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THE contemplation of the scene they had left, produced an evident effect on the minds of both our travellers. For some miles they were silent, revolving the dazzling instance of selfdeception which the late visit had afforded; but revolving also the extraordinary fluctuations in the life of a devotee of ambition, which the fate of this highly gifted minister exhibited. The subject formed the topic of many conversations, even to the very foot of the Pyrenees. In one of them, Wentworth observed, "had I been Walpole, having restored St. John to his titles and estate, I think I would not have opposed

his complete restoration, nor shut him out of the House of Lords."

"I honour you for the sentiment," returned De Vere; "but Walpole, I suppose, had too much wisdom, as it is called, to be generous."

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"And yet," observed Wentworth, " generosity, so far from militating against wisdom, even in politics, may be made one of the most powerful, as it surely is one of the most delightful means of governing a state, even through party."

"I rejoice to hear this from you," replied De Vere; " you who have so much experience, and cannot therefore, like us visionary people, be led away by mere theory."

"I am not one of those," returned Wentworth, "who think that all government consists in mystery; that statesmen, to be such, must always be calculating, always spreading nets, never candid, never magnanimous. On the contrary, I see no reason why the high qualities that elevate private life, should not equally govern public conduct; nay, I am convinced that even with a view to mere self-interest, it

* He was reinstated in every thing but his seat among the peers, where it was thought he would be too danger

ous.

were better so. In fact, a character for honesty and generosity will do the statesman more good than all the cunning and coldness in the world. Leave these to the Oldcastles and Mowbrays, and your friend Mr. Clayton, who, at present, find their account in it."

"Agreed!" said De Vere, with great warmth, and conceiving higher respect than ever for his companion." And yet," added he with concern, "how sad is it to think of the lamentable wreck of so many brave and leading spirits as graced the time when this distinguished exile flourished-Harley and Harcourt, Prior and Swift and Atterbury! But above all, I cannot help feeling a pang for the absolute ruin of that noble house of Ormond, of which so many magnanimous, so many loyal and gallant things are recorded. All of these were thrown down and trodden under foot, without remorse, from the ungenerous selfishness which seems peculiarly to belong to political struggles."

"There is much in what you say," observed Wentworth, (evidently brooding upon the character of his own time) "and in regard to the family of Ormond, I have often sighed over it, and for the same reason as you. I agree with Swift that, in obeying the orders of the queen,

which proved so fatal to him, the son of the high-souled Ossory (who when dead would not have been exchanged by his father for any living son in Europe) thought no more of treason against his country, than when he was wounded in her service and the cause of King William. It shocks all justice to think of this wreck. On the other hand, it is mortifying to consider how little comfort this eminent party derived from their own subsequent conduct, or fidelity to one another. In our happy country, where despotism is always talked of, but never exists, a party may lose office, but does not on that account necessarily lose its respectability. It has a resource in its own firmness, its adherence to principle, and the fidelity of its members to one another, which may, if it please, bid defiance to rivals even the most successful. Thank God, there are in Britain no Bastiles, no banishments à ses terres; and the sovereign himself often looks wistfully to his opposition, as a protection against his administration."

Wentworth said this proudly; and then, clouding again with his reflections, he added, "But I agree with you in your lamentations over the ashes of this extinct, but illustrious

party-embalmed in our memories by what

must ever set it off, and render it an object of our interest-its genius and the band of literary names that belonged to it. Others are known only in the archives of office-these we love in our closets and our libraries. But it is, indeed, lamentable to think how all were broken up, and still more that it was by their own fault. They fell, never to rise again. How does the heart of genius, and kindness, too, beat, when it thinks of the Secretary of State and the ambassador in France, (both the darlings of letters,) writing to one another at the end of an elaborate despatch, as Matt to Henry, or Henry to Matt! How is our hope killed, when we read a few, a very few years afterwards, of the same Henry, writing of the same Matt, coldly glancing at his poverty (reduced in his age from an ambassador to a fellow of a college,) sneering at his epitaph, written by himself, and speaking even of his death as a mere common occurrence."

Here Wentworth stopped, moved by his feelings.

"I own," said De Vere, "this is one of many things that have disgusted me with political friendships. And yet Bolingbroke had for ever in his mouth, "Nulla est amicitia nisi inter bonos." As if Prior was not inter bonos, as well as himself!"

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