worth, he was attentive, even to minuteness, in blazoning his fancied philosophy, wherever he could find room for it."

Had his practice proved him sincere," said De Vere," I should not blame him. I am no enemy to the custom of thus feeding one's imagination, where the end is good."

Here they were interrupted by the guide, who assured them, he said, upon authority which he thought unquestionable, that milor was le plus grand philosophe et ministre du monde, always excepted monsieur le baron de Montesquieu.

Then assuming an air of greater importance, and opening the locker of one of the window-seats, he produced a manuscript book, mouldy with age, and in many parts obliterated from damp, but which was evidently a common-place book, and, as it seemed to Wentworth, in Bolingbroke's hand-writing.

"Le voila!" cried the intendant, with increased significance, "C'est son écriture!"

Both Wentworth and De Vere hurried to examine it, even before they were told by their guide that it was he who had discovered this only relic of the great milor, and that he had very honestly informed the steward of the estate of it, who, upon the strength of his having been son to the gardener when Bolingbroke lived there, told him he might keep it

"I did so," said the old gentleman, "and as English travellers often come here, I have found my

account in shewing it to them, as I hope," concluded he, with a low bow, "I shall to-day."

The friends were so much absorbed with the manuscript, as scarcely to listen to him, though the book was merely a collection of passages from different authors bearing upon particular subjects, with a few original sentences of the writer's own, afterwards incorporated with his works. Both gentlemen were particularly struck with the following, which they read with avidity, and which brought home to them many reflections, to which even what De Vere, but particularly Wentworth, had seen of the world of ambition, made them peculiarly alive.

Similis, a captain of great reputation, under Trajan and Adrian, having obtained leave to retire, passed seven years in his retreat, and then dying, ordered this inscription to be put on his tomb: that he had been many years on earth, but that he had lived only seven. If you are wise, your leisure will be as worthily employed, and your retreat will add new lustre to your character. Imitate Thucydides in Thrace, or Xenophon in his little farm at Scillus. In such a retreat you may sit down like one of the inhabitants of Elis, who judged of the Olympic games without taking any part in them. Far from the hurry of the world, and almost an unconcerned spectator of what passes in it, having paid in a public life what you owed to the present age, pay in a private life what you owe to posterity. Write, as

you have lived, without passion, and build your reputation, as you build your happiness, on the foundation of truth.

'Innocuas amo delicias, doctamque quietam.""

Wentworth and De Vere looked at one another on finishing these passages, each moved by the same sentiment.

"To think," at last exclaimed Wentworth, "how differently a man can act and write!"

"And yet," observed De Vere, looking at the landscape from the windows, "may we not suppose him sincere ?"

"For the moment, yes!" replied Wentworth; "and though the landscape is, as you say, delightful, I dare say when he sat at this window, he looked oftenest at the road to Paris."

"It is certain," observed De Vere, falling into thought, "his philosophy was merely in his ideas. But they were beautiful ideas, nor can I help regretting that his feeling was merely in imagination when he solaced himself with that charming line which you see he has underscored, as if he loved it,

'Innocuas amo delicias, doctamque quietam.''

"Yes!" observed Wentworth, "but that he, who was the child of passion, should say to himself, in the very privacy of his chamber, where he must have been communing with his own heart, Write as you

have lived, without passion! Oh! human nature! how admirably canst thou fool thyself!"

"Here is more, and still more marked," cried De Vere, turning over the leaves, and the friends read on. "You have fulfilled all the duties of a good citi. zen, you have been true to your trust, and have pursued the interest of your country; you severed her interest from those of her factions. She reaps the benefits of these services, and you suffer for them. You are banished, and pursued with ignominy, and those whom you hindered from triumphing at her expense, revenge themselves at your's."

"This is, at least, more practical," observed Wentworth," and here we worshippers of ambition, as we are called, may find some truth as to our slippery position."

De Vere, all interest, read on.

"The persons in opposition to whom you saved the public, conspire and accomplish your ruin. These are your accusers, and the giddy, ungrateful crowd, your judges. Your name is hung up in the tables of proscription, and art, joined to malice, endeavours to make your best actions pass for crimes. For this purpose, the sacred voice of the senate is made to pronounce a lie, and those records which ought to be the eternal monuments of truth, become the vouchers of calumny.

"A good lesson," cried Wentworth.

"Hear the consolation," proceeded De Vere.
"Such circumstances you think intolerable, and

you would prefer death to so ignominious an exile. Deceive not yourself. The ignominy remains with them who persecute, not with him who suffers unjust persecution. But nothing can affect the man, who, in an healthful body, enjoys a conscience void of the offences ascribed to him."

"Admirable consolation!" exclaimed Wentworth, "but, alas! how often belied by the person who, with perhaps a broken heart, whispers that he believes it, and dies!"

Here the ex-minister turned away to the window, and was silent. 'Twas evident he was thinking of Beaufort.

De Vere went on to read another passage, descriptive of the resignation of this extraordinary lover of tranquillity; whose only unhappiness for thirty years was, that he was left to enjoy what he loved.

"I have brought myself to that indifferent temper of mind which only can secure the tranquillity of any person who acts upon the public stage in this country of revolutions. How I envied Lord Peterborough, for being far from home, nearer the sun, and at a distance from faction!"

During the reading of these extracts, and the comments upon them, Monsieur Nicholas, the steward, stood at a respectful distance, with his arms crossed before him in a sort of attitude of resignation, until the gentlemen should have finished; when, observing them pause, he asked in the manner in which a Frenchman generally asks for a compliment, “ Mes