l "winged dreams"
of pleasures which outlive others of more absorbing and actual interest
at the time. After all, for how many of our happiest feelings are we
indebted to the weakness of our nature. The man that is wise at
nineteen, "Je l'en fais mon compliment," but I assuredly do not envy him;
and now, even now, when I number more years than I should like to
"confess," rather than suffer the suspicious watchfulness of age to creep
on me, I prefer to "go on believing," even though every hour of the day
should show me, duped and deceived. While I plead guilty to this
impeachment, let me show mitigation, that it has its enjoyments--first,
although I am the most constant and devoted man breathing, as a very
cursory glance at these confessions may prove, yet I have never been able
to restrain myself from a propensity to make love, merely as a pastime.
The gambler that sits down to play cards, or hazard against himself, may
perhaps be the only person that can comprehend this tendency of mine. We
both of us are playing for nothing (or love, which I suppose is
synonymous;) we neither of us put forth our strength; for that very
reason, and in fact like the waiter at Vauxhall who was complimented upon
the dexterity with which he poured out the lemonade, and confessed that
he spent his mornings "practising with vater," we pass a considerable
portion of our lives in a mimic warfare, which, if it seem unprofitable,
is, nevertheless, pleasant.

After all this long tirade, need I say how our walk proceeded? We had
fallen into a kind of discussion upon the singular intimacy which had so
rapidly grown up amongst us, and which years long might have failed to
engender. Our attempts to analyse the reasons for, and the nature of the
friendship thus so suddenly established--a rather dangerous and difficult
topic, when the parties are both young--one eminently handsome, and the
other disposed to be most agreeable. Oh, my dear young friends of either
sex, whatever your feelings be for one another, keep them to yourselves;
I know of nothing half so hazardous as that "comparing of notes" which
sometimes happens. Analysis is a beautiful thing in mathematics or
chemistry, but it makes sad havoc when applied to the "functions of the
heart."

"Mamma appears to have forgotten us," said Isabella, as she spoke, after
walking for some time in silence beside me.

"Oh, depend upon it, the carriage has taken all this time to repair; but
are yo