of something that terrifies, or something that entices; but, as Borromeo had perceptibly neither hope nor fear, and conducted himself in a way independently of what man could do to him, it followed of necessity that he had no meanness. Utterly regardless of the treatment he might receive, he viewed his fellow-mortals with ineffable contempt. They were to him like so many powerless insects, that we do not even give ourselves the trouble to brush away, but suffer them to enact their pleasure without control and without observation. Yet this man was eminently a moral being. He had certain rules of right to which he rigorously adhered, not for the sake of the good to result to others, but, as certain theologians inculcate in their systems, from the simple love of justice, and without care for the consequences to result.

The exterior of Borromeo corresponded to the discipline of his mind; or, as certain painters express themselves, he had much cha

racter, and little expression. In other words, he was strongly marked for those qualities which were peculiar to him, and scarcely dwelt in any other man; but these marks were trenched in his visage, while neither anger, nor complacency, nor any of those things we call emotions, produced any flexible and evanescent variation either of countenance or gesture. His complexion and the texture of his skin was like the hide of a beast dried in the sun; his eyebrows were thick and bushy; his eyes looked out dark and penetrating under the pent-house of his brow; and his voice was full and unmodulated, and upon all occasions produced a sensation something like fear in the sensorium of a stranger.

At the same time he was a man of excellent sense, of sound judgment, inflexible in his purposes, and confident in the rectitude of his projects, and the strength he possessed to effect them. In this respect however his efforts were

frequently abortive, because he thought much of the design he had fixed on, and little of the temper and prejudices of those whose concurrence it might demand.

This man, thus qualitied, was scarcely acceptable to any of his countrymen. They were animated, and full of gesticulation. He stood, or sate, like a block of marble. He scorned to inforce what he said by contortions of the body. He scarcely looked any one in the face; not that he feared to be detected in any thing, but that he did not think any thing in human shape entitled to that degree of deference and worship. He made no account of them. He had at no time had the national marks of an Italian; and his long residence among the pirates of Africa had rendered him still more unlike the bulk of his countrymen.

But there was that in him that excited the partiality of Cloudesley. Cloudesley was an

Englishman; and the English in general are undemonstrative, and have little gesticulation. Cloudesley was bred among the lower orders of his countrymen, a rustic. The Italians are by nature, as it were, courtiers, desirous of the good opinion of others, desirous to be serviceable, supple. Cloudesley was tired of this, as he called it, sycophantic outside, and welcomed with peculiar zest the rugged exterior of Borromeo. They agreed in their creed of misanthropy. Add to which, Borromeo was endowed with many excellent qualities. At first sight he offended almost every one that approached him. But that had a tendency to wear off; and then, the more you knew him, the more you were sure to like him. His good qualities came out one by one, like stars at the setting in of the night. Though fearless, he was by no means without affections; and, where he took, he truly loved. It was difficult to touch and to awake

him; but, in proportion to the rareness of the first steps, his attachments were by so much the more rooted and unalterable.

There was another thing that brought Borromeo and Cloudesley together. The temper of Cloudesley, since he had become a misanthrope, was, as the name implies, rugged to the mass of mankind, though it was tender and affectionate to the few that he loved. He saw therefore a copy of himself in Borromeo, though with this difference, that the oppression and loss of liberty that he had suffered had endured less than twenty months, but Borromeo's for twenty years. Add to which, Cloudesley had dwelt in habitual intercourse with some that he regarded with unfeigned affection; but Borromeo had scarcely ever had a friend. Sympathy is one of the principles most widely rooted in our nature: we rejoice to see ourselves reflected in another; and, perversely enough, we sometimes have a secret pleasure in seeing the sin which dwells in