feeling, stifled--a powerful, capacious understanding distorted--a soul, once expatiating and full of high thoughts, now confined to a span--bent down to low concerns--imprisoned in the precincts of a court. “You pity me,” said Lord Oldborough, who seemed to understand Mr. Percy’s thoughts; “you pity me--I pity myself. But such is ambition, and I cannot live without it--once and always its slave.” “A person of such a strong mind as Lord Oldborough could emancipate himself from any slavery--even that of habit.” “Yes, if he wished to break through it--but he does not.” “Can he have utterly--” “Lost his taste for freedom? you would say. Yes--utterly. I see you pity me,” said his lordship with a bitter smile; “and,” added he, rising proudly, “I am unused to be pitied, and I am awkward, I fear, under the obligation.” Resuming his friendly aspect, however, in a moment or two, he followed Mr. Percy, who had turned to examine a fine picture. “Yes; a Corregio. You are not aware, my dear sir,” continued he, “that between the youth you knew at Paris, and the man who has now the honour to speak to you, there is nothing in common--absolutely nothing--except regard for Mr. Percy. You had always great knowledge of character, I remember; but with respect to my own, you will recollect that I have the advantage of possessing _la carte du pays_. You are grown quite a philosopher, I find; and so am I, in my own way. In short, to put the question between us at rest for ever, _there is nothing left for me in life but ambition_. Now let us go to Corregio, or what you please.”