manded a postponement of it till the morning. The two gentlemen then separated for the night, mutually charmed with a meeting which had given to Flowerdale the only thing he sometimes wanted-an intelligent companion.

De Vere reposed in an old cut-velvet bed, in a room wainscoted with panels, on many of which were carved the effigies of the Plantagenet monarchs, and some of the bishops of Litchfield. He was however most struck with his dressing-room, which was in fact a retired closet of books, with a sofa and chairs of old Turkey leather; and over the chimney were engraved the following lines, which derived greater interest from the recent conversation, still floating in his mind, and not a little from the appropriateness of the place.

"Ici je trouve le bonheur,
Ici je vis sans spectateur,
Dans le silence littéraire,
Loin de tout importun jaseur,

Loin des froids discours du vulgaire,

Et des hauts tons de la grandeur."

Revolving this, and all he had seen and heard, he sank to rest, pleased with the example of rational independence he had witnessed, and which he was not without a secret wish that he might one day imitate.

CHAPTER XI.

HOME..

Say, is your tardy master now at hand?-SHAKSPEARE.

This small inheritance my father left me,
Contenteth me, and 's worth a monarchy.—Ibid,

LONG and deep were the meditations of De Vere on quitting Okeover Hall, and directing his course through the forest to Talbois, which now seemed more beloved than ever. The cheerful, unruffled content of Flowerdale; the sweets of his life; his independence of the world, and the sense of his conversation; all these dwelt on our traveller's mind. Though eager enough to get home, his reflections on all he had seen and heard so

absorbed him, that till within a mile of Talbois he quickened not the pace with which he had set out, but allowed his horse to saunter with the reins almost at command, while he indulged in a variety of thought.

His meditation was intense and important; for the whole of human life, with all its hosts of images, rose up before him, and in an array, it must be owned, less pleasing than, from his age and station, might have been expected. But his disappointments, though chiefly arising from sensibility and high principle, rather than misfortune, had been many; and as he passed the well-known glades of Needwood, which led to his paternal house, he could not help contrasting his present feelings on revisiting them with those which filled his careless bosom when he became first acquainted with their beauties; that happy time, big with expectation,

"When oft before his infant eyes would run

Such forms as glitter in the muse's ray."

"I have now seen these forms," said he to himself; "but I fear they glitter no longer."

For the rest of the way, till he was almost within sight of Talbois, he brooded over the conduct of his uncle, his own strange yet unrepented separation from most of his friends, and above all, from that lovely and superior being before whom he had left the world bowing, so as for ever to deprive him of hope, had he ever encouraged any. Yet of this being he could not help thinking still with tenderness, though to him so unaccountably changed.

As he approached, however, nearer to Talbois, a gleam of satisfaction broke in upon him, which every one has more or less experienced on returning to his home; that magic word, which has such a charm in it to all, that he must be lost indeed to whom it does not bring some comfort. For there is not, in the whole range of moral observation, any thing so pregnant with satisfaction or interest as the associations that cling to this simple word, Shelter, if not independence of all that may be without, together with the gratification of all the charities that are within, are the general notions which here lay hold of us. These are not confined to any rank or any nation-to any scale of enjoyment or any degree of wealth. On the contrary, the more moderate the home, the greater the chance for those peaceful reflections upon which the whole value of it depends. If ever the poor man thinks

himself a man,-if ever his mind is erect, or his manners softened, it is at home. It is there he feels himself God's creature equally with his master; it is there that he may laugh at the struggles of ambition, which, if even successful, can give no more than the power he has already of fancying himself supreme in his own little domain.

Hence it is not marble, nor gold, nor crowds of followers that form any part of the value of this treasure, but the self-sufficing spirit which it calls up, and which, in a moral sense, equals us with monarchs.

That this is true is proved by every man who has ever found pleasure in the silent hour, when he shuts out the world to converse with himself. Nor do I know a more enviable sensation than his who, with his thoughts at peace, turns the key of his chamber upon the struggles of men, and while the lords of kingdoms quarrel with fortune for not giving them a wider rule, says to his own heart, within the precinct of perhaps a few square feet, "Here am I lord of myself."

Something of this sort touched the mind of De Vere as he now came within view of his own estate, and recollected the many beings, and even inanimate objects which awaited his return. His heart expanded with delight when he thought of his revered parent, and the comfort which the sight of him, after so many anxieties, would give her. Her own pure life, her honourable character, her dignified suffering, and the consolations she had always derived from his filial attachment took possession of his mind; yet not so exclusively as to prevent him from thinking of other associations belonging to a place which had been the seat of his high-souled ancestors. It was still the abode of unostentatious but determined principle; and in regard to himself had been the scene of many a frolic, as well as of many a profitable hour.

The thought of all this made him quicken his pace, and discard his gloom for happier expectation; when, approaching the rough forest-gates which divided his little kingdom from the great empire of Needwood, he was encountered by a dog whom, by his growl and bushy tail, he immediately knew to be Triton. The animal, on recognising him, changed all his ferocity to gentleness, and leaped up with joy in an attempt to lick his hand.

"Thou and thy master, old friend," said De Vere, "are

too inseparable in body as well as in character for you to be alone. If thou art here, he cannot be far off."

In truth, Harclai appeared the next moment, and great and hearty were the mutual congratulations of two persons who loved and respected each other as cordially as any two men could do of such different ages, manners, and views of things.

"You are welcome to your home," said Harclai, grasping his hand," after a pilgrimage which, I shrewdly suspect, has not been so untroubled as Herbert prophesied it would be."

"We will not talk of that now," replied De Vere; “ tell me if my mother is well, for you come, I suppose, from

the moated house."

"She expects you with eagerness," said Harclai, "and you will find her as well as you could wish.

all things else were so !"

"Your meaning?" asked De Vere.

Would that

"She is aware," replied Harclai, "of the irrespectable conduct of her brother, the falsehood of Clayton, and the extinction of your political hopes."

"And is this all?" said De Vere.

"If there were any other disappointments," observed Harclai, "she kept them to herself; but she is evidently uneasy. You are, however, a brave lad, and will not belie your birth.-You will not fail the expectations of this high-minded woman, to gain` the proudest princess in Europe."

De Vere was embarrassed, and not over-pleased; for he dreaded the allusion which this indicated, and he was therefore glad to be relieved by the sight of Lady Eleanor herself, standing at the great gates of the moat, and eager to receive him.

·

The embrace of the mother and son was gracious to both, and did Harclai good.

"If the world," said he, "often showed such a sight, I would not abuse it. However, I shall not lose my walk for all the mothers and sons in England. So adieu." At these words, and evidently by design, he left them to themselves.

For a while neither would say much: but it was obvious that much was expected by Lady Eleanor, who had long been informed of and long brooded over the mental conflicts of her son. Yet the subject was too delicate to force, and indeed too unpleasant for either to enlarge

upon. To blame her brother's conduct, both public and private, was the inclination of her mind; but her repugnance to touch upon it kept her from saying much, even upon Clayton, in regard to whom she was glad to imitate her son in consigning him to silent contempt. But Constance, the admired, the spotless, the natural Constance!-for her she was all ear, and listened to all that De Vere recounted of her, with a sympathy and intenseness of interest which only excited that of her son in a still greater degree. At the same time, she had little comfort from what he told her of the change in his cousin's manner towards him; and comparing it with the communications made to her by Lord Mowbray, she felt there was but one road for honour to take, and that road she was delighted to find De Vere had already pursued. Without any particularity of communication, therefore, between the mother and son, they mutually understood each other; and De Vere received her approbation of his design to accompany Mr. Wentworth abroad, as if he had acquainted her in form with all his feeling about his cousin, and she had agreed with him on the necessity for overcoming a hopeless passion. All this passed without a syllable on either part upon the nature or even the fact of his attachment. Such is the approximation of kindred minds.

On other parts of his situation he was far more precise, and in the course of the day, and when the servants had withdrawn after dinner, he was as communicative as Lady Eleanor or Harclai could have wished; the latter of whom was any thing but a restraint upon either mother or son.

"I always thought Clayton a rogue," said his old guardian; "and for aught I can see, my Lord of Oldcastle is little better. You have, as I thought you would, been beset by knaves; and of the only two men who, from your accounts, promised well, one has sacrificed his power, the other his life, to a vile intrigue; while duplicity and suppleness have triumphed. But you are my own boy still," added Harclai, "and above them all, whatever the end of it."

De Vere begged him to control the exuberance of his philippic, assuring him that however disappointed he was by no means yet prepared to follow him to the desert.

"My maxim," continued he, smiling, "is the converse