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 this cannot be wrong. All deceive themselves. At this very instant of time, what thousands of beguiled and credulous beings are saying to themselves in the pride of their hearts, "I am not like this Calantha," or, "thank God, the idol of my fancy is not a Glenarvon." They deem themselves virtuous, because they are yet only upon the verge of ruin: they think themselves secure, because they know not yet the heart of him who would mislead them. But the hour of trial is at hand; and the smile of scorn may soon give place to the bitter tear of remorse.

"Many can deceive," said Glenarvon, mournfully gazing on Calantha whilst she wept; "but is your lover like the common herd? Oh! we have loved, Calantha, better than they know how: we have dared the utmost: your mind and mine must not even be compared with their's. Let the vulgar dissemble and fear—let them talk idly in the unmeaning jargon