lemen thus addressed. The former, Mr. Vavasour
Mordaunt, might be about the same age as Linden's father. A shrewd,
sensible, ambitious man of the world, he had made his way from the
state of a younger brother, with no fortune and very little interest, to
considerable wealth, besides the property he had acquired by law, and
to a degree of consideration for general influence and personal ability,
which, considering he had no official or parliamentary rank, very few of
his equals enjoyed. Persevering, steady, crafty, and possessing, to an
eminent degree, that happy art of "canting" which opens the readiest way
to character and consequence, the rise and reputation of Mr. Vavasour
Mordaunt appeared less to be wondered at than envied; yet, even envy was
only for those who could not look beyond the surface of things. He was
at heart an anxious and unhappy man. The evil we do in the world is
often paid back in the bosom of home. Mr. Vavasour Mordaunt was, like
Crauford, what might be termed a mistaken utilitarian: he had lived
utterly and invariably for self; but instead of uniting self-interest
with the interest of others, he considered them as perfectly
incompatible ends. But character was among the greatest of all objects
to him; so that, though he had rarely deviated into what might fairly be
termed a virtue, he had never transgressed what might rigidly be called
a propriety. He had not the aptitude, the wit, the moral audacity of
Crauford: he could not have indulged in one offence with impunity, by a
mingled courage and hypocrisy in veiling others; he was the slave of
the forms which Crauford subjugated to himself. He was only so far
resembling Crauford as one man of the world resembles another
in selfishness and dissimulation: he could be dishonest, not
villanous,--much less a villain upon system. He was a canter, Crauford
a hypocrite: his uttered opinions were, like Crauford's, different from
his conduct; but he believed the truth of the former even while sinning
in the latter; he canted so sincerely that the tears came into his eyes
when he spoke. Never was there a man more exemplary in words: people
who departed from him went away impressed with the idea of an excess
of honour, a plethora of conscience. "It was almost a pity," said they,
"that Mr. Vavasour was so romantic;" and thereupon they named him as
executor to their wills and guardian to their sons. None but he
could, in carrying the lawsuit against Mordaunt, have