sed your life with _elegans_ instead of students. I wonder
you condescend to such trifles as fashionably-shaped hats and coats."

"It would be worse trifling to set up for originality in hats and
coats, at least in sober England. I was born a gentleman, and I dress my
outward frame like others of my order. Because I am a writer, why should
I affect to be different from other men?"

"I see that you are not above the weakness of your countryman Congreve,"
said Cesarini, "who deemed it finer to be a gentleman than an author."

"I always thought that anecdote misconstrued. Congreve had a proper and
manly pride, to my judgment, when he expressed a dislike to be visited
merely as a raree-show."

"But is it policy to let the world see that an author is like other
people? Would he not create a deeper personal interest if he showed
that even in person alone he was unlike the herd? He ought to be seen
seldom--not to stale his presence--and to resort to the arts that belong
to the royalty of intellect as well as the royalty of birth."

"I dare say an author, by a little charlatanism of that nature, might be
more talked of--might be more adored in the boarding-schools, and make a
better picture in the exhibition. But I think, if his mind be manly,
he would lose in self-respect at every quackery of the sort. And my
philosophy is, that to respect oneself is worth all the fame in the
world."

Cesarini sneered and shrugged his shoulders; it was quite evident that
the two authors had no sympathy with each other.

They arrived at last at the chapel, and with some difficulty procured
seats.

Presently the service began. The preacher was a man of unquestionable
talent and fervid eloquence; but his theatrical arts, his affected
dress, his artificial tones and gestures; and, above all, the fanatical
mummeries which he introduced into the House of God, disgusted
Maltravers, while they charmed, entranced, and awed Cesarini. The one
saw a mountebank and impostor--the other recognised a profound artist
and an inspired prophet.

But while the discourse was drawing towards a close, while the preacher
was in one of his most eloquent bursts--the ohs! and ahs! of which
were the grand prelude to the pathetic peroration--the dim outline of a
female form, in the distance, riveted the eyes and absorbed the thoughts
of Maltravers. The chapel was darkened, though it was broad daylight;
and the face of the person that attracted Ernest's attention