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 the first goût of some delicacy he had ordered for supper.

We leave him after this, without regret, to his fate; sympathy is alike unnecessary and impossible. Like all egotists of his class, Lord Marchmont, from his self-revolving pivot, regards his own petty feelings and small interests through the magnifying medium of self-love; while the joys and sorrows and welfare of others, however vast or important, he puts far away from his sight, or with the cold hand of indifference places them at the wrong end of the telescope of observation. Thus does selfishness effectually preclude any due concern for, or sympathy with the lot of our fellow-creatures. Fearfully will the neglect of the divine law of love—"Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you"—bring under condemnation characters who resemble that so forcibly delineated in the conduct of Lord Marchmont.

Constance Courtenaye is a beautifully drawn and touching portrait of a far different class to the character just mentioned. Her nature is one that interests all the best feelings, and appeals to all the deepest sympathies of the heart. Although we are told of no positive beauty, yet we feel throughout her history the spirit-loveliness which hangs around her delicate form. We perceive its charm as we watch her sweet expression, her purity, her fragility; and when we are told "that we must believe in angels as we gaze upon her face," so softly shadowed by her long, pale, golden hair, we are at once reminded of some of the hallowed countenances in Raphael's pictures, which do indeed appear as if their radiance were reflected from angelic beings. There was, too, a spirit light of tenderest emotion in the eyes of Constance, while "her own peculiarly sweet and pleading smile seemed to implore kindness," and spoke, too, of that