male kneeling at the shrine of the Virgin in most absorbing and earnest prayer. Perhaps the most striking, as the most picturesque change in costume, is the veil universally worn in Italy; and but that the present day does not pique itself on its romance, it were matter of marvel how a woman could ever be induced to abandon an article of dress so full of poetical and graceful association. A veiled lady either is, or ought to be, enough to turn the head of any cavalier under five-andtwenty. It was, however, admiration, not curiosity, the kneeling female excited; for her veil had fallen back, and her face, only shadowed by a profusion of loose black ringlets, was fully seen. It was perfect: the high noble forehead---the large melancholy eyes---the delicately chiseled oval of the cheek -the small red mouth, belonged to the highest and most superb order of beauty; a sadness stole over its expression of devotional fervour-she suddenly buried her face in her hands when she raised her head again, the long dark eyelashes were glittering with tears. She rose, and Algernon followed her, more from an impulse than an intention; she stopped and unlocked a small door-it belonged to the convent garden adjoining--and there entering, disappeared. But Algernon had had ample time to fall desperately in love. He was now at an age when the heart asks for some more real object than the fairy phantoms of its dreams: passions chase fancies; and the time was now come when the imagination would exert its faculty rather to exaggerate than to create. He thought over the sadness of that angel face, as if he were predestined to soothe it---a thousand scenes in which they were to meet glanced over him--till he found himself leaning back in the darkest recess of a box at the Opera, feeling rather than listening to the delicious music which floated through the dim atmosphere, so well suited to the reverie of the lover. How much more is that vague tone of poetry, to be found in almost all, awakened by the obscurity of the foreign theatres!--in ours the lights, the dresses, &c. are too familiar things, and prevent the audience from being carried away by their feelings,---as they are when music and poetry are aided by obscurity like mystery, and silence deep as thought. A murmur of applause, and a burst of song thrilling in its sweetness, aroused Algernon, and, leaning over the front, he saw---her dark hair gathered with three bands of costly diamonds in front, and a starry tiara behind---her crimson robe shining with gold---her dazzlingly white arms raised in eloquent expostulation---her voice filling the air with its melody---in the Medea of the stage he saw the devotee of the Virgin. Pass we over the first steps of attachment---so delicious to tread, but so little pleasant to retrace either for ourselves or others---till another evening of purple sunset saw, in that church where they had first met, Algernon kneeling by the side of the beautiful Francisca, while a priest pronounced the marriage blessing---a pale, aged man, to whose wan lips seemed rather to belong the prayer for the burial than aught that had to do with life or enjoyment. Truly does passion live but in the present. Algernon knew his marriage was not legal; but her he loved was now his by a sacred vow---and when the future came, he might be entirely his own master: the Janus of Love's year may have two faces, but they look only on each other. The worst of a mind so constituted is, that its feelings cannot last, least of all its love; it measures all things by its expectations---and expectations have that sort of ideal beauty no reality can equal: moreover, in the moral as in the physical world, the violent is never the lasting---the tree forced into unnatural luxuriance of blossom bears them and dies. Francisca, beautiful but weak, without power to comprehend, or intellect to take part with her lover, somewhat accelerated the re-action; and Algernon now saw the full extent of the sacrifice he had made, and the mortifications that were to come, since love had no longer strength to bear him through them. If there be one part of life on which the curse spoken at Eden rests in double darkness---if there be one part of life on which is heaped the gathered wretchedness of years, it is the time when guilty love has burnt itself out, and the heart sees crowd around those vain regrets, that deep remorse, whose voices are never heard but in the silence of indifference. Who ever repented or regretted during the reign of that sweet madness when one beloved object was more, ay a thousand times more than the world forgotten for its sake? But when the silver cord of affection is loosen. ed, and the golden bowl of intoxicating passion broken--when that change which passes over all the earth's loveliest has passed, too, over the heart---when that step which was once our sweetest music falls on the ear a fear, not a hope ---when we know that we love no more as once we loved--when memory broods on the past, which yields but a terrible repentance, and hope turns sickening from a future, which is her grave---if there be a part of life where misery and weariness contend together till the agony is greater than we can bear, this is the time. Francisca saw the change, and in a few weeks Algernon was almost startled by the change in her also; but hers was an external change---the bright cheek had lost its colour and outline, and she was wasted, even to emaciation. He was often absent from their villa, wandering in all the restlessness of discontent, in the wild environs of Vesuvius; and on every return did he observe more alteration, when remorse urged to kindness, and he reproached himself bitterly for leaving her so much to solitude. Under this influence he returned suddenly and unexpectedly one day, and sought Francisca in a fit of repenting fondness; a faint moan made him enter the room, and there, on the bare rough pavement knelt Francisca. A coarse dress of sackcloth strangely contrasted with her delicate shape---drops of blood were on the floor---and her slight hand yet held the scourge a shriek told her recognition of Algernon, and she fell senseless on the ground. In her state of bodily weakness, the least sudden emotion was enough to bring on a crisis---and before night she was in a brain fever; from her ravings and a few questions he learnt the cause. She had marked his growing coldness, and, with the wild superstition of the ardent and the weak, had held it as a judgment for loving a heretic; the belief that some fearful judgment was hanging over both grew upon her daily; and by fasts, rigid and severe penance, she. strove to avert the penalty, and obtain pardon. Body and mind alike sank under this; and she died in a fearful paroxysm of terror, without one sign of recognition in Algernon's arms. He returned to England too late to see his father living; and the first object he met in the old chesnut avenue were the black horses, the dark plumes of the hearse, which were bearing Lord Etheringhame to the vault of his ancestors. Algernon thenceforth lived in the deepest seclusion: one only object yet had an interest for him---his younger brother; perhaps the very loneliness of his affection made it the deeper. In many points of character Edward resembled his brother; but he had an energy which the other had not a bouyancy of spirit, to which difficulty was a delight. As he advanced in life, many an effort did he make to rouse Lord Etheringhame from his lethargy, but in vain. Grief, after all, is like smoking in a damp country---what was at first a necessity becomes afterwards an indulgence. CHAPTER XIV. "Will you come and spend a long day with me?" Penalties of Friendship. "To all and singular in this full meeting, "Delightful and intellectual society."—False Concords. Ladies and gallants, Phoebus sends you greeting; Is placed in lofty rhyme and humble sense, Who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme." DRYDEN. "Look you, friend, it is nothing to me whether you believe it or not; what I say is true."-Love for Love. Or all places, London is the best for an incognita acquaintance; cards may be exchanged to all eternity without a meeting, and the various circles revolve like planets in their different systems, utterly unconscious of the means and modes of each other's existence. A friend, whom Emily had earnestly, though unsuccessfully, endeavoured to see, thanks to a headach of Lady Alicia's, found them at home. This was a Mrs. Smithson, who had formerly been Emily's governess; and our heroine was still young enough for the attraction of friendship, to recall with rapture her first readings of Matilde and the Corsair, and to remember with delight her first essay as confidante. Miss Hughes being in love at the time, had only left Arundel Hall to become the wife of Mr. Smithson; a gentleman whose station and salary now authorised his taking a house and a wife, and, at forty-five, instituting a new search after happiness. Mrs. Smithson entered the room, and received Emily's welcome and embrace evidently a little disorganized by the latter; not but that she was very glad to see her former pupil, but it is very trying to have the drapery of one's shawl destroyed. A few moments; and they were conversing with true feminine fluency. Emily had to mention the curate's marriage, the death of the apothecary, and to say how well both uncle and aunt were. Mrs. Smithson had to state that she had three children-to wonder that Emily had grown so much-and each had to rejoice over meeting with the other. Besides, there was a most interesting subject to be discussed; Mrs. Smithson had enchanted the world with a novel-not a person less than a baronet figured in its pages-the heroine had a most authentic milliner-it was rumoured that Lady Holdernesse was the Marchioness of L.; and, altogether it had had the most circulating success. Moreover she had something to say about her husband, who had written a treatise on bats and beetles. Emily was at that happy age which takes so much on trust; and her praise was quite elaborate in its enthusiasm. What a charm there must be in praise, when it consoles for all the miseries and mortifications of literature! The fair and fashionable author now mentioned the object of her visit, which was to induce her young friend to spend a long day with her, to which her young friend readily assented. "I shall be delighted-I will come early-you will excuse my dining in a morning dress-and we shall have such a delightful chat." 66 Mrs. Smithson's face perceptibly lengthened at the words "morning dress." Why, my sweet girl, Monday is my little conversazione; my literary pursuits require literary connexions--only a very small circle, but all talented people; however, you will look well in any thing." But before the Aspasia of Marylebone departed, it was settled that Emily's maid should be in Harley-street to attend to the necessary change of costume; and, this important arrangement decided, Mrs. Smithson's green pelisse and blue bonnet departed--blue and green, like the title of an old novel, "paired but not matched." By the by, how much bad taste is shewn in the selection of colours! upon the folly of modern liberty, which has abolished sumptuary laws, and left us to all the horrors of our own inventions? Liberty of conscience is bad enough-the liberty of the press is still worse-but worst of all is liberty of taste in dress to common people. Out 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 would endure |