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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."

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.

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

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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

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

6 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.

66

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

thought those feelings might be man's as well as a woman's, and I, possibly, some time or other, that man; and then I might feel all the bitterness of her pathetic exclamation,

'I am from humble, he from honour'd name;
No note upon my parents, his all noble.'”

I thought Bertha seemed struck with this, for she lost her smile, and looked pensively on the ground; but Miss Mansell said with liveliness, "Then you can repeat Helena's confession, and will, I hope, favour

us."

"If you command me, certainly," returned I. "The speech is to the Count of Roussillon's mother.

· Then, I confess,

Here on my knee, before high heav'n and you,

That before you, and next unto high heav'n,

I love your son.

My friends were poor, but honest:

Be not offended; for it hurts not him
That he is loved of me: I follow him not
By any token of presumptuous suit,

Nor would I have him till I do deserve him,
Yet never know how that desert should be.
I know I love in vain, strive against hope.
6 Thus, Indian like,

Religious in mine error, I adore

The sun that looks upon his worshipper,
And knows of him no more. 939

During this recital I observed Bertha's eyes were fixed upon the ground, and she scarcely breathed, as if she feared losing a word; and, whether the feeling, now deeper than ever, that this was my own case, gave

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