"Say not so, Frances; rather like oil upon a stormy sea is the sweet counsel of a friend; and truly none but a friend would have turned from the crowded and joyous court to sojourn in this lonely isle; and, above all, in the house of mourning." "I do not deny to you, Constance, that I love the gaiety, the pomp, and the homage of our courts; that both Hampton and Whitehall have many charms for me; but there are some things--some things I love far more. I loved your mother," she continued, in a tone of deeper feeling than was usual with so gay a spirit; "and I love the friend who, while she reproves my follies, can estimate my virtues: for even my sombre sister Elizabeth, your grave god-mother, admits that I have virtues, though she denies them to be of an exalted nature." "Were the Lady Claypole to judge of others according to the standard of her own exceeding excellence, Frances, we should, indeed, fall far below what we are disposed to believe is our real value; but, like the rose, instead of robbing less worthy flowers of their fragrance, she imparts to them a portion of her own." "Now should I like to call that a most courtly compliment, but for my life I cannot--it is so true." "You pronounce a severe satire on your father's court, my friend; and one that I hope it merits not." "Merits! Perhaps not--for, though the youngest and least rational of my father's children, I can perceive there are some about him who hit upon truth occasionally, either by chance or intention. There's that rugged bear, Sir Thomas Pride, whom, I have heard say, my father knighted with a mopstick--he, I do believe, speaks truth, and of a truth follows one scriptural virtue, being no respecter of persons. As to General George Monk, my father trusts him--and so--yet have I observed, at any mention of Charles Stuart's name, a cunning twinkling of the eye that may yet kindle into loyalty.--I would as soon believe in his honesty as in his lady's gentleness. Did you hear, by the way, what Jerry, my poor disgraced beau, Jerry White, said of her? Why, that if her husband could raise and command a regiment endowed with his wife's spirit, he might storm the stronghold of sin, and make Satan a state prisoner. Then our Irish Lord Chancellor--we call him the true Steele; and, indeed, any one who ventures to tell my father he errs, deserves credit. Yes, Sir William Steele may certainly be called a truth-teller. Not so our last court novelty, Griffeth Williams of Carnarvon, Esq., who though he affects to despise all modern titles, and boasts of his blood-ties with the Princes of Wales, Kings of France, Arragon, Castile, and Man, with the sovereigns of Englefield and Provence to boot, yet moves every secret engine he can find to gain a paltry baronetcy! Even you, dear Constance, would have smiled to see the grave and courtly salutations that passed between him and the Earl of Warwick--the haughty Earl, who refused to sit in the same house with Pride and Hewson--a circumstance,