And, if not proud, yet kind the brothers were. This pleased the Captain, who had never known, Or he had loved, such kindred of his own; Them he invited, save the Orphan lad, Whose name was not the one his Uncles had; 560 No Dyson he, nor with the party came— The worthy Captain never heard his name; Uncles and Aunts forbore to name the boy, For then, of course, must follow his employ. Though all were silent, as with one consent, None told another what his silence meant, What hers; but each suppress’d the useless truth, And not a word was mentioned of the youth. Familiar grown, the Dysons saw their host, With none beside them; it became their boast, 570 Their pride, their pleasure; but to some it seem’d Beyond the worth their talents were esteem’d. This wrought no change within the Captain’s mind; To all men courteous, he to them was kind. One day with these he sat, and only these, In a light humour, talking at his ease. Familiar grown, he was disposed to tell Of times long past, and what in them befell— Not of his life their wonder to attract, But the choice tale, or insulated fact. 580 Then, as it seem’d, he had acquired a right To hear what they could from their stores recite. Their lives, they said, were all of common kind; He could no pleasure in such trifles find. They had an Uncle—’tis their father’s tale— Who in all seas had gone where ship can sail; Who in all lands had been, where men can live; “He could indeed some strange relations give, And many a bold adventure; but in vain We look for him; he comes not home again.” 590 “And is it so? why then, if so it be,” Said Captain Elliot, “you must look to me: I knew John Dyson”——Instant every one Was moved to wonder—“Knew my Uncle John! Can he be rich? be childless? he is old, That is most certain—What! can more be told? Will he return, who has so long been gone, And lost to us? Oh! what of Uncle John?” This was aside: their unobservant friend Seem’d on their thoughts but little to attend; 600 A traveller speaking, he was more inclined To tell his story than their thoughts to find. “Although, my Friends, I love you well, ’tis true, } ’Twas your relation turn’d my mind to you; } For we were friends of old, and friends like us are few; } And, though from dearest friends a man will hide His private vices in his native pride, Yet such our friendship from its early rise, We no reserve admitted, no disguise; But ’tis the story of my friend I tell, 610 And to all others let me bid farewell. “Take each your glass, and you shall hear how John, My old companion, through the world has gone; I can describe him to the very life, Him and his ways, his ventures, and his wife.” “Wife!” whisper’d all; “then what his life to us, His ways and ventures, if he ventured thus?” This, too, apart; yet were they all intent,