His words were not many; but they were very well chosen; and, at the end of his harangue, a great number of the people escorted him to his inn with acclamations. The very inn he selected marked him out as one of the party to which, for the time, he chose to attach himself. It was called the Crown and Sceptre, and was the Jacobite inn. There, however, he had but time to get some scanty refreshment for himself before the hour of meeting; and, leaving his horses and servants behind, he walked to the room where the magistrates were now fast assembling. It presented the usual aspect of such congregations in troublous times, where many persons of the most opposite views are collected to carry out measures in regard to which very few of them are agreed. The Jacobite party was here by far the least numerous; but they were weakened by want of unity in their plans, more than by want of numerical strength. Some were for bold and vigorous demonstration; others were for firm and tranquil moderation; some were for temporising and deceiving, others for throwing off disguise, and avowing their principles, if not their objects, clearly. Sir John Newark instantly ranged himself amongst them, with the most hearty contempt for every one of them; but he shook hands with them all warmly, lent an eager ear to what every man whispered to him, and said a few words in reply, which signified nothing. The Whig party, on the contrary, were united in object and in purpose. They felt their strength, and were confident in it; yet, at the same time, the entrance of Sir John Newark caused a little stir even amongst _them_. They had a sort of fear of him--not of his power, not of his real talents, not of his courage or energy, but of his subtlety; for subtlety can be carried to a point where it becomes awful. He had established a reputation of never forgiving, of never being turned from his object by any difficulty or opposition, and of seeking it by ways which could not be seen and by means which could not be combated. All that he said or did was a matter a doubt and mystery to those around. His frankness was as suspicious as his reserve; his boldest declarations in favour of a cause were known never to insure it his support; his most resolute opposition to a party gave no guarantee that he would not join it next day. It was known, moreover, that most of his enemies had been ruined by some means or other--and many of his friends. Inimical critics will say, perhaps, that this character is overdrawn; friendly critics will declare that it is a portrait. To the latter, if there be guilt, I plead guilty; but it is the portrait of one who lived and died in the times of which I write, and not of any man now living.