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the crown, right or wrong. A faithful churchman, ready to give money, power, every thing, to the Church, and to believe her infallible as the Pope. Stay a moment, I see you are impatient to reply. You would die to preserve our old constitution; that is to say, the privileges of peers, the rights of landlords, the prerogatives of the crown, and shall I add, the oppression of the people? Now, my Lord, for your hereditary eloquence?"

"Indeed, you may well smile," replied Lord Hewiston, "for I should imagine all you have said was intended as a joke. Loyalty to the crown and reverence for the church are certainly fundamental principles in our creed; but so far from oppressing the people, a true Tory is anxious to promote the welfare of all classes, and diffuse an universal spirit of charity. We are opposed to you radicals and liberals, who talk so much of the good of the people, because, though you speak fair, your real object is to benefit a faction, not the multitude. What is a republic but the tyranny of a few, governing for a few, not for all? The vanity of such wild notions has been often proved. They are like the nostrums of quacks, which professing to cure all, kill all. Their violence is their only virtue; they

warn the patient of their dangerous power, and teach him wisdom for the future."

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Wisely argued, learned Sir; then of course the poor patient turns to the old established faculty, as I suppose we must consider the Tories, and finds health and safety in following their precepts. Is it not so? But unfortunately, these doctors assume the entire management of the patient's affairs; if they preserve his health, they will not allow him a mind of his own. It may be for his good, but it's not so very pleasant, Lord Hewiston."

Well, Mr. Hannington, I give you up in despair."

"I feel deeply grateful for your Lordship's kindness, but unfortunately I cannot help thinking for myself. It's a pity, I know. If every one did so, there would be no more Tories, and that would be a greater pity still. I have the honour to wish your Lordship good evening; au revoir."

"A very clever man," said Lord Hewiston, turning to his next neighbour; "a pity he should be so prejudiced."


Prejudiced," exclaimed the other; "there's no man less prejudiced than George Hannington. He's liberal in every sense of the word. He

thinks deeply on most subjects, and generally correctly. At least he has the virtue of being tolerant. If you do not agree with him, he does not ask you, but leaves you to think for yourself."

"What's his occupation?"

"I believe he is generally writing either for the papers or periodicals. By the way, I have not complimented him on the last number of his magazine. him-"

Have you seen it? I'll just tell

Lord Hewiston was left alone; he remained for some minutes in deep thought, looked at his watch, hastily rose, and joining the giddy throng, soon became the gayest of the gay. His sprightly manners and extreme vivacity made him a general favourite in society, while his good heart and good sense gained him the approbation of the more thoughtful.

Evelyn had been standing by the window, near the speakers, during the whole conversation. She had been an unobserved but not inattentive listener. Every word made a deep impression on her mind; and when Mr. Hannington exclaimed, "Are not all men equal?" it seemed but an echo of her own thoughts. His words rang in her ears. She hastened from the room, and repaired to her favourite library. The fire threw a dim

light around. All was silent, and she was glad to be alone. She walked to and fro in the spacious chamber, musing on the past, the present, and the people. All her father's bitter reflections still fresh in her memory, her own recent thoughts on the inequalities of fortune, and now the conversation she had just heard,-all seemed to touch the same chord. She was well acquainted with history; it had been ever thus, the poor, always the poor, the wretched, the oppressed. Oh that she had the power to aid them; if the rich but knew their sorrows, surely, surely— but no, even in that house, surrounded by the suffering, were they not joyful and careless? She herself, was she not dressed in satin, while thousands had not rags to cover them?

Fairly bewildered by her thoughts,-overcome with the emotions of her own heart, she threw herself in a chair, and wept. And had she not cause? What can appeal so powerfully to a feeling breast as the heart-rending sufferings of our people. The sorrows of the poor might melt a heart of stone. Wonder not that Evelyn wept, wonder rather to find so little sympathy among the young and ardent; to see the fair, kind, faces so readily clouded over by the tale of imagined grief, yet unmoved by the contemplation of the most real agony; or to find the high-spirited

and the daring, whose eyes sparkle over the pages of Plutarch, and whose hearts burn to emulate the heroes pourtrayed there, all ignorant of the wide field of true glory that awaits them, were their hopes as holy as their ambition is high.

And now, alone in her chamber, behold our young enthusiast hurriedly committing to paper anxious thoughts and eager aspirations, born of the deep emotions of her heart. This was now her constant practice, and composition had become easy to her; but this evening it was easier than ever. Her pen could not keep pace with her ideas; rapidly and unceasingly they followed each other. The cause was simple-she was writing what she felt. The night was far advanced ere her task was finished. The next morning she read it over with delight.

At her accustomed hour she repaired to her favourite room. Yes, in the library, she would feel new pleasure in her own composition. She had hardly opened her manuscript, when she perceived a parcel of new magazines on a side-table. How she loved the sight of a new book! She started up, and seizing upon one, commenced reading it as she stood. The first article she saw was on a subject that interested her much; she remained by the window, perusing it with great attention, regardless of time or place. It was

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