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 D E VERB 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 D E V E R E ; 
 
 on, THE 
 
 MAN OF INDEPENDENCE 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF TREMAINE. 
 
 My fiee drift 
 Halts not particularly, but moves itself 
 In a wide sea of wax. 
 
 StlAKii'KAKK. 
 
 Power to do good, is the true and lawful end of aspiring: for good 
 thoughts (though God accept them), yet, towards men, are little better 
 than good dreams, except they be put in act; and that cannot be witii- 
 out power and place, as the vantage and commanding ground. 
 
 Bacos. 
 
 IN FOUR VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 HENRY COLBURN, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1827.
 
 SHACKELL A.ND BAYLIF, JOHNSON's-COURT.
 
 
 TO 
 
 HENRY, EARL OF MULGRAVE, 
 
 VISCOUNT NORMANBY, 
 
 BARON MULGRAVE, 
 
 KNIGHT GRAND CROSS OF THE MOST HONOURABLE 
 
 ORDER OF THE BATH, 
 
 Sfc, <^c. (^c. 
 
 My Lord, 
 
 As the following work treats much of 
 independence of mind, and of the effects which 
 ambition produces upon the heart and character 
 of man, I know not that I can ask a better 
 grace for it, than to be allowed to inscribe it to 
 one who has run through so great a career as
 
 VI DEDICAiyoX. 
 
 your Lordship, reaping from it nothing but 
 honour. But though I have been a witness to 
 the devotion of your life to public duty, per- 
 haps no part of it inspired me with more ad- 
 miring respect, than the disinterested manner in 
 which, after so ably administering your power, 
 you voluntarily laid it down. Surrounded by 
 the friends of your love, and who give you all 
 their veneration in return, you are a happy 
 example of the better sort of ambition treated 
 of in this work. 
 
 I have other reasons, of private attachment, 
 which make me not less glad to profit by an 
 opportunity of marking my grateful respect for 
 your virtues : but with these, however they 
 may influence individual feeling, the world is 
 not concerned.
 
 DEDICATION. Vll 
 
 That Providence, which preserved you amid 
 the dangers of your earlier career, may continue 
 to watch over you during the repose of your 
 lionourable Hfe, is the sincere wish of 
 
 Y our most attached Friend, 
 
 And obliged humble Servant, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 London, March 6:h, 1827.
 
 PREFACE, 
 
 That species of literary composition called 
 the Novel has been carried to so consummate 
 a pitch of perfection during the last twenty or 
 thirty years, that, in its power of delineating, 
 exciting, or soothing the human heart, it almost 
 rivals the Drama itself. True, the Novel must 
 ever want that great advantage of the Drama, 
 which the name of the latter implies, — that of 
 representing hy action-^ and it is also inferior, 
 inasmuch as it never can soar into poetry. This, 
 however, cannot be done even by Rhetoric, with 
 VOL. I. b
 
 11 PREFACE. 
 
 all its flowers ; and both this species of writing, 
 and Rhetoric itself, must always be content to 
 be prose. And yet, as the Drama charms us in 
 the closet without being acted, and also with- 
 out being always poetry, there is no reason, 
 a priori, why a Novel, founded on human na- 
 ture, and not confined to mere pictures of things, 
 should not assume as high a tone, and possess 
 as much influence over us, as any unacted dra- 
 matic prose composition. As to representation, 
 we are often more charmed with Shakspeare, 
 in our libraries, than even upon the stage ; and 
 the plays of Miss Baillie, on the passions, speak 
 to our minds as forcibly, and as beautifully, as 
 if they were presented to the eye and ear by 
 the best acting of Kemble or Siddons. 
 
 We allow, however, that the Novel, being 
 confined to prose, loses not only the elevation 
 of poetry, but that inexpressible charm which 
 arises from beautiful, measured, and lofty lan- 
 guage. The subjects of the Novel, too, being
 
 PREFACE. Ill 
 
 for the most part busied with ordinary life, 
 cannot entirely compare with the higher sub- 
 jects of the Drama. In the Novel, whatever 
 may have been done for it by exalted genius, 
 we can scarcely expect to witness 
 
 " Gorgeous Tragedy, 
 In scepter'd pall, come sweeping by ;" 
 
 though the Author of Waverley has made even 
 this almost doubtful. 
 
 A greater authority, indeed, than our's, car- 
 ries its sentiments in favour of the Novel, as 
 compared with the Drama, much farther than 
 we do ; for in point of limit, and, as it were, 
 in the abstract, it gives the preference to the 
 Novel. " There is no element of dramatic com- 
 position," (says the Quarterly Review) " which 
 may not be successfully employed in the Ro- 
 mantic ; but the Drama being essentially a much 
 more limited representation of life than the 
 Romance, many sources of interest are open to 
 the latter, from which the former is completely 
 b 2
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 debarred." The writer adds, that " it is alto- 
 gether out of the question to limit, in any man- 
 ner whatever, the dominion of the sister art," 
 meaning novel- writing. Finally, he says, that 
 "as to materials, the empire of Romance in- 
 cludes that of the Drama, and includes therein 
 perhaps its finest province.""* 
 
 These sentiments, as they regard the subjects 
 of Romance, are certainly correct. But inas- 
 much as they do not even allude to the great 
 if not the only reason for the superiority of 
 dramatic composition, (distinct from its capa- 
 bility of representation,) — namely, that its vehi- 
 cle is, or may be. Poetry, — they are abstractedly 
 perhaps not quite so just as they were intended 
 to be. With this exception, however, the ar- 
 gument of the masterly article in the Review 
 IS unanswerable. 
 
 Take Poetry from the Drama, and, from its 
 
 * See Quarterly Review for Sept. 1826, p. 364— 
 Lives of the Novelists."
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 limited range, it becomes instantly Inferior to 
 Romance ; for even in point of language, its 
 superiority is lost. To this latter fact, our few 
 tragedies in prose bear testimony. In regard 
 to Comedy, too, even though sustained by dia- 
 logue and visible action, there is no reason (ex- 
 cept as drawn from the merits of the respective 
 writers) why it should bear the palm from the 
 narrative mode of composition. 
 
 We have mentioned the Author of Waver- 
 ley. What dramatist, except Shakspeare, sur- 
 passes him ? Who else can even approach him 
 in his delineations of character ; his knowledge 
 of the human heart and mind ; the beauty, 
 variety, and magnificence of his descriptions? 
 Waverley, Old Mortality, Kenilworth, Ivan- 
 hoe, Quentin Durward, Rob Roy, and the 
 Heart of Mid-Lothian, produce all the effect 
 of perfect Dramas, except that they are in 
 prose. The first (but for this exception) might 
 rank even as an epic poem. Yet all these 
 are Novels.
 
 VI PREFACE. 
 
 As to knowledge of mankind, nothing for- 
 bids (on the contrary, every thing requires) 
 that the novelist should be at least as con- 
 summate an observer of the passions as the 
 writer of dramatic poetry. There is, perhaps, 
 more knowledge of the heart, and more acute- 
 ness of observation in Gil Bias, than in all the 
 plays of all nations put together, save only 
 those of Shakspeare. If, therefore, " the pro- 
 per study of mankind is man," the Novel should 
 never have lost it''s relative consequence in 
 comparison with the Drama. It did lose it, 
 however, after Fielding and Richardson were 
 no more ; and, with the exception of the 
 Vicar of Wakefield, some few other elegant com- 
 positions, and the Novels of Smollett, (which are 
 broad satires, rather than pictures of mankind,) 
 this species of writing dwindled into trash, in 
 the hands of feeble men or of mere fanciful 
 women. 
 
 For the honour of the sex, however, it was
 
 PREFACE, Vll 
 
 Woman that restored the Novel to its useful- 
 ness, and therefore to its consequence. Witness 
 Madame D'Arblay, who led the way ; and 
 Miss Edgeworth, who pursued it with an ef- 
 fect, an attraction, and a success which all 
 admit. The last, indeed, showed that the 
 sunken and despised Novel, might, when re- 
 stored to its vigour, be converted even into 
 an instrument of a nation's good. If the love, 
 the respect, and often the admiration which their 
 English fellow-subjects now feel for them, are 
 of any value to the Irish, in exchange for the 
 cold and most unjust disparagement with which 
 the Irish character was once treated here, I 
 will venture to hazard an opinion, that to this 
 change Miss Edgeworth has very much con- 
 tributed. To both nations, therefore, she may 
 be considered as an amiable benefactress. 
 
 In all these respects, then, the descriptions 
 o£ character, (by which I do not mean mere 
 passing manners,) to be found in such novelists
 
 Vlll PBEFACE. 
 
 as I have mentioned, may be not unworthy the 
 moral philosopher himself; and if History 
 is, as it has been called, Philosophy teaching 
 by examples, so also may be the Romance, if 
 properly conducted. The difference, indeed, 
 appears at first sight to be a marked one ; for 
 History is busy with real, Romance with ima- 
 ginary events. But the difference is only seem- 
 ing; for, if the imaginary events are (what 
 they ought to be) perfectly consonant with na- 
 ture, the lesson is the same. Who inquires 
 whether the workings of Macbeth's mind on 
 the stage — his half resolves— his fear and re- 
 morse, and final surrender of himself to wick- 
 edness, — who inquires whether these are true 
 or false in regard to the Macbeth of history ? 
 Most probably they were all imaginary, and 
 only conceived in that wonderful brain which 
 had observed them elsewhere. 
 
 All this eulogy, however, of the species of 
 v/riting we are upon, only increases the difficul-
 
 PREFACE. IX 
 
 ty which the Author has to encounter, in in- 
 troducing his own work to the pubhc : for, in 
 proportion as the line of writing he has chosen, 
 is important, his responsibility for pursuing it 
 must be perilous ; and it would, perhaps, have 
 been better policy not to have extolled an art, 
 in which, on that very account, he may only 
 be found the more wanting. Nevertheless, his 
 respect for many professors of it is so great, 
 that he could not resist this tribute to it, con- 
 sidering how much it formerly was underva- 
 lued. 
 
 With regard to the following work, as 
 it has taken Ambition for its subject, one 
 would think little would be necessary to 
 explain it farther. We all of us know this 
 to be one of the great passions, if not the 
 greatest passion of the human mind. It has, 
 at least, been the cause of most of the great 
 crimes of mankind ; and most materially, there- 
 fore, is it interwoven with the happiness and 
 b 5
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 the actions of men. He, indeed, is either more 
 or less than man, who has not at one time or 
 other, felt its power. It, therefore, generally 
 shows itself by producing great situations, end- 
 ing in great events. 
 
 And yet those who expect such events and 
 situations here — who look for the consequences 
 of ambition, as they appeared in the prominent 
 characters of history, such as Caesar, or Crom- 
 well, Wolsey, or Richelieu, Buckingham, or 
 the Guises — will be disappointed : for the tale, 
 though not of the present, is comparatively of 
 modern times, and of a civilized nation ; and 
 the effect of high civilization, like that of po- 
 liteness in private life, is to reduce every thing 
 as much as possible to a smooth surface and to 
 comparative tranquillity. In times like these, 
 there can be no very dazzling or overpowering 
 virtues ; no very atrocious crimes to record ; 
 in such times, we should in vain wish with 
 Sallust, '^prcEclari facinoris famam qucerere"
 
 PEEFACE. XI 
 
 It follows, therefore, that the kind of ambi- 
 tion which is here chosen for a subject, must be 
 totally wanting in splendour, and that the work, 
 in point of events, can have little imposing be- 
 longing to it. Nevertheless, the human heart 
 remains the same, under all appearances, and 
 the study of it will ever excite our first and best 
 interest. The less fertile, therefore, the time 
 in great events, and the greater the refinement 
 which manners assume, the greater may be the 
 nicety required to unmask the heart, and un- 
 fold its operations ; and thus it may become, in 
 itself, a matter of more subtle interest. Still, 
 where there is nothing to record but the common 
 occurrences of a peaceable, civilized asra, there 
 \vill undoubtedly be more difficulty in awaken- 
 ing the passions of the reader, than where his 
 attention hangs on the grandeur of kingdoms, 
 the fate of princes, and 
 
 " The grappling vigour and rough frov/n of war."
 
 Xll PREFACE. 
 
 The action, however, in this work, is not 
 confined to ambition. There is another passion, 
 (if it may be called a passion,) in the pride of 
 independence of De Vere, which challenges at- 
 tention : for it bears up the hero under all his 
 little reverses, and is the main cause of much of 
 the action. 
 
 As to the public characters mentioned, it is a 
 pleasure to think that the unfavourable speci- 
 mens of them are drawn from what men have 
 been, not what they are. To look into the ac- 
 counts formerly given by pubhc men of them- 
 selves, as well as of each other, makes us trem- 
 ble ; and we are only consoled by the convic- 
 tion that such accounts are deserved no longer. 
 Were Halifax, therefore, or Bohngbroke, Swift, 
 Chesterfield, Doddington, and Lord Orford, 
 and (would we were not forced to add to these!) 
 that pattern of a high-minded gentleman, Lord 
 Waldegrave ; if these were to revive, they 
 would look in vain among our public characters
 
 PEEFACK. XIU 
 
 for the prototypes from which they drew their 
 portraits. The whole Walpolian and Pelham 
 school is at an end, and the spirit in which the 
 present work closes, includes no greater eulogy 
 than may be said to be deserved by all our 
 statesmen of later times. 
 
 But the m.ention of this part of the subject, 
 brings us to topics of fearful consequence, 
 should they be viewed and judged of by pre- 
 judice rather than candour : for the production 
 of ministers and public men on the scene, how- 
 ever ideal, or removed from the passing time, 
 or even however distant from real likeness to 
 individual character at any time, can hardly 
 fail to produce effects which may be made most 
 painful to the Author's feelings. He is aware 
 that throughout the scenes of the work, (and 
 they are many,) which are occupied with poli- 
 tical ambition, he steps upon dangerous ground, 
 " Per ignes suppositos doloso cineri.'' He there- 
 fore desires most seriously, distinctly, and with-
 
 XIV PREFACE. 
 
 out a reserve, to declare in the outset, once and 
 for ever, that no particular person is meant to 
 be pourtrayed by any of the Dramatis Personae 
 of this work. He declares once, and for ever, 
 that he knows no such individuals as Wentworth 
 or Beaufort ; Mowbray or Cleveland ; Lord 
 Oldcastle or Clayton. 
 
 But it may be said that certain known traits 
 and anecdotes have been introduced, in con- 
 nexion with particular characters; and that 
 these characters, therefore, must surely be in- 
 tended to represent the persons (whether alive or 
 dead), to whom the anecdotes actually apply. 
 
 From this imputation, the Author can hardly 
 expect to escape, when he recollects, that because 
 the real name of Corporal Trim was stated to 
 be James Butler, the world immediately fas- 
 tened upon Sterne the design of representing the 
 Duke of Ormond. Yet surely a real anecdote of 
 one person may be engrafted on the history of 
 another, without identifying the two ; and to
 
 PREFACE. XV 
 
 suppose the contrary, is as illogical as it may 
 be uncharitable. A sufficiently striking illustra- 
 tion of this may be found in the present work, 
 where an anecdote of the late Mr. Windham is 
 made applicable to such a person as Clayton. 
 Mr. Windham was, as is known, expressing his 
 fears, that he was too downright for a public 
 man ; and Dr. Johnson, in jest, observed, " Ne- 
 ver fear, Sir ; I dare say, in time, you will make 
 a very pretty rascal." But Mr. Windham was 
 all honour ; Clayton, all deceit. Will, then, the 
 application of the anecdote fix upon the author 
 an intention of making the two characters the 
 same? 
 
 But there is a chronology, if not directly set 
 forth, yet at least made cognizable by anecdotes 
 and quotations, so that the reader may fix 
 nearly the very year when some of the events 
 happened. 
 
 This could scarcely have been avoided ; and 
 the Author trusts to the candour of the reader.
 
 XVI PREFACE. 
 
 that he will not fix this upon him as a proof of 
 things which he did not intend. All events must 
 be in time ; and if an imaginary story touch upon 
 occurrences of a public nature, it will naturally 
 fix its own chronology. But hard, indeed, would 
 it be, that what is purely imaginary, must there- 
 fore be incrusted with a real body ; and that a 
 character (perhaps even the most opposite to 
 that really deserved) should be allotted to any 
 individual person. Some latitude ought surely 
 to be allowed to an author in these respects, 
 and he should be read only in the spirit in which 
 he has written. 
 
 To apply this, and have done. A searcher of 
 dates may be able to say, that the epoch of De 
 Vere is about the time of Lord Chatham's last 
 administration ; nay, that the resignation, from 
 illness, and the hints in respect to former glory, 
 plainly show that he himself is intended.* 
 
 * Most unhappily for himself, his friends, and for the 
 world, and to the Author's own grief, while almost in the
 
 PIIEFACE. XVU 
 
 But though the last years of Lord Cha- 
 tham's Hfe may afford useful lessons to English 
 ambition, all that the Author intended, in intro- 
 ducing a retiring great Minister upon the scene, 
 was to paint generally, the intrigues which, 
 according to the characters in his work, might 
 be expected to follow such an event ; not that 
 those intrigues or characters were actually the 
 same as in history. 
 
 In the same manner it is necessary, in the 
 work,, to introduce a Chancellor, for the pur- 
 pose of a solemn judgment ; and a critic might, 
 
 act of writing the above, another severe illness, of ano- 
 ther good and gi-eat person has also occurred, in a man- 
 ner as unex])ected as lamentable ; and this illness may 
 possibly lead to a most important resignation in the 
 present time. It might really, therefore, require some 
 candour, if left unexplained, to believe that what is de- 
 scribed of the same nature, in the work, may not have 
 been intended with particular allusions to the present 
 day. All that can be said upon it is, that the scene in 
 the book was finished fourteen months ago, and actually 
 in the press, before this last most sudden as well as un- 
 happy event could have been even contemplated.
 
 XVlll PREFACE. 
 
 by the help of a political index, and an atten- 
 tion to the anecdotes scattered up and down 
 the book, discover, that Lord Camden was pro- 
 bably Chancellor at the time ; but still Lord 
 Camden was not meant, for all that. 
 
 These inconveniences, however great, are, from 
 the nature of the subject, unavoidable, while 
 the scene is at home, and the time, from internal 
 evidence, specified. It is, therefore, against the 
 improper use of this specification that the Author 
 asks leave to protest ; he lays a claim which he 
 hopes will be allowed, to be permitted to use 
 illustrative anecdotes, or emphatic dicta, as mere 
 general materials, without being tied down to the 
 consequences of their being specifically and in- 
 correctly applied. Such applications might have 
 been eluded, by laying the scene in another coun- 
 try, and in no specified aera ; but the ambition 
 and the persons described, would not then have 
 been English ambition, or English persons; and 
 though the inconveniences might be cured, the
 
 PREFACE. XIX 
 
 advantages would be lost. To remedy the 
 inconvenience, and preserve the advantage, can 
 only be accomplished through the candour of 
 the reader, pondering the truth of these ex- 
 planations.
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. 
 
 THE TOUR OF BEAUCLERK. 
 
 Forth issuing on a summer's morn to breathe 
 
 Among the pleasant villages and farms. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 Let the issue shew itself. 
 
 SnAKSPEARE. 
 
 Why, in my old age, I have proposed to 
 myself to record the passages of the earlier life 
 of a person deservedly most dear to me, it is of 
 little consequence for the world to know ; though 
 it is from a far higher motive than mere amuse- 
 ment. But if I think it right to direct their 
 publication, after I am no more, that is another 
 question, which ought to be explained. 
 
 It is simply then, because, however my task 
 may be performed, it seems to me that the 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 early life of De Vere abounds in what may 
 afibrd useful food for the heart ; and exhibits 
 thai which no person can wish to imitate without 
 being the better for it. With this reason for 
 my undertaking, I shall^ without further pre- 
 face, proceed to relate how, in my early youth, 
 I first became acquainted with him, and obtain- 
 ed his Iiistory up to that epoch. And though I 
 almost immediately afterwards went abroad, and 
 therefore was not an eye-witness of the import- 
 ant passages which directly followed, I shall 
 proceed with the work to its close, as if I had 
 been present, only assuring the reader, from the 
 intimacy which afterwards grew between De 
 Vere and myself, that my sources of information 
 could not be more authentic. 
 
 In the year 17 — , though just of age, and my 
 own master, I grew, 1 know not why, tired of 
 London; and, after finding that the Mall of 
 St. James's Park (every leaf and lady of which 
 I had got by heart) had lost its charms, and 
 that I could even come away from the Opera 
 }>efore the ballet w^as half over, I resolved to 
 commence a tour I had planned for the summer, 
 and found myself one night at Dunchurch in 
 Warwickshire. 
 
 To be sure I was rather surprised in the
 
 t)K VERE. 
 
 morning, when my windows were opened, and I 
 snufFed the air of a blooming orchard, and heard 
 birds, instead of the cries of Piccadilly ; but 
 recollecting myself, I jumped up with all the 
 alacrity of a youth just set free from what had 
 ceased to interest him, in order to enjoy what at 
 least had novelty to recommend it. My horses 
 had been sent on three days before, and I 
 mounted with all the gaiety of one-and -twenty. 
 
 But, reader, do not be afraid of an ordinary 
 tour. No ! I am not going to describe land- 
 .scapes ; my object is man. Not Warwick 
 Castle, therefore, that midland splendour, shall 
 detain me ; nor even Kenilworth itself, that 
 " princely palace of pleasure"" of other times ; 
 not even though the latter has recently had a 
 thousand interests attached to it, by tlie witcheries 
 of one who is second alone to the great dramatic 
 poet, in the brilliancy of his elucidations of 
 England's story.* 
 
 In truth, though this storied fabric presents 
 
 * The novel of Kenilworth was publisbeil in 1821, and 
 this might, on a comparison with the story, lead to a 
 surmise that the author was a tolerably old gentleman 
 when be wrote. But this passage is not only written in 
 much fresher ink than the rest, but in a different hf.nd, 
 and moreover in a sort of note. — Emfo^; 
 
 B 2
 
 4 DE VERE. 
 
 volumes of associations by which we are enabled 
 to remember what it was, it is too completely dila- 
 pidated to excite either much curiosity or much 
 admiration in viewing what it is. Its grandeur 
 is as a tale that is told. Nevertheless it proved, 
 in the present instance, a source of interest, by 
 furnishing the game of which I was in search. 
 
 On leaving Warwick, I was passed by a gen- 
 tleman well mounted, whose open, yet lofty 
 manner, and speaking countenance, even in 
 the rapid glance I had of him, could not fail to 
 excite my observation. I wished to behold him 
 again, though I checked my first impidse to 
 overtake him. It is too uncivil, thought I. To 
 my satisfaction, however, he himself pulled up, 
 and, without hurrying, I came close to him. 
 
 For some yards, each had an undisturbed view 
 of the other, and I was struck with a turn of 
 feature and general physiognomy, in which re- 
 flection and reserve seemed at first to predomi- 
 nate, to the exclusion of every thing else. His 
 dignified air gave me the notion of a person of 
 the very first breeding. Yet it seemed not the 
 breeding of London, but had evidently a stamp 
 of its own. Had I been in Spain, I should 
 certainly have saluted him with a " Senor Cavai- 
 lero;" and I thought of the days of Gil Bias.
 
 DE VEKE. 5 
 
 But in England we are not made for this, and 
 the stranger resuming his pace, was quickly out 
 of sight. 
 
 I know not why, but I seemed sorry to lose 
 him, and could not help wishing to inquire, of 
 his groom, who he was. The groom was dressed 
 in a jockey cap, and rather old-fashioned livery of 
 tawney and red ; and lingered awhile behind his 
 master, occupied with something wrong about 
 his saddle. 
 
 The sight of the ponderous Keep of Kcnil- 
 worth, and its mouldering walls, from the mere 
 interstices of which, a whole grove of birch and 
 mountain ash pushed their white stems and red 
 berries, drove the late object of my curiosity 
 out of my head ; and I had finished my view of 
 the place, and was preparing to remount, when 
 turning through the arch of an old labelled gate- 
 way, I saw him again. 
 
 He was just within the precinct i and, as he 
 viewed the ruin, seemed lost in thought. Per- 
 ceiving me about to enter too, which brought us 
 front to front, he yielded the passage with a 
 high but civil air ; and this sort of approxima- 
 tion, even amongst Englishmen, (if they have 
 ever stirred from home,) creates an opening to 
 something more, if they please. In a French-
 
 6 DE VEIIE. 
 
 man it goes a good way towards a liaison in- 
 time. 
 
 In this instance it so far broke the ice between 
 us, that each seemed prepared with some pass- 
 ing sentence ; and mine, I own, was about the 
 weathei\ 
 
 He, however, spoke first; and, in rather a 
 deep, but yet the most musical voice I had ever 
 heard from one of my own sex, observed upon 
 the impossibility, changed as England was, of 
 viewing such a place without feeling one's 
 interest excited. 
 
 I assented ; and, after pausing some time, he 
 asked if ever I had visited this scene before ? 
 
 I said " No," and that I v\ as even a stranger 
 to the midland counties. 
 
 He answered shortly, " You have then a very 
 interesting country to see ;'' and bowing himself 
 away, rejoined his horses, which were waiting 
 for him at the outer gate, while mine had moved 
 on. 
 
 He mounted, and was again quickly out of 
 sight. 
 
 It was unaccountable what a wish I felt to 
 be better acquainted with this stranger, and I 
 almost lamented that my horses had not been 
 ready with his, as it was possible, though \
 
 DE VERE. 7; 
 
 thought not probable, that he might have per- 
 mitted me to join him. 
 
 Thei'e was an interest about the whole manner 
 of this person which I can neither describe nor 
 account for ; so directly did it address itself to 
 the feelings. Before he spoke, the first impression 
 excited was that of great esteem, or rather respect ; 
 but he had not uttered half a sentence before 
 his countenance was lighted up with a play, if 
 not a smile, about the mouth, which amounted 
 to sweetness, and which, added to his voice, and 
 the sparkle of an otherwise melancholy eye, 
 converted one's reverence immediately into lik- 
 ing. But the moment he had done speaking 
 his deep reserve was resumed, and he reminded 
 me of the pictures of the great Prince of Orange, 
 surnamed the Taciturn, who inspired Philip the 
 Second with fear, even in the depths of the 
 Escurial. 
 
 When he first passed me, I took him for a 
 man of above thirty; but when I joined him 
 again, I perceived that six or seven and twenty 
 must be the outside of his age. I kept 
 thinking of him as I loitered on, in a still 
 evening, to Litchfield, till the beautiful cathe- 
 dral of that city, with its twin towers looming 
 in the twilight, and set off almost to magnifi-
 
 8 DE VERE. 
 
 cence in " the dun obscure," diverted my atten- 
 tion. I listened to the person who detailed the 
 legend of the " field of dead bodies," and that 
 other legend of Lord Brooke's death, at which 
 many of our grandfathers have blessed them- 
 selves. There was still a third legend, almost 
 as surprising, of William de Lichfield, the 
 famous preacher of the fifteenth century, in 
 whose study, after his death, no less than three 
 thousand four score and three manuscript ser- 
 mons were found. 
 
 The quiet little sovereigns of the present 
 Close, employ themselves as edifyingly per- 
 haps, but somewhat differently I trow. Whe- 
 ther they do or not, I love a Cathedral 
 Close, with all its old buildings and canonical 
 houses, and little aristocracy of clergy, and gen- 
 tlemen's families of the county, who, however 
 affable from nature, combine to keep the rest of 
 the town at a distance, in proportion as the rest 
 of the town treads upon their heels, or even 
 goes beyond them in the influence of riches. 
 Peace to their happy dignities. 
 
 I had a wish to see the 
 
 ** Smug and silver Trent," 
 so I pushed on the next day to Burton, when.
 
 DE vehe. B 
 
 to my great joy, on entering the town, I again 
 beheld my dignified acquaintance of the morning 
 before. 
 
 I knew not whether the intercourse I had had 
 with him authorized in me the hberty of recog- 
 nition. I knew not if I was even remembered. But 
 he himself put an end to doubt, by touching his 
 hat. He rode gracefully, had a beautiful horse, 
 and w^as pleased to commend mine. I say 
 pleased^ because it is extraordinary in the little 
 instant of our acquaintance, ^vhat an ascendancy 
 he seemed to have acquired over me. 
 
 As the road of each lay along the bank of 
 the river we had crossed, and he spoke but 
 little, except with that mute observing eye w^hich 
 had so attracted me, I began, in order that I 
 might not again lose him in a hurry, a conver 
 sation, on the agreeableness of the river, and its 
 etymology ; and asked his opinion whether 
 the name really came from the French trente ; 
 owing to its supposed thirty streams ; because 
 the number, I said, was doubted. 
 
 " I believe in the derivation," said he, " if 
 
 only for the sake of Milton, and should still do so 
 
 even though some critic, in the spirit of a land 
 
 surveyor, should prove to me that there were 
 
 B 3
 
 10 DE VERE. 
 
 actually but twenty-nine arms to it, instead of 
 thirty." 
 
 ''I recollect," I replied, " his emphatic invoca- 
 tion to the rivers, to which T believe you allude : 
 
 * And Trent, that like some earth-born giant spreads 
 His thirty arms along th' indented meads.' " 
 
 The gentleman looked assent, and approbar- 
 tion too, and took a closer measure of me with 
 his eye, than he had hitherto done. It seemed 
 to say, " are you worth knowing ?''^ 
 
 As the talk I found was to be on my side, I 
 then ventured to say, " you have a finer river 
 still, I believe, in Derbyshire ?" and mentioned 
 the Dove. 
 
 " 'Tis more romantic," he replied, " but not 
 so beneficial to the farmer, or merchant." 
 
 ^' The descriptions I have read, but parti- 
 cularly the enthusiasm of Cotton about it, in 
 the most charming pastoral in the world, has 
 brought me," I observed, " into this country." 
 
 *' You refer," said he, '^ to old Izaack Wal- 
 ton ;" and again he threw his eyes over me from 
 head to foot. He then added, " As you seem 
 on a tour, I cannot help wishing for the honour 
 of our country, that you had not made it with-
 
 UE VERE. 11 
 
 out a better guide than the mere maps and tra- 
 velling directions with which you are no doubt 
 provided ; and I regret that as Iliave business 
 at Sudbury, and must then cross back into 
 Staffordshire, I cannot be of assistance to you ; 
 but you seem to have so much feeling for what 
 you see, that I really should be glad, if you will 
 permit it, to do the honours of the Dove, as far 
 as our way lies together. Give me leave at the 
 same time, if you will excuse the liberty, to ask 
 who it is, I have the pleasure of addressing ?" 
 
 As he said this with perfect good breeding, 
 and as there was a sort of protecting manner in 
 it, which seemed thoroughly natural in a man a 
 few years my superior in age, v/ho was also offer- 
 ing to do me a most agreeable favour, I accepted 
 his kindness, adding, that my name was Beau- 
 clerk, son of the late Colonel Beauclerk, of 
 Devonshire. 
 
 He said it was a good name, and told me his 
 own, which was De Vere; he then added thought- 
 fully, that he believed a very near relative of 
 his, and my father, had been brother-soldiers. 
 
 This was no bad passport to further civilities; 
 and I accompanied him to different points of 
 view on the river, which, though by no means 
 50 rom.antic as near its source among the hills,
 
 12 DE VERE. 
 
 let in a variety of wood, hill, and watered 
 valley, such as 1 then had never seen equalled, 
 and such as Milton has described as even to be 
 found in Heaven. I could not help observing 
 it to my grave companion, and rather warmly, 
 rapt out the lines, 
 
 " For earth hath this variety from heaven, 
 Of pleasure situate in hill and dale." 
 
 My new acquaintance recognised the quo- 
 tation, and seemed not at all displeased either 
 with tlie passage or the warmth with which I 
 applied it. 
 
 " With such a feeling for poetry," said he, 
 " as you bring along with you, you are well 
 qualified to travel in a pastoral country, which 
 this is beyond every thing in England." 
 
 "^ I know not a happiness more pure," I ob- 
 served, " than what we are now enjoying." 
 
 " Is that your real feeling," he said, " or is 
 it only the evanescent sentiment of a young man, 
 conscious that he will please his hearer by it V' 
 
 As he said this, he gave me a searching look, 
 which I did not like; then suddenly apologized, 
 and with no little ceremony, for a liberty which, 
 he added, nothing could justify. He was 
 severely silent for many minutes afterwards.
 
 DE VEIIE, 1^ 
 
 But his self-blame, (for so it seemed,) as well as 
 my wonder, were forgotten in our approach to 
 Sudbury, which now opened to our view. 
 
 The whole place delighted me. It seemed 
 the very abode of Pan, and the Dryadesque 
 puellcc of Virgil ; only, the ample domain and 
 keeping of a great English country gentleman, 
 drove Virgil and his fauns out of my head, as 
 soon as they got there. I was mute with the 
 varying emotions caused by this enchanting 
 place. It was not that there were any Salvator 
 Rosa scenes ; any of those craggy fells, glit- 
 tering with rock and stream ; any great lake, or 
 sublime height, which a painter worships. But 
 there was a well timbered park, vast and vene- 
 rable enough to be the appendage of an ancient 
 noble, yet not so boundless as to take away the 
 notion of a perfectly domestic domain. 
 
 In the middle of it, the beautiful mansion itself 
 reared a placid front, in which elegance and 
 antiquity were so conjoined, and over which calm 
 dignity so quietly presided, that it gave one the 
 idea of a sylvan or rural reign, in the family 
 that owned it, of the longest and most pleasing 
 duration. 
 
 Such, indeed, had always been the happy 
 seat of the Vernons, which, unlike most great
 
 14 DE VERE. 
 
 seats, ricli as it is in nature and art, coupled 
 with it the idea of the 
 
 ** Secura quies, 
 Ac nescia fallere vita," 
 
 generally to be found only in humbler scenes. 
 
 I was so occupied with tlie thoughts thus 
 called up, that I became as silent as my com- 
 panion ; though, big with my impressions, I 
 once burst out, with— 
 
 " Et vos agrestum presentia numina fauni," 
 
 and was going on, when perceiving how closely 
 he watched me, I stopt, and contented myself 
 with admiring in plain English prose. 
 
 " I am not surprised," said he, " at your im- 
 pressions, which are my own almost at the present 
 moment, when I see this place for perhaps the 
 twentieth time. The best wish, therefore, which 
 I can give you, is, that they may last ; but the 
 impressions of man — particularly of a young- 
 man " 
 
 Here he again checked himself. 
 
 " My dear Sir," I could not help saymg^ " I 
 hope tliese half-hinted prognostics are not 
 ominous to me.'' 
 
 " I meant not to make you uncomfortable,"
 
 DE VEllE. 15 
 
 replied he, '"' and beg a thousand times you will 
 forgive me, for what I fear must have appeared 
 very abrupt, if not very rude to you ; and, as I 
 must now leave you, permit me to add, that if 
 you had not much interested me, I should not 
 have thus offended against good breeding." 
 
 This apology v/as uttered in a manner so dig- 
 nified, that it seemed as if I was the person 
 ofi'ending, and I expressed my sincere regret 
 that I was to see him no more. 
 
 *' I know not why that should be," said he, 
 " if really you have the command of your time, 
 and care not where you bestow it : for little less 
 tJian this should induce you to visit a man, 
 though the son of your father's friend, utterly 
 without power to contribute to your amuse- 
 ment. My abode is only in the next county."'' 
 
 " In Staffordshire !' cried I : " how gladly 
 would I wait the conclusion of your business here, 
 if you would allow me the benefit of your 
 guidance through the forest of Needwood, which 
 I purpose visiting in my tour." 
 
 The stranger smiled, and pohtely ob^rved, 
 that even if it did not lie in his way, it would 
 give him satisfaction to do so ; but> as it hap- 
 pened, nothing could be more convenient to
 
 16 DE VEKE. 
 
 him, as the forest of Need wood was close to his 
 door. 
 
 " If, tlierefore," continued he, " you will 
 join me to-morrow morning at the prettiest inn 
 in England, which is hard by, and ask for 
 Mr. De Vere, I may probably in the evening 
 have the honour to receive you at my house."^ 
 
 I said I should be too happy, and we parted, 
 on my side, with regret.
 
 DE VERE. 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 NEEDWOOD. 
 
 I know each lane, and every alley green, 
 Dingle, and bushy dell, of this wild wood. 
 And every bosky bourne, from side to side. 
 My daily walk, my ancient neighbourhood. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 While here we march 
 Upon the grassy carpet of this plain. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 I WAS punctual to my appointment, and set 
 out early with my interesting companion ; who, 
 however, but little relaxed from the thoughtful- 
 ness which seemed habitual to him. When we 
 entered the forest of Need wood, indeed, his 
 features became more complacent, and he was 
 cheerful as he pointed out the different views, 
 formed by glades of beautiful turf, dividing 
 groves of old oak and ehu, while the intervals 
 were set off with thickets of thorn and beech, of 
 the most grotesque shapes, forming the very 
 revelling of forest scenery. 
 
 " All this, however,*'' he said, with a sigh,
 
 18 DE VERE. 
 
 " will soon be cut down, and disappear in the 
 progress of what is called improvement ; and if 
 inci^eased happiness (the only real improvement 
 I know) is the effect of increased population, for 
 which of course food must be provided, I sup- 
 pose it is rightly so called. Yes ! I suppose it 
 will be right, that these fine glades, and this 
 green turf, which invite so much to healthful 
 exercise ; tliese extensive sheep walks, the only 
 v^tiges left to remind us of that pastoral life 
 once so dear to England, and which charms us 
 still in song and story ; that all this," (he added 
 with a lowering change of countenance) " should 
 yield to the superior benefits conferred by the 
 Cydop's forge, and the weaver's shuttle. Yes ! 
 yes !'' continued he, " I know I am wrong ;'' and 
 he pushed on his horse, though the weather was 
 sultry hot, as if to expel thoughts that were 
 evidently not agreeable. 
 
 Socai, however, he resumed his previous manner, 
 and geemed pleased to show tlie fine seats, or rem- 
 nants of seats, in the forest; " the many parks, 
 which Cambden talks of, wherein ihe gentry here- 
 abouts frequently exercise themselves with great 
 application, in the agreeable toll of hunting."^ 
 
 The evening now overtaking us, our ride was 
 delicious, and we proceeded, not too briskly^
 
 DE ViiHE. 19 
 
 though in unbroken silence, till we came to a 
 large park-like gate of seven bars, opening 
 through a rough palisade fence which stretched 
 across a broad avenue, (for it was too wide to bt: 
 called a lane) which lay to the left. At this we 
 entered. The trees seemed better timbered, and 
 were more in line than the groups we had left. 
 Every thing was grave and still ; and the loud 
 rebound of the gate in closing upon us, occa- 
 sioned an echo through woods and fields beyond, 
 which appeared to my then humour peculiarly 
 solemn and pleasing. 
 
 The trees on each side formed the skirts of a 
 forest road, on either hand of which ]ay a hoi by- 
 path, over turf of the same elasticity with that 
 which had rendered the cpen woods so agree- 
 able, spite of even meridian ardors. . The dew 
 had now begun to fall ; the green hue of every 
 thing was heightened, and there arose a cool- 
 ness which was only the more delicious from the 
 contrast it formed to the magnificent heat we 
 had left. The freshness of the scene seemed 
 caught by our horses as well as ourselves. 
 
 My companion's horse, indeed, began to neigh 
 with pleasure, as I thought, at the agreeable- 
 ness of the scene, and even quickened his pace, 
 as if by secret impulse, till the trees which lined
 
 20 DE VEllE. 
 
 the road, terminating on the right, let in a fair 
 seat or gentleman's residence, which I immedi- 
 ately stopped to examine. 
 
 What I at first thought a sunk fence before the 
 house, displayed every thing to the best ; but I 
 soon discovered that it formed part of a moat, 
 which went entirely round themansion and offices. 
 They stood in the midst of gardens laid out in a 
 very old-fashioned style. Two immense gates of 
 iron, of a very massive pattern, having barbs 
 to their pikes, which had once been gilt, rose at 
 each end of that part of the moat which fronted 
 us. They were flanked by stone pillars of propor- 
 tionate magnitude ; on the top of one of which, the 
 figure of a boar, cut in stone, supported a shield 
 of arms of ancient simplicity, being quarterly 
 gules, and or ; while on the other, a talbot sup- 
 ported the same sort of shield azure, surmounted 
 with the honourable distinction of a label of three 
 points, and bearing a cinque-foil ermine. 
 
 The whole place looked so venerably interest- 
 ing, that I could not help wishing a longer 
 examination of it ; but what chiefly struck me, 
 was a large, and originally well shaped obelisk 
 or column, which rose in the open space before 
 the moat, fenced round with iron spikes. It 
 was of yellowish stone, (at least made so with
 
 DE VERE. 21 
 
 age.) and in many places was crumbled so as to 
 be defaced. On the pedestal, however, was a 
 tablet which had been kept in sufficient preser- 
 vation to make its inscription perfectly visible. 
 
 Curious almost to impertinence in these 
 things, I jumped off my horse, (a movement 
 which my companion did not oppose,) to read 
 the inscription : it was in old characters, rather 
 dilapidated ; bore the date 1572, and read thus : 
 
 " Trust in thy ov/n good sword, 
 Rather than Princes' word. 
 Trust e'en in fortune sinister, 
 Rather than Princes' minister. 
 Of either, trust the guile. 
 Rather than woman's smile. 
 But most of all eschew. 
 To trust in Parvenu," 
 
 Under the tablet was a device, cut rudely 
 enough, in the same crumbling sort of stone, 
 consisting of the shaft of a column, broken from 
 its base, and the trunk of a tree hollow with 
 aoce, but from which one or two fresh branches 
 seemed to sprout, with the motto of 
 
 " Insperata floruit." 
 
 Rude, and even uncouth as all this was, I was 
 pleased with it. The place seemed worthy of the
 
 22 DE VEIiE. 
 
 pillar ; the pillar, of the sentiment ; and both 
 place and sentiment filled me with reflection, I 
 feared indeed to detain my companion, but saw 
 with pleasure he was disposed to give me all the 
 time I could wish. He was however silent, till 
 I remarked, as to the inscription, that there ap- 
 peared more ingenuity in the thought, than skill 
 in the execution ; but that the thought itself 
 was, I hoped, unfounded, and the poetry, even 
 for tliat age, seemed bad. 
 
 '^ For the thought," returned ray companion, 
 " if you consider it unfounded, (which, at your 
 age, is so natural,) I will not be the person to 
 defend it. As for the poetry, I cannot pretend 
 to say much for that ; but you see it is at least 
 very old. This identical inscription, tablet and 
 all, was supposed to have been cut from the 
 wall of the cabinet or oratory of Edward de 
 Vere, seventeenth Earl of Oxford, at Castle 
 Headingham, in Essex, the chief seat of the 
 family. He was a poet, and not a very good 
 one, but ranked with those of his time ; and 
 this, added to his quarrels with his father-in-law, 
 Burleigh, for not saving his friend the Duke of 
 Norfolk, according, as he thought, to a promise 
 made, both by queen and minister, created a 
 tradition in the family that the inscription was his.
 
 DE VEllE. 
 
 23 
 
 «• Whether ia his passion, (for he was a man of 
 most vehement spirit) by Parvenu, he meant the 
 minister, whose family, though ancient enough, 
 was not to be compared with his own ; or whether 
 it referred to an insinuating, designing flatterer of 
 a secretary, who he thought had influenced the 
 minister, I cannot make out ; but I certainly am 
 not averse to the sentiment contained in the last 
 couplet, whatever I may be to those preceding ; 
 which also," he added with a sort of hesitating 
 seriousness, " may have their favourers." 
 
 «• Which of my ancestors,'' he then went on, 
 ' transferred the tablet, and built a column for it 
 in this place, I have never discovered ; but 
 mouldering as is this memorial of trust ill re- 
 quited, the family never would sufler it to be 
 taken down, and I have thought it my duty, 
 whether from my love of quaintness, or from 
 old prejudice, to follow their example, and have 
 accordingly preserved it." 
 
 He ceased ; and his last words surprised me 
 not a little, since they announced my companion 
 as no other than the owner of this singular, re- 
 duse, and interesting residence. 
 
 By this time his groom had dismounted, and 
 o^:)ened one of the ponderous iron gates above- 
 mentioned, at which he stood with great respect
 
 24 DE VEllE. 
 
 until his master should enter. As I was myself 
 off my horse, my conductor followed my ex- 
 ample, and leading the way, took off' his hat as 
 we passed the moat bridge into his demesne, and 
 shaking hands with me with great cx^urtesy, 
 while he pointed to the two shields of arms on 
 the pillars, and particularly to that supported by 
 the boar (the device of the old Earls of Oxford), 
 said I was welcome to Talbois, the ancient resi- 
 dence of the Astleys and De Veres. 
 
 " We are not what we were,"" observed he, 
 with something, which I could not help thinking 
 emotion ; " yet more illustrious families than 
 ours have taken the motto that would best become 
 us, — ^ Fidmusl God, however, knows what 
 is good for us all, and submission to him is our 
 honour as well as duty.*' 
 
 He said this with firmness, and almost even 
 with cheerfulness ; and I felt my respect rise 
 higher and higher for him as, he led the way 
 towards the house.
 
 DE VERE. 25 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A SECLUSION. 
 
 Nn longer staying than to give the mother 
 Notice of my affair. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 The house of Talbois, Avhich owed its 
 designation to the Angevin family of that 
 name, which anciently possessed it, had been 
 the residence of that Elizabeth Talbois, who 
 bore a son to Henry VIII. whom he created 
 Duke of Richmond. From that family, it 
 passed to the famous Astleys, and by marriage 
 to the De Veres. It was completely old- 
 fashioned, but not now, as formerly, gothic. 
 It was not even of the date of Elizabeth ; 
 though the mansion was moated all round. It 
 had been rebuilt, in the time of CharJes II., 
 very differently from its original taste, though 
 the architect, to my great delight, had preserved 
 a precious relic of the old fabric, which, without 
 
 VOL I. c
 
 S6 DE VERE. 
 
 much inquiry into suitableness, he had, in all its 
 quaintness, fairly transferred to the new one. 
 This was neither more nor less than a balus- 
 trade, forming a parapet on the top of the walls, 
 and shaped into large Roman letters, which 
 exactly spelled the adage, " Feare God obaye 
 THE RiALL Kinge." This took up the whok 
 front, parallel to which, ran a long, broad, and 
 well kept gravel-walk, on the sides of which were 
 placed orange-trees in tubs, each end terminating 
 with a statue of marble. 
 
 None of the owners could find it in their 
 hearts to fill up the moat ; a disposition which 
 was inherited to the full by the present owner, 
 with the rest of their property. 
 
 The house and grounds but why should 
 
 I describe them, when I find it ah-eady done to 
 my hand, in an old survey which I afterwards 
 met with in the library ? According to this, it 
 was, (at least at the end of the seventeenth 
 century), *' the most delicious mansion in the 
 county ; the house is built of squarred stone, 
 quite through ; the gardens about it have deli- 
 cate vistas, with many stately gates of iron-work, 
 curiously painted and gilt, leading into them, 
 with mounts, and places of repose at the end." 
 I will not go ori to describe, or rather transcribe.
 
 D£ VEKE. 27 
 
 " the curious water-works within a large rotunda, 
 opening with fair iron gates opposite the house;"" 
 or, " the long fair canal, at the south end of 
 which was a delicate grotto/' Neither will I 
 paint " the statuas, each in its own proper grove ;" 
 nor " the extraordinary plantations of trees, and 
 admirable walks, to which, though there are 
 other fine ones at other gentlemen's seats, yet 
 none are comparable."" I will not do this, be- 
 cause the water-works had been abandoned as 
 too expensive to keep up ; the grotto had fallen 
 into neglect; and the canal become a mere tank, 
 for carp and eels. As for the statuas, except 
 the two at the ends of the broad walk in front of 
 the house above mentioned, they had all fallen 
 from their pedestals, and lay dismembered among 
 the long grass, which had been allowed to over- 
 run their appropriate groves. But for the plan- 
 tations, they had long been cut down for nobler 
 purposes than the mere pleasures of ornament 
 and shelter, however natural, as well as agreeable, 
 those usually are 
 
 On arriving at the hall- door we were greeted 
 
 by rather a portly domestic, in the same old 
 
 livery of orange-tawney and red, which I had 
 
 observed on the groom ; and Mr. De Vere, for- 
 
 c 2
 
 ^8 DE VEKE. 
 
 getting me for a moment, rather eagerly asked 
 if his mother was well. 
 
 " Her ladyship is quite as well as when you left 
 her, and has been expecting you all day, Sir;" 
 was the reply. 
 
 "Forgive me," said De Vere, ''if for a few 
 minutes I leave you, for an old lady who will be 
 presently rejoiced to see you, but who generally 
 receives me alone after any absence, and who 
 perhaps,'' added he smiling, ^' will give me a 
 little scold, for loitering with you so long in the 
 forest." 
 
 At these words, but first conducting me into 
 a large dining-room on the left, and telling me 
 he would return in a moment, he proceeded up 
 the great stairs to his mother's apartment. 
 
 This was as I wished ; for, on first visiting a 
 place, I am almost childishly inclined to examine 
 it even to minuteness. It seems to give a tone 
 and character to all that is to follow, or at least 
 affects it to a certain degree. Left alone, there- 
 fore, I was able to examine the rich moulded 
 panels of wainscot of the room I was in, and a 
 rather heavy embossed ceiling, divided into pro- 
 jecting compartments, the ribs of which^ as well 
 as the panels of the wainscot, had formerly been
 
 DE VEEE. 29 
 
 gilt, but so long ago, that it only indicated 
 what had been. 
 
 But by far the most prominent feature, was a 
 fire-place of immense dimensions, with double 
 pillars on each side, from the floor to the ceiling, 
 ail excellently carved in oak. The two inner 
 pillars, above the manteUshelf, formed a panel 
 for a whole length picture, which, when the 
 room was afterwards lighted, I made out to be 
 that of a general officer, dismounted, but leaning 
 on his horse. What struck me, however, was 
 the paucity as well as plainness of all the rest of 
 the furniture. 
 
 Mr. De Vere not returning, I could not help 
 straying into the hall, which was of large dimen- 
 sions, some fifty or sixty feet deep, and perhaps half 
 as many wide ; at the bottom of which rose the 
 great staircase, of such shining oak, that the giim- 
 mering of the twilight, let in from the windows 
 above, was reflected to the eye from every step. 
 
 Here again the want of a furnished look, 
 struck me with a notion of almost uncomfort- 
 ableness ; the grandeur of the hall in point of 
 size, only telling you what it might be, if pro- 
 perly inhabited. The great door being left 
 open, I advanced to the broad walk before it, 
 but it had grown too dark to observe more in
 
 30 DE VEllE. 
 
 the distance. There was, however, a freshness 
 from the gardens and the green herbage of the 
 lawn, which I snuffed with avidity ; and the 
 placid silence of the place, and ray own strange 
 position in it, who knew not of its existence a 
 few hours before, involved me in a meditation 
 not at all disagreeable ; I was, therefore, rather 
 annoyed to be roused by the servants bringing 
 wax tapers to the dining-room, and lighting up 
 the hall, so as to extinguish the twilight and 
 my reverie at the same time. 
 
 The return of De Vere put an end to all 
 flights of imagination, had I had leisure as well 
 as inclination, to pursue them. With his usual 
 politeness, he apologized for having left me so 
 long, and announced that his mother, Lady 
 Eleanor, was quite desirous to see me, having 
 often heard his late father. General De Vere, 
 mention mine with great esteem. 
 
 " You will find," said he, " the remains of 
 some beauty, and such vivacity as sixty will 
 permit. And if," added he, "you perceive it to 
 be a little tinctured with a manner which near 
 twenty years seclusion could scarcely fail to gene- 
 rate, you will not, I hope, think the worse of it." 
 So saying, he led the way up stairs, into an 
 apartment of handsome proportion, but fur-
 
 DE VERB. 31 
 
 nished in the style of at least a hundred years 
 back, somewhat tarnished, and neglected, but 
 still respectable. 
 
 But the observation of such slight objects 
 was banished in a moment, by the sight of the 
 lady of the mansion, who rose from a ponderous 
 fauteuil of crimson velvet, and presented U 
 picture of age, which, even to ray young view, 
 seemed the most interesting I had ever seen. 
 She was tall, and of a very commanding 
 presence, without tlie least appearance of infir- 
 mity, (or even, as I should have said, of years,) 
 except that her hair was of silver-white, which 
 I afterwards understood had turned so, from 
 the most raven black, in one night's time; the 
 night in which she saw her husband die. Her 
 features, particularly her dark, speaking eye, 
 and above all, a very dignified manner, resem- 
 bled those of her son ; or rather, they expressed 
 a still higher sense of superiority than was 
 observable in him. Her figure and movement 
 lost nothing from her dress, which was of black 
 silk, set off by a small hoop, and a stomacher, 
 and ruffles, as well as lappets of white lace. 
 Such w^as he outward appearance, of Lady 
 Eleanor De Vere.
 
 32 DE VERE. 
 
 At first, I was going up to her, with the jaunty 
 air of the new school of London youthful vivacity ; 
 and had almost offered my hand, but found my- 
 self immediately checked, I knew not how, as if 
 I had been in the vieille cour. Indeed, such it 
 seemed, on her first courtesy, to be ; but soon 
 she put me at ease, by a natural frankness, which 
 seemed only to have been restrained by educa- 
 tion. She mentioned my father, as an esteemed 
 friend of one who, she said, (and gave a little 
 sigh as she said it,) never threw away his friend- 
 ships. She was, therefore, glad of the extra- 
 ordinary, and almost romantic rencontre with 
 her son, which had given them the pleasure of 
 receiving me; " though he has been not a little 
 rash," added she, " in bringing you to a place 
 and people, so utterly devoid of power to interest 
 so young a man." 
 
 I made as suitable a compliment as I could, 
 in return, and De Vere, relaxing much from 
 his grave manner, pleaded for himself, that he 
 had forewarned me of this, but that I seemed an 
 enthusiast in travelling, and he hoped the beauty 
 of the country, as well as its mapy antiquities, 
 might interest me for some days. 
 
 " Is he an enthusiast ?'^ said Lady Eleanor.
 
 DE VEKE. 33 
 
 " So much the worse ! But it is a fault which 
 he has time enough before him to cure." 
 
 j\Iore was prevented by the entry of the 
 same domestic who had greeted our arrival, and 
 who announced that supper was served ; when. 
 Lady Eleanor ringing a little silver bell that was 
 on the table before her, a young soubrette, of 
 rather prepossessing appearance, issued from 
 a tapestry door in an adjoining closet, where she 
 performed her waiting, and flinging a little 
 white laced cloak round the shoulders of her 
 mistress, the latter rose to obey the sum- 
 mons. I would have offered her my arm, but 
 she declined it, with a slight " thank you," and 
 took her son's, which was held out as if in a 
 regular course, which no person could be allowed 
 to interrupt. 1 observed, however, that no arm 
 was necessary, for she proceeded down stairs 
 with as much ease as if only in her twentieth 
 year, and seemed as if she could have tripped 
 it, but that a sense of decorum forbade. 
 
 I followed, pleased with, if I might not say, 
 admiring every thing I saw, so totally different 
 from the scenes and manners I had left ; where 
 I recollected little difference in dress, or even 
 manner itself, between girls and their grand- 
 mothers. In the humour I was in, though a 
 c 3
 
 34 DE VERE. 
 
 little constrained, it was a constraint which was 
 not unpleasing, for it proceeded from a feeling 
 of respect for my host and hostess, which almost 
 made myself seem respectable.
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV, 
 
 A HUMOURIST. 
 
 T must have liberty ; 
 Withal as large a charter as the wind, 
 To blow on whom I please, 
 
 SHAKspEAaE. 
 
 In the supper-room, our number was aug- 
 mented, by a gentleman of no ordinary appear- 
 ance, manner, and conversation. He had, what 
 sporting people would call, the darkest brown 
 muzzle of a complexion I ever saw, only made 
 deeper by a black Brutus wig. He had also a 
 searching, reflecting eye, in which (spite of a 
 vibrating property in the lids, when under agita- 
 tion,) benevolence seemed to beam ; though a sar- 
 donic curl about the mouth, and a large disten- 
 tion of the nostrils, when he smiled, filled you with 
 a thousand suspicions lest he should be smiling 
 at you. There was a meaning in his look that 
 made you afraid ; although an otherwise open, 
 intelligent physiognomy, spite of uncouthness, 
 disposed you both to trust and like him, if he
 
 S6 DE VERE. 
 
 would let you. When he shook hands with 
 you, he kept you at arm's length, seemingly 
 retiring from the ceremony, as if afraid of too 
 much famiharity, or as if he said with Jaques, 
 " God be with you, let's meet as little as we 
 can." He seemed much past the meridian of 
 life, but tall, erect, and pale ; wore a blue coat 
 of hunter's cloth, with high longitudinal slashed 
 sleeves, and buttons of the same, under which 
 was a red waistcoat. A large and old-fashioned 
 cravat, blue cloth breeches, and speckled brown 
 silk stockings, completed a picture not v^ry 
 fashionable, but by no means vulgar. 
 
 This gentleman was introduced to me by the 
 name of Mr. Harclai, after he had first saluted 
 De Vere with great empressement^ shaking him 
 by both the hands, in a manner the very reverse 
 of that above described, with which he saluted 
 me. 
 
 " I knew not you were here,"*** said De Vere, 
 *' nor even that you were in the country." 
 
 " I have not been home,'"* returned he ; " but, 
 calling to pay my duty to Lady Eleanor, and 
 hearing you were expected, I wilhngly obeyed 
 her commands to stay dinner, and was, without 
 much difficulty, persuaded to take up my old 
 quarters in the Hogarth room."
 
 DE VEUE. 37 
 
 " We shall gain by it," said De Vere, doing 
 the honours of the supper ; " but how came we 
 to miss you on our arrival ?" 
 
 " He thought me too stupid to entertain 
 him,^' observed Lady Eleanor ; '-'so having 
 staid as little after coffee as he decently could, 
 betook himself to his own thoughts, and his 
 usual night walks.*" 
 
 " You will certainly be found drowned in 
 the moat some of these nights," said De Vere. 
 
 '* And as good a retreat as we usually make,^' 
 replied the guest 
 
 I thought this an extraordinary sentiment, 
 and again contemplated the person who uttered 
 it, though without much satisfaction, when Lady 
 Eleanor continued, " Do you know, Doctor 
 Herbert protests against our keeping up the 
 moat. He says it is out of all taste, and he 
 ahnost makes Mortimer angry by abusing it.'^ 
 
 *' I would forgive him if that were all," said 
 Mr. Harclai. 
 
 De Vere looked thoughtful, and then said, 
 *' By the way, I heard from Dr. Herbert at 
 Sudbury. He is to be there to-night, and 
 means to stretch over to us to-morrow." 
 
 '^ He is always welcome," said Lady Eleanor. 
 
 " He will tell you news of the world,'' ob-
 
 38 DE VERB. 
 
 served Harclai, " and the silken people in it. 
 This will be at least amusing, and beats me all 
 to nothing, who can only tell you of village 
 politics, and ragged boys and girls." 
 
 «^ We shall have a court hater and a court 
 lover, as usual,^ returned Lady Eleanor. 
 
 " I think I had better go home," replied 
 Harclai ; " I shall be in the way : though if he 
 comes to persuade you into the world again, I 
 could bear the brunt of another battle.*" 
 
 I thought both Lady Eleanor and her son 
 looked uneasy at this, as if he were going too 
 far before a stranger ; and Lady Eleanor inter- 
 rupting him said, " We must not allow you to 
 abuse the world before our young friend here, 
 who has just entered it. I will not have him 
 prejudiced." 
 
 " He will find it out soon enough,"" returned 
 Harclai ; " even with all the fine lecture which 
 I have no doubt the Doctor will read to us 
 upon it to-morrow. Indeed, if I had his col- 
 lege, his gardens, and velvet bowling-green, and 
 parsons to flatter, and yoviths to look up to 
 me—" 
 
 " What then .?" asked De Vere. 
 
 " Why, I should think the world a fine place, 
 too," answered Harclai ; " and this I once told
 
 BE VERE. 39 
 
 him. But as for his parsons, while they eat 
 him up, there is not one who would care if he 
 were hanged to-morrow, provided another dig- 
 nitary would treat them as well." 
 
 " And this you told him, too," said De 
 Vere. 
 
 " I did,'"* replied Harclai; then suddenly 
 overclouding, and shaking his head, he added, 
 " Yes, let him take his course ; and, satisfied 
 himself, lecture others how to bear 
 
 ** The whips and scorns of the time, or the spurns 
 That patient merit of the unworthy takes." 
 
 He said this with emphasis, and yet in a low- 
 tone, as if inwardly addressed to himself, and 
 apparently unconscious of our presence. De 
 Vere too became abstracted ; and it was his 
 mother alone, who seemed to recollect she was a 
 hostess, and had guests. 
 
 " Come," said she, " you are growing churl- 
 ish, and so I am sure Mr. Beauclerk will think 
 you. I shall, therefore, tell him not to mind 
 you, and, what is worse, to mind Doctor Her- 
 bert more, which I know will punish you.^' 
 
 Harclai, awakening from his reverie, re- 
 plied with a smile, almost sardonic, " No ! I 
 can have no rivalry with the president ; he
 
 40 DE VERE. 
 
 thinks me much too uncouth for his courtly 
 tastes, as well as too ignorant of that world he 
 loves so well.'" 
 
 " Nay,"" said Lady Eleanor, " I must not 
 let you talk of his love for it, after having given 
 such unexampled proofs of his disinterested- 
 ness." 
 
 " He has refused a bishopric," observed 
 Harclai. 
 
 " Not one, but several," said De Vere, now 
 rousing from his thoughtfulness. 
 
 " Well !" continued Harclai, " and what does 
 that prove, but that he does not wish to be a 
 bishop? But has he no other attachment to 
 the world ?" 
 
 *' None, that I know of," answered De Vere, 
 " except that it gives him the happiness of an 
 elegant and useful life, which none of us have 
 a right to undervalue." 
 
 '^ Let him be tried," replied Harclai. 
 
 " How r 
 
 " Let the world neglect him, and see what 
 will come of it. No I he has never been tried, 
 for all his nolo episcopari. He cannot," added 
 Harclai, rising, on observing Lady Eleanor 
 about to retire, " live in a real hermitage, 
 with poor, simple folk for his companions.
 
 DE VERE. 41 
 
 His friends must be amongst the great, or those 
 who want to become so." 
 
 " Rather," said Lady Eleanor, " those whom 
 he wishes to make so ; for he is always disin- 
 terested in his kindness." 
 
 " In that," said Harclai, " I agree ;" and 
 resuming his friendly countenance, he took 
 Lady Eleanor's offered hand, and said, with an 
 air almost parental, " God bless you. Madam ! 
 and peace be to your house." 
 
 Lady Eleanor said, after all, he was a good 
 creature ; to which he rephed, *' Why, I ought 
 to be; for, the world you suppose me to 
 abuse, is, I find from my last advices, quite 
 reformed." 
 
 '' Reformed !" 
 
 " Yes ; for ministers hate taxes — opposition 
 faction — lawyers litigation, and churchmen into- 
 lerance. Nay, wives are grown good ; there have 
 not been more than one or two legal proofs to the 
 contrary at each assize town this summer ; the 
 opera was bankrupt last winter, and women go to 
 bed at two in the morning. Depend upon it this 
 is too good to last. * Something is rotten in the 
 state of Denmark.' " 
 
 " That will comfort you," said Lady Eleanor, 
 wishing us good night ; and Harclai resumed his
 
 42 DE VERE. 
 
 seat. The conversation then, on his part, conti- 
 nued of the same saturnine cast ; for without 
 scruple or caution at my being a stranger, 
 
 ** He railed on lady Fortune in good terms. 
 In good set terms," 
 
 and defended himself, when chid by De Vere, 
 pretty much as Jaques did with the Duke, by 
 di^erving that his complaint was against all the 
 world, not of any particular individual in it ; 
 " so that," said he, " ' my taxing, like a wild 
 goose, flies, unclaimed of any man.' "*' 
 
 When Mr. De Vere afterwards attended me 
 to my room, he thought it necessary to make an 
 apology for the little scene I had witnessed. 
 " We have, I fear, been rudely occupied with 
 ourselves, instead of shewing you the civilities 
 we owe you for so kindly coming among us. 
 But Harclai is no common person here, as you 
 may perceive. H e was one of the oldest and best 
 friends of my late father ; he loves my mother 
 in all sincerity ; and, while one of my trustees 
 jointly with Dr. Herbert, I cannot tell you what 
 I do not owe him myself. From some disap- 
 pointments, he certainly looks most at the wrong 
 ^de of the heart ; but it is as certain that his 
 own is in the right place. You will find him, 
 indeed, as worthy as he is singular."
 
 DE VERE. 43 
 
 This account almost pleased, and certainly 
 interested me, about a man whom I at least had 
 thought extraordinary, if not wild. It only, how- 
 evei', excited my interest the more, for the people 
 about me; though without this, the gentlemanly 
 bearing and good sense of De Vere, the ma- 
 tronly dignity of his mother, and the pleasing 
 strangeness of my whole position in this my new 
 abode, occupied my thoughts long, before I 
 could close them in sleep.
 
 44 DE VEKE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 HONOUR. 
 
 One in whom 
 The ancient Roman honour more appears. 
 Than any that draws breath in Italy. 
 
 Sh4K8PBARB. 
 
 I PASS the civilities I received the next day 
 from my host and hostess, and the many quick 
 steps by which, with congenial tempers, 
 pei'sons unknown to each other, advance from 
 good will into a sort of intimacy. There 
 must, however, be a warmth of temperament, 
 and even of imagination, to bring congenia- 
 lity always to bear. Icicles may be frozen 
 together, and seem apparently linked; but it is the 
 warm sun which melts and amalgamates correspon- 
 dent natures, so that they run into one another, 
 and appear individually the same. Congeniality 
 cf£ feeling is often as sudden in its effects as it is 
 unaccountable. All that we know of it is, that 
 it is a delight which ages of intimacy, and even 
 the nearest relationship, cannot always purchase;
 
 DE VEEE. 45 
 
 and those are wrong who from wariness, or 1 
 had almost said, from experience, are afraid to 
 indulge it. Thus spoke my own young heart. 
 If De Vere's was not immediately responsive 
 to it, perhaps he may be forgiven. 
 
 Both liimself and his mother, however, con- 
 sidering their habits, did wonders. Lady 
 Eleanor made me tell all I knew of my father, 
 and the campaigns he had served *' with him 
 who was gone." 
 
 She did this while we lingered alone together 
 in the great dining-room, the morning after I 
 arrived. She did it, too, with her eyes fixed 
 upon the marked and fine portrait I had ob- 
 served the evening before. There was a high 
 military air in it ; an erect crest, and lofty look 
 of rectitude, which fixed the sentiment as the 
 colours did the eye. 
 
 I was moved, and shewed that T was so. Lady 
 Eleanor was pleased, for she did not shrink 
 from the subject ; she rather indulged it. No 
 tear came into her eye while it passed over the 
 well-known features ; but her lips, spite of her- 
 self, quivered when she began to speak of them. 
 
 " I see all you think," said she, " of this fine 
 resemblance, for such it is. The character of 
 it cannot be mistaken. Never was gentleman
 
 46 
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 more truly stamped, than on that noble 
 brow !^' 
 
 She said this with clasped hands, and an 
 elevated voice. My silent observance shewed 
 how I respected her. But she checked herself 
 v/ith a command that was evidently habitual, 
 and we conversed calmly on the topics which the 
 portrait prompted, although there was fire and 
 destruction in all its accompaniments ; and 
 General De Vere, as I afterwards discovered, 
 had died the death of a soldier. When I tell 
 my reader that my own father had also died his 
 companion in arms in the same battle, he may un- 
 derstand the suddenness of the sympathy which 
 sprang up between this interesting family and 
 me, and the sort of favour into which I seemed 
 so immediately taken by this excellent woman. 
 
 In truth, the Lady Eleanor De Vere was a 
 noble gentlewoman. Though little smiled upon 
 bv fortune, she was intrenched, if I may so say, 
 in respectability of every kind. She possessed 
 little of the smooth, level, and uniform varnish 
 of untried character, which belongs to most of 
 the women of quality of the present day. She 
 belonged rather to other times. Sprung from a 
 long line of nobles, through both her parents, 
 she traced to the Albinis and Plantagenets, and
 
 DE VERE. 47 
 
 her ancestors had called cousin with a king. This 
 had in fact never been forgotten, although it 
 had often to strucrorle Avith chano;es, which had 
 both tried and purified her mind. 
 
 Through one of the sources of her being, she 
 derived from the Cliffords, and though with in- 
 finitely more mildness, she was not ill qualified 
 (had she been pushed to it,) to have imitated 
 her famous ancestor, the threefold Countess of 
 Dorset, Pembroke, and Montgomery, in her 
 answer to a secretary of state : " I have been 
 bullied by an usurper, I have been neglected 
 by a court ; but I will not be dictated to by a 
 subject."* 
 
 If from this introduction, the reader loves the 
 Lady Eleanor de Vere, as well as I do, he will 
 perhaps excuse me, if I go on with this sketch ; 
 nor perhaps can there be a more convenient 
 time for it, than at this epoch of our ac- 
 quaintance. 
 
 Lady Eleanor, then, was the daughter of a 
 nobleman of some parliamentary influence in 
 this division of the kingdom. This influence 
 he generally exerted for the court, and reaped 
 
 * Her answer to Sir Jos. Williamson, who had written 
 to her to nominate a court candidate for Appleby. She 
 added, "your man shan't stand."
 
 48 DE VERE. 
 
 from it the usual benefits which the court con- 
 ferred in return. The daughter, however, and 
 the father, saw things differently, and Lady 
 Eleanor, while she could not oppose, dared 
 secretly to lament that the descendant of an 
 hundred barons should be content to pass a life 
 in mere parliamentary manoeuvring, sometimes 
 with the minister himself, but more frequently 
 with subalterns, in support of his power. 
 As arbitrary in his family as obsequious at the 
 treasury, the Earl of Mowbray could not brook 
 the dissent of his child from his proceedings. 
 What was worse, he could not bear the supe- 
 riority of her character. Her presence, her 
 observation, though mute, became irksome ; and 
 her perpetual praises of the heroes and patriots 
 of his own blood, who were gone, were so 
 many crimes in his eyes, — so many taunts upon 
 what he feared she might think (for she never 
 expressed it) his degenerate conduct. 
 
 Under such restraints, she lost the little affec- 
 tion he had eve^ entertained for her ; and he seized 
 with readiness, if not with pleasure, the occasion 
 of what he called an undutiful opposition to his 
 will, in refusing a high alliance, to banish her 
 from his house, as he had previously from his 
 heart. It w^as in vain that she ventured to
 
 DE VERE. 49 
 
 assert, not her power of choice, but her liberty 
 to refuse ; and to offer, as a composition, never 
 to marry but with his entire approbation. Yet in 
 this she was ready to sacrifice much, for another 
 had then touched her young affection. But the 
 Earl was inexorable ; and exiled, portionless, 
 but as unsubdued as beautiful, she thought 
 no duty prevented her from bestowing herself 
 upon one who loved her too well to balance 
 between his prudence, and what he thought affec- 
 tion and honour conjoined. Her union with 
 Colonel De Vere was, as far as union was con- 
 cerned, of the happiest kind. A descent equal 
 to her own, a spirit which, in other times, had 
 been chivalrous, a lofty contempt for all that was 
 selfish, proved by a regard for family honour, 
 which had comparatively ruined him, com- 
 manded her admiration, while the most entire 
 and delicate devotion to herself, sealed her love. 
 The return she made for it was ardent, and 
 kept them always lovers. 
 
 The conduct of Colonel De Vere in his family 
 story was remarkable. His father, an able but 
 profuse man^ in the course of various splendid 
 foreign missions, had contracted debts to an im- 
 mense amount. Though employed by, and not 
 averse to the government, he could not prevail 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 DE VERE. 
 
 upon his son, who was in parliament on their 
 own family interest, to give them his support. 
 A dependent friend, then making his way in 
 the career of office, hinted the propriety of a 
 change in politics, with a view to the allowance 
 of many of these debts. It was spurned at. 
 
 " Let my father's mind be easy," said De 
 Vere ; "if breaking an entail will pay the de- 
 mands, I am ready to sign, but let us preserve 
 our independence." 
 
 The father balanced— "It will strip you," 
 said he, " of your finest inheritance, and reduce 
 you to the moated house." 
 
 " I will live, then," replied Colonel De Vere, 
 " in the moated house." 
 
 The parent was struck, but would not con- 
 sent ; at least he hesitated, and hesitating, died. 
 Creditors, to the amount of eighty thousand 
 pounds, remained to curse his memory. 
 
 It was hard upon De Vere : but loftiness of 
 spirit (for I v/ill not call it pride), added to 
 principle, directed him to a noble course. He 
 had promised to break the entail, a promise 
 which his friends told him was released, because 
 not accepted by his father. 
 
 " My promise was virtually to the creditors,"*^ 
 said De Vere. In fine, the most considerable
 
 DE VF.RE. 51 
 
 estate Mas sold ; the debts were paid, and De 
 Vere retired, as he said he would, to the moated 
 house and comparative poverty. It was shared 
 by Lady Eleanor with cheerfulness, and while 
 she felt the eclipse of her husband, as well as 
 of herself, her admiration as well as approba- 
 tion were unceasing at the generosity that had 
 caused it. 
 
 But the alienation of her father preyed upon 
 her heart. She made many efforts to be re- 
 stored, but in vain ; and, sad to relate, the cold 
 and calculating earl, though, as his eyes were 
 closing, he sent her a faint forgiveness, left the 
 world without having admitted her to his pre- 
 sence. 
 
 Providence had even greater trials for her. 
 The Colonel, now General De Vere, fell in 
 battle, mortally wounded. Lady Eleanor, the 
 moment she heard of it flew to .the Continent to 
 attend him, but only arrived time enough to 
 see him die. 
 
 There is no necessity to pursue the story. Se- 
 veral years had elapsed since that disastrous event, 
 but it was only her firmness, supported by sincere 
 resignation, that enabled her to resume com- 
 parative enjoyment. She was left with two 
 sons of very unequal ages, and had now still 
 D 2
 
 0^ I>K VF.PtK, 
 
 more straightened circumstances to encounter : 
 for the estate of TaJbois, which devolved to 
 her eldest son, little more than sufficed to 
 educate and give him the accomplishments that 
 seemed his birthright. 
 
 This she could have borne ; but the charac- 
 ter of that eldest son, which she had carefully 
 concealed from his father, who, in his occupa- 
 tions aliroad, knew it not, gave her the greatest 
 im easiness. 
 
 In Mortimer, however, she had all comfort ; 
 in him she seemed to see his father revived. 
 He had ail his parent's high qualities ; more 
 than his cultivation ; even greater beauty of 
 person ; and having fallen from no high expec- 
 tations, was naturally buoyant. He had, how- 
 ever, one great fault — such at least it was under 
 his peculiar circumstances : he possessed a warm 
 and even enthusiastic imagination, which, often 
 ran away with him, and, falling upon a spirit 
 hereditarily independent, influenced, as we shall 
 see, the whole cast of his life. 
 
 The person now of most consequence to Lady 
 [pieanor, next her children, was her brother. It 
 was pot that her affection had been much exer- 
 cised towards him. Their long and distant 
 separation, the total difference of their lives and
 
 DE VERE. 53 
 
 characters, and the little correspondence they had 
 consequently preserved, prevented it. While 
 she had been sequestered at the moated house, 
 the new Earl of Mowbray had followed his idol, 
 political ambition, in the only places where that 
 sort of ambition can be worshipped : in courts, 
 in senates, and among official deities. To office 
 he had been dedicated by his father, from his 
 youth, and up the ladder of office he had climbed 
 from the lowest round consistent with his rank, 
 till now within a few steps of the top, he had 
 been recently placed at the head of an extensive 
 and important department. 
 
 It may be thought from this, that Lord 
 Mowbray was a highly gifted person ; a man 
 of genius, of eloquence, of penetrating abilities, 
 of commanding talents ; at least that he had 
 great public principles of policy, which carried 
 with them a numerous and powerful train of 
 followers, and of which he was the inflexible 
 representative ; at any rate, that he was distin- 
 guished by the favour of the crown. 
 
 He was none of these. In truth, it is not 
 always that these qualifications, even in this 
 country, still less in others, are necessary to 
 make a minister of the third or fourth order, 
 such as Lord Mowbray.
 
 54 DE VERB. 
 
 Great obsequiousness to the will of the King; 
 greater still to the will of the Premier ; (ob- 
 sequiousness amounting to the most absolute 
 resignation of opinion ;) the usages, or, if I may 
 so say, the solemnities of office; perhaps the 
 very absence of those talents which bring forward 
 other men, but which also bring along with 
 them jealousy and trouble; these, at particular 
 periods, (especially if there is rank and parlia- 
 mentary influence, and the times are not stormy,) 
 are sometimes as successful as a far other de- 
 scription of character, in placing a man at the 
 head of a department, though not at the head 
 of affairs. 
 
 The period we speak of, was such a one as we 
 have marked. There were already in the coun- 
 cil, and particularly in the House of Commons, 
 men of the first abilities and reputation in the 
 empire. Some were unrivalled in eloquence ; 
 some in knowledge of political economy ; some 
 conciliating ; some commanding ; united, they 
 were irresistible. The government could afford 
 to have one common- place minister among them, 
 and Lord Mowbray had all the qualifications 1 
 have enumerated to be that one. 
 
 At the same time there was a part of his cha- 
 racter which, for the undeviating consistency as
 
 DE VERE. o5 
 
 well as energy that he displayed in it, entitled 
 him to all respect. This was his notion of what 
 he called political discipline. As, throughout 
 his career, he had acted upon a principle amount- 
 ing to sacred, of unqualified obedience to all 
 who were above him ; so even in his first ad- 
 vances, he exacted, to the letter, from his official 
 inferiors, all that he himself had paid to those 
 above him. A subaltern in office, he used to 
 hold« could have no opinion but that of his 
 cliief ; a member of parliament none but that 
 o{ his party ; and any show of deviatioQ from 
 these duties was treated by him as treason, and, 
 as such, held in abhorrence. 
 
 These, and other such maxims, were laid down 
 by him in a manner little less than oracular ; 
 they were paramount to all others in his notions 
 of government ; indeed, they were almost the 
 only notions of government which he possessed; 
 for as to all great views of policy, foreign or 
 domestic, he left them to those whom he at the 
 time supported ; satisfied, himself, with sup- 
 porting them. 
 
 This httle sketch of one of the greatest per- 
 sonages of our history, is inserted, perhaps, 
 not quite in its regular order in this place, yet
 
 56 DE VERE. 
 
 it probably may not be amiss that the reader 
 should understand as soon as possible the cha- 
 racters which I have undertaken to introduce 
 to him.
 
 DE VERE. 57 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A DlGXITAlir. 
 
 That churchman bears a bounteous mind indeed. 
 
 Shakspeai 
 
 The arrival of Dr. Herbert, Prebendary of 
 , and President of College, Oxford, 
 
 put an end to my conference with Lady Eleanor. 
 From Harclai's account of him, I might have 
 expected to see a smooth, silken, rosy-gilled 
 million, who had basked into an unmeaning 
 manner and physiognomy, in the sunshine of 
 the church. It was not so. As he descended 
 from his carriage, I perceived at once a man of 
 decided mien, and one who combined much 
 thought with knowledge of the world. Such 
 his air and self-possession bespoke, almost at the 
 first glance. I observed, that though he had 
 that bearino; of command which consciousness 
 of power in the head of a house in so great 
 an university, always generates, he addressed
 
 S^ DE VERE. 
 
 himself to Lady Eleanor with most affectionate 
 politeness, I might almost say reverence. At 
 the same time, his courtesy was so polished as 
 to make it evident he had learned it 
 
 "In tapestry halls 
 And courts of princes, where it first was named." 
 
 Though I was of the sister university, I had, 
 indeed, wondered at Harclai's mention of him, 
 for I was no stranger to his high reputation, 
 both as a scholar, and the governor of a college. 
 I knew how many great ones owed much of 
 their distinction, even in politics, to his superin- 
 tendence in the cloister, and his advice after- 
 wards in the world. I knew, too, how much he 
 was consulted in the highest quarters, on the 
 government of the church, and the disposal of 
 dignities, many of which, as has been said, he 
 had refused for himself. If this was ambition, 
 it was of a sort which few practised, and which 
 Lord Mowbray said he never could understand. 
 
 From all these considerations, I had conceived 
 the highest respect for him, notwithstanding 
 Harclai's attempt at sarcasm the night before ; 
 and as a young man, I regarded him, on his 
 arrival, with a sort of awe. This made me 
 more observant of De Vere's address to him,
 
 t)E VERE. 59 
 
 which, though of mixed affection and respect, 
 preserved all that internal independence and 
 decision, for which I then, as I have ever since, 
 admired him. 
 
 I was introduced to Dr. Herbert by both 
 Lady Eleanor and her son, as a person whom, 
 for the sake of those who were no more, they 
 were disposed to value. I received a corres- 
 ponding reception from him, and he seemed to 
 search me through with a pair of small, but very 
 vivid black eyes, as he shook my hand. With 
 the sentiment as well as the superiority of man- 
 ner acquired by so much mingling of himself 
 with youth, he said, with a smile, mixed perhaps 
 with a little pomp and protection, " I am always 
 happy to make acquaintance with such a coun- 
 tenance, at such an age. It does one's own age 
 good, to see painted in plain characters, what 
 has been called ' the confidence with which youth 
 rushes abroad to take possession of the world.' " 
 
 In another person I might have thought this 
 affected, almost impertinent ; but uttered from 
 a mouth of authority, with an air of great self- 
 possession, and by a commanding figure, cloath- 
 ed in a silk cassock, and the dignitary's hat, 
 it seemed to me little less than patriarchal. 
 
 Lady Eleanor, however, who heard the
 
 60 DE VERE. 
 
 speecn, could not help saying, " The President 
 must take care how he talks of the world to 
 Mr. Beauclerk, for Mr, Harclai has been before- 
 hand with him." 
 
 '* Is Harclai here, then ?" asked Dr. Herbert, 
 with something like a check ; '' I saw no sign of 
 him, not even his dog." 
 
 '^ I dare say," observed De Vere, " if you will 
 look for him in the oak grove, you will find him — 
 
 * Under a tree, like a dropt acorn.* " 
 
 " Of course I must go on with the passage," 
 said the President, laughing, " ' It may well be 
 called Jove's tree, when it dropt forth such 
 fruit.' They say he is more bitter than ever." 
 
 *' There is, however, worth in his bitterness," 
 said Lady Eleanor, "and I really believe he 
 only abuses the world, because he loves the 
 human species." 
 
 " For human species," replied the President, 
 " I would read individuals. But, in truth, he 
 knows nothing really about the world he abuses ; 
 he is too indiscriminating for an oracle: and 
 after all, I believe mere pique at some disap- 
 pointments, weaving itself in with his romantic 
 notions, (not worn out at sixty) makes him 
 the recluse he is : and this he calls philosophy."
 
 I)E VERK. 61 
 
 This was uttered with a high authoritative air, 
 and I lost not a word of it. 
 
 " However," added the doctor, *' though 
 beloved, and I verily believe deservedly, in this 
 house, I do not conceive him to be a model even 
 here ; for, my good friend, I know, always 
 thinks and acts for himself." 
 
 " I am afraid," cried De Vere, " something 
 more is implied in this, than your politeness 
 allows you to disclose. I am afraid you have 
 thought, and still think me a very obstinate 
 fellow." 
 
 " I shall perhaps think you so," replied Dr. 
 Herbert, '' if you treat what I am in fact 
 charged with, with your former disdain ;" then 
 pressing his arm, in a manner that denoted real 
 regard, mixed with a wish to insure a favour- 
 able hearing, he begged to be allowed to take a 
 walk with him by the bank of the canal. 
 
 " Perhaps," said De Vere, laughing, but 
 rather to disguise his wonder at the President's 
 address, '' we shall find Mr. Harclai there ; for, 
 from the wildness and total neglect of the place, 
 it is his favourite haunt. I often find him lying 
 at length, among the weeds with which it is 
 overrun; and, besides, it gives him his favourite 
 amusement of seeing Triton duck himself."
 
 6^ DE VEllE. 
 
 " We will duck Harclai too, if we find him," 
 said the President, adopting the laughing tone 
 of De Vere, in effect to give a lighter air, as 
 least inconvenient to his carrying him off. 
 
 Lady Eleanor looked her surprise; but veiling 
 curiosity with her natural self-command, she 
 said, as they went out, " Dr. Herbert, I shall of 
 course see you as soon as you return ?" to which 
 the President replied, bowing very low, that 
 not to do so, would be a solecism in good breed- 
 ing as well as friendship. 
 
 I now found myself in a situation not too 
 agreeable ; that of feeling one is de trop in com- 
 pany ; and, to relieve my own awkwardness, as 
 well as Lady Eleanor, I said I would endeavour 
 to find out Mr. Harclai, whose manner and 
 conversation, I observed, were at least very in- 
 teresting : and Lady Eleanor assenting, I sallied 
 forth at random, only taking care not to go near 
 the canal. 
 
 In truth, my excuse to Lady Eleanor was not 
 merely a cover ; for I really wished once more 
 to encounter a character that seemed to furnish 
 so much food for observation.
 
 DE \ERE. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 CYNICAL. 
 
 I love to cope him in these sullen fits, 
 For then he's full of matter. 
 
 Sl/AKSPEARK. 
 
 They say you are a mplancholy fellow. 
 I am so ; I do love it better than laughing, 
 
 Shakspearb. 
 
 I FOUND the object of my search not exactly 
 as De Vere had prognosticated, " Uke a dropt 
 acorn,'' but sitting on a Uttle camp-stool, (with- 
 out which he seldom walked abroad) under the 
 statue of Julius Caesar. 
 
 This master of the world, and at one time of 
 all the spirits in it, except " the lean and hungry 
 Cassius," frowned from his pedestal with a most 
 imperial air, at the end of a retired walk of 
 chestnuts. 
 
 Our philosopher was occupied with the very 
 play which bears his name, and on which he 
 was so intent that he scarcely minded the inward 
 growling of Triton, who lay curled round with
 
 64 
 
 D£ VERE. 
 
 his head enveloped in his bushy tail, leaving 
 room only for one eye to open* which glared 
 upon me as I approached. 
 
 This, and my footsteps, at length roused Mr- 
 Harclai, vi^ho received me, as I thought, with no 
 pleasure at being disturbed. I made a lame 
 sort of an excuse for breaking in upon him, in- 
 forming him of the arrival of Dr. Herbert, who 
 had carried off Mr. De Vere, and left me to my 
 fortune. 
 
 " And a good fortune too," said Harclai, " if 
 he left you to yourself;" and his eye glanced 
 again on the book from which he had raised 
 it. 
 
 A bad beginning, thought I, for my wished 
 conversation ; but, perceiving the study that 
 occupied him, I could not help observing upon 
 the appropi'iate spot he had chosen for the pe- 
 rusal of this great effort of genius. 
 
 " Which is your favourite character in it ?'"* 
 asked he carelessly. 
 
 I readily answered, " Cassius." 
 
 " I should have thought Antony,'' said he, in 
 the same tone of indifference. 
 
 " Why ?" 
 
 " Because you are no doubt one of those that 
 sleep o'nights, and love plays, and hear music,
 
 DE VERE. 65 
 
 as Antony did. One, who from your age, of 
 course think the world is all before you where 
 to choose. So thought De Vere. Yet he is 
 changed, though not a great deal older than 
 you.*' 
 
 Interested about all that concerned my new 
 friend, I seized upon this with avidity, hoping 
 it miffht be a commencement of what I wished 
 much to know. I soon found, however, that 
 there was no chance of my obtaining the history 
 of the engaging people among whom I had 
 so strangely fallen ; for old Harclai had again 
 betaken himself to his book, and seemed reading 
 to himself with a peculiar sort of pleasure. 
 
 Willing yet to try at conversation, I ventured 
 once more, and said, " I wonder if our thoughts 
 are the same as to the most striking passages of 
 this fine play ?" 
 
 " And pray, young gentleman," asked he, 
 " what are yours ?" 
 
 " They are," I returned, " not so much the 
 usual grand passages in the character of Brutus, 
 and the stirring up of the people by Antony, as 
 those exquisite touches of a decided proud and 
 mighty spirit in Cassius, which led him to hate 
 himself, for being ' in awe' of such a thing as 
 he himself."
 
 G6 DE VERE. 
 
 " Good," said Harclai. 
 
 " Which induced him also,'' I continued, 
 ** while other men slunk with terror from a por- 
 tentous night, when 
 
 * The graves stood terijintless, and the sheeted dead 
 Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets,' 
 
 to court it, as he says, ' unbraced, 
 
 * And bare his bosom to the thunder stone. ' " 
 
 " Good, again,'' said Harclai, fixing his eye 
 upon me. " And why did he do this .^" 
 
 " Because," continued I, " it was a night that 
 suited those who * knew the world so full of 
 faults,' and he hoped for the downfall of pride 
 «nd usurping ambition. ' 
 
 Having said this with some emphasis, I was 
 pleased to find it operated in my favour with 
 the old gentleman. 
 
 " Do you know," said he, closing the book, 
 " that this is exactly my own feeling ? Do you 
 know, too, I never expected this — I thought you 
 had been a mere cockered, common-place spirit ; 
 one of the glozers of the world, who do as they 
 are bid, * and bend the crooked pageant of the 
 knee, where thrift may follow fawning.' But if 
 instead of being a hypocrite — a disciple of the vil-
 
 DE VERE. 67 
 
 lain Chesterfield — all things to all men, (as all 
 men almost are, and therefore, perhaps «/ow) — ^you 
 are made of higher mettle — you are one who 
 will suit Mortimer, though, I fear, not Dr. 
 Herbert." 
 
 I told him I was flattered with his observation, 
 and especially as it named me in the same breath 
 with Mr. De Vere, of vNhom I had conceived 
 the highest opinion. 
 
 " You shew no ill judgment," he returned, 
 *' though so young. Mortimer is a man who, 
 as well as Arbuthnot, would have made Swift 
 burn his travels. As you fell in with him so 
 lately, you can hardly, I think, know much of 
 his hfe, still less of his character, otherwise I 
 should ask, 
 
 * Wherefore do you look 
 Upon that poor aod broken bankrupt there ?' 
 
 Depend upon it, if you wish advancement, he 
 can never serve you ; nay, I question if his 
 intimacy would not stop your rise at court, if 
 such is your aim.''"' — He said this so drily, and 
 his eyelids vibrated, and his lip curled so 
 violently, that I almost resented it, and felt a 
 little angry. I contented myself^ however, with 
 replying, I had no such object, but at the same 
 time, could not help wondering at his observa-
 
 68 DE VERE. 
 
 tion: as from his apparent principles and known 
 high connections, I could discover nothing in 
 regard to De Vere that did not tend to the 
 contrary. He smiled, but in bitterness, yet not 
 wholly unmixed with something like the kindness 
 of protection. 
 
 " What I mean, is," continued he, perceiving 
 I waited for some explanation, " that had our 
 friend been less generous, and more pliable, or 
 had he had more suspicion, and less independence, 
 he would have been a very different person from 
 the mere country gentleman he is at present. 
 We shall see, however, what his courtly adviser 
 will do to bribe him back from his silly notions ; 
 for much I mistake if he is not now reading 
 him an admirable lesson upon the reasonableness 
 of slavery in the world. But take my word for 
 it he will not succeed — unless, indeed, he bring 
 a woman in his hand." 
 
 Taking him d la lettre, I assured him no lady 
 had arrived with Dr. Herbert. 
 
 '* Pooh !" said the old man, with something 
 like fretfulness, " thou art but a moonish youth 
 after all," and he seemed walking away. 
 
 Not willing to lose him, I followed, and, as 
 civilly as I could, apologized for breaking in 
 upon his solitude ; adding, that if my presence
 
 DE VERK. C9 
 
 was inconvenient, I would seek another walk, 
 and wander alone. 
 
 " Don't go," said he ; " stay at least till you 
 see how this experiment turns out. You 
 may get a lesson upon the art of rising at 
 court, and profit better than poor De Vere, who 
 was always stupid at it. But why do I call him 
 poor and stupid ? He was my own boy before 
 he wrote man ; and now he is a man, such as I 
 would have him. But he could not be otherwise 
 with such a fadier and mother. You have heard 
 of his father ?'' 
 
 I said I had, as a gallant soldier who had 
 given his life to his country, but no more. 
 
 " Then you may learn," replied he ; " and 
 yet," (and here his smile became most sardonic 
 indeed) " he was a mere fool in his genera- 
 tion, unlike all other men, and could not 
 show his face either in court or city, I'll answer 
 for it.'' 
 
 " You move my curiosity," said I. 
 
 " Why, he married a woman just as she was 
 turned out of doors, without a sixpence, merely 
 because he loved her before she was disinherited; 
 and he afterwards ruined his fortune to pay his 
 father's debts, merely because he had promised 
 to do so. What was v.orse still they might
 
 70 DE VERE. 
 
 possibly have been paid for him if he had only 
 changed sides in politics. Now out upon such a 
 blockhead !" 
 
 Here the old man could scarcely contain him- 
 self, and laughed outright. 
 
 *' No. no !" continued he, " do not stay. This 
 is a bad air — get out of it as fast as you can.'"* 
 
 1 became more and more interested, and after 
 a few questions, his love for the memory of the 
 General and his family, made him relate not only 
 what I have told of their history, but many 
 other traits of De Vere himself, which I trea- 
 sured up as accurately, as I listened to them 
 greedily. 
 
 " Come,"' said he, in good humour, per- 
 ceiving that I sincerely admired his friends; 
 *' after all, you shall not go. You seem to have 
 stuff in you, and perhaps I may like you, and 
 may tell you De Vere's story ; and then you may 
 know what I meant by the President's bringing 
 a woman in his hand ; which you, matter of 
 fact as you are, thought the same as bringing 
 her in a post-chaise. Herbert would not ven- 
 ture upon that. Yet I question if he is not 
 making use of a woman in his present efforts, 
 as much as if he had brought her hterally in his 
 hand."
 
 DE VERE. 71 
 
 Here the humorist (for such I own I now 
 began to think him) quickened his pace, looking 
 now and then over his shoulder towards the 
 canal, and rather watching the effect which this 
 last intimation had on me. 
 
 I confess I was so prepossessed with contrary 
 notions of the dignified ecclesiastic I had seen, 
 that I could not go along with my informant in 
 this account, and fairly told him so. 
 
 " Live," said he, " and know better ; and for 
 this purpose go yourself to the court, or the 
 minister's levee ; sacrifice yourself to fortune, 
 and think it happiness to bask in the smile of a 
 man like yourself. Do this, and you will find 
 Dr. Herbert commend you." 
 
 '• Impossible,"' said I, " even could I do so; 
 which " 
 
 " Is equally impossible no doubt," interrupted 
 the railer, with a sneer. ''But tell me, for you 
 seem ingenui vultus, (but for which, mark me, 
 I do not trust you a whit the more) what is your 
 own ambition .?" 
 
 " My father," replied I, " was a soldier.'* 
 
 *' Is it arms, then ?"" said he with quickness, 
 '' do you wish to be a legal murderer .f*" 
 
 " It is too late, even if I did,'' rejoined I, 
 not minding his false inference.
 
 72 BE Vt:i{E. 
 
 " Good !" said he, " you will not cut a throat 
 to humour a crowned head, or at the mandate 
 of a cold-blooded, calculating, quill-driving clerk, 
 who, with a stroke of his pen, signs the death- 
 warrant of a whole race, spreads fire and de- 
 struction over an entire region of plenty and 
 happiness, and then goes home to dinner and to 
 sleep. Oh, power! power! how art thou abused, 
 and how true is it said of thee that thou makest 
 the angels weep!" 
 
 *« Surely,"' said I, struck with his emphasis, 
 '' this must be exaggerated. Could there be 
 such a cold-blooded minister, no generous sol- 
 dier would be his instrument " 
 
 "I tell thee again,"' returned he, " thou art but 
 a moonish youth. I could come near home, l)ut 
 what do you think of Louvois and Turenne ? 
 Yet Louvois's master was then almost devote, 
 and Turenne himself ' faisait honneur a 
 Vhomme.' Such is the hypocritical dress which 
 lying history gives to this gull of a world !'* 
 
 I am ashamed to say T felt awed, though 
 aware of the fallacy. I at least was silent. 
 
 ''Well," said he, " your next move? To the 
 church with Herbert, or to the court with 
 Clayton ?" 
 
 " I have neither learning nor interest,"' said
 
 DE VERE. 73 
 
 I, " sufficient to encourage me ; and as for Clay- 
 ton, I know not who he is." 
 
 " I cry you mercy," said he ; " I thought 
 'not to know him, argued thyself unknown/ 
 Learn, then, that Mr. Clayton is a skilful gen- 
 tleman 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 quahties, 
 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." 
 
 *^ And what is that.?" asked I, with excited 
 curiosity. 
 
 '' Tuft-hunting,'' replied he, " and tale-bear- 
 ing 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 infor- 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 I)E VERE. 
 
 mation 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 
 every body 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 tell Lady Elea- 
 nor 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 harm- 
 less and quiet he appears. How many poor dupes 
 may be presently his victims, unless I crush
 
 DE VERE. 75 
 
 him ! Yet why should I ? He is not human, 
 and if he were, — but why should I moralize, 
 when here is one who will doit 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 farther ; but left 
 him, full of wonder and curiosity about himself, 
 Herbert, De Vere, and all the seeming mysteries 
 with which I thought myself surrounded. 
 
 R 2
 
 76 DE VERE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 A CONTRAST. 
 
 I'll teacb you differences. 
 
 ^HAKSPEARE. 
 
 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 know- 
 ledge, 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
 
 DE VERB. 77 
 
 pomp perhaps, a Kttle 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 amidst his 
 confidences. But Harclai also had pride, and 
 the pride of both seemed pardonable. What 
 struck me, however, was that the President in- 
 veighed against the pride of De Vere ; lamented 
 that so fine a mind, with such elegant cultiva- 
 tion, 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, lie adds to it a morbid 
 sensibility which has only increased his mis- 
 takes ; and, what is not least, a spirit of romance 
 which makes it more difficult to cure them." 
 
 In the course of our communication, the Pre- 
 sident 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,
 
 78 DE VERE. 
 
 as he was pleased to add, that I might not 
 throw myself away at every little temporary dis- 
 gust 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 hps, it also 
 seemed the language of fair experience, avoid- 
 ing the extremes of an enthusiast, which he cer- 
 tainly 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 distinc- 
 tion 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 Presi- 
 dent, though he had much even of that, having 
 turned a lohg 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
 
 DE VKRE. 79 
 
 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 for- 
 tune ; 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 indiffer- 
 ence to what might be thought of him, made 
 him little welcome in high society. It occa- 
 sioned the first great wound his feelings sus- 
 tained. 
 
 He had a brother left wholly dependant 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 sup- 
 posed to be rising in court favour. He imme-
 
 80 DE VERE. 
 
 d lately settled upon him a considerable part of 
 his fortune. But the lady was fine, and the 
 brother ungrateful. Harclai's plainness and sin- 
 cerity 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 adultress beheld the combat. The 
 seducer afterwards was promoted in the armv, 
 and rose to a great post in the state ; and the 
 adultress, 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.
 
 DE VEllE. 81 
 
 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. PTe succeeded ; and, for ii 
 while he was honoured with the title of peace- 
 maker, 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 wit- 
 ness. 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 fellow-creatures in a mass, but par- 
 ticularly 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
 
 82 DE VERE. 
 
 kindness to the poor, and assistance to the helj> 
 less in every situation. Nevertheless I loved 
 not his manners as I did those of the President. 
 Such is the invariable effect of real good breed- 
 ing 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 circum- 
 stances, reserved, yet so free and communicative 
 in the end ; and, at the same time, he com- 
 municated 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 *aid, then, can I please myself more, 
 or do better for others, than to give a picture of
 
 DE VERE. 83 
 
 this life, and this mind, to the world ? I there- 
 fore proceed to do so ; and, henceforward, the 
 reader is to consider me no longer as an actor 
 on the scene, but as a faithful biographer^ whom 
 he may trust as if it were my own life I was 
 recording.
 
 81 DE VERB. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE ADVERSITIES OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me, by will 
 
 but a poor thousand crowns : and, as thou say'st, charg'd my brother on 
 
 his blessing, to breed me well, and there begins my sadness. For call 
 
 you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth, that differs not from the 
 
 stalling of an ox ? , 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 I WOULD pass the earlier life of De Vere, but 
 that part of it was spent in comparative adversity, 
 occasioning a development of character, which 
 it probably would otherwise have wanted. 
 
 It has been stated, that on the death of her 
 husband. Lady Eleanor was left with two sons, 
 De Vere, and a brother much older. This, and 
 the will of his father founded upon it, chequered 
 his lot for years. 
 
 It was the will of a soldier, " whose business 
 'tis to die." For it was short, made in a camp, 
 and made by himself. With the real character 
 of his eldest son, he was, from various circum- 
 stances, quite unacquainted. For the General 
 had passed several years in arms, at a distance
 
 DE VEllE. 85 
 
 from home, and his heir had been for some time 
 before, taken off his hands by his brother in law. 
 Lord Mowbray. What wonder then, if he did 
 not know him ? Had he done so, or had Lady 
 Eleanor brought herself to confess her opinion 
 of him, he would never have left things as be 
 did. 
 
 The estate, indeed, of Talbois, and the Bo- 
 rough possessions, were entailed on his children, 
 for whom Dr. Herbert and Harclai were trus- 
 tees ; but the portion of the younger son was 
 but five hundred pounds, with the General's 
 commendation to the elder, to give him the 
 breeding of a gentleman, and ever to afford him 
 his support and protection. The General knew 
 not what he did. 
 
 It is scarcely possible to conceive two cha- 
 racters so much in contrast as those of the two 
 De Veres. The one, cold, calculating, and close; 
 proud, but without dignity ; ambitious, but in- 
 different to public opinion ; to his inferiors, a 
 tyrant, to his superiors, a slave. The other, 
 warm, nay, enthusiastic, particularly in his ad- 
 miration of nature ; and little mindful of conse- 
 quences when his feelings were concerned. Yet 
 though high minded and high principled, he was 
 aspiring rather than ambitious ; open from dis-
 
 86 DE VERE. 
 
 position, but forced by situation into reserve. 
 The elder was harsh, greedy, and overbearing ; 
 qualities of which his brother seemed both the 
 object and the victim; the younger, generous 
 and mild, except when oppressed, when he 
 could assume an attitude which few could resist. 
 The disparity of years, however, at first gave 
 the elder an advantage over the younger, which he 
 cruelly abused, by leaving him in the total want 
 of every thing that befitted a gentleman's son. 
 Whether as to education, the comforts, or 
 almost even the necessaries of life, Mortimer 
 was equally destitute. He was separated from 
 his mother, and confined to the moated house, 
 whither his brother seldom came, and where he 
 was left to such society as the children of the 
 neighbouring farmers could supply. These, 
 though at an age when we are seldom nice as to 
 our associates, he avoided ; for he remembered 
 the station he had been in, and, child as he was, 
 felt himself a De Vere. 
 
 It was this that made him feelingly alive to 
 those other privations to which he was condemned, 
 particularly in regard to instruction, and some- 
 thing even with respect to outward appearances. 
 
 It is difficult to account for this conduct in 
 his brother, on the score of avarice alone, though
 
 DE VERE. 87 
 
 that would go far. But the elder De Vere was 
 peculiarly excited against the younger, from 
 two causes ; partly from dislike to his mother, 
 who knew, and had not concealed from him her 
 opinion of his own character, and who had 
 shewn a decided preference to this worthier scion 
 of her noble stock ; but, chiefly, from his never 
 ending blame of his father, for his romantic 
 folly, as he called it, in paying his grandfather's 
 debts, by which his own consequence and for- 
 tune had been so sensibly diminished. The 
 bequest of a younger brother to his care and 
 maintenance, was a fresh invasion, as lie thought, 
 of his rights, all proceeding from the same silly 
 generosity of feeling : and, as the boy seemed 
 rebellious and gloomy, he resolved to curb him, 
 and gratify his spleen against his father at the 
 same time. 
 
 It was a treatment, however, to which, as he 
 grew up, Mortimer could less and less submit. 
 His sense of it was sharpened by the knowledge 
 which he had acquired (more than by tradition) 
 of the former greatness of the De Veres. Fond 
 of inquiry, even as a child, he had a natural 
 turn for reading, which was only limited by the 
 paucity of his then resources. But English 
 history lay in abundance before him in the
 
 88 J>E VEllE. 
 
 library ; and the puissant De Veres figured 
 with such power and brilliancy, in the earlier 
 part of it, as to engage all his attention. This 
 was heightened even to devotion by a large and 
 illuminated manuscript, which his research had 
 discovered on neglected shelves, in which the 
 family history had been blazoned. Here, be- 
 sides a long line of Norman heroes, he found 
 that Edward, Earl of Oxford, who, in the days 
 of EHzabeth, united in his single person, the 
 character of her greatest noble, knight, and poet. 
 This was that Earl who set his own father-in- 
 law, the all-powerful Burleigh, at such brave 
 defiance on a point of honour,* and of whom it 
 was recorded, that he scarcely ever moved from 
 Castle Hedingham to London without eighty 
 liveried retainers in his train. Here, also, he 
 found the memorable Sir Francis ; and the boy, 
 with a swelling heart, read in the words of Sir 
 Robert Naunton, describing this eminent person, 
 " that it might be a question whether the nobility 
 of his house, or the honour of his achievements, 
 might most commend him. I find not," said Sir 
 Robert, " that he came much to court, but when 
 he did, no man had more of the Queen's favour, 
 
 * See Chap. II., page 22.
 
 DE VERE. 89 
 
 and none less envied, for he seldom troubled it 
 with the jealousie and allarum of supplantations ; 
 his underminings were of another hind. They 
 report, that the Queen, as she loved martial 
 men, would court this gentleman as soon as he 
 appeared in her presence." 
 
 This account excited Mortimer's sympathy 
 and admiration, to a degree that was undefin- 
 able, even to himself; as did the following 
 passage in one of Sir Francis's own letters. '* I 
 went to court, and because J would use nohodie^s 
 help to give me access to her majesty^ I re- 
 solved to shew myself," et caetera. This, and 
 the honourable inference drawn from the passage 
 quoted, " his underminings were of another 
 hind,'' made a lasting impression on the young 
 heart of Mortimer, and influenced his character 
 in after times. 
 
 But he thought of the neglect of liis education 
 with grief, and of all his other privations with 
 indignation, till at last, like another Orlando, he 
 broke out against his tyrant, in one of the few 
 visits which the latter paid to the moated house. 
 
 " I care not," said he to his brother, in a tone 
 of lofty anger, '^Hhat you do not, nay, that you 
 cannot love me. That I might bear, but I 
 wonder your own blood does not cry out upon
 
 90 DE VERE. 
 
 you, for leaving your father's son, a De Vere 
 as well as yourself, no better, in all that belongs 
 to a gentleman's instruction, than your hinde, 
 or gamekeeper." 
 
 " And am I bound to do more ?" would his 
 brother reply, " or have you fortune to pretend 
 to more, that you thus rebel ? If you have, 
 the doors are open ; go : and see what the name 
 of De Vere will do for you." 
 
 Such was sometimes the mildest treatment 
 which Mortimer met with from the heir of his 
 father, who, busy in pushing his fortune under 
 his uncle. Lord Mowbray, did not condescend 
 to think much of a younger brother. 
 
 The youth thus repressed, could only fly 
 gloomily to the woods and solitudes that sur- 
 rounded his paternal house. For he had no 
 friend of his own age, or condition, to whom he 
 could unburthen his o'erfraught heart. It was 
 hence, however, that he imbibed that taste for 
 the beauties of nature, as well as that contem- 
 plative habit and reserve, but above all that feel- 
 ing of independence, which, added to other acci- 
 dents, ever after distinguished him. Sometimes, 
 indeed, he betook himself to Harclai, who gave 
 him what consolation he could, whether by 
 advice or instruction, for, as he said, " he loved
 
 DE VEllE. 91 
 
 the boy." But the boy, though fond of his con- 
 versation, with all its uncouthness, had, even 
 before this, felt scruples in taxing his time so 
 much as his regular instruction required, and 
 Harclai himself perceived, that a more regular 
 tutorage was necessary to do justice to his desire 
 of improvement. 
 
 Fortunately there was at that time, incumbent 
 of the vicarage, a character as ignorant of the 
 world, but as learned in books, as Harclai could 
 possibly wish. To him he applied for assist- 
 ance, but at first without success, though backed 
 with the offer of a stipend equal in amount to 
 half the living itself. But the vicar was rich 
 with an income of one hundred pounds a year, 
 and being, moreover, impatient of all restraint 
 upon his hours, from the despotism acquired 
 over them, during the habits of a college life, he 
 would have refused the heir of the crown as a 
 pupil, with an archbishopric as a reward, had it 
 chained him to any particular service at any 
 particular time. But what his indolence refused, 
 his benevolence, and still more, his virtuous 
 indignation, granted ; and, upon being informed 
 of the tyranny exercised over De Vere, he con- 
 sented to receive him. 
 
 Dr. Penruddock was about sixty years old.
 
 y» DE VERE. 
 
 when he thus undertook to impart to De Vere, 
 some of the learning which he had acquired in 
 the recesses of his cloister at Oxford, from which 
 he was remarkable for never having stirred 
 during a fellowship of thirty years. More than 
 learning, however, was not in his power ; for it 
 is hardly possible to conceive a life that had 
 been either more uniform, more harmless, or 
 less active— perhaps I might add, from its ex- 
 treme simplicity, more happy, but that the 
 advocates of ambition, as the proper stimulant 
 of human nature, might laugh at my own 
 simplicity, as much as they certainly would at 
 Penruddock's. 
 
 It happened that the vicarage was that of his 
 native village, and in the gift of the college of 
 which he was a fellow, and from the moment of 
 his election, all his hopes, wishes, and aspira- 
 tions were directed to the one object of succeed- 
 ing to the cure of the place that had given him 
 birth. If this was ambition, it was not of that 
 vaulting sort, which o'erleaps itself, for in the 
 end his wishes were crowned, though after 
 waiting the deaths of two incumbents. This 
 exhausted near thirty years of his life, during 
 which, he was but twice known to have stirred 
 more than five miles from the University, nor
 
 DE VERE. yST 
 
 ever had he been without the college walls, after 
 nine o'clock. Here he attained to considerable, 
 if we may not say profound learning, in a variety 
 of branches, though the usefulness of many of 
 them might be made a question. 
 
 From all this it may easily be imagined, that 
 when he did at last emerge from a fellow's room, 
 to a snug vicarage, he brought with him all his 
 old manners. So inveterate, indeed, were the 
 habits of Dr. Penruddock, that in his very 
 village, or even in his own garden, he never 
 appeared without a band ; and would have worn 
 his gown, too, but that in his quadrangle at 
 Exeter College, he knew he had often dispensed 
 with it. 
 
 Hence also, whether at his own, or at other 
 tables, he always repeated the college Latin 
 graces, to which he had been accustomed, pre- 
 facing; them with the usual " Oremus." His 
 notions of his duty as a parish priest were, 
 however, apostolically bold. Thus a man of 
 rank and fortune, in the neighbourhood, having 
 nefjlected to come to church, he thouo-ht it his 
 duty to go to the hall house, though he did not 
 visit there, to remonstrate with him on his evil 
 course of life. The gentleman resented the 
 hberty, and refused his exhortation ; upon
 
 94 DE VEKE. 
 
 which, the next Sunday, and every Sunday 
 afterwards, when he came to pray for the w hole 
 state of the church, he added, with great fervour, 
 '* but particularly for the soul of Sir William 
 Wilful, Knight, who never comes to church to 
 pray for it himself." 
 
 Such was the worthy and learned person, 
 whom Harclai obtained as a tutor for his friend's 
 son, when neglect and abandonment in the essen- 
 tial point of education, seemed to be his singular 
 destiny. 
 
 The business of instruction now went on 
 cheerfully ; and such was the talent, as well as 
 (from the absence of all inducements to the 
 contrary,) the application of Mortimer, that, in 
 respect to books, few of his age went beyond 
 him. It was in the outward appearance alone, 
 in the show and polish of the class of youths to 
 which he felt he belonged,— in short, in the 
 power of making one among his equals, that he 
 bewailed the neglect in which he was suffered to 
 languish. The ancient gentry of the neighbour- 
 hood, friends of his father and respecters of 
 his name, would have gladly admitted him 
 the companion of their rising progeny ; but a 
 sense of the inferiority of his exterior, and, as he 
 thought, of his personal acquirements, kept him
 
 D£ VERE. 95 
 
 aloof. The call at Talbois of a well mounted 
 youth, which sometimes happened, was sure to 
 put him to flight ; and he has confessed, that this 
 sense of degradation, has, in the concealment of 
 a lonely chamber, when a gentleman had in- 
 quired for him at the gates, cost him bitter tears ; 
 but— 
 
 " Sweet are the uses of adversity." 
 
 The circumstances we have related, taught him 
 to reflect much, and to determine for himself. 
 He grew ashamed of his shame; and though 
 he never remitted most indignant remonstrances 
 with his brother, by degrees he assumed a firm- 
 ness, a pride, and a decision of mind, which never 
 afterwards left him. 
 
 The solitariness of his life, also, contributed to 
 form other parts of his mental character. As 
 he was allowed to wander where he would in the 
 intervals of study, he became acquainted with 
 all the scenes of his beautiful neighbourhood ; 
 its rough inhabitants, its woods and walks, its 
 castles and seats. Hours upon hours has he 
 passed alone, and thought them happiness 
 enough, from the perfection of the freedom 
 they gave him ; and he was often delighted to 
 trace, (as he thought he could,) in Tutbury
 
 96^ DE VERE. 
 
 Castle, the revelries of John of Gaunt, in the 
 midst of his court of minstrels, when he gave 
 them a king, and a code for their government, 
 under the ancient title of " the laws of the 
 ministralx.'*'' 
 
 Of course he was a troubadour, and sang of 
 knights; and would have sung of ladies, even at 
 sixteen, (for both his feeling and his imagina- 
 tion were warm enough,) but he had yet no 
 ladies to sing of, and no others he thought were 
 worthy of his attention, much less of his muse. 
 For though he could already appreciate beauty, 
 in whatever garb he saw it, and might, therefore, 
 think a peasant pretty ; yet, from the very first, 
 there was always something about him that 
 forbade his being pleased with any thing un- 
 polished, or unintelligent ; and in his then rus- 
 ticated state, he met with nothing else. The 
 only nymph, therefore, whom he admired, was 
 that, which all so naturally admire, so few enjoy, 
 
 " The mountain nympb, sweet liberty." 
 
 And, surely no mistress was ever more favour- 
 able to an adorer ; for as he cultivated her with 
 all his heart, so she rewarded him with all her 
 smiles. 
 
 It was this that tended most to form that
 
 DE VEIIE. 97 
 
 character, which afterwards pursued him into 
 active life, and kept him always, under whatever 
 forms of artificial or conventional restraint, a 
 genuine son of independence and nature. Thus 
 the habit of thinking and acting for himself, 
 under difficulty and oppression, taught him to 
 examine every thing, and shrink from nothing ; 
 so that his mind seemed already formed, at an 
 age when other youths were still in the trammels 
 of sameness and custom. 
 
 It may be supposed that Harclai and Pen- 
 ruddock were not idle spectators of his progress. 
 The first only kindled the more in his indig- 
 nation against the hard oppressor, that would 
 have kept down his genius and chained him like 
 Orlando to his paternal domain; the last gloried 
 in the improvement to which he exultingly felt 
 he had not a little contributed. Harclai did 
 what he could to shame his brother into better 
 treatment of him, but in vain; Penruddock said, 
 " we will take a glorious revenge, by shewing 
 what we can do without him.'' 
 
 What, however, they could not do, De Vere 
 now resolved to do for himself. The brother, 
 as has been said, in the wantonness of power, 
 had prohibited all intercourse between Mortimer 
 and his mother. This the boy felt, as " the 
 
 VOL I. V
 
 98 DE VEllE. 
 
 most unkindest cut of all ;'' nor can any account 
 be given of so diabolical a procedure, but what 
 is drawn from that sort of diabolical nature, 
 which feeling itself likely to be thrown into 
 shade by one more honourable than itself, con- 
 sumes with envy, and only finds consolation by 
 persecuting what it envies. 
 
 To the interdiction therefore in regard to 
 I^ady Eleanor, Mortimer, now sixteen, resolved 
 no longer to submit ; and scorning to do that by 
 stealth, which he felt he had a right to do in the 
 face of day, he openly avowed his resolution to 
 see his mother, spite of his brother's orders. 
 
 That worthy gentleman threatened to cut off 
 his return to Talbois for his disobedience ; which 
 was answered by a demand through Harclai, of 
 the legacy left him by his father ; and this for 
 the moment silenced the oppressor. 
 
 The visit was paid, and Lady Eleanor was 
 charmed with the opening graces of her son. 
 Indeed nature had done much for him. It 
 had given him countenance, manners, and even 
 accorapUshments, in short, the ma'intien nohle^ 
 which the most expensive education cannot 
 always confer. Perhaps he wanted the 'knowing 
 air which youths brought up at public schools 
 so early acquire, (beneficially or not may be
 
 DE verl:. 99 
 
 made a question) ; but he also wanted tlielr habits 
 of dissipation and familiarity with vice ; and a 
 better air was supplied by that native dignity, 
 which even the flower of Eton and Westminster 
 are sometimes without. 
 
 Thus, in the obscurity of his village, and 
 amid the slights of his brother's house, De 
 Vere's spirit, as we have seen, instead of sinking, 
 bore him aloft ; and having defied his brother 
 in the very height of his tyranny, he nov\^ resolved 
 to break his bonds at once. Accordingly he 
 sent a formal demand of the ''poor allottery his 
 father left him by testament," with that to go 
 and buy fortunes. 
 
 His intentions were for the army. " jMy 
 father's heart," said he, " is awake in mine ; 
 his sword should not sleep." 
 
 But a great change was now at hand. Before 
 his demand could be answered, his brother was 
 no more. Three days of fever and inflamma- 
 tion sufficed to remove him, and delivered Mor- 
 timer from the tyranny of his protection. 
 
 As he had never loved him, he pretended 
 no grief. Penruddock ejaculated Te Deum 
 Laudamus^ and Harclai openly avowed his plea- 
 sure when his co-trustee. Dr. Herbert, and Lady 
 Eleanor arrived at Talbois to consvilt upon the 
 F 2
 
 100 DE VERE. 
 
 destiny of her aspiring son, as well as to esta- 
 blish him in the seat of his ancestors. 
 
 Seventeen years had passed over the head of 
 De Vere, when this event, so influential to his 
 fortune, happened. 1 hough by no means even 
 now rich, and, for his rank, scarcely inde- 
 pendent ; by comparison he seemed opulent, and 
 the world at his feet. But he felt cruelly the 
 privations to which he had been condemned. 
 The new friend whom he had found in Dr. 
 Herbert, had hitherto been too much occupied 
 by his college to interfere in his management ; 
 or, as he called it, his mismanagement. For 
 Herbert, as we may suppose, wanted none of 
 the virtues of generosity, nor was he personally 
 afraid of the elder De Vere or his uncle ; be, 
 therefore, did not conceal his opinion upon the 
 impropriety of burying alive a young man of 
 family in clownish seclusion. He was, however, 
 restrained from any active interference, partly 
 because, while the elder brother lived, he was 
 invested with no authority for it ; partly from a 
 not unreasonable pride, which withheld him from 
 ofl'ering advice which had not been asked, and 
 which, moreover, he knew would not be fol- 
 lowed. 
 
 Now, however, all was smoothed. Mortimer,
 
 DE VERE. 101 
 
 the possessor of Talbois, was a very different 
 person from the youth " who gained nothing 
 under his brother but growth ;" and though 
 Lord Mowbray's intentions towards him were 
 unknown, there was no reason to believe that he 
 could be displeased if Dr. Herbert should now 
 interpose with all the influence he could com- 
 mand, to promote and finish an education which 
 it was supposed had been so shamefully ne- 
 glet^ted. 
 
 Lord Mowbray, in fact, himself joined the 
 party at Talbois, within a few days of its being 
 formed, and poured out many eff'usions of kind- 
 ness to both his sister and nephew ; one of whom 
 he had not seen for years, the other, never. His 
 astonishment at the appearance and character of 
 Mortimer, who had been represented to him as 
 an ignorant, vulgar, and ungovernable clown, 
 may be conceived. His compliments upon the 
 subject to Lady Eleanor, and indeed to the youth 
 himself, were in proportion ; and he could not 
 sufficiently felicitate them and himself, on the 
 benefit of having Dr. Herbert on the spot, to 
 direct their views in regard to the future destiny 
 of the remaining De Vere. As for Harclai, 
 though entitled, he said, as a man of family and 
 education to some respect, he thought he had
 
 iOli DE VEIIE. 
 
 been much too long out of the world to have a 
 voice regarding any thing in it. And as for 
 Penruddock, to whom he was introduced, he 
 considered him little better than an ourang- 
 outang, utterly incapable of forming, much less 
 of delivering an opinion upon that, or indeed 
 upon any subject. 
 
 It is difficult to look into the heart of man, 
 particularly that of a common-place politician. 
 Though Lord Mowbray's visit was attributed 
 by his sister, and perhaps by his nephew, solely 
 to kindness, there might be other motives quite 
 as powerful, though not equally ostensible for 
 the movement. 
 
 We have said that in the wreck of the prin- 
 cipal estates of the De Vere family, the influence 
 in a certain borough for which the elder De Vcre 
 had sat, had been preserved. Now, if there was 
 one thing upon which Lord Mowbray piqued 
 himself more than another, it was in the manage- 
 ment of a borough interest ; and as Mortimer 
 was a minor, and several years must elapse before 
 he could succeed his brother in the seat, sup- 
 posing the interest to be preserved, the crisis 
 seemed to require peculiar vigilance in some one 
 of the family to prevent this solitary, but valu- 
 able pearl, from being ravished from its po&-
 
 DE VERE. 103 
 
 sessor, and, so far, diminishing the personal 
 consequence with the first minister of the great 
 Lord Mowbray himself It became therefore 
 doubly essential to him to pay a visit to Talbois ; 
 for it was necessary for him to ascertain the per- 
 sonal character and views of his nephew, when 
 he should be old enough to use his family 
 interest ; and to fix upon a proper person, with 
 all proper caution, to represent the family in the 
 meantime. No virtue forbade this, nor do we 
 blame Lord Mowbray either for his anxiety oj- 
 activity in the matter ; and if the minister set 
 both down to zeal in the common cause of 
 government, while Lady Eleanor set it down to 
 kindness for herself and son, how could Lord 
 Mowbray prevent the misunderstanding ? We 
 will not positively say that there might not have 
 been even another, or something approaching to 
 the semblance of another object respecting the 
 seat, mixed up, insensibly as it were, with the 
 other two, and which rather flitted before Lord 
 Mowbray's parliamentary vision, than embodied 
 itself practically in his intentions. But of this, 
 hereafter. At present, these objects were only 
 visionary ; and, left to himself, he had not cou- 
 rage enough to pursue the prospect ; for he 
 was in fact on this subject, in the situation of
 
 104 DE VERE. 
 
 the half-plunged Macbeth, wheR reproached by 
 his bolder consort with being like the " poor 
 cat i' the adage." 
 
 The result, therefore was, that like a good 
 prochain ami, he took charge of the De Vere 
 interest with proper and successful zeal ; and his 
 private secretary, Mr. Bromfield, a gentleman 
 recommended to him by the prime minister, was 
 pitched upon to represent the borough until De 
 Vere should be of age to come forward himself.
 
 DE VERE. 105 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 OPPOSING THEORIES. 
 
 Out of your proof you speak ; we poor unfledged. 
 Have never wing'd from view of the nest, uor know 
 What air's from home. 
 
 Shakspeark. 
 
 And now a conclave sat at Talbois, in the 
 presence of De Vere, and Lady Eleanor, upon 
 the future plans and education of that youth. 
 
 The counsellors were all assembled in Lady 
 Eleanor's drawing-room up stairs, in which she 
 had now established herself. She and Lord 
 Mowbray preserved a sort of state, in two 
 ponderous arm chairs, of ancient crimson 
 velvet ; while the President, who was a great 
 peripatetic, paced the room up and down 
 in his argument. Harclai, sometimes, accom- 
 panied him, in the eagerness of his replies ; but 
 for the most part sat with his chin on his hands, 
 which were folded while they rested for support 
 f3
 
 106 DK VEIIE. 
 
 on the top of his gold-headed cane. From this 
 sort of watch-tower, his eye pursued the Presi- 
 dent, or glanced at Lady Eleanor, or De Vere, 
 accordingly as the conversation turned. De 
 Vere himself stood, not always silent, but always 
 most observant, between his mother and his 
 uncle. 
 
 The question was, how best to finish the edu- 
 cation which had been so irregularly begun : and, 
 that finished, what career of life was afterwards 
 to be pursued. Dr. Herbert seconded, or rather 
 took the lead of Lord Mowbray, in recommend- 
 ing an instant removal to college, and to travel 
 during vacations, both at home and abroad, 
 with a view, in the end, to plunge into public 
 business, as a member of the House of Commons. 
 It was then proposed that, under his uncle's 
 auspices, he should attempt the same, career of 
 power, and ambition, which had been opened 
 to his elder brother. These were objects on 
 which the Doctor was peculiarly qualified to give 
 advice. 
 
 The plan pleased all, save Harclai; and 
 Lady Eleanor looked at her son with eagerness, 
 as if she hoped for his willing approbation of 
 what was so agreeable to herself. 
 
 He made no reply, but seemed anxious for
 
 DE VEllK. 107 
 
 the sentiments of Harclai, who was evidently 
 impatient to express them. For Harclai was 
 not a man, either to be beaten out of his opinions, 
 or to suffer his authority, where he felt he had 
 any, to be easily set aside. In particular he 
 was but ill disposed to submit to the superiority 
 claimed by the President and Lord Mowbray, 
 founded, as he said, solely upon a supposition 
 falsely assumed, that their view of mankind was 
 better than his own. 
 
 " I," said he, '' who know the stings, and 
 have felt the bite of men, cannot willingly turn 
 out a youth, bare and uncovered, 'to bide the 
 pelting of the pityless storm.' " 
 
 " It is a storm which he will ride out; at least 
 as well as others,^' said the Doctor. 
 
 " Do others then,'' replied Harclai, " conquer 
 passion, or resist flattery? Or, if he do this, 
 which perhaps he will, (though I know not) will 
 he be safe from the treachery of some hypocrite, 
 in the same walk with himself, practising on the 
 openness of his nature ? I know him — you do 
 not — every fool will irritate, every knave live 
 upon him. If you fix him at court, he will 
 never bend ; if you send him to the bar, and 
 his clients are rogues, he will throw up his
 
 108 DE VERE. 
 
 brief; if you enlist him under government, 
 and he think you wrong, he will oppose."" 
 
 At this last observation, Lord Mowbray 
 turned pale, and thought it absolutely necessary 
 to interfere, assuring Harclai he had made a 
 supposition contradictory to itself, as it was 
 impossible to enlist in party, still more to take 
 office, and dream of such a solecism as to oppose 
 the government of which he would form a 
 part. 
 
 Dr. Herbert only smiled at the simplicity of 
 his man of the woods, as he sometimes called 
 Harclai, but did not deign to answer him, till 
 he was roused to something like attention, by 
 the serious manner in which Harclai continued. 
 
 " I see," cried the advocate of private life, 
 " how cheap all this is held. I will beg the 
 favour of you, therefore, to point out one inge- 
 nuous youth, who has ever enlisted in politics, 
 and preserved his ingenuousness : who has ever 
 served at court, and has not condescended to 
 flatter ; or who, in the presence of either minister 
 or king, has not reduced himself from the high 
 spirit of youth and honour, to be 
 
 * A wretched creature that must bend his body^ 
 If Csesar carelessly but nod on him.' .
 
 DE VERE. 109 
 
 I tell you again, this being, v/ill Mortimer De 
 Vere never be.'' 
 
 Mortimer seemed moved at his words, and 
 perhaps, still more at the emphatic manner in 
 which he uttered them, and turned earnestly to 
 Dr. Herbert to hear his reply. 
 
 " It were easy," observed the Doctor, with an 
 air of great superiority, " to answer these com- 
 mon-place remarks, were it not better to content 
 one's-self with denying that they are well 
 founded. Were they sound, you v/ould stifle 
 the seeds of all fair exertion, and quench every 
 spark of honourable ambition. If you are right, 
 better at once to shut ourselves up again in our 
 caves and our woods, which you," added he, with 
 a sort of triumph of manner, " affect to do, and 
 see what we should gain by it." 
 
 " We should regain our simphcity," said 
 Harclai. 
 
 " And tear one another to pieces," replied the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " Better do that, than smile in a man's face, 
 and stab him," rejoined Harclai. 
 
 " Really," cried Lord Mowbray, interposing, 
 " I wonder. Dr. Herbert, you will stoop to answer 
 these savage notions, unworthy of any man who 
 lives in the world."
 
 110 DE VERE. 
 
 " I live out of it," said Harclai, fixing his chin 
 firmer on the head of his cane, while the vibrat- 
 ing property of his eyelids, formerly mentioned, 
 found ample employment. 
 
 " But my nephew, sir," and his lordship waxed 
 warm, " is to live in it, and may become an orna- 
 ment to his name if he chuse." 
 
 "How?" 
 
 " By following my advice. From my connec- 
 tions with the minister, and the notice with 
 which his majesty is graciously pleased to honour 
 me ; with his seat in parliament, and a wise and 
 prudent use of it, by uniform support, neither 
 varying to the right or left -" 
 
 Here his lordship was getting a little in- 
 volved, and thought it prudent to stop. Morti- 
 mer remained in observing silence, and Harclai, 
 to avoid gesticulations that might be disagree- 
 able, absolutely closed his eyes, till the Dean 
 came to X<ord Mowbray's assistance. 
 
 " There is no doubt," said the President, per-- 
 ceiving that things could not be forced ; '* if 
 Mr. Mortimer's disposition lies toward public 
 life, and if his principles should lead him to the 
 same side in politics as my lord's ^"^ 
 
 " //■/" cried Lord Mowbray, staring at the
 
 DE VEEE. Ill 
 
 word. " They must, as Dr. Herbert well 
 knows." 
 
 " I really know no such thing," said the Pre- 
 sident ; and Lady Eleanor, seeing the effect of 
 his uncle's observation on her son, entreated her 
 brother to allow Dr. Herbert to proceed. 
 
 *' I mean merely," continued Herbert, " that 
 with such a connection, Mr. Mortimer's career 
 may be brilliant." 
 
 " T beseech you at least to mark that," cried 
 Lord Mowbray to Mortimer and Harclai. 
 
 " I do," said De Vere, "but can make no 
 promises. I scarce know what my disposition 
 may be when the time comes to decide. But in 
 the mean while, I am most willing, nay desirous, 
 of putting myself in the way of that improve- 
 ment which I have so long wanted. "*' 
 
 " That road at least is easy," observed Lady 
 Eleanor, '' for it is only to place yourself under 
 our most excellent friend." 
 
 " My college," said the President, " will be 
 proud to receive the son of Lady Eleanor." 
 
 '' I wish good may come of it,'' cried Harclai ; 
 " but I should have hoped his education might 
 have been finished, as it had begun, at Talbois." 
 
 " Under the Cornish Doctor ?" said Herbert,
 
 112 ' DE VERE. 
 
 almost forgetting himself, into a levity border* 
 ing upon contempt* 
 
 " A Needwood boor,^' exclaimed Lord Mow- 
 bray with disdain. 
 
 Lady Eleanor expressed herself hurt;, and De 
 Vere bit his lips at this attack upon his honest 
 tutor. " He was every thing to me," said he 
 with a feeling unrestrained by the presence of 
 his uncle ; " when I might have fed swine and 
 died in ignorance, for aught those cared who 
 had the disposal of me. Dr. Penruddock was 
 then to me no boor." The youth here stopped, 
 for he was moved even to agitation, and Lady 
 Eleanor with some stiffness observed, that with 
 all his uncouthness, she wished there were many 
 Penruddocks. 
 
 " Dr. Penruddock is uncouth," observed the 
 President, changing his tone, " but I believe a 
 respectable man, and probably a good scholar ; 
 but one may possibly, without ill manners, 
 doubt his powers of finishing the education of a 
 youth of any quality, particularly if he is to act 
 a part in a world, which all confess the doctor 
 never saw." 
 
 '' He has read much,"" observed Harclai. 
 " Books," answered Herbert, " according to 
 the wise Bacon, will never teach the use of
 
 DE VERE. 113 
 
 books. If Mr. Mortimer, therefore, intends to 
 read men, he should hve among them : he has 
 already been but too much shut up." 
 
 To this, Mortimer himself assented, and ob- 
 served that his own wishes carried him towards 
 his father*s profession, could his mother be 
 brought over ; but at any rate not to be con- 
 fined to Talbois to lead the life of a hind ; he 
 therefore would attend the President with plea- 
 sure if he would be troubled with him. 
 
 Harclai said, that as to education, he would 
 no longer oppose, but hoped it would only lead 
 him afterwards to rest content at Talbois, with- 
 out looking abroad to court the life of a slave. 
 
 Mortimer felt a flash on his cheek at this, 
 which Lord Mowbray observing, exclaimed, 
 " really, Mr. Harclai, this is downright rude- 
 ness, considering before whom you speak it. 
 You perceive, sir, that my nephew wishes to 
 see mankind ; and he will see them where alone 
 they are worth seeing, or can be known, I mean 
 at court, and in the senate." 
 
 " I doubt the alone very much," observed 
 Harclai, whistling to get rid of his bile. 
 
 " I own,"' said Mortimer, " I at least wish 
 to know the world, and, if possible, make my- 
 self more fit for it than I am. I think, perhaps,
 
 Ill 
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 too much of my mother's and my own name ; 
 and though I have seen too many happy and 
 worthy people lower than myself, to believe there 
 is much in a name, yet I trust there is nothing 
 wrong in wishing to be able to restore the family, 
 at least, to the place it held in the time of my 
 grandfather ; if I fail, I know, at any rate, 
 that I now can be very happy at Talbois." 
 
 Lady Eleanor here embraced her son, and 
 both the man of the world, and the man of 
 private life commended this speech. Dr. Her- 
 bert declared it was exactly as it should be, and 
 promised every thing he could wish ; while Har- 
 dai, fastening upon the last sentiment, said he 
 only hoped that the world, if he was resolved to 
 embark, would not unfit him for the innocence 
 of such a retreat. 
 
 " You will too soon want it," said he, start- 
 ing on his legs, *' after you have encountered 
 the spite and envy, the shouldering and strug- 
 gle, and perhaps the secret hate of those you so 
 much wish to know." 
 
 "For shame!" cried Herbert, "you would 
 frighten a generous spirit if you could. I 
 should be glad to know what is to prevent a 
 young man of family from endeavouring to take 
 a lead where he may do good .'^"
 
 DE VERE. 115 
 
 " The rascally maxims of those he is to lead,*" 
 answered Harclai. 
 
 " I know not these maxims," said the President. 
 
 " Then go to Sir Robert Walpole," replied 
 Harclai, " who said, ' it was well that many men 
 could not be prime ministers, since they would 
 not be able to bear with the profligacy of man- 
 kind.' " 
 
 " A very foolish declaration," observed Lord 
 Mowbray. 
 
 " Yet Sir Robert was no fool," returned Har- 
 clai, "and I should be glad to know," here he 
 braced himself up, as if in defiance, " what the 
 President has to say to it." 
 
 " That he was very unfortunate," replied 
 the divine, " in remembering only the vices of 
 those he lived with, while the virtues passed 
 unheeded. But this was the error of his cha- 
 racter and of his government: the times, thank 
 God, are changed, for there never was more 
 public virtue than at present." 
 
 " An excellent remark," cried Lord Mowbray. 
 
 ** Let us see your men of virtue out of 
 office," retorted Harclai, wrinkling his face 
 inta a smile, or rather leer, while he fol- 
 lowed the President to the bottom of the 
 room, and then to the top again in the eagerness 
 of argument. '■' To be sure, in these changed
 
 116 DE VERE. 
 
 times, no retired or expelled minister could ap- 
 ply the description which Bolingbroke gives of 
 himself, when in, and when out of office." 
 
 " What is it ?" said the Doctor, rather an- 
 noyed at his perseverance. 
 
 Harclai went on : " Those insects of various 
 hues, which used to hum and buz about me 
 while I stood in the sunshine, have disappeared 
 since I lived in the shade. Nobody comes to a 
 hermitage but for the sake of the hermit. In 
 driving me out of party, they have driven me 
 out of cursed company."* 
 
 Lord Mowbray here looked uneasy and 
 sought for his snuff-box, while Lady Eleanor 
 observed the picture was too sadly forcible. 
 
 '* Yet what does it amount to," said the Pre- 
 sident, " but that Lord Bolingbroke was angry 
 at the loss of his power, and then all who did 
 not follow him into retreat, were fools and 
 knaves, and buzzing insects of various hues. 
 Let my lord show us that those who, he falsely 
 says, abandoned him, ever professed to do more 
 than their duty under him as the appointed 
 leader by the crown ; and I will then scold as 
 loud as he." 
 
 " My dear doctor," cried Lord Mowbray, 
 " you have explained this matter admirably."*' 
 *B.Works,ix. 4, 3.
 
 OE VKIiE. 117 
 
 " Yet Mr. Harclai torments us so ingeniously 
 on these subjects," said Lady Eleanor, " that 
 I should be glad to hear him farther.'" 
 
 '*No ! you would not," replied the humourist, 
 " for I could only give you more of a most 
 unfashionable creed." 
 
 " Yet let us hear it,'' cried Lady Eleanor. 
 " Nay," said Harclai, " it is not mine, for 
 I would not shock you of the haute noblesse^ 
 in which of course I include the noblesse of 
 Oxford,"" bowing to the President, " by in- 
 truding the ignorance of the woods and caves 
 upon you. But you will surely hear Lord 
 Halifax, for he was one of yourselves." 
 Lord Mowbray here again looked uneasy. 
 " Nay ! he is very short," continued Harclai, 
 '• but a good witness for all that. He tells 
 you in terms that ' a court may be said to be 
 a company of well bred fashionable beggars : 
 that if a man hath too much pride to be a 
 creature, he had better stay at home ; that if he 
 would rise, he must begin by creeping on all 
 fours;' nay, he adds, 'that a place at court, 
 like a place in heaven, is only to be got by 
 being much upon one's knees.' " 
 " Odious," cried Lady Eleanor. 
 " Observe,'' continued Harclai, *^ it is not I
 
 118 IJE VEllE. 
 
 that broach this scandal, but no less a person 
 than Saville Lord Halifax." 
 
 "Impossible!'' exclaimed Lord Mowbray, — 
 " why he was once president of the council." 
 
 " Not the worst judge of his subject," said 
 the satirist ; " and I would ask therefore of his 
 presidentship, there, what is to become of the 
 generous spirit he was talking of just now ! 
 No ! if there is such a spirit, let it tame itself 
 as fast as it can, or flattery will soon get before 
 it with a patron."" 
 
 " Shocking," said Eleanor. 
 "But true," proceeded Harclai. "Yes !" 
 added he, perceiving both Lord Mowbray and 
 Herbert about to dissent, and looking at them 
 with more sharpness than usual, " flattery is 
 now the golden mean; flattery, whether soft 
 as the whispering of a flute, or shrill as a 
 trumpet, according to the ear and taste to be 
 flattered. It is the great secret of rising, 
 now that open robbery and murder are out of 
 fashion. The sooner therefore it is learned, the 
 better. Yes !" continued he, striking his cane 
 forcibly on the ground, 
 
 " ' Hinge thy knee, 
 And let his very breath whom thou'it observe, 
 Blow off thy cap; prai'e his most vicious strain, 
 And call it excellent.' "
 
 DE VERE. 119 
 
 The energy with which this was uttered, en- 
 gaged all Lady Eleanor^s interest, and silenced 
 Lord Mowbray, who had shewn a great dispo- 
 sition to interrupt the speaker ; while the evi- 
 dent attention of De Vere to his uncourtly friend 
 gave something like uneasiness to his other guar- 
 dian. 
 
 '' I cannot," said the latter, '' allow our in- 
 experienced young ward, (if I may so call him,) 
 to take this account of the world as the true one. 
 Were it so / too would be the advocate of Tal- 
 bois. No doubt there are flatterers at court, as 
 elsewhere ; and an old worn-out courtier like 
 Lord Halifax, or a disappointed one like Lord 
 Bolingbroke, may endeavour to dignify them- 
 selves in retreat by calling names, like battered 
 rakes or discarded lovers, whose mistresses have 
 jilted them. But heaven forbid that the excel- 
 lent rising spirits of the age should be extin- 
 guished under such sweeping— such common- 
 place censure. The love of fame is the noblest 
 incentive to noble deeds. It will not let the 
 spirit rest, but forces it to break its puny bonds, 
 and assert itself spite of all opposing circum- 
 stances. Genius and real nobleness of soul can- 
 not be repressed — cannot crouch like the slave 
 you mention. Was Lord Somers this slave.?
 
 120 DE VERE. 
 
 Would such a spirit as his condescend to flatter 
 as you have imagined ? Did it not rather claim 
 to command, to struggle with difiiculties, ' and 
 bv opposing, end them ?' " 
 
 He paused, and Lord Mowbray, pleased with 
 his auxiliary, echoed these questions. 
 
 " It were easy," continued Herbert, " to con- 
 jure up a thousand phantoms in the shape of 
 splenetic quotations from the writings or con- 
 versations of disappointed men, who, be it ob- 
 served, are by no means confined to courts. I 
 could out-Swift and out-Bolingbroke you too, if 
 I chose, even on your own side. For example, 
 I think his lordship says somewhere, to his friend 
 and colleague in mortification: ' To hanker 
 after a court is fit for men with blue ribands, 
 pompous titles, and overgrown estates. It is 
 helow either you or we, one of whom never 
 made his fortune, and the other's grew rotten 
 at the very moment it grew ripe.' Now, I 
 ask, why are courts, where at least are as- 
 sembled many of the best characters in the 
 nation, though accompanied if you will, as all 
 mixed societies are, by some of a different sort ; 
 why are they to be considered as helow such 
 equivocal people as Swift or Bolingbroke ? If 
 they are too good for courts they are too good
 
 DE VEllE. 121 
 
 for any large assembly ; for a house of peers, or 
 of commons ; or even for a church itself ; and if 
 they are so immaculate that their fellow-men are 
 unworthy of them, they have nothing left for it but 
 to fly to the desert and commence hermits. But 
 his lordship himself lets out the whole secret ! 
 ' One never made his fortune, and the other's 
 grew rotten at the very moment it grew ripe !"* 
 and, therefore^ say these consistent persons, 
 what both had been pursuing with such eager- 
 ness ail their Hves, had, now they were disap- 
 pointed, never been worth pursuing at all ! Bet- 
 ter authority than this must, I trust, be adduced 
 to influence Mr. De Vere to the side you recom- 
 mend. But if you will have authority, take it 
 also on the other side, from a contemporary of 
 these very parties, and, with submission, an in- 
 finitely better judge ; because, though no one 
 knew courts better, she enjoyed nothing, and 
 wanted nothing from them." 
 
 Harclai, who had not much liked these last 
 observations of the President, pursed up his 
 mouth, in somevAhat of uneasy expectation of- 
 what was to follow, and the attention of the 
 rest of the audience was redoubled. 
 
 ** I refer," said the President, observing the 
 expectation he had kindled, " to an admirable 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 DE VERE. 
 
 letter from that very sensible woman, Lady- 
 Betty Germain, provoked by the selfish, and I 
 may say vulgar railing of Swift against courtiers, 
 and particularly against his and her friend, 
 Lady Suffolk. It is the best lecture he ever 
 received upon the injustice and common-place 
 of his notions. I, of course, cannot quote the 
 words ; but the substance is too impressive not 
 to be remembered. Addressing Swift, I think 
 she says, 'I heartily subscribe to your creed, that 
 I detest avarice in courts, corruption in minis- 
 ters, and betrayers of the church in mitres. 
 But I want an infallible judge to tell me when 
 this is really so. I have lived long enough to 
 know, those out of power and place, always see 
 the faults of those in, with dreadful large 
 spectacles. Experience has taught me how 
 wrong, unjust, and senseless, party factions are ; 
 therefore, I am determined never wholly to 
 believe any side or party against the other.* 
 " Hence," continued the President, " this excel- 
 lent woman had friendships with persons both 
 in and out of favour ; and though she respected 
 Swift, she admired and loved Lady Suffolk, 
 whom by very senseless abuse he endeavoured 
 to make her hate." 
 
 Lady Eleanor seemed particularly pleased
 
 UE VERE. 123 
 
 with this authority cited by the President ; who 
 seeing Harclai not prepared to answer him, thus 
 proceeded . 
 
 *' You see then it is nothing to the purpose, 
 that there have been many hypocrites, who have 
 got on by flattery ; many by treachery ; some 
 by unblushing impudence ; some by mean in- 
 sinuation. I grant you may instance many 
 governors, whose sole object has been their own 
 advancement; but as well might you oppose 
 the career of a youth who devotes himself to 
 arms, because he may be killed, as to deter him 
 from encountering the world, because his virtue 
 may be ruined.'** 
 
 The doctor turned his eyes on De Vere, as he 
 said this, and was pleased to find by the anima- 
 tion of his countenance, that it was not thrown 
 away. Lady Eleanor, too, became highly 
 animated, and De Vere, breaking silence, ob- 
 served, " I own it seems as cowardly to be 
 afraid of the world we are born in, as it is irk- 
 some and dull to be always buried in a little 
 nook of it ; but even if we fail, failure is not 
 dishonour." 
 
 " Heaven forbid it should," said Lady 
 Eleanor. 
 
 G 2
 
 J24 DE VERE. 
 
 , '' So thought the flower of chivalry j'"* said the 
 President, looking significantly at both mother 
 and son, " when after his kingdom was ruined 
 by one disastrous battle, he wrote to his parent, 
 * Madam, we have lost all except our honour.' 
 A man who could thus feel, is, indeed, above 
 the storms of the world. He is the worshipper 
 of that true fame, equally independent of court 
 favour, or popular caprice; for fame, as we 
 have been beautifully told, 
 
 * Is no plant that grows on mortal soil. 
 Nor in the glist'ring foil 
 Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies ; 
 But lives and spreads aloft, by those pure eyes. 
 And perfect witness of all -seeing Jove.' " 
 
 There was an elevation about all this that 
 won upon the secret hearts of De Vere and his 
 mother, whose whole attention had been given 
 to the subject, and who, though often shaken 
 by Harclai, at length fairly avowed themselves 
 the proselytes of Herbert. 
 
 The result was, that the plan was approved ; 
 even Harclai gave his assent to the Oxford ex- 
 periment, and, with reluctance, to the career in 
 the w^orld that was to follow. Upon this last, 
 however, he continued to be prophetic.
 
 DE VERE. 125 
 
 " Go," said he, shaking hands with De Vere ; 
 " view the world you so wish to see; if I know 
 you, you Avill soon be satisfied, and soon shall 
 Ave see you again at Talbois."
 
 H6 DE VERE. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 COLLEGE. 
 
 O ! 'tl3 a parlous boy. 
 Bold, quick,^ ingenious, forward, capable ! 
 
 SaAKSPEARK. 
 
 Dr. Herbert carried off his pupil in triumph 
 to Oxford, which opened as a new world upon 
 the senses of the then rustic De Vere. Yet 
 were they not dazzled ; nor had even a Vice- 
 Chancellor, with his beadles and maces, more 
 terrors for him, than the elephant of Pyrrhus 
 for the firm-nerved Roman. He had more to 
 encounter from the superciliousness of his fellow- 
 students, who arrayed themselves in all the 
 terrors of seniority over a green-horn. It was 
 expected that he would shrink before their 
 scrutiny. Not so ; for there was a sturdy 
 defiance in him which they by no means liked ; 
 and a very few days enabled him, (in regard to 
 human wonders at least,) properly to appreciate 
 all he saw.
 
 DE VEllE. 127 
 
 His independence, however, appeared more 
 strongly developed towards the higher powers, 
 than even towards tufted or velvet capped under 
 graduates. 
 
 At the end of the very first week, he was 
 called upon to read what is technically de- 
 nominated a theme. Recluse as he had been, 
 this had no doubt its terrors ; he, hovyever, ad- 
 dressed himself to it, in all simple straight- 
 forwardness, as a mere duty, and had no diffi- 
 culty but of voice to fill the hall. Now, it 
 happened that the functionary who presided 
 over this department, was sometimes deaf, and 
 always peevish. On that day he was both, and, 
 not quite hearing De Vere, sternly called out 
 from the chair of authority, *' Eloquere ant 
 desce7idas.^^ To the astonishment of the whole 
 hall, the command was instantly obeyed, and the 
 youth with perfect composure advancing from 
 the desk to the high table, surrendered his theme 
 and quietly returned to his place. 
 
 As this was in the face of the whole college, 
 it was deemed by the tutors an act of most 
 audacious rebellion, and a sort of drum-head 
 court martial was held upon it, in which it 
 was determined that a formal charge of contempt 
 should be laid directly before the President.
 
 128 DE VERE. 
 
 Dr. Herbert was therefore surprised with an 
 address from the tutors in a body against his 
 young friend. The answer of De Vere was 
 simplicity itself ; he meant no disrespect ; he 
 had spoken out to the utmost of his physical 
 power, and finding he could do no more, he had 
 obeyed the order by descending from the desk, 
 merely as a thing of course. The tutors smiled 
 incredulous at this apparent singleness of heart, 
 and almost urged it as an aggravation of the 
 offence. No young man in the University, they 
 said, was ever so simple ; to which De Vere, 
 with a sort of primitive calmness, replied, 
 
 " If it is simple to tell the truth, 1 certainly 
 am a simpleton." 
 
 The tutors were nettled, but it was more at 
 his self-possession, contrasted with their own 
 anger, than any feeling that he was acting a 
 part ; and Dr. Herbert dismissed the complaint. 
 The affair made a noise, was criticized, and the 
 character of the youth differently estimated; 
 but somehow or other, from that time all ranks 
 agreed in giving him credit for great firmness 
 of character ; and this character he never lost. 
 This, and his rapid acquisitions, together with 
 an opening dignity of manner, his known high 
 connections, and the notice of the President,
 
 I)E VKKE. 129 
 
 soon converted the fresh man into a personage 
 Avith whom no one could take a liberty ; and 
 the recluse of Talbois rose in a very short period 
 to a full level of respectability with the most 
 deeply initiated, whether Soph, or fine gentleman 
 of Eton or Westminster. 
 
 it was now that his life assumed a colouring 
 and enjoyment, of which he had hitherto formed 
 not even a notion. The acquisitions of learning 
 delighted his spirit of inquiry, and the charms 
 of elegant literature polished his taste. They 
 softened though they did not enervate his heart. 
 The President led him skilfully by the hand 
 through these flowery paths, and gave him 
 golden assistance in all his engaging objects. 
 But he was careful in doing so, not to forget 
 the object he always held to be of still more 
 consequence to him— the acquisition of the 
 sciences most necessary to those who engage in 
 the career of business and ambition. His plea- 
 sure in observing the fine taste and high culti- 
 vation of De Vere, was not altogether unmixed, 
 when, as he said, he saw him absorbed by them. 
 
 " You love an evening walk," said he, " and 
 it is good ; but you need not protract it into 
 moonlight ; and though it is often good to be 
 G 3
 
 130 DE VERE. 
 
 alone, it is not good to let it make you shun 
 society." 
 
 And when De Vere would talk of the charms 
 of philosophy, to which he was approaching for 
 the first time, and found so sweet, he would 
 reply, 
 
 " I, too, am for philosophy ; but it is for 
 that which fits us for the world, not that which 
 teaches us to abandon it." 
 
 De Vere would agree, and please him by 
 talking of Homer ; but when he said something 
 about lighting his lamp to Seneca, and the phi- 
 losophical works of Cicero, the President would 
 shake his head, and say he would rather it were 
 to the Orations, or Thucydides. 
 
 He was glad, however, to find himself se- 
 conded by De Vere's own wishes in pursuing the 
 plan originally laid down, of visiting London, 
 and different parts of England, and even of 
 France and Holland, during the vacations. What 
 he saw, however, in these short intervals, only 
 awakened his desire to see more. The charms 
 of travelling had their usual effect : a little 
 would not content him, where the prospect 
 was so wide, the good so immediate, and the 
 mode of obtaining it so pleasing. He therefore
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 131 
 
 conceived the design (but faintly opposed by 
 Herbert, and not at all by his uncle) of visiting 
 the whole of the Continent, and studying all 
 its various politics and manners in a regular and 
 lengthened system of travel, as soon as his col- 
 lege studies should be finished. This evidently 
 proceeded more from his desire of general in- 
 struction and information, than any impression 
 of its necessity in advancing his intended career. 
 Herbert, therefore, would rather have seen him 
 plunge at once into business, and seek these col- 
 lateral advantages, as opportunity might offer. 
 But so many things could be, and were offered 
 on the other side, both by De Vere and Lord 
 Mowbray, that the President gave it vip, and 
 it was determined that our future man of the 
 world should see it in a less confined sphere than 
 his own country, and pass a year or two on the 
 Continent, as soon as he quitted college. 
 
 " It will retard his progress in the House of 
 Commons,'" said Herbert. 
 
 " It will make him fitter for it when he does 
 come," said Lord Mowbray, " and meantime 
 we shall have his effective vote through his pre- 
 sent proxy, Mr. Bromfield." 
 
 But romantic he still was, spite of London, 
 and even of Paris, the wonders of which opened,
 
 132 
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 but did not dazzle his understanding. And 
 here, bv the entree it afforded him to the best 
 society, his relation-hip to Lord Mowbray gave 
 him a considerable advantage. It was the only 
 advantage it did give him. 
 
 With all this, Talbois and Needwood, and 
 the Dove and the Trent, were never forgotten, 
 and we may be sure Harclai and Penruddo^k 
 were not unremembered. The latter, indeedj 
 before De Vere's final departure from college, 
 paid his great debt to nature. His grateful 
 pupil made a journey expressly to honour his 
 obsequies in his village church ; and never did 
 fonder or more confiding hope accompany the 
 wish with which he engraved on his tomb the 
 concluding words of his simple epitaph, " Re- 
 qidescat in pace.'' 
 
 The President, however, was but half satis- 
 fied. He loved De Vere for his father's sake, 
 and his own. He loved his high quaUties, and 
 admired his abilities ; he felt, too, the necessity 
 for his advancement, which, he said, nothing 
 but his too quick sensibilities could retard. He 
 had had many rising young statesmen under his 
 superintendence, and many who had risen, still 
 communicated with him in confidence. He 
 wished De Vere to add to their number.
 
 DE VERE. 133 
 
 There w as one quality, among many, in the 
 government of his college, which distinguished 
 the President ; the observation of character, and 
 of the suitableness or unsuitableness of the 
 friendships among the young men under his 
 guidance. These he was often known to inter- 
 fere with, and generally with advantage. Pos- 
 sibly next to De Vere, the young Lord Eustace 
 enjoyed most of his favour. Indeed, it was a 
 wonder he was not first, for he was of a very 
 ardent and aspiring temper, and all his ardours 
 and aspirations carried him towards the world. 
 To shine in court and senate, to lead a party, 
 and brandish the state's whole thunder, was 
 thus early the declared object of his ambition 
 The son of a minister, he aspired to be a minis- 
 ter himself; and as this could only be effected 
 through politics, party, and parliament, they 
 were his eternal themes ; and London, as their 
 only seat, the only sphere of his thoughts. 
 
 To Windsor, indeed, where the court then 
 resided, he was not averse : and to walk upon its 
 terrace of a Sunday evening, in the train of roy- 
 alty, he had been known to escape from the 
 discipline of his college. 
 
 Strange to say, an intimacy grew up between 
 Lord Eustace and De Vere, without objection,
 
 134 DE VERE. 
 
 if not under the auspices of the President. But, 
 dissimilar as they were in tastes, they had 
 many things in common. Both had great ar- 
 dour and energy ; both had talents, powers, in- 
 dustry, and a high sense of honour ; both, too, 
 were men of birth, and both designed for public 
 life. The President saw their dissimilarities, 
 but thought they might temper one another, 
 with advantage to both. He therefore rather 
 encouraged an intimacy which nothing forbade 
 on either side, but a mistaken pride on the 
 part of De Vere. This pride, after some little 
 resistance, was fairly beaten down by the ex- 
 perienced Herbert. 
 
 "You are courted," said he; "hence, no 
 one can impute design to you in forming this 
 intimacy. You are independent, and want no- 
 thing of Lord Eustace, but he may want you. 
 Yield nothing ; but, on the other hand, do not 
 exact what to no one belongs — more than 
 equality of treatment." 
 
 De Vere was swayed by this sensible direction, 
 even although he at the same time received 
 a letter from his uncle on the subject, which 
 had nearly turned him the contrary way. " Cul- 
 tivate this noble lord," said the letter, " by all 
 the means in your power. With the talents and
 
 DE VERE. 135 
 
 ambition he is said to possess, he must, from 
 the influence of his family, be every tiling in 
 the state ; and as his follower and devoted friend, 
 you cannot fail of rising with him/' 
 
 " I will be the Jhllozver of no man on earth," 
 said De Vere, tearing the letter to pieces ; " nor 
 even a devoted friend in advance, to any one." 
 
 The impression was so strong, that it required 
 all Dr. Herberts ability to sooth his indigna- 
 tion. He allowed that Lord Mowbray's view 
 of the matter was selfish, and his expressions 
 clumsy. " Strip them, however, of their dress," 
 said the President ; " and what is there in them 
 to trench upon your independence ? If you 
 really like this young man on his own account 
 — if vou agree in his principles, both in morals 
 and politics, are you to reject his friendship 
 because really he is likely to want you in the 
 great cause of the state .^" 
 
 De Vere yielded again to this practical advice : 
 and as the term of his college studies was now 
 drawing fast to a close, ambition began to shed 
 its attracting influence over his young heart. It 
 was, however, an ambition of a peculiar sort — 
 felt only in idea, viewing every thing in dis- 
 tance, and arraying itself in forms and colours 
 only of the most pleasing nature. It had no
 
 136 DE VERE. 
 
 difficulties to combat, no passions to conquer, 
 no maddening excitements, no rancour towards 
 political enemies; and above all, no jealousies 
 of political friends, which is, perhaps, a more 
 deep and consuming feeling than the hatred of 
 enemies themselves. 
 
 De Vere had no conception that such feel- 
 ings as jealousy and hatred were the offspring 
 of the passion he had been told to encourage ; 
 his ambition v/as, therefore, peculiar to himself. 
 Oh ! that in the career of the world, this could 
 always be the ambition pursued. 
 
 Though the principal college friend of De 
 Vere was the nobleman just mentioned, there 
 wTre others who had a share in his kindness, 
 and, in some degree, in his confidence. Among 
 these, was a gentleman of the name of Clayton ; 
 who, though not distinguished by any peculiar 
 talent, and who did not even compensate the 
 want of this by any remarkable suavity of 
 manner, (except to his superiors,) was yet a 
 most remarkable and highly gifted character. 
 For he had an art, perhaps the most useful in 
 the whole circle of arts, the art of rising. And 
 though it must be owned that vanity, even the 
 vanity that attends upon mere fashion, rather 
 than any nobler aspiration, was the original im-
 
 DE VEKE. liij 
 
 petus to this, yet such was its force, that he 
 never rested contented on any one step, while 
 another remained to be mounted. This may 
 be noble or contemptible, according as it is 
 managed ; and as Mr. Clayton managed it, to 
 some it may have appeared certainly not noble. 
 
 But never was there such a mistake. The 
 quahfications for rising, as he chose to make the 
 attempt, are of far more difficult attainment 
 than are imagined. The devotion of self to the 
 will of another, the immolation of one's com- 
 forts by the total surrender of one's independ- 
 ence — the destruction of one's hours — the sacri- 
 fice of tastes, opinions, pleasures, and pursuits, 
 — the not choosing to say one's souFs one's own, 
 when a patron says otherwise; and all this, 
 accompanied by a forgetfulness of one's own 
 family, or those with whom one has set out in 
 the world, and a noble disdain of the good or 
 bad opinion of those beneath us, when we have 
 passed them : all this partakes almost of the 
 nature of greatness ; and all this is required to 
 rise in the road which Mr. Clayton thought it 
 best to take to preferment. 
 
 Yet, as has been hinted, his ambition, par- 
 ticularly at first, was of a strange colour ; for it 
 did not so much consist of that honourable
 
 138 DE VEEE. 
 
 aspiration after power which springs from the 
 desire of using it nobly, and which really does 
 make this dangerous passion virtue, as to mix 
 with the great because they were great ; to be 
 numbered with people of fashion, in order to 
 be fashionable ; and to be employed on embassies 
 from one titled personage to another, because 
 they were titled. This had a charm for him 
 almost equal to the acquisition of place and 
 profit itself. This last, indeed, was at length the 
 predominating object of his heart ; but it was 
 always gilded by the objects first enumerated, 
 if indeed the first had not been the original 
 spring that called his subsequently developed 
 powers into action. In short, Clayton was from 
 nature a tuft-hunter, from necessity a place- 
 hunter, from habit an actor, from disposition a 
 hypocrite. 
 
 Yet was this character not altogether unmixed 
 with something that but for his selfishness, might 
 have made him in reality what lie often ap- 
 peared ; amiable in feeling, if not just in mind. 
 He was sensitively alive to what is called senti- 
 ment : the heroines of the stage drew from him 
 real tears ; Roscius roused him in imagination, 
 at least, to the full swell of virtue. He has 
 been seen to weep over Lear, and redden indig-
 
 DE VERE. 139 
 
 nantly with Hotspiar. A tale well told would 
 electrify him with the passions of the story ; in 
 the senate he would catch the fire of the speaker ; 
 and in a cathedral, he could melt in rapture to 
 sacred song. But all this could pass in the 
 transition of a moment. The effect, however 
 strong, never surprised him into one single de- 
 viation from his main object. Never, as to this, 
 was he off his guard ; if, indeed, he was not 
 able sometimes to make these emotions, (accord- 
 ing to the character of those who witnessed 
 them,) subservient to the point he at the time 
 had to carry. Thus, everywhere true to him- 
 self, and master of the great qualities for rising 
 that have been enumerated, let no one presume 
 to despise him. 
 
 But the history of such a personage is not to 
 be told in a moment, and deserves a more par- 
 ticular detail, which those who like to investigate 
 human nature in its various shapes, may not 
 think their time thrown away in perusing.
 
 140 DE VEUE, 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF A PARVENU 
 
 For neither man nor angel can discern 
 Hypocrisy, the only ill that walks 
 Invisible, except to God alone. 
 By his permissive will through heav'n or earth. 
 And oft though wisdom walce, suspicion sleeps 
 At wisdom's gate, while goodness thinks no ill 
 Where no ill seems. 
 
 MiLTO.V. 
 
 All was alive in Grosvenor Square. It was a 
 gay summer nighty if, in London, June is sum- 
 mer. The streets were not j et quite abandoned 
 by merry mechanics, and other classes who had 
 stolen out to enjoy a mouthful of purer air than 
 their shops and dark parlours could yield them. 
 Some were returning to bed, some to supper ; 
 all seemed recreated, and beheld the rolhng of 
 the carriages, carrying their superiors to their 
 own peculiar amusements, without envy. A few 
 stragglers had collected round a magnificent 
 mansion, in which open doors, many lights, 
 many footmen, and a throng of visitants, an- 
 nounced an entertainment of the higher order.
 
 DE VEIIE. 141 
 
 It was an amusing thing to observe the crowd 
 which had beset the door, criticising the com- 
 pan}', their dress and appearance, and applaud- 
 ing or sneering as beauty and diamonds, ugliness 
 and plain clothes, challenged their attention. 
 
 One lady visitor, however, united all suffrages 
 by the imcommon elegance; richness, and beauty 
 of her attire and person. A silken foot and 
 ancle of charming symmetry, first fixed the eye, 
 which was afterwards busied with a shape equally 
 perfect, and finally riveted by a face in which 
 truth and loveliness themselves seemed combined. 
 What was most remarkable, was the extreme 
 youth of this elegant fairy, for such she seemed, 
 and which could not have exceeded fifteen 
 years. The party, indeed, which she joined, 
 was, in effect, one of those formed for the 
 recreation of our young nobility, who were not 
 yet introduced, in other words, who had not 
 come out. 
 
 A buzz of dehght issued from the critics, male 
 and female, as she stood a moment on the steps, 
 waiting for her chaperon ; and the footmen were 
 observed to shew her more than common atten- 
 tion as she passed through the halL 
 
 Among the spectators without, there was one, 
 a youth, who though equally intent in his gaze,
 
 142 DE VEEE. 
 
 with the rest, had yet observed a perfect silence 
 during the scene. Yet one would have supposed 
 that he had a peculiar interest in the brilliant 
 party who were assembhng. He critically, but 
 not rudely, eyed the visitors, their equipages, the 
 thronged hall, and the illuminated windows; 
 but he joined in none of the indications of 
 feeling shewn by the crowd. In truth, he felt 
 a little ashamed of his situation, and moved off 
 immediately after the e7itree of the beautiful and 
 high-born girl who has been just mentioned. 
 
 But he went with a down-cast brow, and a 
 heavy heart ; he seemed unhappy, and was 
 evidently under excitement, but it was not the 
 excitement of generosity or virtue. He sighed 
 and bit his lips as he returned to his mother's 
 house, in an inferior street in the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 "Alas!" said he, throwing himself on his 
 bed, " why are creatures made with lots so 
 unequal ? Why was I born to love and admire, 
 yet be for ever exiled from such society as I 
 have seen; condemned, instead of splendour, 
 to the poor and mean circle in which I must 
 always move, unless some good star prevail 
 to elevate me ? Why should there be a clasb 
 of persons to which I cannot be admitted,
 
 DE VERE. 143 
 
 such as at this happy house? Why such an 
 exquisite creature as this young lady, who 
 would think me vile were I to approach her ? 
 And with whom must I associate ? my father's 
 too numerous progeny of honest, common crea- 
 tures, who cannot compare with the meanest 
 of the dazzling people I have just seen." 
 
 It was thus that young Clayton (for it wa?. 
 he) lamented himself. He had long been what 
 lie thought an unfortunate, certainly an unhappy 
 person, from having been born with that sort of 
 disposition which leads a man to consider all 
 above him as a superior race of beings, whom 
 it is humiliation not to mix with, and unhappi- 
 ness not to equal. 
 
 This is a very different feeling from that 
 impatience of inferiority which, falling upon a 
 generous nature, leads on to noble deeds, and 
 creates a Henry IV., a Chatham, or a Wolf. 
 The trophies of Miltiades would never have 
 broken Clayton's rest ; but a house in Grosve- 
 nor Square to which he could not be admitted^ 
 kept him all night with a sleepless, and almost a 
 tearful eye. His sister, an amiable girl, thought 
 him not well, and offered to nurse him. But 
 his sister never appeared so plebeian, and there- 
 fore so little able to soothe him. He turned from
 
 144 UE VERE. 
 
 her with . disgust. He was, indeed, born of a 
 father respectable in character, but pretending to 
 no greater a situation than that of curate and 
 evening lecturer of a church in the city ; and 
 of a mother, no higher than a tradesman's 
 daughter. Every thing, therefore, about him 
 was homely, and had he remained with them, 
 he might have been homely too, and possibly 
 happy. But he was sent (the only one of his 
 family) to a public school, where, by associat- 
 ing with higher bred persons (to whom he paid 
 the most assiduous court, so as to be admitted 
 into their circles), it created for him that cha- 
 racter which he never afterwards lost. 
 
 All his efforts were now directed to escape 
 from his family, and natural associates ; and by 
 dint of the exertions of that very family beyond 
 whom he wished to soar, he was sent a few 
 months before, to the same college which had 
 just received De Vere. 
 
 To college, as may be supposed, his disposition 
 accompanied him, only fomented in a tenfold 
 degree. Tassel hunting was his delight ; his 
 being's chief good ; his only end and aim ; and 
 we are free to bear witness to the superiority of 
 his abilities in this respect. For with no other 
 superiority whatsoever; no eminence in talents
 
 DE VEUE. 145 
 
 or in literature, in which his figure was merely 
 decent ; he was admitted to the society which 
 alone he loved, and passed his time with lords, 
 and the friends of lords. 
 
 Being somewhat older than De Vere, he 
 thought, on his arrival, he might make him some 
 advances. They were made cautiously, and 
 humbly, so as in the end to subdue a disposition 
 which, though open as day, did not easily lend 
 itself to promiscuous acquaintances. Clayton 
 knew this, but as he also knew De Vere's high 
 family connections, and ready entree into the 
 beau monde, whether of Oxford or of London, he 
 became an object of his most obsequious court. 
 He was not, indeed, a tuft, but he was a gentle- 
 man-comm.oner; he was the friend and companion 
 of dukes^ eldest sons and marquess's eldest sons ; 
 and, above all, he was the nephew of Lord 
 Mowbray, and Lord Mowbray was a minister. 
 Under all obstructions, therefore, he determined 
 to persevere. 
 
 The Parvenu's was a handsome countenance ; 
 it was smooth, and by many thought open (and 
 De Vere was among the number); yet there 
 were not wanting some, especially those v/ho 
 had known him from childhood, who detected a 
 louring, lurking something, " stopping the career 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 H6 ])E VEliE. 
 
 of laughter with a sigh;" a something which 
 indicated a fear to face you, and boded that all 
 miffht not be so well within. However this 
 might be, as De Vere, the most unsuspicious 
 person in the world, could see nothing of it, he 
 was alive only to what he was allowed to see; an 
 active good-nature and facility to be employed 
 in all offices, and all wants ; a perpetual presence 
 where he could be of service ; a ready assent to 
 all proposals, and a profession of attachment and 
 devotion, which so much attention could not 
 permit you to doubt for a moment. 
 
 What wonder if De Vere, as well as Lord 
 Eustace, found ease, if not pleasure, in such an 
 associate ? 
 
 To be sure this created a little envy in others : 
 the envy attendant upon the distinction he met 
 with. But here the greatness of Mr. Clayton's 
 character displayed itself; for as long as he 
 knew he was advancing where he most wished to 
 advance, he felt the most sovereign contempt 
 for the opinion of all he left behind. Ac- 
 cordingly, the earlier companions of his life, 
 with whom he had set out, and who could not 
 equal his higher flight, he made no scruple to 
 avoid ; in vulgar language to cut ; and this he 
 accomplished in a manner so decided as to be
 
 DE VERE. 147 
 
 worthy a better cause. For it was not a gradual 
 cooling off, a cautious compromise with foolish 
 delicacy, which managed people's feelings ; but 
 all was finished at a blow. Having once deter- 
 mined to renounce a man, he was too open not 
 to let him see it ; and it must be owned, he went 
 through the task with a most determined intre- 
 pidity of assurance. Complaints were in different 
 to him, and he bearded resentment itself (in 
 some cases, where he hnew the parties), with a 
 haughtiness and bravery, which procured him 
 something even like respect, mingled with hatred, 
 from those who were below him. 
 
 Having thus, as he said, weeded his acquaint- 
 ance, he became more identified than ever with 
 the society he loved ; and De Vere, who knew 
 nothing of his history, but who saw the loftiness 
 of his bearing towards most of his own order, 
 was so far unsuspicious, and, at that time, so 
 ignorant, as to take arrogance for real sxipe- 
 riority. 
 
 De Vere and Clayton became intimate, rode 
 out together, drank wine together, nay, once or 
 twice, in along vacation, made short excursions 
 together, and absolutely wrote to one another 
 during absence. 
 
 If, during all this time De Vere saw nothing 
 H 2
 
 148 DE VEllE. 
 
 very particularly to admire in the abilities or 
 genius of his companion^ on the other side, he 
 saw nothing to blame ; while the proofs he re- 
 ceived of devotion to his person were so great^ 
 that he could not help, in return, loving him 
 who shewed them. He at least felt that interest 
 about him which made him studious to pro- 
 mote his advantage by all the means in his 
 power. 
 
 " They are not many," said he to him one 
 day, " but such as they are, they are yours ; 
 and if I succeed in the career my uncle has 
 opened to me, of which I greatly doubt, what- 
 ever I can command for a friend shall be 
 yours." 
 
 Clayton's smooth features and fair skin be- 
 came agitated, and blushed all over at this in- 
 timation ; and if De Vere set it dowfi to the 
 score of feeling, let other men of one-and- 
 twenty blame him if they please — we certainly 
 will not. 
 
 Clayton, in reply, assured De Vere that to 
 know him and visit him in his family, after 
 they should each quit college, was happiness 
 enough, whatever might be his own lot. 
 
 As this was said upon the eve of De Vere's 
 final departure from the University, we must
 
 DE VEIIE. 149 
 
 not be surprised if it had its effect, and if it 
 produced an invitation to jMr. Clayton to ac- 
 company him in the ensuing vacation to Tal- 
 bois. Here, wonderful to relate, the then first 
 ambition of his heart was gratified, for Lord 
 Mowbray was there. 
 
 Behold, then, our aspiring youth, intro- 
 duced in little more than three short years from 
 his matriculation at college, to the greatest 
 object of his veneration — a Minister of State. 
 Here his tact served him admirably, and en- 
 abled him to perceive that Lord Ivlowbray, 
 though he had a coldness, and even a Imutcur 
 of manner towards his inferiors, at first very ap- 
 palling, was yet to be won upon by that very 
 demeanour in which the Parvenu most excelled 
 — modest, humble, and devoted attention. 
 
 He ha^, indeed, that best of all qualities for a 
 skilful ambition (in which I have heard an old 
 and successful courtier say, in the plenitude of 
 confidence, all other qualities for rising might 
 be summed up at once), the quality of being a 
 good listener. It is, indeed, inconceivable how 
 many fortunes have been made, and reputations 
 acquired ) what confidences have been won, and 
 views imparted; what invitations, introductions,
 
 150 DE VERE. 
 
 and, finally, promotions, have been the conse- 
 quence of this little seemingly unimportant art. 
 And yet, though nothing appears more easy 
 than to listen, yet, somehow or other, this, of 
 all easy arts, is the farthest of all from being 
 within the scope of everybody's attainment. 
 Nay, it has been observed, by those who have 
 had the best opportunities of looking closely at 
 things, that those most distinguished for abili- 
 ties, particularly if they have any strong con- 
 ceptions of their own, are the very worst at this 
 play ; while others, who are merely those imi- 
 tative beings, characterised by Horace, as the 
 " Servum Pecus^'' have beaten their more shin- 
 ing, but less gifted competitors, out of the 
 field. 
 
 Clayton, for example, was consummate, while 
 De Vere was downright stupid in this sort of 
 management. 
 
 But, in the next place, Clayton had all the 
 meek negatives of character to acquire or pre- 
 serve a patron, which such a patron as Lord 
 Mowbray required. I say such as Lord Mow- 
 bray, because, Heaven forbid that in our free 
 and high-spirited England, all ministers should 
 be like him. Happily there are enow to redeem
 
 DE VERE. 151 
 
 US from the silly imputation of intending to in- 
 volve our governors in one blind and ignorant 
 censure ; high-minded and highly-gifted men, 
 whose liberality of sentiment equals their genius, 
 and whose disposition, as well as whose praise 
 it is, in their intercourse with others, to let the 
 delighted mind have the freest and most equal 
 communication with them. These love cono-enial 
 spirits, uninfluenced by the inequalities of 
 station, and alive only to mental power. Such 
 was one of the actual ministers at that time, 
 of whom we shall have occasion hereafter to 
 make ]ai'ge mention, and with such persons, 
 though a De Vere might succeed, Clayton would 
 indubitably fail. However this may be, we are 
 bound to admit that the suppleness and de- 
 ference of manner, look, and tongue, which 
 fortune had bestowed upon him, as one of her 
 most favoured children, were exactly calculated 
 to produce the effect they did upon Lord Mow- 
 bray. 
 
 Accordingly, at the end of a few days' ac- 
 quaintance, he pronounced him to be a modest, 
 ingenuous, and very sensible young man ; in dis- 
 covering which last character, Lord Mowbray 
 must have possessed facilities of judging peculiar 
 to himself, since during very many conversa-
 
 152 DE VEllE. 
 
 tions it would have been difficult to have related 
 Clayton's share of them. 
 
 Pleased witli the eulogy of his friend, Mor- 
 timer replied to his uncle's praise of him, that 
 though not very brilliant, he was the most un- 
 presuming, unpretending, friendly person alive. 
 
 " I like him the better," said Lord Mowbray, 
 " for not being brilhant : I hate people of brilhant 
 pretensions ; they never make men of business, 
 and give a great deal of trouble." 
 
 There is no denying that " some men have 
 greatness thrust upon them ;" for by the end of 
 the visit at Talbois, Clayton had so established 
 himself in the good graces of my lord, that he 
 received an invitation to Castle Mowbray; which, 
 of all incidents that could have happened, was 
 just the most gratifying, and the nearest to 
 his wishes and his aim. And yet, with pretty 
 semblances of unworthiness in himself, and 
 the demands which he said his mother had 
 upon him, " set down with as much modesty 
 as cunning," he, strange to say, (strange to less 
 wise people than himself) declined it. 
 
 De Vere very frankly laughed at this self- 
 denying ordinance ; and Lord Mowbray, while 
 he praised his modesty, looking a little hurt, 
 nay, almost offended at being refused (a thing
 
 DE VEUE. 15 3 
 
 to which, he said, he had been little accustomed,) 
 Mr. Clayton, with great appearance of distress 
 at his own ingraiitude, in truth, with excellent 
 good grace waved his self-disqualifications, and 
 accepted the invitation. 
 
 H 3
 
 154 DE VERB. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE HISTORY CONTINUED. 
 
 With a countenance as clear 
 As friendship wears at feasts. 
 
 Shaksfkark. 
 
 I raised him, and I pawned 
 Mine honour for his truth. 
 
 Shakspeake. 
 
 We see our Parvenu thus translated to Castle 
 Mowbray, and at the summit of his then wishes ; 
 although fresh wishes and fresh objects imme- 
 diately sprang up, dear to his hopes. For such 
 is the nature of ambition of whatever sort, noble 
 or grovelling, whether to govern a state, to lead 
 an army, or to worm one's self into the favour of 
 a great man, that no sooner is one step accom- 
 plished, than another rises, which the energetic 
 mind is ashamed not to surmount. 
 
 It is thus that the fiend of ambition himself, is 
 made to exclaim, with devihsh energy, — 
 
 " Lifted up so high 
 I deign'd subjection, and thought one step higher. 
 Would set me highest."
 
 DE WERE. 155 
 
 But Clayton had now, from almost too great 
 success in the first instance, no easy part to 
 perform. Very little tact was necessary, to 
 observe that Lord Mowbray had too much con- 
 sciousness of his nephew's higher qualities to be 
 perfectly at his ease with him. At least the 
 Parvenu, with much less observation than 
 belonged to him, might readily perceive a sen- 
 sible difference in his lordship's manner and 
 conversation, when De Vere was, or was not 
 present. When with Clayton alone, he evi- 
 dently himself, acted the protector with great 
 dignity, condescended to give him maxims of 
 life, particularly of official life, and even to 
 relate some part of his own official history, in 
 which the notice taken of him as a young man, 
 by a deceased eminent prime minister, was 
 descanted upon with complacency, and the 
 Parvenu '' wondered with a foolish face of 
 praise." But if De Vere joined them, a sudden 
 constraint came over both the minister and his 
 protege. The flow of both was stopped: Clay- 
 ton smiled onDe Vere, and Lord Mowbray, as 
 he had little to say, resumed his habitual gravity, 
 and sometimes looked fierce, to avoid looking 
 foohsh. 
 
 This was by no means thrown away upon
 
 156 DE VEllE. 
 
 Mr. Clayton, whose faculties, blunt as they have 
 been reckoned among the high public characters 
 he afterwards mixed with, were of that nature 
 to be peculiarly acute, where any thing was 
 Concerned that might directly or remotely be 
 turned to account. 
 
 It was this watchfulness which enabled him to 
 perceive that to praise or court De Vere as he 
 had set out with doing, was not a matter of first 
 necessity, in order to recommend himself to 
 Lord Mowbray; and as in pursuing an end, it 
 is one of the characters of wisdom to discard all 
 unnecessary means, he very wisely laid this 
 aside. 
 
 With De Vere personally, his devotion was 
 as great as ever. His gratitude as well as 
 attachment were eternal ; and he only wondered 
 how so insignificant a being as himself, could 
 interest De Vere, or how he could ever make a 
 suitable return for that interest — devoid of all 
 power as he must ever be, even if he should 
 succeed in the poor line he had marked out for 
 himself, of a humble clergyman. 
 
 " For even if I succeed," said he, " the very 
 consequence of success will be to separate me 
 from you." 
 
 De Vere was moved, and expressing pleasiu'e
 
 DE VERE. 157 
 
 in thinking of his attachment, asked whether he 
 was so fixed in his love for the church, that he 
 must necessarily devote himself to no other 
 profession. 
 
 " To you I might confess," said Clayton ; 
 " the church is not even my choice. But in 
 no other profession could I be master of my 
 time and of my actions ; the only true happi- 
 ness, the surmmim honum of true philosophy." 
 
 Spite of the soft whisperings of ambition to 
 which he had begun to listen, this was too agree- 
 able to De Vere^s own notions, not to be re- 
 garded with complacency. He looked upon his 
 friend as a man whose disposition and turn of 
 thought were more cono;enial to his own than 
 he had ever before imagined ; and he began to 
 feel the advantage it would be to have such an 
 attached person always near him. After a turn 
 or two, therefore, (for at this time they were 
 walking in the shades of Castle Mowbray) he 
 asked him if ever he had thought of an official 
 life. 
 
 " Were I to consult only my private taste/' 
 answered Clayton, " I believe my happiness 
 would confine itself to the wanderings of your 
 beautiful Needwood, or such sylvan scenes as
 
 158 DE VERE. 
 
 Sudbury, both which you have so taught me to 
 love." 
 
 De Vere was delighted with this echo of his 
 own sentiments about those beloved haunts; 
 beloved still, though his mind was now bent 
 towards the world, nor did he like Clayton less 
 when he added — 
 
 " With you for a companion, I would prefer 
 such retreats to all that ambition could offer, 
 whether in the church or elsewhere. But with- 
 out such companionship, I own the lot of a 
 country curate, or even of a puissant college 
 tutor, has no charms for me." 
 
 " Then why not," said De Vere, " renounce 
 your present views, and come with us into the 
 world.?" 
 
 The Parvenu smiled, but in a sort of bit- 
 terness, and with a downcast look, shook his 
 head. 
 
 " Come," said De Vere, " I know what is 
 passing within : you think if you embark you 
 have no one to push you off shore, or keep you 
 afloat when you leave the land. But you are 
 a favourite with my uncle, and deserve to be 
 so, from your attachment to us all." 
 
 "It is an attachment which will not accept
 
 DE VERE. 159 
 
 pay," replied Clayton, " so we had better not 
 think of it; but I am eternally obliged — '' 
 
 " Pooh I" said De Vere, '' I will at least tell 
 Lord Mowbray that you are not wedded to the 
 church : and there most opportunely, ' with 
 solemn step and slow,' his serene highness 
 advances." 
 
 De Vere was even in playful spirits, from 
 this new prospect he had opened to himself; 
 for the smoothness and humility of Clayton had 
 never so much won upon him ; and in truth, 
 the interest which the Parvenu knew well how 
 to infuse into his handsome countenance, never 
 made a better exhibition. De Vere^ therefore, 
 dismissing his friend, betook himself to his uncle 
 in his behalf, with all his heart and soul ; and 
 as he was a total stranger to finesse, opened the 
 matter at once, by telling him that Clayton had 
 owned to him that the church, except from neces- 
 sity, was not his choice. 
 
 " He has owned as much to me long ago," 
 said Lord Mowbray, smiling. 
 
 " Indeed !" cried De Vere, with surprise. 
 
 " Not positively," replied Lord Mowbray, 
 
 with an important shake of the head ; " but 
 
 you know, nephew^ or at least will, one day or 
 
 other, there are various ways by which a man
 
 160 DE VEllE. 
 
 practised hi qffairs,msLy discover another's secret, 
 and yet that other be entirely unconscious of it 
 all the time." 
 
 By practised in affairs, Lord Mowbray always 
 meant himself, which De Vere knew. Indeed, his 
 lordship's features were never so relaxed as when 
 he said this: they were quite alive with the 
 thought of the practical illustration he might 
 have adduced in proof of his position. 
 
 " I cati conceive this," said De Vere ; " and 
 you mean, uncle, to say that your experience 
 has discovered '' 
 
 " Never mind what I have discovered," in- 
 terrupted Lord Mowbray, still nodding his head, 
 and looking pleased : " it is quite sufficient, 
 I tell ^ou, that I have long found out what this 
 young man may have attempted to conceal — 
 but attempted it, I must say, in vain." 
 
 " May I ask," said De Vere, " how you feel 
 towards him on the subject ; because, from the 
 recent death of your secretary, Mr. Brom field, 
 an opening seems already to present itself, if 
 such is your wish ?" 
 
 " Upon the whole," returned Lord Mow- 
 bray, with great dignity, " I feel favourably 
 disposed ; but I must first examine him more 
 than I, or perhaps, you, may have done, before
 
 DE VERE. 161 
 
 I form my opinions. These things should never 
 be hurried. I wish in particular to discover, 
 whether he pretends to what is called genius, 
 imagination, original thought, and other non- 
 sense of that kind. If he does, I tell you fairly, 
 he will not do for me. There is, indeed, one 
 minister of state, Mr. Wentworth, who is of 
 a very diiferent opinion, because he is a man 
 of towering genius and eloquence himself. 
 All very well : all very well ; but with very 
 great submission to Mr. Wentworth, though a 
 minister of state, he has done wrong in en- 
 couraging about his own person, as confidents 
 in his most important department, men of 
 poetry and imagination ; persons, perhaps, 
 thinking of speeches, rather than the business 
 of their offices; and who, in the end, — may — on 
 that account" — Here my lord hesitated ; but De 
 Vere begging to have the benefit of the whole 
 remark, he went on, (looking round, and lower- 
 ing his voice as he said it,) — '' Men who, on that 
 account, and when the time is ripe, may trip him 
 up, either with the king, the first minister, or the 
 House of Commons." Then, seeing De Vere 
 look surprised, and almost incredulous, he added, 
 " Such things have happened, and will happen
 
 162 DE VERB. 
 
 again, whatever you may think of it, nephew ; 
 for be assured experience is the best teacher, 
 and you may trust me," (here he prepared him- 
 self with solemnity for one of two or three 
 favourite quotations which he possessed) — 
 
 " * There are more things in heav'n and earth, 
 Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' " 
 
 De Vere was sorry so much blame should be 
 laid upon poor genius, but professed himself 
 ignorant of the subject. 
 
 " You naturally are," said Lord Mowbray ; 
 " but when by your own fidehty to party, you 
 have been let into the secret of affairs, as long 
 as I have been, you will find I may be a true 
 prophet." 
 
 To this, his nephew assented, as possible; 
 but assured his uncle, that in the instance be- 
 fore them, they ran no danger, for no one had 
 ever detected in Clayton, one single spark of 
 that genius or original thought, which he so 
 much feared ; that his character seemed to be 
 that of mere matter-of-fact docihty, a great 
 admiration for scenes of nature, and great de- 
 votion to his friends ; at the head of whom he 
 felt that he himself stood, '' if, indeed," added
 
 DE VERE. 163 
 
 De Vere, " I am not already outri vailed by my 
 uncle, for the kindness he seems to shew 
 him." 
 
 " I have marked this in the youth," replied 
 Lord Mowbray, with complacency ; " he seems 
 safe. We will talk further of this matter." 
 
 The result was, that several conferences were 
 held apart from De Vere, in which Lord Mow- 
 bray endeavoured to discover, (and the Parvenu 
 discovered the endeavour, and brought it fully 
 to account,) whether he himself, or his nephew, 
 were the chief object of Clayton's devotion ; and 
 in the end, his lordship remained thoroughly 
 convinced, that De Vere was loved chiefly out 
 of gratitude, while all real attachment, re- 
 spect, and consideration, were bestowed upon 
 himself. 
 
 This discovery, too, was made in a moment 
 most critical for the fortune of Clayton ; for at 
 this very juncture my lord was beset with most 
 puissant applications from persons of the first 
 consequence, in favour of a gentleman of great 
 hopes, and, as it was unfortunately added, of 
 great independence, both of fortune and mind, 
 whom they recommended as a proper successor 
 to the late secretary. 
 
 " It will never do," observed Lord Mowbray.
 
 J 64 DE VEllE. 
 
 '' and as Dr. Caius said, ' There shall no honest 
 man come to my closet ;' " so his lordship deter- 
 mined, that he would have no man of indepen- 
 dent fortune and mind for his secretary. 
 
 But another felicitous change awaited the 
 Parvenu, beyond all that his most sanguine 
 hope could have imagined : for this was pre- 
 cisely at the time when De Vere, in conformity 
 to his long-settled plan, was preparing for a pro- 
 tracted absence on the continent. The death of 
 Mr. Bromfield made it necessary to fill up the 
 seat at Wellesbury, and as De Vere assented to 
 his uncle^s representation that the government 
 ought not to lose a vote on account of his desire 
 to travel, he even proposed, should Lord Mow- 
 bray appoint his friend to the vacant secretary- 
 ship, that he should also become his own locum 
 tenens for the borough. The whole arrange- 
 ment was approved ; De Vere departed on his 
 travels, and Mr. Clayton was introduced into 
 the House of Commons. 
 
 This brilliant initiation into business, as it as- 
 tonished Clayton himself, so it filled his old ac- 
 quaintance, some with envy, some with disgust, 
 and all with wonder. It was of little conse- 
 quence to the Parvenu, who, while his hearts 
 best desire was crowned by being introduced
 
 DE VERE. 1G5 
 
 into a rank in society beyond all hope, cared 
 little for the sneers and contemptuous criticisms 
 that were made on T.ord Mowbray's choice on 
 this occasion. A new world opened to him in 
 the House of Commons, far surpassing any beau 
 ideal he had ever ventured to form of his future 
 fortune. The first men in the state, and, what 
 was almost of as much consequence, the first in 
 fashion, were there, and these, where he could, 
 he cultivated with the whole force of his talents 
 for insinuation. There also was Mr. Went- 
 worth, and with him the leaders of the nation on 
 both sides ; and to these, from his office, and 
 his patron's introduction, he was at least made 
 known. At first, indeed, it being whispered 
 that he was the mere locum tenens of a few 
 months, he was regarded in that sort of doubtful 
 light, which made the regular forces distant 
 and cautious in admitting his advances. They 
 cared not to consider him as legitimately initiated 
 till they knew what was to be his real situation, 
 and they were by no means disposed to ac- 
 knowledge him by the authorised forms, esta- 
 blished among legitimate powers, of invitations 
 to dinner. 
 
 He had. therefore, occasion for all his mo-
 
 16G DE VERE. 
 
 desty and all his assurance to make the least way. 
 But, to his honour be it said, he surmounted all. 
 It became known that De Vere did not mean to 
 return until he had completed a plan of travel on 
 a most extended scale. The north (then not 
 much known) was visited as well as the south. 
 In fact, he remained full three years, which gave 
 ample time for a manoeuvring spirit. With his 
 own adroitness, therefore, Clayton during that 
 interval had conciliated the most jealous, and 
 we may imagine that his talent for progression 
 had not been inactive. He did not attempt to 
 be a speaker, but his tact exerted itself, and if 
 he was mute as a debater, he was an excellent 
 clieerer. De Vere, on his return, found him in 
 full possession of all the rights and privileges, in 
 regard to notice, acquaintance, and other agree- 
 able et cceteras, which belong to a regular subal- 
 tern in the army of government. He had be- 
 come even useful in what was called the manage- 
 ment of the House, and was noticed by Mr. 
 Wentworth for his knowledge of the members, 
 and the frequency and zeal of his reports. Such 
 a notice he well knew how to turn to profit, and 
 the main chance had been so well pursued, th at 
 during these three years he had made a greater
 
 DE VERE. 167 
 
 advance to his object than others during whole 
 parHaments. In short, through the mist of 
 futurity, gleams of hope had excited fresh 
 expectations, and visions of brightness flitted 
 before his eyes.
 
 168 
 
 DE TERE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 POLITICAL LECTURES. 
 
 I have been politick with my friend, smooth with mine enemy. 
 
 Shakspf.are. 
 
 The advance and success of Clayton were 
 necessary to re-kindle in De Vere, interests 
 in regard to official objects and party politics 
 which had been almost laid asleep. It is neither 
 necessary to the views of this biography, nor is 
 it the intention to give any account of his travels. 
 Our objects are at home. It is enough to say 
 that, though general politics, and statistical in- 
 quiries, were zealously pursued by him, he was 
 equally, if not more bent upon an examination 
 of the manners and customs of his fellow- 
 creatures v;ith a view to that moral philosophy, 
 which he always preferred to political, though 
 the last was by no means undervalued. Of 
 party politics he could acquire nothing abroad.
 
 DE VEUE. 169 
 
 and of these, when he returned home, it is 
 inconceivable, considering his accompHshments 
 in every thing else, how great was his ignorance 
 Clayton beat him far behind in this most ne- 
 cessary qualification for rising ; but Clayton 
 knew nothing else. 
 
 This want of information, or absence of feel- 
 ing on points so much the life and soul of an 
 Englishman's excitements, made De Vere at 
 first more indifferent than he ought to have 
 been to the possession of the seat in parliament 
 which had been held for him. Had his assist- 
 ance been wanted upon questions of public, and 
 particularly of foreign policy, he would have 
 been eager enough. But having watched for these 
 questions, he was surprised to find how seldom 
 they seemed to be considered, and how com- 
 paratively absorbing was every thing that re- 
 garded local interests of which he knew nothing, 
 or the power and influence of particular parties 
 of which he knew little more. He, therefore^ 
 without much difficulty acceded to his uncle's 
 request to allow Clayton to sit out the session, 
 at the commencement of which he found him, 
 nor was he sorry to pass the first month of his 
 return in visiting his mother, and the favourite 
 
 VOL. 1. I
 
 170 DE VERE. 
 
 seat of his childhood at Talbois, for favourite 
 it still was, spite of all the adversity of which it 
 had been the scene. 
 
 His friend the President told him he was 
 wrong in this arrangement, and advised his 
 instant entry into the House ; but he thought 
 he had time enough before him. He, however, 
 on his return to London acquired, or recovered, 
 so much of his former spirit of curiosity, that he 
 began to visit both Houses as a spectator, and 
 soon became so much interested in the contem- 
 plation of what was passing, as to regret that he 
 had consented not yet to be an actor. 
 
 At first, he wasdehghted, and even astonished, 
 by the abilities of the leaders. He was fasci- 
 nated by the force, the beauty, and the variety 
 of their eloquence. The Premier had been used 
 to speak in thunder, and the thunder still rolled, 
 though only at a distance, while Lord Oldcastle 
 (Lord Eustace's father) calmed his hearers by 
 the smoothness of his periods. But Mr. Went- 
 >vorth fixed every body, by a flow of language 
 and ideas, which alike charmed the imagination 
 and convinced the understanding. In the Oppo- 
 sition, one great leader was rapid in invective ; 
 another dazzled by his wit ; a third by the
 
 DE VFRE. 171 
 
 graces of his fancy, which was so warm that 
 which ever way he moved, graces seemed to 
 drop all around him, and flowers to spring up 
 under his feet. 
 
 For some time this was enchanting to a mind 
 hke De Vere's, and he longed to possess his 
 seat that he might never be absent from such a 
 feast. 
 
 But this was not the longing of Clayton. 
 That prudent young man sought therefore to 
 break the spell which had fascinated his friend. 
 He talked of the tricks of eloquence, and (with 
 a coolness at which himself could not help 
 laughing), of trading politicians. Scarcely one 
 in the House, he said, with Walpole, but had 
 his price ; and though of some, and even of the 
 great majority, this was a wicked and despicable 
 calumny, the creation of a peer, in the person 
 of one of the most eloquent and active of the 
 Opposition, made a sad inroad in De Vere's 
 political creed. Under the gallery, too, where 
 he sat, he was surrounded with candidates for 
 power and fame, or those who already possessed 
 them, whose mutual criticisms were bitter and 
 caustic. Motives of interest were often assigned, 
 where De Vere hoped only to find freeaom and 
 honour. Some were said to be speaking for 
 I 2
 
 172 BE VEflE. 
 
 particular rewards, some out of particular re- 
 venge, and some for bread. . 
 
 Not a hundredth part of these observations' 
 were founded ; yet not the less confidently were 
 they hazarded, as party biassed, or disposition 
 inclined. 
 
 Thus, by one or other rival, the sincerity of 
 almost every speaker was questioned, except 
 perhaps of some plain dull one, to whom it was 
 no pleasure to listen, and whom nobody re- 
 garded. 
 
 De Vere was too wise to believe all that was 
 said ; but the slander disgusted him with those 
 who uttered it. . 
 
 The novelty wore off. Rhetoric shewed itself 
 what it is, an art. Technicalities came to be 
 discovered, and the refinements of one evening 
 formed the common places of the next. Even 
 without this, De Vere began to make a question, 
 in which he found little comfort from Clayton, 
 whether the treat of listening to such beautiful 
 figures, such kindling topics as he sometimes 
 heard from the leaders, might not be purchased 
 too dearly at the price of being forced to attend 
 to the crude egotisms of every puny, would-be 
 orator, who chose to hazard them. 
 
 The close of the session was thus very differ-
 
 DE VERE. 173 
 
 ent from the opening in its effects upon De 
 Vere ; and as he was the disciple of no particular 
 school, and attached to no particular leader, he 
 was in danger of relapsing into indifference, or 
 imbibing something worse, in regard to the 
 scenes and actors that surrounded him. 
 
 He was however much too just, and still too 
 sanguine, to form any fixed opinions from so 
 short an experience ; though he found himself, 
 insensibly perhaps, inclining to think that Har- 
 clai's pictures of the world were not quite so 
 overcharged, and Herbert's not quite so correct 
 as he had once believed them to be. At the same 
 time, whether immersed in the pleasures of his 
 age, (of which he drank as largely as any other 
 young man so highly introduced) or engaged in 
 the captivating society of either sex, which 
 courted him, the business of observation went 
 on. 
 
 Yet let us not suppose him, on this account, 
 cynical. Open, ardent, and naturally cheerful, 
 he had become gay, and at times even dissipated, 
 in the career of amusement. But even here 
 his mind was always at work ; and to watch 
 the windings of the heart, whether in male or 
 female, under whatever shape they presented
 
 174 DE VERE. 
 
 themselves, was the never-failing employment 
 of his thoughts. 
 
 Our business at present is with his scrutiny of 
 the public characters that surrounded him ; and 
 we may suppose that the political associates to 
 whom his uncle introduced him, formed much 
 of his study. 
 
 At the dinners of Lord Mowbray (a branch 
 of the art of governing a party by no means to 
 be despised, and which perhaps Lord Mowbray 
 understood better than any other branch), he 
 had opportunities for his curiosity even to sate 
 itself. Many great and many little actors 
 passed there in review, and he early came to 
 distinguish how possible it was for a smooth 
 voice, and much apparent hilarity, to be con- 
 sistent with great anxiety of mind. It required 
 indeed no peculiar sagacity to do this ; and it is 
 mentioned only with a view to account for the 
 backwardness with which he still lent himself to 
 the suggestions of his uncle, on the excitements 
 of the world, and the advantages of ambition. 
 
 This backwardness was not a little cherished 
 by Clayton, with whom he continued his habits 
 of confidence, on whom he still relied, and in 
 whom he found a faithful echo of all his rising
 
 DE VERB. 175 
 
 sentiments on the manners and governing prin- 
 ciples of those around him. 
 
 The private Secretary here indeed generally 
 anticipated him ; talked of the worry of affairs . 
 the impediments of cunning, and self-interest; 
 the meanness of suitors ; the insolence of sub- 
 alterns ; and the coldness of chiefs. He would 
 then glance with feeling at the happiness left 
 at Talbois, and the charms of simple life ; nay, 
 would glow with pleasure in painting the 
 comparative independence of even a country 
 vicarage. 
 
 De Vere heard him with surprise, but was 
 not so eager as formerly in opposing him. He 
 too had observed, and with a somewhat quicker 
 sense of them, all these objects of Clayton's 
 complaint, and, in particular, the insolence of 
 subalterns, of which more hereafter. 
 
 Among the guests, however, whom De Vere 
 met at Lord Mowbray's table, there was one, 
 a Sir William Flowerdale, who gave him satis- 
 faction as well as knowledge. This was a gen- 
 tleman of good family and great experience and 
 observation (particularly official observation), 
 in which he had been nursed from his youth, 
 till he had long been at the head of a very 
 lucrative department. He was a man of quiet
 
 176 DE VERE. 
 
 but excellent understanding, cultivated by read- ' 
 ing, and of manners so remarkably tranquil, 
 tbat during forty years he had never been 
 observed to lose his temper. His office was 
 important, though of a subordinate sort : sa * 
 that without a power of creating jealousy, his 
 assistance made him necessary to many of the 
 ministers, who all regarded him with good will. 
 
 This lot he had enjoyed through several 
 changes of administration, composed of persons 
 of very opposite principles. He had grown old 
 and grown rich under these succeeding admi- 
 nistrations : had been created a baronet, and 
 had surveyed many a brilhant meteor in power, 
 whose nod or notice he had once thought honour, 
 but whose children, and perhaps some of them- 
 selves, were now his inferiors in the world. 
 
 This gentleman enjoyed all the consideration 
 of Lord Mowbray, for his wisdom ; though the 
 chief proof of it (and indeed it was no bad one 
 with his lordship) was his success in preserving 
 bis place. He almost ranked, he said, with the 
 famous Sir John Petre, the great hero of Lord 
 Mowbray, who during such discordant reigns as 
 Henry VIIL, Edward VI., Mary, and Eliza- 
 beth, preserved his office of Secretary of State. 
 
 " There are no such men now-a-days," would
 
 DE VERE. 177 
 
 Lord Mowbray say ; " but Flo werdale approaches 
 nearest to them." 
 
 To this gentleman then, his habits, and his- 
 tory, Lord Mowbray thought he could not do 
 better than recommend the attention of both De 
 Vere and Clayton. The latter agreed with his 
 patron in thinkhig Sir Wilham Flowerdale a 
 very sound model for a man like himself to 
 copy; in which, as we speak of the good old 
 times, before fees were brought to account, we 
 may believe him sincere. 
 
 De Vere liked Sir William for his own sake, 
 and made him frequent visits, in which the 
 Nestor of office would sometimes enarasre in 
 (what Pe Vere would call) a course of political, 
 or rather official lectures, on the riglit training 
 of obstinate young men, who were so headstrong 
 as to have wills, nay, opinions of their own. 
 This, Sir V\^illiam would laughingly agree with 
 Lord Mowbray, was subversive of all hope of 
 rising, as it certainly was of all proper disciphne, 
 in office ; and he gave his advice, where it was 
 needed, accordingly. As the conversation at 
 one of these visits, exhibits much of that prac- 
 tical observation, vv^hich no general theory 
 usually comprehends, and as it had much effect, 
 though, perhaps, d.fterently from what was 
 
 Ie3
 
 178 HE VJ^R^. 
 
 intended, on De Vere, the reader may pdssibly 
 excuse us for laying it before him. 
 
 At the time we speak of, De Vere found his 
 new friend in his private room. He had just 
 committed a note to the flames, and was studi- 
 ously watching it to complete destruction, before 
 he could entirely take his eye from it, in order 
 to welcome his guest, though evidently glad to 
 see him. 
 
 De Vere observed upon it. 
 " It is a habit to which I have long accus- 
 tomed myself," said Sir William, "• and at least 
 a provident one, though, in this instance, of 
 little consequence. But Utera scripta, you 
 know, semper manet, and many an office man 
 has found inconvenience before now, from not 
 sufficiently attending to this adage." 
 
 " It is, at least, a prudent one," observed 
 De Vere. 
 
 " Why, you know.,*" said Sir William, *' it 
 was once a maxim with a long-headed states- 
 man, that with a line or two of his hand-writing, 
 and a few concomitant, though trifling circum- 
 stances, he could bring any man's life into 
 danger." 
 
 " 'Twas a dark and infamous maxim," ob- 
 served De Vere ; " but, thank God, calculated
 
 DE VERE. 179 
 
 for a dark and wicked age and country, and not 
 for our honest England." 
 
 ^' As for the darkness and wickedness of 
 France, under Cardinal Mazarine," answered 
 Flowerdale, " I will not defend them ; but 
 though our laws give us more security, and our 
 time is more enlightened, with such a spirit of 
 party as rages, I would not be careless of any 
 written document that related to politics or a 
 politician, even in our honest England." 
 
 '• You deserve your reputation for caution,"" 
 said De Vere ; " and no wonder my uncle 
 commends me, as a thoughtless young man, to 
 your protection." 
 
 " It is not thoughtlessness that would make 
 me afraid for you," said Flowerdale, with good 
 nature. 
 
 " What then?'' 
 
 '^ You are young and high born," answered 
 Sir William. 
 
 "• Ought that to stand in my way ?'' 
 
 ''No; both will assist you; for plebeians, 
 and middle aged young gentlemen, after all, are 
 not the subjects most gratifying to the aristocracy 
 to bring forward. Butyou are high-minded as well 
 as high-born; perhaps I should say, unbending." 
 
 " I cannot flatter."
 
 180 DE VERE. 
 
 " Flattery is out of the question ; but an un- 
 bending stiffness of opinion which you are at no 
 pains to conceal — " 
 
 " Pains to conceal ! What ! if it be truth ? 
 We are told, you know, that to conceal truth, 
 is pretty much the same as to speak false- 
 hood.' 
 
 *' Where your opinion is desired," said the 
 baronet, " that is certainly correct." 
 
 " And be assured, my dear Sir William, I 
 will never intrude it where it is not." 
 
 " That is but right, too," observed the ba- 
 ronet ; " but I am afraid even where it is, it may 
 be thought a good general rule, that a little ac- 
 commodation in our collisions with others is of 
 no disservice." 
 
 " If, by accommodation, '"^ replied De Vere, 
 "you mean an outward coincidence of opinion, 
 when we are as wide as the poles asunder within, 
 I see no diflPerence between such accommodation 
 and falsehood." 
 
 " To see, now, the difference between two 
 men !"" said Flowerdale ; " Mr. Clayton I have 
 found far more alive to reason ; and he was, as 
 you know, given me as a pupil as well as you." 
 
 " I fear,'"* replied De Vere, " your pains will 
 be thrown away upon him, for I know him, and
 
 DE VERE. 181 
 
 be assured he will never accommodate his senti- 
 mental feelings to those maxims."* 
 
 Sir William smiled, as much as his mild 
 habits would allow, and replied, " He was here 
 but this morning, and in canvassing the modes 
 by which young men were to rise in the world, 
 I made him perfectly sensible of the wisdom of 
 the maxim — ■*• Qtd nescit dissimulare, nescit 
 regnare.'' * What think you ? " 
 
 " It is to me a cold-hearted maxim, and I 
 hate it," replied De Vere. "It can only be pre- 
 ferred to the silliness of letting a foolish face, or 
 a tell-tale tongue, blab out one's heart to the 
 winds/' 
 
 " I honour you for these sentiments," said 
 the Nestor, " which I think are correct, and we 
 have among us some illustrious examples, that 
 there may be statesmen of the first talents, and 
 most profound views, who are above such a 
 close rule of conduct. Nevertheless, it is but 
 fair to tell you there are others who think this 
 rule by no means so contemptible. I own, too, 
 I have observed it, where I least expected it.*" 
 
 " Where .?" asked De Vere. 
 
 * " He who knows not how to dissemble, knows not how 
 to reign."
 
 18^ DE VERB. 
 
 '* Where the secrets they possess are least 
 worth preserving," repHed Flowerdale ; " but I 
 have also seen it among the young, and, therefore, 
 as I should have thought, the confiding ; men just 
 initiated in office, and candidates for success." 
 
 '' I could hardly have supposed this,'' said 
 De Vere ; " I would ask you to name them, that 
 I might mark, and avoid them." 
 
 " That would exceed the scope of my lecture^ 
 replied the prudent Sir William. " It is sufficient 
 that I have told you, that the least endowed 
 are those who are sunk deepest in the darkness 
 of this policy ; while at the very top, the high- 
 minded Mr. Wentworth, for example, whom 
 you so much admire, is all openness and confi- 
 dence, and conceals himself the least, of all the 
 great secrets that are confided to him." 
 
 "This is charming,'^ said De Vere; '* he 
 then, perhaps, is not of opinion with another 
 minister, who has sometimes frightened me with 
 his accounts of things, I mean Lord Chester- 
 field." 
 
 " And what is his opinon .?" 
 
 " ' That we always in business clothe our- 
 selves with dissimulation, because always in 
 business we play with sharpers.' — If this be true, 
 I am not for playing at business at all, any
 
 DE VERE. 183 
 
 more than I would play at cards, when I knew 
 that the persons I played with were cheats. At 
 the same time, I do not at present know whom 
 I am to play with, ministers, or their depend- 
 ants.*' 
 
 " None of our present ministers are sharpers,'' 
 said Sir William, " whatever they may have 
 been in other times." 
 
 '^ That is clear," said his pupil ; *•' but their 
 dependants ?" 
 
 ** The word sharper is too strong," observed 
 the baronet, " for either principals or depend- 
 ants ; but, of course, subalterns have their own 
 views, and may be jealous of you.'' 
 
 " And do you mean, that on that account, I 
 am to accommodate myself, as you call it, to 
 second-rate people ?'' 
 
 Sir William smiled at the sort of haughtiness 
 with N-N hich this was said, when De Vere con- 
 tinued, " I could bear to do homage to my 
 chief; but to be at the mercy of fellow under- 
 lings, no better than myself " 
 
 " Perhaps, not so good," observed the baro- 
 net. 
 
 " Bear with me, then," proceeded De Vere, 
 " if I say I could not submit to it."
 
 184 DE VERE. 
 
 " Yet are tney not to be slighted,"' observed 
 the baronet. " They have the ear of their 
 principals; the mollia tempora, when a good 
 word, or a bad word is of more consequence 
 than may be thought ; in short, they have the 
 power of representation " 
 
 " Or misrepresentation," cried De Vere, with 
 some indignation. " Is it thus that you mean 
 they may abuse their power ?" 
 
 " As to abusing it,*' replied Sir William, 
 " at best they are but men.'* 
 
 " And are these then the persons, Mr. Grant- 
 ley, for instance,"*' (and he mentioned a gentle- 
 man in an inferior office,) " to whom you think 
 me unbending, because I will not court them ?" 
 
 " Court, perhaps, is not the word," replied 
 the Nestor, " especially for you ; though I 
 have seen higher men, (excuse me,) on their 
 knees before even second rate people." 
 
 " On their knees !" cried De Vere ; " I will at 
 least never be one of them ; and if this is the 
 price of preferment, like the country mouse, 
 
 * Give me again my hollow tree, 
 A crust of bread, and liberty.' '* 
 
 " Very good," said Flowerdale ; " but if you 
 will do me the honour to attend to me "
 
 DE VKIIE 185 
 
 " I do, I do," cried De Vere, much ab- 
 stracted. 
 
 " Yes !'' returned the baronet, " pretty- 
 much as Hotspur did to his father and uncle, 
 after he had been affronted by the king." 
 
 " Nay, I stand corrected," rephed De Vere, 
 laughing almost at himself; " but I confess that 
 to owe preferment, or even a step towards it, 
 through some of these men, would be worse 
 than to lose it altogether." 
 
 "Very true," said Sir Wilham, "but consi- 
 dering '' 
 
 *« Were they in the least of a superior order," 
 again interrupted De Vere ; " but to think how 
 possible it is to be a tyrant in the closet, and an 
 abortion everywhere else. No ! even an arro- 
 gant, if a real statesman, I might suffer, but — '''' 
 
 *' You are certainly quite attentive," observed 
 Flowerdale, laughing. 
 
 " Forgive me," returned De Vere, " I am all 
 ear." 
 
 " Men have different talents,'"* said Sir Wil- 
 liam, calmly ; *' some may be to be useful in 
 private, though they may fail in public.""* 
 
 " Then let them be buried in private,'' ex- 
 claimed De Vere, " for about such men I think 
 with Pope, who says, ' As for the really great,
 
 186 DE VERE. 
 
 one expects mischief from kites and eagles, but 
 to be squirted to death by understrappers, would 
 provoke as dull a dog as Phillips himself."* 
 
 Flowerdale laughed, but De Vere asked if he 
 did not think it horrible ? 
 
 " You do not, I see, like it," observed Flower- 
 dale. 
 
 *' I know not if it most frightens, disgusts, or 
 affronts me," answered De Vere. 
 
 " These are but slight evils after all,"" ob- 
 served Sir William ; " and here also there can, 
 and ought to be, no sweeping condemnations. 
 There may, and must be honourable seconds, 
 as well as honourable principals." 
 
 " I agree," said De Vere; " and were all, 
 for example, like yourself, ministers would have 
 more justice done them. But an honourable 
 man will not easily stoop to subordinate pre- 
 sumption, which throws a sort of discredit, un- 
 just as it may be, on the chiefs themselves. 
 No ! I would be buried fifty fathom deep first." 
 
 The baronet again smiled at his eager indigna- 
 tion, and coolly said, " This at least ought not 
 to drive you from politics."" 
 
 " I fear," answered De Vere, " it will not 
 
 *SeePope'sWorks, xi. €7.
 
 DE VF.RE. 187 
 
 cure the unbending disposition, which you set 
 out with blaming." 
 
 "Well," observed Flowerdale mildly; "I 
 will allow you what jealousy you please to- 
 wards your brother subalterns that are to be ; 
 but I trust I need not caution you to be less 
 stiff towards general officers, particularly the 
 general on whose staff you may happen to find 
 yourself." 
 
 " I trust I shall know, and, knowing, perform 
 my duty," said De Vere. 
 
 " From my heart I believe you intend it," 
 answered Flowerdale ; " but forgive me if I 
 remind you that once entered on service, the 
 civil is like the military superior— he will re- 
 quire obedience^ not opinion. And trust me, 
 for a subaltern to disagree with his chief, 
 whether of a party, or in office, nothing can be 
 more inconvenient, I had almost said more 
 dangerous." 
 
 " Dangerous to what? is the question," said 
 De Vere. 
 
 " To his advancement,'''' answered the baro- 
 net. 
 
 " The advancement I seek," replied De Vere, 
 with some dignity, " is not that which is to be 
 purchased by the surrender of one's good faith."
 
 188 DE VEKE. 
 
 *' If by good faith is meant opinions," ob- 
 served the man of years, with a smile, " my 
 meaning rather is, that there should be no faith 
 at all, except in one's patron." 
 
 " I now understand you," said De Vere, with 
 great earnestness, " and it is fit, if you will bear 
 with me, that as to myself, I undeceive you. 
 That I must serve at my years is clear ; since I 
 have nothing heaven-born about me, either civil 
 or military. But, with submission, there is a 
 difference between a chief and a patron. The 
 first, when placed under him, I will of course 
 obey, as an officer obeys the general set over 
 him by his prince ; but in the train of the last 
 I will never be found." 
 
 '^ Go on," said Sir William, pleased with his 
 energy. 
 
 " If I am admitted on a stafi*, on account of 
 my opinions,'^ continued De Vere, " cheerfully 
 will I give my obedience ; but if I am to form, 
 to change, or to renounce opinions, because I am 
 on the staff, adieu (and willingly) to the ad- 
 vancement you speak of. And this is what I 
 conceive no enlightened statesman, no generous 
 leader of a party, no liberal head of office, but 
 would as readily grant, as I should require it." 
 
 " This is all excellent," cried Sir William,
 
 DE VEllE. 189 
 
 catching a little of the spirit of his pupil ; in 
 truth, neither accustomed nor expecting to meet 
 with so much reason in his fire. " Let m-e, 
 however, apprise you of what few young sena- 
 tors, when they come into office, seem aware of, 
 but which they nevertheless feel, as you, of all 
 others, seem formed to feel it." 
 
 *' For heaven's sake what ?" 
 
 " In the House, you fancy yourselves equal to 
 your future chief: nay, in your vote, your 
 freedom of speech, and sometimes possibly in 
 your powers, you are so. But out of the House 
 all is metamorphosed. From having had a free 
 partnership, as it were, in a subject, you are re- 
 duced to be a mere 'clerk; must be simply a 
 hand, and whatever business is confided to you, 
 ' give it an understanding, but no tongue.' 
 Thus, from a supposed high-minded statesman 
 in the senate, counselling, if not directing affairs, 
 it is even your duty to become a passive instru- 
 ment and a mute. Are you prepared to be such 
 a person ? to be always directed, never con- 
 sulted ?" 
 
 '' The picture is certainly not inviting," said 
 De Vere, '* and I see it must depend upon the 
 character of the cliief, to make the lot of the sub- 
 altern dignified and happy, or- .commonly bear^
 
 190 DE VERE. 
 
 able. But are there not such chiefs (observe, I 
 do not say patrons) as I have imagined ? Men, 
 who from having liberally served, have taught 
 themselves liberally to command ?" 
 
 *' There are," said Sir AVilliam ; " and amongst 
 the highest and most gifted of our governors. 
 There are also of an opposite cast.'' 
 
 " The first alone are the men I will court," 
 replied De Vere. " Let those seek masters (nor 
 do I blame them) who are obliged to seek bread. 
 And now," continued he, relaxing from the sort 
 of severity into which he had fallen, and with 
 even a laugh on his cheek, " tell me some other 
 of your general rules." 
 
 '^ Whether with chief or patron," replied the 
 Nestor, '' not to miscalculate one's strength, 
 nor suppose, because one cannot follow, that 
 therefore one can lead." 
 
 " An excellent distinction," cried De Vere ; 
 " and what would be the consequence.?" 
 
 " Such men are whistled down the wind, and 
 heard of no more." 
 
 " ' Ambition that o'erleaps itself,' " said De 
 Vere. 
 
 " Exactly so." 
 
 " But even with persons of seeming weight, 
 nay, even of tal^pts," continued Sir W^illiam,
 
 DE VERE. 191 
 
 " it is sometimes inconceivable how small the 
 distance is, in the balancing of fortune, between 
 absolute proscription and the highest promo- 
 tion ; between contemptuous neglect, and the 
 Privy Council itself.'"* 
 
 " What, in this country ?'"* asked De Vere ; 
 " in Turkey or Spain I could conceive it." 
 
 " There are instances before one's eyes," re- 
 plied Flowerdale ; " and it is a mistake to sup- 
 pose that political ambition presents not as bit- 
 ter a cup m England as elsewhere." 
 
 De Vere was pondering these words when the 
 baronet continued : " I have this moment been 
 contributing my mite to save a man from a gaol, 
 who once figured in parliament, and was my su- 
 perior in office." 
 
 De Vere, somewhat moved, asked his his- 
 tory. 
 
 " Under the last administration," answered 
 Sir William, " he shewed some talent, and his 
 heart beat high with pride. But though he 
 spoke for ministers in public he rebelled in pri- 
 vate, and being cautioned, gave himself airs. In 
 fact, led away by what he called spirit, but what 
 was really vanity, he miscalculated his strength. 
 He was abandoned, and not improperly, by his 
 patrons, whom he had used ill ; his whole con-
 
 19^ DE VERE. 
 
 sequence was extinguished ; and he is now la- 
 mejiting, with many other mistaken people, the 
 total neglect of that world in which he once 
 thought to shine." 
 
 " He brought his calamity on himself," said 
 De Vere, " yet it is a lamentable picture ;"" and 
 he could not help again musing on his hollow 
 tree. 
 
 " Take a contrast to this,'^ said the baronet, 
 '' in one of our high placemen, with whom you 
 are acquainted. In the last administration, after 
 long and useful service, he openly complained, 
 and with reason, that promised rewards were 
 withheld. The Treasury cried mutiny; the 
 secretaries caught the alarm ; the very clerks 
 barked punishment. In short, the minister of 
 the day turned his back upon him, intending to 
 leave him also to fortune. But he could not con- 
 trive to crush him ; the gentleman had abilities, 
 and made a. high demonstration. The old go- 
 vernment broke up, and the consequence was an 
 immense and immediate promotion under the 
 new one." 
 
 " You paint these revolutions with force," 
 said De Vere, " and I dare say I shall profit by 
 them ; but whether by assuming complaisance 
 wiiere I otherwise should not do so, or by pre-
 
 DE VERE, 193 
 
 paring for a proper retreat, is a problem to be 
 solved." 
 
 '' I trust, at your age,^' returned Sir William, 
 " that retreat is out of the question ;'' and De 
 Vere, thanking him for his confidence, the visit 
 ended. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 DE VERE. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE FEARS OF INEXPERIENCE, 
 
 Oh! how full of briars is tliis working-day world! 
 They are but burs, cousin. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 De Vere began now to think he had had 
 opportunities of observing, that, although a 
 general busy interest, exciting to the spirits, was 
 presented on the face of pubhc life, what he had 
 heard and read of the hoUowness of courtiers 
 did not seem entirely unfounded. Had he at 
 that time gone deeper, as he afterwards did, he 
 might have made discoveries to the full as cogent 
 on the other side, and come to the more pleasing 
 conclusion, that as much worth, honour, open- 
 ness, and even simplicity of character, are to be 
 found among men of power and of business, 
 though that business be politics, as in less pro- 
 minent, though not less selfish professions.
 
 DE VERK. 195 
 
 To these we may hereafter come : meantime 
 it may not be amiss to remark, that from the 
 very nature of state affairs, it should seem, in the 
 abstract, that the labours of those who administer 
 them are absorbed by business that is the least 
 selfish, because, from the mere force of the 
 terms, it is the business of the common weal, and 
 not their own. It is, however, too certain, that 
 in this outset of his life, the specimens of ambi- 
 tion which his friend Dr. Herbert had taught 
 him to hope for, were not those which exactly 
 met his view ; and what he did contemplate were 
 those which least supported the engaging theo- 
 ries of the most sanguine of his guardians. 
 
 As he maintained a correspondence with both, 
 he did not fail to notice this, and the following 
 extracts of his letters to Herbert exhibit a pic- 
 ture of his mind at this time, which may not be 
 unimportant. 
 
 " All your precepts seem thrown away upon 
 your refractory ward. I bow to your superior 
 experience of mankind ; I acknowledge you have 
 many practical philosophers on your side ; you 
 have the Temples. Addisons, and Mainwarings 
 to back you, and you count upon my being 
 among them. But should you not also count 
 K 2
 
 196 DE VERE. 
 
 upon my disposition ? If that oppose, of what 
 avail are the rest ? 
 
 " You urge me without delay to parliament ; 
 scold me for not attending the levee; ridicule my 
 not paying court to the ministers, and laugh at 
 my slighting the syrens of politics ; for, as you 
 observe, there are syrens in them as well as in 
 love. Thus, you are angry with me for hold- 
 ing at naught those assemblies and suppers of 
 the two peeresses who head the rival parties, 
 the entree to which is so sighed for by less for- 
 tunate persons than myself. Now, who would 
 think this the instruction of a grave guardian, 
 who, as some would say, ought to warn inex- 
 perienced youth from the dangers of the world, 
 instead of holding it up as an object of their 
 attraction ? 
 
 " The worst of it is, I feel that you are 
 right. We ordinary spirits must follow the 
 beaten path to obtain distinction. It is only 
 for genius and high aspirations to take that 
 easy leap after honour which Hotspur talks ot 
 
 " But then, after all, is distinction necessarily 
 happiness ? Is it indispensable to be distin- 
 guished ? And what really is it ? I live 
 among distinguished persons ; I see heroes,
 
 DE VERE. 197 
 
 statesmen, orators, poels ; I have friends who 
 have acquired, some power, some riches; all 
 are in full career. Yet, as they arrive at the 
 goal, all seem to me to be disappointed. To 
 be sure, there is an eagerness, an excitement 
 in the race, which looks less unhappy ; but I 
 see the nerves stretch, the veins swell, the fea- 
 tures distorted. Each man wishes to stop, or 
 to pass his fellov/. 
 
 " You will tell me these are the views of 
 Harclai, who sees falsely ; at any rate, it ought 
 not to influence the opinion of an ingenuous 
 young man, who has, perhaps, too much feeling 
 in his soul, and too little money in his pocket ; 
 and you say justly that any thing is better than—' 
 
 ' Living flully, skiggardized at home, 
 Wear out your youth in shapeless idleness.' 
 
 Be assured that this will not be my choice. 
 Were the world still in arms, my old wish would 
 revive, and my father's sword, which now 
 sleeps, would perhaps be at my side ; but the 
 world sleeps too. You, indeed, tell me my 
 sphere is politics, which open the mind. Alas ! 
 do they so ? Do they not rather, as now pur- 
 sued, contract all into party ? 
 
 *' 'Tis true, there is genius and commanding
 
 198 DE VERE. 
 
 eloquence in the highest quarters, and I have 
 worshipped both (perhaps secretly envied the 
 possessors), when I have Hstened to them in the 
 senate. But out of the senate, I have seen 
 thein perpetually in trammels ; clouded, bur- 
 thened, and bowed with the weight of affairs. 
 
 " I speak feelingly, because I lately met your 
 friend, Mr. Wentworth, at Sir George Delo- 
 raine's, in the full flow of his wit, and pouring 
 out a mind which seemed not more brilliant than 
 amiable upon all subjects most engaging to man. 
 The contrast between such moments, and those 
 passed with pure politicians, is, I assure you, 
 not lost upon me. Sir George is, himself, an 
 example of the happiness of a refined mind un- 
 fettered by state reserve. Do you think it is 
 the same with the dryness and closeness of my 
 uncle's dinners? where the affected ^volto 
 sciolto^ only makes one dread the more, the 
 ' pensieri sireiti^ so much vaunted and re- 
 commended by politicians. Mr. Wentworth, 
 though a minister, is, on these occasions, as 
 different from himself as light and darkness. 
 
 " Those who succeed, complain ; those who 
 do not, complain; both, that they are slaves ; 
 only there is this difference in the lot of the last, 
 that they have to deplore the addition of disap-
 
 DR VERE. 199 
 
 pointment to their slavery. It is this disap- 
 pointment which, Uke a cold spectre, lays his 
 hand upon all within his reach, and sends 
 shivering and death into the heart's core. It is 
 this that frightens, deters, and finally unnerves 
 me. You tell me of success. Alas ! are the 
 successful happy ? Is it known at what expence 
 of health, of quiet, and, with some, even of 
 honour, they have succeeded ? Have they pre- 
 sei'ved their friends ? Have they betrayed no 
 principles ? Has no obloquy followed them ? 
 Or, if really prosperous — are they content ? Do 
 not new cares succeed, greater, perhaps, than 
 any they had before ? I confine not this to po- 
 litical ambition : look at arms, or arts, or learn- 
 ing ; even the lover that sighed like a furnace ! 
 Marry him, and the fear that made him sigh is 
 at an end— but so is his hope ! 
 
 " To tell you a secret, the only thing in 
 Avhich I agree with you, is about this Hope. 
 Dear, delightful, mysterious, ever- whispering, 
 ever-exciting being ! evanescent, yet seldom ab- 
 sent — thou alone gladdenest the heart of man ! 
 Yes ! of Hope, I am the willing, ardent, and 
 active votary; but to continue so, she must, 
 like her kinswoman, Fancy, be perpetually 
 changing. Her dress, shape, and features,
 
 200 DE VERB. 
 
 must vary every hour. Her charming colours 
 must be like those of the camelion. Never must 
 I catch, or at least never hold her. No ; for 
 ever let her be near, but for ever elude me. 
 Once embraced, her power is gone." 
 
 Such were portions of De Vere's letters to 
 Herbert. 
 
 We will not lay before our readers, at length, 
 the answers which the clear-sighted philosopher 
 of the world, alarmed for his pupiJ, gave him. 
 It is sufficient to say that they were worthy his 
 good sense, and that they particularly cautioned 
 De Vere against what was evidently a hasty, 
 and probably an unfounded judgment. 
 
 " It will be hard," said the President, **if he 
 who can appreciate and characterize so well, the 
 lovely being you address by the name of Hope, 
 should be disappointed after all. But still 
 harder, if it prove your own fault. I beseech 
 you not to fail into the common-place error of 
 involving all the rivals for power who surround 
 you, in one sweeping condemnation, for the 
 faults of a few. That there are envy, hatred, 
 and malice in a court, and in the an ti -chamber 
 of a minister, is most true ; but so there are in a 
 camp, in the church, in commerce, at the bar, 
 in the pure fields themselves, and even in the
 
 DE VEllE. 201 
 
 lonely cloister, where passion, having done 
 with the world, seems to sleep. And yet 
 you yourself have hitherto met with none of 
 tJiat treachery you have taught yourself to fear ; 
 and to avoid all danger of if, if I might advise, 
 I would address myself only to those who are 
 at the fountain head. Introduced as you are, 
 1 would put myself in nobody's power, but those 
 who have the distribution of power; for, be 
 assured, second-hand patronage cannot be more 
 revolting to your own high spirit, than it is con- 
 trary to good policy. It was this just appre- 
 ciation of himself, that at once placed our friend, 
 Mr. Went worth, so high. 
 
 " You tell me yourself, that in the heads of 
 departments you see much to admire, and you 
 do not contravene what I have told you, that in 
 many of the ministers themselves you find, not 
 merely the talents required for their stations, 
 but the honesty, feeling, and even the single- 
 ness of heart, which vulgar and hacknied pre- 
 judice would confine to inferior classes: Never 
 was there such a mistake as this prejudice. 
 However, I have allowed that you may meet 
 with instances of the contrary where you are, 
 and these you may surely surmount, as they 
 are surmounted by others, when they appear, 
 K 3
 
 202 I)E VERE. 
 
 as they indubitably do, in all the lower stations, 
 as well as in the higher. 
 
 " You will, perhaps, think all this the re- 
 presentation of a man who upholds a particular 
 opinion, and is afraid for his theory; I will 
 therefore give you something practical from a 
 man surely, if ever there was one, practised in 
 courts, and writing from their very hot-bed. 
 Such, you will allow, was Lord Bolingbroke. 
 Indeed, you remind me forcibly (be not af- 
 fronted) of his pupil and kinsman, the young 
 Earl of Jersey, to whom (when he was in a 
 similar fit of spleen) he writes as follows : 
 
 " ' You have your mortifications before you 
 come to court, and believe me you will have 
 them when you come there. Yoti will see the 
 fawning tell-tale rascal caressed, and detract 
 tion from the merit of others made equivalent 
 to real merit in himself. You will see a great 
 deal more than T intend to enumerate; and 
 what then ? Must, therefore, a good man not 
 come to court, nor step forward in the service 
 of his country? JVlust he throw himself into 
 retreat or opposition ? No ; you are too bright 
 for the former, and too honest for the latter. 
 
 " ' There seems to be no inclination to live 
 well with you wanting. We have not the best
 
 DE VERE. 203 
 
 knack in the world, either at giving our employ- 
 ments with a good grace, or suiting them well. 
 Fight against your spleen. I know how fast 
 that sly enemy will creep into the mind and body 
 of man, and what cursed work he will makd 
 when he is there !' "* 
 
 Such were the topics used by the experienced 
 and observing Herbert, to arm the man he ho- 
 noured more than any young person of whom he 
 had had the direction, against the obstacles to 
 success which might be presented by his own, 
 perhaps morbid imagination. 
 
 That imagination was now, however, to be 
 very diiferently exercised ; and far other dreams 
 than those of ambition, successful or unsuccess- 
 ful, were about to illumine his fancy, and take 
 possession of his heart. 
 
 We have said that he was alive to the plea- 
 sures of his age ; and he was so particularly to 
 those which the softer sex are so powerful in 
 creating. With all his reflection, his indeed 
 
 * Bolingbroke to Lord Jersey, Correspond. 2. The 
 letter is here much curtailed ; but it is so admirable a piece 
 of persuasion against the common-place supposition that 
 the court is a bugbear of corruption, that it would be well 
 worth the reader's while (particularly if a young one,) to 
 study the whole paper.
 
 204 DK VERE. 
 
 was a heart of sensibility in the most eminent 
 degree ; though, from his turn of thought, and 
 disposition to romance, fostered and heightened 
 by the earlier habits of his life, his was a sensi- 
 bility which made larger demands upon female 
 excellence than were usually, or, indeed, easily 
 satisfied. Rustic as he had been, rusticity (as 
 we have seen,) could not please him, even at an 
 age when beauty of almost any kind pleases. 
 But neither did poiuhed beauty, as it is called, 
 fare much better. The smoothness of artificial 
 manners, and general elegance of dress and ap- 
 pearancr', at first so charming to the eye, began 
 early to lose their power ; since beyond the eye 
 (with De Vere at least), they seldom advanced. 
 In the country every thing was too glaring — here, 
 every thing too much veiled. 
 
 What he peculiarly required was character ; 
 without which (such as he admired, and had 
 formed himself to love.) the enchantments of the 
 most perfect beauty lived but for an hour. But 
 this character he laboured in vain to discover, 
 where all was cased under an impenetrable out- 
 ward uniformity of manners, court polish, and 
 court pretensions. 
 
 This was his opinion, and this opinion laid 
 hold of him even in the spring of his youth —
 
 DE \EIIE. 205 
 
 " When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns. 
 Brisk as the April buds in primrose season.'' 
 
 In short, at five-and-twenty, with a keen sense 
 of pleasure, he had as serious a mind in regard 
 to women, as to every thing else ; and though 
 his eye was often pleased, and his senses other- 
 wise charmed by the fascinations of the society 
 in which he lived, there v/as a void in his heart 
 which he could not account for, even to him- 
 self In fact> his hour was not vet come.
 
 me 
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 FIRST LOVE. 
 
 Back, shepherds, back ; enough your play, 
 
 Till the next sunshine holiday. 
 
 Here be, without duck or nod, 
 
 Other trippings to be trod. 
 
 Of lighter toes, and such court guise. 
 
 As Mercury did first devise, 
 
 With the mincing Dryades, 
 
 O'er the lawns and o'er the leas. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 No ! his hour was not yet come, but it was 
 not long to be delayed. For the reader must 
 not suppose that such a heart as we have de- 
 scribed, was insensible, merely because it was 
 difficult to be won ; or that what the models 
 which the females he had hitherto seen had not 
 been able to afford, the sex itself could not sup- 
 ply. Pure country simplicity, or pure town re- 
 finement, could not satisfy De Vere ; and the 
 mixture of the two, such as his heart craved, 
 and his reason, wished, was a happiness of which 
 he began to despair. But, besides this, he felt
 
 DE VEilE. ^07 
 
 how much the sphere of choice was narrowed 
 by his want of sufficient fortune; since the 
 thought that he might be dazzled into love by 
 either the consequence or the wealth of the fe- 
 male who might move him, filled him with 
 horror. 
 
 He had, therefore, formed to himself not only 
 the hope, but the expectation of being able to 
 pass through life, or at least till fortune smiled 
 upon him, with the same stoical independence 
 of the sex which he had hitherto shewn, and to 
 which his difficult tastes had not a little contri- 
 buted. 
 
 All this, however, was on the point of giving 
 way before he was aware of it ; and the danger 
 arose from a quarter, and in a place where, from 
 being least expected, he was least on his 
 guard. 
 
 It was at the ball of the Litchfield races thatDe 
 Vere's heart was doomed to meet its virgin encoun- 
 ter ; and he was not the less excited, or the less 
 pleased, from the circumstance that his admira- 
 tion was kindled by an object, at the moment 
 when he saw her, perfectly unknown to him. 
 
 He had arrived too late for the first day's 
 sport, or indeed to dine with his uncle, Lord
 
 JS08 DE VERE. 
 
 Mowbray, as was expected. He dressed there- 
 fore at his inn, sending a compliment to his 
 uncle, whom he said he would join in the ball- 
 room. To this he repaired as dancing had just 
 begun, and as Lord Mowbray did not appear, 
 and he was known to no one, he gave his eyes 
 and ears to the dancers in pure lack of employ- 
 ment. As it happened, no pastime could suit 
 him better, for he loved to observe a dance; 
 very different in this from his friend Dr. Her- 
 bert, who had sometimes been known to say, 
 he thought dancing only an awkward way of 
 getting from one end of a room to the other. 
 
 Certain it is, however, that the graceful har- 
 mony produced by the exact correspondence of 
 motion with sound, which constitutes good 
 dancing, gave De Vere a pleasure which went 
 much farther than his ears or eyes. It affected 
 even his sentiment, as all harmony will, and thus 
 interested the judgment itself. Let us not be 
 supposed by this to reiine too much upon a 
 trivial matter. A treatise might be written on 
 tl:ie effect of elegant motion on the mind of a 
 lover of elegance ; by which word elegance, is 
 not meant the costly glare of riches, but some- 
 thing always the effect of proper proportion in
 
 DE VERE. 209 
 
 whatever is the subject matter, and which in- 
 terests from that very circumstance ; and the 
 sense of this proportion constitutes what is 
 called taste. 
 
 In respect to dancing, it admits of such 
 varieties, and its harmonies may be sometimes 
 so magnificent, sometimes so simple, and pa- 
 thetic, that, unlike the good doctor, a learned 
 bishop, celebrated for his love of Greek tragedy, 
 having, before his elevation, seen the ballet of 
 Medea and Jason, was known to say, that next 
 to the mental delight of reading the storv in 
 Euripides, was certainly that of seeing it at the 
 opera. 
 
 I have permitted this little digression, in order 
 to account for the peculiar pleasure of De Vera, 
 both in dancing himself, and seeing others dance. 
 But as the pleasure emanated from an elegance 
 of mind, so elegance in performance was abso- 
 lutely necessary to engage his attention. It 
 must be ovv^ned, therefore, that in our good 
 homely island, his attention was seldom repaid ; 
 nay, that his taste was oftener a source of dis- 
 gust than of pleasure to him ; for with all our 
 good qualities, ours never was, and never will 
 be, a dancing nation. 
 
 In the ball-room of the Litchfield races, we
 
 SIO DE VERE. 
 
 fear this was most cruelly proved : for De Vere 
 roamed from one awkwardness to another, and 
 from one personification of hoydenism to another 
 of affectation, till at last he threw himself on a 
 bench in despair. 
 
 For the honour of the county of Stafford, 
 however, be it observed, that this was at a time 
 when our worthy ancestor squires were not in the 
 habit of taking their wives and daughters with 
 them to town, to attend upon fashion, while they 
 attended upon parliament. No ! with what real 
 inferiority as to character and happiness we 
 know not ; but the province of their females was 
 home. They read their bibles, and the Sir 
 Charles Grandisons of their time, distilled rose 
 and mint, and could ride you fifty miles in a 
 day, though they had never, like their posterity, 
 seen Vestris or Le Pique, Rossi or Dorivaly nor 
 attempted to squall " Che faro."* What won- 
 der then if a race ball to them was a revelry, as 
 much as a dance in a barn to their labourers, 
 and enjoyed with equal sincerity by both ? 
 
 Unfortunately De Vere's fine taste could not 
 
 * The present generation will possibly not understand 
 these fine names, illustrious in their time ; but let it be 
 recollected, that I write to my veteran contemporaries, the 
 Will Honeycombs, and Lord Oglebys of a former age.
 
 DE VERE. 211 
 
 bear this sincerity, as it actually then shewed 
 itself, though he would have been amused, had 
 not his good-nature been shocked when he heard 
 the sheriff of the county, a man eminent on turf 
 and field, thanking a young Londoner for 
 dancing with his dowdy daughter. 
 
 " I know," said he, " she is heavy in hand, 
 and bores with the head ; the snaffle won't do; 
 but keep a tight curb, and stick the spurs well 
 in, and I'll warrant she'll get to the bottom." 
 
 The poor girl blushed, but did her best, and 
 got rid of the gibe as well as she could, by ob- 
 serving, " Papa is always so funny."' 
 
 Young as De Vere was, he gave the matter 
 up, and longed more than ever for the arrival 
 of his uncle's party, when he beheld a young 
 lady led up to the top of the dance, on whom 
 he found his eye could not look without instant 
 emotion. The most perfect form he had ever 
 beheld, set off by the most graceful manner he 
 had ever admired, challenged his curiosity, and 
 gratified all his sentiment. Had she been plain, 
 this would have been the instant effect upon 
 one of De Vere's particular taste, which sought 
 for its pleasure more in elegance of shape and 
 address than even in beauty itself. But her face 
 and features were illumined with a meaning of
 
 ^12 DE VEUE. 
 
 such powerful expression ; there were in them 
 such sense and softness united, that a man of 
 sense could not fail to admire, a man of feeling, 
 to love. 
 
 Her complexion might be said to be naturally 
 pale, but of such dazzling fineness, that you 
 hardly wished for colour, till it came. Then, 
 indeed, the animation which it caused, and the 
 intelligence which flashed from a dark and 
 languishing eye, gave her a loveliness of ex- 
 pression, such as we may suppose to belong to 
 the angels. Luckily, the least exercise, and 
 even the play of her mind in conversation, al- 
 ways called up this beautiful colour. 
 
 De Vere was upon his legs in a moment. He 
 had no eyes, but for this lovely vision — for such 
 it seemed. He could not even ask her name, so 
 much was he fixed ; for, from being all eye, he 
 could find no tongue. When she began to 
 move, his peculiar taste was peculiarly pleased ; 
 for never were grace and dignity so exemplified. 
 Perhaps, she might have been thought too 
 serious in her dancing ; by those who did not, 
 like De Vere, mark the elasticity of her foot, 
 and a something, as the strain of the music 
 changed, which amounted almost to playfulness. 
 
 Those who may have seen the dancing of
 
 DE VERE. 213 
 
 the Ladies L , in their girlhood, or of Lady 
 
 Eleanor F , can alone have an idea of it, 
 
 by supposing the beautiful style of each united. 
 It is this perfection of cheerfulness and grace 
 conjoined, which our critical neighbours over 
 the water have, with a happiness cf language, 
 described under the phrase of " le beau tran- 
 quille.'''' 
 
 De Vere followed her from the top of the 
 dance to the bottom, and from the bottom to 
 the top, and was pleased to observe the respect, 
 which, when modest retenue is joined with grace, 
 attends upon it almost as by a natural law. 
 The rural thanes and their families opened every 
 where to give her place, all apparently actuated 
 with the same admiration as De Vere. It seemed, 
 indeed, as she floated through the mazes of the 
 figure, that all were content to acknowledge her 
 superiority, and gazed upon her as if she had 
 
 been 
 
 " A fairy visioa 
 
 Of some gay creature of the element, 
 That i' the colours of the rainbow lives. 
 And plays i' the plighted clouds." 
 
 We may suppose how this told upon the 
 senses of De Vere ; nor were his eyes charmed 
 more than his mind, on observing the easy, yet 
 correct attention with which she listened to the
 
 214 DE VEUE. 
 
 conversation of her partner. De Vere envied 
 him much for his then lot, and not a httle for a 
 certain tournure of fashionable self-consequence, 
 which seemed only the result of acknowledged 
 superiority in rank and manners, and to which 
 a few years seniority to De Vere in age, gave 
 some little addition. 
 
 It was hence (and he saw it with something 
 like envy), that he thought the lady listened 
 with a mixture of deference, as well as pleasure, 
 to his conversation. It is astonishing what sen- 
 sations of unaccountable rivalry (for they were 
 no less), this caused to De Vere. 
 
 Let those who study human nature, explain 
 it if they can ; when they reflect that it was 
 produced by two persons whom he had only 
 seen that moment, and of whose existence he 
 had till then been ignorant. Yet, so it was ; 
 though even then, the Orlando spirit of his 
 character spoke to his agitated heart ; and as 
 Correggio is said, on viewing a picture by 
 Raphael, to have exclaimed with a noble self- 
 confidence, " Ed lo sono pittore,'''' so this aspir- 
 ing youth whispered to himself, " and I also 
 am a gentleman."" In short, though he was 
 certainly struck with awe, he was not plunged 
 in despair ; for as the deepest admiration
 
 DE VERK. 215 
 
 seemed in an instant to take possession of his 
 young bosom, so he was ready and eager to 
 enter all lists in the assertion of it. 
 
 If any one censure this as romantic or unna- 
 tural, we doubt if the censure is deserved. 
 Romantic it may be, if all which is out of the 
 ordinary course is romantic ; but we deny the 
 unnatural. For even though love at first sight 
 has often, and not improperly, been laughed at, 
 as the green longing of girls and boys, who for- 
 get one another as suddenly as they like ; yet 
 the sweetest and most lasting affection has often 
 grown out of it, when happy circumstances 
 have concurred for its cultivation. (He who 
 writes, has himself felt it home.) 
 
 De Vere certainly did not stay to examine 
 this. He knew nothing about the passion of 
 love, and as little of the nature of his own feel- 
 ing. He only knew that the beauty he had 
 admired, seemed of so superior an order, that 
 he could have kissed the ground she so lightly 
 touched, and still more the airy foot that 
 touched it. 
 
 He was roused from the sort of trance into 
 which his admiration had thrown him, by the 
 address of the only person in the room whom he 
 knew, and who, in almost equal admiration,
 
 216 DE VERE. 
 
 asked him if he could tell him who this distin- 
 guished stranger was. 
 
 " I would myself give the world to know,'' 
 replied he, '• for exclusive of her being the most 
 charming person I ever saw, she puzzles me more 
 than I can describe." 
 
 "How so.?" 
 
 <t Why, I would stake my existence that she 
 never was bred in London, if she even ever saw 
 it ; yet that the country should produce such a 
 creature, shames probabihty." 
 
 " I admire your penetration, Sir," exclaimed 
 an unknown gentleman who overheard him, 
 *' for she has scarcely seen London^ and though 
 bred for the last two or three years in the 
 country, it was chiefly in France, and under 
 her relation the Marchioness of Clanellan, the 
 best woman, and one of the most accomplished 
 persons in Europe." 
 
 ''Good heavens!" exclaimed De Vere, in 
 perturbation, " the Marchioness of Clanellan ! 
 and her name is " 
 
 " Lady Constance Mowbray," replied the 
 gentleman, " daughter of the Earl." 
 
 The reader must figure to himself De Vere's 
 joy as well as surprise when he heard this, and 
 found in the elegant person who had so moved
 
 DE VERE. 217 
 
 him, that beautiful cousin, to be presented to 
 whom, was the very object of his visit to Litch- 
 field. An involuntary and slight bow was the 
 immediate consequence of the information thus 
 afforded him ; surprised at which, she gave him 
 a glance which only moved him more. It was 
 one of those glances which we suppose every 
 one has felt once, perhaps twice in his life, and 
 which demonstrate the sudden power of woman 
 over the heart of man ; but which, though its 
 language is clear, and its effects lasting, no one, 
 to another, can ever translate. 
 
 A blush, but like any thing rather than that 
 of Cymon, instantly suffused the cheek of De 
 Vere. At the same time this caused something 
 like constraint on her side, when, to the satis- 
 faction of both, Lord Mowbray, who had till 
 now been closeted with the county member in 
 an adjoining room, advanced, and after chiding 
 De Vere for not having come time enough to 
 call upon him previous to the ball, introduced 
 him in form to his daughter, as the cousin of 
 whom she had heard so much. 
 
 And heard of him she had for years, and 
 with an interest, which, had De Vere known it, 
 would have thrilled his heart. Lady Constance 
 had, in fact, known much, if not all the early 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 18 DE VEEE. 
 
 history of her sylvan cousin. From the age of 
 twelve, she had been allowed occasionally to visit 
 her aunt. Lady Eleanor, for whom she had so 
 much veneration as to engage with her, at her 
 own desire, in a correspondence, which, not- 
 withstanding the disparity of years, was grati- 
 fying to both. Hence the secrets of the moated 
 house were not unknown to her. Their history 
 produced a considerable effect upon her dispo- 
 sition towards the elder De Vere when alive, 
 whom she could not help regarding with an 
 indignation, which at her years was even sur- 
 prising — so early did she begin to feel the move- 
 ments of a generous heart. 
 
 At the early age of fifteen, such was her 
 energy, such the dignity of her manner, that, 
 all man of the world as he was, the elder De 
 Vere never saw her but he felt a constraint which 
 he did not like to confess. 
 
 As her years opened, and her mind unfolded, 
 this firmness and disposition to think for herself, 
 advanced in proportion ; and as her father was 
 very like his eldest nephew in character, so she 
 did not seem far from what has been described 
 as belonging to her aunt. 
 
 This made the oppression of the moated house 
 a constant theme of interest whenever she could
 
 DE VERE. 219 
 
 talk of it: and at any rate fixed it in her 
 thoughts ; so that the rustic Orson (as with all 
 his high qualities she could not help fancying 
 him), was uppermost with her, long, very long 
 before she thus met him. But she had had no 
 conception that nature alone could have done 
 so much for any man. She had been struck 
 with him before, when he eyed her in the dance, 
 and, (for we must confess that so it was) she 
 had felt something like a wish (an unconscious 
 one, perhaps, but still a wish,) that he might be 
 eyeing her with approbation. His person was 
 so markedly fine, and his countenance so full of 
 meaning, that she could not help wondering 
 who he was; and the look that has been de- 
 scribed, which she gave him in return for the 
 sort of unobvious involuntary bow which had 
 escaped from him on the discovery of her name, 
 was the effect of a secret hope which she could 
 not help entertaining, that he might be the 
 cousin she expected to see. 
 
 I have often heard De Vere say, that the 
 evening of the Litchfield ball was the most 
 exciting of his life ; that he never was so pleased, 
 or so anxious to please ; and that for hours he 
 was in delirium. His pleasure in his cousin was 
 then indeed unmixed, and it continued unal- 
 L 2
 
 ^20 DE VERE. 
 
 loyed for many of the first weeks of their 
 acquaintance ; during which, they visited Lady 
 Eleanor, at Talbois, and he accompanied them 
 to Castle Mowbray. It was here that Constance 
 disclosed to him all the sympathy his early 
 adversity had caused ; all the interest which, 
 even as a child, she had taken in his struggles, 
 and the approbation and almost admiration she 
 had given to the firm assertion of himself which 
 he had displayed. 
 
 Was Lady Constance wise in this ? I believe 
 not. But she was no common person. With a 
 gentleness that was delicious, she had high vir- 
 tues, and lofty qualities : and, without any 
 thing approaching to eccentricity, without de- 
 parting one point, or one instant from the purest 
 grace of modesty, her ingenuousness and natural 
 truth (most alive, and least timorous at her young 
 age), made disguise or concealment impossible. 
 She had no mother to advise with ; and exclu- 
 sive of this, her original and peculiar independ- 
 ence of mind, made her feel above the little 
 scruples (which we do not blame mothers for 
 inculcating), as to the confidence which ought 
 to exist between young persons of diiferent 
 sexes. 
 
 De Vere was little past five-and-twenty when
 
 DE VERE. 2j^1 
 
 the introduction at Litchfield took place, and he 
 afterwards spent near three months of the sum- 
 mer at Castle Mowbray ; a period most critical 
 to his feelings, if not to his destiny. If any 
 one doubt the possibiHty of this, let him read 
 no farther, for he knows not the heart of man. 
 If he does know it, he needs nothing to convince 
 him, that not merely three months, but three 
 days, nay, even three hours, may sometimes 
 suffice to produce what may ultimately influence 
 his character, and colour his fate. 
 
 But though the deep print of his cousin's 
 beauty, and still more of her grace, was stamped 
 on the imagination of De Vere in the very first 
 hour of their acquaintance, yet his was not a 
 heart to be won for ever, by the force of beauty 
 alone. 
 
 I know not, indeed, if the utmost dignity of 
 mien or countenance, is calculated to win more, 
 than that admiring respect, which was always 
 the first sentiment inspired by this heiress of 
 the Mowbrays. Something more winning soft, 
 more amiably mild, is necessary for love to 
 wind its way into the heart of man ; and this 
 winning softness, this amiable mildness, De Vere 
 found afterwards in his cousin, to the extent of 
 his wishes, with all beside which even his mind
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 could covet. A very few days, indeed, were 
 necessary to show that the imposing air, which 
 at first had so fixed him, by no means disclosed 
 the whole varied expression of her features, 
 much less developed the real nature of her 
 character. 
 
 A penetration, far beyond her years, yet 
 mingled with the greatest goodness, and a cheer- 
 fulness amounting sometimes even to archness, 
 had at least equal claims on his admiration. 
 Upon a first approach, especially if alone, there 
 was that look of sedateness, if not of languor, 
 which always attends the beautiful oval of 
 countenance, and forms what appears a pensive 
 brow. But the ahord over, and conversation 
 begun (if to her liking), the look of seriousness 
 was lost, and tints of such glowing animation 
 lighted up a mouth of rose and ivory mixed, 
 in such beautiful play, that no two faces could 
 seem so variable (I had almost said so unlike) 
 as that of the individual, but always lovely 
 Constance. Do I paint from fancy ? Alas ! No ! 
 I have seen it ! loved it ! lost it i 
 
 It w^as hence that in the world, Constance had 
 two characters. She was for ever elegant and 
 beautiful, because she could not change her 
 nature; always self-possessed, because always full
 
 DE VERE 
 
 of sense ; but the character of her beauty, and, 
 by consequence of her mind, was very differently 
 estimated. To persons who, from having no 
 character, were indifferent to her, or still more 
 if possessing one that excited her dislike, she 
 was lofty and distant. But to those she ap- 
 proved, and much more if she loved them, how 
 delightfully did she display her nature, in a 
 softness mixed with cheerfulness, which few 
 could withstand ! It was this that formed her 
 peculiar charm, and seemed a perpetual May, 
 spreading sunshine, and breathing balm on all 
 ai'ound. In truth she was a creature formed 
 alike to give lustre to a throne, or bless the 
 seclusion of the humblest lover.
 
 224 DE VERE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 She might lie by an emperor's side 
 And command him tasks. 
 
 Shakspkarr. 
 
 There was, at Castle Mowbray, a dairy- 
 house which De Vere's mother, in the days of 
 her favour with her father, had been allowed to 
 erect. It was not of marble, nor were the 
 dishes porcelain, such as befit a quality dairy, 
 in which a little fortune is sunk for ever to en- 
 able some duchess to play at milkmaids for an 
 hour. It reared a pretty, but moderate front, 
 on the green bank of a warbling brook, that 
 glided through the park, tributary to the Trent. 
 Hazles and copse- wood fringed its lower border, 
 while some lofty acacias prevented injury from 
 the meridian sun. A plot of velvet turf sur- 
 rounded the house, and this again was bordered
 
 DE vj:re. 2^5 
 
 with flowers, whose sweetness was fed upon by 
 a thousand bees» There were, at least, a score 
 of hives, from which this favourite spot was 
 as often called the apiary, as the dairy. From 
 the murmuring of the stream, the hum of the 
 insects, and the otherwise happy quiet of the 
 whole scene, it was a place where Virgil might 
 have sung till he forgot himself in sleep. 
 
 The keeping and elegance of the inclosure 
 were lost with Lady Eleanor ; though the dairy 
 was always known in the family, after her de- 
 parture, as her house. When Constance came, 
 it was overrun with weeds, yet it was a spot— 
 
 " Where once the garden smiled, 
 And still where many a garden flower grows wild." 
 
 It had been known and loved by Constance 
 in her childhood, when she visited it with her 
 aunt, and was sought out and restored, with all 
 the fondness of an old friend, when she returned 
 a woman to Castle Mowbray. 
 
 The improvements were not quite finished, 
 when De Vere accompanied the family from the 
 eventful race ball, and we may suppose that he 
 was not unobservant of the pleasure his cousin 
 felt, . and the taste she displayed in their com- 
 pletion. One small room, a garden parlour, of 
 I- 3
 
 S26 DE VERE. 
 
 which her aunt had been very fond, was restored 
 entirely to its former neatness, after having been 
 the lodge of one of the park-keepers ; and to 
 this she would often retire, particularly in the 
 heat of the day, to store her mind by study, or 
 meditate upon scenes that were past, or pro- 
 spects to come. She was, in truth, always very 
 happy in this seclusion. 
 
 This, however, did not at all interfere with 
 either her admiration or her enjoyment of the 
 fine old seat of her ancestors, the castle itself. 
 Without, there was a magnificent terrace, al- 
 most equal to Windsor or Bel voir, from the 
 vastness and beauty of its view. Within, the 
 proud towers and massive walls which overhung 
 the park, and which every traveller stopped to 
 view and longed to visit, were the containing 
 boundaries of suites of apartments, furnished in 
 all the costliness of ancient splendour. 
 
 '' You love all this, ma cousine^'' said Mor- 
 timer to her, one day, when she was admiring 
 the spaciousness of the ancient guard-room, now 
 converted into a saloon, and hung with the 
 gayest colours of Gobeline tapestry. 
 
 " I do,'' said she, " and so well, that I would 
 wish to fill it better than with so small a party 
 as ours. We seem lost in it."
 
 JDE VERE. * 227 
 
 "But yet you love the dairy-house?'' ob- 
 served Mortimer, with something like scrutiny. 
 
 " Oh, dear! yes ; love it dearly. My garden- 
 room is charmingly finished, and I give you 
 leave now to see it whenever, and as soon as 
 you please. In fact, I want your opinion. But 
 then I love this too," (and she looked round with 
 pleasure). " Indeed, as its inhabitant, I should 
 be sorry not to prefer it,**' 
 
 " As its present mistress, and destined owner, 
 I should be sorry too," said Mortimer. " In 
 other times you would have kept a little court 
 here, and been ^ the Cynosure of neighbouring 
 eyes.'" 
 
 " That would have been delightful," said 
 Constance; '* and we would have had tourna- 
 ments, and you should have been my knight." 
 
 " Gladly,"" answered De Vere ; " but w^hat 
 should we then have done with the dairy-house?" 
 
 " It would have made an excellent hermitage," 
 answered Constance, " and I would have gone 
 there every day to tell my beads, confess, and 
 be happy." 
 
 " And return to be happy at the castle ?" 
 
 " And why not ?" asked Constance. 
 
 " True," said Mortimer, and his countenance 
 somehow or another clouded.
 
 228 DE VERE. 
 
 Kesuming, after a pause, Constance pro- 
 ceeded, — 
 
 " I don't understand you, Mortimer, this 
 morning. Do you think it wrong to love the 
 honours of a castle, even though one may love 
 a dairy too ?'' 
 
 " Heaven forbid I" replied De Vere, with 
 fervour, "especially in one so formed to grace it." 
 
 " Nay, that is not what T meant," said Con- 
 stance ; " but I own I should like our tastes to 
 agree." 
 
 " They do," answered Mortimer, " I dehght 
 in the dairy-house, so do you." 
 
 '' Ay ! but I delight in the castle too, and so 
 ought you." 
 
 " The castle is not mine," replied De Vere. 
 
 " But you would like it if it were !" 
 
 " I suppose I should." 
 
 " And give fetes and balls, and do all that 
 the lord of a castle should do ? I am persuading 
 papa to do this, and hope to succeed." 
 
 '' Quite right," said Mortimer, thought- 
 fully. 
 
 " And you must stay and assist us, ' said Con- 
 stance, " and contrive a pageant, as in the days 
 of old we were talking of: bui mind, not with 
 that grave brow."
 
 DE VERE. 229 
 
 " Pageants are for courts," replied De Vere, 
 *' and I am afraid I am " 
 
 " A bad courtier,"*' interrupted Constance. 
 " Papa himself says so, and, indeed, I thought 
 you so myself, and was almost angry that you 
 would not stay in town when T came to be pre- 
 sented, though you had never seen me before." 
 
 " And did you like the court, Constance ?" 
 
 " Like it is a strong word," answered his 
 cousin ; " but 1 admired it : I thought it ele- 
 gant and splendid." 
 
 " And you love elegance and splendor ?"" 
 
 " Why yes, in their proper places, such as 
 the Drawing Room ; and especially when I 
 think of the gracious and graceful looks of her 
 to whom 1 went to pay my duty." 
 
 " She adorns her high station," observed 
 Mortimer, " as you^ my fair cousin, will 
 your's. I only wish you may be as happy as 
 you are rich and fair, and as, I am sure you 
 deserve to be." 
 
 So saying, he rather abruptly left her, not a 
 little surprised, indeed puzzled, to make out 
 many things he had said ; and still more the 
 particularity of manner with which he had said 
 them. 
 
 Mortimer^ however, went straight to the
 
 kSO DE VERE. 
 
 dairy-house, and on the strength of the leave 
 tliat had been given, sought out his cousin's 
 garden-room, in which, what struck him most, 
 was the appropriateness of its fitting. There 
 was no costUness or splendor ; and though 
 every thing was elegant as well as useful, the 
 elegance was of the most unexpensive kind. It 
 seemed as if its inhabitant had just left it. 
 Books lay open upon the table, and a Spanish 
 guitarre, with its broad ribbon rested, as if just 
 laid down on a chair, on which a collection of 
 Modinos, Notturnos, and Seguidillas,.was care- 
 lessly thrown by its side. The window, which 
 was casemented, and enriched with some old 
 painted glass, was open, and let in a delicious 
 song of birds : while both the eye and the 
 ear were dehghted by a reach of the brook, 
 which ran playfully sparkling and foaming 
 beneath. 
 
 De Vere took a chair which had been placed 
 in the very properest point of view, but had to 
 remove a volume of Sevigne's Letters, before 
 he could sit down. It opened at one, which 
 detailed Madame de Maintenon's reflections on 
 the melancholy grandeur of the court. The 
 occasion was the marriage of Mademoiselle 
 d' Orleans with the King of Spain, and these
 
 DE VEEE. ' 231 
 
 passages had been marked by the pencil of 
 Constance. 
 
 *' Tels sont les noirs chagrins qui voltigent 
 autour du trone. Qui pourroit voir, sans etre 
 emu, les rages des ambitieux, les desespoirs 
 des favorites, dans le terns que leurs places 
 ^paroissent si miraculeuses ; les tristes ennuies 
 des dames de Versailles, dont peut-etre la plus 
 enviee n'est pas la plus exempte ? Concluons 
 que dans ce pays pour peu de grandeur qu'on 
 ait, on en a toujours plus que de bonheur."" 
 
 De Vere was struck deeply with the sentiment, 
 and fell into a fit of musing, not merely on the 
 sentiment itself, but on what Constance thought 
 of it. That she had thought of it much, was clear, 
 for she had noted the passage, with her own 
 pretty hand, and in the same pretty hand ap- 
 peared on the paper she had used as a marker 
 in the book, the following little extract from 
 another French writer. 
 
 " N'avez-vous pas souvent|aux lieux infr^quentds, 
 RencoQtre tout a coup ces aspects enchantes 
 Qui suspendent vos pas, dont Timage ch^rie 
 Vous jette en unedouce et longue reverie?*'^ 
 
 " What a charm is there in this," exclaimed 
 De Vere, as he sallied into the little garden, and
 
 ^S)i DE VERE. 
 
 let himself down an abrupt short path, to the 
 side of the brook, the murmur of which never 
 seemed so soothing. 
 
 " I never will part with these lines. — And yet 
 what have I to do with them?" added he, safely 
 lodging them in his pocket-book. " Notwith- 
 standing these sentiments, she loves the court, 
 of which she is so formed to be the ornament, 
 while I am not born to be a courtier."" 
 
 " And yet why not," continued he, quicken- 
 ing his pace, *' and what forbids my rising there, 
 as well as Eustace.^ Even Clayton haunts it, 
 and begins to look high ; yet he has no such 
 incentive." 
 
 Now in this our friend was not quite so clear 
 sighted, as we wish him always to be; but 
 which, if we are true biographers, we shall be 
 forced to shew, in the progress of this history, 
 in some things he certainly was not. 
 
 Is it meant then, that Clayton could raise even 
 his eyes, much more his hopes, to such a person 
 as Lady Constance ? 
 
 With any thing like expectation, any thing of 
 plan, or intention, certainly not. But we have 
 failed in our contemplations of human nature, 
 and particularly failed in delineating Clayton's 
 character, if we have not shewn that the strongest
 
 DE VERE. 233 
 
 contrasts, nay contradictions, may sometimes be 
 found in the same bosom, and that very keen 
 susceptibilities are not always incompatible with 
 considerable laxity of principle. That Clayton 
 had an eye for beauty, and could feel even the 
 rapture of tenderness through all the avenues 
 to the soul, is no more than true ; although 
 beauty, rapture, and tenderness itself, could all 
 be abandoned in a moment, whenever the finger 
 of self-interest beckoned him away. While this 
 beckon was not perceived, and still more, if self- 
 interest lay in the same road with feeling, of 
 feeling no man had a prettier stock. In short, 
 no man went beyond him in that sort of sen- 
 timent which emanates from the imagination, 
 but has nothing to do with the heart. 
 
 That a person much less gifted in this way 
 than himselfj should not be able to see and con- 
 verse daily with Constance, without perceiving 
 some of that indefinable but sweet sensation 
 which, if not love, is for the most part its pre- 
 cursor, cannot be -surprising. That it should 
 make him humbly attentive, vigilant, and ob- 
 serving, and even jealous of the looks and move- 
 ments of the being that absorbed him, is also no 
 more than natural. But it required all his high 
 soaring ambition, in other words, all his as«^ur-
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 ance, to make it credible that he could look at 
 the Lady Constance, except as the lowest, the 
 most creeping, distant, and hopeless of her ad- 
 mirers. 
 
 But he had this assurance, nor let us hate him 
 for it. For where is the slave without hope ? 
 that friend of man, which softens, and even 
 almost balances evil ; which visits the dungeon, 
 and keeps the chain of the prisoner from galling 
 too heavily upon him ? Will it then deny itself 
 to love ? Was the thing even impossible ? Lord 
 Mowbray, it is true, was of the highest birth 
 — was rich and proud. But his pride was neither 
 of his ancestors, nor his riches ; but, strange to 
 say, of that official consequence and parlia- 
 mentary influence which were his darling, sole, 
 and absorbing objects. A man of office was, 
 therefore, to him at once a man of merit ; and 
 a skilful manager of a seat in parliament, equal 
 in honour to the most profound statesman. 
 Clayton was both, and had become more and 
 more necessary to him, as will be hereafter 
 shewn ; moreover, he was advancing in favour 
 with the ministers, and had obtained at the levee, 
 which he never missed, the regular notice of 
 royalty itself. As all this was done by smooth- 
 ness alone ; was he to despair of going farther ?
 
 D£ VKUE. iiS5 
 
 And if he did, was there any connection to which 
 a rising politician might not aspire ? If prece- 
 dents were necessary, they were furnished daily 
 by the marriages of commoners of high expec- 
 tations, (though at present only ministers of 
 ministers) with the daughters of the first nobility. 
 These events always played round the fancy of 
 the Parvenu : and let us not blame hira for this, 
 for there is such a happiness in love, that we 
 can blame no man for loving, even (could he do 
 60,) without hope : nor, if he cannot gather that 
 delicious food on the surface, should we be 
 averse to his seeking for it in the centre of the 
 earth ; or thinking it an easy leap to pluck it, 
 like honour, from the pale-faced moon. 
 
 Hopeful, or hopeless, Clayton in secret dreamt 
 sweet dreams of Lady Constance, as he saw in 
 distance, sweet visions of power. Nor did he, 
 like De Vere, balance on disparities ; though 
 unlike De Yere, he veiled, or endeavoured to 
 veil, his visions both of power and love, under 
 the volto sciolto, wliich nature had given them. 
 
 It was this volto sdolto which always im- 
 pressed his friend, though, extraordinary as it 
 may appear, it failed with his mistress. She 
 observed that he never conversed with the eye, 
 — which generally fell before those with whom
 
 XDb DE VERB. 
 
 he talked ; that when gayest, he never laughed 
 the hearfs laugh ; and when gravest^ he looked 
 no one in the face. 
 
 How brilliant was the contrast shewn by 
 Mortimer ; who, whatever the subject, always 
 sought her eye ; that eye which he rejoiced to 
 look into ; in whose sunshine he loved to bask, 
 and with which his own seemed never tired of 
 communing. 
 
 But these were dangerous moments to De 
 Vere, to whom we must now return. His scru- 
 tiny of his cousin went on, and without knowing 
 it, he felt soothed or uneasy, as she seemed most 
 to enjoy the bee-garden or the castle terrace. 
 Formed alike to be the ornament of both, he 
 admired her in the one, but loved her in the 
 other. When to the neighbouring gentry, she 
 did the honours of the castle, he was fascinated 
 by the ease with which splendor seemed to sit 
 upon her. But in the garden, among her 
 flowers, or by the brook side, when she talked 
 to him of the quiet and beauty of the scene, and 
 added something of the gratitude due to heaven 
 for its bounties, the castle and its honours 
 seemed forgotten by both, and her words ap- 
 peared to De Vere, to be "set off by some 
 superior power." It was the voice of nature
 
 DE VERE. * 237 
 
 Iierself, speaking in her sweetest and most silvery 
 accents. 
 
 They were indeed silvery accents to the heart 
 of De Vere ; but he checked himself when he 
 again looked at the towering battlements above, 
 and recollected that she who had so charmed 
 him in this little vale, was their high-born, noble, 
 and distinguished heiress. 
 
 '^ It w^re all one," said De Vere to himself, 
 
 * That I should love a bright particular star. 
 And think to wed it, she is so above me.' 
 
 And yet I am of her blood," would he add, 
 quickening his pace, though he knew not 
 where it would lead him; '' the honours, per- 
 haps the riches of the world, are, it is said, 
 open to me ; and why should I suppose that 
 path derogatory to honour, which so many 
 honourable men pursue ?" 
 
 Thus, strange to say, De Vere became much 
 more in love, or rather less out of humour with 
 public life, while in the very depth of a beauti- 
 ful seclusion ; and what the court and the senate 
 had failed to effect, w^as almost brought to per- 
 fection in rustic retirement. Constance mean- 
 time, though romantic, was not so romantic as 
 her cousin. She knew not the aspiring thoughts
 
 238 J)E VERE. 
 
 that had begun anew to possess him ; and as in 
 common with her family, she wished him to 
 pursue fortune in the world, she feared^ when 
 she observed his frequent visits to her garden, the 
 still powerful influence of his earher education. 
 
 '"• You are too fond of this little spot, my 
 cousin,^' said she to him one day, " and I shall 
 lock up the garden-room and its books, and 
 said you to work with papa and Mr. Clayton. 
 You shall read no more of Tasso till you have 
 earned it better than by reading Shakspeare.'"* 
 
 " And how should I earn it, my fair coz .?'*' 
 
 '' By helping papa on the state of the nation. 
 You know he says you are to be a statesman ; 
 and my cousin must succeed, nay, shine, in 
 whatever he undertake, or — " 
 
 " Or what, dear Constance ?^'' 
 
 " He will not be my cousin, — T mean that he 
 will not be himself," replied Constance. 
 
 '' Too flattering girl," returned De Vere, 
 " and too wild in me to listen. Have you so 
 soon forgot the quaint old stanzas which but 
 yesterday so pleased us both ? 
 
 ' I see how plentie surfeits oft. 
 And hastie clymbers soonest fall ; 
 1 see that such as sit aloft, 
 Mishap doth threaten most of all.
 
 D£ VERE. 239 
 
 The court, ne cart, I like ne loath. 
 Extremes are counted worst of all. 
 The golden mean betwixt them both. 
 Doth surest sit, and fears no fall.' "* "' 
 
 " No, Mortimer," leplied Constance, " I 
 have not forgotten these lines any more than 
 what I pointed out to you in the library, when 
 you took down that old Sir Robert Naunton, 
 and which you promised me to remember."" 
 
 " The account of Lord Willoughby,'' said 
 Mortimer. 
 
 " The same ; and I told you," added Con- 
 stance, smiling, " that I would make it haunt 
 you like a ghost ; so I have written it out, and 
 mean to have it framed and glazed for you, that 
 you may never forget your promise." 
 
 '• I can never forget a promise to you, Con- 
 stance," said Mortimer; ''but, pray let me see 
 the paper again." 
 
 " I will read it to you," replied Constance, 
 and so saying she took from her porte feuille, 
 the note she had made of the character of ' The 
 Brave Lord Willoughby.' 
 
 " ' Lord Willoughby was one of the queen's 
 
 * Antient Ballads. " My rainde to me a kingdom is," 
 and the '• Golden Meane."
 
 240 DE VERE. 
 
 best swordsmen ; he was a great master of the 
 art mihtary. I have heard it spoken, that had 
 he not shghted the court, but applied himself 
 to the queen, he might have enjoyed a plenti- 
 ful portion of her grace. It was his saying, and 
 it did Mm no good, that he was none of the 
 reptilia ; intimating that he could not creepe on 
 the ground.' There/' said Constance, playfully, 
 " you see it did him no good." 
 
 " And you would have me one of these rep- 
 tilia ?"" observed De Vere. 
 
 " I would have you in your place, my cousin," 
 answered the lady.—'*' Where your birth and 
 name require you, and where your duty to 
 your country, not more than to yourself, makes 
 it but right you should be." 
 
 " Duty to myself!" 
 
 " Yes ! for when men of no figure pursue it, 
 ought a De Vere to shrink from even claiming 
 fortune ?"" 
 
 " My sweet coz, I fear you speak to a man 
 who is out of suits with fortune ; and as to 
 claims, I believe those you are so good as to 
 give me, are not quite such as would be ac- 
 knowleged at Whitehall." 
 
 " Not if you resolve to think so," said Con- 
 stance, " and fall, with Lord Willoushbv. into
 
 DE VERE. 241 
 
 tlie vulgar mistake of calling every body there 
 by the name of reptilia.^'' 
 
 She gave him a lively smile as she said this, 
 and De Vere was too much occupied with the 
 beauty of that smile to answer ; so she went on, 
 but first changed to that impressive seriousness, 
 which always gave authority as well as sweetness 
 to her words. 
 
 " When your high-minded father went to 
 court," said she, ("as I have heard my dear 
 aunt say he often did, and was always well re- 
 ceived.) he was thought any thing but belonging 
 to the reptUmy 
 
 De Vere was always touched by everv thing 
 that related to his father, and fell instantly into 
 the gravest reflection. 
 
 " Nay !" cried Constance, " I did not mean 
 to make you melancholy by my sermon ; I only 
 wanted my, perhaps too proud, cousin, to assert 
 himself, by not throwing away what his supe- 
 riors — I mean," said she, (hesitating, and cor- 
 recting herself), " what richer people are very 
 glad to pick up." 
 
 " Dear Constance," said De Vere, " you are 
 very good to be so interested about me. I am 
 sure it will not be difficult to tempt me to court ; 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 DE VERE. 
 
 nay, the difficulty will be to keep me away, if 
 you are there." 
 
 " And you will condescend then to be am- 
 bitious ?'" 
 
 '' Certainly, if the object of it is fair." 
 " That's all I would have," said Constance ; 
 " and so now go and help papa with his 
 papers."'
 
 DE VERE. 243 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PLOTTING. 
 
 Thou wast not bound to answer 
 An unknown opposite. Thou art not vanquish'd. 
 But cozen'd and beguil'd. 
 
 Shakspkarb. 
 
 A VOLUME had been spoken in this little 
 conversation, which De Vere pondered again 
 and again. Never had his mind been so tost. 
 He asked himself if he loved ? but knew not 
 how to answer ; and would have asked if he 
 hoped to be loved again? but knew still less. 
 His heart, indeed, failed him, and he pursued 
 not the inquiry. " At any rate," said he, '^ I 
 will go to court, and get the better of my foolish 
 disgusts."" He even longed for the return of 
 the family to town, that he might cultivate the 
 minister, and apply himself to business, as a pre- 
 liminary to which, he intimated to Clayton his 
 wish, that his return to parhament might no 
 longer be delayed. 
 
 M 2
 
 244 DE VEEE. 
 
 Mr. Clayton received this intimation not quite 
 as was expected. He seemed even a little dis- 
 concerted ; while, not with his usual fluency, he 
 expressed how cheerfully he was ready to resign. 
 " Your uncle, however," added he, " may have 
 something to say to you about it : you will, of 
 course, consult him."" 
 
 " Of course," said De Vere ; and he sought 
 for Lord Mowbray immediately. 
 
 Mr. Clayton, however, was more successful in 
 finding him, as, indeed, he well might; for 
 knowing him to be shut up in his library, he had 
 directed De Vere to search for him in the park, 
 while he went straight to his patron himself. In 
 truth, things had passed, which made this de- 
 termination of De Vere the reverse of con- 
 venient, either to Lord Mowbray or his con- 
 fidant, for reasons which it may be now neces- 
 sary to explain. 
 
 The interest which, at the beginning of the 
 session, De Vere had taken in the debates, had 
 not given his uncle, any more than the Parvenu, 
 exactly the pleasure that might have been ex- 
 pected. Lord Mowbray had, in fact, early, and 
 with concern, observed what he called the stiff- 
 ness of character which his nephew displayed, 
 and which certainly did not decrease as years
 
 IViL VERE. S45 
 
 increased. He was always in alarm when he 
 heard him talk, particularly to public men, of 
 public measures. Of these, De Vere had his own 
 opinions, and he was at no pains to conceal 
 them. Lord Mowbray, too, had never forgot- 
 ten that memorable prophecy of Harclai, uttered 
 some years before, that whatever his connection 
 with ministers might be, if he disapproved their 
 measures, he would certainly oppose them. It 
 had haunted him ever since. With these fears, 
 he saw the approach of the time for his nephew's 
 entry into parliament with no pleasure, and un- 
 burthening himself upon it to his confidant, 
 asked his opinion. 
 
 That exemplary young man felt sorely divided, 
 by so cruel a question, between duty to his 
 patron, and feeling for his friend. But duty, as 
 it . ought, carried it, and he disclosed so many 
 instances of indiscreet opinions on the part of 
 De Vere, as perfectly petrified his uncle. 
 
 "It will ruin him," said Lord Mowbray, 
 '• nay, hurt my own interest as a part of the 
 government. He lives, too, you say, as much 
 with the opposition as the administration ?" 
 
 " I am bound to own he does," said Clay- 
 ton.
 
 JSJ46 DE VERE. 
 
 " Absurd and detestable," cried Lord Mow- 
 bray. 
 
 *' Nay," observed Clayton, assuming cheer- 
 fulness, after a great deal of gloom ; " you 
 should allow for his warmth, his generous en- 
 thusiasm." 
 
 " Curse on enthusiasm !" exclaimed Lord 
 Mowbray. " What has it to do with politics .f*^' 
 
 " His principle, however,"" proceeded Clay- 
 ton, " is merely this — Measures, not men." 
 
 *' The most absurd principle that ever came 
 into a man's head," answered the earl. " If the 
 minister know this, he will be ruined past re- 
 demption. There is no saying how far this may 
 hurt Mortimer, hurt his mother, nay, myself, 
 and for the sake of our whole family interest, I 
 wish I could even keep him out of parliament, at 
 least till he knov/s better.'"* 
 
 " But for one thing," observed Clayton, " I 
 should agree with your lordship.*' 
 
 "What is that?" 
 
 " Obviously that I am the person to profit by 
 it." 
 
 " Silly !"" cried Lord Mowbray, " you are as 
 foolish and romantic as himself." 
 
 Mr. Clayton then again assuming a melancholy
 
 DE VERE. 247 
 
 air, and hesitating almost to stammering, asked 
 Lord Mowbray if he was serious in his wish ; 
 and upon being assured that he was so, after 
 many excuses for having locked up a secret of 
 such importance in his own breast, he informed 
 his patron, that, even if he did not entertain this 
 wish, he feared it was by no means clear that 
 Mr. De Vere could command his election, should 
 he, Clayton, be called upon to vacate. 
 
 The astonished earl, in unspeakable alarm, 
 demanded explanation, and with a mixed feeling 
 of horror and consolation, heard that a spirit of 
 opposition to the De Veres, as patrons of the 
 borough, had long been secretly fostered among 
 the voters, though they would gladly attend to 
 the nomination of Lord Mowbray. " So that 
 in fact,*' continued the secretary, " it is but 
 changing one part of the family for another, 
 though the appearance it would have, would, I 
 own, be dreadful ; and this was one reason why 
 I have been so loath to mention it to your lord- 
 ship." 
 
 Recovered a little from his terror, Clayton 
 was glad to discover more of surprise than anger 
 in his patron, on this communication : for we 
 are here bound to own the truth, that something 
 like this very change had glanced through Lord
 
 5348 BE VERE. 
 
 Mowbray's brain, when he first visited his sister 
 and nephew at Talbois, as related in a former 
 chapter. 
 
 " And why will they not hear of a De Vere ?" 
 asked Lord Mowbray. 
 
 *' They say that the late General," answered 
 Clayton, " from being always in opposition, 
 deprived them of their fair expectations from 
 government ; that the present Mr. De Vere had 
 never once been near them, leaving it all to me 
 to represent them with your lordship, and even 
 if elected, they were not sure that he would not 
 tread in his father's steps. In short, they de- 
 clare — but I really feel afraid to say what they 
 declare, and my friendship for Mr. De Vere is 
 hurt to the quick at it." 
 
 '« My good Clayton,*" answered Lord Mow- 
 bray, " you are bound, even for his sake, to 
 disclose it." 
 
 "True,'* said Clayton. "They declare, 
 then, they will not return Mr. De Vere at all ; 
 but w^ould be happy to preserve me as their re- 
 presentative in parliament, and their represen- 
 tative with your lordship as to all the wants of 
 the borough; and when I firmly protested 
 against this as dishonourable to Mr. De Vere, as 
 a thing you would never consent to — "
 
 DE VEllE. 249 
 
 " Were you right in going quite so far ?" said 
 Lord Mowbray. 
 
 " They declared if you would not accept 
 them, they would throw themselves into the 
 hands of Lord Cleveland, who, your lordship 
 knows, has some property himself in the borough, 
 and has long paid a sort of court to Mr. De 
 Vere, whether for his sake personally, or to 
 manage the borough for him, I never could 
 make out." 
 
 '^ This is a serious dilemma," said Lord 
 Mowbray, "and greatly alters the case. For 
 you see, if we refuse, it will not be to benefit 
 my nephew, and he himself would not be for 
 abandoning the family interest. But, at all 
 events, even with my nomination, you say they 
 refuse him.'' 
 
 "Positively!" 
 
 " Yet he is the sole freeholder of the borough, 
 and they only hold their burgages from him.*' 
 
 " That was my hope," answered Clayton, 
 " and I represented it to them. But in truth, 
 my dear lord, they are bad, very bad men."" 
 
 " Why they surely would not keep their free- 
 holds, spite of those who made them.'' 
 
 " Too true," answered Clayton. 
 M 3
 
 250 DE VERE. 
 
 " And you have not mentioned this to Mor- 
 timer r 
 
 " Scarcely ; when, till now, I have not opened 
 it to your lordship's self. But, in truth, if you 
 will forgive my zealous plainness, I feared his 
 imprudence ; for I have no doubt he would have 
 left them for ever, in a fit of disgust, (if not, 
 from his sense of propriety), and even have re- 
 fused to take legal measures to make them sur- 
 render. Indeed they would have been fruitless, 
 for I am told they are all freeholders in law.** 
 
 " They certainly are^ and I am really em- 
 barrassed," observed the earl, yet smoothing 
 his front. "We cannot be too cautious; we 
 must break the thing by degrees to my nephew. 
 Could his return be postponed till a general 
 election something might yet be done ; but he 
 expects, and is earnest, no doubt, to come in 
 immediately." 
 
 " I have a thought," said Clayton, " but it is 
 a mere thought — "" 
 
 " My dear Clayton, what is it ?" 
 
 " That he is not so bent upon it as he was at 
 first; nay, that office itself at home, has not 
 such charms for him." 
 
 He then explained to the more and more sur-
 
 DE VERE. ' 251 
 
 prised Lord Mowbray, that from his often ex- 
 pressed admiration of Sir William Temple, both 
 as a public and private man, and something very 
 like an opinion that his was the model on which 
 he would wish to form himself, he thought De 
 Vere might be easily induced to adopt the honour- 
 able career of diplomacy, though it might exile 
 him for some time abroad, rather than pursue 
 the up-hill, and, to him, difficult path at home. 
 
 A flash of light seemed to come across Lord 
 Mowbray, and he exclaimed, " An excellent 
 thought, my dear Clayton, an excellent thought f 
 And immediately the whole management and 
 transfer of the borough, through Clayton's as- 
 sistance, from the De Vere to the Mowbray 
 branch of the family, laid a clinching hold of 
 his lordship's imagination. 
 
 From all this, the reader will perhaps be not 
 surprised, that De Vere's new determination 
 was not very pleasant to his uncle, any more 
 than to the secretary. 
 
 Lord Mowbray, however, was put to still 
 greater inconvenience, when his nephew, in 
 addition to his wish respecting the seat, inquired 
 rather eagerly whether his uncle had been so 
 kind as to mention him to the Premier, and with 
 what results. We may judge De Vere's sur-
 
 252 DE VERE. 
 
 prise, when he was told, that, except in talking 
 of him to the minister as a person likely to sup- 
 port him, when he should come into parliament, 
 he had not opened the subject. In excuse he 
 said the matter was too delicate to be hurried ; 
 that the Premier, though enlightened, was 
 distant and haughty, and that even his nearest 
 colleagues were sometimes afraid of asking things 
 of him. 
 
 It is certain Lord Mowbray was afraid of 
 him at any time ; for with all his high notions 
 of himself, he knew that but for his members, 
 he would not be tolerated for a moment. He 
 therefore shrank before the inquiry of De Vere, 
 in a manner almost to move his pity, and cer- 
 tainly to silence him. 
 
 " I wish,'" said Lord Mowbray, *' you would 
 let your friend Clayton talk over the whole 
 subject with you." 
 
 De Vere assented, and much to his annoyance, 
 this faithful friend had the agreeable duty cast 
 upon him, of fitting the snare he had himself 
 woven for his unsuspecting victim. 
 
 In regard to the seat, as it luckily was during 
 a prorogation, no election could then take place ; 
 and could the diplomatic project be brought to 
 bear, as it probably then would not be such an
 
 DE VERK. ^53 
 
 object to De Vere, Mr. Clayton very wisely 
 resolved not to mention the mutiny in the 
 borough, but to direct the whole force of his 
 genius to turn his friend's views to a foreign 
 mission. 
 
 In this, he in part succeeded, and might have 
 done so entirely, but for one obstacle. In the 
 t/ien state of his heart, De Vere could not bear 
 the thought of a separation from Constance. 
 
 This obstacle was suspected, if not penetrated 
 by the Parvenu ; who, however it appalled him 
 on one account, was not without consolation 
 for it on another ; as in the changes and chances 
 of affairs he hoped that such a secret might be 
 turned to profit. Was old Harclai so wrong, 
 then, in calling a spider's web an epitome of the 
 world.'' If all were like the Parvenu, certainly 
 not ; but, thank God, that is not so. 
 
 The conference between the two friends 
 ended in De Vere's promising at least to think 
 of diplomacy, to which he was not really averse ; 
 and as for the election, to the great joy both of 
 the secretary and his patron, it was postponed as 
 premature. 
 
 That day at dinner nothing could exceed 
 the good humour of the earl, who, after several 
 allusions, when the servants had withdrawn.
 
 254 DE VEKE. 
 
 filled a glass to his Excellency's health. De Vei-e 
 smiled, and Constance looked surprised, and 
 more than surprised, when she heard of the 
 embryo plans that had closed the morning. 
 
 " We had not settled this in the bee garden,'' 
 said Constance to herself, and became thoughtful 
 for the rest of the night. 
 
 The next day there was a riding party in the 
 park. Lord Mowbray, as usual, engrossed his 
 secretary, and trotted on. De Vere and his cou- 
 sin, not as usual, loitered behind. Yet De Vere 
 sought in vain to draw her out. She was still 
 thoughtful and occupied. At length, after a 
 pause, " Tell me," she said, " cousin Mortimer, 
 if I may ask, how this thing has come about ? 
 Was diplomacy your own proposal, or did you 
 adopt it from another .?" 
 
 '' I scarcely know," answered Mortimer, "it 
 arose out of general talk. I believe Clayton 
 mentioned, and I listened to it." 
 
 " Listened ! then it is not so settled a thing ?'*' 
 
 " O, no ! I found that it lay more within my 
 uncle's compass ; and, to tell the truth, my fair 
 coz, I thought it would place me more out of 
 reach of the reptilia^ so I encouraged, or rather 
 did not discourage it." 
 
 " I hate reptUia as much as you," replied
 
 DE VERE. ^55 
 
 Constance ; " but I do not, as you do, believe 
 all public persons to be 7'e.ptilia. I can think 
 high people very high characters; and — "" 
 
 " And what ?'"* cried Mortimer, observing her 
 to pause. 
 
 " And low people very low characters. So 
 now tell me about the seat, and Mr. Clayton." 
 
 " A strange association," cried De Vere. 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but tell me, does Mr. Clayton 
 immediately vacate ?''^ 
 
 " He cannot," returned De Vere ; " or, at 
 least, I could not be elected till the meeting of 
 parliament, which is far off." 
 
 " Meantime, you may be sent to a foreign 
 court," said Constance. 
 
 " I may, if I pursue the plan, and sacrifice 
 the dairy-house to ambition, which, I suppose," 
 (giving a sigh,) " I must do." 
 
 Constance was almost disconcerted, but pur- 
 suing her inquiry, asked whether, though he 
 went abroad, he still meant to come into parlia- 
 ment ? 
 
 " Every thing is so unsettled," replied he, 
 " that I know not my fate ; but there seems 
 something in the argument, that at least while 
 abroad, it would be almost unfair to the govern- 
 ment to deprive them of the seat."
 
 2[)6 J)E VERE. 
 
 " And tins argument was used by — " 
 " Clayton," continued Mortimer, " who cer- 
 tainly seems to reason very sensibly about it.'^ 
 
 " I am satisfied, my cousin," said Constance, 
 " let us gallop."
 
 DE VERE. 257 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 UNCERTAINTIES. 
 
 Lovers cannot see 
 The pretty follies that themselves commit. 
 
 SliAKSPEARK. 
 
 Lady Eleanor now joined the party at Castle 
 ^lowbray, much to the pleasure of her son and 
 of Constance, who most entirely loved her ; and 
 yet for several days there was much pensive- 
 ness on the part of Constance, and more than 
 pensiveness on that of De Vere. He even 
 seemed almost to avoid his cousin, and was evi- 
 dently absorbed in mental abstraction. Clayton 
 took advantage of his frequent absence, and put 
 all his insinuating powers in requisition, to please 
 he daughter of his patron. 
 
 To his mortification, he did not succeed, nor 
 could he imderstand any more than feel gra- 
 tified with a look and manner which seemed to 
 searcli him through. In particular, he most
 
 258 DE VERB. 
 
 extremely disliked, and tasked his skill in 
 vain to detach her from the only subject on 
 which she seemed willing to converse with him, 
 namely, the management of the De Vere interest 
 in the borough. About this, she not only dis- 
 played a very disagreeable curiosity, but a very 
 inconvenient portion of information, as it related 
 to the fidelity or wavering of particular voters ; 
 and frequently annoyed her humble admirer by 
 asking his opinion whether somebody was not 
 machinating against his single-hearted friend: 
 and whether he would not and ought not to 
 advise him to pass some time on the spot, in 
 order to guard against treachery ? Clayton as- 
 sured her it was not necessary, but was on thorns 
 to discover the sources of her evident informa- 
 tion, in which, however, he was altogether un- 
 successful. 
 
 Lady Eleanor, meantime, was too much oc- 
 cupied in observing her son, to interfere in the 
 borough politics; which, indeed, were not her 
 forte. At first she thought De Vere so busy 
 with his new object of diplomacy, as to account 
 for the abstraction which had increased upon 
 him. But her penetration, as well as her interest 
 about him, were too keen to be satisfied ; and 
 when she viewed the beauty of her niece, and
 
 DE VERE. 259 
 
 felt the charm of her mind, from her own ad- 
 miration, and the knowledge she had of her son, 
 she had little doubt how it was witli him. It 
 caused her the most lively uneasiness. " A De 
 Vere and a Mowbray conjoined," said she, 
 '• might pretend to any Mowbray alone, — but 
 Talbois and the castle can never be allied." 
 Much, however, as she observed her son, she 
 was little desirous of opening the subject to him. 
 " Poor fellow !" said she, " I see the contest of 
 his mind : but it is a mind I will not affront, by 
 presuming to interfere ; for Mortimer is the 
 soul of honour." She naturally, too, observed 
 the demeanour of her niece, and found her also 
 busied; but it was chiefly (and she thought it 
 strange) with the scrutiny of Clayton. 
 
 As to De Vere, what was chiefly remark- 
 able, was, that he no longer visited the apiary. 
 For this, the season was an excuse, if he had had 
 no other — though never did sportsman so abuse 
 his opportunities. Reflection and soliloquy 
 seemed the game for him, of which the other 
 game successfully profited, by generall}^ es- 
 caping him. 
 
 " Were she portionless and untitled," said 
 he to himself one day, in the September stubbles.
 
 260 DE VEllE, 
 
 which he affected to beat ; " were she even the 
 daughter of the peasant that follows mcj and 
 does my bidding, I might give way. As it is, I 
 admire you, my fair cousin ; but as for love, I 
 am in armour of proof."' So saying, he looked 
 around him, and snuffed the air with a momen- 
 tary elevation of defiance, which, considering 
 what was going forward, perfectly astonished 
 the gamekeeper in attendance. For all the dogs 
 were at that moment in the midst of a point, so 
 that the very silence gave " dreadful note of 
 preparation." But nothing of this was even seen 
 by De Vere, who w^as lost in other thoughts ; and 
 at that instant a covey of birds flew up so close 
 to his foot, and he fired as he thought so exactly 
 into the midst of them, covering at least half a 
 dozen, tliat he expected to see them almost all 
 fall. 
 
 ** Ye fired too low by a yard, and too soon 
 by half a minute," cried the gamekeeper. 
 
 " Impossible !" said the amazed De Vere. 
 
 " But ye did, though,'' contiiaied the game- 
 keeper (who had taught him when a boy at 
 Talbois), " and I never seed ye shoot so bad." 
 
 " I cannot shoot to-day, Robin," said De 
 Vere, " I will go home."
 
 1)E VEIIE. 261 
 
 " And yet ye promised my young lady a 
 brace of plump ones,"" answered, Robin, "when 
 she patted Juno, and came out to see us off." 
 
 " True, Robin," said De Vere ; " but I have 
 now missed three times, — this is not a shooting 
 day with me."*' 
 
 " It used not to be so at Talbois — God bless 
 the old place ! — when you walked as fast as 
 the dogs, and shot as well as me," said Robin 
 " But come, faint-heart never won," (De Vere 
 rather smiled,) " we'll do better next time.'" 
 
 " Not to-day," said De Vere, throwing the 
 butt end of his piece over his shoulder, and 
 leaving friend Robin to follow the sport. " I 
 would much rather hunt my own thoughts 
 here," continued he, when alone, and plunging 
 into a recess near the castle, called the wilder- 
 ness, " I would much rather — 
 
 * Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes, 
 A sigh that, piercing, mortifies, 
 A look that's fastened to the ground, 
 A tongue chained up without a sound.' " 
 
 But here he was disappointed; for he had 
 not been seated on the bench he sought five 
 minutes, before voices and footsteps shewed that
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 company was near, and this company consisted 
 of his mother, Lady Constance, and Clayton. 
 
 *' So soon returned !" said Lady Eleanor. 
 
 '* Rather so late," answered De Vere, " for 
 I shot so ill, I wonder 1 did not give it up 
 sooner." 
 
 " And have you so little perseverance?" 
 
 '' I cannot persevere when I know it is boot- 
 less," replied De Vere. 
 
 " And yet you do not in general take ' boot- 
 less ' so easily for granted," said his mother. 
 
 " You did not do so at Talbois,*" added Con- 
 stance, in a tone of raillery. " But that was 
 when you were in the full enjoyment of youth 
 and liberty ; now you are old and tired, and have 
 a right to repose. You have at least brought 
 me my birds ?" 
 
 " Not even that, my fair cousin. In truth 
 there seemed a spell over me to-day, and what I 
 could not accomplish, I thought it best to fly." 
 
 There seemed to be a meaning in the tone 
 with which he said this, and Constance an- 
 swered : 
 
 " Very philosophical, indeed ; I wish you joy 
 of your nonchalance,''' and then fell to playing 
 unconsciously with her glove.
 
 DE VERE. 26ri 
 
 " Nonchalance /" cried De Vere, with some 
 emotion. 
 
 ** Yes, and Mr. Clayton admires you for it ; 
 so if you have any to spare, bestow it upon him. 
 He says he is uneasy from too much feeling." 
 
 *' I am in the clouds," said Mortimer. 
 
 "And I," cried Clayton, breaking silence. 
 
 " Mr. Clayton," said Lady Eleanor, " has 
 been quite enthusiastic just now, in lamenting 
 the inconveniences of enthusiasm. He says it 
 often leads him to hope impossibilities, and cling 
 to his hope, though sure to be disappointed." 
 
 "^ A happy creed," said Mortimer, " and I 
 could envy him ''"' 
 
 " Envy him !" cried Constance, with quick- 
 ness. 
 
 " My son should envy no one," observed 
 Lady Eleanor. 
 
 " Strange if he did," exclaimed Clayton, 
 " when all the world is before him where to 
 choose. Stranger still, to envy one like me." 
 
 Here, Mr. Clayton chose to look down and 
 sigh ; and Constance looked up, with an air of 
 displeasure, not usual with her. 
 
 " Come," said Lady Eleanor, " you are all 
 too young to be philosophers ; and I do not 
 know what has come over either you, Mortimer,
 
 264 DE VERE. 
 
 or your friend, Mr. Clayton. You are certainly 
 not such good company as you used to be in the 
 country. But politics have spoiled you both ; 
 and we shall certainly banish you into the world 
 again ; for you seem tired of us, and all the 
 other insipidities of retreat." 
 
 De Vere laughed, and Clayton was about to 
 reply, and had planned some very pretty com- 
 pliments upon it, when a servant coming with a 
 summons for him from Lord Mowbray, deprived 
 the party of their compliments, and the compli- 
 menter into the bargain. 
 
 " Say what you will, Mortimer,"" said Con- 
 stance, when he was gone, " I do not like your 
 friend : nor do 1 know what it is in him that has 
 so fascinated you and my father." 
 
 " We think him an honest and grateful fel- 
 low," replied Mortimer, " greatly attached to 
 me, and through me, to my uncle." 
 
 " Have a care," returned Constance, smiling, 
 " that you do not find it is only for your uncle^s 
 sake that you yourself are liked : or at any rate 
 that he is a little of the cat kind, attached to the 
 house rather than the master." 
 
 Lady Eleanor looked surprised, and would 
 have spoken, had not her son interrupted her. 
 
 «* I am always afraid of you, Constance," said
 
 UE VERE. 265 
 
 he, " when you are in your severities, for I fear 
 my turn will come next." 
 
 *' You afraid of me, Mortimer ?" 
 
 " Yes, for are you not the most fastidious 
 princess upon earth ; and do you not require a 
 perfection in your subjects to which no mortal 
 can attain ? It was but the other day, that you 
 did not like Lord Cleveland." 
 
 " And do you like Lord Cleveland P'" 
 
 " We are not much alike, I believe," replied 
 Mortimer. 
 
 '^ Ah ! how unlike, as well as to this Clay- 
 ton," rejoined Lady Constance. 
 
 Mortimer felt pleased ; but, resolving to try 
 his cousin a little more, he went on. " Do you 
 know what Lord Cleveland has said of you 
 since you were so distant to him, as I heard you 
 were, in town?" 
 
 *•' It concerns me little," observed Constance, 
 cohily. 
 
 " NeverthelesSy you shall hear," replied De 
 Vere, " for it was thought witty." 
 
 " And, no doubt, impertinent," rejoined Con- 
 stance. 
 
 "On the contrary, complimentary ; for he 
 said you were like the beautiful marble of your 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 ^66 DE VERB. 
 
 own beautiful bust, as smooth and as polished, 
 but as hard and as cold." 
 
 Lady Eleanor gave Mortimer a penetrating 
 look at this speech, in which there was as much 
 uneasiness as inquiry. 
 
 " Lord Cleveland is welcome to his opinion," 
 said Lady Constance, with composure, " pro- 
 vided all the world do not agree with him." 
 
 " I fear poor Clayton will, if you abuse him 
 as you did just now." 
 
 " I will be obliged to you, Mortimer," re- 
 turned the lady, "not to name Mr. Clayton 
 again with such associates, even in jest." 
 
 " Nor Lord Cleveland .?" 
 
 " Neither of them," answered Constance. 
 " What I observe in the first is too little to 
 my taste, and the character of the latter too 
 much to my distaste, to feel myself honoured 
 by their names." 
 
 " You are grave, dear Constance." 
 
 " And you teazing, Mortimer." 
 
 '' What shall I talk of to please you ?" 
 
 " Tell me more of the moated house," replied 
 Constance. 
 
 Lady Eleanor watched this conversation with 
 interest, for she knew that the moated house
 
 DE VERt:. 267 
 
 was a subject always pleasing to her niece, who 
 had listened again and aojain to the account of 
 the swelling of Mortimer's heart under the 
 tyranny of his ^Srother— of his efforts to set 
 himself free — his self-education and irregular 
 studies — and the pleasure, after all, which the 
 liberty of his sylvan life gave him in roaming 
 where he pleased, but particularly through the 
 forest of Need wood. 
 
 " I must see more of that forest," said Lady 
 Constance. 
 
 " I believe I am acquainted with every tree 
 in it," replied Mortimer, " and shall be glad to 
 introduce you." 
 
 '' My father shall build a cottage near to 
 Talbois," said Constance, " but deeper in the 
 woods ; and could I find a Celia, I would be a 
 Rosalind." 
 
 " Would that be necessary," said Mortimer, 
 with hesitating curiosity, " when Talbois is at 
 hand .'* I mean when my mother would be so 
 glad to receive you." 
 
 His mother listened to this, with the deepest 
 attention, still not unmixed with anxiety, and 
 she searched in the eyes both of Mortimer 
 and Constance for the truth of their position 
 together. 
 
 N 2
 
 ^6S DE VERE. 
 
 Spite of her uneasiness, however, she could 
 not but feel pleased at an embrace by Constance, 
 accompanied by an exclamation, '' Talbois is a 
 dear place, and my aunt a dear woman ; I must 
 always think it interesting, if only for having 
 had such an Orson chained there. But I love 
 it for its own sake^ its retirement, and quaint- 
 ness ; I could even sometimes, (but mind only 
 sometimes,) love it better than all these piles of 
 grandeur about us." 
 
 " You love retirement and quaintness — i/otc 
 prefer the humble Talbois ?" cried Mortimer. 
 
 " Shock not the spirits of the De Veres," 
 cried Constance, laughing. " Shock not de- 
 parted princes, by talking of humility."'"* 
 
 *•' And yet have I not that to make me hum- 
 ble ?" replied Mortimer. 
 
 " I know it notj"" said Constance, with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 ^' Nor I," echoed Lady Eleanor, " not even 
 the scantiness of your fortune ought to make 
 you humble, when we recollect,'"* (and she here 
 looked somewhat loftily) " by what, and by 
 whom it was occasioned." 
 
 Constance here again took the hand of her 
 aunt, of whose elevation she seemed even to 
 partake, though arising from that which had
 
 DE VERE. 269 
 
 reduced her worldly circumstances to absolute 
 mediocrity, 
 
 *' Yes, yes, I am humble enough/"' resumed 
 Mortimer, " though I have also that," added 
 he, in a higher tone, " might give one pride ;''' 
 and he fixed his eyes upon Constance with an 
 ardour, and almost a freedom he had never used 
 before. 
 
 " And what is that, cousin Mortimer ?" asked 
 Constance, ahiiost disconcerted. 
 
 ''A mind," answered he, "to distinguish 
 and adore merit, and a heart to feel beauty ; 
 yet a firmness to brave all, if it be right, and 
 duty to the possessor of them require it." 
 
 Lady Eleanor let fall some tears, spite of her 
 self-command ; and with all her self-possession, 
 the cheek of Constance was rosied over with 
 blushes at this speech, which seemed to frighten 
 Mortimer himself. He felt it, and to divert its 
 effects he again rallied his cousin upon what he 
 called her affected love of moderation^ and the 
 preference she had asserted, even though only 
 sometimes of such a forest-seat as Talbois, to the 
 pride and glories of the commanding castle. 
 
 " And why should I not prefer it?" asked 
 Constance, trying to recover herself.
 
 270 DE VERE. 
 
 " Simply because you are the acknowledged 
 queen of the Opera and Grosvenor- square, and 
 can have nothing to do with Rosalinds and 
 Celias, and the native burghers of the forest. 
 Beauty, you know, — 
 
 * Is nature's brag, and should be shewn 
 In courts, and feasts, and high solemnities, 
 Where most may wonder at the workmanship.' 
 
 So thinks Lord Cleveland, and therefore he seeks 
 you, my fair cousin." 
 
 " Seeks her!" " Seeks me !" cried Lady Elea- 
 nor and her niece, both in a breath. 
 
 De Vere then asked them if it was possible, 
 Lord Mowbray had not communicated to them 
 Lord Cleveland's answer to a letter, which, by 
 his uncle's desire, he, De Vere, had written to 
 him two days before? 
 
 " You write to Lord Cleveland about me, 
 Mortimer, and by my father's desire, and not 
 inform me of it !" and she looked much discon- 
 certed. 
 
 " Nay, sweet coz,'*' said De Vere, " do not 
 punish me with such a look. It was but a sim- 
 ple invitation to the castle, of which, as its lady, 
 I concluded its lord had apprised you."
 
 DE VERE. 271 
 
 " But how came the mvitatioii ?" asked Con- 
 stance, " and to such a man ? Believe me it 
 gives me no pleasure." 
 
 " Such a man !" exclaimed De Vere : " Is 
 it thus you talk of your own near kinsman, the 
 monarch of fashion, and as I have been told by 
 Clayton " 
 
 " Mr. Clayton again!" 
 
 " Yes, Clayton : who declares that during the 
 single month of your reign after you were pre- 
 sented last spring, no one ever made so many 
 conquests, and no conquest so illustrious as that 
 of Lord Cleveland." 
 
 Serious or jesting, Constance seemed far from 
 being pleased with this tone of her cousin, and 
 Lady Eleanor herself begged him to put an end 
 to it, by saying how things really were. Mor- 
 timer complied, and it seemed, that Lord Mow- 
 bray had really employed his nephew to send 
 the invitation we have mentioned. 
 
 But I fear much ground must be gone over 
 ere we can set this matter before the reader 
 in all the perspicuity we wish. For Lord 
 Cleveland had encouraged a sort of intimacy 
 with De Vere, (or rather he had given him 
 an opening to one if he pleased) even from 
 the days of his emerging from the confine-
 
 272 DE VERE. 
 
 merit of the moated house. His lordship 
 thought he might make what he called a pretty 
 fellow, and from his connection with him, was, at 
 one time, even willing to produce him in the 
 world ; an advantage of which few but knew 
 the benefit, and which all aspiring young men 
 envied, but of which, some how or another, De 
 Vere did not profit, as it was said he ought to 
 have done. 
 
 Lord Cleveland, however, as much the 
 senior in age, had sometimes favoured him 
 with instructions both in politics and supreme 
 hon ton; of which last, as De Vere had said, 
 he was the undisputed sovereign. He had 
 even now and then written to him with easy 
 friendliness. Probably, he might have had other 
 motives for this than appeared in the letters 
 themselves. But be that as it will, both the 
 friendship and the correspondence languished, 
 and was only occasionally revived. 
 
 Lord Cleveland, however, is much too im- 
 portant and too decided a personage to be intro- 
 duced to the reader at the end of a chapter ; or, 
 indeed, any where but in a chapter of his own. 
 We therefore close the present one to open in 
 another, perhaps the most illustrious character 
 of our whole biography.
 
 DE VEUE. ^21 Q 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A MAGXIFICO OF THE FIRST CLASS. 
 
 The Duke is marvellous little beholden to your report. 
 
 Smaksfearf. 
 
 Sir, I commend you to your own content. 
 
 He that commends me to my own content, 
 Commends me to at'iiug 1 cannot got. 
 
 SH-iKSFEARE. 
 
 The Earl of Cleveland was a cousin, only 
 some once or twice removed from the Earl of 
 Mowbray, who, through his mother, derived a 
 very considerable proportion of his estates from 
 the Cleveland family. Sprung from one of the 
 most powerful and ancient lineages of the king- 
 dom, he ranked, if not first, yet among the very 
 first of the nobility; and to this he added a 
 fortune, which indulgent as he was to a very 
 magnificent taste, he knew well how to preserve. 
 It vvas observed, indeed, that however great his 
 expences, they were all of a personal nature, 
 N 3
 
 274 1)E VERE. 
 
 instruments of his power, or of his pleasures ; and 
 that no great pubhc institution, or national esta- 
 bUshment, and still Jess that private charities, 
 had ever benefited by his vast wealth. He was 
 endowed with great and comprehensive talents : 
 had a shrewdness and reach of understanding 
 which few could equal, and which was well 
 turned to account, both on the turf and at the 
 card-table, as well as in the closet, not merely 
 of the minister, but of the highest personage of 
 the realm. This, and a ver}^ active propensity 
 to party politics, had made him, though not at 
 present in the administration, alLpowerful with 
 the minister. 
 
 It was said, indeed, that he rode the ad- 
 ministration (as he certainly did their subal- 
 terns) with a hard and heavy curb, which he 
 seldom relaxed, till he carried whatever object 
 he had before him. In doing this, he had not 
 unfrequently changed his line of action, and 
 was court to-day or country to-morrow, with a 
 most fearless contempt of the animadversions to 
 which such conduct exposed him. Nor did this 
 proceed from meanness, so much as from the ab- 
 solute loftiness of his spirit, which laughed at the 
 fear of offending any one, since to every one he 
 thought himself superior.
 
 DE VERE. 275 
 
 It was whispered that his advances towards 
 De Vere were occasioned by his knowledge of 
 the family interest that was to return him to 
 parliament ; being very intent, and losing no 
 opportunity where he could make one, of en- 
 listing young men among his followers. And in 
 this, though of a proud and repulsive spirit, 
 neither birth, nor figure, nor high sense of 
 integrity, such as De Vere's, were the chief con- 
 siderations that swayed him ; his object being 
 political influence, no matter through whom. 
 
 Thus ambition might be said to have been 
 his greatest passion, had it not held a divided 
 empire with another, which governed him quite 
 as strongly, and, indeed, absorbed more of his 
 time : we mean a devotion to the fair. 
 
 It is inconceivable with what eagerness he 
 pursued this ; into how many engagements it 
 plunged him; how many emissaries it forced 
 him to employ, and what expences — but no! 
 we should wrong his prudence if we did not con- 
 fess that eager as he was to gratify his wishes in 
 this respect, he never suffered them to surprise 
 him into any thing like what he called a profli- 
 gate profusion. 
 
 And yet, to speak of the person of the mag- 
 nifico, an eye observer would look in vain for
 
 *2T6 DE VEIiE. 
 
 the graces of Antinous, or the features of Apollo. 
 His features, indeed, were, from nature, unex- 
 pressive, and his person far from attractive ; so 
 that when we consider this part of his history, 
 and how successful he was in enslaving the ad- 
 miration of the sex, we are tempted to exclaim 
 with one, who was as observing of nature, as 
 poetical in description: — 
 
 *' Unseemly man to please fair lady's eye, — 
 Yet he of ladies oft was loved full dear, 
 When fairer faces were bid standen bye, 
 
 Oh ! who does know the I ent of woman's phantasy ?"* 
 
 To do Lord Cleveland justice, however, we 
 are bound to own, that what nature had refused, 
 education and habit had supplied. The lofti- 
 ness of his mind, ill-directed as it was, had 
 communicated itself to his manner ; and this, 
 aided by the air of the court in which lie had 
 been bred, had given him an imposing look, and, 
 when he pleased, a dignity of demeanour which 
 seldom went unremarked ; so that, on seeing 
 him, you could not help admitting there was 
 the air of a man of quality about him. In 
 short, all fashion bowed to him, and had chosen 
 
 * Fairv Queen,
 
 DE VERE. 277. 
 
 him for her monarch, and we know what that 
 will effect in a woman's heart. But he had also 
 another property wdiich always makes its way 
 with the sex ; that of great personal bravery, 
 when, as had been the fact, either the passion we 
 are upon, or the disdain with which he often 
 treated others, had exposed him to be called to 
 the field. My Lord Herbert (himself a great 
 knight) tells you of a Monsieur de Balagny who 
 was the ugliest man in France. But he was also 
 the bravest, and Monsieur de Balagny was ac- 
 cordingly the greatest favourite of the ladies. 
 
 Lord Cleveland was, as we have said, magni- 
 ficent, and he made magnificence subservient to 
 the two great passions we have commemorated. 
 His entertainments, both at home and abroad, 
 filled the court with the praises of his grandeur, 
 and of the elegance of his taste ; and to obtain 
 a place at his suppers or his concerts was an ob- 
 ject of struggle, even among the most fashion- 
 able. But while gazers (particularly female 
 gazers) admired, the close observer came to this 
 conclusion, that in this man of power, of fashion, 
 high breeding, and magnificence, all was self. 
 Never had he been known to perform one great 
 action, to give one tear to sympathy, or one 
 guinea to distress.
 
 278 DE VERB. 
 
 Yet let us not wrong him in this respect. He 
 was not entirely hardened, and has at least been 
 known to deplore his own lot. For he had 
 reached to four-and-thirty years without a self- 
 approving hour. In truth, he felt that his ta- 
 lents were thrown away, his time murdered, his 
 opportunities lost, without a chance of obtaining 
 that distinction which he really desired, and 
 which men may fairly plume themselves upon, 
 who have deserved well of their country, 
 
 " And read their history in a nation's eyes." 
 
 *' Video meliora proboquey deteriora sequoVy^ 
 might, therefore, be said to be his motto. It is 
 certain he had that in him which seemed as if he 
 had been originally designed for better things ; 
 and has been known to sigh over past hours, and 
 to " grieve that he prized them no more.*' Yet 
 all his grief was vain ; for such is the force of 
 habit, that we fruitlessly seek to escape from its 
 tyranny, and though we feel our bonds, often 
 plunge deeper in unworthiness, to obtain a little 
 temporary relief. 
 
 Thus satiated, restless, and dissatisfied, like 
 the habitual drunkard, he was forced to look to 
 new excitements for comfort, till excitement it- 
 self had lost its power ; and in these moments it
 
 I)E VEEK. 279 
 
 was that he first beheld the fresh, the pure, and 
 innocent Constance. 
 
 Strange to say , he could not approach her as 
 he did other females ; for, practised as he was, 
 there was something about her which awed him 
 into respect ; nor did he find himself disposed to 
 join in that levity and sarcasm in regard to all 
 that was serious, which he had often found so 
 agreeable to ill regulated young women. For 
 this he was sneered at by several female Cleve- 
 lands, who had uselessly glittered their hour, too, 
 on the stage of life. 
 
 He laughed at himself for it, and as he made 
 no way, soon fell back upon that which was not 
 only more natural to him, but which had hitherto 
 been more successful in engaging such females as 
 he wished to please. 
 
 But the delicate Constance was shocked with 
 his profaneness, instead of being won by his 
 wit. What is more, she was undazzled by his 
 fashion, and the almost resistless reputation he 
 enjoyed with her sex. Though at so early an 
 age, so genuine was her own sense of propriety, 
 so just her estimation of the realities of things, 
 that there was nothing in him which she could 
 willingly admire ; while the levity of his tone 
 filled her with disgust.
 
 S80 DE VEitE. 
 
 He once came to her box at the Opera, with 
 his usual imposing air, to paj her, as he said, 
 his homages. She had seen him the moment 
 before paying the same homages in the box of a 
 celebrated dancer, and she turned from him with 
 coldness. Her father chid her for it, and when 
 she told him the reason, contented himself with 
 saying, " We must take men of quality as we 
 find tliem." 
 
 The pure and sensible Constance did not 
 enter into this ; and Lord Cleveland, repulsed 
 for the first time in his life^ complained to one of 
 his female allies, that he had been disconcerted 
 by a cliit. 
 
 But this only piqued him into greater exer- 
 tions. He was invited by Lord Mowbray, nay, 
 as a relation, sometimes invited himself to his 
 house, where the honours were done by the 
 young Constance, in a manner only to attract 
 him the more. He changed his battery again, 
 and put on all his dignity, the better to suit 
 himself to her's. He lavished all his pov/ers of 
 entertainment ; exerted great natural sense ; 
 and told domestic anecdotes of the highest per- 
 sonage of the kingdom, till he dazzled poor 
 Lord Mowbray to the last degree of respectful 
 admiration.
 
 DE VEllE. 281 
 
 With Constance, he was careful to let no 
 levity or sarcasm escape, and even descanted on 
 marriage as the only real happiness in life. 
 
 Such an advance from such a man was 
 thought irresistible ; for though no longer a 
 young man, his figure and reputation com- 
 manded much felicity in his pursuits. He re- 
 collected Richelieu, for whom, at his years, two 
 ladies had actually fought a duel ; and if he was 
 in earnest in the hope of obtaining Constance as 
 a wife, the disparity of their ages never struck 
 him. 
 
 Let all this be as it will, this favourite of 
 fortune was foiled in his design. The winter, 
 that is, the London winter, rolled on ; Lady 
 Constance was immovable, and went out of town, 
 pronounced by Lord Cleveland, and many of 
 her own private acquaintance, a cold and heart- 
 less creature, a beautiful pageant, " a breathing 
 rather than a life." 
 
 To console himself, the magnifico told his 
 own heart that she was nothing but a little 
 prude, and endeavoured to laugh at his own 
 condescension in having seriously thought of 
 her. He gave several fine dinners, yawned over 
 the remnants of the Opera : yawned again at 
 Vauxhall and Richmond, and in short, gathered
 
 282 DE VERE. 
 
 all the flowers that a London summer could 
 aflbrd by way of a diversion. But he more 
 than ever sighed over the dissipation that had 
 corrupted his youth, and rendered his manhood 
 unrespectable ; and sighed still more to think he 
 was past cure. Cradled in self-indulgence, 
 which had made him a total stranger to the sen- 
 timent, still more to the love of virtue, he had 
 no resting-place for his mind, which thus in the 
 vigour of his life was fast wearing out ; and his 
 sense and reflection seemed only given him to 
 make him more alive to his misery. Like 
 Macbeth, in blood he vras — 
 
 " Step't in so far, that should he wade no more, 
 Returning were as tedious as go o'er." 
 
 The magnifico, therefore, had nothing left 
 for it but to drown reflection as well as 
 he could. His phaeton was seen more than 
 ever in Piccadilly, and at White's ; and while 
 he himself confessed the truth of the maxim of 
 another courtier, " sedit post equitem cura^^ 
 everybody that did not know him, and some who 
 did, thought him an enviable man. 
 
 From this blunted state he was scarcely 
 roused by the letter from De Vere. To De 
 Vere, as has been stated, he had shewn some
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 attentions. He found, however, in his rustic 
 novice, as he at first called him, what gave him, 
 he said, a cursed deal of trouble. He had a will 
 of his own, and would give no pledge for his 
 poHtics. He was indifferent, too, to cards and 
 dice ; had a peculiar taste as to female attrac- 
 tions ; even talked of female character, and 
 cared not to associate with dancers and buf- 
 foons. The magnifico could not make him out. 
 De Vere had even but lately dared to quote to 
 him (for he was fond of the old poets,) that 
 philosphical strain formerly so celebrated, 
 
 " My mind to me a kingdom is." 
 
 The few letters, therefore, which the mag- 
 nifico had lately given him, were confined to 
 quizzing his tastes, and the primitiveness which 
 he said would infallibly make him the laughing 
 stock of the world. 
 
 De Vere cared little for the prophecy, and 
 the correspondence, as we have related, lan- 
 guished till it died a natural death. The mag- 
 nifico therefore was only the more surprised, 
 and felt almost excited, knowing whence it 
 came, to receive a letter and invitation from 
 him. Lord Cleveland instantly answered it, in
 
 Xti^i DE VERE. 
 
 a letter which, to shew the style of writing of 
 tills Petronius, as well as the turn of mind which 
 he had created for himself, we think it right to 
 subjoin : — 
 
 " However you may write, or Milton sing, I 
 see no delight in leaves or fuming rills. I care 
 nothing for meadow green, or mountain grey, 
 (indeed I hate to climb mountains) ; as little for 
 kine, or dairy, or even dairy- maids; whatever 
 you may think. All, even the last, are but 
 inanimate nature, and I hate every thing in- 
 animate. If I must have a green, let it be the 
 green of a card table, or at most Uichmond- 
 green. In short, take me not from London, and 
 London interests. Your fauns and dryads shew 
 nothing like them, and I allow you to live Avith 
 them on sour apples, or even acorns, if you 
 please, but, observe, without me. No! give mc 
 the luxury you despise; but allow me to say that 
 you are no philosopher, at least no political phi- 
 losopher, for so doing. For is not luxury the great 
 mean of circulating wealth, and supporting the 
 state ? You see I have not read Hume, or con- 
 va'sed with Oswald for nothing. In short, let 
 me have Bond-street, and excitement even in 
 August, and I will leave you to groves, Amaryllis, 
 and ennui.
 
 DE VERE. 285 
 
 " You tell rao, in the language of the old song, 
 
 * Your mind to you a kingdom is ;' 
 
 and a very pretty* kingdom I allow it to be. 
 But there are better in the world; and I am 
 inclined to prefer good, sensible, town-loving 
 Ben, who knew, or at least enjoyed, life better 
 than your quizzical old bard. 
 
 « I am no such piled cynic to believe. 
 
 That beggary is earthly happiness. 
 
 Or with a number of your patient fool , 
 
 To sing* My minde to me a kingdom is,' 
 
 V/hen the lank hungrie stomach barks for food.'* 
 
 '' If this is your kingdom, I wish your spare 
 majesty joy of it ; I will be content to be a fat 
 subject. 
 
 '^ There is but one part of the temptations at 
 the castle, though you do not actually hold it 
 out, which could influence me to come — y^our 
 and my beautiful cousin. If she is there, I kiss 
 her ladyship's hands with profound devotion. 
 She might make even a desert and acorns agree- 
 able, provided she be quite as elegant, and a 
 little less refined in the country, than in town. 
 
 * See, Every Man out of his Humour, A. 1. S. 1.
 
 5:86 DK vEiiE. 
 
 But I fear that the love of sentiment into which 
 she was too fast falling, and which made her 
 stay away two nights running from the Opera, 
 will have gained head on the banks of the Dove, 
 with you for a companion. I see, therefore, I 
 should have no chance. But if she will but 
 hold up a finger for me, and I interfere not with 
 Clayton's hopes, or yours, I will lay myself at 
 her feet in four-and-twenty hours. 
 
 " There ! I think I have answered your letter 
 in all its points : so I will only add my humble 
 duty to the most potent, grave, and reverend 
 signor, your uncle, and subscribe myself, my 
 dear ruris amator, Mortimer, 
 
 " Urbis Amator^ 
 
 " Cleveland." 
 
 This gay answer to Lord Mowbray's invita- 
 tion, De Vere had communicated to his uncle, 
 previous to his going to shoot on the morning 
 we are commemorating; and it was only in the 
 last stage of the conversation we have recorded, 
 that the ladies of the castle were apprised of it. 
 Lord Mowbray in fact now appeared with the 
 letter in his hand ; and having only, as he said, 
 skimmed it, and the ladies had not seen it, con- 
 descendingly said, Mortimer should read it to 
 them.
 
 DE VEKE. 287 
 
 " And what do you think of it?" said Mor- 
 timer, when he had finished. 
 
 " It is, at least, a lively letter," observed 
 Lord Mowbray ; " and but for the light manner 
 in which he thinks it not unbecoming to mention 
 me, which I do not altogether like, I could 
 laugh with his lordship at your woods and fields. 
 But to mention a minister with the least mockery, 
 is, at least, unseemly, and beneath a person of 
 his birth and breedino:."" 
 
 " But what does my fair cousin think?'" 
 asked Mortimer, " and what shall I say to him 
 of the finger to be held up ?"" 
 
 *' I have little right to think about it," re- 
 plied Lady Constance. " The letter is, to me, 
 full of affected sprightliness, which I do not 
 relish, coming from the quarter it does. It will 
 not make me like Lord Cleveland better than I 
 did ; there are things in it, too, which I look 
 upon as impertinent," 
 
 " You surely take it too gravely," observed 
 Mortimer, " and should allow for badinage.^' 
 
 " As much as3^ou please," replied Constance, 
 " where the person, from situation, has a pri- 
 vilege to rally one." 
 
 " Are you not too serious ?'' said Mortimer. 
 
 ^' I hope not, though I know how much it is
 
 288 DE VERE. 
 
 the very summit of fashion to admire this high 
 person for his agreeable freedoms. To me, 
 there is a distinction between freedom and for- 
 wardness, which, if I had not marked it in others, 
 his lordship would never fail to make me see.^ 
 
 '' My dear cousin," cried Mortimer, with 
 some surprise, " what are your proofs ?" 
 
 " They are such as are more demonstrable to 
 one^s own feeling, than another's satisfaction; it 
 is enough that he accosts all women, of what- 
 ever rank or character, with a confidence of 
 look and manner which is downright affronting. 
 It seems to say, none can resist me.'"* 
 
 " If this is so,"' observed Lord Mowbray, 
 " I must say, I think Lady Constance quite 
 right." 
 
 " My father will decide as he pleases," con- 
 tinued Constance, but with great coldness. 
 
 " Why, really," said Lord Mowbray, " a 
 nobleman of his quality, alliances, and credit, 
 and our own relation, too, cannot, after all, be 
 turned awav, if he choose to make us a visit. 
 Only I wish that he had replied to your letter, 
 Mortimer, in a manner a little more distinct and 
 respectful. I must say he is wanting to his own 
 sense of proper breeding, to answer me in this 
 flippant way."
 
 DE VEEE. 289 
 
 ^' I have told you, my dear uncle, it is the way 
 of the men of fashion at present." 
 
 " It was not so in my time," returned Lord 
 Mowbray, " but I suppose he must come." 
 
 " Well, then," observed Constance, consoling 
 herself, as if she had recollected something plea- 
 sant, " while we have so great a personage to 
 shine upon us, it will be a good time for the 
 castle party,"" and she looked to her father for 
 consent." 
 
 " Nothing can be more opportune," replied 
 Lord Mowbray, " for your birth-day approaches, 
 and there cannot be a better occasion to cele- 
 brate that, as we can hold the castle party at the 
 same time." 
 
 To all this, Constance assented with the plea- 
 sure of her age ; and indeed she had for some 
 days looked forward with interest to this little 
 publicy^Y^, at which she was to preside for the 
 first time, and be presented on her coming out 
 to all her country friends. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 290 DE VERB. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 COUNTY POLICY. 
 
 ilavt a care of your entertainments. 
 
 Shakspearb. 
 
 The castle party was an entertainment which 
 Lord Mowbray every autumn, when relaxing 
 from the deep anxieties of politics, had been in 
 the habit of giving to his country neighbours. 
 For he was neither avaricious nor averse to 
 society, though, on these occasions, his hospitali- 
 ties were plainly with a view to keep up his con- 
 sequence in the county. Nor is there harm in 
 this, as these parties are so estimated and so 
 received. But the hospitalities of Lord Mow- 
 bray had hitherto this peculiar character, that 
 they were thought constrained and dull by 
 almost all who attended them, and who thanked 
 and cared for his lordship as little as his lord- 
 ship cared for them. 
 
 This had by qo means escaped De Vere ; and
 
 DE VERE. 291 
 
 though he was in requisition as a principal actor 
 in the farce^ (as Harclai always styled it,) it 
 was always with a lassitude and lack of enjoy- 
 ment that made the signal for these pleasures, 
 no pleasure to Mm. 
 
 This year he was particularly averse to it, 
 from the contrast he could not help drawing 
 between his uncle's entertainments and the same 
 sort of fetes at the mansion of a noble person in 
 another county, the Marquess of Clanellan. The 
 Marchioness was the near relation of Constance, 
 and (as has been already said) had had the 
 direction of her education for some years previous 
 to her being introduced. 
 
 The Marquess was a man, like Lord Mow- 
 bray, of the highest quality ; but, unlike Lord 
 Mowbray, of unaffected condescension. Not 
 that high protecting condescension in which the 
 pride that seems to stoop takes really a higher 
 flight, and humbles, and even abases its objects 
 in the act apparently of raising them ; but the 
 easy flowing of a kind disposition, glad to relax 
 from the constraints of artificial life, and for the 
 moment to enjoy the equalities of nature. He was 
 unlike Lord Mowbray in every thing else; for 
 he had abilities of the first class, considerable in- 
 fluence at court, and talents for any business; yet, 
 o 2
 
 292 DE VERE. 
 
 from a philosophical turn of mind, he abstained 
 from those employments to which he might pre- 
 tend, and which he had often actually been 
 offered. He was of a most equal temper, the 
 character of which was cheerful, though reflec- 
 tive. He would join in the laugh, whenever 
 laughing was the order of the day ; but, for the 
 most part, furnished still more pleasing food for 
 the mind, in the more cultivated and serious 
 hour. His invitations were held as honours, 
 and accepted with delight by all his neighbours. 
 At the same time, in the pleasure they gave, it 
 must be owned he had a puissant ally ; for none 
 that ever saw the Marchioness for an hour, but 
 wished to see her again ; and none that had 
 passed a day under her roof, but remembered 
 her for ever. She was of a most illustrious 
 family, and yet her birth was the very least of 
 her recommendations. Others might be as great, 
 but she reigned in the heart, while the trappings 
 of others only caught the eye. In truth, she 
 was the personification of benevolence, not un- 
 mixed with very lively observation, when folly met 
 her eye ; but her benevolence always prevented 
 her observation keen as it was, from amounting 
 to satire. The Marchioness would not hurt any 
 body : to use a trite phrase, she would not hurt
 
 DE VERE. 293 
 
 a fly. For these, and a thousand other amiable 
 qualities, the high-born courted, the humble 
 adored her. 
 
 De Vere had observed this; and when he 
 saw the marchioness, wondered a little less at 
 the manner and qualities and sentiments of Con- 
 stance. Whenever he visited these princely 
 persons (but especially upon such public occa- 
 sions as have been mentioned,) they shewed him 
 how legitimately, as well as how amiably, the 
 great may acquire an ascendancy over those of 
 lesser station, without compromising the dig- 
 nity of the one, or the independence of the other. 
 It was witli a sigh, therefore, that he contem- 
 plated the attempts hitherto made at it by his 
 uncle, and made in vain. 
 
 But to return from this digression : prepara- 
 tions were now ordered for one of these fetes at 
 Castle Mowbray ; cards and notes issued to all 
 the neighbourhood, and even distant parts of 
 the county ; and Constance, with the vivacity 
 and eagerness of her age, anticipated both in- 
 terest and pleasure in the companionship of 
 several persons she was disposed to like, and in 
 the food for observation which might be de- 
 rived from all. 
 
 De Vere warned her not to expect too much ;
 
 294 DE VERE. 
 
 nay, even to expect disappointment, from the 
 strange dissonances she would have to harmo- 
 nize, and the reconcilement of very different 
 habits and degrees, which she must attempt at 
 least to accomplish. She only laughed, and 
 called him Monsieur le PhilosopJie, and with 
 the confidence of youth which had as yet seen 
 nothing but happiness, defied all his prophecies. 
 She even smiled when he told her a little his- 
 tory he had learned from Harclai, whom he 
 had seen in a flying visit, after the cards had 
 been issued, and which had not added to his 
 own comfort upon the subject. It was, hov/- 
 ever, merely a conversation, at which Harclai 
 had recently been present, in a family in the 
 neighbourhood, consisting of the widow and 
 children of a Mr. Greenwood, as it should seem 
 of very different characters and principles. 
 
 " It was, I assure you, a high treat to my 
 humour," said Harclai, as he rode out one 
 morning with De Vere. 
 
 The family, it seems, were deliberating whe- 
 ther they should accept the invitation they had 
 just received to the Castle party. 
 
 " I think you should go,^' said Mrs. Green- 
 wood, who was a woman of ambition in her 
 way. " The girls never have an opportunity of
 
 DE VERE. 295 
 
 seeing good, that is, high company, from year's 
 end to year's end." 
 
 " And why should it be good because it is 
 high ? and what good will it do them, if they do 
 see it ?" said her eldest son, Walter. 
 
 " It will shew them proper models, and pohsh 
 their manners ;" answered the aspiring mamma. 
 
 " As if the models of Castle Mowbray were 
 fit for us of the Grange," returned Walter, in 
 rather a surly tone. " No ! no ! we are too 
 downright for such fine titled people, where 
 nothing but my Lord or Sir John, will go 
 down." 
 
 " Nay," answered the mother, " though we 
 are not titled, we are as old a family as any 
 without titles, in the county."" 
 
 " And as poor," returned Walter, with sour- 
 ness. 
 
 *' That's no reason we should be lowered," 
 said Mrs. Greenwood. 
 
 *' But it is a reason why the girls should not 
 expose themselves." 
 
 " Expose themselves !" cried the mother, and 
 Miss Charlotte, the youngest daughter, brid- 
 ling up. 
 
 " Yes ;'» continued Walter ; " for they 
 will be either left in a corner, unnoticed, which
 
 296 DE VEKE. 
 
 will make them miserable ; or they will be 
 quizzed for want of fashionable airs. At best, 
 if they meet with any attention, they will be 
 spoiled for ever for their own home." 
 
 " But what says Lizzy ?" asked Mrs. Green- 
 wood, turning to her eldest daughter. 
 
 Miss Lizzy was rather a sentimentalist, and 
 passed a very idle life in reading, without being 
 greatly the better for it. She was even almost 
 a woman of genius, and like many other women 
 of genius, being rather a slattern, she affected to 
 despise dress. In fact, her wardrobe all started 
 up before her, on hearing the proposal, and not 
 having a very good opinion of it, she answered 
 with great decision, " I quite agree with Walter. 
 I am formed for the shade, and not made to 
 swell the train of any Lady Constance, or be 
 triumphed over by fine London people." 
 
 " And what says William .?" asked the mamma, 
 turning to her second son, who had silently but 
 observingly, if not sneeringly, listened to the 
 conversation. 
 
 " Why, that both Walter and Lizzy are 
 prouder than Lord Mowbray and Lady Con- 
 stance themselves," said William. " Charlotte, I 
 trust, has more sense." 
 
 '' I confess, I am not afraid of the great,"" said
 
 DE VERE. ^97 
 
 Charlotte ; " and as to what you say of Lady 
 Constance, I am told she has no pride in 
 her ; and I am sure her note is very pretty : for 
 my part I should like to go." 
 
 *' To be made to feel your insignificance,"" 
 said the elder brother. 
 
 '' Dear Walter ; you frighten one,"" cried 
 Charlotte. " Do, William, say what you think.'"* 
 
 William was a man of ambition too ; and, as 
 it should seem, a philosophical one, but of the 
 school of Aristippus, though he had never 
 heard of him. His philosophy was, practically 
 at least, useful to himself. 
 
 " My opinion is, that we should go," answered 
 William. 
 
 " To what, and to whom .?" returned AValter. 
 '■ To a man who does not know you ; and thinks 
 he stoops in inviting you ; and only invites you 
 for the sake of getting your interest in county 
 business ?" 
 
 *' And I go for the sake of getting his enter- 
 tainments,"' said William. 
 
 " He will not know you out of his own house,'' 
 said Walter. 
 
 " But he knows me in it, and a merry house 
 it is,'" returned William. " And there is Fox- 
 lei gh, and Fairburn, and a heap of old cronies-
 
 298 DE VERB, 
 
 to talk with at the bottom of the table, so what 
 care I for what is going on at the top." 
 "But, my Lord," observed Walter. 
 " Oh ! if I went to see a friend," interrupted 
 William, " I allow it would be different. But I 
 go as I would to a play, to see things and 
 people I have little opportunity of seeing else- 
 where. I go, too, to eat turtle and venison, which 
 I never get any where. I generally also come 
 away with leave for a day or two's shooting, and 
 thus I make as much use of my lord, as my 
 lord makes of me." 
 
 " If you called upon him in town, his door 
 would be shut against you," said Walter. 
 
 ** Therefore, I never do call upon him in 
 town," answered William. 
 
 " Do as you will," said Walter, gloomily ; and 
 whistling his spaniel, he walked to the neigh- 
 bouring market town, where, in his shooting 
 coat and gaiters, he dined with two or three 
 gentleman who farmed, like himself, small 
 estates of their own : and who, together with 
 a topping brewer, an attorney, and a thriving 
 tradesman or two, formed a club, of which he 
 was frequently happy to be chairman. 
 
 Here he forgot Lord Mowbray and his castle, 
 and defied his invitations, in the respect which
 
 DE VERE. 299 
 
 was paid him by the club, and particidarly by 
 the landlord and waiters, to whom all he said 
 was law. 
 
 *' There go pride and poverty with a ven- 
 geance," said William ashelostsightof his brother. 
 " For my part, I am resolved to take the world 
 as it goes ; I hope Charlotte will do so too, and 
 if Lady Constance looks cold upon her, she may 
 look cold upon Lady Constance, that's all/' 
 
 " I love your spirit," said his mother, " it is 
 like my own." With this, it was settled that as 
 mamma was very infirm, she should stay at 
 home with her two poor-spirited children, as she 
 called them, and send the more adventurous 
 couple to seek their fortunes at the castle. 
 
 " I hope," said Harclai, as he finished, " they 
 will go back well mortified." 
 
 " From your account that will not be easy,' 
 replied De Vere, " unless Mr. William miss 
 his day or two's shooting, or the turtle and 
 venison fail at the bottom of the table, which I 
 confess I should not be sorry for." 
 
 " Oh ! he is a very jewel in his way." said 
 Harclai, " and just the sort of man to give your 
 uncle (saving your presence) a lesson." 
 
 De Vere looked grave, for he felt there was 
 too much truth in the observation, and that the
 
 300 DE VERE. 
 
 ambition both of Lord Mowbray, and this 
 selfish rustic, might be checked with advantage 
 to both. 
 
 " But this Walter, and his elder sister," cried 
 De Vere, recovering, " they seem of more re- 
 spectable clay." 
 
 " 1 know not,'' said Harclai ; *' their sel- 
 fishness seems more proudly directed, and yet 
 they are perhaps quite as selfish. The one 
 couple are prepared to pay for indulgences they 
 cannot get at home, by sacrifices v/hich delicate 
 minds would not undergo abroad. The others 
 refuse the price, not from delicacy or proper 
 independence, but from a surly consequence of 
 their own, which is not content with its proper 
 place, and is out of humour, because it cannot 
 get a better." 
 
 '^ I believe you may be right," replied De 
 Vere ; " yet, do you know, from your account of 
 Walter, I had conceived a wish to call upon him 
 in my uncle's name." 
 
 " You may easily try the experiment,'' said 
 Harclai, " for there stands the Grange, looking 
 as rough and morose as its master." 
 
 De Vere looked with some interest at the 
 mansion, and beheld a mixture of farm and gen- 
 tleman's house, in which a would-be lawn, very
 
 DE VERE. 801 
 
 much in want of the scythe, and walks once 
 gravelled, very much in want of the hoe, to say 
 nothing of shrubs once flowering, but grown 
 naked for want of attendance, denoted a com- 
 fortlessness, any thing but inviting. 
 
 However, Harclai promising to wait for him, 
 De Vere pushed through a gate which turned' 
 with difficulty on a broken hinge, and knocked 
 smartly at the door of the house. 
 
 The windows of the dining-room, which were 
 in full view, were instantly crowded with Green- 
 woods, who as instantly retired upon seeing the 
 De Vere livery. A long pause ensued, con- 
 sidering the family could scarcely be denied, 
 after having thus shewii themselves, when 
 instead of the door being opened, De Vere 
 plainly perceived the master of the house, 
 walking out of a side entrance, and making 
 briskly for the kitchen garden ; after which a 
 servant appeared with an assurance which (for 
 the sake of country virtue be it said,) seemed to 
 stick in his throat, that none of the family were 
 at home. 
 
 De Vere left his card for Mr. Greenwood, and 
 joining Harclai about a furlong off, told him 
 again he believed he was ris^ht. 
 
 " This Walter," said he, " must be an un-
 
 302 
 
 J)E VEltE. 
 
 amiable churl ; and the spirit for which I was 
 disposed to honour him, is not genuine, any 
 more than the complying disposition of his 
 brother is amiable.*" 
 
 The visit was not returned, nor even noticed; 
 and De Vere was right in his reflection; for it is 
 inconceivable into what silly mistakes poor 
 human nature is betrayed, by the adulteration 
 of motives. A selfish discontent exhibits itself 
 often in sullen rudeness, which it plumes itself 
 in thinking true dignity of mind ; while vanity 
 or a corrupt love of pleasure that is beyond our 
 reach, plunges us frequently into meannesses 
 which an honest man would despise. 
 
 " You see, my cousin,"*** said Mortimer to 
 Constance, as he related this scene, " ambition is 
 the same whether in court or country, and when- 
 ever it seduces, it betrays." 
 
 " And you see, too," replied Constance, " that 
 it is not the country, nor middle life, that is 
 exempt from it." 
 
 " That is too true,*" observed De Vere ; *' for 
 in other times and stations, if this William 
 could have been a Vicar of Bray, Walter would 
 have been a Cromwell."
 
 DE VERE. 303 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 UNOBTRUSIVENESS. 
 
 Shall wi have a play extempore? 
 
 StIAKSPEARE. 
 
 " I AM afraid I shall not give satisfaction to 
 these peojDle,"" said Constance, after a Httle sort 
 of re^'erie5 which challenged De Vere's observa- 
 tion ; " nor am I sure that what I have set 
 my heart upon will please any one." 
 
 " And what can that he?'' cried Mortimer, 
 surprised at her eagerness. 
 
 *^ I am not even sure that you will help me 
 in it," added the lady ; " though if you don't, 
 there is an end of my dream." 
 
 " You rouse my interest more and more, my 
 fair cousin," said De Vere. 
 
 " AVhat will you say, then, if I turn manager 
 of a theatre, and have a little play ':''''' 
 
 She said this doublingly, and as if not quite 
 certain that she approved it herself, still less if
 
 304 DE VERB. 
 
 he whose opinion she asked, would decide in its 
 favour. But her doubt and her eagerness threw 
 such a beautiful colour into her cheek, and the 
 colour lighted her eyes into such expression, 
 that if De Vere had been a puritan, instead of 
 only an admirer of female delicacy, we believe 
 he would have been ready to subscribe, for the 
 moment, to whatever she pleased. Recollecting 
 himself, however, he asked, " and does my fair 
 cousin mean herself to be the heroine of her own 
 theatre ?" 
 
 " What if I do ?" returned she, with arch- 
 ness ; and her countenance became still more and 
 more expressive. 
 
 " I should say the audience was too large and 
 too mixed," replied De Vere. 
 
 " You would say very right, my cousin," ob- 
 served Constance, altering her tone ; " nor did 
 such a thing ever enter my mind." 
 
 " I rejoice," replied Mortimer. 
 
 " Why so .P" 
 
 *' Because, though nothing can more delight- 
 fully exhilarate a family circle, nothing so charm 
 a fond parent, or an admiring brother, as these 
 little domestic exhibitions of talent, yet for a 
 female whose chief attraction is, perhaps, in her 
 unobtrusiveness," — here he paused.
 
 DE VERE. 305 
 
 " Go on," said Constance, observing his hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 " For a delicate unpractised female," con- 
 tinued he, " as modest and as soft as her youth, 
 to compromise that softness and that modesty 
 which are her principal charms, by an unshrink* 
 ing display of her character and person to all 
 the world." 
 
 " Go on again," said Constance, seeing him 
 still pause, " what then ?" 
 
 " Why, then, niy dear cousin, all the world 
 know her as well as the select few, and the selec- 
 tion is no longer favour." 
 
 " Is it then because it enhances favour," said 
 Constance, *' that a woman's chief charm is her 
 unobtrusiveness .^'"' 
 
 " Oh, believe me, no," replied Mortimer, " it 
 is only an advantage, and that an adventitious 
 one. The ' not obvious, not obtrusive, but re- 
 tired,' so sweetly sung by the poet, who per- 
 haps best sang the sex, depends upon a far dif- 
 ferent principle. It is intrinsically, and for its 
 own sake, a jewel; but so pure and delicate, that 
 it never was made for the breath of the multi- 
 tude. Such breathing would soil, nay, destroy 
 it, so delicate is its polish, so fine its com- 
 position."
 
 S06 DE VERE. 
 
 " You would make me afraid of this public 
 exhibition, even if I were inclined to it," ob- 
 served Constance. 
 
 *' But you are not, I am sure, inclined to it, 
 dear Constance," continued Mortimer; " for this 
 delicacy, delicious to those who have a sanc- 
 tioned right to witness it, and which onlv shews 
 itself brighter by being properly and discreetly 
 displayed, is the true sensitive plant, that 
 shrinks into itself when profaned by promis- 
 cuous touch. It hides itself from ' days garish 
 eye,"' and is delicacy no longer the moment it 
 can endure the public gaze, much more if it 
 court it." 
 
 This is charming, thought Constance, and I 
 will not interrupt him ; while De Vere, from the 
 very seriousness of her attention, thinking he 
 might be going too far, interrupted himself. 
 
 There was, indeed, a good deal of hesitation 
 on both sides, during this conversation, which 
 was pursued by Mortimer, with that sort of 
 anxiety which attends the assertion of a strong 
 and sincere opinion, when one is not sure, either 
 that it will be welcome, or that one is not taking 
 a liberty in making it. 
 
 The vivacity and youth of Constance, to say 
 nothing of general example, made it seem the
 
 DE VERE. 307 
 
 most natural thing in the world that she should 
 see no impropriety in the display of such attrac- 
 tive accomphshments. For there is nothing, 
 perhaps, so gladdening to life, as its mimic 
 representations, even in farce. But when the 
 real passages of the world are embodied in what 
 is called elegant comedy ; when the manners are 
 caught living as they rise, and the scene is made 
 the vehicle by which the passions and interests 
 of our natures are brought home to our hearts, 
 what wonder either if we love those who so 
 charm us, or if they, knowing that they do so, 
 should take a pride in the display of such an 
 intoxicating talent ! 
 
 All this De Vere knew, and he was yet to 
 learn if Constance, with such liveliness of fancy, 
 and such powers of expression, might not be 
 blinded by what, on the other hand, might 
 require a refinement of moral reasoning to en- 
 force its condemnation. 
 
 Judge then his joy, in hearing her real senti- 
 ments, as the conversation proceeded. 
 
 " You have said a great many delightful 
 things, cousin Mortimer," observed Constance, 
 " and yet with as much hesitation as if they were 
 disagreeable." 
 
 '^ They would not be agreeable to every
 
 S08 DE VERE. 
 
 (me,"" replied De Vere, " and I might be con- 
 demned as a prude and a proser by at least 
 half the young ladies who possess my cousin's 
 talents or vivacity, if any there are who do pos- 
 sess them." 
 
 " That is very adroitly thrown in," observed 
 Constance, " to make your little lecture upon 
 my supposed bias, more palatable. But I must 
 really deprive you of the aid of your pretty 
 compliment." 
 « Why ?" 
 . " Only because there is no occasion for it ; 
 for not one word have you said but has express- 
 ed all I feel myself upon the subject of female 
 acting in public." 
 
 " Indeed !" cried Mortimer, while his eyes 
 glanced upon her's with that delicious pleasure, 
 which attends the meeting of kindred sentiment. 
 Pleasure at all times, and between persons of 
 the same sex ; but between those of different 
 sexes, and in the glow and sensibility of youth, 
 pleasure so enhanced by a thousand indescrib- 
 able feelings, as baffle all attempt to paint them, 
 even in the moment when we most acknowledge 
 their power. No ! in the whole range and 
 scheme of happiness so bountifully designed for 
 us by the Giver of all good, there is perhaps no
 
 DE VERE. 309 
 
 one source which can supply so dehghtful a 
 feast as the discovery of congeniahty upon a 
 point of deHcacy, between two young persons 
 worthy of one another. 
 
 This feast did De Vere now enjoy, and of 
 this fountain did he now drink, so deeply and 
 with such a zest, that he for a while forgot the 
 source which led to it. Constance, however, 
 reverted to it, by acquainting him with her 
 plan. 
 
 "• Though I quite agree with you," said she, " in 
 all these right notions ; and though even in the 
 closest family circle I shouldhave no wish, because 
 no talent, for representing a character myself, — 
 yet I think the plan, as I have modelled it, will 
 compromise nothing of the retiredness which 
 ought to be so sacred. There is at least a 
 difference between the playful mimicry of 
 children, almost in the way of a school ex- 
 ercise, and the display and effort of a grown up 
 woman." 
 
 De Vere assented, but asked her meaning. 
 She then informed him that she had always 
 remembered with pleasure, a little exhibition of 
 the kind she wished, by the children en pension 
 in a convent in France : that Lady Clanellan 
 had encouraged and been delighted with it.
 
 310 DE VERE. 
 
 though only a little mythological fable, and that 
 slie wished something of the kind could be got 
 up now. " I know several clever and pretty 
 children in the neighbourhood," said Constance, 
 " and I have a plan for the prettiest theatre 
 in the world : all couleur de rose, I assure 
 you" 
 
 " Dear Constance," said De Vere, admiring 
 her eagerness, " how I wish every hour of your 
 life may be as much couleur de rose as the pre- 
 sent seems to be ; but, — " 
 
 '* I will have no buts," replied the lady, *^ I 
 want your help." 
 
 " And what can I do for you, ma cousine ?'''' 
 asked Mortimer. 
 
 " O ! a great deal, — for while I am manager 
 of my theatre, you must be the poet." 
 
 " I never wrote a verse in my life," replied 
 De Vere, despairingly, yet half laughing at the 
 proposal. 
 
 " Then it is time, my grave cousin, you should 
 begin. However, I don't much care about 
 verse : I only want a little allegory or fable, and 
 you shall turn it in prose, if you will ; only we 
 have no time to lose, for we have but a week 
 for scenes, actors, rehearsals, and all." 
 
 De Vere, delighted to oblige her, said he would
 
 DE VEllE. 311 
 
 task his imagination ; and then recollecting the 
 masques of older times, when princes and peer- 
 esses did not refuse themselves to these classical 
 entertainments, he said, that though he could not 
 be a poet, he would endeavour to be a compiler, 
 and compose something for such little mimics 
 as she might procure among her friends in the 
 neighbourhood. " Upon one condition, how- 
 ever," said he, as if suddenly struck with some- 
 thing, " that while you order your theatre, you 
 leave the story entirely to me, and that you do 
 not even know it, till you see it represented." 
 
 Constance thought this hard, but was too 
 much interested in her plan, not to comply ; 
 and De Vere, telling her he would want about 
 three or four little speakers, and half-a-dozen 
 mutes, they separated, mutually pleased, to pre- 
 pare for their respective tasks. 
 
 As for the fine resolutions which De Vere had 
 almost come to, of separating himself from his 
 cousin's too dangerous society, as that could not 
 well be till her birth-day /e/^ was over, it was 
 without much scruple — postponed.
 
 312 DE VERE 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 AN ARRIVAL. 
 
 Ask yonder knight in arms. 
 Both who he is, and why he cometh hither. 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 All further moralizing between the cousins 
 was put an end to by the rapid and loud ap- 
 proach of a travelling carriage and four, attended 
 by three outriders ; for in those days, when the 
 economy of rumble-tumbles was unknown, the 
 equipage of a great noble bore not that close 
 resemblance to a stage-coach, which it does at 
 present. The clattering, therefore, of horse- 
 men, as well as the thunder of wheels, shook 
 the pavement of the court in which the great 
 entrance-gate of the castle was situated. From 
 a latticed bartizan above, the arrival was wit- 
 nessed by Mortimer and Constance, who im- 
 mediately recognized in the splendid blazonry 
 on the pannels, the travelling carriage of the 
 imposing Earl of Cleveland.
 
 DE VERE. S13 
 
 It was curiously constructed in the fashion of 
 the time, with a partition lined with crimson 
 velvet, which divided it into two parts; the 
 want of comfortable room being, as it was 
 thought, made up l)v the avoidance of the 
 greater discomfort of your valet close to your 
 side.' Hence before Lord Cleveland descended 
 from one door, his own gentleman, Monsieur 
 Dumont, had got out at the other, to be ready 
 to present his arm to his lord. 
 
 Lord Cleveland was magnificently arrayed 
 (the weather having now been cold for some 
 days,) in a rich travelling roupe of purple silk, 
 with Brandenbergs highly braided, and he des- 
 cended with an air of indifference among the 
 crowd of servants who filled the great door- way, 
 yawning violently as he carelessly threw off his 
 wrapper into the hands of Dumont. 
 
 Lord Mowbray having sent Clayton for- 
 ward to conduct his visitor „in, waited for 
 him himself at the head of the grand staircase, 
 and led him through a long and ancient corri- 
 dor, set thick with arms and armour on both 
 sides, to what was now the drawing-room, but 
 which still sometimes retained its ancient desig- 
 nation of the guard- room. 
 
 " Here is the cloth of state," said Lord 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 314 I)E VERE. 
 
 Cleveland, looking at the upper end, where was 
 a sort of canopy formed by some antique ban- 
 ners ; " but where is the queen ?" 
 
 " If you mean Lady Constance," said Lord 
 Mowbray, " she cannot be far off." 
 
 " I should have sent on my esquire," observed 
 Lord Cleveland, "or blown my bugle under the 
 castle walls ; yet I saw no warder to answer." 
 
 " Those times are over, happily for us," re- 
 plied Lord Mowbray. 
 
 " That you, a Mowbray, should say ' hap- 
 pily !• " 
 
 " Why yes ; for I would rather have my head 
 safe on my shoulders, than at the mercy of 
 another. No ! no ! my good lord, depend upon 
 it, ministerial influence is better than baronial 
 power. But pray tell me, how is the minister ? 
 still gouty ? still complaining T'' 
 
 " Absolutely bedridden,'' replied Lord Cleve- 
 land, " and what is worse, there is no approach- 
 ing him. Nay, it is said, but I have not 
 ascertained it,"" then lowering his voice in Lord 
 Mowbray's ear, as Clayton was present — added, 
 " refused a visit from the king." 
 
 " Astonishing T exclaimed Lord Mowbray ; 
 " I fear he breaks much, both in body and 
 mind."
 
 BE VERE. 315 
 
 " It is thQugbt he will not last till parliament 
 meet," observed Cleveland, " and then, who 
 will in your opinion succeed ?"* 
 
 " Ah ! my good lord," replied Lord Mowbray, 
 bowing low, and smiling at the same time, " you 
 are more likely to be in that secret than I. 
 Possibly you may have even been consulted/' 
 
 The Earl did not look displeased, but said 
 nothing on the subject in words. What he did 
 say, was about Statira and Sysigambis, who 
 seemed to start from the tapestry, in a flood 
 of beautiful colouring. This diversion of the 
 rx>nversation did not escape Lord Mowbray, 
 who interchanged looks of meaning with his 
 secretary. Then after a short pause he pro- 
 ceeded, " Whatever the event, I am sure his 
 majesty cannot be in better hands ; but I fear 
 you are too idle, that is, too fond of the pleasures 
 of your age." 
 
 The Earl bowed again, and again not dis- 
 pleased, but still looking at the tapestry. 
 
 '' That figure of Haephestion," said he, *'seems 
 very fine." 
 
 Lord Mowbray and his secretary once more 
 looked at one another, till the former proceeded. 
 *' Yes ! you are too idle, that is, too much above 
 p2
 
 316 DE VERE. 
 
 business, which should be left for such old 
 people as I " 
 
 "And friend Clayton there," added Cleve- 
 land, with something between a jest and a sneer. 
 
 " Mr. Clayton," said Lord Mowbray, " will 
 you be so kind as to inquire after Lady 
 Constance, and let her be informed of Lord 
 Cleveland's arrival — I dare say she is with her 
 aunt." 
 
 " Or her cousin,'' interposed Cleveland, with a 
 continuation of the sneer. 
 
 " They sometimes ride together," returned 
 the matter-of-fact Lord Mowbray ; then re- 
 verting to the former subject, in a lower tone, 
 he continued, " you see I press no secrets, I 
 only beg leave to say, should it be necessary, 
 you may depend upon me.'"' 
 
 " My very good lord,'* returned Cleveland, 
 bowing again, and brightening up ; and then 
 he let fall something about pleasing connection, 
 so ambiguously tickling, yet, upon the whole, 
 so agreeable, that Lord Mowbray, whether he 
 thought of politics or love, was never better 
 pleased with a visit in his life. 
 
 " We may talk farther of this," observed 
 Cleveland.
 
 DE VERE. 31'7 
 
 " We certainly may,'' returned the noble 
 politician ; " and now T think of it, nothing 
 can be better timed, than the entertainments 
 we are about to give, and which commence 
 to-morrow. Your visit would otherwise have 
 been proclaimed at Whitehall and St. James's, 
 but all will now be safe." 
 
 " Always the same prudence and foresight," 
 smd Cleveland ; " but hang politics, here's metal 
 more attractive.'' 
 
 " My daughter is much obliged to you,"* 
 said Lord Mowbray, as Lady Constance en- 
 tered with her aunt, and did the honours of the 
 castle, in a manner which the Earl, though 
 struck more than ever with her beautiful dig- 
 nity, could have wished not quite so dignified as 
 it was. 
 
 To both Lady Constance, and Lady Eleanor 
 however, he assumed his best style, which Lady 
 Eleanor afterwards pronounced, and Constance 
 admitted, was perfectly that of Vhomme de nais- 
 sance, and which at least had the effect for the 
 moment of reducing Clayton to insignificance. 
 
 To Lady Eleanor, indeed, he said a thousand 
 obliging things of her son, and, upon his en- 
 trance, treated him with so much respect, and 
 so perfectly en egal, that one lady was much
 
 318 DE VERE. 
 
 won, and the other much softened, by a demea- 
 nour which seemed so proper in the eyes of 
 both. Clayton, however, was here so httle 
 pleased, and indeed so out of his element, that 
 he retired, as he said, to write letters, not without 
 secretly wishing Lord Cleveland at the devil. 
 
 Lord Cleveland was a man of taste, and de- 
 scanted skilfully, and (as it would have been 
 thought even by Constance, had he not been 
 Lord Cleveland,) pleasingly, upon the grandeur 
 of the situation of the castle, and the proud 
 interests created by all that it exhibited. 
 
 " It is worthy the ancient nobles of the king- 
 dom," said he, " and puts to shame the upstart 
 palaces (even though they are palaces) of 
 modern riches. My fine mansion in the north, 
 (though I flatter myself it is on a pure Grecian 
 model,) cannot compare to this. Eustace was 
 right in all he said of it." 
 
 " Do you know any thing of Lord Eustace ?" 
 asked Lord Mowbray ; " he wrote to Mortimer 
 that he should travel with you." 
 
 •' He had not the same motives to set off so 
 soon,*" said Cleveland, looking both at Lord 
 Mowbray and his daughter, " and I was too 
 powerfully interested to wait." 
 
 Here again was an agreeable ambiguity to
 
 DE VERE. 319 
 
 Lord Mowbray, whether intended for pohtics or 
 love. *' It is very true," observed his lordship, 
 significantly, " he might be in the way for the 
 first twenty-four hours." 
 
 Lord Cleveland, however, had cared little for 
 his presence, but offered to wait for him as long 
 as he pleased, in the hope (if it must be known) 
 to have a joint paymaster of his horses, for so 
 large a proportion of his northern journey ; and 
 this was only given up, because Eustace was 
 uncertain whether he could come at all. 
 
 The rattling of another carriage, however, 
 announced another arrival, and to the surprise 
 of all assembled, the doubt about his visit was 
 put an end to, by the appearance of Eustace 
 himself. 
 
 " You are an extravagant, as well as a 
 churhsh fellow," cried Lord Cleveland, " to 
 travel alone, when you might have saved your 
 horses by coming with me." 
 
 " The minister was so ill," said Eustace, in a 
 hurried voice, " that no one could say whether 
 he could leave town or not ; and I did not re- 
 solve to do so, till you had been gone an hour. 
 He was reckoned a little better yesterday, and 
 the king had sent twice to inquire after him." 
 
 This called up all Lord Mowbray's interests.
 
 S20 DE VERE. 
 
 " I fear," said he, " we are likely to lose him,'' 
 and he shook his head very fervidly. *' If the 
 gout gets into his stomach, he is a gone man. 
 And what the country is to do " 
 
 "• Oh ! the country will do very well," re- 
 turned Eustace, with animation ; " only that 
 the world are astonished, T can tell you. Lord 
 Cleveland, at your running away to the north 
 just as people of all ranks are flocking to the 
 palace." 
 
 " I am not in the north," replied Cleveland, 
 " nor likely to go there while there is so de- 
 lightful a place midway to stop me." 
 
 " To be sure," cried Eustace, " you can get 
 to town much sooner from hence, if wanted." 
 
 " You are politique si enrage,''' observed 
 Cleveland, " that you can give one no credit 
 for other and better motives. For my part, 
 should the minister die to-morrow, I should 
 feel too happy with my kind hosts here to move." 
 
 " I fancy," returned Eustace, laughing, "you 
 would then reckon without your host. Indeed, 
 my father rather wondered at Lord Mowbray's 
 being out of town at such a time." 
 
 Lord Mowbray looked alarmed, and, indeed, 
 from the first arrival of Eustace was by no 
 means at his ease.
 
 DE VEllK. 321 
 
 " If this unlucky party,"' said he, *' could be 
 put off, and I thought I should be really 
 wanted " 
 
 " Every body is wanted," cried Eustace, with 
 quickness, " and though a mere subaltern, my 
 father would hardly let me come; nor would 
 he at all, I believe, had he not had a packet for 
 me to give to Lord Cleveland." 
 
 The Earl rather knit his brow as he took 
 the packet, and without opening it, put it in his 
 pocket. It is certain Lord Mowbray wovdd 
 at that moment have given one whole year's 
 office salary to have known the contents of that 
 packet. 
 
 " I think, my dear," said Lady Eleanor to 
 Constance, " we are in the way among these 
 great s'atesmen, and they will thank us to leave 
 them by themselves." 
 
 Neither her father nor Lord Eustace opposed 
 this. Indeed, that young nobleman flew to the 
 door to open it for them, as they sought to re- 
 tire ; when Cleveland, interposing with an au- 
 thoritative air over Eustace, protested that it 
 was very hard that he should have come above 
 a hundred miles to poison them with politics, 
 and deprive them of social pleasure, which, par- 
 ticularly in the country, ought to be held sacred, 
 r 3
 
 '322 DE VERE. 
 
 Lady Eleanor declared herself of the same 
 opinion ; and Cleveland, spite of all Lord Mow- 
 bray's representations, protesting that he would 
 not read his packet till night. Lady Eleanor 
 proposed shewing the castle to their distin- 
 guished guest ; in which Lord Mowbray could 
 not help joining ; and De Vere observing Eus- 
 tace absorbed with any thing but house-seeing, 
 fairly carried him off, saying he would shew 
 him the park, 
 
 '' With all submission to your cousin's 
 charms," said Eustace, as soon as they were 
 alone, " I am astonished at the noble earl we 
 have just left. My father's packet is not a 
 thing to be slighted ; and should he lose an 
 advantage by his delay, I am mistaken if he 
 will not most cruelly rue it." 
 
 '' Who, then," observed De Vere, " shall say 
 that ambition is his ruling passion, however it 
 may be yours .p" 
 
 '' And is it not yours .P" asked Eustace. 
 
 '' Mine ! O ! ay ! yes ! I believe it is, — or 
 rather it was, when I was in its hot-bed in 
 London. Here we have been all in a calm for 
 these two months."" 
 
 " So I have heard, and I was astonished," 
 returned Eustace, " particularly when I think.
 
 DE VERE. 323 
 
 as I do every moment, how very few years Mr. 
 Wentwortli, who has so long been distinguished, 
 has the start of us. I cannot sleep for it. Yet 
 here we are ; you slumbering over even your 
 seat in parliament, and I scarcely known, except 
 for a single maiden speech. But who would 
 have thought you would be so indolent? even 
 Clayton will beat you." 
 
 " Can we be better than happy ?" asked De 
 Vere. Yet he closed the question with a sigh. 
 
 " That is at least not said in a happy tone," 
 cried Eustace, " and I should fear from what 
 I see, and what I have heard, that a high minded 
 beauty has already spoiled a high minded states- 
 man." 
 
 De Vere was scarlet to the ears, at this speech ; 
 for he had flattered himself that feelings, which 
 his own heart hardly understood, were not sus- 
 pected by the rest of the world. Moreover, he 
 had resolved that, whatever they were, they 
 should not be even whispered, so as, perhaps, to 
 affect the conduct of the lovely being who had 
 excited them. 
 
 Making a great effort, therefore, to recover 
 himself, he replied, "■ My dear Eustace, these 
 are words of course, and could not but be applied 
 to any two persons who had passed a month
 
 324 DE VERB. 
 
 together any where ; but particularly in an old 
 castle in the country. That you point at my 
 cousin is clear ; that you are wrong is equally 
 so; witness my having urged both you and 
 Lord Cleveland to come down to us ; you, who 
 might be, and he, whom I know to be, a most 
 powerful rival — nay, a rival with whpm, even 
 if I could, I would not allow myself to enter 
 into competition." 
 
 " You were always honourable,"' said Eus- 
 tace, pressing his hand, " and I did but jest ; 
 but upon my word, Cleveland is a riddle, I 
 know his very soul is in politics and court in- 
 trigue ; he has the ear of the king ; the time is 
 such, that he may play at cups and balls with 
 the ministry, and yet he has run away after a 
 mere beauty." 
 
 " Mere beauty !" exclaimed De Vere. 
 
 " Oh ! I cry you merc}^, Signor," returned 
 his friend, " one must have a care of such 
 perfect freedom as yours. Well, I will allow 
 the Lady Constance to be all even you and 
 Cleveland can think her ; nay, I am sure I 
 admire her as much as either of you would wish 
 me. But I say again, who would throw away 
 the certainty of power for the uncertainty of a 
 woman's smile .^"
 
 DE VEllE. 325 
 
 " Not you, it seems," said De Vere, laughing ; 
 " but suppose it the certainty .'" and his laugh 
 ceased. 
 
 " I am not sure it would make any difference/'' 
 returned the young aspirant. " In short, ambi- 
 tion, shadowy as you may think it, is, 1 allow, 
 my mistress ; and until I succeed with her, I 
 leave all those of flesh and blood to you and 
 Cleveland. 
 
 " 'Tis a fair compromise," said De Vere, with 
 satisfaction, " and I will take care to inform 
 my Lord Cleveland that you are not in his 
 way."** 
 
 '' He would be affronted at the very supposi- 
 tion," observed Eustace, "' and might put me to 
 death for my presumption. But w^e have at 
 least given him fair play, and I must really 
 force him to read his packet, and answer Lord 
 Oldcastle to-night, or I shall never be deemed 
 fit for any thing but a dangling appendage of a 
 placeman, for which no qualification is required 
 — but what I had in my cradle — a title." 
 
 The friends then made towards the castle; 
 and as they climbed up the steep footpath 
 which left the carriage way winding around 
 them, they beheld Lord Cleveland, who had 
 said he would not open his packet till night.
 
 326 DE VERE. 
 
 wrinkling his front over it, in the window of 
 his dressing-room. Cleveland, immediately on 
 perceiving Eustace, beckoned him to come to 
 him ; a sign which that eager young man with 
 alacrity obeyed. 
 
 The conference lasted long ; nor did the 
 castle party meet again till all were assembled 
 at dinner, with the addition of Constance's most 
 loved friend, the Marchioness, who had come 
 to do honour to the birth-dayj^^^, which was to 
 be held the next day.
 
 DE VKRE. 
 
 327 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A CHANGE. 
 
 Her heavenly form 
 
 Angelic, but more soft and feminine. 
 
 Her graceful innocence, her every aid 
 
 Of gesture, or least action, overaw'd 
 
 His malice, and with rapine sweet bereav'd 
 
 His fierceness. 
 
 Milton. 
 
 The presence of Lady Clanellan was a real 
 comfort to the apprehensions of Constance, who, 
 from the manner both of Lord Cleveland and 
 her father, added to De Vere's late insinuations, 
 and even her aunt's high principled representa- 
 tions, had begun to conceive ominous portents 
 from the visit of the Earl. 
 
 It is most certain that during the hour which 
 had passed in shewing him the castle, the gardens, 
 and, (as Lord Mowbray insisted upon it) the 
 dairy house, with its beautiful precinct, he had 
 laid himself out to act the character of the most 
 sincere, as well as respectful admirer that ever 
 youthful lady entertained in hail or bower. 
 Every one of the few sentences she uttered,
 
 328 DE VERE. 
 
 seemed only spoken to be echoed by his own 
 sentiments ; and he even moralized very prettily 
 in the bee-garden, upon the uselessness of im- 
 moderate wealth, and its inefficacy to secure 
 happiness ; which, he admitted, was after all the 
 only true object of ambition, and of course the 
 only pursuit of a wise man. In short, to believe 
 the Earl, he could have rested perfectly content, 
 nay, would perhaps prefer a lot which confined 
 him to the moderation of this little scene, to the 
 indulgences of riches, and the pomp of power. 
 Ambition itself sank to nothing in the comparison. 
 But neither Lady Eleanor nor Constance 
 were deceived , — though Lord Mowbray, who 
 had learned from Eustace the nature of his 
 errand to Lord Cleveland, smiled inwardly, and 
 not without complacency, to think how love 
 could change a man's innate disposition. He 
 was by no means displeased therefore to believe 
 that this little aberration from the earl's great 
 passion (so near upon the point of being grati- 
 fied,) was occasioned by a desire to connect 
 himself where most Lord Mowbray wished him 
 to be connected. 
 
 Lady Eleanor and Constance, however, re- 
 membered the letter which De Vere had read to 
 them but a few days before. Constance thought
 
 DE VERE. 329 
 
 of the contrast with even disgust, and felt that 
 surely pardonable aoger, which a self-respecting 
 young person must always feel when she thinks 
 a man, for his own purposes, presumes he may 
 trifle with her understanding. 
 
 Such seemed evidently the conduct of Lord 
 Cleveland in thus so suddenly playing the sen- 
 timentalist ; nor would Constance^ though 
 pressed^ in his most plausible strain, to agree 
 with him in the soft notions which he continued 
 to unfold, condescend even to give an opinion, 
 but busied herself with pretended little cares 
 about her favourite domain. 
 
 In truth, his new character sat but awkwardly 
 upon Lord Cleveland ; and Constance was glad 
 to hear from her aunt, a sort of reproach which 
 she thought might be unbecoming in herself. 
 Lady Eleanor was struck with the contradiction 
 between Lord Cleveland's letter and his present 
 opinions, and presuming upon her age, did not 
 refrain from tellino^ him so. At another time in 
 her life, she might have rallied him upon it with 
 keenness, and even with wit ; but the buoyancy 
 of her spirit had long been broken, and she 
 could only be roused to this sort of exertion, by 
 a sense of his impropriety of conduct, and the 
 necessity of repressing it.
 
 330 DE VERE. 
 
 With some gravity, therefore, if not dignity 
 of tone, she said, " Your lordship must really 
 imagine us weak women, to be the poor, believing 
 creatures the men sometimes represent us, when 
 you practise upon us thus. Unfortunately we 
 have been favoured with your real sentiments in 
 your letter to my son. We there saw what the 
 great Lord Cleveland thought of grandeur or 
 moderation, excitement or placidity, town or 
 country." 
 
 The earl looked uneasy, if not disconcerted, 
 at this reproach, in a presence where he most 
 wished to be free from it. Eyeing Constance, 
 therefore, with a humble and even tender air, 
 he said, it seemed not a little hard that he 
 should be concluded in a matter in which he felt 
 so sincere, merely from a piece of badinage, in 
 which no one could suppose him serious. 
 
 In this, he was joined by Lord Mowbray, who 
 saw the coldness of his daughter's looks with 
 regret, and was by no means pleased with this 
 check given by Lady Eleanor to a discourse, 
 which, beginning in sentiment, might have 
 ended in something still more tender. 
 
 As it was, Lord Cleveland observed, that 
 he was the more unfortunate, because (whether 
 he might be believed or not, he presumed not to
 
 UE VEllE. 331 
 
 say,) it was never of more consequence to him to 
 be thought sincere. 
 
 " And yet, for the hfe of me," added he, " I 
 cannot understand why I am supposed to laugh 
 at romance, except for my fooUsh letter." 
 
 " You laugh at every tiling, my lord,'' ob- 
 served Constance, gravely. 
 
 "No! on my honour," replied he, "spirits 
 may run away with any one, but never did 
 any thing truly respectable receive an affront 
 from me." 
 
 " And yet,'' returned Constance, " how did 
 you once lavish your ridicule upon I know not 
 what unfortunate couple just married, on their 
 retiring to the country ? ' 
 
 " Perhaps," replied the earl, gaily, " I thought 
 of the Duke of Buckingham, who said to a dog 
 that had bit him, ' I wish you were married and 
 settled in the country.' But seriously, I beheve 
 it was to get rid of my envy of their happiness ; 
 for such I felt it to be, while I myself seemed 
 alone in the world, stranded on its shores, as if 
 from a wreck. No, Lady Constance, as well 
 might I be accused," — and here he placed his 
 hand on his breast with an air by no means un- 
 graceful — " of laughing at what I most respect, 
 the persons who stand before me."
 
 S3S DE VEllE. 
 
 Though the word persons was in the plural 
 number, the bow and pointed look with which 
 it was accompanied, all shewed the individual 
 for whom this speech was most intended ; and 
 to say the truth, it called up a little colour in 
 the cheek of Constance, who afterwards owned 
 to her aunt, that if Lord Cleveland had not 
 been too much spoiled to be reclaimed, there 
 seemed to have been that in him originally which 
 would have become his high station. 
 
 "And do you think this?" said Lady 
 Eleanor. 
 
 " As much as I can, thinking so little of him 
 at all," replied Constance. " He certainly 
 seemed more in earnest, or I should rather say 
 less offensively and affectedly sarcastic to-day, 
 than I ever remember him." 
 
 Lady Eleanor was not without reasons for 
 scrutinizing the feeling with which this was said, 
 and she did scrutinize it ; but though, while she 
 did so, her mind could not help wandering to 
 her son, her observation upon it was that of the 
 clearest disinterestedness. 
 
 " I quite agree with you," said she : *^ from 
 the first, I have been struck with a sort of na- 
 tural elevation, something commanding in this 
 spoiled child of the world, as you properly call
 
 DE VERE. 333 
 
 him, which surely cannot be wholly extinguish- 
 ed, and which, with proper help, might yet be 
 prosperously developed. Shall I tell you, too, 
 what I diink is the help required?'' 
 
 With some vivacity, Constance asked — 
 "What?" 
 
 " A pure and real passion," returned Lady 
 Eleanor, " for a pure and virtuous woman, who 
 might re-kindle natural feeling, and recover his 
 deadened sense of goodness by the communica- 
 tion of her own. In short, my dear Constance, 
 if nature really meant Lord Cleveland for what 
 you yourself seem to suppose, I know nothing 
 so likely as that charming self, to bring him 
 back to her sway." 
 
 At these words she kissed her gentle niece, 
 who was far from displeased at this proof of her 
 good opinion, though whether intrinsically as 
 such, or connected with the ideas thus kindled 
 of Lord Cleveland, might be doubtful. 
 
 " Nay," continued Lady Eleanor, seeing 
 Constance shake her head, and look as if she 
 brooded over some strong internal feeling, " it 
 is impossible, I think, to mistake the present 
 behaviour of this nobleman ; his attentions — " 
 
 " Are the same," interrupted Constance, "to 
 all women of any note, or I had almost said,
 
 334 DE VERE. 
 
 "whether of note or not, and as such, can only 
 l>e to amuse the passhig hour ; such attentions" — 
 
 '^ Are not for you, dearest Constance ; I 
 know this full well," continued Lady Eleanor; 
 " but at least you may be unjust, in setting this 
 down for granted without trial or inquiry ; and 
 considering his rank, wealth, and power, nay, 
 even his seeming accomplishments of mind, I 
 should be sorry that a match in these respects so 
 every way worthy of you, should be rashly re- 
 jected." 
 
 "Am I, then, to suppose,'' said Constance, 
 gravely, " that, taking for granted these in- 
 tentions of Lord Cleveland, my aunt is his 
 friend ^ 
 
 " Friend is too pronounced a character,'" 
 replied Lady Eleanor, repressing something 
 like uneasiness, (for she thought how the 
 part she was acting might influence the fate of 
 her son) ; " 1 should indeed affront my niece to 
 suppose a friend could avail any thing in such a 
 matter. Heaven knows too," (and here a little 
 pent up sigh could not be restrained,) " I have 
 no cause for being the friend of Lord Cleveland 
 or any one ; but I should think myself blame- 
 able so as never to pardon myself " 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, my dearest aunt," inter-
 
 DE VEEE. 3o 
 
 OO 
 
 rupted Constance, *' what can occasion this 
 eagerness of language, in regard to a person 
 you know less of, I believe, than myself?" 
 
 " True," said Lady Eleanor, resuming a 
 quiet tone; " I know little of Lord Cleveland ; 
 all T meant was, that I could not sit quietly by 
 and see what may be prejudice at work to ob- 
 struct your worldly advantage, and not caution 
 you against such a prejudice, and in this even 
 Mortimer agrees." 
 
 " Mortimer ! Has he then given any opinion ? 
 and of all men, in Lord Cleveland's favour ?'"* 
 
 " Not positively an opinion," returned Lady 
 Eleanor ; " nor w^ould De Vere ever presume 
 that he had a right to form one." 
 
 " And why not.?'^ asked Constance. " Is he 
 not my cousin and my friend ? And have I any 
 brother, or even sister to confer with ? And 
 ought he not, therefore, if he knows any thing 
 of Lord Cleveland or his views, not only to 
 form, but give an opinion ?'' 
 
 " To me, yes !""rephed Lady Eleanor, struck 
 with her openness ; " to you, certainly not." 
 
 " What ! not even if I ask him ?" 
 
 " It would be difficult, I grant you, to refuse ; 
 but still, unless asked by Lord Mowbray in 
 form, as one of the family ''
 
 836 DE VEHE. 
 
 «' And does he stand upon such etiquette ? 
 said Constance, with gravity. " But after all, 
 may I not ask of you what his opinion is ?" 
 
 " It is the same as my own," rephed Lady 
 Eleanor ; nor did all her feehng for her son pre- 
 vent her uttering this with the firm decision that 
 belonged to her. 
 
 Constance became more and more serious, 
 and with some emotion observed, " Mortimer 
 then wishes me to listen to Lord Cleveland." 
 
 '' Oh, no ! he only thinks Lord Cleveland 
 should not, without trial, or hearing, be treated 
 like a rejected man." 
 
 The Lady Constance pondered these words, 
 and turned them over and over again in her 
 mind ; and if she could not help thinking it a 
 little strange that her aunt and cousin should 
 deem it necessary to take any trouble at all in 
 favour of Lord Cleveland, it is, perhaps, no 
 more than what the reader has anticipated ; nor 
 could I ever discover a clue to it among any of 
 the maxims that govern ordinary life. 
 
 What did really govern them, though spon- 
 taneously starting in their minds, without com- 
 municating with each other, savoured indeed a 
 little of a generosity bordering on romance, 
 which I by no means present to the world as an
 
 DE VERB. 337 
 
 object of wisdom or imitation. Indeed, both 
 mother and son have, I know, been called very 
 great fools for their pains ; but it is my business 
 to represent things as they occurred, and I 
 return. 
 
 " 'Tis enough, my dear aunt," said Con- 
 stance. " Lord Cleveland is at least my father's 
 guest, and you and my cousin are very good to 
 recommend him, as if he were mine." 
 
 She said this rather coldly, and was going on, 
 when the conference was broken up by the an- 
 nouncement of Lady Clanellan, and the castle 
 was again occupied by the bustle of an arrival. 
 
 The Marchioness was soon closeted with her 
 young friend. It was too late to greet Lord 
 Mowbray, and the half hour they had to spare 
 was past in mutual and pleasing interrogatories, 
 during which Lady Clanellan did not conceal 
 from Constance the reports which had reached 
 her of Lord Cleveland's attentions to her in 
 town, from the moment of her being presented, 
 and the intentions which all the world attributed 
 to him in coming to the castle at a time perhaps 
 the most critical, to a man of his known ambi- 
 tion, that could well be imagined. 
 
 Constance was grave, and, indeed, the con- 
 versation she had just had with her aunt, would 
 VOL. I. a
 
 338 DE VERE. 
 
 have absorbed her mind, but for the arrival of 
 her friend. Nor could she exactly analyse, to 
 what extent Lady Eleanor had intended to go, 
 in favour of Lord Cleveland, nor her motives 
 for doing so — still less the sentiments of her son. 
 They neither satisfied nor pleased her, and yet 
 we cannot say they were altogether without im- 
 pression. " I have perhaps done Lord Cleve- 
 land injustice," said she to herself; '^ but how 
 are my aunt or my cousin interested in telling 
 me so,?" So said this artless and inexperienced 
 young creature, who if she could have looked 
 into the minds of either, would have found them 
 any thing but interested in favour of Cleveland. 
 
 Still, as has been said, it was not without 
 effect ; and from having thought that she had 
 done him wrong, Constance came almost to think 
 of Lord Cleveland as a person to whom she 
 owed a large arrear of right. 
 
 Her ears were therefore at least not ill-dis- 
 posed to his subject, nor was it with the usual 
 indifference that she found herself listening to 
 Lady Clanellan's causerie concerning him. 
 
 The Marchioness knew the Earl only by his 
 general reputation, as a man almost at the head 
 of politics, and entirely at the head of fashion. 
 If any thing, therefore, she inclined to fall in
 
 DE VERB. 339 
 
 with the general opinion concerning him ; and 
 supposing what she had heard of his attentions 
 to Constance, true, it is certain that neitlier her 
 opinion, nor her advice concerning him, did him 
 disservice. This, added to what had just passed 
 with her aunt, and, shall we say, to something 
 Hke an unsatisfied (for we will not call it a 
 displeased) feeling, in regard to Mortimer's 
 conduct and opinions, inclined Constance, upon 
 the whole, to shew more favour, or rather less 
 distance, to the prosperous Lord Cleveland, 
 than she had ever done before. It was a 
 change that could not escape him, and during 
 the whole of dinner, and afterwards, his pleased 
 and quick eye was bent upon her every look 
 and action, and his ear drank every sound she 
 uttered, with an avidity, as well as a respect, 
 with which no female had ever before inspired 
 him. 
 
 Strange that such should be the power of 
 an unsophisticated girl, however lovely, upon 
 perhaps the most sophisticated, practir^ed man of 
 the age, in all that belonged to artificial life ; 
 yet so it was. For such is the force of nature, 
 however repressed, however perverted or dis- 
 torted by even habitual indulgence, that there 
 are times when she will return in all her 
 a ^
 
 340 DE VERE. 
 
 native beauty, and charm the most pampered 
 mind back to the purer pleasures she always 
 intended for us. 
 
 Thus it was with Cleveland, the spoiled 
 child, as he had justly been called, of fortune 
 and the world. He had been worn out by per- 
 petual excitement ; he was hlaze in every sense 
 he possessed ; he had crushed the sweet poison 
 of misused indulgence, till its attractions had no 
 longer any hold on him ; and it was only when 
 he looked at the freshness and innocence of Con-^ 
 stance, just entering into life, that he still thought 
 there was any thing in life worth possessing. 
 Like the Enchanter, he might say, that other 
 things had sometimes 
 
 " In pleasing slumber luU'd the sense, 
 And in sweet madness robb'd it of itself; 
 But such a sacred and home-ftlt delight. 
 Such sober certainty of waking bliss. 
 He never heard till now." 
 
 Thus felt Lord Cleveland, and, unHke the En- 
 chanter, with both the wish and the hope of re- 
 formation ; though from fatal experience he knew 
 that to wish, with him, was far easier than to 
 hope. 
 
 To do him justice, he understood so much
 
 DE VERE. 34rl 
 
 of his own case as at least to perceive the 
 means of its restoration, if not past cure : and 
 his admiration of Constance approached so 
 nearly to the love of virtue, that he wished to re- 
 cover the purity which he knew had abandoned 
 him, by seeking in her to ally himself with vir- 
 tue herself. Could he succeed, the thought of 
 a renovation of mind, proceeding from such a 
 dehghtful source, took possession of him with 
 such a charm that it thrilled to his heart. 
 
 Alas ! it was like those fond dreams in anato- 
 mical science, which have, with more daring 
 than truth, supposed it possible for youthful 
 veins to be safely opened, and their healthful 
 vigour infused into the dried up sluices of age. 
 The attempt, however, in either case, ought not 
 to be contemned. 
 
 From all this, it appears, that Lord Cleve- 
 land's admiration of Constance was not only sin- 
 cere, but that his love of her character turned 
 him with compunction to the contemplation of 
 his own. The result did him no harm= He 
 became for a time natural, easy, and almost mo- 
 dest. The flow of his mind seemed purified ; 
 his respect was evidently genuine ; and Con- 
 stance, after having herself never been so com- 
 municative, owned to the Marchioness and Lady
 
 342 DE VERE. 
 
 Eleanor, that Lord Cleveland could be very 
 agreeable, nay, even respectable, if he pleased. 
 
 The additional power of pleasing which this 
 feeling had given to herself, confirmed her in- 
 fluence over him in the most pointed degree. If, 
 as a beautiful statue, (for so insensible had she 
 hitherto always seemed to the Earl's attentions,) 
 she could still maintain her empire, the relaxa- 
 tion of her austerity only made him more and 
 more alive to the charm that bound him. 
 
 Nor can any one wonder at this, who has ever 
 felt the augmented power of an amiable object, 
 when we discover the least indication of a reci- 
 procity of feeling. The eye that does not avoid 
 being sought by ours ; the glance returned, 
 though ever so passing ; the hand's soft pressure 
 in the least repaid ; the little request granted 
 with alacrity ; the sentiment re-echoed ; the un- 
 obvious, yet discoverable pleasure in the accept- 
 ance of homage — these are heighteners of beauty 
 beyond all the powers of art to equal ; they give 
 loveliness a charm which even Nature did not 
 intend, and can almost soften ugliness itself into 
 something like attraction. 
 
 The dinner, therefore, and the evening at 
 Castle Mowbray, on the first day of the Earl's 
 arrival, seemed not only to his delighted sense,
 
 DE VERE. 
 
 but to his better and clearer feelings, an Elysium 
 which, if ever he had felt it, he had despaired 
 of feeling again ; and he lay down to rest re- 
 volving dreams, which, could they be realized, 
 v^cre, as he thought, worth more than the world, 
 and which, though they might be merely dreams, 
 had made him already a belter and a happier 
 man. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 SHACKELL AND BAYLIS, JOHNSON's-COURT.
 
 .# --
 
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