my head down, and in that position I continued during the delivery of the sermon. No part of the good curate's dis course was lost upon me. The subject was "the Return of the Prodigal Son;" and that beautiful parable the preacher illustrated in a manner so simple and so natural, that the most ignorant congregation must have been instructed and affected by it. Thus he led his hearers into a holier state of feeling by such powerful persuasions of the excellence of virtue, that all seemed to follow his guidance with an irresistible impulse. There appeared to be so much in his sermon applicable to myself, that I listened to it with interest. Every truth struck home. I felt emotions the most overpowering. So deep an influence did the discourse possess over me that I retained my humiliating position, and reflected upon the wisdom I had heard long after the preacher had concluded. Suddenly I became conscious of the awful stillness by which I was surrounded, and looking up, discovered that I was alone. As I was returning from the church, wrapt up in a profound and solemn reverie, I heard footsteps near me. "How beautiful appears everything around us!" exclaimed the Rev. Mark Thoroughgood. "What a feeling of gladness and excellence is breathed over the face of nature! I never walk out without feeling a more intense enjoyment in the loveliness of this glorious world; and there appears to me in all this bounteous array of innocent pleasures a spirit of such divine intelligence, that my heart is ever rising from admiration into worship. A poet-one of the best, the purest, the most sincere of noets-savs of nature """Tis her privilege Through all the years of this our life, to lead I was more gratified than annoyed by this interruption; for there was something so soothing in the conversation of my old friend, that I always felt happier in mind when in his society. "Yes, 'tis all fair, exquisitely fair!" I replied; "but how evanescent ! The sun that flings his golden gifts so liberally on this scene, in a few hours will shrink beyond our sight and leave us all in darkness; the flowers that lift up their heads so proudly from the earth, in a brief season will die, and the earth will become barren. Nothing is immortal!" "Nay, my dear friend!" said the good curate, mildly, 66 you take a very erroneous and unprofitable view of these things. When the sun sets, does he not rise in other lands, and again appear in all his glory in our own? If the flowers wither, are we not well convinced that in their proper season they will rebloom in all their original freshness? Instead of the hopeless doctrine you have asserted, that everything decays, it is more evident that nothing perishes: the sun never sets, the flowers never die ?" "Then why by this alternate change of light and darkness, of death and life, is human nature continually made the victim of its hopes and fears? Man seems destined to be the sport of two contending powers-good and evil.” 66 People talk of the secrets of destiny," said my com panion, with a smile, " as if they had heard Time babbling them to Eternity, and seem as familiar with the future as if they had discovered some northwest passage to its unknown shores; but those persons who thus talk are ignorant gossips, in whom fate will place no confidence till death becomes a surety for their trustworthiness; and all who pretend such intimacy with 'that bourne from whence no traveller returns,' are too much attached to existence to attempt so hazardous a journey. If those dissatisfied philosophers, who are fond of ever glancing back to the past, or of looking forward to the future, would take the trouble of well regarding the present, the season of human happiness would appear prolonged, because no opportunity of enjoyment would be allowed to escape. 'Take time by the forelook,' while he is within arm's reach-do not attempt to lure him to your side when he loiters among the ancient dwellings of ruin, or drag him back to your feet when he hastens forward to the shadowy regions of futurity; for if you act thus, you will soon enough repent having misapplied a portion of your life in such vain and foolish doings. You are surprised, perhaps, to hear me make use of the jargon of the fatalists; but destiny, in my idea, represents the Divine will. "But I have not answered your question. In my humble opinion, the lights and shadows of life proceed from an admirable arrangement by means of which the creature is enabled to enjoy and appreciate the worth of all created things. Were nature only to wear one expression of countenance, I am afraid her worshippers would soon grow tired of its uniformity. It is this change, this contrast of which you complain, that makes us more heartily love her attractions. But there is no season, as you imagine, in which nature is left entirely destitute of good. There are degrees of lovelincss in her appearances, but no absolute deformity." We walked on in silence for a few minutes. "Who erected that row of little cottages?" said I, pointing to several small and picturesque buildings that appeared to have been recently built. “Ab, my dear sir!" replied the good curate, with all his amiable enthusiasm, "that is one of the many good works that have originated in the pure and generous heart to which the poor of this neighbourhood owe so much. There has scarcely been a practicable scheme of any value having for its object the moral happiness, the useful education, and the increased comfort of the people, which it has not adopted here. The consequence is, that poverty in this parish is unknown, and ignorance and crime are rapidly disappearing. Every labourer by working on his own bit of ground earns enough to provide for himself and family, and finds himself the tenant of a neat and commodious habitation. His children are well instructed. Those that can work find constant employment, and industrious habits and good morals everywhere prevail." "But who has conferred these benefits?" I asked. "Your young and amiable cousin.' "Mention her not!" I exclaimed, sternly. 66 Why not, my dear sir?" said my companion, with an appearance of much surprise. "No matter!" I replied. "She has deceived me!-vilely, basely deceived me! and I would rather hear any name than hers." "Indeed! my dear friend, there must be some mistake," continued the old man, with considerable emotion. "It cannot be. I know her to be incapable of deception. She is the best, the kindest of beings. Be assured you wrong her by so unworthy a judgment. I have known her from a child. I have watched her unpolluted nature in its gradual development, but I never saw the shadow of evil upon its purity." "Ah!" said I, sorrowfully, "I too kept watch and ward over a shrine I wished to keep free from sacrilege as I thought it free from evil; but after all my labour, another worshipper was allowed admission into the temple, and all it contained, all I had so long loved and honoured became, in a brief space, a stranger's property." "Oh, no!" exclaimed the good curate, with more vehemence than I had ever seen him use. "This cannot be. I have as firm a faith in her goodness, as I feel in the truth of salvation. There is some strange delusion here. Come with me to my humble dwelling, and I will put you in possession of a witness that will convince you better than I can of her unchanged and unchangeable excellence!" I followed my old friend to his house, without expecting my conviction of Dora's unworthiness to be removed. "Here!" said he, putting a paper into my hand, "read this; and if it does not prove to you your error, there is neither truth nor honesty beneath heaven." I took the manuscript. I found it to be part of a journal in my cousin's handwriting; and as soon as I reached home I read it. It commenced thus :-- R. 2 CHAPTER III. My cousin's journal.-Dora in the world of fashion, and her attempted abduction by Lord Lupin.-Her temptations, her sufferings, and her love. The manner in which she is affected by my political and literary reputation, and subsequent unpopularity.-The man of the world again. "I HAVE observed with increased inquietude the growing animosity of my aunt for Vincent. She never misses an opportunity of endeavouring to prejudice me against him; and the cause of this unchristian feeling is the attention he pays to Lady Julia Alderney-a rival despot in the world of fashion! Really, my esteemed friend, I am already tired of the gay life I am leading; and if I did not keep a journal of my thoughts as you advised me, I am afraid they would become as frivolous as those of my companions. The folly I see around me is beyond your charitable conception. It is quite humiliating. My position has long ceased to be a pleasant one, and the marchioness has not made it more agreeable. Would you think it possible?-although her ladyship is well aware of the state of my sentiments, she encourages her son in his foolish addresses to me! I have not seen Vincent for several days, but I hear he is actively engaged upon the business of his election. Do tell me how he looks, and everything he says and does. O, I wish my father would let me go back to Herbert! I expect to be scolded for this desire: but if you knew what a gay-uncharitable—abominable world I am living in, you would not be surprised at my impatience. "Lady Brambleberry took me with her to Almack's, a name you have doubtless heard. It means a house in which persons of the highest rank and fashion meet, for the ostensible purpose of enjoying the pleasure of dancing. The rooms were crowded with a very brilliant assemblage. In the course of the evening a circumstance occurred, which is as difficult to relate as to account for. I was listening, or rathera ppeared to be listening, to one of those gentlemanly |