now. At this, not only his integrity was disgusted, but his self-love was alarmed. There was nothing he dreaded so much as the chance of not being beloved for his own sake.

Yet as we have said he was susceptible (and he certainly was so), one would have supposed there had been opportunity of putting this out of doubt, before his hopes were, as he said, marred by his attainment to wealth; they were marred, however, by himself; for his own nice breeding and habits prevented his inclinations, for the most part, from going beyond a certain point. His enemies, or rather his enviers (of whom he had not a few), gave an air even of ridicule to some of what they called his amourettes: for they said he was too fine for an amour. It was said too (and in this there was some truth) that in his youth he had conceived a passion for the handsome daughter of the head of the college to which he belonged; that the inclination was even mutual, and that all expected a marriage; but that the whole affair was put an end to in a moment, by the unhappy accident of a windy walk up Headington hill. It was not that the fair one's leg was either thick or crooked: for it was even remarkably well shaped. But the scandal went on to say, that a garter, which happened to fall on the occasion, was considerably the worse for wear. Certain it is that the affair was broken off immediately; nor could all

the kind and graceful looks, nor the real merit of the lady, afterwards move him!

Another growing passion was reported to have been nipt in the bud, by the fair one being not sufficiently sentimental; a third, by her being too much so; a fourth, by his detecting her in reading Tom Jones; a fifth, by her having eaten her peas with a knife; and scandal added that one of his predilections for a young lady of the very first quality in France, was sickened to death, by her telling him one day qu'elle avait pris médecine !

Had this sensible though fastidious heart never, then, met with an object which he thought really worthy its attachment? Yes! and the event coloured much of his life. It is rather a long story, and the reader might possibly be content to escape it; but as it developes much of the character and heart of this refined, yet romantic man, we must afford a few minutes to its relation.

It was on a May evening, in the province of Auvergne in France, that Tremaine found himself on the banks of the little river Allier; which, after watering this beautiful province, falls into the Loire. It was after his accession to fortune. The sun had just set; and those who have ever known the climate of the countries adjacent to the Loire, are acquainted with the impressions made on the senses by the softest air in the world, tempering the

glow of the retreating day. The rippling of the stream, a wooded bank, a thousand flowers, a thousand birds-all seemed to speak to the heart.

Tremaine was alone: he had left his carriage and servants at Limoges, in the Limousin; and in a fit of musing, but not of moping melancholy-and, it may be added, in a fit of exertion not over common with him-he had resolved to explore this part of France on horseback,-where, however, the landscapes were much more beautiful than the roads were good.

He took with him only a French guide for a servant. His loneliness soothed but did not oppress him; for he had lately been plunged in the very depths of French dissipation; and a solitary walk in such a scene seemed at this moment the most suited to his taste of any thing in the world. His heart expanded to the touch of nature; but yet there was a void in it.

"Is it not strange," said he to himself as he surveyed the landscape, “that I should always be viewing these scenes by myself, and that, at eight and twenty, the loveliest part of the creation should to me still be as nothing?"

He thought over all the fair beings to whom he had ever felt inclined, regretted none of them, and began to think (to him a strange speculation) that in the upper ranks, though there was more elegance of manner, there was less of that real feeling

which constitutes the love he sighed to meet with. He seemed even to think there might be more probability of finding it in the middling, perhaps even in the lower classes of society. "What signifies it," continued he, "where I meet with it? Will not my own rank elevate and illustrate whomsoever I please ?"

The murmur of the water had now subsided a few minutes, when from the other side of an hedge of sweet shrubs, which enclosed a small garden, his ear was struck with sounds which in that place absolutely astonished him.

It was the voice of a young female reading Milton in English, with a tone and feeling which, even in England, would have been charming. Another voice now and then interposing, shewed that the reader was not alone; and the few sentences that passed, proved the persons to be mother and daughter.

The passage which Tremaine last heard, was that so well known, beginning with,

"Sweet is the breath of morn," &c.

The young unknown read it with a tenderness which did not fail to strike on the heart of the hearer, any more than the observation that followed. "Oh! my dear mother, what happiness is here described; and how does my heart swell whenever

I think of such conjugal tenderness! If ever I have a husband, oh! how I shall love him!"

"'Tis well, my dear,” replied the mother, "that we are alone: else such a speech, though the most natural in the world, might subject you to ill-natured interpretations. You are so naïve and so young, that people who did not know, might not understand you. But Heaven forbid, my dear Eugenia, that you should not express your feelings before your mother."

"Ah!" replied Eugenia with a sigh, "how can it be wrong to express one's feelings before any one?"

Deeply did these words impress themselves on Mr. Tremaine, and willingly would he have heard more; but while a vague thought struck upon his 'mind, that here was a pure unsophisticated being, such as his fancy had coveted, he felt himself in the situation of a listener; and therefore, merely with a view to shew that some one was nigh, he began to call' alcud in English to a spaniel he had with him.

His voice alarmed the two recluses, who immediately left their seats; yet, struck with curiosity to know how a countryman could be so near them in such a part of the world.

The curiosity was at the very least partaken; and no wonder, therefore, as the ladies had to cross the road from the garden to their house, that no