emotions that, out of a very ecstasy of gladness, have no other expression than tears-tears that, analysed, seemed to have risen as dew from the soul, to be absorbed by the sunshine of the heart. Never does this feeling arise more truly than in the aged pilgrim ; who, having borne the heat and burden of the day, and resting in peace, no longer racked by the throes of passion, temptation, and remorse, sees a beloved one launched forth into that whirlpool, the world, to undergo all that they have undergone and sees them safe. How they watch the little bark! how they feel their own pangs over again as it wavers, and is tempest-tossed-how they pray for it, and look anxiously on to see the distance into the smooth water, and all that it will have to encounter ere it reaches it; and how rapturously, how joyously they perceive the fragile thing look up to a star in heaven, and guiding itself by it, leap over dangers, escape shoals and rocks, and, without a pause or delay, steer swiftly, unerringly into harbour.

Lady Ellerton felt that the heart of her fair and gentle Elizabeth had awakened up out of a dream of insensibility into the full enthusiasm of life. Perhaps under no other circumstances would her character have so soon, or so completely, devel

oped itself. But her remorse quickened the innate tenderness of her heart, and together they were about to make her one of those beautiful instances of refined womanhood that cast a halo on the age in which they live. How tenderly and gently had the good God "delivered her from evil," thought Lady Ellerton-the evil of selfishness, insensibility, and hardness, those sins engendered by riches and prosperity, and which are so powerful to enslave. By no other means could one of her peculiar character, timid, and "delicately" refined, have burst the ligatures that kept her heart shut up to all but herself, while she retreated before unloved duties, the common habits, and the loud and bewildering merriment that the world called pleasure.

As Lady Ellerton's heart filled with delight at these thoughts, little hot lips tried to return the stepmother's kisses, and a weak little child's voice murmured,

"Mamma-mamma!"

177

CHAPTER XVI.

"That blessed mood

In which the burthen of the mystery,
In which the heavy, and the weary weight
Of all this unintelligible world

Is lightened, that serene and blessed mood

In which the affections gently lead us on."

WORDSWORTH.

HE peacock dress remained unseen in the

THE

wardrobe, and the unique coronet, with its diamonds, pearls, and peacock eyes, did not shine upon London as the head-dress of the season.

"The Earl and Countess of Silborough," said the Court Guide, "were prevented attending at Court by the dangerous illness of their only son, Viscount Nugent.”

In a week or two the same paper chronicled : "The Earl and Countess of Silborough have taken a house at Torquay for the season, on account of the health of Viscount Nugent." By-and-by it became known that Lord Silbo

VOL. I.

N

rough had bought a yacht, and having no other amusement, was trying how he might imagine himself a sailor. It does not follow that, because people are great, and rich, and powerful, they do not often wish themselves in the position of the hard-working, danger-seeking, obedient servant of Queen, country, and master. They have their times of longing for change, for any other feeling, for some other state, for freedom from the trammels of riches, for absolute seclusion. The two latter are truly blessings, of which those who possess them can scarcely understand the boon they would be to those who do not. To flee away from all the state, pomp, and publicity of rank and station to lose themselves and their grandeur in some foreign country-to taste the comfort of being able to do and say what common people are permitted to do and say, without the fear of being held up aloft as an example or a warning-must needs be of inestimable price to the "upper ten thousand." Let us not begrudge it to them, but the rather grant to those whom God has given the dangerous and ensnaring "talent" of riches and prosperity, the widest field for the putting it out to interest-the most charitable constructions, the most merciful judgment, the love and sympathy

of a people who, while they boast of their Queen and country, regard the ancient blood that flows in the veins of their aristocracy as the pure stream that filters through the country, refining the dregs, elevating the mass, correcting the rude bellowings of democracy; and shining with the gentle lustre of dignity, courtesy, and refinement, cast the purifying halo of polished civilization into the remotest hamlet.

Amidst all the wild and reckless pursuit of pleasure, now so glaring a feature of London societythe rush, as among the Athenians of old, after some new thing-the insensibility that permits vice to walk amidst them unreproved-it may be questioned, with almost a certainty as to the reply whether the higher aristocracy-the real "upper ten thousand”—have much participation in it. The increase of riches, the vast fortunes made by trade, the encroachments and impudence of those who feel they have "power" in their pockets, if they have the basest blood in their veins, have each tended to alter the state of society. People with rank, but not wealth, find themselves obliged to meet with friendly and cordial grasp those whose manners or antecedents may horrify them, but who possess wealthy sons for their daughters' hus