, half
mad, I believe, and particularly hostile to me, owing to some foolish
disagreement when he was quite a boy."

"What was the cause?" said I.

"Nothing--nothing of any consequence," answered Tyrrell; and then added,
with an air of coxcombry, "I believe I was more fortunate than he, in
an affaire du coeur. Poor Granville is a little romantic, you know. But
enough of this now: shall we go to the rooms?"

"With pleasure," said I; and to the rooms we went.

CHAPTER XLIII.

Veteres revocavit artes.--Horace.

Since I came hither I have heard strange news.--King Lear.

Two days after my long conversation with Tyrrell, I called again
upon that worthy. To my great surprise he had left Cheltenham. I then
strolled to Vincent: I found him lolling on his sofa, surrounded, as
usual, with books and papers.

"Come in, Pelham," said he, as I hesitated at the threshold--"come in. I
have been delighting myself with Plato all the morning; I scarcely know
what it is that enchants us so much with the ancients. I rather believe,
with Schlegel, that it is that air of perfect repose--the stillness of
a deep soul, which rests over their writings. Whatever would appear
common-place amongst us, has with them I know not what of sublimity and
pathos. Triteness seems the profundity of truth--wildness the daring of
a luxuriant imagination. The fact is, that in spite of every fault, you
see through all the traces of original thought; there is a contemplative
grandeur in their sentiments, which seems to have nothing borrowed
in its meaning or its dress. Take, for instance, this fragment of
Mimnermus, on the shortness of life,--what subject can seem more
tame?--what less striking than the feelings he expresses?--and yet,
throughout every line, there is a melancholy depth and tenderness, which
it is impossible to define. Of all English writers who partake the
most of this spirit of conveying interest and strength to sentiments,
subjects, and language, neither novel in themselves, nor adorned in
their arrangement, I know none that equal Byron; it is indeed the chief
beauty of that extraordinary poet. Examine Childe Harold accurately,
and you will be surprised to discover how very little of real depth or
novelty there often is in the reflections which seem most deep and new.
You are enchained by the vague but powerful beauty of the style; the
strong impress of originality which breathes throughout. Like the oracle
of Dodona, he makes th