think of Louvois and Turenne? Yet Louvois's master was then almost dévote, and Turenne himself 'faisait honneur à l'homme.' Such is the hypocritical dress which lying history gives to this gull of a world!"

I am ashamed to say I felt awed, though aware of the fallacy. I at least was silent.

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Well," said he, " your next move? To the church with Herbert, or to the court with Clayton ?"

"I have neither learning nor interest," said I, "sufficient to encourage me; and as for Clayton, I know not who he is."

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"I cry you mercy," said he: "I thought not to know him argued thyself unknown.' Learn then, that Mr. Clayton is a skilful gentleman who never let slip an opportunity of showing the nonsense of supposing that either talents, or eloquence, or birth, or original interest, or even great industry, or agreeable qualities, or suavity, or dignity of manners, are at all necessary for rising to the first honours and proportionate wealth. Even Dr. Herbert holds up his hands at his rise, and tells you the only situation for which he is fitted by nature."

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"And what is that?" asked I, with excited curiosity. "Tuft-hunting," replied he, " and tale-bearing between men of quality and office. This and a smooth face, be assured, are all that he has found necessary to rise. But no, I do him wrong. His talents are of a sublimer kind he has a knowledge of human nature far deeper than I have in my injustice stated; which makes Dr. Herbert's account shallow and superficial. Yes, yes, I have done wrong."

;

Here he quickened his pace; and I followed him, more than ever desirous of eliciting information from him concerning De Vere and his friends. But I had a delicate part to play. I scarcely knew my host, still less my present companion. I had much way to make with everybody before I could be in a situation to aspire to the confidence I wished. Harclai might give it if he pleased, but I felt I must wait his time, and at present he was not in the vein; for throwing himself into a covered seat, he opened his book again, while Triton rolled himself as usual at his feet, and he rather abruptly cried out,

"Good morrow, we shall perhaps meet at dinner, though I want to go home; but this churchman's visit may detain me. If I am wanted, which is possible, pray VOL. I.-C

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tell Lady Eleanor I am here watching an epitome of the world."

At these words, I found his quick eye had fixed upon a corner of the seat, where there was an immense spider's web, the tyrant of which lay coiled up, ready to sally out and strike his fangs into any straggler that should come within his reach.

"Look at that rascal," said he, "how harmless and quiet he appears. How many poor dupes may be presently his victims, unless I crush him! Yet why should I? He is not human, and if he were, but why should I moralize, when here is one who will do it so much better?" and he opened his volume at Timon of Athens. Rather shocked, and yet respecting his wish to be alone, I did not press him further; but left him, full of wonder and curiosity about himself, Herbert, De Vere, and all the seeming mysteries with which I thought myself surrounded.

CHAPTER VIII.

A CONTRAST.

I'll teach you differences.-SHAKSPEARE.

THE walk and conversation by the canal lasted longer than mine with Harclai. I relate not their result here, because it will come in better in another place. At present, I wish merely to introduce to the reader my new friends, among whom I was persuaded to remain many weeks. In short, I passed much time in the precincts of Talbois. I was invited to Dr. Herbert's, where I spent many days at a time, in a manner and in conversation which gave me great delight. The president was full of knowledge, natural and acquired. His abilities were of the first cast. Shrewd and observing, as well as learned, he knew, but by no means hated, the world; and when cultivated with sincerity, as he was by me, no one could be more open, or impart himself with greater facility. A little pomp, perhaps a little pride, in having from personal merit alone achieved that which the

highest dignities, and even power, cannot always effect for other men, would peep out amid his confidences. But Harclai also had pride, and the pride of both seemed pardonable. What struck me, however, was that the president inveighed against the pride of De Vere; lamented that so fine a mind, with such elegant cultivation, and supported by such general ability, should all be marred, together with the hopes of advancement (which, from the inferiority of his fortune to his rank, was very necessary to him), by a proud nature, rendered prouder by that very inferiority. "His own native dignity," said the president, " is so great, that he can afford to unbend a little, and yet preserve independence sufficient to carry an ordinary man through the world with honour. But, to my great vexation, who love him so much, he adds to it a morbid sensibility which has only increased his mistakes; and, what is not least, a spirit of romance which makes it more difficult to cure them."

In the course of our communication, the presidènt gave me his proofs of this: to which he was encouraged, he said, by the confidence which De Vere had reposed in me himself, and, as he was pleased to add, that I might not throw myself away at every little temporary disgust with a world which, after all, said he, we were made for, with all its faults.

Young (and perhaps romantic) as I was, I own this seemed no more than the language of good sense. From 'the president's lips, it also seemed the language of fair experience, avoiding the extremes of an enthusiast, which he certainly was not. For though embowered, if I may so say, in the quiet and learned retreats of Oxford, of which he was the ornament, he had been long in the world, and was even now by no means out of it. The difference was, that the men of the world now came to him, whereas, before, he lived in the midst of them; a distinction by no means unremarked, or unpleasing to this practical observer of mankind.

How great a contrast to this was Harclai! He had not the deeper learning of the president, though he had much even of that, having turned a long leisure to account by study. But he confessed it was useless, except as far as books described men. Hence the satirists of Rome and of modern times, Horace, Juvenal, Boileau, and Pope-and the more just observers of mankind, as Shakspeare and Montaigne, were now his only authors,

and of these he could make copious use. He would have included Swift, but that he had early, he said, detected him in the very hypocrisy he railed against: and unmasked the most enslaved of courtiers in the would-be despiser of courts. Unfortunately, this penetrating shrewdness in seizing the weak and vicious side of things was sufficiently, he thought, supported by experience to make him not merely a theorist.

He was of an ancient family and fair fortune; but for which last he would perhaps have pursued the bar, after he had assumed its gown. His rank in life gave him access to the great, particularly in the country where he was known; but a natural plainness of manner, and indifference to what might be thought of him, made him little welcome in high society. It occasioned the first great wound his feelings sustained.

He had a brother left wholly dependent upon him, whom he got placed about the court. This brother, as much his opposite in personal graces as mental merit, implored his assistance to enable him to marry the daughter of a nobleman supposed to be rising in court favour. He immediately settled upon him a considerable part of his fortune. But the lady was fine, and the brother ungrateful. Harclai's plainness and sincerity were disagreeable to his sister-in-law's family; he was neglected, and even ridiculed by those whom his bounty had made happy; and he left their house like another Lear. His disgust was interminable, and his affections for ever bruised.

A kinsman now consulted him in the choice of a wife. Harclai had known the lady from her cradle, and approved with all his heart. Within the first year she eloped; and the husband, attended by Harclai, called the seducer to the field. But he there fell himself: and, as was said, the adulteress beheld the combat. The seducer afterward was promoted in the army, and rose to a great post in the state; and the adulteress, again married, became the centre of fashion.

A thousand instances, as he said, had met his observation of principles renounced, benefits forgotten, and friends unremembered. But what roused his disgust more than any thing else was an affront to his honour, which he said he should resent upon mankind to his dying day. Political animosity had long divided his county, and from confidence in his integrity he was pitched upon

by the leaders of both parties to negotiate an approximation. He felt this the most glorious situation in which a private man could be placed. He succeeded; and, for a while he was honoured with the title of peacemaker, which he would not have exchanged to be a duke. But the parties quarrelled, and each reproached the other with a breach of terms. Appeal was made to Harclai, as the only witness. He stated the facts, and was disavowed by both. As he was devoted to plain dealing, the wound thus inflicted was never cured. He despised his fellowcreatures in a mass, but particularly politicians, and people of his own rank; for, unhappily, he staid not to look at the other side of the account, where he might have found a great and happy balance in their favour.

He had yet one comfort left; his friendship for General de Vere and his wife, who alone satisfied his expectations, and exercised the little remnant of his attachments.

Such was Harclai, whom, mistaken as he was, I could not help respecting, nay, almost loving, for the proofs he dealt out with large hand of kindness to the poor, and assistance to the helpless in every situation. Nevertheless, I loved not his manners as I did those of the president. Such is the invariable effect of real good breeding and elegant cultivation, in comparison with bluntness, wherever found. Harclai, however, told me most about De Vere.

As to De Vere himself, I found him so full of rich mind, and though at first, from circumstances, reserved, yet so free and communicative in the end, and at the same time he communicated himself with so much delicacy, and where I thought him romantic had so much seeming reason for his romance, that I felt my attachment as well as my pleasure in his society grow every hour.

There were other ladies in his history besides his mother. But why do I hint, when a whole life's intimacy with all those I have mentioned, and the freest access to papers and letters, gave me a distinct view of the life of De Vere; in which I discovered many interesting vicissitudes, and a mind often acting under the extreme of feeling, but in its feeling always honourable. As I have said, then, can I please myself more, or do better for others, than to give a picture of this life, and this mind,