Of Bacon, writing 'Thus thought Francis of Verulam!' Lonely amidst the triumphs of enterprise, art and science; of history, poetry and philosophy! Lonely, where whatever science has discovered, and art applied, and enterprise accomplished; what history has recorded, and poetry exalted, and philosophy ordered, is visibly presented! Where power, skill, and understanding, memory, fancy, and wisdom have written their greatest names, their mightiest deeds, their noblest thoughts! No, Randolph Trevethlan, there is no loneliness in such society as this." It was his own feeling, perhaps, that Randolph expressed in the inquiry which extracted this speech from the chaplain. For to the buoyancy of youth, the castle might well seem a dreary abode. When a man gives up the world, the world generally returns the compliment; and in this instance Mr. Trevethlan's violation of the bienséances in his marriage widened the breach. No friend or relation visited him during the last years of his life. And, indeed, their entertainment would have been a serious burden on the finances of their host. It is probable that the steward was a much richer man than his master; it is not impossible that all the expenses of Trevethlan did not fall upon its lord. Yet the establishment had gradually declined to the lowest point. An old porter, named Jeffrey, who occupied the entrance lodge to the inner court, and cultivated a small kitchen garden, was the only male domestic: his wife, and two or three maid-servants performed all the other offices of the castle. People often wondered that Mr. Griffith did not leave such a falling house. But Mr. Griffith was not a rat. He had lived there more than half a century, and was prepared to continue as long again. Nor let it be supposed that this devotion was entirely due to the place. Proud and reserved as had been its recent master, he was far from being wholly unamiable; even his children, to whom he behaved with uniform harshness, regarded him with as much affection as awe; and his dependents, whom he treated with almost as constant kindness, served him with real attachment. Well did Griffith recollect the day, although it was five and thirty years past, and he was scarcely twenty at the time, when Mr. Trevethlan galloped into the court-yard with his horse in a foam, on his return from Pendarrel, ordered his carriage, paced impatiently up and down the great hall while it was being prepared, and departed to London without uttering another word. Well, too, did the steward remember his father's grief, as missive after missive came to Trevethlan in the few following years, of which the constant burden was "money, money." Mortgage Tresylty, sell Penrevil, fell Withewood; so it went on, until the extensive domain, once appended to the castle, was reduced to its immediate precincts. Then Mr. Trevethlan came home, and lived during the remainder of his days in the secluded manner, which has already been sufficiently described. CHAPTER II.