ween, was that domestic, whenever he had time and listeners for the
indulgence of his honest loquacity; many an ancient tale of his
master's former glories was then poured from his unburdening
remembrance. With what a glow, with what a racy enjoyment, did he
expand upon the triumphs of the past; how eloquently did he
particularize the exact grace with which young Mr. Talbot was wont to
enter the room, in which he instantly became the cynosure of ladies'
eyes; how faithfully did he minute the courtly dress, the exquisite
choice of colour, the costly splendour of material, which were the
envy of gentles, and the despairing wonder of their valets; and then
the zest with which the good old man would cry, "I dressed the boy!"
Even still, this modern Scipio (Le Sage's Scipio, not Rome's) would
not believe that his master's sun was utterly set: he was only in a
temporary retirement, and would, one day or other, reappear and
reastonish the London world. "I would give my right arm," Jasper was
wont to say, "to see Master at court. How fond the King would be of
him! Ah! well, well; I wish he was not so melancholy-like with his
books, but would go out like other people!"

Poor Jasper! Time is, in general, a harsh wizard in his
transformations; but the change which thou didst lament so bitterly
was happier for thy master than all his former "palmy state" of
admiration and homage. "Nous avons recherche le plaisir," says
Rousseau, in one of his own inimitable antitheses, "et le bonheur a
fui loin de nous." ["We have pursued pleasure, and happiness has fled
far from our reach."] But in the pursuit of Pleasure we sometimes
chance on Wisdom, and Wisdom leads us to the right track, which, if it
take us not so far as Happiness, is sure at least of the shelter of
Content.