that this might last for ever. Alas! alas! when it comes on late in life it is bad enough; when there is the feebleness and the want of self-control of old age to excuse it; but in youth, in the season of generous feelings and ardent aspirations, when we live by faith and hope, when the first tender bloom of sentiment and imagination has not been rudely swept away by the searing, hardening buffets of the world of actual life, then it is that selfishness is most unlovely, most odious, most unnatural, most profane. If then it intrudes upon the temple, its sanctity is for ever lost; if then it enmeshes its victim in its net, his struggles in aftertimes will be very feeble, or more probably none at all. It is awful to see it stifling the generosity of youth, to watch the cancer spreading through every part of a noble nature, tainting every action, defiling every principle with its unholy and malignant poison. Neither let an amiable exterior deceive us. Never is Satan more dangerous than when he takes to himself the outward garments of an angel of light. So, as I said, the sad game went on. After a certain time Morland proposed and was accepted, and Milford's consent and blessing were asked for their union. It came upon the old man like a stroke of lightning. With his usual penetration he had seen through Morland's character in the first few days, and it had never occured to him as even possible that Gwendolen could love one whom he could see, in spite of his attractive qualities, to be so thoroughly unamiable. Yet he struggled gallantly with his fate. He desired to see his daughter alone, and what passed between them I never knew. When the interview was over he was calm and serene as before; his consent was given, and the marriage took place. I ventured to whisper some words of comfort when it was over, but he cut me short. "I have no child left, Gerard," he said," and strive as I will, I must be very desolate. She has left me and I must strive to banish her from my memory-but it will be a hard hard task-God forgive me," he suddenly exclaimed, bursting into tears, "for speaking and thinking thus of my own sweet daughter-yet that she should throw away the rich treasure of her affections upon yonder handsome elegant piece of egotism-oh it is bitter, Gerard!—it is very grevious! I shall need all my philosophy and all my religion to save me from sinking beneath the chastisement." During the next two years I saw and heard very little of George Morland and his wife, but whenever I caught a glimpse of Gwendolen in London society, she seemed to be very weak and ill, and her face had a vacant and unhappy look that was very sad to observe. Most of the time I could spare was spent at Mansfield with the solitary old man. He rarely alluded to his daughter, and when he did it was always with pain and anxiety. He told me that he feared she was very ill, but that Morland neglected her; was constantly absent on the plea of ill health; would not work at his profession on this account, so that their means were rather slender; and on the same plea of health kept her constantly attending upon and nursing him, when he ought to have been thinking of nothing but how to soothe and protect her. Unless there was some change he thought her strength could not last out much longer. All this sounded very ill, and was a fulfilment to the utmost of everything that I had so gloomily apprehended. One morning, while I was with him, he received a most touching letter from her, in which she detailed her symptoms, shewing that consumption had already made fearful ravages upon her strength; made use of no reproaches as to her husband; regretted that his health was so indifferent that he would not be able to come with her, but that he had kindly agreed to let her come to die at Mansfield. Milford handed me the letter with a look that went to my very heart, but without à word of comment. A day or two afterwards she came, and it needed but one look to see that she came as she had said, to die. Her lamp was burning low when she arrived, and it Boon went out. O! Sir, the good die first, And we, whose hearts are dry as summer dust, She never said so, but in truth George Morland killed her. Bitter disappointment that she had married one, whom she could not respect, and who did not love her; who used her indeed for his own convenience, but repaid her with neglect, disregard, and almost insult; this, added to the actual drains upon her strength, which she could not stand, brought her to her untimely and melancholy end. While she was alive Morland never once wrote to ask after her health. As soon as she was dead I wrote to him, and it seemed that a gush of tenderness came over him, for he came at once, rushed into my room, flung himself into my arms, and wept bitterly. It was but a transient outburst, for it past away and came not again. When he went with me to Milford's, he was perfectly calm, and talked about all things as an indifferent person. On entering the room where the body lay, he gazed at it for some time, and then quoted those exquisite lines of Shakspere, in a tone and with a manner that brought the tears to my eyes, observing how apposite they were: O! my love! my wife! Death, that hath sucked the honey of thy breath, And Death's pale flag is not advanced there. He however did not seem to feel anything but the melody and beauty of the verse. In this state of mind he was to meet his father-in-law. They met, and I could see the old man struggling to restrain himself from giving full vent to the contempt and disgust, which he felt for him. But when after a few general expressions of sorrow, Morland went on to lament his own case, deprived as he was of so useful a nurse; and after saying that he feared Mr. Milford must have encouraged her to give way to a morbid melancholy, began to consult as to the arrangements of the funeral, the father could hold out no longer. "No, Sir," he said sternly, and in a voice that made him start," you have killed her, but you shall not bury her. She is now my daughter, and not your wife. The laws of God protect you, as well as those of man, or, old as I am, I have enough of the soldier left in me to chastise you on the spot. Away, Sir. I would be alone. Begone." I had some difficulty in forcing Morland from the room; but he was for the time quite overawed by the fierce dignity of the old man. When we were alone he was extremely indignant at the treatment he had received, but thought it better to acquiesce quietly. "As however her father chose to take it on himself, he might bury his daughter as he pleased, and when he pleased; he should not interfere with him, nor run the risk of such another scene as had just taken place with offering to attend. He regretted his own susceptibility; all his misfortunes had arisen from loving people too soon and too well—he hoped I should not forget him." And thus he took his leave, and left us to follow Gwendolen to her last long home. I have never seen him since, nor do I wish to see him. I am ashamed that a being like Morland, so shallow and so selfish, should have ever been, as he once was, by the sweetness of his countenance and the tenderness of his manner, an object of warm affection. So we buried Gwendolen, aud over her grave we cemented that loving friendship, which has but just now been interrupted by death. Ernest Milford did not sicken forthwith and die, but his mind never thoroughly recovered its tone, and for the few remaining years of his life he was an altered man. We used to sit together under the shade of the yew tree in the Church yard, gazing on her tomb, and saying little or nothing to each other; sometimes he would go on for hours in his low sweet tones, discoursing on the things of this life and the next, deeper than I could fathom, and higher than I could soar. I had no concealments from him; and told him how long and deeply I had loved Gwendolen; and how in some sort all the misery was attributable to me, my former affection for Morland having first brought him to Mansfield. "Ah!" he said, "that was an unfortunate affection. It was an animal love, if I may use such a phrase. Such love is always a disappointment, and good for neither party. There is no good sense at the bottom of it. Warm-hearted young men often try to turn friendship into love; but it is a mistake, depend upon it. There is a real comfort and satisfaction in honest friendship, which this imaginative passion can never have." He had a severe attack of fever last year, which broke down his little remaining strength, and from which he |