many shapes-now, as far as regards prophecy, it takes another form, and calls itself presentiment; and Emily lay awake much longer than was good for her complexion, building that aërial architecture called châteaux en Espagne, on the slight foundation of a single sentence.

I do not think imagination an indulgence at all to be permitted in our present state of society very well for poets and painters-it is their business, the thing of all others not to be neglected; but in the common construction of characters and circumstances it is an illusion quite at variance with the realities on which we are to act, and among which we are to live. In a young man it unfits him for the rough career of life, as much as stepping within the castle's enchanted boundary unfitted Sir Launcelot for his encounter with the giant. The sword of action hangs idly in the unnerved hand. We will suppose he possesses talent and feeling-without them he could not possess imagination; he starts on his forward path, where, as in about ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, he has to make his own way. Conscious of his abilities, he will overrate, perhaps not themselves, but their influence. He will read the novel, till he becomes to himself the very

hero of its pages. In history, he will dwell only "on marvels wrought by single hand," till he deems they say, "Go and do thou, likewise." Every thing is seen through an exaggerated medium. He prepares himself for great difficulties, which he is to vanquish — gigantic obstacles, which he is to overcome. Instead of these, he is surrounded by small impediments, which seem below his ideal dignity to encounter. His most favourite acquirements are useless, because none of them have been called into action by his own peculiar circumstances; and he reproaches Fortune, where he should accuse Fiction.

Few books have been more dangerous to a young man of this temperament, in middle life, than Vivian Grey. No romance is so hazardous as that of real life: the adventures seem so possible, yet so exciting. There is something so pleasant in this mastery of mere mind: the versatility of manner, the quick eye of the hero to the weakness of others, appear so completely in the power also of the reader; his vanity adds force to his imagination, and our youth rises from the perusal convinced of the hardship of his particular situation, shut out from the diplomatic and political career, for which his now

unemployed and undervalued talents so eminently qualify him; and the chances are, that the earlier half of his life is filled with disappointment and bitterness.

A woman may indulge this faculty with more impunity, because hers is generally a passive, not an active feeling, and principally confined to the affections; all the risk of beau-idealising a lover too much, is, that of never finding one, or being disappointed when found.

Edward Lorraine had more materials for a hero than many of his compeers; still, his most admiring friends would have been rather at a loss to recognise him under the traits with which he was invested by Emily Arundel. Alas! the heart worships in its idol the attributes which itself has first created. Illusions are the magic of real life, and the forfeit of future pain is paid for present pleasure.

CHAPTER XI.

"On n'auroit guère de plaisir, si l'on ne se flattait jamais." ROCHEFOUCAULD.

"Behold, they speak with their mouths, and swords are in their lips." Psalm lix.

THE end of a journey is its pleasantest part. So thought Lord Mandeville, as the postilions gave their whips an extra crack, in order to drive up the avenue in style. They had the credit of their horses as much at heart as their own. To-night, however, whipmanship was somewhat wasted;-a small, heavy rain had made the road so soft, that the ringing wheel and clattering hoof were inaudible. This was a great mortification to the postboys, to whom noise, if not speed, was at least speed's best part.

"How late they are, and how stupid we are!" said Lady Mandeville, glancing reproachfully first at Mr. Morland, who, having taken what he called a most constitutional walk, was now in a large arm-chair, sleeping off the effects of

heath and hedge, and then at Emily, who was sedulously employed in working a large red cross on the flag destined for Frank's favourite toy-a miniature frigate.

"Do you know," added she, "what is the great torment of the idle? To see others industrious."

"I must say," replied Emily, smiling, "considering Lord Mandeville has been absent but two days, your impatience for his return is very flattering."

There was something in this speech that made the hearer laugh outright—one of those provoking laughs which shew it has touched some train of thought you know nothing about. I cannot agree with those romantic philosophers who hold ignorance to be bliss at any time; but ignorance, when your listener laughs at what you say, without why or wherefore, is enough to enrage a saint. By the by, considering what an irascible race they were, the reputation of the saints for patience has been very easily acquired.

The truth is, another visitor was expected with her husband. Lady Mandeville had erected a little romance in her own mind, of which Emily was already the heroine, and the