consulted me, instead of studying the point under great disadvantages in his own chamber?"

"And if," said Eustace," that student were to tell you that he could not have received any intelligence less agreeable to him than that you had so kindly afforded ;—if he were to say that he never coveted the forgiveness of that rich and fair lady, and had never given her the least reason to believe that he coveted it ;-if he were to say that the unconquerable passions which had possession of his soul were directed towards an object so exalted, that he who had dared to raise his imagination to it, even in his wildest moments, could never again waste a thought upon such a person,oh! what relief could even you afford him then?"

"Mr. Green," said Lady Edward, in an agitated voice, "there are no passions in the soul which are unconquerable-none but such as time, if not we, may win a victory over. That doctrine is a true one; it is one which we must all receive one day, and the sooner we submit to it the better. If I thought I should not be tiring, I would relate to you some adventures that befel an Irish lady with whom I was nearly and intimately acquainted, which might convince the most obstinate doubter. The story may throw a little light upon the feeling of our sex, and so perhaps induce

you to regard with more tolerance some passages in my conversation and conduct which I fear have seemed unaccountable to you."

Eustace, without entire sincerity perhaps, thanked her for her proposal, and she began as follows::

CHAPTER XIII.

All we that are call'd women know as well
As men, it were a far more noble thing
To grace where we are graced, and give respect
There where we are respected; yet we practise
A wilder course, and never bend our eyes
On men with pleasure, till they find the way
To give us a neglect: then we, too late,
Perceive the loss of what we might have had,
And doat to death.

BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

"THE lady of whom I speak, Mr. Green, was the daughter of the kindest and best of men. His virtues in every relation-as a husband, a friend, a landlord, and a legislator-were the theme of every one's praise. In one point alone, he was thought to have erred: he was universally accused of injuring, by over-indulgence, the youngest of the girls, whom Providence had committed to his care. That she was seldom denied any thing which she asked for, and that the gift was generally accompanied by a word or a look which

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was sweeter than itself, was most true. sible, too, that he might have shown somewhat more partiality for the little creature, who always ran across the lawn to greet him upon his arrival from a journey-who would sit for hours upon his knee, listening to his stories, and was never so happy as when he smiled upon her-than for her boisterous brothers, who loved any companion better than him: but, judging from what I saw of her, and I knew her well, I never could believe that he was the cause of any of the misfortunes which befel her in after-life. I fancy at least she always said so, and she spoke, I suppose, from what she felt-that it was rather the capricious treatment she endured from the other branches of the family, than the unvarying kindness she experienced from him, which first awakened the evil passions of her character. From her infancy the child was lively, indiscreet, and volatile; acting sometimes upon good impulses, sometimes upon bad ones, but certainly never from any forethought about the consequences of her actions. Her father, I believe, was as anxious as the rest of her family that these impulses should be well directed, but it was never his wish to see them crushed. Perhaps he was convinced that his daughter never could be made so worldlywise as her neighbours; or he had seen, in his commerce with society, which had been very ex

tensive, enough to make him believe that worldly wisdom is not the best principle of conduct. I cannot tell how this was; but certainly, as I have said, his mode of treatment was every way different from that of her other relations. He liked to encourage her liveliness, to make her feel that she was at her ease, and could say and do what she pleased as much in his company as if she were alone. He seemed to think that, as selfdenial is the greatest, the hardest of all duties, grown-up people should practise more of it than children; and so he made a great many more sacrifices to them than he expected from them. Well, I must not linger in this part of my story: it is enough to say that this was not the creed of my-of the young lady's mother and elder sisters; that they and the majority of her relations thought themselves bound, by regard to her future welfare, not to let her be spoilt by the curious speculations of her father. For this purpose, you must not suppose they resorted to what are called violent measures. My friend's was not the childhood of a heroine or a martyr. She went through no persecutions that would deserve a place in a novel. Hard speeches, averted looks, cold smiles, corrections of her pertness when she asked any of the family questions, and checks upon her disagreeable fondness if she kissed them,-these