My friend tells her own little story w out prejudice, and without scandal, resentm and pique, which are so often indulged in modern novel writers, that it is not the le qualification of an author to be in good humo and to wish to inspire in the reader, a sim feeling. This is, certainly, the case with friend, who, whilst she smiles over the foib and failings of our neighbours on the Contine and of our friends at home, does not spare own, and in whose work, although there is assumption, as good a moral may be found, in works of greater weight, and of more i portance.

I shall, therefore, no longer intrude on r reader's patience by further prefatory matter, b proceed, as the proxy of my friend, in her stor giving it, as nearly as possible, in her own word

THE

METROPOLIS.

Il cor nelle parole.

PASTOR FILO.

IF Lady

CHAPTER I.

-'s eyes fall upon these pages, she

will expect a wild romance-the vehicle of family anecdote and of family dishonour. If Mrs.

of

Berkley Square read it, she will expect all the secrets of the town. Let neither be alarmed. I shall betray no secrets. I shall, in general, touch manners, not men. Only when truth and circumstance require it, shall any one be named; and then, under an inviola

VOL. I.

B

ble

ble anonyme. My own life has been romance enoug without disturbing their fire sides. My adventur have been sufficient to fill up more than these th volumes: yet do I hope to be able to avoid bo egotism and prolixity in my detail.

There is a puzzle, the solution of which

that " un soupir vient souvent d'un souvenir." could write it in hieroglyphics; but as I wish to easily understood, and to veil in mystery nothing u necessarily, I shall state in plain English prose a acknowledge the truth, namely, that " a sigh escap often from remembrance dear." Whilst I am perusi these untutored pages, I look back to the past as a dream.

I am twenty-five years of age: yet is it s To those who have doubled that period, what mu it be? On life as on a journey by night, " clou

a

and darkness rest." We start in high spirits; we can never go fast enough; pleasure is our perspective; fashion, the spur which impels us; we flirt; we chat; we trifle by the road; yet does the time seem long. With feverish impatience, we expect something unattained. A ray of reflective reason awakens us from our slumbers. We start with astonishment at the distance which we have gone, beyond what we expected; and we are lost in amazement at the little solid good which has accrued from our journey.

A friend of mine compares life to a night passed in the mail. You embark in darkness (says he); you feel about for your neighbour; you guess at him or her; conversation commences; a man is entertaining and a woman appears fair; you think that you could, with pleasure, continue on a very long journey with your companions; the female voice is attractive; her touch is gentle; she sighs perhaps; she seems listless;

B 2

listless; she grows interesting; the man is com sant, his ideas suit yours; you appear to have co ponding sympathies. Morning breaks, andfellow travellers are nothing of what you pict them! You are far from home; and all is d pointment.

It seems as if I shrunk from my own story

telling that of others. It may be so.

We gene

ease our embarrassment, and prepare our mind, u any trial or trouble, by some desultory and prefa conversation previous to our going into the concern. -I now begin.

Some years have rolled away-ah me! rapidly-since my mother and I went on a visit person whom I shall call Mr. Doricourt, a amiable man, retired in the autumn of life, fro diplomatic career, in which he had spent thirty

У