Rather

With

your charms and magic art,
gay indiff'rence do I view,

And free already is the heart,

Which once could only beat for you.

No more I heed that glancing eye,

That took its fire from love alone;

That gone, I yield without a sigh,
The hopes I now should blush to own.

I prais'd your manner, air, and grace,
Your sprightliness and sense combin'd;
I priz'd your beauteous powers of face,
And sweet propriety of mind;

But now no more that air and grace,
With the same vision do I see;

I see no beauty in that face,

Since now no more it smiles on me.

I lov'd, because I thought you kind;

'Twas your own love that gave you power;
But she who never knows her mind,
Can only rule the passing hour."

These bitter verses were the only answers he trusted himself to give to the letters he had received. He transmitted them in a blank cover to Rosalie. To Donna Mencia he wrote nothing. But, alas! how little did he know his own mind! Whatever his height of character, or real pride of soul (and I have shown you he has both in a very

great degree), his was the last beart in the world to make good to itself its own vain boasting. Far from only ruling the passing hour, Rosalie ruled his whole life. To forget her, in vain did he seek foreign service; in vain rushed over the continent for novel scenes and characters; in vain returned home to watch the giant progress of democracy. The last, indeed, became by degrees apparently his most absorbing interest, and the fresh bitterness occasioned by his nephew's ingratitude, mixed with, but did not overpower his earlier sorrow. But still it was sorrow correcting sorrow; and this toofeeling man has been a prey to his sensibilities ever since. Ought we not to guard then against such a temperament? —and am I not more than ever right in making my mistress the nymph Indifference? If I wanted farther proof of the mischief of having any other, it would be found in what has happened to-day.

Our departure is fixed for to-morrow, and we accompany Penruddock in his way to the south. Meanwhile, I think he has acted imprudently; for, spite of a resolution which has held for above ten years, he has visited the picture-chamber once more. I found from Broadbelt's overcast brow, that something had happened which should not have been. "What is the matter ?" asked I.

My poor master," returned he-" he has not

done well. A letter has been brought him from my lady, (with Broadbelt there is but one lady in the world, Lady Bracebridge), and he immediately called for the keys of the picture-room, and is now there for no good, I fear, though he has ordered his writing things there too. Oh! I wish he would go more into the world, and that you and 'Squire would go with him. I don't like his going abroad again, particularly where there are nuns, and friars, and convents. No good ever came of nunneries, and never will. Besides, there is that ugly count, and who knows but they may meet again?"

Here a call from his master prevented this humble friend from finishing. The keys were redelivered, and the baronet retired till dinner time, when he appeared thoughtful, but not so uncheerful as I had feared. There was seemingly something more than his usual air of determination: he was serious, but not cast down, by the visit he had paid to the long-abandoned chamber, or by whatever he had been writing to his sister-for such I found had been his occupation there. He was, on the whole, even animated, and particularly in detailing his expectations from his approaching tour.

What may come of it, Heaven knows: I pray Heaven that it may be for the best! Adieu.

W. F.

LETTER IX.

Strickland to Fitzwalter.

You use me shamefully, cruelly, shabbily. You have been a week at Oldacre, or wherever else you are-a long, long week, at least, since your last letter-without allaying the interests you knew it would kindle.

"I prithee do not mock me, fellow-student,"

but tell me, if you know yourself (if not, coin something to satisfy my wishes to know,) what it was that produced that air of more than usual determination on the brow of the noble but suffering Penruddock? He has become almost as much my hero as yours. I begin really to fear that I am not so fit as I thought I was for my profession. You have almost unwhigged me by your histories-unmanned me, certainly; for if Penruddock continue the unhappy being you have described, and for the causes you assign, I shall not be happy myself. I feel like dear good Uncle

Black, in the " Inheritance," under the impressions of Glossin's successful villanies against Ellangowan, in that charming work. But I beseech you leave me not

"to burst in ignorance"

as to Lady Bracebridge's letter, or her brother's answer; for know them I dare say you do.

I direct this to Oldacre, though you may, for aught I know, be at this moment crossing the salt seas with your too interesting charge; for I agree with honest Broadbelt in wishing you would accompany him, whatever his destination. Write, and relieve my anxiety, or I am no longer

Yours,

CHARLES STRICKLAND,