laws—he had administered no state—he had composed no books. Like the figure on a clock, which adorns the case and has no connection with the movement, he so prominent an ornament to Time, had no part in its works. Removed, the eye would miss him of a while; but a nation's literature or history was the same, whether with him or without. Some with a tithe of his abilities have the luck to fasten their names to things that endure; they have been responsible for measures they did not invent, and which, for good or evil, influence long generations. They have written volumes out of which a couplet of verse, a period in prose, may cling to the rock of ages as a shell that survives a deluge. But the orator, whose effects are immediate—who enthrals his audience in proportion as he nicks the hour—who, were he speaking like Burke what, apart from the subject-matter, closet students would praise, must, like Burke, thin his audience, and exchange present oratorical success for ultimate intellectual renown—a man, in short, whose oratory is emphatically that of the Debater, is, like an actor, rewarded with a loud applause and a complete oblivion. Waife on the village stage might win applause no less loud, followed by oblivion not more complete. Darrell was not blind to the brevity of his fame. In his previous seclusion he had been resigned to that conviction—now it saddened him. Then, unconfessed by himself, the idea that he might yet reappear in active life, and do something which the world would not willingly let die, had softened the face of that tranquil Nature from which he must soon now pass out of reach and sight. On the tree of Time he was a leaf already sere upon the bough—not an inscription graven into the rind.
Ever slow to yield to weak regrets—ever seeking to combat his own enemies within—Darrell said to himself one night, while Fairthorn's flute was breathing an air of romance through the melancholy walls, "Is it too late yet to employ this still busy brain upon works that will live when I am dust, and make Posterity supply the heir that fails to my house?"
He shut himself up with immortal authors—he meditated on the choice of a theme; his knowledge was wide, his taste refined;—words!—he could not want words! Why should he not write? Alas! why indeed?—He who has never been a writer in his youth, can no more be a writer in his age than he can be a painter—a musician, What! not write a book? Oh yes—as he may
printer's type can record his decorous grace—the persuasion of his silvery tongue. Fifty years hence, even Plunkett, weightiest speaker, on his own subject, in the assembly that contained a Canning and a Brougham, will be a myth to our grandsons.
