A brilliant water party had been arranged among the exclusives, to go to Richmond, merely to view the scene; it consisted of the Glenmores, Baskervilles, Lady Tenderden, Comtesse Leinsengen, Lady Tilney, Lord Boileau, Sir William Temple, Lord De Chere, Mr. Winyard, Mr. Spencer Newcomb, Comte Leinsengen, and a few other young men of their set.

When the day arrived, Lord Glenmore told his wife that as he was on a committee of the House, he should not be able to accompany her.

"Then I would far rather not go myself."

"Do not be so childish," he said; "for as we could not, at all events, be together, you might just as well be at Richmond as here; and the day is beautiful, so that I hope you will have a pleasant excursion." Lady Glenmore sighed, and hung her head, while a tear came into her eye.

"What is the matter, love?—Has any thing vexed you?—is it any thing which I can remedy?—You know you have only to speak, and your wishes are my laws." He pressed her fondly to his breast as he said this, and she replied:

"Nothing; nothing vexes me, except that we are hardly ever together, as it seems to me—or never, but when in public; and I long for the time when we shall be in the country, and that all our occupations will be mutual; when you are not with me, I find more pleasure in music, or in reading, than in going to parties: for nobody cares for me; and I am sure I return the compliment."

"Nay, my sweet Georgina, this is really nonsense. Are you not courted and paid attention to by every one in the most marked manner?"

"Do not mistake me," she replied; "I have not explained what I mean. As to outward attentions of politeness, oh! yes, I receive them in abundance; but what I intended to make you understand is, that the things I take interest in, and the pleasures I have in view, seem so entirely different from those of the generality of the set I live in, that there is nothing left for me to say; and I often observe that when I do speak, my conversation is either laughed at, or they stare at me as if they did not believe I was serious."

Lord Glenmore smiled, and loved his innocent little wife a thousand times the more for her unsophisticated sweetness; nevertheless, as he was likely always to have a part to play in the great world, he could not help wishing that his wife should be able, without putting any force upon her inclinations, to do so likewise. He therefore said, and speaking rather more seriously than he had done: "Retain always, dearest Georgina, this youth and purity of character; but, for my sake, learn, my love, to endure an intercourse with others who may be of a less pure nature than yourself; but who are yet, from your situation and circumstances, likely to be those with whom you must naturally associate: to please me, then, my dearest Georgina, begin from to-day: put on all your smiles, and let me hear that you are the envy of the women, and the admiration of the men. Remember, love, to please me."

"Any thing to please you," she replied; and she decorated herself with more than usual care. Just as her toilette was about to be completed, Lord Glenmore entered her room with a quantity of lilies of the valley. "Here," he said, "I have brought you your favourite flowers; wear them, love, and let their fragrance remind you of the donor." All this lover-like attention enchanted the person to whom it was addressed, and her eyes sparkled with unwonted brilliancy, and her cheeks were tinged with the glow of pleasure as she fastened her bouquet in her breast. Lord Glenmore, proud of such a wife, as well he might be, handed her into her carriage, and she drove to Lady Tilney's, where the party were to assemble to go to Whitehall stairs.

When she entered the room she found nobody yet arrived; a servant made Lady Tilney's apology, saying she should be dressed shortly. Having played a few airs on the piano-forte, she took up a novel, and was busily employed in its pages when Mr. Leslie Winyard was announced. Lady Glenmore felt embarrassed in his presence, she knew not why, but there was something of fear and flutter that came over her whenever he approached, which she could not command. She arose and curtseyed; and then, as though she had payed him too marked a distinction, she remained awkwardly standing, as though she had taken that position by accident—not in honour of him.

All this was not unobserved by Mr. Winyard. He was too well practised in the ways of women's hearts not to read her's at a glance. At least he occasioned emotion, no matter what emotion. He was not to be seen with indifference—that was enough for him; and he despaired not of turning it to his own advantage. This advantage, however, was not, in the present instance, to be obtained by a coup de main; and assuming an air of polite, but frigid nonchalance, he accosted Lady Glenmore with an expression of surprise at finding her the first-arrived person; and then examined one of the miniatures which hung in a glass cabinet. Lady Glenmore soon recovered her composure, and entered into conversation by asking some of those questions which are merely the opening of conversation. "Yes, I like music," said Mr. Winyard, in answer to one of her questions; "it is one of the very few things which is worth giving one's-self any trouble about. I once learned to sing; the only thing I ever learned." Lady Glenmore laughed; and as her own ingenuous manner returned, she evinced that propensity to being amused by the present moment, which is so natural and so pleasing in youth.

"Will you do me the honour to sing a duet with me?"

"Oh! certainly," she said; and turning over some music which lay scattered on the instrument, she added, "Oh! here is that delightful little duet, 'Sempre piu' which, though not new, is always charming." Mr. Leslie Winyard had a sort of shuddering at the idea that, notwithstanding her general elegance, she might excruciate his ears by an open English pronunciation, and a drawl by way of sentiment; but he had embarked in the danger, and fortunately there was no one in the way to hear if his own talent should be marred. He therefore courageously opened the music leaf; and Lady Glenmore, having touched a few chords, gave an assurance that better things were in store. Nor did she disappoint the promise; her sweet, rich-toned voice had been tutored by Italian taste, and swelled or sunk to every intonation, with a delicacy of feeling which could not be surpassed; the sempre piu t'amo was uttered in the purest enunciation of the language; and Mr. Leslie Winyard thought, if it were only addressed to him, it would be a triumph, which the world he had lived in had not yet afforded. Lady Tilney entered the room while they were yet singing.

"I am glad to find you have not been tired," she said, "waiting for me. I beg you a thousand pardons, Lady Glenmore; but really I had so many things to do to-day—notes, those terrible time destroyers; and then the last number of the Edinburgh Review, together with Mr. Kirchoffer's last work, have so entirely occupied me, I totally forgot how the hours flew past, till Argenbeau told me that you were arrived. However, I hope you find the instrument in good order. Mr. Winyard sings like an angel; and I make no doubt," (looking at him, to ask how far she was right in the assertion) "Lady Glenmore does so likewise."

Mr. Winyard said, "I assure you, Lady Tilney, que voilÀ ce que l'on appelle chanter," indicating Lady Glenmore with a movement of his head, "I had no idea any thing not of the Land of Song could sing in that manner."

"Well, really, you astonish me; why Lady Glenmore keeps all her perfections to herself! But she must really be drawn out, and not suffered to hide her talents in obscurity."

At this moment Lady Tenderden and the Baskervilles entered, and shortly after the remainder of the company. "Well, it is time we should be gone, if we mean to see Richmond," observed Mr. Spencer Newcomb, "though I believe eating Richmond is fully as interesting, and candle-light at any time is better worth seeing than the sun-light; are you not of my opinion, Lady Glenmore?" He addressed himself in preference to her, because he thought she was new enough to be astonished, and astonishment was an homage paid to his power which he well knew he could not extract from any of the rest of the company.

"Both are good," replied Lady Glenmore, "in their proper season."

"A philosophical answer!" cried Sir William; "you did not expect that, did you, Newcomb?"

"No, it is too wise for me," he said, "for it leaves me nothing to say—it is a truism; messieurs et mesdames, je vous avertie, that as I do not like the evening fogs of the river I cannot postpone my departure. Lord Baskerville, Mr. Winyard, will you come with me? I have a voiture a quatre places, and any lady may come that likes." Mr. Leslie Winyard bowed and whispered Lady Glenmore, "would she go?" Lady Tenderden whispered her on the other side, "by all means go, my dear Lady Glenmore, and I will arrange my party in your carriage."

Lady Tenderden's advice was not to be slighted, and Lady Glenmore accordingly accepted Mr. Leslie Winyard's offered arm, and followed Comtesse Leinsengen, who treating her as nobody, as she was generally wont to do every one whom she dared, she entered her carriage and drove off. At Whitehall-stairs they found their boat waiting, the best barge, the most knowing bargemen, and all things in exquisite order—they take their places, and, a band of music following, glide down the stream, and are, or appear to be, in the most harmonious of humours.

"What is become of Glenmore to-day?" asked Lord Gascoigne.

"I am sorry to say he was obliged to be on a committee, and I feel so lonely without him, half my pleasure is gone," replied Lady Glenmore. The men looked at one another—the ladies tittered; there was a pause, and the speaker felt sadly embarrassed, she knew not why. Lady Tenderden whispered to her as they leaned over the boat-side:

"That was a very injudicious speech of your's, my dear; you must learn not to affichÉ these tendernesses; for if you really feel them nobody cares, and people in general only imagine you affect them by way of being singular."

Poor Lady Glenmore made no answer; but was again convinced that she should never like a society in which she was to be so perfectly unnatural. Mr. Leslie Winyard, who saw at a single glance the truth and freshness of Lady Glenmore's character, was certain that it would not do to attempt to gain her good graces by any common-place mode of attack, such as flattery of the person, or intoxicating representations of power, dissipation, and pleasure. He therefore took an opportunity, when the rest of the party were engaged in their own conversation, to approach Lady Glenmore, and having found a seat next to her, he commenced a discourse which he conceived would be more to her taste. Music afforded him an opening; it was a subject on which he spoke elegantly and well, and she listened with pleased attention.

"After all," he observed, "where science and taste have done their utmost to produce perfection, and without these guides certainly nothing will do; even after they have lent their assistance, there is a third ingredient which is given only, and cannot be acquired, without which there will ever remain a flatness, an ineffectiveness, if I may so speak, which renders the whole vapid and inefficient—I mean feeling; and there, indeed, you must know, Lady Glenmore, that you are not wanting." He fixed his eyes on her with an expression which made her blush; but she replied smiling:

"How can you know that, Mr. Winyard?"

"Did I not hear you a short time ago sing 'Sempre piu t'amo'?"

"Oh," she replied, "you judge by that?"

"And can I appeal to a more convincing proof of what I assert? But if I needed any other proof, surely the words, and the look which accompanied the words, when you expressed your regret at Lord Glenmore not being of the party to-day, would be an undoubted corroboration of the fact."

"Oh, that was natural," she said; "it would have been odd could I have done otherwise. But real feeling is a much deeper seated quality than can be judged of by singing a song, or a passing impulse, and I do not own that you can know any thing about me or my feelings."

"Perhaps not," replied Mr. Leslie Winyard, looking grave and humble; "may it be my good fortune to know more of these, and to have the honour and advantage of improving my acquaintance with you."—Here a louder laugh than was usual among the fastidious in manners, interrupted this tÊte-À-tÊte; "will you not allow us to benefit by the wit?" asked Mr. Winyard.

"Oh," said Lady Tenderden, "it is only that Sir William Temple fell asleep, and asked, when he was awoke, for some more maids of honour."—"To be sure," he said, "what does one go to Richmond for, but to eat those exquisite compositions. If all maids of honour were like them, I am sure their race would be more in vogue than it is. I would give a hundred or two to have the receipt, for notwithstanding that I have brought my cook disguised en valet de chambre a thousand times, he never could find out the secret; neither has he been able, with all his art, to produce any precise fac-simile."

"Ah!" exclaimed Lord Gascoigne, "that is the true spirit of philanthropy; a hundred or two for a receipt to make cheesecakes! while we have such men in the state we need not be under any apprehension that the arts and sciences will fail."

"Yes, arts and sciences, my Lord Gascoigne; for I affirm that the pleasures of the table require one to be an adept, both in order to procure and preserve them in perfection. Who will deny that the cultivation and use of the animals, and vegetables, and elements, that are employed, do not include all these, not to speak of the main d'oeuvre."

"I am not disputing the fact," said Lord Gascoigne; "why did you address yourself to me? On the contrary, I am so well convinced of it, that I pay my cook a hundred a year: but the rascal threatens to leave me if I do not raise his wages."

"I cannot be surprised at that," said Lord Baskerville, "for I give mine two, and he is only a second-rate performer."

"It is vastly extravagant," cried Lady Tilney; "however, one need not do it if one does not chuse; and, after all, it is not too much to pay a man to become a salamander."

"Oh," cried the Comtesse Leinsengen, "ils son fait au feu ces gens-lÀ, they are good for nothing else, and if you were not to yield to them, you would have them for half de money; but you are all des dupes in England. You think the more you pay, de grander you are, that is the truth."

"Well, my dear Comtesse," rejoined Lord Baskerville, "that is all very well to say, but I am certain that you never would get any body to serve you if you did not pay him well; and I must declare that I had rather give a hundred or two more to my cook, than to any other servant in my house; for one's whole domestic comfort depends upon one's cook, don't you think so, Temple?"

"I was always of opinion that you were a wise man, and I am now confirmed in that opinion. Most indubitably one's cook is the great nucleus upon which one's whole existence, mental and physical, depends; for if you eat of a bad greasy ragoÛt, the physique immediately suffers, and then bilious hypochondria ensues, and one's friends are the victims of one's indigestion; and all the economy of life, in short, goes wrong, if there is a failure in that department."

"Nobody has ever denied," observed Mr. Spencer Newcomb, "que le bonheur est dans l'estomac, and that happiness depends very much on what one eats—and what one eats depends upon the cook. I hold it to be an incontrovertible maxim, que le bonheur des bonheurs is to have a cordon bleu at one's command—even the ladies will agree with me."

"Certainly," said Lady Baskerville, "I account it to be one of the requisites of life."

"Yes," rejoined Mr. Winyard; "for a lady ought to appreciate the beauty of every thing, even of a poulet santÉ aux truffes; and though I cannot endure a woman to have what is vulgarly called a good appetite—a sort of beef and cabbage voraciousness—I like her to know the various flavours and high-wrought refinements of the palate. Indeed, I am sure she is always vulgar if she does not. But here, we are nearly at the landing-place; and now let us hope to put our theories in practice, and find in this rural retreat a change of viands to recreate and stimulate our somewhat palsied palates."

As the ladies were gathering up their shawls and reticules, Lady Glenmore stooped down to arrange a part of her dress, and the lilies of the valley her husband had given her fell into the water. She made an exclamation, and attempted to catch them, but a breeze bore them beyond her reach. "Oh my nosegay! I would not lose it for the world," she cried.

Mr. Leslie Winyard looking in her face, and seeing that she was eager in her wish to recover the flowers, hastily darted from another part of the boat; and in making an effort to catch them, lost his balance, and fell into the water. As they were literally on the shore, there was no sort of danger, besides that of getting a ducking; but he thought it might avail him something in Lady Glenmore's favour: nor was he mistaken. Seeing him floundering in the water, she cried out, "for God's sake save his life!" and while he made the most of the awkwardness of his situation, he kept brandishing the lilies with one hand, and would not suffer any body to touch them till he delivered them safely to her. She was exceedingly touched by this effort to oblige her, and for the rest of the evening, after he had made a fresh toilette, he reaped the rewards of his gallantry, by finding that Lady Glenmore listened to him with a kind of favourable impression, that he could scarcely have hoped to inspire her with, had not fortune thus favoured him.

During dinner nothing was talked of but the merits of a Richmond party:—"there is surely nothing in the world more beautiful," said Mr. Newcomb, "than the view of Richmond Hill; it is the only riante landscape in England; a perfect Claude; and for my part, I never desire to go farther in quest of the picturesque—it is quite a gentle scene; no horrors, no rugged rocks or torrents; but a sweet, soft, sylvan composition."

"Enlivened too," observed Sir William Temple, "by stage-coaches, and mail-coaches, and coaches of all sorts, in short; without which I hold all views to be very wearisome things À la longue."

"Only made for the eyes of the vulgar, depend upon it," was Lord Baskerville's observation. "Except during the hunting season, the country is hateful; but one may bear a row to Richmond, especially in such company,"—and he bowed to Comtesse Leinsengen.

"The country is all very well," she rejoined, "in a grande chateau bien remplie de tout ce qu'il y a de mieux en fait de sociÉtÉ; but it makes me shudder to think of being in one of your provinces, in a house in the middle of a shut-up park, with a neighbour or two pour tout bien; no no, I am perished with ennui but to think of it."

"It makes me shudder too," said Lady Baskerville, smiling at the Comtesse Leinsengen's broken English; "but, in fact, it is what nobody does now-a-days; either the real or the pretended incapacity on the score of fortune for living at the country-seats, as they used to be called, gets rid of all that sort of thing. People live very much now as they used to do in France, I am told, when Paris was the only place in that country which any body lived in."

"Yes," said Mr. Spencer Newcomb, "and as long as the people don't find out that their landlords forsake them, and rack them for their money, which they spend any where rather than in doing them any good, it is very agreeable not to be bored with that sort of useful virtuous life. Long may they continue to administer to our pleasures—they ought certainly to be made for nothing else; but, unfortunately, there came a time in France when these things were all changed, and the vulgars took it into their heads that they were to have their day; and off went heads, and on went caps of liberty, and all things were turned upside down, as every body knows. I wonder now how Lord Baskerville would like to turn groom, and rub down his own horses!"

"Ha! ha! ha!" was echoed around.

"So long as you keep a good whip hand, and de rein in both, you will not be in any danger," cried Comtesse Leinsengen; "you have only to keep down de canaille. What sinifie all these schools of learning? dey are the most terrible nonsense; good for nothing but to turn the people's heads, and make them think themselves wiser than their masters; we do not do so in my country. When they learn to sing, they only learn one note, so that no single person is independent of anoder, and yet they make excellent concerts; these sort of people should be always kept dat way, so you see dat keeps all quiet, and the country goes on from one age to another all de same."

"Capital," said Winyard, "that is worth putting in print."

"Oh, I am quite of another opinion," cried Lady Tilney; "you must pardon me; but I think that every thing which has not freedom for its basis, must be wrong; let every body have a fair chance of becoming something; above all, let the light of learning shine every where, in every thing; there will always be ways and means of keeping people in their several stations. A country may have all the blessings of liberty, and yet a certain set may exist who shall have a superiority of its own, move in a sphere of its own, and be kept quite apart from the vulgar crowd; there is always a way of managing these things. I uphold liberty and literature; but that is not to say, that your authors and your musicians are to mix with certain societies—quite the contrary. The liberty of the latter will always keep its ground against the intrusion of the former, don't you think so, Sir William?"

"I think, Lady Tilney, that whatever you say must be right; and when you command, I feel always inclined to reply, as some body, I forget who, did to the Queen of France, si c'est possible c'est dÉjÀ fait, si c'est impossible Ça ce fera."

"I have always thought," rejoined Mr. Spencer Newcomb, "that that speech ought to be the truest that ever was uttered, for it is exactly the sort of thing a lady would like to have said, and I am sure it is the most ingenious that ever was contrived." A walk was now proposed, previous to which the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room.

"Well," said Lady Tenderden, "I think we have had a charming day, do you not Lady Glenmore?"

"Very much so," she replied, "and if only——."

"I will finish the phrase for you—if only Lord Glenmore was here—now my dear, I thought I had warned you not to indulge in that infantine habit of saying always what you think. You cannot conceive what strange ideas men attach to these sort of declarations; they are apt to suppose it is a hint to them to make love to you."

"Impossible!" said Lady Glenmore, colouring.

"Oh, you do not yet know the world, my dear Lady Glenmore. Be advised at first, and then afterwards act for yourself."

"I must beg of you, ladies," interrupted Comtesse Leinsengen, coming up to them, "to patronize a little modiste who is newly established, and whom I take under my special protection. She has all her patterns from Paris—dey are of the premier goÛt, and have that particular mark of distinction about them, which dose who are copied from the feuilles des modes never so attain. Mademoiselle Dumesnil has promised me never to sell certain things but to certain people; so that one is quite sure of not seeing le double of one's own dress on Mrs. Hoffer, or Lady Delafont, which is quite sufficient to make one fall into a syncope, and put one in bad humour for de whole season."

The Ladies smiled, agreed with her, and promised compliance with her wishes. "Mademoiselle Dumesnil's story," continued Comtesse Leinsengen, "feroit un roman; it is quite touching, and" (she added in a whisper, as the gentlemen entered the room), "its hero, le voilÀ," pointing to Mr. Leslie Winyard; then in a low voice she proceeded to give the whole particulars to the two Ladies, Glenmore and Tenderden, who sat next to her.

The gentlemen now expressed their wish to know whether the ladies would not profit by the beauty of the evening to walk out, and the measure being agreed upon, the party was so arranged that Lady Glenmore fell to the lot of Mr. Leslie Winyard, and much as she now felt averse to accept his arm, after the particulars she had just heard from Comtesse Leinsengen, it was impossible for her to refuse without incurring, as she thought, Lady Tenderden's animadversions. Lady Glenmore's silence, however, as they walked along, attracted her companion's particular notice. Something, he conceived, must have occurred, to change her manner so completely since dinner; but Mr. Leslie Winyard was too well versed in intrigue to augur from this circumstance any thing unfavourable to his wishes, because he knew that to have made an impression quelconque, was the first step towards attaining his end.

Determined, nevertheless, to ascertain the reason of this alteration in Lady Glenmore's manner, he very cautiously, but very adroitly, contrived to find out that something had been said which she conceived was to his disadvantage; and he could be at no loss to guess of what nature it was, for the affair in which his name had been mixed up, in Comtesse Leinsengen's conversation, was of too recent a date, and too marquante, to have escaped the memories even of that thoughtless circle—it was, in short, his last.

With this just apprehension of the fact, therefore, he turned the conversation upon the subject of scandal, which he deprecated bitterly; and, as if instancing the effects of it in regard to a person intimately known to himself, gave a totally different, but very plausible, interpretation of the exact story, which Lady Glenmore had heard detailed half an hour before by Comtesse Leinsengen.

Lady Glenmore had listened to this artful language with considerable interest and surprise. From the generosity of her nature, she felt much pleasure in thinking that the evil she had heard, and which made her uneasy even to be in Mr. Leslie Winyard's society, was totally without foundation. Her manner, therefore, gradually relaxed in rigour towards him; she seemed to have suddenly recovered her spirits, and her conversation flowed naturally without any constraint.

The moment the party returned from their walk she flew up to Lady Tenderden, and referring to the previous conversation of Comtesse Leinsengen, repeated that which she had just heard from Mr. Leslie Winyard, and which she conceived to be his interpretation of his own story; commenting, as she related it, on the injurious effects of speaking evil of any person without a thorough knowledge of the fact. Lady Tenderden foresaw, that were all this carried back to Lord Glenmore, many impediments would arise in fitting Lady Glenmore for their exclusive circle, and bringing her down to a moral level with themselves; she therefore said, after a minute's pause, "I make no doubt the Comtesse Leinsengen has been exceedingly misinformed; but at the same time the less that is said of these matters is always best, on every account; and as Mr. Leslie Winyard is my very particular friend, I shall esteem it a favour, my dear Lady Glenmore, that you do not mention this idle story to Lord Glenmore, who might conceive some prejudice against him, which would make me very unhappy. It is, in fact, of no consequence whatever; but when things of that nature pass through various mouths, they accumulate a consequence in their passage which they have not in themselves; and therefore promise me, dear Lady Glenmore, that you will not mention this matter to any one; besides," she added, looking very mysterious, "you know Lord Glenmore's great interests may be much affected by the Leinsengens; and the knowledge of her having retailed that sort of story, and retailed it under a mistaken point of view, might produce some coolness between them; for you know Lord Glenmore is vastly fond of Mr. Leslie Winyard."

Lady Glenmore did not know this, and hardly comprehended any part of the speech; in truth, how should she? But she remembered her husband's having recommended her to take Lady Tenderden's advice, and therefore she determined so to do in the present instance.

Shortly after this conversation, it was put to the vote whether the party should return to town by land or by water; and with the exception of Princess Leinsengen and Lord Baskerville, who preferred a close carriage for fear of damp, the rest agreed to go as they had come. It was soon quite night; but a brilliant moon made the water look very beautiful; and the soft language of Mr. Winyard, as he sat by the side of Lady Glenmore in the boat, fashioned in its phrase to the taste of his hearer, appeared to her in unison with the scene, and she thought him the only one of the party who was at all amusing, or had given a colouring of any interest to the hours she had passed with them.

Arrived at Whitehall, Lady Tenderden proposed their adjourning to her house, where supper was prepared; but Lady Glenmore, uneasy at a longer absence from home and her husband's society, determined for once to be firm in her refusal; and stepping into her carriage, which awaited her, drove at once home. On her arrival there, however, she was doomed to sustain an unexpected disappointment, as she found a note from Lord Glenmore, dated from the House; in which he told her not to be uneasy if he were late, for that the business of the morning was likely to be followed by a protracted debate on an important question. Lady Glenmore sighed over this note as she perused it; and, tired with the day's excursion, yet not sufficiently composed for rest, she experienced that listlessness of mind, which admits not of any active exertion, and yet affords no satisfactory contemplation whereon to dwell.

Lord Glenmore's attention happened to be at this moment directed to a high post under government, which it was more than probable he would attain. But could he have dreamt that in this pursuit he was neglecting the duties of private life, and casting forth an inexperienced young person, unprotected, amid all the dangers of a pleasure-loving world, he would have left all else to guide her through the perils to which he now so frequently left her exposed. How often does it happen, in various instances, that in the blindness of human wishes, we hurry to the goal of our desires—even those which we deem innocent and praiseworthy; but which, when suffered to lead us on, without a reference to a higher power, never fail to mislead, and prove fallacious when obtained. Yes, this is that self-pride of reason, which, confiding too much in its own merits, and not acting under the reliance of a superintending Providence, even when on the point of realizing its fondest hopes, finds it has grasped at a shadow; and to an ideal good, sacrificed a permanent happiness.

Had Lord Glenmore paused to reflect, and had recourse to that unerring light, which never dazzles to betray—his steps would have been guided by unfailing wisdom, and he would have found his chief happiness in his chief duty; whereas he pursued the phantom ambition; he did not consider that the necessary consequence which must follow an official occupation, was his leaving his young wife without a natural protector, amid scenes that were any thing but safe; and he was desirous that she, too, should play her part, and by those graces and influences which have such sway over the destinies of men and of empires, take an interest and acquire a power in that vaulting game of ambition in which he himself delighted to engage. He considered not how often he must leave her through the day, and the greater part of the night, to run this hazardous career, at an age when caution sleeps and passions are awake, and in the midst of a set which, though certainly not wholly devoid of some unblemished characters, was yet, generally speaking, in its whole tendency perilous to the pure and domestic virtues—a woman's only true glory.

Yet on this precipice was Lady Glenmore placed, without one real friend to whom she could look for genuine advice or succour. Her mother's (Lady Melcomb) absence from town prevented that natural tie, and had she been there it would have proved the business of the exclusives to have prevented that free and happy intercourse, both on the principle of not allowing any aged person to mar the brilliancy of their set, as well as that of excluding all those who might see through the drift of the society. On Lady Melcomb's part it was too early in the day to have any suspicion of the work of mischief which was carrying on to separate her from her daughter, and thus was Lady Glenmore like a lovely lamb amidst ravening wolves.

Scarcely had she been received amongst them, when Mr. Leslie Winyard, being at the moment desoeuvrÉ, conceived that she was just put in his way as a fit play-thing for the hour, and without the least scruple he determined she should swell the list of his conquests, already as numerous as those of Don Giovanni in all lands. He took no pains to conceal this design from any one save herself, and his intentions served many of the set as a topic of conversation, a fit subject for betting on: "how would Glenmore take the thing; would he be a wise man or a fool—put on the cap which fitted him with a good grace, or make grimaces at it?" Such is the license with which the most serious delinquencies were talked over, and though when set down on paper they may seem exaggerated, yet certainly the fact is not in the least so; only people start at things and actions when called by their right names, which under the title of venial errors, youthful indiscretions, and the sanction of custom and habit, are certainly tolerated, if not commended; tacitly approved, if not openly avowed. Ought not such a desperate system to be analyzed? Ought not language to pourtray in its strongest terms those deeds and those manners which, under the semblance of polite terms, and fictitious representation, and deceptive elegancies, pass current as being harmless or indifferent.

Let those whose hearts have bled on the shrine of fashion and of ton—who have mourned the loss of all that was valuable in character, or beautiful in mental existence, sacrificed to the insatiable appetite of pleasure, the degrading occupations of frivolous pursuit,—let them say if colours can be too deep, or language too strong, to paint so destructive an evil as that of the whole false, futile system of the exclusiveness of ton.

Lady Glenmore was evidently one of those persons marked out to become its victim, and when the character of Mr. Leslie Winyard is taken into account, as being the man who attempted above all others to lead her to her ruin, it cannot be wondered at, circumstanced as she was, that the pit of degradation yawned at her feet. Mr. Winyard was one of those who to the gentlest manners united the hardest of hearts: he had not, perhaps, always merited such a description; but the being who lives entirely for pleasure, becomes gradually hardened to every natural sentiment, and selfishness is the invariable consequence of a life of idle dissipation. From selfishness springs every other evil, and as it is the meanest of all principles of action, when considered in the baldness of the term, so it is, perhaps, the most common, and the one which above all others no person will like to avow—no, not even Mr. Leslie Winyard.

Yet he was a man who, after having by every sort of riot and debauchery ruined himself, proceeded to ruin his own mother and sister, bringing the grey hairs of the one to the grave with sorrow, and leaving the other to work out her existence in a situation unfitting her rank, but far more honourable and desirable than the one he filled; yet this was a man, the beauty of whose personal appearance, the refinement of whose manners, the powers of whose understanding and charm of fascination, were calculated to destroy every innocent mind; and it was difficult to arm against such a powerful enemy—a very Proteus in the power of becoming all things at pleasure, and suiting himself precisely to the taste and habits of the victim whom he was insidiously endeavouring to undermine.

What could protect an unsuspecting, youthful mind against such an enemy? Nothing but religion; nothing but that habitual looking for wisdom, where alone it may be found; and perhaps, Lady Glenmore was in this only security fatally defective; she was good and pure, in as much as human nature can be said to be so. And how totally valueless this goodness is, without it rests on a firmer basis, may be seen in her, as in every other person to whom the same vital want attaches: for her character was not built on that rock which when the floods come, and the storm beats, will remain unmoved by them: she had yet the greatest of all lessons to learn, not to depend on self.