Thus, as if virtue were not its own reward, is it paid over
and above with beef and ale? Weep not, tender-hearted Count!
Though 'generous hearts,' my Lord, 'and ladies' tenderness, too oft
forget'--Truly spoken! Lord Abbot, does not your spiritual eye
discern coals of fire on Count Hugo's head?
C. Hugo. Where, and a plague? Where?
C. Wal. Nay, I speak mystically,--there is nought there but what
beer will quench before nightfall. Here, peeping rabbit [to a Page
at the door], out of your burrow, and show these gentles to their
lodgings. We will meet at the gratias. [They go out.]
C. Wal [alone]. Well:--if Hugo is a brute, he at least makes no
secret of it. He is an old boar, and honest; he wears his tushes
outside, for a warning to all men. But for the rest!--Whited
sepulchres! and not one of them but has half persuaded himself of
his own benevolence. Of all cruelties, save me from your small
pedant,--your closet philosopher, who has just courage enough to
bestride his theory, without wit to see whither it will carry him.
In experience, a child: in obstinacy, a woman: in nothing a man,
but in logic-chopping: instead of God's grace, a few schoolboy saws
about benevolence, and industry, and independence--there is his
metal.
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