often heard of their history, though I had never seen them before, struck me as subjects for a philosopher of the world, which, as the pupil of Fothergill and Manners, notwithstanding my insignificance, I pretended (to myself, at least) to be. These were Lord Felix,-worthless in himself, but a minion of fortune; and the Marquess of Rochfort, valuable in himself,-but the victim of self-will.

Lord Felix seemed to have been born and to have lived one of those indices marked out by Providence, to shew how utterly inadequate are the gifts of fortune, unaccompanied by the true knowledge of their usefulness, to produce happiness in one's self, or esteem in others. He was profuse without being generous; luxurious without comfort; proud without self-respect. He had no capacity, and if ambitious, it was therefore in little things. His wealth might have given him influence in the state, or secured him the blessings of a thousand followers; but he preferred frittering it away upon gilt plate, gilt coaches, trappings of horses, and laced liveries. If his dinners were the theme of praise for the exquisiteness of their cookery, their unseasonable delicacies, and the raciness of his wines, his elation was at its highest ; but he shewed little choice in the selection of his guests, and his carnal feasts were any thing but those of reason.

The consequence was, that Lord Felix was generally surrounded by parasites, who paid him with open flattery and secret contempt. His house was a magazine of costly antiques, marbles, models, and expensive, but not the best paintings; and his library made a scholar's mouth water; but the poor gentleman, wholly without knowledge, though expensively educated, and twice experienced in the tour of Europe, knew nothing of these things, and he entertained a librarian and a foreign virtuoso for the express purpose of explaining what he could not explain himself to those who came to see him.

Nothing pleased Lord Felix more than to be asked the value of what his town house contained ; and the affected carelessness, but real complacency, with which he answered," he believed about one hundred and fifty thousand pounds," shewed the whole length, and breadth, and depth of his mind.

With all this, he was no patron of the arts, no contributor to the success of public institutions, or the relief of private distress. In short, he imitated the waste, but not the generosity of the unhappy Timon.

But as Lord Felix scarcely ever met with a disappointment in life, could it be that he was not what his name imported, happy?

Whatever he had been in his youth, when accu

mulating what I have described, he certainly was not so now. For, far advanced in age, excitement, and with it, occupation, was gone; and having no real resources, no mental pleasures, he became a burthen to himself in the hour of loneliness, and, unequal to enlightened companions, was left to the purchased attentions of interested hangers-on.

From this his only relief was the banquet and dissipation, though even these were beyond his bodily strength. The moment of dinner, and the company it assembled, was, however, the great moment of the day, for it took him out of himself; and as his high quality obtained him admittance everywhere, for the same reason, tottering as he was with age, he visited the midnight assembly or ball-room, when all his spirits were exhausted, and he was fitted only for bed.

What was worse, if he slept not when there, he had no consolation; for, long past the age of man, any hour of the day or night (and he both knew and feared it) might bring him his summons; and when pale Death, who, without Horace's authority for it, we know beats equally at the door of the palace and the cottage,* should knock at his, his laced porter could not tell him his lordship was "not at home." This affected him; for his kingdom was of this world, and a voice had certainly "fallen

* “Pallida mors æquo pulsat pede," &c.

from heaven," telling him that that kingdom had departed.*

In this trial he had no consolation from religion; for of religion, amidst his splendour, he had never found it necessary to think. He knew nothing of himself but what other people told him; and, struck with his display, or seduced by interest, they told him many a falsehood. The very best of them flattered themselves in flattering him. His nod, backed by his riches, gave them importance; and this nod could only be obtained by adulation.

With all his profusion, as he had never been munificent; he had not even the comfort which the "good old Erle of Devonschire" recorded on his tomb:

"What I spent, that I had;
What I gave, that I have."

In short, he was a sad example of the apothegm of Seneca:

The other living proof I have mentioned-that high station and apparent prosperity by no means carry happiness along with them-was exhibited, to the great regret of those who knew him well, by

"While the word was in the king's mouth, there fell a voice from heaven, saying, O king Nebuchadnezzar, to thee it is spoken, the kingdom is departed from thee."-Daniel, iv. 31. +"Death hangs with greater terror over him, who, known too much to the world, dies unknown to himself,"

the Marquess of Rochfort. He was a nobleman of very superior character, and of higher rank, though much less wealth, than Lord Felix.

That his wealth, indeed, was greatly inferior to what his rank and ambition required, had plunged him into difficulties which never left him during life. But this was the least cause of his chagrin ; for he was of a very high and towering spirit, which neither rank nor wealth could satisfy, without power and popularity; and power and popularity were (I know not why, for he was eminently able, and generous to profusion) always denied him.

Without success in these, his very ability and prominence in every thing else, whether in political knowledge, in the arts and liberal studies, or a very general information, and above all, the sacrifices he made for popularity in vain, were only a source of mortification to him, which he could not disguise.

Conscious of his endowments, his object was high office, through the public voice rather than private influence; and while he could not obtain it, he daily saw quieter and more ordinary men, confessedly his inferiors, preferred before him.

This embittered his private moments; and though, from a wish to appear above it, he indulged in a display of liveliness, anecdote, and conversational gaiety, which made him, perhaps naturally, the most agreeable man in England, yet his spirit was evidently tinged with an inward gloom, which preyed