incalculable promptitude he sought out and discovered Grosvenor; without the delay of a moment he obtained an interview.

It was about eleven in the morning that he found himself at the door of Grosvenor's apartments. "My master not at home!" said the

man.

"Not yet risen, you mean! Show me into his breakfast-room; I shall await his rising." The man obeyed, and Lord Montague took up the paper, the constant attendant on the breakfast table.

What information! he read the paragraph again, examined its probabilities, compared circumstances, and durst not doubt its truth. Napoleon had escaped from Elba-had landed in France-perhaps at that very instant was in Paris!

Where were the Walworths-the Bishopthe Countess?-where, above all, was Miss Argyle?

What food for speculation-for conjecture, -for thought-for apprehension!

All hope of hearing from them, of seeing them, was necessarily abandoned: communication between the nations must, in the natural course of things, be entirely cut off Patient endurance must usurp the place of action: Miss Argyle was in the very seat of danger, and yet Lord Montague could not snatch her from the peril!

The mysterious, the incomprehensible Napoleon, had again seated himself on that throne, which he aspired to raise on the ruins of the

prostrate world: he again brandished that imperial sceptre, which had dictated terms of life to so many royal vassals; that gigantic mind had again found space to display its energies; again breathed, where alone it could breathe freely, the air of imperial grandeur. Again that was within his grasp which might enable him to fulfil the boast of Archimedes,-to discover a spot on which he himself might repose, whilst his power should hurl the moral world from its centre. In short, Napoleon had emer ged from his temporary eclipse, to be a fiercer and more terrible meteor than before.

Lord Montague paced the apartment with rapid strides; danger, in every shape, menaced Miss Argyle, and he could not ward it from her! Possibility was against it; and this conviction agonized him into calmness; such calmness as glazes the eye of the young Pagan mother, whose religion bids her sacrifice her tender first-born to the idol of her worship!

The door opened;" My lord! Lord Montague! is it possible?"

Mr. Grosvenor!-alas! I am almost obliged to echo your question!".

The thin form before him, the outline of which a large dressing gown could not entirely conceal, the sunken eye, the pale, haggard countenance, the feverish hand, the unequal respiration, was, indeed, the ruin of what was Grosvenor.

Where was that rich carmine, which had once glowed on his cheek, the effect of health, energy, of principle, of virtue? where that

of

brightness of eye, which had often attracted respondent beams from the leaden one of apathy? where that manly candor of countenance, which was seen and instantly trusted-loved? All had fled: and so beauteous a spring seemed only to have given birth to a premature winter! You are ill, Mr. Grosvenor," said Lord Montague; "I need not ask a question which your looks answer.

"I am looking wretchedly, I believe," replied he, with great vivacity; "the fact is, regular indisposition-scientific malady which a man needs a diploma to cure-is quite out of my way. New habits, total change of mode of life, inauguration into the temple of ton, have transformed me, as the phrase is, into a very poor-looking devil. But courage, monsieur! a breeze from the sea will breathe into me a new soul, a new spring of existenceand Richard's himself again!' From Paris, my lord? Comment va le mond la? every thing splendid, elegant-and the Bishop ?---well, hope? Important affairs prevented my accompanying him:-parliament not in the way, nevertheless, for it is holidays with us:-any news? hah! how? Elba! Frejus! landed! Napoleon!-oh, cursed, cursed country! what dastard souls are breathed into thy earth!"

Grosvenor rapidly ran over the account:indignation, surprise, astonishment, every thing yielded to conviction.

"Let him rule! let him set his foot on their prostrate necks, and let them crouch beneath his yoke, slaves that they are!" said he, pas

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sionately; "I swear to you, my Lord Montague, that if my voice could move our senate, not one sword should be brandished to sever that chain with which they have bound themselves! Napoleon Buonaparte is modelled by the hands of nature for their sovereign: they may writhe under the pressure of his iron sceptre, but they cannot break it !"

"Miss Argyle and our reverend friend the Bishop are in a dangerous situation: unfortunately, there are no means of rescuing them!" said Lord Montague.

"Ah, my God! and it is I who have driven my father, my more than father, to a prisonto death, perhaps!" Grosvenor leaned his head on the table, in bitter reflection and remorse. Lord Montague did not disturb that profound reverie into which it had been his aim to throw him: it was not remonstrance, advice, or argument, that was to rescue Grosvenor from the infatuation which had so long blinded him it was experience-self-conviction and the first step to amendment must be

remorse.

"It is done! fate cannot undo it!" said Grosvenor, rousing himself: "I am encireled-bound-chained-now and eternally! All hope is lost!-Farewell remorse! farewell fear! The Deist at length seeks refuge from himself in Atheism!" articulating the last sentence in a low tone; then rapidly flying from thought, and changing the subject—

"Your lordship left France lately ?"

"Within these few days: just after the Bishop's arrival."

"The fair Argyle at Paris? a foreign court deprives ours of the honour of polishing that brilliant diamond! This is not national; this is not exactly as it ought to be! 'Tis true every temple in our circle is occupied by a presiding Divinity; still in our Olympus we would have found a throne-we would have found adorers for this new celestial. Is it for a foreigner to soften that proud heart-to fire that susceptible soul into sublimity? It is a hero that must awaken those dormant.ener

gies; whether the conqueror of others, or the qui se vincit' at present undetermined: most mighty of conquerors, he who subdues himself! unfortunately, his discipline is too severe; I dare not enlist under his banners, lest I should desert; and martial law declares desertion to be a capital crime. Crime! a new idea! or, rather, an old word revived to meet occasion!"

"Lady Anne de Burgh".

"Is well, I believe-I imagine," interrupted Grosvenor, speaking, at the same time, with great rapidity: "she rusticates at Richmond, with her Comtesse, in the most lachrymal style imaginable-a beautiful creature, Lady Anne! nothing like her in our circles-wanting only fashion, and therefore deficient in every thing! What is fashion? nobody can define it, and every one feels it; who can say what is fashion ?"