ne worth
talking to. The society of the island was limited to the natives
themselves, and a few merchants, who lived by contraband trade. The
amusements were rare and monotonous, and the mercurial young Earl was
soon heartily tired of his dominions. The islanders, also, become
too wise for happiness, had lost relish for the harmless and somewhat
childish sports in which their simple ancestors had indulged themselves.
May was no longer ushered in by the imaginary contest between the
Queen of returning winter and advancing spring; the listeners no longer
sympathised with the lively music of the followers of the one, or the
discordant sounds with which the other asserted a more noisy claim to
attention. Christmas, too, closed, and the steeples no longer jangled
forth a dissonant peal. The wren, to seek for which used to be the sport
dedicated to the holytide, was left unpursued and unslain. Party spirit
had come among these simple people, and destroyed their good humour,
while it left them their ignorance. Even the races, a sport generally
interesting to people of all ranks, were no longer performed, because
they were no longer interesting. The gentlemen were divided by feuds
hitherto unknown, and each seemed to hold it scorn to be pleased with
the same diversions that amused those of the opposite faction. The
hearts of both parties revolted from the recollection of former days,
when all was peace among them, when the Earl of Derby, now slaughtered,
used to bestow the prize, and Christian, since so vindictively executed,
started horses to add to the amusement.

Julian was seated in the deep recess which led to a latticed window
of the old Castle; and, with his arms crossed, and an air of profound
contemplation, was surveying the long perspective of ocean, which rolled
its successive waves up to the foot of the rock on which the ancient
pile is founded. The Earl was suffering under the infliction of
ennui--now looking into a volume of Homer--now whistling--now swinging
on his chair--now traversing the room--till, at length, his attention
became swallowed up in admiration of the tranquillity of his companion.

"King of Men!" he said, repeating the favourite epithet by which Homer
describes Agamemnon,--"I trust, for the old Greek's sake, he had a
merrier office than being King of Man--Most philosophical Julian, will
nothing rouse thee--not even a bad pun on my own royal dignity?"

"I wish you would be a little more the King