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Granville laughed, and answered, "What if I were to say you do?"

Luckily he did not look at me, but without that I felt all over in consternation. I was hot and cold, and ready to run off, but was saved by the persuasion of Bertha, and indeed of all present, that Granville was the author, notwithstanding his disavowal; so that they did not observe my emotion.

in

"Ah!" said Miss Hastings, "it is mere affectation

you, cousin Granville, and not like a friend and relation, to deny it so uncandidly; and I dare say your friend, Mr. De Clifford, thinks so too."

“Ask him,” said Granville roguishly, “what he thinks was the author's own opinion upon the question-for he knows him too-indeed, they are sworn friends, and it was through him that I procured the stanzas."

He uttered this, as I said, roguishly, and, not knowing where he would stop, I again began to be alarmed.

Bertha seemed surprised, and looked doubtingly at me, when Mrs. Mansell said, "Perhaps, Perhaps, as Mr. De Clifford is a friend of the author, he may think as he does; and if he will not inform us who he is, he may, at least, tell us what was his real opinion."

Granville smiled again. I was more and more embarrassed, but thought I could best recover myself by adopting the character assigned me.

"Certainly," said I, " I know the author, and think with him on most points, but particularly on this." "And your common opinion," said Mrs. Mansell,

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"That hope is so buoyant, that nothing can make it sink, particularly the Lover's Hope,' on which these stanzas turn; for if real love amounts, as it is said it does, to adoration, I can fancy love even without hope, so delicious in itself, that I could feed upon it and be happy, though banished for ever from the admired object.'

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Here I observed with interest that Bertha seemed most attentive.

"What!" cried Mrs. Mansell, "though your mistress frowned upon you?"

"That I do not say," replied I, "nor, as you will observe, does the author himself; for he asserts, in terms, that though the cheek of his sovereign lady never glowed with love for him, yet,

'Upon her downy arched brows

He never yet observed a frown.'"

"True," said Miss Mansell; "but that is not hope."

"Well then, even without hope," returned I, "I have a fancy that a man could be happy in feeding upon his love—that is, upon the attractions of his mistress's beauty, manners, and character, though he knew he had no chance of obtaining her."

"Indeed!" cried all the ladies.

"Yes; for I can fancy, nay, feel sure, that a man who doats to almost madness, but, like a subject in love with his queen, must feel himself hopeless, may still delight to nurse his passion, and would not exchange it for success elsewhere.”

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"This, indeed, is romantic, and at least, I should think, not very common," said Bertha.

"You think then with us, my dear," observed her

aunt.

"'Tis a thing I do not venture to think of at all," replied Bertha, whose young mind seemed afraid of advancing too far. "I must live long before I can be called upon to judge even of the possibility of the thing; but if possible

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"What then ?" asked her aunt.

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Why I should think such constancy, under such discouragement, would not, as it ought not, be thrown away."

"Ought not ?" asked Miss Mansell. "Could you, much more ought you, to love for mere constancy's sake, where you otherwise could not be inclined to do so?"

"I know not," answered her cousin; "but this I know, that kindness will always produce kindness in return; and if we love a dog or a bird because it is attached to us, much more ought we a human creature like ourselves."

"But how, where there is no kindness evident," said Mrs. Mansell," Mr. De Clifford's supposition can be realized, and love persisted in, without its being even known, is what I cannot imagine to be possible."

"And yet," observed I, "ask the thousands who have gone mad for love, what hopes occasioned their feelings? They cannot answer. Or take my former supposition of a young and lovely queen, who enchants the air you breathe with her presence, or makes it hap

on.

piness enough for you to kiss the ground she treads Is it hope that causes you to do this? No; rather, I should say, with a most genuine, and yet most despairing lover,

" Thus, Indian like,

Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun that looks upon his worshipper,

But knows of him no more.''

"What charming language!" cried Bertha, and she became very pensive, as if pondering the pas

sage.

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Upon my word," observed Mrs. Mansell, taking up the discourse, " we may talk of our cousin Granville's romance, but Mr. De Clifford beats him all to nothing. I only hope, for his own sake, this is what he has called it, his fancy, not his experience."

"What does cousin Mansell think of it ?" said Granville again, and drily turning to him.

"As I hope to be saved," replied the young gentleman, switching his boots," I know nothing at all about the matter, except that you are all a set of confounded bores, and a confounded deal too romantic for me, so I shall hop off. Mother, I shall meet you at dinner."

So saying, this illustrious heir apparent literally effected what he announced, and hopped off from the walk.

There was a pause of some minutes, and I began to wonder at my own courage in venturing what I had said, when Bertha, after ruminating some time, said, "Pray, Mr. De Clifford, where is that beautiful pas

sage-the most beautiful and expressive, I think, I ever heard-which you quoted just now? He must, indeed, have been a lover who uttered it."

"The he was a she," observed Granville.

"But where to be found?”

"In Shakspeare," returned I. "It was the lament of poor Helena, who had fixed her affections on one too much above her even to imagine, much less expect, success. Yet she fed upon her love in secret, and, though hopeless, would not part with it."

"And who was this superior lord, who was so unwittingly adored by her ?"

"The Count of Roussillon," said I. "The secret was discovered by his mother, the benefactress of Helena, who loved her like her own child. The disclosure is almost still more beautiful than the passage you admire."

"I never read the play," said Bertha.

"Perhaps it is as well you should not," observed Granville; "but what Clifford says is true; the account of her love is pathetic, and its disclosure moving."

"Cannot you two gentlemen between you," asked Lucinda," repeat it; especially as you tell us we may as well not read the play ourselves ?"

"The task is beyond my memory,” replied Granville.

"And would be beyond mine," said I, seeing all the ladies turned to me, "but that I was always so struck with the scene, and entered so thoroughly into the feelings of Helena, that I never forgot it: for I

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