old age-how she would have cheered his declining years—but to be his bride . . . Tears of mortification bedewed her pil low; but not more tossed was Anna than young Cunnington: the Italian beauty had riven from his mind all the lofty ideas which had lately filled it; dreading no rival, still he was full of fears. Alphonzo was a young man of the highest principles, and he would never consent to allow him to transfer so easily his affections from Alice Lemington to his sister. He cursed the weakness of his own heart, he reproached himself when he reflected that in so short a time that heart could range. "What an unstable being I am," he exclaimed; but he foolishly believed that such being the natural bent of his mind, it was useless to battle against it. What an erroneous opinion it is. When we hear men talk of the natural bent of their mind, it often follows they have no mind at all. If every one so reasoned, where would be that upright class of individuals who follow the narrow path of right? Our clergy, have they not unruly passions like ourselves to conquer; they follow not the bent of every inclination. Those many virtuous characters amongst the known nobility of our land, they would be very different if they blindly followed each impulse of the heart. Perhaps one of the prominent impulses of man's heart is to admire beauty. The inspiration of loveliness may not always lead astray; but that man must be weak indeed who, like a giddy butterfly, is dazzled by each gay flower; the man who can, in a few hours, be the slave of beauty has none of the real affections of life,—he will neither make a good husband nor a respectable parent. Readers, recoil not from thinking of Cunnington's present position. I deem not that it is overdrawn; there was sin in his weakness, for he was cruelly deceiving his own heart. There was sin, too, in wasting the precious time which he had intended spending more profitably. Had Solon risen from the abodes of the departed, Cunnington would not have heeded him; he had not enough genius to follow more than one feeling at a time, and love now chased away the image of that mother, who, if she arose at all to his memory, appeared only to upbraid. Thus uneasy in mind, poor Cunnington acknowledged his own weakness, but had not courage to alter his heart. How many a fair flower of fame is thus blighted in the germ; how many in lowliness kiss the sod, instead of rearing up their head, the loveliest-the best. The germ of genius was in Cunnington's breast, but there it lay stinted in growth, tossed by the lightest eddy of the wind; the germ hung on a stalk so slender, that the slightest breath might rudely snap the filament which bound it to its stem; the flower lacked stability, the gardener would have angrily uprooted it, fearing its sickly growth might infect nobler plants. It is when the heart is so much occupied, that it has become selfish in its wanderings, it is then that a severe lesson of the shortness of life will sometimes recall it to better things, and Cunnington's might perhaps be called to receive a salutary warning. "Oh, your excellency never agrees with me!" said Anna, tossing back her luxuriant curls. "What a severe answer," said Cunnington; "I hope I shall never be so accused by you." "Some women, I believe, like to be contradicted," said Anna; for she was too wilful to give Cunnington too much assurance of being favoured. "But you don't?" said Cunnington. "It depends on what humour I am in; ask his excellency, he will tell you I am the most untameable young lady of twenty he ever had the misfortune of knowing." What is all this about ?" said the baron, joining the party; for, Anna laughing and animated, ever fascinated him most. A sudden cloud seemed to overspread those beautiful features, as mists, passing through the atmosphere above, cloud the brilliancy of the sun's rays. |