ate of the house. Nor could he help saying to Talbot, in the course
of the evening, that he wondered he was not afraid of hoarding so many
articles of value in a house at once so lonely and ill guarded.

"Ill guarded!" said Talbot, rather affronted, "why, I and my servant
always sleep here!"

To this Clarence thought it neither prudent nor well-bred to offer
further remark.

CHAPTER XVII.

Meetings or public calls he never missed,
To dictate often, always to assist.
.....
To his experience and his native sense,
He joined a bold, imperious eloquence;
The grave, stern look of men informed and wise,
A full command of feature, heart and eyes,
An awe-compelling frown, and fear-inspiring size.--CRABBE.

The next evening Clarence, mindful of Wolfe's invitation, inquired from
Warner (who repaid the contempt of the republican for the painter's
calling by a similar feeling for the zealot's) the direction of the
oratorical meeting, and repaired there alone. It was the most celebrated
club (of that description) of the day, and well worth attending, as a
gratification to the curiosity, if not an improvement to the mind.

On entering, he found himself in a long room, tolerably well lighted,
and still better filled. The sleepy countenances of the audience, the
whispered conversation carried on at scattered intervals, the listless
attitudes of some, the frequent yawns of others, the eagerness with
which attention was attracted to the opening door, when it admitted some
new object of interest, the desperate resolution with which some of the
more energetic turned themselves towards the orator, and then, with a
faint shake of the head, turned themselves again hopelessly away,--were
all signs that denoted that no very eloquent declaimer was in possession
of the "house." It was, indeed, a singularly dull, monotonous voice
which, arising from the upper end of the room, dragged itself on towards
the middle, and expired with a sighing sound before it reached the end.
The face of the speaker suited his vocal powers; it was small, mean, and
of a round stupidity, without anything even in fault that could possibly
command attention or even the excitement of disapprobation: the very
garments of the orator seemed dull and heavy, and, like the Melancholy
of Milton, had a "leaden look." Now and then some words, more emphatic
than others,--stones breaking, as it were with a momentary splash,
the stagnation of the heavy str