irregular pile of verse, full of dim-lighted cells, and winding
galleries, in which what treasures lie concealed! That was an age in
which poetry took one path and contemplation another; those who were
addicted to the latter pursued it in its orthodox roads; and many,
whom Nature, perhaps intended for poets, the wizard Custom converted
into speculators or critics.

It was this which gave to Algernon's studies their peculiar hue;
while, on the other hand, the taste for the fine arts which then
universally prevailed, directed to the creations of painting, rather
than those of poetry, more really congenial to his powers, the intense
imagination and passion for glory which marked and pervaded the
character of the artist.

But as we have seen that that passion for glory made the great
characteristic difference between Clarence and Warner, so also did
that passion terminate any resemblance which Warner bore to Algernon
Mordaunt. With the former a rank and unwholesome plant, it grew up to
the exclusion of all else; with the latter, subdued and regulated, it
sheltered, not withered, the virtues by which it was surrounded. With
Warner, ambition was a passionate desire to separate himself by fame
from the herd of other men; with Mordaunt, to bind himself by charity
yet closer to his kind: with the one, it produced a disgust to his
species; with the other, a pity and a love: with the one, power was
the badge of distinction; with the other, the means to bless! But our
story lingers.

It was now the custom of Warner to spend the whole day at his work,
and wander out with Clarence, when the evening darkened, to snatch a
brief respite of exercise and air. Often, along the lighted and