instead of his trusting to the

his own well-principled heart.

pleadings of

His charities

were unbounded, but his name rarely graced any public lists of contributors, his benevolence was known to few, but felt by many.

And yet the worthy nobleman escaped not the censure of the world, he was universally called self-opinionated, and even parsimonious, for on many occasions he had been known to exclaim, when a paper filled with ducal and lordly names was presented to him, "What! have all these persons been so generous? well, well, I will reserve my charity for another occasion." Then taking up his gold-headed cane, the nobleman sauntered forth, sought the refuge of poverty, the haunts of misery, looked sympathetically at the hollow face of want, heard the disappointed tales of the sons and daughters of genius, listened to the mechanic's penury, and quietly administering his charity in his

own unostentatious manner, not even to the ears of his affectionate partner did he breathe the tale of his morning's ramble. And the nobleman sat at festive boards, he heard of generous donors, and listened, too; whilst hovering around, teeming with the never-tobe-forgotten expression of thankfulness, were those faces, around whose pallid brows his charity had cast a refulgent ray of light.

Lord Cunnington was a tall well-made man, about fifty-six years of age, inclined to be corpulent if many years were added to his life, but carrying himself exceedingly well; his figure was athletic and noble. The dark-brown hair clustering round a head whose summit was becomingly bald, set off to great advantage a well-coloured and healthy countenance, whilst from his brown eyes shot forth such an expression of worth and sympathetic feeling that they inspired confidence, and spoke the nobleness

of the heart which dwelt within the upright

man.

Readers, mortal man cannot be portrayed in perfection; we know the picture would be erroneous; Lord Cunnington was obstinate; his early liberty, his political career, his highly opinionated wife, every circumstance in life had conspired to render him susceptible to that fault, which certainly predominated over every other one in his character. If his lordship said it was his will that anything should be done, his household knew it was as well to bid the Thames go and join the Seine, as to hope the nobleman would relent; and Augustus knew the bent of his father's inclination so proverbially that whenever he wished to have a favour granted he failed not first to observe, Now pray do not say you will not allow it till you have considered." True it was that the nobleman very seldom had

occasion to refuse his son anything, as Augustus rarely troubled his father concerning his opinions, and many sons would find this plan better than being refused and still disobeying.

Cunnington Abbey was situated in Worcestershire; it was rather a picturesque pile, ancient, and wild, being surrounded by woodland and copses, harmonizing with the style of the building, which was erected according to the style of abbeys half a century ago; the interior, however, was spacious and elegant in the extreme, and the furniture, though elaborately designed to look ancient, was evidently so constructed by modern hands. The picture gallery, the Cunnington pride, however, contained medals, cameos, fragments of pavements, coins, and vestiges of really ancient times, whilst the walls were adorned by those old pictures, ruffled and powdered, which insensibly carry

us back amidst days "long, long since." There might be seen poets and authors such as, I fear me, there are few now existing; the noble Howard, Earl of Surrey, with his gracefully-plumed hat and ruffles of lace, seemed to smile at his neighbour, the immortal Chaucer, perhaps laughing in gilt frame at the gilt muse of the present day. There was the sightless Harry, with his intelligent, though most softly thoughtful countenance, it almost seemed he was standing and reciting his lines, addressing in thought the great Wallace of his song. The grave Caxton, with his most artistic costume. Oh, how many thoughts swell the mind when we consider what Caxton achieved, now that printing is a mere rien! let us not forget that the immortal Caxton printed the first English work.*

Sir Thomas More's portrait figured next,

* At Westminster, 1474.