"You look unwell, uncle, to-night," she said, when one evening he entered
the room with looks more fatigued than usual; and rising, she leaned
tenderly over him, and kissed his forehead.

"Ay!" said Brandon, utterly unwon by, and even unheeding, the caress,
"our way of life soon passes into the sear and yellow leaf; and when
Macbeth grieved that he might not look to have that which should
accompany old age, he had grown doting, and grieved for what was
worthless."

"Nay, uncle, 'honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,' these surely
were worth the sighing for?"

"Pooh! not worth a single sigh! The foolish wishes we form in youth have
something noble and something bodily in them; but those of age are utter
shadows, and the shadows of pygmies! Why, what is honour, after all?
What is this good name among men? Only a sort of heathenish idol, set up
to be adored by one set of fools and scorned by another. Do you not
observe, Lucy, that the man you hear most praised by the party you meet
to-day is most abused by that which you meet to-morrow? Public men are
only praised by their party; and their party, sweet Lucy, are such base
minions that it moves one's spleen to think one is so little as to be
useful to them. Thus a good name is only the good name of a sect, and
the members of that sect are only marvellous proper knaves."

"But posterity does justice to those who really deserve fame."

"Posterity! Can you believe that a man who knows what life is cares for
the penny whistles of grown children after his death? Posterity, Lucy,--
no! Posterity is but the same perpetuity of fools and rascals; and even