Monday and two o'clock found Emily in Harley Street, rather sooner than she was expected, as was evident from that silken rustle which marks a female retreat. A discreet visitor on such occasions advances straight to the window or the glass: Emily did the latter; and five minutes of contemplation ascertained the fact that her capote Though the word more often means a long cloak, in this case it seems more likely to refer to a "close-fitting cap" ( . would endure a slight tendency to the left. She then took a seat on the hard, or, as they say of hounds, the hide-bound sofa—the five minutes lengthened into twenty, and she sought for amusement at a most literary-looking table. Alas! she had read the novels—for treatises she had no taste—and two German volumes, and three Latin, together with a scientific journal, gave her a cold chill. While thus employed, a red-faced, loud-voiced servant girl threw open the door, and howled, 'If you please, ma'am, Master Adolphus has thrown the Library of Entertaining Knowledge at Master Alfred's head, because he tore the Catechism of Conchology;' but before Miss Arundel could express her regret at such misapplication of knowledge, the girl had vanished in all the dismay of a mistake.

At last Mrs. Smithson appeared. 'My dear Emily, you have waited—I forgot to tell you that I devote the early part of the day to the dear children—I never allow my literary and domestic duties to interfere: you cannot commence the important business of education too soon, and I am but just emerged from the study.'

This was a little at variance both with servant's appearance and her own laboured toilette, whose want of neatness was the result of hurry and bad taste, not of after-disorganisation. It is amazing how oppressive is the cleverness of some people, as if it were quite a duty in you to be clever too—or, as I once heard a little child say, 'Oh, mamma, I always speak to Mrs. S. in such dictionary words!'

'Slowly and sadly' did the morning pass. Alas! for the victim of friendship, whom sentiment or silliness seduces into passing a long day! The upright sitting on the repulsive sofa—the mental exhaustion in searching after topics of conversation, which, like the breeze in Byron's description of a calm, 'come not'—the gossip that, out of sheer desperation, darkens into scandal; if ever friends or feelings are sacrificed under temptation too strong to be resisted, it is in the conversational pauses of a long day; and worst of all, a long day between people who have scarcely an idea or an acquaintance in common, for the one to be exchanged, or the other abused—communication or condemnation equally out of the question. Mrs. Smithson secretly pitied herself for wasting her colloquial powers on that social non-entity, a young lady; and Miss Arundel was somewhat bewildered by the march of her former friend's intellect. Divers of those elegant harmonies, which make musical the flight of time in London, verified the old rhyme, that Come what may, Time and the tide wear through the roughest day. Shakespeare, Act I, scene iii, lines 146-7, slightly altered.

The muffin-boy announced three o'clock—the pot-boy clanking his empty pewter was symptomatic of four—the bellman tolling the knell of the post announced five—and, at length, a heavy hard-hearted rap proclaimed the return of Mr. Smithson; a gruff voice was hear in the passage—a ponderous step on the stairs—the door and his boots creaked, and in came the author of the treatise on bats and beetles, followed by a blue-coated, nankeen-trousered young man, whose countenance and curls united that happy mixture of carmine and charcoal which constitute the Apollo of a Compton Street counter.At the time of this writing, Compton Street was a commercial hub in an area that attracted a substantial population of exiles, particularly from France. Mr. Smithson was equally sullen and solemn-looking, with a mouth made only to swear, and a brow to scowl—a tyrant in a small way—one who would be arbitrary about a hash, and obstinate respecting an oyster—one of those tempers which, like a domestic east wind, 'sparks neither man nor beast,' from the unhappy footman that he cursed, to the unlucky dog that he kicked.

A minute specimen of humanity, in a livery like a jealous lover's, of 'green and yellow melancholy,' announced dinner. Mr. Smithson stalked up to Emily, Mr. Perkins simpered up to the hostess, and they entered a dismal-looking parlour, whose brick-red walls and ditto curtains were scantily lighted by a single lamp, though it was of the last new patent—to which a dim fire, in its first stage of infant weakness, gave small assistance.

Mr. Smithson, who, as member of a public office, thought that church and state ought to be supported,—which support he conceived to consist in strict adherence to certain forms,—muttered something which sounded much more like a growl than a grace, and dinner commenced.

At the top was a cod's shoulders and head, whose intellectual faculties were rather over much developed; and at the bottom was soup called Mulligatawny—some indefinite mixture of curry powder and duck's feet, the first spoonful of which called from its master a look of thunder and lightning up the table. To this succeeded a couple of most cadaverous fowls, a huge haunch of mutton, raw and red enough even for an Abyssinian, flanked by rissoles and oyster patties, which had evidently, like Tom Tough,Central speaking character of a song by Charles Dibdin. seen 'a deal of service:' these were followed by some sort of nameless pudding—and so much for the luxury of a family dinner, which is enough to make one beg next time to be treated as a stranger.

Conversation there was none—Mr. Smithson kindly sparing the lungs of his friends, at the expense of his own. First, the fire was sworn at—then, the draught from the door—then, the poor little footboy was encouraged by the pleasant intelligence that he was the stupidest blockhead in the world. Mr. Perkins sat preserving his silence and his simper: and to the lady of the house it was evidently quite matter of habit—a sort of accompaniment she would almost have missed.

The truth is, Mr. Smithson had just married some twenty years too late—with his habits, like his features, quite set, and both in a harsh mould. Young Lady! looking out for an establishment—mediating on the delights of a house of your own—two maids and a man, over whom you are set in absolute authority—do anything rather than marry a confirmed bachelor—venture on one who has been successful with seven succeeding wives, with ten small children ready made to order—walk off with some tall youth, who considers a wife and a razor definitive signs of his growth and his sense; but shun the establishment of a bachelor who has hung a pendulum between temptation and prudence till the age of——; but of all subjects, age is the one on which it is most invidious to descant.

The cloth was removed, and sudden commotion filled the passage: At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell, &c. &c. &c. Sir Walter Scott, Canto VI, Stanza xvii, lines 1-2. and in came Master Adolphus and Master Alfred in full cry, having disputed by the way which was to go first—also a baby, eloquent as infancy usually is, and, like most youthful orators, more easily heard than understood. The boys quartered themselves on the unfortunate strangers; and Mrs. Smithson took the infant, which Emily duly declared was the sweetest little creature she had ever seen. On going up stairs, Emily found Mlle. Hyacinthe shivering—for, with the usual inhumanity of friends, there was no fire; and it was one of those wet, miserable evenings, gratis copies distributed by November through the year. i. 123.

Mr. Eavesdrop.—Me Sir! What have I done, Sir, that I am to be poisoned, Sir?

The Rev. Dr. Folliott.—Sir, you have published a character of your facetious friend, the Rev. Dr. F., wherein you have sketched off me: me, Sir, even to my nose and wig. What business have the public with my nose and wig?

Mr. E.—Sir, it is all good-humoured: all in bonhommie: all friendly and complimentary.

Rev. Dr. F.—Sir, you have been very unfacetious. You have dished me up like a savory omelette, to gratify the appetite of the reading rabble for gossip. The next time, Sir, I will respond with the argumentum baculinum. Print that, Sir: put it on record as a promise of the Rev. Dr. F. which shall be most faithfully kept with an exemplary bamboo.

Mr. E.—Your cloth protects you, Sir.

Rev. Dr. F.—My bamboo shall protect me, Sir.

Mr. Crotchet.—Doctor, Doctor, you are growing too polemical.

Rev. Dr. F.—Sir, my blood boils. What business have the public with my nose and wig?"

No one person in a thousand is capable of a real passion—that intense and overwhelming feeling, before which all others sink into nothingness. It asks for head and heart—now, many are deficient in both. Idleness and vanity cause, in nine cases out of ten, that state of excitement which is called being in love. I have heard some even talk of their disappointments, as if such a word could be used in the plural. To be crossed in love, forsooth—why, such a heart could bear as many crosses as a raspberry tart.

But Beatrice loved with all the vividness of unwasted and unworn feeling, and with all the confidence of youth. Proud, earnest, and enthusiastic, passion was touched with all the poetry of her own nature. Her lover was the idol, invested by her ardent imagination with all humanity's 'highest attributes.' Undegraded by the ideas of flirtation, vanity, interest, or establishment, her love was as simple as it was beautiful. Her life had passed in solitude, but it had been the solitude of both refinement and exertion. She was unworldly, but not untaught. She had read extensively and variously. Much of her reading had been of a kind unusual to either her sex or age; but she had loved to talk with her father on the subjects which engaged him; and the investigations which were to analyze the state of mankind, and the theories which were to ameliorate it, became to her matters of attraction, because they were also those of affection.

Natural scenery has no influence on the character till associated with human feelings: the poet repays his inspiration by the interest he flings round the objects which inspired it. Beatrice had early learnt this association of nature with humanity. She was as well acquainted with the English literature and language as with her own; and the melancholy and reflective character of its poetry suited well a young spirit early broken by sorrow, and left, moreover, to entire loneliness. The danger of a youth so spent was, that the mind would become too ideal—that mornings, passed with some favourite volume by the dropping fountain, or beneath the shadowy ilex, would induce habits of romantic dreaming, utterly at variance with the stern necessities of life.

But Beatrice had been forced into a wholesome course of active exertion. Obliged to think and to act for herself—to have others dependent on her efforts—to know that each day brought its employment, her mind strengthened with its discipline. The duties that excited also invigorated. The keen feeling, the delicate taste, were accustomed to subjection, and romance refined, without weakening.

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Beatrice was grave; silent, except when much interested; reserved, save when under the influence of some strong feeling; with manners whose refinement was that of inherently pure taste, and much mental cultivation, touched, too, with the native grace inseparable from the very beautiful: self-possessed, from self-reliance, and with a stately bearing, which—call it prejudice, or pride, or dignity—spoke the consciousness of high descent, and an unquestioned superiority. The pride of birth is a noble feeling.

Lorraine, on the contrary, was animated—more likely to be amused than excited—with a general expression of indifference not easily roused to interest. His manners had that fine polish only to be given by society, and that of the best. His thoughts and feelings were kept in the back-ground—not from native reserve, but from fear of raillery—that suspicion of our hearers which is one of the first lessons taught in the world. His habits were luxurious—hers were simple; he was witty and sarcastic—she scarcely understood the meaning of ridicule; his rules of action were many—as those rules must be on which the judgments of others are to operate—hers were only those of right and wrong. A whole life spent in society inevitably refers its action to the general opinion. Beatrice, as yet, looked not beyond the action itself.

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Some slight chance usually rivets the attention; it did so now. On one of the tablets were inscribed various names of an apparently large family, the dates of the different deaths singularly near to each other. Emily felt as if her own solitary situation had never weighted upon her thoughts till now. 'Many are kind to me, but none care for me.' Youth with its affection an impulse and a delight, judges others by itself, and exaggerates its claims.

Strange it is that people (unless in the way of ostentation) never value the blessings they possess. But if life has a happiness over which the primeval curse has passed and harmed not, it is the early and long-enduring affection of blood and habit. The passion which concentrates its strength and beauty upon one, is a rich and terrible stake, the end whereof is death;—the living light of existence is burnt out in an hour—and what remains? The dust and the darkness. But the love which is born in childhood—an instinct deepening into a principle—retains to the end something of the freshness belonging to the hour of its birth: the amusement partaken—the trifling quarrel made up—the sorrows shared together—the punishment in which all were involved—the plans for the future, so fairytale-like and so false, in which all indulged: so true it is that love's slightest links are its strongest!

There is something inexpressibly touching in the story of Ishmael, the youth who was sent into the wilderness of life with his bow and his arrow, 'his hand against every man, and every man's hand against him.' Even in our crowded, busy, and social world, on how many is this doom pronounced! What love makes allowances like household love?—what takes an interest in small sorrows and small successes like household love? God forgive those (and I would not even say forgive, were not Divine mercy illimitable,) who turn the household alter to a place of strife! Domestic dissension is the sacrilege of the heart. iii. 89-117.