IN the gay and dissolute reign of Charles the second, when wit was almost as general as licen­tiousness, and a happy vivacity and good person the surest recommendations, Henry Arundel was distinguished from a crowd of fashionable liber­tines, by a superiority of elegance, taste and ex­travagance: in a word, for all those seducing al­lurements which lend a charm to vice in every age, and for which that was particularly re­markable.

Arundel, though not wholly deserving of the lavish admiration he every where extorted, had advantages few men could boast. His figure was graceful; and, what is often thought still better, it was fashionable: his eyes, naturally fine, had the art of saying the prettiest things in the world [Page 6] to every pretty woman: his manners were ingra­tiating: he sung well, danced well, and dressed well. Could any thing further be added to his character? Yet, with all these advantages—strange does it seem to say—Arundel was at heart a discontented man. Highly as the world thought of him, there was an individual in it whose opi­nion rose much beyond theirs: it was himself: and he secretly repined, that so much merit, ta­lents, and grace, had never yet raised him to a rank above that he was born to.

Mr. Arundel was indeed of good family; though, to his unceasing regret, he had early in life debased himself by marrying a lady whose connections did not add lustre to it. She was the daughter of an officer of more loyalty than rank, who had served his country in the cause of Charles the first, and had followed the fortunes of his son.

Cromwell was then protector: dancing and dressing were not in fashion; and mr. Arundel consequently resided with his lady on his patri­monial estate in Cornwall. Some years passed before they had any children, when he was sur­prised with an heir, and rather more surprised on finding himself soon afterwards a widower.

[Page 7] Never truly alive either to conjugal or parental affection, he expressed little regret on the loss of an amiable wise, nor any great emotion at sight of her offspring. Decent care, however, was taken of the child; and as all England became insen­sibly engrossed by politics, his father thought oftener of them than of the little Henry.

The Restoration of Charles the second gave that lustre to London to which it had long been a stranger. Henry Arundel had only to shew himself there to be admired: his person won the ladies—his address the monarch; and from a neglected country gentleman, he found himself in a few years the idol of a gay and elegant court. Rapidly as the change was effected, it yet could not fail to bring with it some knowledge of the world. He began to think himself born to fill the most elevated rank there; and regretted too late the having entailed a tax both on his estate and his pleasures, and perhaps prepared a rival at a time of life when he was likely to find himself but lit­tle disposed to endure one.

Mr. Arundel, it may easily be judged, was not a man of principle: he therefore formed rather a resolution than a plan; and, without exactly an­alysing [Page 8] his own motives. sent his son, at two years of age, into France, under the care of a person who had once been his mistress, and whose declining health induced her to try a more settled climate than her own. The woman had her in­structions. The birth of young Henry was care­fully concealed; and her death, which happened three years after, left the child in the hands of strangers, at a small English school in Normandy, where an annual stipend freed his father from all further anxiety: from the relations of his deceased wife he had nothing to fear: most of them were dead: the rest were wanderers over the Conti­nent; distressed by the ingratitude of a monarch whom they had abandoned every thing to serve.

Time now rolled rapidly away in vanity and pleasure; but time, though it had not yet robbed mr. Arundel of his graces, had produced an in­sensible alteration in them: that of novelty was vanishing fast. He began only to please, where he was accustomed to captivate; and had even some vague surmises, that he might soon cease to do either, when fortune resolved, by one stroke, to atone for all her past inattention.

The young heiress of the illustrious house of [Page 9] Lindsey was at that period first presented at court. She was beautiful, rich, and had just seen enough of the world to value all the graces it bestows. Arundel caught her eye, while his was directed elsewhere: the superior elegance of his person fixed her attention; and when he was introduced, a softer sentiment sunk into her heart. He was still enough the fashion to make his name a theme of conversation, as she dropped it amongst her ac­quaintance; nor was it long before he discovered that she had done so often. The denouëment it is not difficult to guess: he presently found that he might win the lady, and therefore instantly re­solved that he would; but the blind goddess, who so often embitters her own gifts, was now preparing one for him, which, of all others, he least suspected he should ever deem a misfortune, since it appeared in the shape of a patent of nobi­lity. To the nobility in his own person, indeed, he bore not the slightest objection; but the clause by which it was limited to his heirs, unluckily brought to his recollection a poor little boy in France, who was just beginning to wonder to whom he belonged, whenever he found time to do so from the more important employments of studying bad Latin, and playing school pranks with his companions; yet this poor little boy had [Page 10] most certainly been brought honourably into the world, some years before. Arundel well knew the house of Lindsey to be too proud to stoop to an [...] where such an obstacle intervened: he therefore very prudently determined they never should know it. The marriage articles were signed without any such impediment being an­nounced; and miss Lindsey became a wife and a mother, in the full conviction that both families were indebted to her for an heir.

And what became of little Henry?—Why, little Henry was now shot up beyond his years; not strictly handsome, yet winning; not formed, yet ingratiating: light traces of sensibility and judgment wandered over the glare of youth, like clouds upon sunshine, and gave his character a graceful shade. The impossibility of detaining him where he was, and the fear of detection when he arrived at maturity, had obliged his fa­ther to change his mode of education; and he had consigned him to a tutor, who, though ap­prized of the secret, was bound by many ties to conceal it.

Mr. Mortimer—for such was the name which the above-mentioned gentleman chose on this oc­casion [Page 11] to assume—had once been the companion of mr. Arundel, before he was dignified with the title of lord Lindsey; and had passed in his society some of those hours, the recollection of which should seem to unite man to man, if the experi­ence of every day did not prove the distinction between joviality and friendship. To say truth, mr. Mortimer's character, while yet immatured by adversity, did not seem to demand or deserve superior regard; and was one of those which, for want of a decisive trait, the world has agreed to distinguish by the epithet of easy. Prodigal without being rich, and dissolute without being vicious, he found himself at fifty a wanderer from his family, friendless, and impoverished; and was contented to accept an annuity from lord Lind­sey, under such restrictions as every day con­vinced him were both cruel and mean.

"Let the boy want nothing that a moderate in­come can supply!"—Such were the words of his lordship's letter to Mortimer: "Let him travel—if, as you say, he fancies it, and can do it with­out additional expence: but, above all, seize the first opportunity of an attachment to marry him, and settle his establishment in some province which he may never think of quitting.

[Page 12] "You know my situation—Lady Lindsey is in a dying state:—The physicians even threaten me with a voyage to Lisbon. My son requires all the indulgences suitable to the importance of his rank; and, indeed, my employments at court do not allow me to retrench. From these circum­stances, you will conclude how little I am able to supply any extraordinary expence. As to my own state of health, it is much as usual. The gout and rheumatism, indeed, make pretty fre­quent attacks upon me; and I have some returns of the giddiness in my head. These excepted, I find myself as young, and as well disposed to en­joy the pleasures of life, as at five-and-twenty."

Such was the language of five-and-fifty!—Such was—May I not say, such is it every day?

But though loud Lindsey perceived not the al­teration in himself, the world was not so com­plaisant: His friends found out that he was weak; his enemies, that he was unprincipled: the old thought him too young; and the young dis­covered daily that he was too old. In two points only were they all agreed; that he was an impe­rious husband and a foolishly fond father.

[Page 13] "What is it that takes your attention so much?" said Mortimer to his pupil, as they jogged on towards Brussels in a dusty chaise de poste, am­ply filled with two gentlemen and a raw-boned Swiss, who served both as valet: "Is it the mag­cificent suite that has just passed us, or the pow­dered coxcombs in it?"

"It is an English carriage," replied Henry, still following it with his eyes, through the cloud of dust in which its rapid movement had involved their more humble vehicle.

"So much the worse," returned the other. "Would not a man swear, from its structure, that it was the temple of luxury? One might really suppose that the joints of our modern men of fashion—" a violent jolt that brought his head in rather too close a contact with that of the Swiss interrupted his speech, which was as suddenly drowned by the postillions, who, clack­ing their whips, gave notice of the post-house.

The carriage [...]at had passed them stood at the door as they drew up. It was an English post­chariot, elegantly built, followed by two grooms, so perfectly à l' Anglaise as to attract universal at­tention: [Page 14] one of whom led a capital horse, which, by its appearance, seemed designed for his master.

"Lewis, open the door, and bring up Comete," said a young man, touching the spring of the blind, and discovering both himself and his com­panion at full to the curious eyes of our travel­lers—"I'll ride the next post!"

"Not on that horse!" interrupted an elderly gentleman in black at his elbow, in a tone which, as it seemed preliminary to much longer expostu­lation, made his companion spring with some abruptness from the carriage.

A form light, graceful, elegant; a countenance lighted up with all the bloom and fire of nine­teen, at once fixed the eyes of Henry and his tutor. It was not mere beauty, it was vigour—it was intelligence—it was character, that seemed to live in the motion, and speak in the features, of the young stranger.

"I am afraid, gentlemen," said he, advancing, "that we are robbing you of horses!" casting his eyes upon those his avant-courier had indeed se­cured; [Page 15] and, by the same motion, directing the attention of Mortimer to a melancholy truth, which the post-master, after condescending to mention once to the Swiss, had left them to digest at leisure. Clamour, fretting, and altercation succeeded on all parts, except on those of Henry and the young stranger, who seemed on terms of perfect familiarity, before their graver tutors had exchanged ten words.

"The matter is very easily arranged," said the young man: "Do you, sir," turning to Morti­mer, "take my place in the carriage: my ser­vant's horse (which was a beautiful creature) shall be at this gentleman's service. I will ride my own; and our fellows have only to wait an hour or two, and follow in your carriage as soon as a fresh reinforcement arrives.

To this proposal a sort of doubtful pause suc­ceeded, which was broken by the gentleman in black, who, in a peevish tone, exclaimed, "I have told you, sir, you ought never to ride that horse again!"

"Nay, pr'ythee, Walbrook," returned the other, gaily, "no more musty debates!—Had he [Page 16] really broken my neck in his last frolic, as you seemed to apprehend, the world would not per­haps have been much the loser. My steed, gen­tlemen," added he, addressing himself on the the other side, "is so much of my own taste, as to have an instinctive aversion to every thing old or ugly; and having yesterday the misfortune to be surprised by a shrivelled Dutch hag sitting un­der a hedge, he took the liberty of dismounting his master.—But, allons, mes amis!—I like him not the worse for it.—Give me a horse that will follow a pretty woman half the world over, and I'll compound for a few vagaries at sight of an ugly one." Without waiting a reply, he sprung into the saddle, cast a look of invitation, which was instantly complied with, on Arundel, and, touching his hat to the seniors, both gentlemen were out of sight in a moment. Walbrook groaned inwardly; Mortimer shrugged; the pos­tillions again clacked their whips, and the car­riage rattled once more over the pavé.

"Is the old gentleman behind us your father, or your tutor?" said the younger stranger, check­ing his horse that his valet might tie up his hair, which, from the velocity of their motion, had got loose and slowed over his shoulders.

[Page 17] "Both, perhaps!" cried Truth, in the bosom of Arundel, though his tongue instinctively pro­nounced, "Neither. He is my friend!"

"A most reverend one!" said the other, archly.

"A kind one," returned Arundel, "and a wise one!—He gives me the best advice possible."

"So will I—gratis, too! and there, perhaps, I have the advantage of him!"

"You must seek it first, I believe," retorted Henry, smiling.

"Not far—I have it in folio—on my chase! I love an old friend as well as you do, when I can carry him in my imperial; and to make the matter easier, my friend is my father."

"And who may this father be?" thought A­rundel—yet he had not the courage to ask. The note of interrogation so common with travellers, was not yet familiar to him: yet had he lived with Frenchmen, and, par hazard, had been asked almost every possible question with that polite imperti­nence a Frenchman so thoroughly understands.

[Page 18] But while glowing youth and exhilarated spi­rits thus cemented the liking of the two juvenile travellers, their sober tutors were far from parti­cipating their sentiments. Life, like the magnet, has two points; the one does not more forcibly attract, than the other can repel; and our party quarré were stationed at these opposite extre­mities.

Yet were not either mr. Walbrook or mr. Mortimer without curiosity: from the former, however, a name had escaped which plunged his companion in a profound reverie; nor was it till a flask of Burgundy gave fresh circulation to his spirits that he appeared to recover himself.

"Mr. Lindsey, your glass!" said Walbrook, who was also beginning to relinquish his superci­lious taciturnity.

Mortimer started again at the name; again looked at the young man who bore it; and again a vague and painful sentiment of remorse, enforced by the conviction that his surmises were right, shot across his heart.—The countenance of the stranger, his arms, his liveries, his age, all united to prove that he could be no other than the bro­ther of Arundel—his younger brother, yet per­mitted [Page 19] to invade his rights—to annihilate, as it should seem, his very existence. Again Morti­mer sighed, and again relapsed into useless reverie. For there is a weakness in certain minds, which renders them alternately the prey of pleasure and remorse, without power to perpetuate the one, or profit by the other; as the wildest trees will put forth blossoms, though they require culture and attention to produce fruits.

"A bumper, gentlemen!" said Walbrook. "I mean to give you a toast—My worthy friend and patron, lord Lindsey!"

"My father!" said the young stranger, as he negligently lifted the glass to his lips. The se­cret monitor in the bosom of Mortimer smote him again—"Father!" repeated he, as he cast his eyes upon Henry: "yet, is the discovery new to me?—No! but the epithet is: and what is an epithet?"—Thus arrogantly argued reason, while modest feeling shrunk abashed.—Feeling, that indefinable union of the material and immaterial nature; that spontaneous sense of right which would so often guide when reason would mislead us; and which, though rejected and rebuked, still calls a blush into the cheek if the idea sophis­tically [Page 20] familiarized to our own bosoms, is inad­vertently obtruded by the lips of another.

But these are metaphysics!—Metaphysics in Flanders! We shall talk logic next among the Iroquois in North America. Let us change the scene then and place our travellers, now sworn and bosom friends, three whole weeks back, in France—France! lovely country! let me stop to weep over thee!—to ask, where are the nobles whose valour once graced, the peasantry whose mirth enlivened thee!—the monarch, over whose early and unmerited grave the generous and en­lightened of every nation shed tears of pity!—And you, savage band of ruffians, who to the hideous idol ye miscalled Liberty daily offered up a sacrifice of human blood, and tears more painful than blood, deem not that your names shall be mentioned—your memories be transmitted to pos­terity—but, as the scum of that mighty mass, which, "billowed high with human agitation," must at last purify itself!

As yet, however, France was a country. It had arts; it had manufactures; it had even a police—a bad one, indeed; but a police that at least allowed its inhabitants to carry their heads [Page 21] upon their shoulders in perference to a pike—that occasionally plundered them of their money, but made it no crime that they had some to be plun­dered of—that often stript the beautiful plant of genius of its leaves, but never buried it beneath that coarse and rugged soil which blasts its very root.

"Will nobody teach these fellows that they are miserable?" said Lindsey, smiling, as they passed through the beautiful grounds of the duc de T—, where the peasants, collected under the trees, were capering to the indefatigable violin of an old man, who performed the double cha­racter of fiddler and dancing-master, by incessantly bawling out every change in the cotillon, with an exertion of lungs that seemed to console him for the quiescent state of his heels, "Will nobody, I say, persuade these people they are miserable?"

"It is more than probable," said Arundel, "that they will soon need but little persuasion to think so. They want every thing towards happi­ness, but good-humour and good spirits."

"And those some generous misanthrope or other—some speculative reasoner, who seeks in [Page 22] his head for what he ought to ask of his heart, will one day deprive them of. Dear Arundel, I am inclined to think we are often strangely de­ceived as to modes of felicity, and, while calcu­lating too nicely that we are to make for ourselves, we often overlook that Heaven has made for us."

"You would infer, then, that the enjoyment of an innocent pleasure is more conducive to happiness than the satisfying a want? In this, at least, our lively neighbours excel us. The in­tenseness with which an Englishman applies him­self to the latter idea, damps his animal spirits, and often brings on the strange necessity of reason­ing himself into gaiety."

"While the Frenchmen, an contraire, will be taught to reason himself out of it!"

"But Liberty—"cried Arundel, with enthu­siasm—

"Is a goddess, I grant. But pr'ythee, dear Henry, lift thine eyes to one of the prettiest mor­tal rustics that ever yet greeted them."

A blooming girl of about sixteen, who sud­denly [Page 23] appeared upon a winding path that crossed the road, was indeed an interesting object. Yet interesting is not the word; for in truth, accord­ing to the modern acceptation of it, she was no­thing less. But if among my readers there hap­pens to be a young man about the age of mr. Lindsey, let him find a better. The little paysanne was not tall; so much on the embonpoint, as to approach the clumsey; and tanned to a down­right brunette: yet would a painter, perhaps, have chosen her for his subject. The roses on her cheek, deepened to unusual richness, gave to that very tan, which would have disfigured a colder complexion, the vivid glow poured over the land­scape of a Claude. Large curls of auburn hair broke upon a brow of exquisite beauty, while the full-orbed eye beneath them sparkled in a bright fluid that seemed created by youth, by hope, and health. A short jacket in the fashion of her coun­try, a straw hat, and a basket over-weighted with clusters of grapes, finished the picture. To those who recollect that a figure like this stood the earnest gaze of two young men, it may not be amiss to add, that an honest Lubin attended her, who though tired from the vintage, and laden with spoil, still went the longest way about, to follow the footsteps of pretty Annette.

[Page 24] "Monsieur peut bien passer," said our damsel, retreating, with a rustic courtsey, from the grand chemin, where Lindsey, perceiving her about to cross it, had checked his horse.

"Will money, or charity," said he, aloud, in French, "obtain us some of those beautiful grapes?"

The ears of the prety rustic were as quick as her eyes—honest Lubin, too, had the use of his: both were solicitous to do the honours of their country; and our travellers, after the prodigious fatigue of riding three leagues, found it necessary to rest under the shade, while the servants walked their horses to the neighbouring post. But this was a manoeuvre, which, though apparently satis­factory to three of the company, was but little agreeable to the fourth: and the eyes of the young peasant incessantly reproached his mistress for those glances which the person, the manners—and, above all, the flattery of Lindsey, united to draw from her.

They soon discovered that Annettte could sing. The vanity of her lover, even in despite of his jealousy, betrayed, her. She had just led the [Page 25] rustic chorus; nor was it difficult to prevail on her to repeat the air with which she had charmed the vintagers. Our travellers thought themselves in Arcadia.

"Ecoutez, Messieurs," said Annette, inter­rupting their praises with a careless gaiety, "je m'en vais vous chanter un autre." And with a naïveté that thought not of entreaty, she sung a wild and simple air, where, as usual, l' amour was the chief subject, and of which some tender looks she involuntarily bestowed on Lubin, proved him to be the object.

Lindsey's good humour underwent a sudden change. "The girl is not so pretty as she ap­peared:" said [...] to Arundel, as they walked through the town—"whereabouts did she say she lived?"

The contradiction of ideas, implied in these words, extorted from his friend an incredulous smile; in which, however, there was no mix­ture of pleasure or approbation. To say truth, he felt neither. The behaviour of Lindsey within the last hour had been evidently marked with levity and self-love; levity that respected not in­nocence, and self-love that knew not how to [Page 26] brook either indifference or repulse. But, if he had already been surprised, he found himself much more so, when the same evening, in talking over their future route, mr. Lindsey, without ap­pearing in the least to consider his companions, spoke of remaining some days where he was, and then pursuing a circuit that could not but detach him from theirs.

The secret insolence that unconsciously be­trayed itself in thus supposing his pleasure a suffi­cient argument for deranging the party, was felt equally by each, though differently received. Mr. Walbrook made a sententious speech; by which, it was plain, he meant nothing but to shew his rhetoric and his complaisance. Mr. Mortimer uttered a cold compliment; and Arundel replied but by a bow. They soon after retired.

"Henry," said Mortimer to his young friend, as soon as they found themselves alone, "what makes you so triste?"

"Only thoughtful, sir."

"Come, come, be sincere! You are not pleased with Lindsey."

[Page 27] "I have at least no right to be otherwise."

"Pardon me, my dear boy—the man who has a reason, has always a right. Shall I tell you frankly my opinion of him?"

"Certainly, sir," said Arundel. "Yet his tongue and his countenance were a little at vari­ance. To say truth, though himself offended with Lindsey, he shrunk from a judgment which he felt would be severe."

"Of all the young men I have ever seen," continued Mortimer, with more asperity than the occasion seemed to justify, "Mr. Lindsey is least calculated to create esteem. His heart is har­dened, and his mind enervated by indulgence. From his cradle he has heard nothing but adula­tion, and seen nothing but servility. He is in­deed affable, because he is always obeyed; gene­rous, because he is rich; sprightly, because he i [...] young and flattered. Take away his youth his affluence, or his dependents, and you shall find him splenetic, marrow-minded, and arrogant."

"Heaven and earth!" cried Arundel, "what [Page 28] a picture! From whence do you draw your con­clusions, sir, and whither do they tend?"

The heart of Mortimer was full. The original of the portrait stood before his mental eye; and Lindsey was, in truth, but the mirror in which he saw his father.

"Be satisfied," said he, after a pause, "that my pencil is dipped in the colours of life: and should there even be deformity in the likeness, let it at least teach you, before you sanctify either your own caprices, or those of others, with the name of friendship, to calculate how far the qua­lities on which that should be built are incidental, or natural."

Arundel sighed; and willing, perhaps, to give a new turn to the conversation, unconsciously ex­claimed, "If such is indeed the character of Lindsey, how much is that father to be pitied, whose blind fondness thus nourishes all that is corrupt in his offspring, and blights all that is worthy! while mine," continued he, struck with the emotion of mr. Mortimer, which he attributed to a sudden impulse of paternal regard, "mine—"though possibly blushing for his son—

[Page 29] "Dear child of my affections!" cried Morti­mer, embracing him, "spare me this tender to­pic! Oh, Arundel, if I dared tell thee—If it was permitted me to reveal—But Hea­ven is my witness!" added he, with energy, "that there shall come an hour in which I will do thee justice!—When the grave shall have cancelled—I mean when death—Let us wave further conversation!"

Arundel, confounded with all that had passed, obeyed in silence. Yet, as far as respected the character of Lindsey, his heart was still rebellious. Though not of an age, however, to abide by the suggestions of experience, he was perfectly alive to those of pride: nor was it till he came to shake hands with his young friend the next day, that he repented the engagement he had made with Mortimer to continue their journey tête-à-tête. Lindsey was once more himself; wild, animated, enchanting.

"I have picked up a curiosity this morning," said he: "an old German philosopher, who has been explaining to me a new system of the earth. He was on the wing for Paris, with a portmanteau of recommendatory letters, and a waggon load of [Page 30] musty manuscripts, besides minerals and fossils innumerable, with which he expects to get a for­tune. I have persuaded him to make one of my suite. I shall pick something out of him—and can indemnify myself at last," continued he, laughing, "for any extraordinary expence, by shewing him in London as a specimen of the an­tediluvian race of mortals; for a more grotesque animal on two legs I never saw."

The chaise de poste, which made its appearance at the door, put a sudden stop to this rattle.

"Whom have we here?" said Lindsey.

"Those whom you will not have long," re­turned Arundel, forcing a smile.

"Why, what carries you off?"

"What keeps you here?"

The same answer, I presume, will do for both," returned Lindsey, with apparent dissatisfaction, however: "our own inclination."—They shook hands, and separated.

[Page 31] "Mr. Mortimer was in the right," thought Arundel, as he threw himself into the chaise. "This young man has no idea of an independent being. He is offended because, like the German philosopher, we are not contented to become a part of his suite."

The days that intervened between this separa­tion and their arrival at Lyons, were to mr. Mortimer more pleasant than any that had pre­sented themselves for some weeks. The character of his pupil, as it opened before him, became more and more interesting. It had a sweetness, a simplicity, an affecting candour, particularly calculated to win the regard of one, whose inter­course with the world had produced him so few instances of it. The tender deference with which the young man looked up to him, by flattering his self-love contributed to strenghten his attachment. Arundel's affections were warmly alive; and cir­cumstances allowed them so few objects, that their energy, when indulged, was unusually pow­erful. Duty, as well as sensibility, directed them to mr. Mortimer; for he had never been able to persuade himself, that the only being who ap­peared to take an interest in his fate, could be other than his father. To acknowledge his foi­bles, [Page 32] as well as his virtues, it should be added, that he sometimes indulged romantic ideas of visionary grandeur; flattering himself that poli­tical concerns might have involved his family in casual obscurity, from whence they were again to rise to hereditary affluence and rank. To him, therefore, day after day passed smoothly on; while every setting sun left the mental, as well as natural horizon, embellished with a thousand brilliant vapours, the rising one renewed.

After voluntarily prolonging the journey some weeks, mr. Mortimer saw himself established in a hotel at Lyons; and taking from his valise a small packet of letters, informed his companion, that he intended to reside in the neighbourhood some time.

"The beautiful banks of the Rhone," said he, "present an endless scope for admiration and en­quiry. Your education is hardly finished enough to make you view the charms of Italy with a scientific eye; and though I do not intend," added he, laughing, "to let you pick up an itinerant philosopher who may instruct you in a new theory of the earth, it may not be amiss to be better in­formed of its productions, both natural and moral, [Page 33] We will, therefore, ramble between this country and Swisserland, till our judgments are sufficiently enlightened, and our imaginations elevated enough, to enjoy the stupendous beauties that await us on the other side of the Alps. These letters it will be necessary to deliver; and of one packet I shall make you sole bearer. It is addressed to a lady who resides in a convent hard by, where she will soon, I believe, take the veil. Her family are extremely unfortunate, and have requested me to offer her advice and assistance. I am, however, ill qualified for the office, which yet she may ex­pect me to undertake. I would wish her, there­fore, to suppose I have chosen a different route, that I may avoid bringing on myself claims which I cannot fulfil.

Arundel, for whom the sound of a convent and a lady had already some charms, most readily undertook the commission; though, having been but little in the habit of acting for himself, he felt some doubts as to the grace with which he should execute it. In this, however, he was un­just to nature, who had hardly been more liberal to him internally, than externally. His counte­nance had not, indeed, that beautiful glow of youth and gaiety so striking in his brother's. His [Page 34] person, though considerably taller, was less formed, his manners generally reserved, and often even a little embarrassed: but these were the blemishes of habit and situation. Arundel's countenance, to much regular beauty, united an intelligence that spoke to the heart, and, where he was fami­liar, a vivacity that captivated the eye. The graces his form had not attained, it eminently promised; and in his voice and manner there was a shade, a colouring of mind, that was almost peculiar to him. He had, besides, an air of sen­sibility to the merit of others, and a forgetfulness of himself, that was singularly charming to those who had either undiscovered talents, or lively af­fections. But, alas! the greater part of the world possess not these, or bury them in society; and, therefore, by the world at large he was little understood.

The lady he demanded at the convent he was readily admitted to; and he found her young, beautiful, and interesting: for how [...] a lady seen through a grate be otherwise? She was avowedly unfortunate—his knight-errantry was called upon—was reduced possibly by cruel ne­cessity to take the veil—at least, so spoke, as he [Page 35] fancied, a pair of very fine eyes: and to disbe­lieve a pair of fine eyes was hardly within the stretch of Arundel's philosophy.—In short, why should we make a man a hero, where nature generally makes him a fool? In ten minutes he was as much in love as a young man can be who has never conversed before with a truly beautiful woman; and in ten minutes more as much in despair as a lover generally is who finds himself on the point of losing his mistress: for, lo! on breaking the seal of the envelope, our fair incognita discovered that the letters were not intended for her, but for a sister novice, whose sanctified ap­pellation somewhat resembling her own, had given rise to the mistake. Both parties now ex­pressed a degree of confusion, which was increased by conscious regret, on perceiving that an ac­quaintance so suddenly made, must almost as sud­denly cease. The fair Louisa at length broke si­lence by an assurance, "that sister Theresa was too good-natured to see any thing in this error but a little heedlessness on the part of both, from which no harm could possibly arise. I will have the honour," said she, gracefully courtfying, "to let her know that Monsieur attends at the grate to make his apologies."

[Page 36] "Have [...] charity first," cried Arundel, with unusual emotion, "to invent them for me."

"Mon Dieu!" said Louisa, smiling, "what need of invention? We have only to tell the sim­ple truth."

"But the words—the manner—" again interrupted Arundel, eager to detain her.

"Will occur of themselves. Or, if they should not," added she, casting down her eyes, and blushing, yet with a smile of pretty conscious­ness. "Theresa will inspire you—Theresa is so beautiful!"

With what design this was said, or whether with any design at all, cannot easily be decided; but whatever was the motive, the effect of the speech was a look from Arundel that made the eyes of Louisa again seek the ground, and restored that embarrassing silence from which they had been so lately relieved,

"If," said our young Englishman, hesitating, and at length forcing himself to speak, "if made­moiselle would do me the honour of, in person, [Page 37] presenting me to la Soeur Theresa, I should then, perhaps, be better able—I mean only that I should know better—"

"Ah, par exemple," cried Louisa, recovering her vivacity, "la chose du monde la plus facile! Elle est de mes bonnes amies la petite Thérese! Attendez, Monsieur! Je vais vous l'amener." And, so saying, with a girlish gaiety that brought a brighter rose into her cheek, she tripped away; and with her went the senses, the heart of Arun­del. Her sparkling eyes, her long fine hair which hung negligently down her back, the playful graces of her figure, and a certain character of countenance that blended the bewitching modesty of her own country, with the sprightliness of that in which she was educated, might, indeed, have touched a heart much less new to beauty than that of our young traveller.

The boasted charms of Theresa he was not permitted to judge of, as she wore the white veil of the novice, which fell over a complexion too pale to appear to advantage under it. The let­ters, received and read with evident agitation engrossed her for some time, which was spen [...] [...] Arundel in the most animated and assiduous atten­tions [Page 38] to Louisa; and when on having finished the perusal, Theresa threw up the veil to thank him, his eyes wandered over her features with so apparent an absence of mind, that the shade, through negligence or pique, was again permitted to fall, and she was contented no further to ob­trude herself on his attention, than by those com­pliments politeness would not allow her to dispense with.

"A-propos!" said Mortimer, after supper, as they talked over the occurrences of the day; "you saw the girl at the convent!—Is she pretty?"

"Yes—very—"returned his young friend, with embarrassment.

"What did you talk of?"

"Oh—a great many—a thousand things!"

"Indeed?" returned Mortimer, laughing. "Methinks your acquaintance came on very fast then! Pray indulge my curiosity with one of your thousand."

[Page 39] "I—I have really forgotten them," again stammered Arundel.

"Since they were so very uninteresting," said Mortimer drily, "I hope, at least, your method of treating them did more honour to your elo­qence than the specimen you [...] me. However, if your memory does not continue thus treache­rous, have the goodness to go again to the con­vent, within four days at furthest; and, among your thousand topics, pray enquire if Theresa has any letters for England. I shall have an oppor­tunity of sending them, which she may wish for in vain."

Arundel blushed, and bowed assent. For the first time in his life he had been but half sincere; yet why, he hardly knew. A troublesome glow that rushed from his heart to his cheek, an un­manly hesitation that seized upon his tongue, and a confused apprehension of the interference of mr. Mortimer, first involuntarily led him to conceal, what he afterwards knew not how to avow.

Time now passed not with Arundel as it had done. He loved with the ardour of a man who had never loved till then, and who supposed the [Page 40] sentiment to be as much above that entertained by others, as he felt it to be to any he had him­self before experienced.

Was Louisa susceptible? Why, time must dis­cover. She had, at least, eyes for beauty, ears for admiration, and a happiness of invention that furnished her perpetual excuses for being in the way of both. Theresa, undesired by either party, yet often the oftensible object of the visit, formed, generally, the third at the grate. To Theresa, therefore, the hopes, the fears, and all the energy of Arundel's character, became intimately known. Of hers, he knew little. Ill health and ill fortune depressed, timidity concealed it. Humility, com­placency, and sadness were all the traits by which he ever recognized her.

It was now, however, that our young traveller began to speculate seriously upon life; and the first ideas that occurred were relative to his own situation there. Had he any claims in society? Was he the object of beneficence to mr. Morti­mer, or that of natural tenderness? What were his prospects, and where was to be his future esta­blishment? Painful questions, which the youthful heart never asks itself, till it has breathed that [Page 41] sickening sigh which is drawn from it by the heavy atmosphere of the world!

Shrinking from an enquiry, of which he now, for the first time, dreaded the consequences, Arundel passed whole days, whenever he could do it without observation, in solitary rambles. He drew exquisitely; and as his liberality and sweetness of character soon made him known to every cottage in the neighbourhood, he took plea­sure in introducing, amid his sketches, the little cherub faces that curiosity or playfulness attracted round him.

It was on a lovely summer evening, when the rays of the retiring sun still glowed on the river, and threw it forward, a bright mirror amid the landscape,

that he was slowly returning to the city, when his attention was engaged for a moment by a car­riage. It was only a moment; for hardly was that passed, ere one of the two travellers it con­tained was in his arms.

"Dear Arundel!"

[Page 42] "Dear Lindsey!" exclaimed they at once inco­herently; "are we so lucky as once more to meet!"

"Aye; and we will be so wise as not easily to part again," cried the ever impetuous Lindsey. "In the interim, dear friend, pr'ythee make a speech to my old Mentor, who sits there," con­tinued he, pointing to the vehicle, "as sullen as Bajazet in his cage. In truth, we have quarrelled worse than Turks since I saw you. However, having once carried my point of dragging him af­ter you, I leave all the subordinate articles of our amnesty to be regulated as he pleases."

Arundel who conceived no motive for disgust or ill-humour in mr. Walbrook towards himself, immediately complied with the request of his friend; but met with so ungracious a reception, as little disposed him to any further exertions of complaisance.

"And now that we are once more met," said he to his friend, as they followed the carriage on foot into the city, pray tell me why we parted?"

"Why, thou traitor to thy country," said [Page 43] Lindsey, laughing, "canst thou find an English law that obliges a man to impeach himself? However, if it must be so, in two words, we parted because I was capricious and arrogant."

"And we meet again—"

"Nay, there, dear Arundel, I can give a better account of myself: because I have met none like you since we parted:—because, though my head was wrong, my heart was right:—in short, for fifty other reasons unnecessary to detail."

"And how long is it since you left B—?"

"Three days."

"Three days!—Impossible. Why, it is a week's journey."

"For a philosopher, I grant you. But I was in pursuit of a friend; which all your philosophers agree they have had nothing to do with. So, as the day was not long enough, I took the liberty of borrowing the night."

"And of obliging mr. Walbrook to borrow [Page 44] it too! Upon my word, I cannot wonder that he had no superfluous complaisance to bestow, after you had taxed it so highly."

The conversation now grew more interesting; and in the course of twenty minutes the two young men had discussed almost every topic that could touch the heart of either. Their short se­paration had made them mutually feel the want of a companion and an intimate. They met, therefore, with that impassioned interest such a conviction inspires, and with the lively slow of animal spirits every sentiment of pleasure creates in a youthful mind.

"You must shew me this Louisa to-morrow," said Lindsey, in a low voice, as they parted; "I would sain see the woman who can turn your head." There was an emphasis in the speech that Arundel might have observed; but observa­tion, except on the eyes of his mistress, had not of late been his forte, and the inference passed un­noticed.

"Louisa tells me,"—said he, starting one evening from a long reverie—

[Page 45] "And who, pray, is Louisa?" said Mortimer, starting in turn.

The question was sudden, was mal-a-propos; and neither willing, or, to say truth, quite able to answer it, he stammered out with much perplex­ity, that she was "the friend of Theresa."

"The friend of Theresa!" again re-echoed Mortimer with a tone of surprise and incredulity, "and pray what friend has she?—that is, where did she find—I mean, in short, how came you acquainted with any friend of Theresa's?"

The manners of Arundel, we have before said, were reserved, but his character was impassioned to a fault; and to dive beyond the surface was to call forth all its vigour. With the spirit of a man, therefore, and the eloquence of a lover, he now at full length recited the story of his heart. That of his auditor was visibly moved with the narra­tive. "Imprudent boy," said he, sighing when it was concluded, "I have then vainly strove to save you from the contagion of vice!—You are, doubtless, ignorant," he added, with a tone of unusual asperity, "that the father of this girl, [Page 46] whose name I now well recollect, is a needy ad­venturer—a profligate, disgraced in his own coun­try, and disgracing it in others—a being so low—"

"No, sir," interrupted Arundel, in a stifled tone of sensibility and pride, "I am not ignorant of the disgraceful connection—I have even thought of it with grief; and, when I can per­suade myself that virtue and vice are hereditary, I shall doubtless think of it with shame. Till then, allow me to say, that, however an early and un­guarded attachment may impeach the head, those who check it are not always aware of the dangers to which they expose the heart; nor do they con­sider that by teaching us thus early to weigh pru­dence against nature, they possibly substitute the cold and frivolous errors of self-love, for the more generous ones of passion." Blushing, as he spoke, with the consciousness of offended, and offending feeling, he hastily withdrew. Yet the temperate silence of Mortimer was not lost upon him. "What am I to think of it?" said he, as he attempted to rest. "He is indignant at my pe­tulance, or he relies upon my prudence: either way there is but one resolution to take, and, painful as that may prove, it shall be adopted."

[Page 47] Youth always sleeps well upon a resolution. The resolution, it is true, often evaporates with the slumber, and leaves nothing for the morning but the self applause of having formed it. Hap­pily Arundel's outlived the night; and it was at breakfast the next day that he communicated to mr. Mortimer his intention of pursuing their pro­mised tour into Switzerland, and of conquering, if possible, by temporary absence, a passion he ought not to gratify.

Was Arundel sincere?—No matter: at least he thought he was. But the heart of a lover has sometimes a finesse that deceives even himself; nor is it impossible that a rigid examination of his own would have convinced our young philosopher, that he had more lurking gratification in the idea of proving his passion unconquerable, than any real intention of conquering it. To Switzerland they went. But were the bold, the romantic, the interesting scenes that country afforded, cal­culated to chill a sensibility to which every object was congenial? In vain did Mortimer read lec­tures upon botany: the letters of Louisa were to his pupil a more interesting study than all the Alpine curiosities which a young and ingenious Italian had spent years in collecting.

[Page 48] "These insensibles," cried he, as he rambled from them amidst immense mountains, whose white bosoms were tinged with the beams of the setting sun, and diversified with hanging cottages "these insensibles pretend to admire the fibres of a leaf, yet to those more tender and living ones within our breasts are they stoics. Great and supreme Creator!" would he add, lifting his eyes towards heaven, hast thou drawn this bright ca­nopy over our heads? Hast thou enriched the earth on which we tread with numberless and ever-varying beauties? Hast thou ordained them through the medium of the senses to steal upon the heart, and waken there a tremulous sensibility that reason is to crush?—Ah, no!—Choice, pas­sion, character, are thy gifts?—While Nature and her God are before him, man feels the influence of both: plunged in the vortex of cities, he becomes an artificial being, vulnerable no longer through any sense but interest or vanity?"

Whilst his heart glowed with similar senti­ments, did he often return to Mortimer: but alas! the glow was only in his heart; his com­plexion had lost it. Marlini, the young Italian, noticed the change; and, as he valued himself upon some knowledge of medicine (which was [Page 49] the more generous of him, as he was never valued for it by any body besides), he would have pre­scribed: but the complaisance of Arundel ex­tended only to listening; and as Mortimer well knew that the complaint might defy a college of physicians, he was not very earnest in enforcing their assistance.

The heart of the young man, however, was yet to struggle with a grief more oppressive than that of love. Louisa, who during the first month of his absence, had punctually attended to her pro­mise of writing now sometimes neglected, and at others coldly fulfilled it: and Mortimer, who closely watched the effect of his pupil's feelings, at length thought he saw the luckless moment ar­rive, when it was necessary to yield to a passion, that could no longer, without danger be con­trolled.

"Henry," said he, you have blasted my hopes; but I will not destroy yours; the power I pos­sess of regulating your fate, I now confide to yourself. Return to Lyons, offer to Louisa a moderate fortune, and a heart dear to me as that within my own bosom: let her estimate the gift as it deserves, and both may yet be happy."

[Page 50] Arundel, scarcely able to believe his senses while they conveyed to him a language so de­lightful, falls, as it should seem, motionless at the feet of his benefactor:—Not at all, however: he rises in a moment—he flies to the post-house—he is no longer a consumptive and enfeebled young man, who has neither eyes nor ears for any thing that passes: on the contrary, he appears to think that he has borrowed the senses of all around him, by the ardour and frequency with which he reite­rates his orders. In fine, they are once more at Lyons, and forgetful of Lindsey, or his suite, whom they had left there—forgetful of Mortimer, who was satigued—or of Marlini, who was a stranger—he flies to the grate where he had so often beheld Louisa, and, with all the eagerness of passion, acquaints her that proposals were on the point of being made to her father. What was the excess of his disappointment, when, after listening to him in silence, Louisa threw herself back in her chair and burst into a flood of tears! The countenance of Arundel, vivid but a moment before with hope and pleasure, changed instantly to deadly paleness.

"Louisa! dearest Louisa!" cried he, throwing himself on his knees before her, "To what am I [Page 51] to impute this emotion? You alarm, you shock me! Can it be possible that I am unfortunate e­nough to have lost my interest in your heart?"

"I will not deceive you, mr. Arundel," said Louisa, sobbing, and covered with blushes; "you deserve my candour—and—I will frankly ac­knowledge—" She hesitated; but the imperfect sentence was conviction—Arundel started from his knees, shocked at the abruptness, and overwhelmed with the disappointment, of such an event.

"I thank you, madam," said he, after a pause, and in a voice hardly articulate; "I think I have deserved your candour; though to bear it—" Again he stopped—turned from her, to her; and gazing for a moment on the loveliness of a coun­tenance even tears did not disfigure, reproachfully added, "Oh Louisa!"

"Do not believe," said she, stretching out her hand to meet his, as it grasped the grate, against which he leant—"do not believe that an un­worthy object has supplanted you in my regard—I am sure, when I have explained all, you will excuse, will pity me!"

[Page 52] Arundel looked earnestly at her—She had not then lost the passion, but changed the object—a new sentiment glanced faintly across his mind—it felt, for a moment, like contempt; but love ar­rested the intruder, and changed its nature into jealousy. "If to have adored you with a passion too powerful both for my happiness and health," replied he, with a heavy sigh, "could have se­cured me your regard, I should not now have the grief to know I have lost it. May he on whom it is bestowed have more successful claims!—But you are pale!—This happy, this envied being possesses not the power of making happy! Or is the felicity you would have enjoyed embittered by regreat for that you were about to deprive me of?"

"Yes, doubtless," said Louisa, with an air of melancholy and confusion, "we have both felt for you."

"Both! repeated Arundel, trembling with a new and vague apprehension, "How—how am to understand you?"

"Alas! I dare not explain myself!"

[Page 53] "Louisa, I adjure you by every thing sacred, to tell me the name of him for whom I am thus cruelly renounced."

Louisa blushed, wept, and was silent.

"Is it," continued he, hesitating, and shaking with uncontrollable emotion—" Is it not—Lind­sey?" The countenance of Louisa made reply unnecessary, while that of Arundel, true to his heart, sparkled with indignation. The generous diffidence of his nature, however, presently pre­vailed. She avowedly loved another:—tenderly—fondly loved him; and that other was, in the eyes even of his rival, the most winning of hu­man beings—endued with beauty, youth, wit, and accomplishments enough, unintentionally to win the coldest heart; and Louisa!—ah! could he wonder that she was irresistible?

By short and imperfect explanations, he learnt that mr. Lindsey had, from the moment he was seen by her, left an impression on her memory, absence did not efface: during that of Arundel, he had visited her once or twice through mere complaisance: that an interest insensibly sprung up between them: that his attendance became [Page 54] more frequent: that love in fine lent his lan­guage to their eyes, and placed his interpreter in their hearts.

"It is enough!" said Arundel, starting from a train of thought this avowal occasioned. "I cannot be your happiness, dearest Louisa—but I will at least endeavour to establish it." With these words he flew to her father, who had just received a letter from Mortimer, explained to him his situation, and as hastily went in search of Lindsey. A generous and delicate mistrust of himself, made him precipitate measures from which he feared he might recede: for Arundel was yet to learn all the value and nobleness of his own heart.

Lindsey received him with open arms; and his friend even thought he perceived the trans­ports of successful passion embellish his complex­ion, and lend animation to his eyes. What then was his astonishment to see this envied lover plunged by his narration into a deep and cold re­verie!

"It is certain," said he, at length breaking si­lence, "that I love Louisa; she has there simply [Page 55] stated a truth, which for your sake I would wil­lingly have suppressed: but as to marrying her, that is wholly out of the question at present; nor am I indeed sure I shall ever find it one at all." A tor­rent of new and indignant emotions again swelled the heart of Arundel; nor was it till his friend had given him the most unequivocal proofs un­der his hand that Louisa's passion had kept pace with, if not preceded the acknowledgment of his own, that harmony was restored between them.

Obliged slowly to resign the illusive image of perfection he so long had cherished, Arundel still thought somewhat due both to that and himself. By arguments, therefore, and remonstrances, he wrung from his frieud a solemn promise to see Louisa no more, till absence, by trying the cause between his tenderness and his pride, might ren­der his intentions less dubious.

"Louisa," said Arundel, "is indiscreet; but you assure me she is virtuous: the pain of seeing her otherwise would be more than I could pati­ently endure. Self-interest, therefore, bids me step forth the guardian of her innocence. If you love her enough to make a sacrifice, I will prove to you that I love her enough to rejoice in it. [Page 56] But beware that you do not demand any from her."

Lindsey laughed at his refinements, and, after much expostulation, agreed to prove his sincerity by taking a temporary leave of Lyons on the same day; a compliance in which he had, indeed, no great merit; as he had already more than half promised a party of his countrymen to join them in a rambling excursion to Nismes.

Sad, solitary, hopeless, Arundel now bent his steps towards home. The business of the day was accomplished. Of the day!—Ah! rather that of his life; for what remained of it seemed nothing but vacuity and gloom: and he looked round in vain for some farther sacrifice on which to spend the feverish enthusiasm of an overheated mind. Mortimer with concern perceived it glow on his cheek, and give an alarming expression to his eyes. Lindsey, gay, insolent, and happy—Lindsey tri­umphant alike in fortune and in love over his more deserving brother, became an object of ab­solute detestation to the guardian of Arundel. The secret so long concealed now trembled on his lips: his young friend even perceived that it did, and urged, with tender vehemence, to know what [Page 57] further hope in life remained for him. The eter­nal argument, that he should always find time enough to do the justice he desired, again silenced Mortimer. That secret and invisible Power, which so often hovers over mortality, and with his icy breath annihilates its projects, unfelt, un­thought of, nevertheless, even then approached him! The important truth, the deliberating mo­ment, were yet within his reach; but the truth was once more suppressed, and the moment passed away no time was ever to restore!

"I will consider more of this, my dear boy," said he, as he mounted his horse to take an air­ing; "endeavour to compose yourself for an hour, during my absence, and my return shall produce a suitable explanation."

Mr. Mortimer was brought home three hours after, cold, stiff, and bloody. A pistol bullet passing through his temple had perforated his brain; and in this condition he was sound, by some peasants, not a hundred yards from the high road. His horse was grazing by his side. His purse which contained only a trifling sum, remained; but his pocket-book, where notes of value were probably enclosed, was not to be found.

[Page 58] The shock was too mighty, and Arundel's constitution, already attacked, for the time sunk under it. Marlini, the young Italian, attended him with exemp [...]y kindness and humanity, through a burning fever; but ere he recovered to reason, the wishes, the intentions, and the er­rors of Mortimer had long since been buried with him in the grave. Hardly escaped from thence himself, Arundel impatiently hastened to weep over that of his benefactor, and if possible, to discover the perpetrators of his murder. Of them, however, no traces could be found. He was an easy mark for robbery, as it was his custom to take gentle rides in the environs of the city at that hour when the retiring sun made the exercise most pleasant; and, when unaccompanied by Arundel, those rides were well known to be solitary. Ex­hausted by vain and painful surmises on this cruel event, the latter at length began to examine the papers and property his protector had left behind him. But one inexplicable mystery seemed now to overshadow the fate of Arundel. A few per­sonals of value, some English bank-notes, and letters of credit upon a house at Genoa, were all that remained to trace his past life, or to guide his future. Perplexed, bewildered, he paused in silence over the gloomy prospect, when some slips [Page 59] of paper, that were wedged within the hinge of a casket, from whence the rest appeared to have been hastily torn, attracted his attention. Cau­tiously disengaging one of them he sound three lines, which ran thus: "To acknowledge, there­fore, another son, nay even an heir, would be a step too injurious to my interest and honour to be thought of: I am determined never to do it; and Arundel must be content—"

"Oh heaven and earth!" exclaimed the in­jured and unfortunate son of lord Lindsey, as he perused these cruel words, from a hand which he could not doubt to be his father's; "Must be content! Content without a tie! without a hope without one trace of those to whom he owes his existence, but in the unnatural sentence which cuts him off from them for ever!"

It was some moments before he could recover composure enough to examine the remaining pa­per. Nay, he was almost tempted, by an emo­tion of indignant sensibility, to commit to the flames, unread, what, in the perusal, was per­haps destined to inflict a second and more insup­portable pang. The hand was evidently a female one; and the purport of the writing awakened a [Page 60] feeling more lively, if possible, than that excited before.

"Yet why should I blush to acknowledge what I do not blush to feel? In mr. Arundel are united every grace that wins affection, and every virtue that justifies it. Born, I sincerely hope, for a more brilliant lot than that"—The tormenting paper here finished: but so did not his perusal of it. Three times was it read; minutely was it scrutinized. Even that by which he had been a few moments before so cruelly chagrined, seemed to vanish from his memory: while a soft conscious slush of vanity and gratitude stole imperceptibly over a cheek lately pallid with sickness and sor­row. The world again resumed its charms; it contained at least one being interested in his fate; one who "did not blush to feel"—who would not blush "to acknowledge his virtues."

Nor was it till memory had dwelt with delight on many individuals of a gay and beautiful circle, with which his residence at Lyons had accustomed him to mingle, that he recollected the mystery in which that being would probably remain ever enveloped.

[Page 61] To the transient gleam of pleasure which for a moment had brightened his horizon, now suc­ceeded long and cheerless months. Fruitless journeys to every place where mr. Mortimer had ever appeared to cherish intimacy, or demand credit, though by variety of scenes, and succession of hopes, they re-established his health, yet con­tributed to diminish his little fortune, without fixing his views. Of Louisa he had taken a tender farewel previous to his leaving Lyons; and to Lindsey he knew not how to address himself, during an excursion, the plan of which was not settled even by those who undertook it.

Bus [...]d in tracing the channels through which mr. Mortimer had transacted his pecuniary con­cerns, he had just learnt, by a journey to Paris, the name of the English banker with whom his credit originated, when he was one day agreeably surprised by a letter from Marlini. It was dated only ten days from that on which he had himself left Lyons, had followed him in his wanderings, and reached him at last by mere accident. The good-natured Italian who took a sincere interest in the happiness of Arundel had engaged to write him any occurrence by which that might be af­fected. "I fulfil my promise," said he, "by in­forming [Page 62] you that your friend Lindsey left Lyons last week. He was here only a few days, and was suddenly called to England, by the intelli­gence that his father would most probably be dead ere he could reach it—an event for which, by the bye, he somewhat reproaches his own ex­travagance and inattention. Will it grieve you to learn, that the fair Louisa is his companion, and that their union has at length completed a felicity which I am sure you sincerely wish them both?

"The generous patronage he has so warmly assured me of in England, I am preparing to ac­cept: therefore, when you hear of me again, it will probably be at the Hotel de Lindsey. Come, dear mr. Arundel, and share in the pleasures of this munificent and kind friend, who I am sure, by his conduct to myself, desires nothing so much as to serve you, and who particularly enjoined me to say, that he is only prevented addressing you by the haste with which he is obliged to de­part."

Arundel closed the letter with a sigh. He had long ceased to esteem Louisa: even the impression she had made upon his senses was considerably [Page 63] diminished by the efforts of reason and absence; yet he heard not with indifference that she was the wife of another; nor did the temptation of living in the Actel de Lindsey, and under 'the munifi­cent patronage of its lord," accord quite so well with his feelings, as with those of the complai­sant Italian. Yet, to England, circumstances ob­liged him to go; and in England, though his na­tive soil, he was a wanderer and an outcast. The character of Lindsey, "in that rare semblance that he loved it first;" their social and congenial habits—their early and unstudied confidence in a word, a thousand tender recollections rose to mind, and impelled a heart, naturally susceptible, to cherish the only tie it ever yet had formed.

"I will try him, at least," said Arundel, as he laid his hand upon the knocker of a magnificent house in St. James's. We understand each other, and a moment will decide for us both." A mo­ment did decide: he was welcomed by Lindsey, not indeed without embarrassment; but it was the embarrassment of a man who doubts his own re­ception, not that which he is to bestow; wel­comed with lavish kindness, with generous cor­diality, with every testimony of friendship that sensibility could offer, and graceful manners could [Page 64] embellish. Arundel would have avoided seeing lady Lindsey, and for that reason excused himself from residing under the same roof with her. But this was not to be thought of. The young lord, too happy both in love and fortune not to be a little vain, saw, in the society of Arundel, nothing but a new, and, as he deemed it, admissible grati­fication to his self-love; and resolutely, therefore, insisted on not parting with him.

"Women, my dear friend," said he, "are among the baubles of life; we may each wish to appropriate, but we will never wrangle about them. Come, come you are a philosopher, and Louisa is at last only a beautiful coquette. No­thing will so surely disunite you as knowing more of each other." So saying, he dragged his un­successful rival to her dressing-room. From the toilette Arundel attended her to dinner, where he was led in triumph through a circle of para­sites and sops.

"You see that creature with his fine languish­ing black eyes!" said Louisa to a young nobleman who sat on her right hand.

"And his rusty black coat! replied his [Page 65] lordship, casting a glance of nonchalance upon Arundel.

"Nay, that is downright slander," said Louisa laughing. "Not rusty yet; though it may, per­haps, see veteran service. He is an old adorer of mine—so pray be civil to him!"

"With all my heart; provided you are not so: but you had better make sure of my complaisance—a fortunate lover is never quarrelsome, you know!" Louisa laughed again. If my reader happens to have white teeth, and one of the pret­tiest mouths in the world, she will find out the jest: if not, it will probably defy her penetration, and may as well remain unsought.

Lindsey had judged truly: in less than a week, Arundel was completely cured of his partiality for Louisa—a Louisa far different from her he had first seen at the convent. When he beheld her, cold of heart, and light of conduct, living only to dissipation and flattery; scarcely mingling with any of her own sex, and admitting to her familiar society the most dissolute part of his, often did he call to mind the caution Mortimer had once given him, of weighing, before he formed his attach­ments, [Page 66] whether the qualities by which they were excited, are incidental or natural. Nor, though more slowly developed, did the character of Lind­sey rise in his estimation. Warm in his profes­sions, and elegant in his manners, he still attracted affection; but it was not possible to overlook the profligacy of a life, every hour of which was marked by being abused; and his friend perceived, with a sigh, how insensibly, when not effaced by principle, the faint outline of youthful indiscretion becomes filled up in our progress through life with the bold colouring of vice.

Amid the motley group who attended the levee of lord Lindsey, Arundel was particularly at­tracted by an officer, whose countenance, though still in its bloom, bore the traces of disappoint­ment. He was lately returned from a long sta­tion in the West Indies; inclining to thin, but of a noble and graceful carriage; the climate had somewhat impaired his complexion, and the se­cret chagrin that seemed to rob his eyes of their sire, lent them a seriousness calculated to excite interest. Those of Arundel had at first studi­ously sought their acquaintance; yet, strange to tell, had sought it in vain. Like an apparition, captain Villiers hovered amid the brilliant circle, [Page 67] attentive, calm, and impenetrably cold to all but lord Lindsey. As Arundel doubted not, how­ever, that he courted promotion, and guessed by the crape round his arm that he had sustained some family loss, he adopted the cause, though not permitted judge of it, with an ardour that was natural to his character. But he was not long in discovering, that Lindsey's love of patronage ex­tended only to promises; and that, far from soli­citing successfully for others, he might perhaps do it vainly for himself. Yet, eager to emanci­pate his situation from that dependance to which it was every day approaching, he made the at­tempt, and was cruelly confirmed in his conjec­tures. Still never did refusal wear so fair a form: "My fortune and my house, dear Arundel, are yours," said his friend; "when the one is impo­verished, or the other disagreeable to you, we will think of new plans."

Arundel was thus plunged again, despite of himself, into gay and dissolute society: he was young and charming; was it wonderful that he should be charmed; Ah! is there any illusion so complete as that our own talents and graces scatter around us? Every day more captivating in per­son, more polished in manners, more enervated [Page 68] in heart, he imperceptibly drew nearer that pre­cipice of error, from which, no kind hand, either of nature or friendship, was extended to save him.—Yet still had he both sensibility and pride—still did he spend many a solitary hour in forming plans, by which the next might be more active—in sighing over the memory of Mortimer, and in fruitless perusals of the cruel, the inexplicable pa­pers he had left behind him. Lost in reverie, often did his thoughtful eye pierce through crowds for that unnatural father, who had thus announced his intention of never acknowledging him; often did his beating heart dispel the illusion, which beauty diffused over his senses, and anxiously en­quire, where—where was the gentle being to whom his graces and his virtues were so disinte­restedly dear. For the paper which contained this avowal, from the moment that Louisa had lost her place in his affections, he cherished a roman­tic [...]nderness: the other, he had, on his arrival in England, communicated to Lindsey; who so far got the better of his usual inattention and heed­lessness, as to accompany him in person to the banker's, whence mr. Mortimer had obtained cre­dit at Paris. From him, however nothing could be learnt, but that five hundred pounds had been annually lodged there in that gentleman's name, [Page 69] the larger part of which had in the last year been drawn out, without since being replaced. Of this latter sum, a very small portion now re­mained to Arundel; and his indignant heart, roused at the idea of pecuniary obligation, began to affect his temper: that most cruel of all mala­dies, self-reproach, seized upon it. To Lindsey he scorned any other obligation than that of assist­ing him to struggle for himself—an obligation which of all others Lindsey was least likely to con­fer: nor existed there a being besides, from whom he could hope it. With a grieved and rankling heart, that veiled itself in smiles, was he going to the apartment of the latter, when he met cap­tain Villiers coming from it: both seemed to have departed from their natural character; for Arundel, whose thoughts were pre-occupied, and who was besides somewhat disgusted by the coldness with which his efforts at civility had been received, scarcely noticed Villiers, who, on his part, brushed by with a haughty rapidity that nearly amounted to rudeness.

"Did you meet that scoundrel on the stairs?" said Lindsey abruptly as he entered the room.

[Page 70] "If you mean Villiers, he passed me this mo­ment."

"'Twas well he did not affront you," said Lindsey; "he was sufficiently disposed to have done it."

Arundel paused for a moment, uncertain whe­ther to think he had done so or no, and then re­sentfully added—"It was well, as you say, that he did not; for I was never less disposed to bear it"

"I would have you beware of him, however," said Lindsey; "for as I cannot fight him," glancing fretfully at his arm, which a strain ob­liged him to wear in a sling, "it is ten to one but he makes you do it."

"Me!" repeated Arundel, with a tone of astonishment.

"Yes, you: since, if I may judge by his lan­guage, he [...]es you the honour of ranking you amongst my parasites and dependants—I shall find a future opportunity of talking with the gen­tleman."

[Page 71] "The present will do for me," said Arundel warmly, and involuntarily advancing towards the door—"But what was the matter in dispute?"

"Faith I hardly know—Ask him.

"I am more than half tempted:—and if I do, I may probably convince him that I can take up the cause of a friend, without being either his dependant or parasite."

"Dear Arundel," said Lindsey, warmly seiz­ing his hand, "how generous, how kind is this idea!—I cannot however admit it: it is true, we have both been insulted; but the cause is parti­cularly mine."

"If both have been insulted," said Arundel, "either is entitled to demand an explanation."

Lindsey paused on the idea; and his friend, who thought he perceived his assent to it in his silence, felt his spirit and his pride both con­cerned in not receding. The conversation that followed corroborating this opinion, he presently dispatched a note to captain Villiers, requesting a few moments' conversation at any place he should [Page 72] name. This done, he left the apartment of lord Lindsey, flattered with his applause, and gratified by his kindness.

But, though the temper of Arundel was thus inflamed, all felt not as it should have done in his heart. Personal courage was in him a consti­tutional gift, and it was that perhaps which lest him more at leisure to ask why he had thus drawn on himself the probability of a duel; but as on this head his own memory did not supply him with any very satisfactory answer, he deter­mined to refer to that of captain Villiers.

When two young men meet to know why they are to fight, it will be fortunate if sufficient pro­vocation does not arise to render the enquiry needless: neither of those in questien had any animosity, though no longer any personal prepos­session, to each other; but truth must be acknow­ledged. The high-spirited Villiers did indeed look upon Arundel as one of the venal many whose word and sword were equally at the com­mand of lord Lindsey. Plunged in family cha­grins, and embittered by disappointment, he had attended but little to nice discriminations of cha­racter, and came prepared to consider the inter­view [Page 73] only as a paltry pretence for appropriating the quarrel: it was consequently short. Arundel, proud, youthful, and brave, felt all his passions raised by the cold indignity with which he saw himself treated: the marked contempt with which Villiers mentioned the name of lord Lindsey in­terested his friendship: and when to that of Lou­isa, as it accidentally arose, he returned a look and expression of most ineffable disdain; Arundel, whose heart still retained some embers of the sire which once had made that name so sacred, was no longer master of himself. It was the cause of gallantry, of honour, of friendship; and, fearful perhaps lest reflection should discover to him that it was not the cause of reason, he the more readily embraced mr. Villiers's proposal of meeting him, behind Montague-House, at five the next morning.

The hours that intervened were spent in a fruit­less search after lord Lindsey, who had early left the party with which he dined, and was not to be heard of. Disappointed in the pursuit, and im­mersed in a train of no very pleasant reflections, Arundel stood surrounded by a gay and brilliant circle apparently listening to a concert, of which he heard nothing, when his eye casually rested upon one of the band, whose face instantly [Page 74] brought to mind the recollection of Marlini—but Marlini still in England—Marlini the botanist turned fiddler, and that in an inferior rank—it was a thing impossible!—Advancing closer, and leaning against the wainscot, he amused himself, till the conclusion of the sonata, with examining the features of his friend, till satisfied of their identity, he approached the orchestra and ad­dressed him by name.

"Ah, mr. Arundel!" said Marlini—"how glad am I to see you, and how glad to find that you have not forgotten me!" Arundel most cordially returned the salutation, and expressed his surprise both at the place and the employment in which he found his friend engaged. "I have frequently," said he, "enquired of lord Lindsey where I might find you: he assured me that you were disgusted with England, and had, he be­lieved, returned to Italy: that you had almost renounced botany; and I now recollect he even told me somewhat of your having shewn an ex­traordinary genius for music."

"So he was kind enough to tell me," replied Marlini, smiling with some scorn; "and you see to what extraordinary preferment my genius has led [Page 75] me. As to England, I have certainly no disgust to it, though I have some cause to wish it did not send its fools abroad to bring foreign fools home.—Another time, mr. Arundel, I will tell you more."

Arundel, who really felt interested in the tale, and across whose mind it glanced that another time to him might never come, pressed him to conti­nue the conversation.

"Nay, I have not much to tell neither," said Marlini, laying down his fiddle. "You know the repeated invitations which induced me to come to London; where I found il cavaliere Lind­sey converted into la sua excellenza, and surrounded by a crowd of fools all gaping like myself for pa­tronage. To do him justice, however, he re­ceived me very civilly, and recommended me to the care of his Swiss valet, through whose interest I got a lodging in the Seven Dials—not without a general invitation to dine at the hotel de Lind­sey whenever it was agreeable to me. Alas! I did not then know that the latter clause was in fact a perfect exclusion. I made my way, how­ever, to his lordship's table, though not without bribing his porter with twice the money for which [Page 76] I might have dined at the ordinary, and had the honour of taking my place at the bottom of it, between an old German and a young English di­vine. The company was numerous, and some of them talked as if they were men of science: I was therefore not without hopes, that his lord­ship would take an opportunity of recommending myself and my studies to their notice. But in this I was disappointed: they sat long, drank hard, and at length unwillingly broke up, to adjourn to the drawing-room, where lady Lindsey had pre­pared a concert. I flattered myself, that in ge­neral conversation I might at least be able to for­ward my own plans, and was greatly pleased by the civilities of an old gentleman, whose conse­quence was denoted by a star, and who talked to me in very good Italian. He had already invited me to his palace; and I had discovered him to be the duke of B—. I was beginning to congra­tulate myself on my good fortune—But, alas! how cruelly was I disappointed, when, in the midst of an interesting conversation upon botany, he reminded me with great eagerness, that the concert was going to begin, and recommended me to take up my violin. I assured him I was no performer, and even totally unskilled in music: he heard me at first with incredulity, till, per­ceiving [Page 77] that, far from being the phenomenon he doubtless had imagined, I actually took no part in what was going forward, he abruptly shifted his place, and became ever after so near-sighted that it was impossible for me to attract his notice.—Why should I tire you, mr. Arundel, with repetitions of the same thing? Day after day did I attend the levee of lord Lindsey, and vainly did I solicit the patronage he had promised. Perhaps he meant not to impoverish or betray me; but, woe to the man in whom vanity and self-love do the offices of the blackest treachery!—impo­verished I certainly became. The story of the duke, which in our first familiarity I had related, appeared to him then an exceeding good jest; but what was my surprise, when, after being worn out in that [...], it suddenly took another, and he very seriously proposed to me to turn musician! Vainly did I represent the years I had spent in my favourite study, the expensive collection of plants I had brought over with me, in the hope of being presented to some of those societies in London whose applause secures celebrity and wealth. My remonstrances were not listened to, I was poor, and could not enforce them. It was settled, in his circle, that a fiddler I was; and a fiddler I at length became—lucky in getting half [Page 78] a-guinea a night by scraping in a manner which the taste natural to my country renders offensive to my own ears, and contented to be any thing rather than the table companion and the attendant upon a lord!"

Arundel, to whom parts of this narrative had communicated stings of which he who related it was wholly unconscious, was preparing to reply, when Marlini, being called upon to take his part in a full piece, had only time to give his address; and the other, not unwillingly, resigned his place to some ladies who pressed near him.

One, two, three o'clock came, and lord Lind­sey returned not. Arundel, who had spent the night in walking his chamber, at length saw day appear; and with a mixture of irresolution, self-disdain, and despair, rushed, with the friend who was to accompany him, to the place of appoint­ment. Villiers, with his second, was there al­most at the same moment. The calmness and intrepidity of his countenance; the shame, too, of seeming to shrink from the occasion sealed up those lips on which native candour and sensibility had half-prepared an apology. They drew; both were admirable swordsmen; but Arundel, who [Page 79] eminently excelled in every manly exercise, soon gained a manifest advantage; and, being pressed on too boldly by his antagonist, most unwillingly sheathed his sword in his breast.—Villiers dropped his—staggered—and fell.

Had the universe, and all it contained, been vanishing from before his eyes, hardly could A­rundel have felt a greater shock. [...], passion, prejudice—all that sustained, all the [...] had misled him, fled instantaneously; and Villiers, whose languid looks were directed to those who sup­ported him, saw, not without sensibility, the change of that cheek which the approach of per­sonal danger had not for a moment blanched.

"You have used a brave as well as skilful sword, mr. Arundel," said he, "in a bad cause; and have, I fear, completed many family calami­ties. I pardon you, however.—The challenge was mine, gentlemen," added [...], turning to the se­conds, " [...] have only to entreat—"The word [...] which had faltered on his lips faded imperceptibly and he fainted.

Neither the sense of danger, nor the remon­strances of their mutual friends, could for a mo­ment [Page 80] incline Arundel to resign the care of him whose murderer he now began to deem himself; and he resolutely followed them into the carriage which was to convey mr. Villiers to an hotel not far distant. The danger was there declared by the surgeons to be less imminent than it appeared. The sword had fortunately missed the vitals; and though by penetrating deeply it had caused a vast effusion of blood, the wound bore no present ap­pearance of being mortal. Arundel became more composed at intelligence so unexpected, and was at length prevailed upon to retire.

The events of the morning were now to be re­counted to Lindsey; and to Lindsey, spite of his faults, the agitated spirits of his friend still turned with habitual confidence. But he was yet to learn, that the man who relies on the gratitude of the dissolute must have claims more imposing than desert.

Lindsey, who was just returned from a gam­ing-table, feverish with-accumulated losses, and stupified for want of rest, listened with coldness to the narration and smiling at the end of it, sarcastically thanked him for his knight errantry. "Louisa, too," added he, "will, I doubt not, be [Page 81] duly grateful for her share of the obligation; and a gratitude so well-founded I certainly can have no right to interfere in."—Arundel, to whom this speech was wholly incomprehensible, replied not.

"Or perhaps," added Lindsey, "she has been so already!—But pr'ythee, dear Arundel, let me counsel you as a friend not to make a practice of drawing your sword in that cause!" There was a half jealous and half disdainful sneer in his manner, at once calculated to alarm and to irritate.

"I shall most assuredly never draw it again in your lordship's cause," said Arundel indignantly; "but for lady Lindsey—"

"Lady Lindsey! mr. Arundel. You certainly do not suppose that she is really my wife?"

A thunderbolt at the feet of Arundel would have astonished him less than this speech. It was then for two beings equally licentious and un­grateful that he had hazarded all dear to nature or to principle! Louisa—Lindsey—despicable names! Yet [Page 82]

"The generous blood of Villiers is on my sword!" exclaimed he, rushing from a roof which he knew not to be his paternal one: "I will not wrong him so far as to blend it with the unworthy tide that flows through the heart of lord Lind­sey!"

His feet spontaneously moved to the hotel to which captain Villiers had been carried; but the recollection that repose and perfect quiet had been deemed essential to his safety forbade him to enter it. Lost in a tide of heart-wringing re­collections, he wandered, he knew not whither, through half the streets of the metropolis, till the busy crowds with which they were filled retired at the approach of evening. Stragglers among the dis­solute or the idle still faced the nipping autumnal wind, which began to rise; and a small crowd of these, collected round a ballad-singer, impeded, in a narrow street, the passage of Arundel. The mo­mentary embarrassment awakened his senses, and a sound that struck from thence upon his memory induced him to start forward. It was to be a day of painful retrospection. The female who [Page 83] sung had the appearance of a Savoyard: a little common organ hung at her side—her complexion was tanned—her figure was emaciated—her eyes were hollow—straggling locks of auburn hair added rather a misery than a charm to her appear­ance;—yet the foreign accent, the beautiful brow—above all, the well remembered air she sung, at once carried conviction to the heart of Arundel—It was—it could be no other than Annette! Annette betrayed!—Annette, the victim of Lindsey! exposed in the first instance to disgrace, and in the last to poverty! frail, yet not licen­tious! miserable, yet not vindictive! drew from the charity of strangers that humble pittance which industry and innocence had rendered once so honourable!—Let us draw a veil over the picture, and follow Arundel.

In solitude, silence, and adversity, he now in­deed had learnt to think—to estimate the differ­ence between real and imaginary blessings—and to perceive how neglect, indiscretion, and self-love, scatter, even from the bosom of luxury, the fruitful seeds of vice and devastation.

After various painful self-denials, he thought he might at length venture to request admission [Page 84] to Villiers, of whose wound he received the most favourable reports; nor was it among the least of his late mortifications to learn, that on the noon of that day, Villiers had by his own orders, been conveyed into a chair, and, after paying every expence, quitted the hotel without leaving behind him the smallest indication of the place of his retreat.

Arundel was now overwhelmned with chagrin and disappointment. On the idea of offering an honourable and ample concession, his heart had rested with romantic enthusiasm. Perhaps he had secretly flattered himself he might find a friend in that generous antagonist with whom his feelings had at first sight claimed acquaintance.

Frustrated in his past views, and hopeless of the future, his spirits would have been wholly de­pressed but for a singular event.

A note from the banker with whom mr. Mor­timer had transacted business, informed him, that two hundred pounds had been recently lodged in the house, payable either to that gentleman's or­der or mr. Arundel's,

[Page 85] Soft hope again stole over the heart of the lat­ter. He was not then forgotten!—Some being was still interested in his fate! Some protecting spirit, like that of Mortimer, still hovered over him!—Ah! could it be a female one?

Relieved from pecuniary embarrassments, it was his first employment to discover the habitation of captain Villiers. The poor rarely have a secret that is well kept; and in a very few days it was traced to be the second floor of a house in a small street near Piccadilly. Bounded as Arundel's means were, yet, to share them with the man he had injured, and whose circumstances, it was plain, could ill support extraordinary expence, be­came now the first object of his life. To have shared them, indeed, with those he had himself injured, might have been only justice; but to say truth, the improvident Arundel was hardly less disposed to shew his liberality to Marlini and Annette.

Captain Villiers was now in a state to quit his chamber; and Arundel, who well knew how to calculate the wishes of pride, easily concluded that he had no other mode of insuring their meeting but a surprise. Forbearing, therefore, his usual [Page 86] anonymous enquiry, he one evening repaired to the house; where, being told by a servant that mr. Villiers was in his apartment, he abruptly walked up stairs, and, without further ceremony than a gentle rap, opened the door. Candles in the room there were none; but the twilight, aided by the bright blaze of a sire, enabled him clearly to discern Villiers, who reposed on a sopha on one side of it, while on the other sat a tall and fair young lady in mourning, who appeared to have been reading to him.

Generous minds are not long in understand­ing each other. Villiers was prepared, by some frank and noble traits that he had discovered in the character of his visitor, to give him credit for qualities the other was now well disposed to shew. To remove prepossession, was to ensure regard: Arundel was born to be beloved; and captain Villiers, though less fascinating, had a candour and martial enthusiasm of mind which circumstances only had concealed. The conver­sation soon became unfettered and interesting.

"On the father of the present lord Lindsey," said Villiers, "mine had claims of friendship to which the former was not insensible: they induced [Page 87] him to bestow on me, very early in life, a com­mission, which, though it brought with it many years of painful service, in a climate injurious to my health, ought to be remembered with kindness. Attentive to me even during his last illness, by a letter addressed to the son whose ingratitude and negligence avowedly shortened his days, he re­peated his earnest desire that I might be promoted in my profession, and relieved from various pe­cuniary embarrassments, in which the indiscre­tions of my father had involved his family. By the young lord Lindsey I was at first treated with kindness and distinction. Reiterated promises taught me to hope every thing; but I hoped, only to be disappointed. I knew enough of the world, however, to have sustained that like a man;—but when to neglect he dared to add injury—when he presumed to violate—in short—why should I dis­semble? when he would have trafficked upon the sister's honour for the brother's promotion, it was then I felt like a soldier."

Arundel, whose cheek glowed with indignation and remorse, started hastily from his seat; which Villiers, with a smile of kindness, motioned to him to resume.—"By an intercepted letter I became apprized of a secret which my sister's sears for [Page 88] my safety had induced her to conceal. With what determination I afterwards saw lord Lindsey, I hardly know myself; but I well recollect, that respect for the memory of his father, and his own inability to sight, alone prevented my pur­suing those violent measures I was but too well inclined to, when the ill fortune of both induced you to request an interview with me. I saw you with prejudiced eyes: had I seen you with any other, our swords had never been drawn. Yet let me do you the justice of acknowledging, that, even in the short conversation which preceded our appointment, I perceived I had an adversary to encounter, of whose dignity of character I was little aware; and though unable to reduce either my resentment or my pride to a tardy expla­nation, I met you with a reluctance, that per­haps contributed, with your own skill, to give you the advantage you obtained."

Arundel, at once grieved and flattered, ce­mented the growing friendship by a confidence, not indeed minutely detailed, for the health of Villiers allowed not of long conversation, but unbounded as far as related to lord Lindsey, and departed with an invitation to repeat his visit next day.

[Page 89] The visit was repeated again—and again—and again. Miss Villiers was almost constantly with her brother, and as constantly pursued the me­thod she had first adopted, of retiring at the en­trance of his friend. Arundel could not avoid feeling some pique at the beautiful statue he had so little power of animating: not that he allowed beauty to be any advantage—oh, no! "Louisa had cured him! Louisa had rendered him forever indifferent to so illusive an attraction;" and he repeated this so often that he really believed it. It was the mind—the visible expression of it in the countenance of Henrietta with which he was now charmed. It was the sweet seriousness of her eyes—so like her brother's, only heightened by the finest long lashes in the world, that made an irre­sistible impression on his memory. Yet, never to speak, never to permit him the common claims of an acquaintance eternally to curtsey and withdraw it was so strange, so cruel, so singular an instance of coquetry, that really all the philo­sophy he was master of could not stand it.

Chance, however, did for him what miss Vil­liers would not do. After spending the morning with her brother as usual tête-à-tête, he had taken his leave, when, on walking the length of the [Page 90] street, somewhat occurred that he had neglected to mention; and hastily returning, he threw open the door of the apartment, where Henrietta was then sitting alone. A conscious—a half re­proachful smile brightened the features of Arun­del, as he respectfully advanced and addressed her. Miss Villiers, on the contrary, turned pale, blushed, and, dropping her eyes, faintly replied to his questions; but the voice was not to be mis­taken—a voice so touching, so inimitably soft—Heaven and earth! what was his astonish­ment when it was immediately recognized to be that of Theresa!—Theresa,—the tender friend so long and so ungratefully forgotten.

If Arundel was transported, far different were the feelings of miss Villiers.—Conscious, abashed, devoid of all power of feigning— [...] recol­lecting what she ought to know, or what she ought to tell; it was amidst blushes, hesitation, and tremor, that he learnt she was the daughter of Mortimer!—The daughter of Mortimer! Ah! he learnt not that only: there was a suspicion, there was a truth remained behind, at which, though his heart beat with exultation and hope, he ventured not even remotely to glance. Yet who else should write to Mortimer that she did [Page 91] not blush to acknowledge an interest for him?—Who else should tell his guardian and his friend, "that he had every grace that wins affection, and every virtue that justifies it?" Who but Hen­rietta had opportunity, whilst he was in pursuit of another object, to dwell unobserved upon his character—to trace all its energies—to feel all its disappointments—and unconsciously to cherish a treacherous sentiment under the name of a gene­rous one?

Captain Villiers, who was only in the adjoining apartment, entered at this moment, and saw with surprise Arundel holding the hand of his sister, and speaking with an eagerness that marked the tenderest interest in what he uttered.

"Dear Villiers!" said the latter, recovering himself to spare her embarrassment, "Would you believe that I have found in your sister an old and tenderly beloved friend?"

"So it appears," said Villiers smiling; "but how came you to take advantage of my absence to make this discovery?"

"Mr. Arundel," said Henrietta, striving to [Page 92] command herself, "had forgotten his friend, and I was not willing to obtrude her upon his me­mory."

Every truth but one was now avowed on all sides; and Villiers was not so dull of comprehen­sion as to overlook that.

"The veil—the cruel veil," cried Arundel re­proachfully, as they recounted their interviews in the convent—

"—Was once at least withdrawn," added Hen­rietta blushing;—"but the features it shaded were not worthy of retaining your eye."

Arundel, who too well recollected the circum­stances of their first meeting, could only answer by a look—a look that at once conveyed his own self-reproach. Yet time, that had matured his understanding, had also matured the beauty of Henrietta; whose features, though ever regular, were far from possessing, while in the convent, that lovely finish her whole person had since at­tained.

The older mr. Villiers, obliged by his necessities [Page 93] to renounce his own name, had, under that of Mortimer, afforded the parental protection to Arundel which nature had designed for his own children. Of these children one had been com­mitted to the care of lord Lindsey, who, by em­barking him early in a military line, deprived him of the opportunity to make troublesome enquiries. For his daughter, unprotected and dowerless, mr. Villiers's religion enabled him to allot a life of se­clusion in the convent where she had been edu­cated; nor was it till lord Lindsey himself started the proposal of marrying Arundel abroad, that he thought of a scheme by which all their views might be conciliated. With this scheme, how­ever, Henrietta alone had ever been made ac­quainted; and though Arundel and her brother could not fail, in the course of the explanation, to surmise it, she earnestly guarded the idea from obtruding.

To captain Villiers, indeed, all this was new: his father's caution had kept from his knowledge the change of his name—the companion of his travels—in a word, every thing but what related to the embarrassment of their affairs, or the wel­fare of his sister. Unconscious, therefore, that such a being as Arundel existed, till he met him [Page 94] in the house of the young lord Lindsey, it was on the event of the duel that his name first transpired to Henrietta. Why her previous acquaintance with it had been so cautiously omitted in all con­versations with her brother relative to her father's visit at Lyons, neither gentleman presumed to ask, probably for the best of all reasons—that both of them could guess.

The moment of final discovery now seemed dawning upon Arundel—but it was only a gleam. Of his birth, captain Villiers knew nothing; and Henrietta, to whom her father never confided more of his plans than was necessary for their ac­complishment, only faintly recollected to have heard him once say that he was the son of a mr. Arundel of Cornwall.

"It is strange that my father should leave no papers by which to guess at this mystery," said Villiers. The anxious eyes of his sister half sought those of Arundel, and her cheek was flushed with apprehension for his answer.

"Very strange," replied the latter with a du­plicity love first had taught him—"It was, I know, his custom to burn all his letters after [Page 95] reading them: the few lines that alone fell into my hands we will take an early opportunity of examining together."

Re-assured by the carelessness of his answer, Henrietta recovered herself. Her secret safe—her lover and her brother thus perfectly united—could the world present a livelier pleasure than that which glowed round her heart? The fire­side of Villiers was now embellished with the smiles of happiness, and a long, a lengthened evening succeeded, during which Arundel drank deep draughts of a passion which he attempted not to resist; and which beauty, merit, cultivated under­standing, and polished manners, united to justify.

Strolling through the city the next morning with Villiers, a man who seemed guarding the door of a narrow and dirty entry attempted to put a printed paper in his hand. It would have been rejected, had not the unexpected enforcement of "You had better take it, mr. Arundel," induced him to stop. He looked earnestly at the figure by whom it was presented, and, under an im­mense bush of wig, a threadbare coat and a scar­let waistcoat laced with gold, discovered his quondam acquaintance, the German philosopher.

[Page 96] "You can't oblige an old friend with less than a shilling, mr. Arundel," said the German, "so pray have the goodness to walk in." Arundel complied; but he must have been a philosopher himself to forbear smiling when he perceived his friend's collection of minerals and fossils con­verted into what be called a very pretty "rarce show;" by which, with the assistance of a few common philosophical experiments medical ad­vice offered gratis, and a small pretence at judi­cial astrology, the German assured him he gained a tolerable livelihood.

"Not," said he, "but I had better have stu­died a system of the world than that of the earth, and then I should have been aware of some of its revolutions, which all my knowledge of the stars even did not inform me of."

Arundel, who knew his acquaintance's head to be filled with as much real learning as might have supplied half a university, could not but smile at the singular stoicism displayed in his conduct; and though he felt not that tender interest with which the quick sensibility and embittered spi­rit of the Italian had inspired him, yet was his smile insensibly chastened by a sigh, when he [Page 97] contrasted the character of the German and his fate.

"The romantic days of chivalry, and the des­potic ones of seudal authority, are both vanished," said he, as he commented with his friend on the events they had lately witnessed. "M [...]n, at that period, was contented to barter independency for protection, and found in the cherishing power of rank somewhat that consoled him for its supe­riority. The grosser ligaments that then bound the great to the little have insensibly refined into the nicer ones of benevolence, distinction, or pa­tronage. How careful ought the great to be that they snap not these by selfishness, pride or ca­price!—How, instead of weakening, ought they to strengthen, ties, by which the human species is allured to that subordination to which no mortal effort can ever, perhaps, awe them!"

"You think deeply," returned his friend.

"No, dear Villiers, I only feel deeply—feel for the virtues I have seen betrayed—the talents I have seen blighted—the sensibilities," he added, half smothering a sigh, "I have known rejected; and by a man to whom it would have cost so little to have cultivated all."

[Page 98] The sight of miss Villiers at once dissipated spleen and philosophy. A thousand more inte­resting topics occurred; and the subject of his birth engaged the attention both of Arundel and his friends. The paper he believed to have been written by his father was vainly examined by each.

"The clue my sister has given us," said cap­tain Villiers, "seems, after all, the only possible one to lead to a discovery. You must go into Cornwall, and the sooner the better; for we are none of us rich enough to spend either money or time in unnecessary delays. Suppose you set off to-morrow!"

"To-morrow is surely too soon!" answered Arundel, intuitively fixing his eyes on miss Villiers.

"I think not," said her brother smiling; "ra­ther remember, dear Arundel,

"Ah!" cried Arundel warmly, "it was in­deed only yesterday that I began to live! How­ever, I will go to-morrow, if you think it advisa­ble. [Page 99] A family of consequence enough to mention an heir cannot be unknown in the country; and I may at least find ground for conjecture, whe­ther I am able to make the wished-for discovery or not."

"I have good presentiments," said Villiers as he quitted the room to attend a troublesome visitor in the next—"though certainly that nothing should even accidentally remain but those lines is very extraordinary!"

Henrietta and her lover were left tête-à-tête; she felt embarrassed; and with the ill fortune that generally follows the attempt at dispelling an awkward silence, hastily repeated her brother's words, that it was very extraordinary! Arundel, unable to resist the temptation, advanced towards her.

"Will miss Villiers," said he, "do me the honour of becoming my confidante?"

"Most undoubtedly," faltered she, turning pale.

"And may I—dare I venture to tell her that there was yet another paper?"—

[Page 100] "Is it not better—would it not be right, I mean—why not rather tell my brother?" again incoherently cried Henrietta, still paler than before.

"Because," interrupted Arundel, "if my sur­mises are true, the writing is too sacred to be prophaned by any eye but my own; because on their decision probably depends the happiness or misery of my life; and because," added he, taking it from his bosom, "with miss Villiers alone it remains to tell me which."

She cast a timid eye upon the paper, and, too conscious of the hand, as well as the probable purport of it, would have sunk from her chair, had not the supporting arms of Arundel pre­vented her. He was at her feet when captain Villiers returned; nor could the latter forbear asking with a smile, whether these tender demon­strations of regard were meant for the old friend, or the new one?

Arundel, who had not been able to resolve on the journey of the morrow without previous ex­planation to both, now hesitated not to disclose his whole heart. Villiere heard him with undis­guised pleasure; and though not apprized, by any [Page 101] part of the conversation, of his sister's partiality, thought he ran no risque of violently offending her by sanctioning the hopes of her lover.

Pleasure, however, is a fleeting good! So thought Arundel as he looked the next day through the dingy panes of glass in an inn window about thirty miles from London. His gaiety was not greatly increased by the probability of having no­thing better to do than to look through them for two hours longer. Luxury had not yet provided for travellers as in more modern times; and the only post-horse the stables afforded, Arundel, from a principle of humanity and good-nature, had resigned to a gentleman whom the landlord had described to be in a state of agitation that be­spoke his journey a matter of the utmost importance. He was somewhat tempted, however, to repent of his good-nature, when passing through the en­try he cast his eyes on this gentleman, and disco­vered him to be the valet of lord Lindsey; a man who had long reigned over his master with most unbounded influence, and whose insolent manners rendered him the detestation of all within his circle.

"Ah, mr. Arundel," said Verney, starting at [Page 102] the sight of him, "is it you, then, to whom I am so greatly obliged? You were always good and generous, and I am almost tempted—"

"To profit by the example, I hope," said A­rundel, coldly smiling, and passing on. The man seemed struck with the speech.

"Mr. Arundel, for the love of Heaven, stop!" said he, eagerly seizing his hand: favour me with a moment's conversation. It may be of more im­portance to you than you are aware of." Arundel hesitated; yet, somewhat impressed with his manner, went with him into an adjoining apart­ment. Verney shut the door.

"You have been, sir, for a long time now, the companion and intimate of my lord: you have been the confidant of many of his secrets; yet I believe—nay, I am very sure, that you did not know him to be your brother."

"My brother! said Arundel, starting back with amazement.—"Lord Lindsey my brother!"

"As surely, sir, as that he was the seducer of miss Louisa, and the murderer of mr. Mortimer!"

[Page 103] "Have a care, Verney, of what you say!" cried Arundel aghast with horror.

"I can stand to it upon oath, sir, when, and where you please; but my time is precious, and I must tell my story in few words. It was just after you set out for Swisserland, mr. Arundel, that I came into confidence with my lord; I used often to carry messages and notes between him and ma'amselle Louise; who, to say the truth, I believe courted him as much as he did her. However that was, he fell into a very great passion when he found that she had told you of their correspon­dence, and swore he would never see her more. Nay, he actually made you the same promise, or something like it, as you may remember, and left Lyons accordingly. His heart, however, failed him before he had gone many miles; for they were to have met that night—as I should have told you they often did—when miss Louise could make a pretence for getting out of the convent to visit her acquaintance. Nothing then would serve my lord but returning; and a melancholy return it was for poor mr. Mortimer, whom we overtook as we passed through the short cut that leads to the high road. My lord at first would have avoided him; but perceiving he was already [Page 104] known, determined to ride boldly on. They soon came up with one another, and interchanged sa­lutations; not very civil. Some conversation en­sued; and though I was at a distance, I could un­derstand that mr. Mortimer upbraided my lord with treachery, and falsehood. Falsehood was the word. You may guess how this was taken; both of them fell into such a passion that I verily believe they knew not what they said, or did: and as curiosity drew me nearer, I distinctly heard mr. Mortimer tell my lord that he had no occasion to value himself upon his birth; that he was only a younger brother; and that you were both son and heir to lord Lindsey, as he could sufficiently prove by letters then in his pocket-book. All my lord's passion before was nothing at all to this. As ill-luck would have it, we had pistols in the holsters for it was then dusk, and we were to go out of the city again that night.—To be short, I held their horses while they both fired, and I saw mr. Mortimer drop. By my lord's command I myself took the pocket-book from him, for he, poor man! was quite gone; and away we rode as if the devil was behind us, and so to be sure he was. My lord was very moody, and, as I thought, very penitent; and often said he did not intend the old gentleman's death, but that it was an even [Page 105] chance, and therefore done in an honourable way. However, as honourable as it was, he made no scruple of keeping the pocket-book, in which, sure enough, there were some chosen letters from the old lord, that sufficiently confirmed the truth of mr. Mor­timer's story. Not that I got sight of them at first; so far from it, that he would have per­suaded me they contained nothing of consequence. However, I knew my opportunities, and when I had once seen them, we used to talk them over very often; and he even told me that he should never have fallen into such a rage at first hearing of them, but that his father, when angry with him once, let fall an odd saying, that dwelt upon his mind. All this, mr. Arundel, I will say, and swear too!—As to the rest, to be sure it grieved me to see you forced by ill treatment to quit your own father's house, and throw yourself upon the wide world; while, on the other hand, my lord—" Here Verney began to stammer, and A­rundel, to whose overburdened and agitated mind a pause seemed necessary, threw open the sash, and, leaning against the window-frame, endea­voured to recover a composure of which the dreadful train of facts he had listened to, seemed wholly to have deprived him.

[Page 106] "Well, mr. Arundel, I must go," said Verney, abruptly starting up, as if himself awakened to some new recollections.

"Whither?" returned the other.

"That I can't immediately tell—Not to my lord, you may be sure. This confounded gam­bling has so ruined his temper, that a man had better live in Bedlam than with him. However, if you will tell me where a line may find you, depend upon receiving one 'ere long; and, if I can do you justice, justice you shall have."

To part in so light a manner with a testimony of such importance, and of which he might be so easily deprived, either by corruption or accident, appeared so Arundel the extreme of folly; and he urged every motive either of justice, or interest, that might induce Verney to return with him to town. The man seemed irresolute, yet more inclined to pursue his own route, than that pointed out to him. The horse at length was brought to the door.

"Mr. Arundel," said Verney, as the former still opposed his departure, "what I have said may well shew you how much I am disposed to [Page 107] do you a service. I will go greater lengths, however; but you must first swear, that, after the proof I am going to give you of my confidence, you will neither attempt to follow, nor detain me a single moment." Arundel hesitated; but, as no alternative presented itself, at length complied with the requisition.

"There, sir!" said Verney taking some papers from his portmanteau, "there are the very letters found in mr. Mortimer's pocket-book. Ask no questions, but remember your promise." So say­ing, he snatched up the portmanteau, ran hastily out of the room, and left Arundel in an astonish­ment from which he was first roused by the clat­tering of the horse's hoofs.

The man was quickly out of sight; but in his hand Arundel indeed held the strange, the affecting testimonials of his birth—so long concealed, so wonderfully brought to light. That Verney had robbed his lord could not be doubted; so often doth "even handed justice

Had the speed with which Arundel returned to town allowed more time for reflection, how new, [Page 108] how brilliant was the prospect that now opened before him! To conceal his birth was once easy, but to trace it could no longer be difficult. Miss Villiers raised to fortune and rank by his means—miss Villiers, the ornament of his family, and the restorer of her own, swam before his imagi­nation, and diffused an enchanting sense of plea­sure throughout his heart—a pleasure softened into grateful sensibility, when he recollected that he was paying to the daughter of Mortimer, those dues his affection vainly lavished on the ashes of the father.

To captain Villiers his return was as desirable as unexpected. A chance enquiry had already discovered to him that Arundel was the original name of the Lindsey family; and a comparison of circumstances had inspired him with a suspi­cion of that truth now so wonderfully confirmed. Yet Arundel the legal son, the heir of a noble name, surpassed even his most sanguine expecta­tions; and, in a tumult of various emotions, both friends repaired to the house of lord Lindsey, whose concern in the death of Mortimer, how­ever, Arundel carefully suppressed. They were told he was indisposed, and could see no one, but to a subterfuge apparently the result either of [Page 109] cunning, or pride, neither gave credit; and the following billet was by their mutual desire sent up to him.

"My lord wishes to speak to mr. Arundel," said the servant, returning; "but captain Villiers he begs will excuse him."

The verbal message, the oftentatious approach, the ceremonious introduction, had already, in the bosom of Arundel, repelled the generous tide of nature. Oh God! how did the impetuous cur­rent return upon his heart, when, stretched on a couch at one end of a magnificent dressing-room, he cast his eyes on the spectre of that gay, and beautiful Lindsey, whom he had parted with but six weeks before, blooming in health, and vigour­ous in youth!—A sigh—almost a groan of exqui­site anguish burst from the heart of Arundel, as, [Page 110] the hand of his brother, he bent his face over it in womanish emotion. The short and sudden cough—the agonizing pain that seemed to seize upon lord Lindsey, as instantly recalled his reason.

"My brother—my friend!" cried he incohe­rently, "recover—compose yourself. I come not to upbraid. Oh, why," added he more vehe­mently, "did I mistrust your message? Why did I thus suddenly force myself upon you?" Lord Lindsey, choked by agitation, could not speak; and Arundel, unable to witness sufferings he could not assuage, flew into the anti-chamber, while the attendants administered relief. From one of them he learnt what had in part effected this devasta­tion. Lord Lindsey, a month before, had at­tended a rural fête given by the duchess of Ports­mouth, where, after a night of dancing and vio­lent excess, he had fallen asleep, undiscovered for many hours, upon the wet grass. The servant had no time for further information. Recalled by the found of his brother's voice, Arundel ea­gerly returned to the apartment. The former tenderly pressed his hand, and by slow and painful efforts was now able to speak. But the long-la­vished hours of prosperity and health, that make atonement virtue, were lost to Lindsey; and [Page 111] though in speaking he failed not to render Arundel a noble justice, yet from it, his own bosom ex­tracted not that balm which might in happier days have proved so healing.

It was not, however, without an exquisite sense of suffering, that his generous brother discovered Verney to be a principal instrument in the catas­trophe which the appearance of Lindsey an­nounced to be so near; a suffering considerably augmented, when he found that it was to a latent spark of tenderness and remorse in the latter, he had owed the two hundred pounds lodged for his use at the banker's.

Hardly had lord Lindsey got rid of some of those alarming symptoms which were produced by the violent and dangerous cold he had taken, when Verney, who was dressing him, one morn­ing encroached so far upon his usual insolence as to exasperate a temper already peevish and fretful. In a transport of rage, lord Lindsey struck him. The brutal precedent was not lost: Verney re­turned the blow. A violent struggle ensued be­tween them; and before Lindsey had either time or recollection to ring his bell, he was thrown against a cabinet that stood near, with a force that [Page 112] left him breathless: while Verney, early seduced to villany, now profited by the lesson, and escaped with such valuables and papers as he deemed most likely to secure him either impunity or revenge.

Lindsey revived: but severe irritation and inter­nal injury had done the work of time; and he re­vived only to know that he was dying.

Yet within the sweet circle of love and virtue there is an atmosphere that renders death less pain­ful! Arundel, Villiers, his sister, all united their cares in alleviating his sufferings; and the acute­ness of disease subsided into insensible decay.

"I give you, miss Villiers," said Lindsey on the day that united her with his brother, "an inva­luable heart. I shall soon leave you," added he faintly smiling, "those worldly advantages to which that alone gives true nobility."

Ah, what could nobility add to the happiness of Arundel and Henrietta! Love, friendship, com­petence! "Flowers of Paradise as yet unsaded," are in themselves, to tender and well-regulated minds, "all they can guess of Heaven."