tly dwelt on the
idea of at length being free from her tyrant, and perhaps about to
indulge in those beautiful affections for which she was formed, and of
which she had been rifled; when, I say, all this occurred, and her hero
diplomatised, and, in short, kept back; why, she had advanced one step,
without knowing it, to running away with another man.

It was unlucky that De Whiskerburg stepped in. An Englishman would not
have done. She knew them well, and despised them all; but he was new
(dangerous novelty), with a cast of feelings which, because they were
strange, she believed to be unhackneyed; and he was impassioned. We need
not go on.

So this star has dropped from out the heaven; so this precious pearl no
longer gleams among the jewels of society, and there she breathes in a
foreign land, among strange faces and stranger customs, and, when she
thinks of what is past, laughs at some present emptiness, and tries to
persuade her withering heart that the mind is independent of country,
and blood, and opinion. And her father's face no longer shines with its
proud love, and her mother's voice no longer whispers to her with sweet
anxiety. Clouded is the brow of her bold brother, and dimmed is the
radiancy of her budding sister's bloom.

Poor creature! that is to say, wicked woman! for we are not of those who
set themselves against the verdict of society, or ever omit to expedite,
by a gentle kick, a falling friend. And yet, when we just remember
beauty is beauty, and grace is grace, and kindness is kindness, although
the beautiful, the graceful, and the amiable do get in a scrape, we
don't know how it is, we confess it is a weakness, but, under these
circumstances, we do not feel quite inclined to sneer.

But this is wrong. We should not pity or pardon those who have yielded
to great temptation, or perchance great provocation. Besides, it is
right that our sympathy should be kept for the injured.

To stand amid the cold ashes of your desolate hearth, with all your
Penates shivered at your feet; to find no smiling face meet your return,
no brow look gloomy when you leave your door; to eat and sleep alone;
to be bored with grumbling servants and with weekly bills; to have your
children asking after mamma; and no one to nurse your gout, or cure the
influenza that rages in your household: all this is doubtless hard to
digest, and would tell in a novel, particularly if written by my friends
Mr. Ward or Mr. Bulwer.