g,
swallowing scorn, and submitting with a stealthy rage to his fortune.

Temple's style is the perfection of practised and easy good-breeding. If
he does not penetrate very deeply into a subject, he professes a very
gentlemanly acquaintance with it; if he makes rather a parade of Latin,
it was the custom of his day, as it was the custom for a gentleman to
envelope his head in a periwig and his hands in lace ruffles. If he
wears buckles and square-toed shoes, he steps in them with a consummate
grace, and you never hear their creak, or find them treading upon any
lady's train or any rival's heels in the Court crowd. When that grows
too hot or too agitated for him, he politely leaves it. He retires to
his retreat of Shene or Moor Park; and lets the King's party and the
Prince of Orange's party battle it out among themselves. He reveres the
Sovereign (and no man perhaps ever testified to his loyalty by so elegant
a bow); he admires the Prince of Orange; but there is one person whose
ease and comfort he loves more than all the princes in Christendom, and
that valuable member of society is himself, Gulielmus Temple, Baronettus.
One sees him in his retreat; between his study-chair and his tulip-beds,
clipping his apricots and pruning his essays,--the statesman, the
ambassador no more; but the philosopher, the Epicurean, the fine
gentleman and courtier at St. James's as at Shene; where in place of
kings and fair ladies, he pays his court to the Ciceronian majesty; or
walks a minuet with the Epic Muse; or dallies by the south wall with the
ruddy nymph of gardens.

Temple seems to have received and exacted a prodigious deal of veneration
from his household, and to have been coaxed, and warmed, and cuddled by
the people round about him, as delicately as any of the plants which he
loved. When he fell ill in 1693, the household was aghast at his
indisposition: mild Dorothea, his wife, the best companion of the best of
men--

"Mild Dorothea, peaceful, wise, and great,
Trembling beheld the doubtful hand of fate."

As for Dorinda, his sister,--

"Those who would grief describe, might come and trace
Its watery footsteps in Dorinda's face.
To see her weep, joy every face forsook,
And grief flung sables on each menial look.
The humble tribe mourned for the quickening soul,
That furnished spirit and motion through the whole."

Isn't that line in which grief is described as putting the menials into a
mourning