th these, and those gifts of nature, a stout
heart and a willing hand, of which none can rob me, I will either ascend
the rest, even to the summit, or fall to the dust, unknown, but not
contemned; unlamented, but not despised."

"Well, well," said Talbot, brushing away a tear which he could not
deny to the feeling, even while he disputed the judgment, of the young
adventurer,--"well, this is all very fine and very foolish; but you
shall never want friend or father while I live, or when I have ceased to
live; but come,--sit down, share my dinner, which is not very good, and
my dessert, which is: help me to entertain two or three guests who are
coming to me in the evening, to talk on literature, sup, and sleep; and
to-morrow you shall return home, and see Lady Flora in the drawing-room
if you cannot in the boudoir."

And Clarence was easily persuaded to accept the invitation. Talbot
was not one of those men who are forced to exert themselves to be
entertaining. He had the pleasant and easy way of imparting his great
general and curious information, that a man, partly humourist, partly
philosopher, who values himself on being a man of letters, and is in
spite of himself a man of the world, always ought to possess. Clarence
was soon beguiled from the remembrance of his mortifications, and,
by little and little, entirely yielded to the airy and happy flow of
Talbot's conversation.

In the evening, three or four men of literary eminence (as many as
Talbot's small Tusculum would accommodate with beds) arrived, and in a
conversation, free alike from the jargon of pedants and the insipidities
of fashion, the night fled away swiftly and happily, even to the lover.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

We are here (in the country) among the vast and noble scenes
of Nature; we are there (in the town) among the pitiful
shifts of policy. We walk here in the light and open ways of
the divine bounty,--we grope therein the dark and confused
labyrinths of human malice; our senses are here feasted with
all the clear and genuine taste of their objects, which are
all sophisticated there, and for the most part overwhelmed
with their contraries: here pleasure, methinks, looks like a
beautiful, constant, and modest wife; it is there an
impudent, fickle, and painted harlot.--COWLEY.

Draw up the curtain! The scene is the Opera.

The pit is crowded; the connoisseurs in the front row are in a very ill