The next portrait is that of His Grace the Duke of Fidena. I feel as if awaking from a feverish dream, a distempered vision of troubled grandeur and stormy glory, as I raise my eyes from the lord and lady of Pandemonium, from Sin and Satan, and let them fall on Prince John, the Royal Philosopher. How grave! what severe virtue! what deep and far-sought and well-treasured wisdom! what inflexible uprightness! Integrity that Death could not turn from the path of right; Firmness that would stoop to the block rather than yield one jot of its just, mature, righteous resolution; Truth from which the agonies of the wheel would be powerless to wring a word of equivocation; and to speak verity, Pride that could no more be thawed than the icebergs of Greenland or the snows of his own Highland hills. There is a look too of prejudice in his rather stern forehead, a something which tells us that Fidena could be an unforgiving, almost a vindictive, enemy, if stubbornly opposed or wantonly insulted. An air of reserve, of stiffness, which warns us that the son of Alexander,—all good, wise, and just, as he is,—lays emphasis on the forms of Courts, the usages of high circles. He will brook no breach of them, however trivial, in those under his authority. That cold eye and aristocratic mien say that jealousy would be quickly aroused by any mingling of ranks, any inroads of plebeians on the rights of patricians, any removing of landmarks or undermining of old institutions. He looks chill, almost forbidding. Something like a cold feeling of restraint creeps over us whilst we gaze: the virtues pictured in his stately features seem of that high and holy order which almost exempt their possessor from sympathy with mankind. Thoughts of martyrs or patriots, a zealous but stern prophet chosen in evil times to denounce judgment, not to proclaim mercy, recur to our minds. Yet John is not altogether what he appears; or rather he is that and more too. I have seen him in private life in moments of relaxation when surrounded by his family and one or two bosom friends. Nothing in such circumstances can be more fascinating than his winning, easy manner, his calm cheerfulness, his pleasing, philosophical gravity of aspect and demeanour. For hours I have watched him while he sat on a sofa with his lovely wife beside him, and the beautiful Marchioness of Douro sitting at his feet; and heard the benignant simplicity with which he poured out the stores of his varied and extensive erudition, answering so kindly and familiarly each question of the fair listeners, mingling an air of conjugal tenderness in his manner to his wife, and earnest melancholy gentleness in that to Marian such as always characterized his treatment of her. Poor thing! she looked on him as her only friend,—her brother, her adviser, her unerring oracle; with the warm devotedness that marked her disposition she followed his advice as if it had been the precept of inspired revelation. Fidena could not err; he could