and vulgar nobleman; especially when he makes the privileges of his class an offence and an oppression to his inferiors, or considers it a crime to feel or express those noble sympathies, which, as a first principle, ought to bind him to that class by whom he lives, and who constitute the great mass of humanity, from whose toil and labor originate the happiness of his order.  When in conversation, the natural animation of his lordship’s countenance was checked, not only by a polite and complacent sense of what was due to those with whom he spoke, and a sincere anxiety to put them at their ease, but evidently by an expression that seemed the exponent of some undivulged and corroding sorrow.  We may add, that he was affectionate, generous, indolent; not difficult to be managed when he had no strong purpose to stimulate him; keen of observation, but not prone to suspicion; consequently often credulous, and easily imposed upon; but, having once detected fraud or want of candor, the discovery was certain forever to deprive the offending party of his esteem—­no matter what their rank or condition in life might be.

We need scarcely say, therefore, that this, amiable nobleman, possessing as he did all the high honor and integrity by which his whole life was regulated, (with one solitary exception, for which his heart paid a severe penalty,) carried along with him, in his old age, that respect, reverence, and affection, to which the dignified simplicity of his life entitled him.  He was, indeed, one of those few noblemen whose virtues gave to the aristocratic spirit, true grace and appropriate dignity, instead of degrading it, as too many of his caste do, by pride, arrogance, and selfishness.

Sir Thomas Gourlay, on entering the magnificent library to which he was conducted, found his lordship in the act of attaching his signature to some papers.  The latter received him kindly and graciously, and shook hands with him, but without rising, for which he apologized.

“I am not at all strong, Sir Thomas,” he added; “for although this last attack has left me, yet I feel that it has taken a considerable portion of my strength along with it.  I am, however, free from pain and complaint, and my health is gradually improving.”

“But, my lord, do you think you will be able to encounter the fatigue and difficulties of a journey to London.” replied the other—­“Will you have strength for it?”

“I hope so; travelling by sea always agreed with and invigorated my constitution.  The weather, too, is fine, and.  I will take the long voyage.  Besides, it is indispensable that I should go.  This wild son of mine has had a duel with some one in a shooting gallery—­has been severely hit—­and is very ill; but, at the same time, out of danger.”

“A duel!  Good heavens!  My lord, how did it happen.” asked the baronet.