esitation nor appeal; who seemed
possessed of a ubiquity for the purposes of good almost resembling that
attributed to the wanderer in the magnificent fable of Melmoth for the
temptations to evil; who, by a zeal and labour that brought to habit and
inclination a thousand martyrdoms, made his life a very hour-glass, in
which each sand was a good deed or a virtuous design.

Many plunge into public affairs, to which they have had a previous
distaste, from the desire of losing the memory of a private affliction;
but so far from wishing to heal the wounds of remembrance by the
anodynes which society can afford, it was only in retirement that
Mordaunt found the flowers from which balm could be distilled. Many are
through vanity magnanimous, and benevolent from the selfishness of fame
but so far from seeking applause where he bestowed favour, Mordaunt
had sedulously shrouded himself in darkness and disguise. And by that
increasing propensity to quiet, so often found among those addicted to
lofty or abstruse contemplation, he had conquered the ambition of youth
with the philosophy of a manhood that had forestalled the affections
of age. Many, in short, have become great or good to the community by
individual motives easily resolved into common and earthly elements of
desire; but they who inquire diligently into human nature have not often
the exalted happiness to record a character like Mordaunt's, actuated
purely by a systematic principle of love, which covered mankind, as
heaven does earth, with an atmosphere of light extending to the remotest
corners and penetrating the darkest recesses.

It was one of those violent and gusty evenings which give to an English
autumn something rude, rather than gentle, in its characteristics, that
Mordaunt and Clarence sat together,

"And sowed the hours with various seeds of talk."

The young Isabel, the only living relic of the departed one, sat by her
father's side upon the floor; and though their discourse was far beyond
the comprehension of her years, yet did she seem to listen with a quiet
and absorbed attention. In truth, child as she was, she so loved, and
almost worshipped, her father that the very tones of his voice had in
them a charm which could always vibrate, as it were, to her heart; and
hush her into silence; and that melancholy and deep though somewhat low
voice, when it swelled or trembled with thought,--which in Mordaunt was
feeling,--made her sad, she knew not why; an