“Really, Devereux,” said I, smiling, “you talk so like a cynic and an old bachelor, and you look so little like either, that it is quite ridiculous.” “A man must be ridiculous sometimes,” said he, “and bear to be thought so. No man ever distinguished himself, who could not bear to be laughed at.” Mr. Devereux left the room singing, “No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove; Ambition, I said, will soon cure me of love.” I was uncertain what to think of all this. I inclined to believe that ambition was his ruling passion, notwithstanding the description of that Hell which he showed me in Spenser. His conduct to his patron-lords, by which a surer judgment of his character could be formed than by his professions, was not, however, that of a man merely intent upon rising in the world. I remember once hearing Lord O’Toole attack a friend of this gentleman’s, calling him, in a certain tone, _a philosopher._ Mr. Devereux replied, “that he could not consider that as a term of reproach; that where a false or pretended philosopher was meant, some other name should be used, equivalent to the Italian term of reproach, _filosofastro._” Lord O’Toole would by no means admit of this Italianism: he would make no distinctions: he deemed philosophers altogether a race of beings dangerous and inimical to states. “For states read statesmen,” said Devereux, who persisted in the vindication of his friend till Lord O’Toole grew pale with anger, while Captain Andrews smiled with ineffable contempt at the political _bévue_: Lady Geraldine glowed with generous indignation. Afterwards, in speaking to me of Lord O’Toole, Devereux said, “His lordship’s classification of men is as contracted as the savage’s classification of animals: he divides mankind into two classes, knaves and fools; and when he meets with an honest man, he does not know what to make of him.”