could not soften or subdue the impetuous feelings that formed it.
"Parnell," says his biographer, " by what I have been able to collect from my father and uncle, who knew him, was the most capable man in the world to make the happiness of those he conversed with, and the least able to secure his own. He wanted that evenness of disposition which bears disappointment with phlegm, and joy with indifference. He was ever much elated or depressed, and his whole life spent in agony or rapture. But the turbulence of these passions only affected himself, and never those about him; he knew the ridicule of his own character, and very effectually raised the mirth of his companions as well at his vexations as his triumphs.
"How much his company was desired, appears from the extensiveness of his connexions and the number of his friends. Even before he made any figure in the literary world, his friendship was sought by persons of every rank and party.[1] The wits at that time differed a good deal from those who are most eminent for their understanding at present. It would now be thought a very indifferent sign of a writer's good sense, to disclaim his
- ↑ Parnell was well acquainted with Bolingbroke; see the poem called Queen Anne's Peace, 1713 (Posth. Poems, p. 248).'——— I fly with speed,
To sing such lines as Bolingbroke may read.'
And see p. 253.
