Clarendon for appearing to favour the notion, (he does no more,) that this death was an absolute and immediate judgment."

"That such a mind as your's," cried Cleveland, "should think so! But I will refer you to a far better confutation than mine of so ridiculous a legend ;" and he took a letter from his pocket-book, which he had just received from a man of high fashion, and some research in the olden literature of the country, though of little depth as a real philosopher, which he was even then affecting to be. He was a correspondent of Cleveland's on these subjects, on which they much agreed; but Herbert, who perfectly knew his shallowness, at the same time that he admitted his agreeable wit, observed instantly, on hearing his name, "He will make it ridiculous if he can, for he lives but to ridicule all that is serious. Barring his wit, however, which is delightful, his reasoning is in general as shallow, as his presumption is offensive."

"The cleverest man of the age," replied Cleveland.

"At an epigram if you will," said Herbert; " but at a truth no conjuror. Let us first see what is Clarendon's story, and then hear the comment. Lord Brooke,

perhaps a sincere and, as it should seem, a pious man, had resolved to storm the Close at Litchfield, which held for Charles. A little doubtful, it would appear, of the lawfulness of his cause, (he should have thought of that before he commenced rebel,) he knelt down before the assault began, and prayed, if the cause he had engaged in was not just, that he might be cut off. Soon afterward he was shot. Now what does your cleverest man of the age say to this?"

Why, he asks," replied Cleveland, "Does the ruler of the universe inflict sudden destruction, as the way to set right a conscientious man?" "

And is this all?” said Herbert. "If it is, and it be witty, most unfortunately for the wit, Lord Brooke had not prayed to be set right, but to be "cut off" if wrong. So far, therefore, the wit depends upon a false statement, for his real prayer was complied with. But even without this, could there be no other reason for his death, than what concerned Lord Brooke? The notoriety of the prayer, and its issue, made it of the last importance to those who witnessed the facts. To them, opinion was set right, as far as such an example could set it right; and hence the argument against interposition, on account of absurdity, falls to absolute nothing."

This is downright folly. What can be less miraculous than the fall of a man in battle?-what more in the common course of things? Certain persons hold, that play-going is sinful. Let us suppose, that a worthy gentleman begins to feel some misgivings of the lawfulness of his favourite pleasure; that he kneels down and prays, that if it be sinful, his pocket may be picked in going into the pit-would any one regard the larceny as a miracle? And yet a greater proportion of lives are lost in battles, than of Barcelonas in crowded houses.

the

Nothing can be conceived more flimsy, on both sides, than these discussions of spiritual matters; the scoffer and the divine are equally imbecile. Lord Cleveland asks Herbert whether he has ever heard supernatural voices? The dignitary says he has the voice of his Maker; and he declares, that it is like the music of ENCHANTMENT, description of which we have all admired in certain lines of poetry!-he affirms the disputed manifestation, by likening it to a thing that has no existence ! It were well that subjects of this nature were not touched upon at all in works of fiction.

We shall endeavour to cite some more creditable example of the author's powers, for the benefit of those who have not the opportunity of contemplating them at full length, and in their full vigour, in his own pages. This, as we have premised, is a difficult attempt. It strikes us, however, that the subjoined sketch of day-break in Westminster on the morning of a grand debate in the House, will bear abstraction. The truth of the introductory remarks on the effect of the repose of a great city, when all nature is in action, cannot fail to be felt; and the picturesque force of the description will be acknowledged by every observer. De Vere is leaving town

in company with Wentworth, whose health and spirits compel him to a temporary retirement from politics at the very moment of a grand parliamentary struggle.

This contrast, which often exists between the cheerful appearance of inanimate objects and the deep rest of man, is, to a contemplative person, always full of interest; nor, perhaps, of all the scenes on which such a person loves to fasten, is there one more pregnant with philosophic food than this—the exhibition of a great city at the dawn of day. The myriads which it is known to contain, and is soon to pour forth, are then invisible to the eye, and the houses, teeming with life, appear abandoned and desolate. At best they are buried in peaceful forgetfulness, from which it seems almost a pity to rouse them. How many thousands of those who were thus lost in happy oblivion, were soon to awake to care, to doubt, to struggle, or to certain affliction! Many, however, to joy; though neither De Vere nor his companion made these last any part of the visions they indulged; yet with other feelings than those which preyed upon each, the softness of the morning, and the journey before them, might have created very different sensations.*

The sun had been up above an hour, but was now tempered by clouds which had just shed the blessing of a gentle rain on the earth, enough (and no more) to allay heat, and turn every thing to freshness. But the busy dwellers of Whitehall were still steeped in sleep, save now and then, where an earlier stirrer than the rest had opened his window aloft, to inhale the air. On advancing, however, towards Parliament-street, symptoms of bustle and watchfulness displayed themselves. At first a desultory straggler was seen, with jaded step and night-worn looks, creeping like snail (though with any thing but shining morning face) towards that ominous place of combat, where the fate of nations was often decided, and might be then deciding. Another and another still succeeded, till at length whole groupes, by threes and fours at a time, swept the pavement, arm in arm, hurrying faster and faster, in the apprehension of being too late for the question, or anxious with mutual fear at the sight of each other's strength.

These had all been summoned to vote from their respective clubs, where, tired of a ten-hours' debate, they had sought a temporary and feverish refuge. Dim as were their eyes, and furrowed their temples with watching, their countenances still gleamed with what agitated them within; and hope and doubt, and anxious calculation, and (with many, let us cordially add) real patriotism, excited them all by turns; and this gave a momentary ardour to their spirits, and an accelerating impulse to their steps.

It was a sight which neither Wentworth, nor, indeed, De Vere could view without emotion. The former saw many of his friends and many of his opponents, as the carriage rolled past them. Amongst these was Clayton, whose quick but solitary pace and disconcerted air rather surprised them. He had in fact been dispatched to bring up a detachment of hesitating, though general supporters of Lord Oldcastle; had met with a cold reception from a knot of county members; and was, in truth, ruminating on the coarseness and ingratitude too, of country gentlemen, when, with irregular step, and face full of care, he was thus seen hurrying to his patrons with apprehensions of something little short of mutiny. Both the friends observed the phenomenon, and Mr. Wentworth argued from it, that all was not well with the ministerial party. This, with the eventful discussion which was pending, and his possible power of influencing it, but, above all, the proximity of the scene, staggered his resolution. His hand was several times on the glass, to order the postillion to stop, and his heart beat high at the thought of gallant encounter; when the weakness of his chest, and the solemn promise he had given to Wilmot (of which De Vere forcibly reminded him), turned him from his design, and he too threw himself back in the carriage, that he might not be noticed either by the former companions of his glory, or the rivals of his power.

Having at length escaped by driving over Westminster-bridge, he could not help stretching through the window, to take a view of the House, which reared itself in placid and quiet dignity to the grey morning, unconscious (and it seemed almost strange that it should be so) of the agitating scene that was passing within. For

* The modern reader, in the foregoing description of the early dawn in London, may recollect something of the same cast in the novel of Granby; only (as I am most willing to allow) it is better executed in that lively and very agreeable picture of the manners of the day. Nevertheless, as the tone of sentiment is somewhat different, and as it introduces a different course of action, I am content to let this description stand. [This note is perfectly unnecessary. There is nothing in Granby which can enter into comparison with De Vere.]

Wentworth was but right in supposing that at this moment the doors were closed, and the speaker engaged in the act of putting the question. The thought so got the better of him, that, had he not been a little ashamed of his eagerness, he would have confessed then (what he did afterwards), that though absolutely out of hearing of the House, he mistook the hailing of some distant watermen across the river, for the wellknown sounds of Aye and No! Such, and so great, on particular subjects, is the power of habitual excitement and local association.

We shall extract two more scenes, and with them close our review. Lord Mowbray gives a country dinner. The invitations of course produce a commotion in the domestic circles of the district for some days. The question, to dine or not to dine, is thus characteristically discussed in a family of doubtful station:—

"I think you should go," said Mrs. Greenwood, who was a woman of ambition in her way. "The girls never have an opportunity of 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 polish 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 sourness.

"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, bridling up.

Yes;" continued Walter; "for they will be either left in a corner, unnoticed, which 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. Greenwood, 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 Constance themselves," said William. "Charlotte, I trust, has more sense.'

"I confess, I am not afraid of the great," said 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 Walter. 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 entertainments," 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 Foxleigh, and Fairburn, and a heap of old cronies 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 elsewhere. 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 neighbouring market town, where, in his shooting coat and gaiters, he dined with two or three gentlemen 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 was paid him by the club, and particularly by the landlord and waiters, to whom all he said was law.

"There go pride and poverty with a vengeance," said William, as he lost sight of 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 poorspirited children, as she called them, and send the more adventurous couple to seek their fortunes at the castle.

We proceed to the eventful jour de fête:

It wanted an hour to dinner, and half an hour to dressing-time; and this odd half hour was dedicated to the reception of such guests as, coming from town, or a great distance, were to sleep at the castle, and dress for dinner. Some of these (as no introduction was expected before dinner-time) remained below; others sought their noble

hosts.

Among these, the earliest arrived, (she never failed of being in time,) was a Mrs. Oldbury, the whimsical wife of a neighbouring and reverend gentleman, who, from being bookish and indolent, preferred residing in his prebendal house at Litchfield, to either their own mansion-house on his own estate, or a town life. Mrs. Oldbury, therefore, was one of those amiable little aristocrats of a cathedral town, to whom we formerly alluded, as being most exact in enforcing the line of separation between the provincial beau monde of the Close, and the vulgar thriving people composing the trading part of the city. Her husband was a high Tory, and as firm a political supporter of Lord Mowbray as his disposition would let him; he was, however, too indolent or too shy to attend his public days.

"Seldom at fête, 'twas such a busy life,

But duly sent his family and wife."

We have called Mrs. Oldbury whimsical, and surely she was so; for being really as we have described her, a woman of respectable rank and consequence, who might have received as a right those attentions from the great and fashionable, which really wellbred people never refuse where they are merited, she seemed to prefer suing for them as an alms, by a pertinacity of humiliation and a too obvious flattery, to which a mere dependant would hardly have submitted. She watched the eye of a person of fashion with a sort of feline anxiety, and calculated the exact advances or retrogrades in favour which she made, or thought she had made, with those who really were, or assumed to be, higher bred than herself.

But a very high-looking personage was presently seen mounting the steps of the terrace, much entangled with his travelling pelisse, which, to Lord Cleveland's horror, he found to be the counterpart of his own. Colour, pattern, wadding, and above all, the braided Brandenburgs, were precisely the same; only there having been a hot sun, the house-party rather wondered at its having been worn. Mr. Freshville, the new arrival, declared, however, it had been very cold, and he was glad to put it on.

"But how the devil did you come by it," said the Earl, giving him a finger, rather than a hand; "I thought mine had been the only one in England, and it came from Paris but three or four days ago."

Exactly the time of mine," answered Freshville, mincing his words, but with an assumption of dignity.

The Earl looked displeased, and said he had already found it such an ugly affair

that he had resolved to give it immediately to his valet. "It may, however, keep you warm enough," added Lord Cleveland.

Both Constance and her aunt marked this little piece of insolence, but to their surprise, the Marchioness, who, with all her rectitude, as it has been hinted, loved a little badinage, where she thought it fair to indulge it, was most diverted with the solemnity of astonishment with which Freshville received it. In fact, Mr. Freshville's pride was cruelly affronted as he bowed his thanks for this speech, which was more mortifying than it seemed for Freshville, a new man, though of fortune, had made his way into most of the fashionable classes, only by the studied stiffness of his manners. It was not that this was exactly the disposition of his nature; but having resolved to be fashionable, he had viewed the different roads to that enviable lot, and finding all others preoccupied, had pitched upon a well-pursued, though artificial, fastidiousness, as the best means of success. All his deportment therefore was serious; he seemed to be governed by rule and line; his looks, manner, voice, and speech were wrapped up in a gravity worthy a Spaniard. His dress was always most fashionably exact; he took snuff with peculiar grace; and his bow was as if from the height of elevation. The speech of the Earl, therefore, was a blow to him, and a severer one than at first appeared. For whether from his want of pedigree, or want of genius in the walk of ambition he had chosen, he still was at a great distance from the enviable point of supreme bon ton; a distinction higher than mere fashion, of which all, even of the fashionable, are not always aware.

But Freshville, unlike many other coxcombs, had made this discovery; and, as a remedy, he thought, that being admitted to the companionship of the Earl of Cleveland, he could not do better than become the double of that illustrious person. Accordingly, he copied him at least in the fastidious part of his manner, it not being convenient to imitate his agrémens; and not only in London, but even in Paris, he employed the same tailor. On the present occasion, therefore, the French operator had only (according to a general order when any thing particularly rich or new had been commissioned by Cleveland) obeyed his instructions; and hence the travelling pelisse.

Lord Cleveland, however, soon resumed his good humour; for in fact Freshville was his devoted follower in politics, and not only gave him his own vote in parliament, but often aided him in elections,-all which was cheaply repaid by Cleveland, though sometimes in a manner unpalatable to his pride, by suffering his political to give himself the airs of a fashionable friend.

"I have just received a letter from him,' ," said Freshville one day, on the eve of a ball which Cleveland was about to give at Richmond. "I wanted to go to Paris, but he says he must have me: indeed, I know he cannot do without me. This is a little unreasonable; but it is a debt of friendship, and I suppose I must pay it; still, it is really a great bore."

The sufferance of such language by the Earl, secured Freshville's vote upon every question during the whole of the session.

A landau now drove up, from which landed a gay bevy of a mother and daughters, who challenged all eyes. These were the females of a family nothing less than right honourable. Mr. Partridge, the father, had advanced through a long political life to his dignity of a privy counsellor; which, in truth, was enjoyed much more by his wife and daughters, than himself; for it had been bestowed upon him, by way of (not letting him down, but) gently pushing him out of an appointment of value.

It is

The lady of this gentleman had the misfortune (as Harclai once shocked her by saying,) to be the daughter of an Irish Earl, though nowise connected with Ireland. He called it a misfortune, pretty much upon the principle of the Lady Lidia Loller, of Addison, whose chief reason for desiring to be sent to the infirmary for bad temper was, that she had the misfortune to be a lady of quality married to a commoner. very certain, that the inequality of birth and connexions, to say nothing of dispositions, between Mr. Partridge and his lady, occasioned some little mortification to the latter, and a great deal to her daughters: as they, through their mother, looked to be considered among the first ranks of fashion; while, through their father, they were reduced to fear (for they did not confess it even to themselves) that they might be thought a little too plebeian. This must account for the extreme jealousy which both mother and daughters showed, lest their pretensions should be called in question; and, in particular, for a sort of studied and contemptuous distance, at which they all agreed in keeping persons either on a level with their father's family, or any way approaching to a rivalry with themselves.

Both Mr. and Lady Elizabeth Partridge were the great allies of Lord Mowbray, who had more than once entreated their assistance in doing the honours of his castle