Ernest Maltravers, Book 8

enco

are affection

nd the haughty bend of the neck, that made a sort of likeness between these young persons, although there was no comparison as to their relative degrees of personal advantage: the beauty of Florence defied all comparison. And as they rode from Cleveland's porch, where the other guests yet lingering were assembled to give the farewell greeting, there was a general conviction of the happiness destined to the affianced on

on as she quitted a spot so cons

back to gaze upon the landscape, which, gay with flowers and shrubs

and its gloomy shades, remind us of

e not? I am sure I shall like it much better than Marsden Court, which is the name of tha

had been engaged was completed, was in the hands of the printer, and Florence amused herself with conjectures as to the criticisms it would provoke. She was certain that all that had most pleased her would be /caviare/ to the multitude. She never would believe that any one could understand Maltravers but herself. Thus time flew on till they passed that part of the road in which had occurred Ernest's adventure with Mrs. Templeton's daughter. Maltravers paused abruptly in the midst of his glowing periods, as the spot awakened

this evening?" aske

e Burleigh put on its best looks to greet its new mistress; and I have already appointed the great modern magicians of draperies and ormolu to consult how we may make Aladdin's palace

der is Signor Cesarini-how ha

ni emerging from a lane, with a porter behind him carrying some books and a trunk.

ave spent the last sum I conveyed to him-I must remember to find him out and replenish his stores.-

him to-morrow before we meet. Y

ce conceived himself entitled to form hopes the vanity of which his ignoran

give him the right to f

them. Ah, Florence, never underrate the p

but my conscience never so smote me before. It is since I lo

independence and a healthful mind, let us do so. Me, Cesarini never can forgive; he will think I have robbed him of you. But we men-the woman we have once love

the only man of letters whose faults he pitied, whose wants he relieved. Though his name seldom shone in the pompous list of public subscriptions-though he disdained to affect the Maecenas and the patron, he felt the brotherhood of mankind, and a kind of gratitude for those who aspired to rise or to delight their species. An author himself, he could appreciate the vast debt which the world owes to authors, and pays but by calumny in life and barren laurels after death. He whose profession is the Beautiful succeeds only t