Treasury sufficed for all. He had married the
only daughter of the noble lord who had
given him his first seat. His eloquence was
still the shield of the ministry, and there was
no elevation he might not hope to attain.
He had energy, strength of will, perseverance.
He had no bashfulness nor awkward distrust
of his own powers. His wife was
a paragon of beauty, a patroness of
Alrnacks,—his child, a miracle of loveliness
and health, Matilda was as beautiful as
his Charlotte—the queen was her godmother
—and dressed as an Arcadian shepherdess
with petticoat of finest silk, and flesh-
coloured silk stockings, visible up to the knee,
was a model for Bernard Palissy; but her
apparel, I suppose, though very exquisite to
look at, was not warm enough for a bleak
cottage in Yorkshire— and she caught cold.
A doctor was instantly summoned. He came
from Scarborough, at a guinea a mile. The
mother grew distracted, took a fever from
waiting on her child, and blamed me, in her
delirium, as the murderer of her darling, by
refusing to send to London for the body-
physician of the king. I watched them both:
there was no hope; we had not paid the rent
of the house; the landlord was pressing. I
had no money left—fees, medicine, gowns and
living had swallowed all. We had but one
tallow candle in the room where the two
were dying. I was the only watcher. I sat
with a hand of each locked in mine.

"' Do you love your father, my child? ' I
said.

"' O yes, papa, better than all the world.'

"' And you, my wife? '

"' Yes—dearly —'

' ' How lonely you will be,' said my daughter,
' without us both! '

"' And how poor! ' said my wife.

"And then daylight peeped in at that small
chamber.

"I was indeed poor and very lonely. But
Rowlands up in London was very gay. He
had just been created a baronet, and his
father-in-law had left him eight thousand a-
year. Sitting by the side of that truckle-bed,
listening to the sighings and sobs of the two
dearest and last of my possessions, I heard
also the strains of music at a ball in Portrnan
Square. Miss Rowlands had just come out,
the exact image of my Matilda—there was
no difference there —and danced with a duke
of twenty-two. They were a beautiful couple;
and she looked so strong, so happy, and so
healthy, that it was very difficult to turn
away and gxze on the still, cold features of
my poor Matilda —her closed eyes and folded
hands.

"I lived for some years, sir, I know not how.
I think I must have been tutor to somebody,
or have kept a school; but I was principally
concerned with the progress of the Secretary
for Home Affairs—what plans of improvement
he proposed, how he insisted on simplifying
the law, on promoting merit, or on raising
the people! All these were aspirations of
my own; but I was shy, I was powerless, I
never could gain a patron; I could only think
and dream. A small legacy was left me; I
came down here; some of the money is not
yet spent. I have a few books; I have many
recollections. I am very happy; and Rowlands
is Lord Oakland—the name of our old
estate which he bought back some years ago
—and they say is looking out for the blue
ribband."

When I came down to Hurstfield in the
following year, the play was played out. He
was in the Union workhouse, and, I was told,
was dying. I went to see him, and found
him in the ward appropriated to the sick.
There were several beds ranged against the
wall. I suppose they took me for the doctor
when I entered, for they all looked at me with
expectation. On finding their mistake, they
resigned themselves sulkily to their pillows
again, and took no notice of what I did. I
went to the old man's bed. He smiled when
he saw me. "I thought you would come,"
he said; " you said you came to Hurstfield
every August, and I knew you would not
forget me. I told you how it would be. I
would not let you interfere. I wanted to
work out the great proposition, and to prove
that idleness ends here. Point out to your
friends the difference between the lives of
myself and Oakland. We are both dying—
for since I came here his lordship has been
very ill. I look round me, and see strange
faces, unanswering eyes. I experience
neglect, and have none to watch me—the human
feelings get all dried up here —but his lordship,"
he said, " how hard he breathes! he
can't last long; but see what comforts he
has round his bed. He has his wife, his
child; and these fair sunny-haired boys and
girls, these are his grand-children. He
needn't regret the course he has run. It is this
that must give comfort to us both: I have none
of my own to fly to. Give me your hand,
sir; you have been very kind. Hark! a
muffled peal! They are ringing the death-
chime in the surrounding parishes for the
Earl of Oakland,—and hark again! there is
the passing bell! It is for the poor old
pauper, Rowlands."

And so it was. I attended his funeral,
and walked home with the village doctor.
"A very dull, obstinate old man, sir," he
said, by way of epitaph, "as ever I saw in
my life. He refused all assistance from his
friends. He determined to be an inmate of
the house; and— would you believe it, sir?—
to the very last he refused all my medicine,
and insulted me over and over with his
absurd allusion to dogs."