, rather struck by this address, "makes
very little in favour of the more generous feelings by which we ought
to be actuated. It is a base mind which always requires the bit and
bridle."

"It is, Sir," answered the old gentleman; "I allow it: but, though I
have some love for human nature, I have no respect for it; and while I
pity its infirmities, I cannot but confess them."

"Methinks, Sir," replied I, "that you have uttered in that short speech
more sound philosophy than I have heard for months. There is wisdom in
not thinking too loftily of human clay, and benevolence in not judging
it too harshly, and something, too, of magnanimity in this moderation;
for we seldom contemn mankind till they have hurt us, and when they have
hurt us, we seldom do anything but detest them for the injury."

"You speak shrewdly; Sir, for one so young," returned the old man,
looking hard at me; "and I will be sworn you have suffered some cares;
for we never begin to think till we are a little afraid to hope."

I sighed as I answered, "There are some men, I fancy, to whom
constitution supplies the office of care; who, naturally melancholy,
become easily addicted to reflection, and reflection is a soil which
soon repays us for whatever trouble we bestow upon its culture."

"True, Sir!" said my companion; and there was a pause. The old gentleman
resumed: "We are not far from my home now (or rather my temporary
residence, for my proper and general home is at Cheshunt, in
Hertfordshire); and, as the day is scarcely half spent, I trust you will
not object to partake of a hermit's fare. Nay, nay, no excuse: I
assure you that I am not a gossip in general, or a liberal dispenser
of invitations; and I think, if you refuse me now, you will hereafter
regret it."

My curiosity was rather excited by this threat; and, reflecting that my
horse required a short rest, I subdued my impatience to return to town,
and accepted the invitation. We came presently to a house of moderate
size, and rather antique fashion. This, the old man informed me, was his
present abode. A servant, almost as old as his master, came to the door,
and, giving his arm to my host, led him, for he was rather lame and
otherwise infirm, across a small hall into a long low apartment. I
followed.

A miniature of Oliver Cromwell, placed over the chimney-piece, forcibly
arrested my attention.

"It is the only portrait of the Protector I ever saw," said I, "which
impresses on me th