? TYLNEY HALL. his favourite picture, where, in truth, the sons of the Roman stoic stood prominently in the fore-ground, with swaggering attitudes and hardened defying faces, as if each was uttering the undutifulhoast of the Kentuckian, tf My father can lick any body, and I can lick him.'' " But in a daughter," continued the " magistrate, there is such tenderness, such softness, she seems so fragile a being, and withal so affectionate, that the hardest heart must be touched to tears like the rock in Horeb. How- ever, my trial is past ; I have given way ; and my official functions are at an end. Conscience will not allow me to continue in them after such a manifest proof of my infirmity. How can he presume to judge others, who judged so mistakenly of himself ? " Well would it be for the world if every censor in it would adopt his concluding sentiment. Men are too prone to view their own errors and failings with indulgence, whilst they visit those of others with unsparing reprehension. Every one seems turning as it were God's evidence against his neighbour, as if by impeaching his fellows he was exonerating himself from the penalty. The worst constructions are put upon dubious motives, malicious meanings are extracted from careless expressions, the scratch of a stray jest is taken as a deliberate wound ; in short, if the multitude of our sins depend upon charity for a covering, the fabric is so scarce that the poor peccadilloes cannot have a suit a piece, unless such a one as belonged to the decayed Spanish gentleman, which was all slashes. On the other hand, should the tide turn, the kindly impres- sion is communicated so reluctantly, and adopted so tardily, that the charitable impulse comes commonly too late to be of service to its object. It is generally difficult, besides, to make the amends proportionate to the injury ; indeed in some cases it is impracticable, as was well illustrated by the remonstrance of a foreigner to a gentleman who had horsewhipped him by mistake. " Sare, you apologise at me, you shake hands to me, you beg pardon from me, but can you unstrike me ?" An occurrence in the ensuing chapter will serve to develope this moral.
TYLNEY HALL CHAPTER VIII. There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like the standing pool, And do a wilful stillness entertain Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say, " I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips let no dog bark." Merchant of Venice. Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer, Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his watery bier, Unwept, and welter to the parching wind Without the meed of some melodious tear. MILTON. THE flood rapidly subsided, but left behind many tokens of the extent of its ravages : amongst others, as already recorded, was the destruction of the little bridge between Hawksley and the Hall, a circumstance productive of some embarrassment to an unsuspecting pedestrian, who had ex- pected the assistance of the ruined fabric in passing over the brook. " Humph ! a regular pull-up, right on my haunches," exclaimed the man, as he came to a full stop on the bank. It has never yet been explained by phrenologists why men should scratch their heads when puzzled, but it is certain that no sooner did this difficulty present itself to the way- farer, than his hat was off in one hand, while the fingers of the other hunted through his short yellow scrubby hair, like a team of spaniels in a field of stubble. At the same moment he fixed his eyes on the stream, and with all his might began to ponder what substitute could be found for a bridge, a deliberation to which Lavater would have as- signed a very distant termination, for of all countenances ever created, that of Master Goff, one of the country con- stables, had the least expression of sagacity or intelligence. It was certainly no superabundance of brain in the interior that made his two heavy eyes with their lids protrude from their sockets like two well poached eggs, except that in place of the yolks there were two globes of the dull greenish brown of a fowl's gizzard ; his nose was absolutely devoid of character or meaning, a mere mushroom-button ; while his mouth, round and open, reminded one irresistibly