitual to his manner, he attempted toenter into a conversation with those of the party who were next to himbut his remarks produced answers brief and cold; even Lord Aspedenforgot his diplomacy and his smile; Lord St. George replied to hisobservations by a monosyllable; and the Duke of Haverfield, for thefirst time in his life, asserted the prerogative which his rank gavehim of setting the example, --his grace did not reply to Lord Borodaileat all. In truth, every one present was seriously displeased. Allcivilized societies have a paramount interest in repressing the rude. Nevertheless, Lord Borodaile bore the brunt of his unpopularity with asteadiness and unembarrassed composure worthy of a better cause; andfinding, at last, a companion disposed to be loquacious in the personof Sir Christopher Findlater (whose good heart, though its firstimpulse resented more violently than that of any heart present thediscourtesy of the viscount, yet soon warmed to the desagremens of hissituation, and hastened to adopt its favourite maxim of forgive andforget), Lord Borodaile sat the meeting out; and if he did not leavethe latest, he was at least not the first to follow Clarence:"L'orgueil ou donne le courage, ou il y supplee. " ["Pride eithergives courage or supplies the place of it. "]

Meanwhile Linden had returned to his solitary home. He hastened tohis room, locked the door, flung himself on his sofa, and burst into aviolent and almost feminine paroxysm of tears. This fit lasted formore than an hour; and when Clarence at length stilled the indignantswellings of his heart, and rose from his supine position, he started, as his eye fell upon the opposite mirror, so haggard and exhaustedseemed the forced and fearful calmness of his countenance. With ahurried step; with arms now folded on his bosom, now wildly tossedfrom him; and the hand so firmly clenched that the very bones seemedworking through the skin; with a brow now fierce, now only dejected;and a complexion which one while burnt as with the crimson flush of afever, and at another was wan and colourless, like his whose cheek aspectre has blanched, --Clarence paced his apartment, the victim notonly of shame, --the bitterest of tortures to a young and high mind, --but of other contending feelings, which alternately exasperated andpalsied his wrath, and gave to his resolves at one moment an almostsavage ferocity and at the next an almost cowardly vacillation. 

The clock had just struck the hour of twelve when a knock at the doorannounced a visitor. Steps were heard on the stairs and presently atap at Clarence's room-door. He unlocked it and the Duke ofHaverfield entered. "I am charmed to find you at home, " cried theduke, with his usual half kind, half careless address. "I wasdetermined to call upon you, and be the first to offer my services inthis unpleasant affair. "

Clarence pressed the duke's hand, but made no answer. 

"Nothing could be so unhandsome as Lord Borodaile's conduct, "continued the duke. "I hope you both fence and shoot well. I shallnever forgive you, if you do not put an end to that piece ofrigidity. "

Clarence continued to walk about the room in great agitation; the dukelooked at him with some surprise. At last Linden paused by thewindow, and said, half unconsciously, "It must be so: I cannot avoidfighting!"

"Avoid fighting!" cried his grace, in undisguised astonishment. "No, indeed: but that is the least part of the matter; you must kill aswell as fight him. "

"Kill him!" cried Clarence, wildly, "whom?" and then sinking into achair, he covered his face with his hands for a few moments, andseemed to struggle with his emotions. 

"Well, " thought the duke, "I never was more mistaken in my life. Icould have bet my black horse against Trevanion's Julia, which iscertainly the most worthless thing I know, that Linden had been abrave fellow: but these English heroes almost go into fits at a duel;one manages such things, as Sterne says, better in France. "

Clarence now rose, calm and collected. He sat down; wrote a briefnote to Borodaile, demanding the fullest apology, or the earliestmeeting; put it into the duke's hands, and said with a faint smile, "My dear duke, dare I ask you to be a second to a man who has been sogrievously affronted and whose genealogy has been so disputed?"

"My dear Linden, " said the duke, warmly, "I have always been gratefulto my station in life for this advantage, --the freedom with which ithas enabled me to select my own acquaintance and to follow my ownpursuits. I am now more grateful to it than ever, because it hasgiven me a better opportunity than I should otherwise have had ofserving one whom I have always esteemed. In entering into yourquarrel I shall at least show the world that there are some men notinferior in pretensions to Lord Borodaile who despise arrogance andresent overbearance even to others. Your cause I consider the commoncause of society; but I shall take it up, if you will allow me, withthe distinguishing zeal of a friend. "

Clarence, who was much affected by the kindness of this speech, replied in a similar vein; and the duke, having read and approved theletter, rose. "There is, in my opinion, " said he, "no time to belost. I will go to Borodaile this very evening: adieu, mon cher! youshall kill the Argus, and then carry off the Io. I feel in a doublepassion with that ambulating poker, who is only malleable when he isred-hot, when I think how honourably scrupulous you were with LaMeronville last night, notwithstanding all her advances; but I go tobury Caesar, not to scold him. Au revoir. "

Chapter XLV. 

Conon. --You're well met, Crates. Crates. --If we part so, Conon. -Queen of Corinth. 

It was as might be expected from the character of the aggressor. LordBorodaile refused all apology, and agreed with avidity to a speedyrendezvous. He chose pistols (choice, then, was not merely nominal), and selected Mr. Percy Bobus for his second, a gentleman who was muchfonder of acting in that capacity than in the more honourable one of aprincipal. The author of "Lacon" says "that if all seconds were asaverse to duels as their principals, there would be very little bloodspilt in that way;" and it was certainly astonishing to compare thezeal with which Mr. Bobus busied himself about this "affair" with thattestified by him on another occasion when he himself was moreimmediately concerned. 

The morning came. Mr. Bobus breakfasted with his friend. "Damn it, Borodaile, " said he, as the latter was receiving the ultimate polishof the hairdresser, "I never saw you look better in my life. It willbe a great pity if that fellow shoots you. "

"Shoots me!" said Lord Borodaile, very quietly, --"me! no! that isquite out of the question; but joking apart, Bobus, I will not killthe young man. Where shall I hit him?"

"In the cap of the knee, " said Mr. Percy, breaking an egg. 

"Nay, that will lame him for life, " said Lord Borodaile, putting onhis cravat with peculiar exactitude. 

"Serve him right, " said Mr. Bobus. "Hang him, I never got up so earlyin my life: it is quite impossible to eat at this hour. Oh!--apropos, Borodaile, have you left any little memoranda for me toexecute?"

"Memoranda!--for what?" said Borodaile, who had now just finished histoilet. 

"Oh!" rejoined Mr. Percy Bobus, "in case of accident, you know: theman may shoot well, though I never saw him in the gallery. "

"Pray, " said Lord Borodaile, in a great though suppressed passion, "pray, Mr. Bobus, how often have I to tell you that it is not by Mr. Linden that my days are to terminate: you are sure that Carabine sawto that trigger?"

"Certain, " said Mr. Percy, with his mouth full, "certain. Bless me, here's the carriage, and breakfast not half done yet. "

"Come, come, " cried Borodaile, impatiently, "we must breakfastafterwards. Here, Roberts, see that we have fresh chocolate and somemore cutlets when we return. "

"I would rather have them now, " said Mr. Bobus, foreseeing thepossibility of the return being single: "Ibis! redibis?" etc. 

"Come, we have not a moment to lose, " exclaimed Borodaile, hasteningdown the stairs; and Mr. Percy Bobus followed, with a strange mixtureof various regrets, partly for the breakfast that was lost and partlyfor the friend that might be. 

When they arrived at the ground, Clarence and the duke were alreadythere: the latter, who was a dead shot, had fully persuaded himselfthat Clarence was equally adroit, and had, in his providence forBorodaile, brought a surgeon. This was a circumstance of which theviscount, in the plenitude of his confidence for himself andindifference for his opponent, had never once dreamed. 

The ground was measured; the parties were about to take the ground. All Linden's former agitation had vanished; his mien was firm, grave, and determined: but he showed none of the careless and fiercehardihood which characterized his adversary; on the contrary, a closeobserver might have remarked something sad and dejected amidst all thetranquillity and steadiness of his brow and air. 

"For Heaven's sake, " whispered the duke, as he withdrew from the spot, "square your body a little more to your left and remember your exactlevel. Borodaile is much shorter than you. "

There was a brief, dread pause: the signal was given; Borodaile fired;his ball pierced Clarence's side; the wounded man staggered one step, but fell not. He raised his pistol; the duke bent eagerly forward; anexpression of disappointment and surprise passed his lips; Clarencehad fired in the air. The next moment Linden felt a deadly sicknesscome over him; he fell into the arms of the surgeon. Borodaile, touched by a forbearance which he had so little right to expect, hastened to the spot. He leaned over his adversary in greater remorseand pity than he would have readily confessed to himself. Clarenceunclosed his eyes; they dwelt for one moment upon the subdued andearnest countenance of Borodaile. 

"Thank God, " he said faintly, "that you were not the victim, " and withthose words he fell back insensible. They carried him to hislodgings. His wound was accurately examined. Though not mortal, itwas of a dangerous nature; and the surgeons ended a very painfuloperation by promising a very lingering recovery. 

What a charming satisfaction for being insulted!

CHAPTER XLVI. 

Je me contente de ce qui peut s'ecrire, et je reve tout ce qui peut serever. --DE SEVIGNE. 

["I content myself with writing what I am able, and I dream all Ipossibly can dream. "]

About a week after his wound, and the second morning of his return tosense and consciousness, when Clarence opened his eyes, they fell upona female form seated watchfully and anxiously by his bedside. Heraised himself in mute surprise, and the figure, startled by themotion, rose, drew the curtain, and vanished. With great difficultyhe rang his bell. His valet, Harrison, on whose mind, though it wasof no very exalted order, the kindness and suavity of his master hadmade a great impression, instantly appeared. 

"Who was that lady?" asked Linden. "How came she here?"

Harrison smiled: "Oh, sir, pray please to lie down, and make yourselfeasy: the lady knows you very well and would come here; she insistsupon staying in the house, so we made up a bed in the drawing-room andshe has watched by you night and day. She speaks very little Englishto be sure, but your honour knows, begging your pardon, how well Ispeak French. "

"French?" said Clarence, faintly, --"French? In Heaven's name, who isshe?"

"A Madame--Madame--La Melonveal, or some such name, sir, " said thevalet. 

Clarence fell back. At that moment his hand was pressed. He turned, and saw Talbot by his side. The kind old man had not suffered LaMeronville to be Linden's only nurse: notwithstanding his age andpeculiarity of habits, he had fixed his abode all the day inClarence's house, and at night, instead of returning to his own home, had taken up his lodgings at the nearest hotel. 

With a jealous and anxious eye to the real interest and respectabilityof his adopted son, Talbot had exerted all his address, and even allhis power, to induce La Meronville, who had made her settlementprevious to Talbot's, to quit the house, but in vain. With thatobstinacy which a Frenchwoman when she is sentimental mistakes fornobility of heart, the ci-devant amante of Lord Borodaile insistedupon watching and tending one of whose sufferings she said andbelieved she was the unhappy though innocent cause: and whenever moreurgent means of removal were hinted at La Meronville flew to thechamber of her beloved, apostrophized him in a strain worthy of one ofD'Arlincourt's heroines, and in short was so unreasonably outrageousthat the doctors, trembling for the safety of their patient, obtainedfrom Talbot a forced and reluctant acquiescence in the settlement shehad obtained. 

Ah! what a terrible creature a Frenchwoman is, when, instead ofcoquetting with a caprice, she insists upon conceiving a grandepassion. Little, however, did Clarence, despite his vexation when helearned of the bienveillance of La Meronville, foresee the wholeextent of the consequences it would entail upon him: still less didTalbot, who in his seclusion knew not the celebrity of the handsomeadventuress, calculate upon the notoriety of her motions or the illeffect her ostentatious attachment would have upon Clarence'sprosperity as a lover to Lady Flora. In order to explain theseconsequences the more fully, let us, for the present, leave our heroto the care of the surgeon, his friends, and his would-be mistress;and while he is more rapidly recovering than the doctors either hopedor presaged, let us renew our acquaintance with a certain faircorrespondent. 

LETTER FROM THE LADY FLORA ARDENNE TO MISS ELEANOR TREVANION. 

My Dearest Eleanor, --I have been very ill, or you would sooner havereceived an answer to your kind, -too kind and consoling letter. Indeed I have only just left my bed: they say that I have beendelirious, and I believe it; for you cannot conceive what terribledreams I have had. But these are all over now, and everyone is sokind to me, --my poor mother above all! It is a pleasant thing to beill when we have those who love us to watch our recovery. 

I have only been in bed a few days; yet it seems to me as if a longportion of my existence were past, --as if I had stepped into a newera. You remember that my last letter attempted to express myfeelings at Mamma's speech about Clarence, and at my seeing him sosuddenly. Now, dearest, I cannot but look on that day, on thesesensations, as on a distant dream. Every one is so kind to me, Mammacaresses and soothes me so fondly, that I fancy I must have been undersome illusion. I am sure they could not seriously have meant toforbid his addresses. No, no: I feel that all will yet be well, --sowell, that even you, who are of so contented a temper, will own thatif you were not Eleanor you would be Flora. 

I wonder whether Clarence knows that I have been ill? I wish you knewhim. Well, dearest, this letter--a very unhandsome return, I own, foryours--must content you at present, for they will not let me writemore; though, so far as I am concerned, I am never so weak, in frame Imean, but what I could scribble to you about him. 

Addio, carissima. F. A. 

I have prevailed on Mamma, who wished to sit by me and amuse me, to goto the Opera to-night, the only amusement of which she is particularlyfond. Heaven forgive me for my insincerity, but he always comes intoour box, and I long to hear some news of him. 

LETTER II. 

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

Eleanor, dearest Eleanor, I am again very ill, but not as I wasbefore, ill from a foolish vexation of mind: no, I am now calm andeven happy. It was from an increase of cold only that I have suffereda relapse. You may believe this, I assure you, in spite of your wellmeant but bitter jests upon my infatuation, as you very rightly callit, for Mr. Linden. You ask me what news from the Opera? Silly girlthat I was, to lie awake hour after hour, and refuse even to take mydraught, lest I should be surprised into sleep, till Mamma returned. I sent Jermyn down directly I heard her knock at the door (oh, howanxiously I had listened for it!) to say that I was still awake andlonged to see her. So, of course, Mamma came up, and felt my pulse, and said it was very feverish, and wondered the draught had notcomposed me; with a great deal more to the same purpose, which I boreas patiently as I could, till it was my turn to talk; and then Iadmired her dress and her coiffure, and asked if it was a full house, and whether the prima donna was in voice, etc. : till, at last, I wonmy way to the inquiry of who were her visitors. "Lord Borodaile, "said she, "and the Duke of ----, and Mr. St. George, and CaptainLeslie, and Mr. De Retz, and many others. " I felt so disappointed, Eleanor, but did not dare ask whether he was not of the list; till, atlast, my mother observing me narrowly, said, "And by the by, Mr. Linden looked in for a few minutes. I am glad, my dearest Flora, thatI spoke to you so decidedly about him the other day. " "Why, Mamma?"said I, hiding my face under the clothes. "Because, " said she, inrather a raised voice, "he is quite unworthy of you! but it is latenow, and you should go to sleep; to-morrow I will tell you more. " Iwould have given worlds to press the question then, but could notventure. Mamma kissed and left me. I tried to twist her words into ahundred meanings, but in each I only thought that they were dictatedby some worldly information, --some new doubts as to his birth orfortune; and, though that supposition distressed me greatly, yet itcould not alter my love or deprive me of hope; and so I cried andguessed, and guessed and cried, till at last I cried myself to sleep. 

When I awoke, Mamma was already up, and sitting beside me: she talkedto me for more than an hour upon ordinary subjects, till at last, perceiving how absent or rather impatient I appeared, she dismissedJermyn, and spoke to me thus:--

"You know, Flora, that I have always loved you, more perhaps than Iought to have done, more certainly than I have loved your brothers andsisters; but you were my eldest child, my first-born, and all theearliest associations of a mother are blent and entwined with you. You may be sure therefore that I have ever had only your happiness inview, and that it is only with a regard to that end that I now speakto you. "

I was a little frightened, Eleanor, by this opening, but I was muchmore touched, so I took Mamma's hand and kissed and wept silently overit; she continued: "I observed Mr. Linden's attention to you, at ----;I knew nothing more of his rank and birth then than I do at present:but his situation in the embassy and his personal appearance naturallyinduced me to suppose him a gentleman of family, and, therefore, ifnot a great at least not an inferior match for you, so far as worldlydistinctions are concerned. Added to this, he was uncommonlyhandsome, and had that general reputation for talent which is oftenbetter than actual wealth or hereditary titles. I therefore did notcheck, though I would not encourage any attachment you might form forhim; and nothing being declared or decisive on either side when weleft--, I imagined that if your flirtation with him did even amount toa momentary and girlish phantasy, absence and change of scene wouldeasily and rapidly efface the impression. I believe that in a greatmeasure it was effaced when Lord Aspeden returned to England, and withhim Mr. Linden. You again met the latter in society almost asconstantly as before; a caprice nearly conquered was once morerenewed; and in my anxiety that you should marry, not foraggrandizement, but happiness, I own to my sorrow that I ratherfavoured than forbade his addresses. The young man--remember, Flora--appeared in society as the nephew and heir of a gentleman of ancientfamily and considerable property; he was rising in diplomacy, popularin the world, and, so far as we could see, of irreproachablecharacter; this must plead my excuse for tolerating his visits, without instituting further inquiries respecting him, and allowingyour attachment to proceed without ascertaining how far it had yetextended. I was awakened to a sense of my indiscretion by an inquirywhich Mr. Linden's popularity rendered general; namely, if Mr. Talbotwas his uncle, who was his father? who his more immediate relations?and at that time Lord Borodaile informed us of the falsehood he hadeither asserted or allowed to be spread in claiming Mr. Talbot as hisrelation. This you will observe entirely altered the situation of Mr. Linden with respect to you. Not only his rank in life becameuncertain, but suspicious. Nor was this all: his very personalrespectability was no longer unimpeachable. Was this dubious andintrusive person, without a name and with a sullied honour, to be yoursuitor? No, Flora; and it was from this indignant conviction that Ispoke to you some days since. Forgive me, my child, if I was lesscautious, less confidential than I am now. I did not imagine thewound was so deep, and thought that I should best cure you by seemingunconscious of your danger. The case is now changed; your illness hasconvinced me of my fault, and the extent of your unhappy attachment:but will my own dear child pardon me if I still continue, if I evenconfirm, my disapproval of her choice? Last night at the Opera Mr. Linden entered my box. I own that I was cooler to him than usual. Hesoon left us, and after the Opera I saw him with the Duke ofHaverfield, one of the most incorrigible roues of the day, leading outa woman of notoriously bad character and of the most ostentatiousprofligacy. He might have had some propriety, some decency, someconcealment at least, but he passed just before me, --before the motherof the woman to whom his vows of honourable attachment were due andwho at that very instant was suffering from her infatuation for him. Now, Flora, for this man, an obscure and possibly a plebeianadventurer, whose only claim to notice has been founded on falsehood, whose only merit, a love of you, has been, if not utterly destroyed, at least polluted and debased, --for this man, poor alike in fortune, character, and honour, can you any longer profess affection oresteem?"

"Never, never, never!" cried I, springing from the bed, and throwingmyself upon my mother's neck. "Never: I am your own Flora once more. I will never suffer any one again to make me forget you, " and then Isobbed so violently that Mamma was frightened, and bade me lie downand left me to sleep. Several hours have passed since then, and Icould not sleep nor think, and I would not cry, for he is no longerworthy of my tears; so I have written to you. 

Oh, how I despise and hate myself for having so utterly, in my vanityand folly, forgotten my mother, that dear, kind, constant friend, whonever cost me a single tear, but for my own ingratitude! Think, Eleanor, what an affront to me, --to me, who, he so often said, hadmade all other women worthless in his eyes. Do I hate him? No, Icannot hate. Do I despise? No, I will not despise, but I will forgethim, and keep my contempt and hatred for myself. 

God bless you! I am worn out. Write soon, or rather come, ifpossible, to your affectionate but unworthy friend, F. A. 

Good Heavens! Eleanor, he is wounded. He has fought with LordBorodaile. I have just heard it; Jermyn told me. Can it, can it betrue? What, --what have I said against him? Hate? forget? No, no: Inever loved him till now. 

LETTER III. 

FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 

(After an interval of several weeks. )

Time has flown, my Eleanor, since you left me, after your short butkind visit, with a heavy but healing wing. I do not think I shallever again be the giddy girl I have been; but my head will change, notmy heart; that was never giddy, and that shall still be as much yoursas ever. You are wrong in thinking I have not forgotten, at leastrenounced all affection for Mr. Linden. I have, though with a longand bitter effort. The woman for whom he fought went, you know, tohis house, immediately on hearing of his wound. She has continuedwith him ever since. He had the audacity to write to me once; mymother brought me the note, and said nothing. She read my heartaright. I returned it unopened. He has even called since hisconvalescence. Mamma was not at home to him. I hear that he lookspale and altered. I hope not, --at least I cannot resist praying forhis recovery. I stay within entirely; the season is over now, andthere are no parties: but I tremble at the thought of meeting him evenin the Park or the Gardens. Papa talks of going into the country nextweek. I cannot tell you how eagerly I look forward to it: and youwill then come and see me; will you not, dearest Eleanor?

Ah! what happy days we will have yet: we will read Italian together, as we used to do; you shall teach me your songs, and I will instructyou in mine; we will keep birds as we did, let me see, eight yearsago. You will never talk to me of my folly: let that be as if it hadnever been; but I will wonder with you about your future choice, andgrow happy in anticipating your happiness. Oh, how selfish I was someweeks ago! then I could only overwhelm you with my egotisms: now, Eleanor, it is your turn; and you shall see how patiently I willlisten to yours. Never fear that you can be too prolix: the diffuseryou are, the easier I shall forgive myself. 

Are you fond of poetry, Eleanor? I used to say so, but I never feltthat I was till lately. I will show you my favourite passages in myfavourite poets when you come to see me. You shall see if yourscorrespond with mine. I am so impatient to leave this horrid town, where everything seems dull, yet feverish, --insipid, yet false. Shallwe not be happy when we meet? If your dear aunt will come with you, she shall see how I (that is my mind) am improved. 

Farewell. Ever your most affectionate, F. A. 

CHAPTER XLVII. 

Brave Talbot, we will follow thee. --Henry the Sixth. 

"My letter insultingly returned--myself refused admittance; not asingle inquiry made during my illness; indifference joined to positivecontempt. By Heaven, it is insupportable!"

"My dear Clarence, " said Talbot to his young friend, who, fretful frompain and writhing beneath his mortification, walked to and fro hischamber with an impatient stride; "my dear Clarence, do sit down, andnot irritate your wound by such violent exercise. I am as muchenraged as yourself at the treatment you have received, and no less ata loss to account for it. Your duel, however unfortunate the event, must have done you credit, and obtained you a reputation both forgenerosity and spirit; so that it cannot be to that occurrence thatyou are to attribute the change. Let us rather suppose that LadyFlora's attachment to you has become evident to her father and mother;that they naturally think it would be very undesirable to marry theirdaughter to a man whose family nobody knows, and whose respectabilityhe is forced into fighting in order to support. Suffer me then tocall upon Lady Westborough, whom I knew many years ago, and explainyour origin, as well as your relationship to me. "

Linden paused irresolutely. 

"Were I sure that Lady Flora was not utterly influenced by hermother's worldly views, I would gladly consent to your proposal, but--"

"Forgive me, Clarence, " cried Talbot; "but you really argue much morelike a very young man than I ever heard you do before, --even fouryears ago. To be sure Lady Flora is influenced by her mother's views. Would you have her otherwise? Would you have her, in defiance of allpropriety, modesty, obedience to her parents, and right feeling forherself, encourage an attachment to a person not only unknown, but whodoes not even condescend to throw off the incognito to the woman headdresses? Come, Clarence, give me your instructions, and let me actas your ambassador to-morrow. "

Clarence was silent. 

"I may consider it settled then, " replied Talbot: "meanwhile you shallcome home and stay with me; the pure air of the country, even so neartown, will do you more good than all the doctors in London; and, besides, you will thus be enabled to escape from that persecutingFrenchwoman. "

"In what manner?" said Clarence. 

"Why, when you are in my house, she cannot well take up her abode withyou; and you shall, while I am forwarding your suit with Lady Flora, write a very flattering, very grateful letter of excuses to Madame laMeronville. But leave me alone to draw it up for you: meanwhile, letHarrison pack up your clothes and medicines; and we will effect ourescape while Madame la Meronville yet sleeps. "

Clarence rang the bell; the orders were given, executed, and in lessthan an hour he and his friends were on their road to Talbot's villa. 

As they drove slowly through the grounds to the house, Clarence wassensibly struck with the quiet and stillness which breathed around. On either side of the road the honeysuckle and rose cast their sweetscents to the summer wind, which, though it was scarcely noon, stirredfreshly among the trees, and waved as if it breathed a second youthover the wan cheek of the convalescent. The old servant's ear hadcaught the sound of wheels, and he came to the door, with anexpression of quiet delight on his dry countenance, to welcome in hismaster. They had lived together for so many years that they weregrown like one another. Indeed, the veteran valet prided himself onhis happy adoption of his master's dress and manner. A proud man, weween, was that domestic, whenever he had time and listeners for theindulgence of his honest loquacity; many an ancient tale of hismaster's former glories was then poured from his unburdeningremembrance. With what a glow, with what a racy enjoyment, did heexpand upon the triumphs of the past; how eloquently did heparticularize the exact grace with which young Mr. Talbot was wont toenter the room, in which he instantly became the cynosure of ladies'eyes; how faithfully did he minute the courtly dress, the exquisitechoice of colour, the costly splendour of material, which were theenvy of gentles, and the despairing wonder of their valets; and thenthe zest with which the good old man would cry, "I dressed the boy!"Even still, this modern Scipio (Le Sage's Scipio, not Rome's) wouldnot believe that his master's sun was utterly set: he was only in atemporary retirement, and would, one day or other, reappear andreastonish the London world. "I would give my right arm, " Jasper waswont to say, "to see Master at court. How fond the King would be ofhim! Ah! well, well; I wish he was not so melancholy-like with hisbooks, but would go out like other people!"

Poor Jasper! Time is, in general, a harsh wizard in histransformations; but the change which thou didst lament so bitterlywas happier for thy master than all his former "palmy state" ofadmiration and homage. "Nous avons recherche le plaisir, " saysRousseau, in one of his own inimitable antitheses, "et le bonheur afui loin de nous. " ["We have pursued pleasure, and happiness has fledfar from our reach. "] But in the pursuit of Pleasure we sometimeschance on Wisdom, and Wisdom leads us to the right track, which, if ittake us not so far as Happiness, is sure at least of the shelter ofContent. 

Talbot leaned kindly upon Jasper's arm as he descended from thecarriage, and inquired into his servant's rheumatism with the anxietyof a friend. The old housekeeper, waiting in the hall, next receivedhis attention; and in entering the drawing-room, with thatconsideration, even to animals, which his worldly benevolence hadtaught him, he paused to notice and caress a large gray cat whichrubbed herself against his legs. Doubtless there is some pleasure inmaking even a gray cat happy!

Clarence having patiently undergone all the shrugs, and sighs, andexclamations of compassion at his reduced and wan appearance, whichare the especial prerogatives of ancient domestics, followed the oldman into the room. Papers and books, though carefully dusted, wereleft scrupulously in the places in which Talbot had last depositedthem (incomparable good fortune! what would we not give for suchchamber handmaidens!); fresh flowers were in all the stands and vases;the large library chair was jealously set in its accustomed place, andall wore, to Talbot's eyes, that cheerful yet sober look of welcomeand familiarity which makes a friend of our house. The old man was inhigh spirits. 

"I know not how it is, " said he, "but I feel younger than ever! Youhave often expressed a wish to see my family seat at Scarsdale: it iscertainly a great distance hence; but as you will be my travellingcompanion, I think I will try and crawl there before the summer isover; or, what say you, Clarence, shall I lend it to you and LadyFlora for the honeymoon? You blush! A diplomatist blush! Ah, howthe world has changed since my time! But come, Clarence, suppose youwrite to La Meronville?"

"Not to-day, sir, if you please, " said Linden: "I feel so very weak. "

"As you please, Clarence; but some years hence you will learn thevalue of the present. Youth is always a procrastinator, and, consequently, always a penitent. " And thus Talbot ran on into astrain of conversation, half serious, half gay, which lasted tillClarence went upstairs to lie down and muse on Lady Flora Ardenne. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

La vie eat un sommeil. Les vieillards sont ceux dont le sommeil a eteplus long: ils ne commencent a se reveiller que quand il faut mourir. --LA BRUYERE. 

["Life is a sleep. The aged are those whose sleep has been thelongest they begin to awaken themselves just as they are obliged todie. "]

"You wonder why I have never turned author, with my constant love ofliterature and my former desire of fame, " said Talbot, as he andClarence sat alone after dinner, discussing many things: "the fact is, that I have often intended it, and as often been frightened from mydesign. Those terrible feuds; those vehement disputes; thoserecriminations of abuse, so inseparable from literary life, --appear tome too dreadful for a man not utterly hardened or malevolentvoluntarily to encounter. Good Heavens! what acerbity sours the bloodof an author! The manifestoes of opposing generals, advancing topillage, to burn, to destroy, contain not a tithe of the ferocitywhich animates the pages of literary oontroversialists! No term ofreproach is too severe, no vituperation too excessive! the blackestpassions, the bitterest, the meanest malice, pour caustic and poisonupon every page! It seems as if the greatest talents, the mostelaborate knowledge, only sprang from the weakest and worst-regulatedmind, as exotics from dung. The private records, the public works ofmen of letters, teem with an immitigable fury! Their histories mightall be reduced into these sentences: they were born; they quarrelled;they died!"

"But, " said Clarence, "it would matter little to the world if thesequarrels were confined merely to poets and men of imaginativeliterature, in whom irritability is perhaps almost necessarily alliedto the keen and quick susceptibilities which constitute their genius. These are more to be lamented and wondered at among philosophers, theologians, and men of science; the coolness, the patience, thebenevolence, which ought to characterize their works, should at leastmoderate their jealousy and soften their disputes. "

"Ah!" said Talbot, "but the vanity of discovery is no less acute thanthat of creation: the self-love of a philosopher is no less self-lovethan that of a poet. Besides, those sects the most sure of theiropinions, whether in religion or science, are always the most bigotedand persecuting. Moreover, nearly all men deceive themselves indisputes, and imagine that they are intolerant, not through privatejealousy, but public benevolence: they never declaim against theinjustice done to themselves; no, it is the terrible injury done tosociety which grieves and inflames them. It is not the bitterexpressions against their dogmas which give them pain; by no means: itis the atrocious doctrines (so prejudicial to the country, if inpolities; so pernicious to the world, if in philosophy), which theirduty, not their vanity, induces them to denounce and anathematize. "

"There seems, " said Clarence, "to be a sort of reaction in sophistryand hypocrisy: there has, perhaps, never been a deceiver who was not, by his own passions, himself the deceived. "

"Very true, " said Talbot; "and it is a pity that historians have notkept that fact in view: we should then have had a better notion of theCromwells and Mohammeds of the past than we have now, nor judged thoseas utter impostors who were probably half dupes. But to return tomyself. I think you will already be able to answer your own question, why I did not turn author, now that we have given a momentaryconsideration to the penalties consequent on such a profession. Butin truth, as I near the close of my life, I often regret that I hadnot more courage, for there is in us all a certain restlessness in thepersuasion, whether true or false, of superior knowledge or intellect, and this urges us on to the proof; or, if we resist its impulse;renders us discontented with our idleness and disappointed with thepast. I have everything now in my possession which it has been thedesire of my later years to enjoy: health, retirement, successfulstudy, and the affection of one in whose breast, when I am gone, mymemory will not utterly pass away. With these advantages, added tothe gifts of fortune, and an habitual elasticity of spirit, I confessthat my happiness is not free from a biting and frequent regret: Iwould fain have been a better citizen; I would fain have died in theconsciousness not only that I had improved my mind to the utmost, butthat I had turned that improvement to the benefit of my fellow-creatures. As it is, in living wholly for myself, I feel that myphilosophy has wanted generosity; and my indifference to glory hasproceeded from a weakness, not, as I once persuaded myself, from avirtue but the fruitlessness of my existence has been the consequenceof the arduous frivolities and the petty objects in which my earlyyears were consumed; and my mind, in losing the enjoyments which itformerly possessed, had no longer the vigour to create for itself anew soil, from which labour it could only hope for more valuablefruits. It is no contradiction to see those who most eagerly courtedsociety in their youth shrink from it the most sensitively in theirage; for they who possess certain advantages, and are morbidly vain ofthem, will naturally be disposed to seek that sphere for which thoseadvantages are best calculated: and when youth and its concomitantsdepart, the vanity so long fed still remains, and perpetuallymortifies them by recalling not so much the qualities they have lost, as the esteem which those qualities conferred; and by contrasting notso much their own present alteration, as the change they experience inthe respect and consideration of others. What wonder, then, that theyeagerly fly from the world, which has only mortification for theirself-love, or that we find, in biography, how often the most assiduousvotaries of pleasure have become the most rigid of recluses? For mypart, I think that that love of solitude which the ancients soeminently possessed, and which, to this day, is considered by some asthe sign of a great mind, nearly always arises from a tenderness ofvanity, easily wounded in the commerce of the rough world; and that itis under the shadow of Disappointment that we must look for thehermitage. Diderot did well, even at the risk of offending Rousseau, to write against solitude. The more a moralist binds man to man, andforbids us to divorce our interests from our kind, the moreeffectually is the end of morality obtained. They only arejustifiable in seclusion who, like the Greek philosophers, make thatvery seclusion the means of serving and enlightening their race; whofrom their retreats send forth their oracles of wisdom, and render thedesert which surrounds them eloquent with the voice of truth. Butremember, Clarence (and let my life, useless in itself, have at leastthis moral), that for him who in no wise cultivates his talent for thebenefit of others; who is contented with being a good hermit at theexpense of being a bad citizen; who looks from his retreat upon a lifewasted in the difficiles nugae of the most frivolous part of theworld, nor redeems in the closet the time he has misspent in thesaloon, --remember that for him seclusion loses its dignity, philosophyits comfort, benevolence its hope, and even religion its balm. Knowledge unemployed may preserve us from vice; but knowledgebeneficently employed is virtue. Perfect happiness, in our presentstate, is impossible; for Hobbes says justly that our nature isinseparable from desires, and that the very word desire (the cravingfor something not possessed) implies that our present felicity is notcomplete. But there is one way of attaining what we may term, if notutter, at least mortal, happiness; it is this, --a sincere andunrelaxing activity for the happiness of others. In that one maxim isconcentrated whatever is noble in morality, sublime in religion, orunanswerable in truth. In that pursuit we have all scope for whateveris excellent in our hearts, and none for the petty passions which ournature is heir to. Thus engaged, whatever be our errors, there willbe nobility, not weakness, in our remorse; whatever our failure, virtue, not selfishness, in our regret; and, in success, vanity itselfwill become holy and triumph eternal. As astrologers were wont toreceive upon metals 'the benign aspect of the stars, so as to detainand fix, as it were, the felicity of that hour which would otherwisebe volatile and fugitive, ' [Bacon] even so will that success leaveimprinted upon our memory a blessing which cannot pass away; preserveforever upon our names, as on a signet, the hallowed influence of thehour in which our great end was effected, and treasure up 'the relicsof heaven' in the sanctuary of a human fane. "

As the old man ceased, there was a faint and hectic flush over hisface, an enthusiasm on his features, which age made almost holy, andwhich Clarence had never observed there before. In truth, his younglistener was deeply affected, and the advice of his adopted parent wasafterwards impressed with a more awful solemnity upon his remembrance. Already he had acquired much worldly lore from Talbot's precepts andconversation. He had obtained even something better than worldlylore, --a kindly and indulgent disposition to his fellow-creatures; forhe had seen that foibles were not inconsistent with generous and greatqualities, and that we judge wrongly of human nature when we ridiculeits littleness. The very circumstances which make the shallowmisanthropical incline the wise to be benevolent. Fools discover thatfrailty is not incompatible with great men; they wonder and despise:but the discerning find that greatness is not incompatible withfrailty; and they admire and indulge. 

But a still greater benefit than this of toleration did Clarencederive from the commune of that night. He became strengthened in hishonourable ambition and nerved to unrelaxing exertion. Therecollection of Talbot's last words, on that night, occurred to himoften and often, when sick at heart and languid with baffled hope, itroused him from that gloom and despondency which are alwaysunfavourable to virtue, and incited him once more to that labour inthe vineyard which, whether our hour be late or early, will if earnestobtain a blessing and reward. 

The hour was now waxing late; and Talbot, mindful of his companion'shealth, rose to retire. As he pressed Clarence's hand and bade himfarewell for the night, Linden thought there was something more thanusually impressive in his manner and affectionate in his words. Perhaps this was the natural result of their conversation. 

The next morning, Clarence was awakened by a noise. He listened, andheard distinctly an alarmed cry proceeding from the room in whichTalbot slept, and which was opposite to his own. He rose hastily andhurried to the chamber. The door was open; the old servant wasbending over the bed: Clarence approached, and saw that he supportedhis master in his arms. 

"Good God!" he cried, "what is the matter?" The faithful old manlifted up his face to Clarence, and the big tears rolled fast fromeyes in which the sources of such emotion were well-nigh dried up. 

"He loved you well, sir!" he said, and could say no more. He droppedthe body gently, and throwing himself on the floor sobbed aloud. Witha foreboding and chilled heart, Clarence bent forward; the face of hisbenefactor lay directly before him, and the hand of death was upon it. The soul had passed to its account hours since, in the hush of night, --passed, apparently, without a struggle or a pang, like the wind, which animates the harp one moment, and the next is gone. 

Linden seized his hand; it was heavy and cold: his eye rested upon theminiature of the unfortunate Lady Merton, which, since the night ofthe attempted robbery, Talbot had worn constantly round his neck. Strange and powerful was the contrast of the pictured face--in whichnot a colour had yet faded, and where the hues and fulness and primeof youth dwelt, unconscious of the lapse of years--with the aged andshrunken countenance of the deceased. 

In that contrast was a sad and mighty moral: it wrought, as it were, acontract between youth and age, and conveyed a rapid but full historyof our passions and our life. 

The servant looked up once more on the countenance; he pointed towardsit, and muttered, "See, see how awfully it is changed!"

"But there is a smile upon it!" said Clarence, as he flung himselfbeside the body and burst into tears.