crouches as much to his elector, yields his opinion, votes against his conscience as often, if not oftener than the little burgess who follows the patron of his choice: only in the one case, the independent, as he is called, has a thousand lords; in the other, but one. In proof of this, look at the county member, shaking for his seat towards the end of a parliament, and ask what is become of the pride and self-consequence that marked the beginning of it?"

"I fear this is but too true," observed De Vere, "but it interferes not with what I have said on the value of character."

"On the contrary," replied Wentworth, "it confirms it; and I so entirely agree with you, that ambitious as I am supposed to be, the summit of my ambition is to rule through that character. This only can gratify the best pride of a statesman, and for this, if I mistake not, the state is preparing itself. There may yet be years of impurity to throw off, and of corruptions to cure; there may even be a great crisis, and things may be worse before they are better. The Clevelands and even the Claytons may gain the upper-hand; but depend upon it, the time will come, nay, perhaps is not far off, when a first minister may find that his character will be as

firm a support as his ability; when sincerity of heart and openness of manner may do as much for a Chancellor of the Exchequer, as his figures; and when a Secretary of State who promotes English interests, without being too tenderly alive to every brawl of the Continent, will govern with more facility than all the Machiavels we have ever heard of."

De Vere pressed his friend heartily by the hand at this speech, and pleased himself with the hope that it might be prophetic.

"I feel it here," cried Wentworth, putting his hand to his breast, "I see it in vision, though I may not live to know it in reality. The spread of knowledge and wealth must have its natural effect; the king will realize Temple's picture of the man of his people: and ministers, as you often wish, will govern for the people, not for themselves."

Nothing could be more consonant to all the best hopes of De Vere; and his patriotism was delighted to find that a man, though a minister, might be patriotic; nor nor was the impression weakened, when Wentworth proceeded to say, that if ever he returned to power, it would be his pride to rally round him the best spirits of the country, without regard to the old arts

" said

of governing. "They must be young," he, "and new to things, and not hackneyed in the trammels which Lord Oldcastle knows are ruining him, and yet has not the firmness to break through."

Then seeing De Vere's eyes sparkling with the pleasure which all this kindled, he very frankly asked if he meant still to abandon him, and pursue an unknown path on the Continent alone?

De Vere allowed that he was much embarrassed; for he felt, he said, the cowardice of leaving his friend with such noble objects to struggle for alone, and then perhaps only return to share in his success.

"I shall envy even the satellites I have mentioned," added he, "who may have hovered round you, and witnessed if not partaken of your glory. But what efforts can be those of a man without arms, and against whom the tide of prejudice seems to have set among all his old companions ?"

He was prevented from going on, by the delivery of a packet which had been delayed, and which immediately absorbed him. It was from his mother, who after treating the account of the Pyrenees very differently from Herbert,

concluded by saying, "I am, thank Heaven, well; but I am sorry to say your uncle breaks visibly to all who know him. He bears his mortification worse than I could have hoped; is full of fears for himself; and Constance has shut out the world during the whole summer, to shut herself up with him at Castle Mowbray. Her confinement has hurt her; exercise has been prescribed, and she often rides Beauty, which I have sent her at her own desire."

De Vere trembled with curiosity and interest when he came to these lines, which he read twice before he could proceed.

Lady Eleanor, adverting to one of the causes that took him abroad, as totally despaired of, in the minds of the most romantic, concluded thus: "Think not, my dear son, that this proceeds from a womanish fear, or a mother's anxiety. I tell you only the universal opinion in England. I speak not of those little spirits who think all ardour ridiculous which they do not, or cannot partake, but of all the best informed and least selfish, with whom I have communication. Believing this opinion to be the true one, I fear not any sinister motive within myself, nor being thought to act like an

unworthy mother, if I tell you that Talbois languishes for its master, as I for my son.'

This noble and affecting conclusion to a letter which was otherwise full of the deepest interest, revolutionized De Vere. His mother stood all before him, and the mere name of Constance on catching his eye, called the blood into his cheeks. It has been said, "What is there in a name ?" What is there not? Is it not extraordinary, that a few black marks on white paper, without coming in contact with any part of our bodies, shall be able thus to affect us? And can any man really think that the soul that can be thus affected, is a material machine?

De Vere was almost as decidedly, certainly as quickly changed by this letter, as Wentworth was by his. Poland was effectually banished, and Constance nursing her sick father, and shut out from the world during a whole summer, was the only object for which he had any vision, during his entire journey with Wentworth from Bagnieres to Dover.