pleasure in making Mr. Falkland, at every turn, the instrument of his
humiliation. Smarting under a succession of untoward events, he
appeared to feel, in the most exquisite manner, the distinctions paid to
his adversary, even in those points in which he had not the slightest
pretensions. An instance of this now occurred.

Mr. Clare, a poet whose works have done immortal honour to the country
that produced him, had lately retired, after a life spent in the
sublimest efforts of genius, to enjoy the produce of his economy, and
the reputation he had acquired, in this very neighbourhood. Such an
inmate was looked up to by the country gentlemen with a degree of
adoration. They felt a conscious pride in recollecting that the boast of
England was a native of their vicinity; and they were by no means
deficient in gratitude when they saw him, who had left them an
adventurer, return into the midst of them, in the close of his days,
crowned with honours and opulence. The reader is acquainted with his
works: he has, probably, dwelt upon them with transport; and I need not
remind him of their excellence: but he is, perhaps, a stranger to his
personal qualifications; he does not know that his productions were
scarcely more admirable than his conversation. In company he seemed to
be the only person ignorant of the greatness of his fame. To the world
his writings will long remain a kind of specimen of what the human mind
is capable of performing; but no man perceived their defects so acutely
as he, or saw so distinctly how much yet remained to be effected: he
alone appeared to look upon his works with superiority and indifference.
One of the features that most eminently distinguished him was a
perpetual suavity of manners, a comprehensiveness of mind, that regarded
the errors of others without a particle of resentment, and made it
impossible for any one to be his enemy. He pointed out to men their
mistakes with frankness and unreserve, his remonstrances produced