ld, as usual, was sequestered in his favourite corner. By
accident, Clifford trod on the squire's gouty digital; and in
apologizing for the offence, was so struck by the old gentleman's
good-nature and peculiarity of expressing himself, that without knowing
who he was, he entered into conversation with him. There was an off-hand
sort of liveliness and candour, not to say wit, about Clifford, which
always had a charm for the elderly, who generally like frankness above
all the cardinal virtues; the squire was exceedingly pleased with him.
The acquaintance, once begun, was naturally continued without difficulty
when Clifford ascertained who was his new friend; and next morning,
meeting in the pump-room, the squire asked Clifford to dinner. The
entree to the house thus gained, the rest was easy. Long before
Mauleverer recovered his health, the mischief effected by his rival
was almost beyond redress; and the heart of the pure, the simple, the
affectionate Lucy Brandon was more than half lost to the lawless and
vagrant cavalier who officiates as the hero of this tale.

One morning, Clifford and Augustus strolled out together. "Let us," said
the latter, who was in a melancholy mood, "leave the busy streets, and
indulge in a philosophical conversation on the nature of man, while we
are enjoying a little fresh air in the country." Clifford assented to
the proposal, and the pair slowly sauntered up one of the hills that
surround the city of Bladud.

"There are certain moments," said Tomlinson, looking pensively down at
his kerseymere gaiters, "when we are like the fox in the nursery rhyme,
'The fox had a wound, he could not tell where,'--we feel extremely
unhappy, and we cannot tell why. A dark and sad melancholy grows over
us; we shun the face of man; we wrap ourselves in our thoughts like
silkworms; we mutter fag-ends of dismal songs; tears come into our eyes;
we recall all the misfortunes that have ever happened to us; we stoop in
our gait, and bury our hands in our breeches-pockets; we say, 'What is
life?--a stone to be shied into a horsepond!' We pine for some congenial
heart, and have an itching desire to talk prodigiously about ourselves;
all other subjects seem weary, stale, and unprofitable. We feel as if a
fly could knock us down, and are in a humour to fall in love, and make a
very sad piece of business of it. Yet with all this weakness we have at
these moments a finer opinion of ourselves than we ever had before. We