e
Error, sed variis illudit partibus.--HORACE.

["Wandering in those woods where error evermore forces life's
stragglers from the beaten path,--this one deflects to the left,
his fellow chooses the exact contrary. The fault is all the same
in each, but it excuses itself by a thousand different reasons."]

As Wolfe strode away from the inn, he muttered to himself,--

"Can it be that Mordaunt has suddenly grown rich? If so, I rejoice at
it. True, that he was not for our cause, but he had the spirit and the
heart which belonged to it. Had he not been bred among the prejudices
of birth, or had he lived in stormier times, he might have been the
foremost champion of freedom. As it is, I rather lament than condemn.
Yet I would fain see him once more. Perhaps prosperity may have altered
his philosophy. But can he, indeed, be the same Mordaunt of whom that
trading itinerant spoke? Can he have risen to the pernicious eminence of
a landed aristocrat? Well, it is worth the journey; for if he have
power in the neighbourhood, I am certain that he will exert it for our
protection; and, at the worst, I shall escape from the idle words of my
compatriots. Oh! if it were possible that the advocates could debase
the glory of the cause, how long since should I have flinched from the
hardship and the service to which my life is devoted! Self-interest;
Envy, that snarls at all above it, without even the beast's courage
to bite; Folly, that knows not the substance of Freedom, but loves
the glitter of its name; Fear, that falters; Crime, that seeks in
licentiousness an excuse; Disappointment, only craving occasion to rail;
Hatred; Sourness, boasting of zeal, but only venting the blackness of
rancour and evil passion,--all these make our adherents, and give our
foes the handle and the privilege to scorn and to despise. But man
chooses the object, and Fate only furnishes the tools. Happy for our
posterity, that when the object is once gained, the frailty of the tools
will be no more!"

Thus soliloquizing, the republican walked rapidly onwards, till a turn
of the road brought before his eye the form of Mr. Brown, seated upon a
little rough pony, and "whistling as he went for want of thought."

Wolfe quickened his pace, and soon overtook him.

"You must forgive me, my good man," said he, soothingly; "I meant not to
impeach your honesty or your calling. Perhaps I was hasty and peevish;
and, in sad earnest, I have much to tease and di