FROM THE EUROPEAN MAGAZINE.

False or True; or, The Journey to London. An Original Tale. By Mrs. OPIE.

"WELL then, Ellen, all is settled," said Sir George Mortimer to his niece and ward; "and you are resolved to go to London by the mail from W- next Monday."

"Yes, dear uncle, it is the quickest conveyance; and as I am only to stay a month, I shall like to lose as little time as I can in travelling.

"Oh! certainly; to lose twelve hours of such delight as awaits you, Ellen, would be shocking indeed!"

"Oh! but it is not only that, it will be less trouble, and less expense you know; and I shall want all my money for London; and as my aunt lets her maid go with me, and Mr. Betson, the attorney, will take care of me, I do not see why I should not go by the mail.”

"Nor I neither, my dear; but, Ellen, I suppose you have written to desire your cousin Charles Mandeville to meet you at the inn?"

"No, indeed, I have not," Ellen replied, deeply blushing, "for I wish to surprise him; besides, I should not like to take the poor youth out of his bed so early in a cold May."

"A great hardship, indeed, to force a healthy young man of oneand-twenty out of his bed in a spring morning, at five or six o'clock.'

"Oh! but if I should give him cold! you know he often has a bad cough."

"Poor delicate creature! I am glad you have so much consideration for him."

"Nay, I am sure Charles is not delicate; he looks very manly, and has a fine healthy colour.'

"Then why should he not get up to meet you?"

"Oh! but I wish to surprise him. I tell you he will be so surprised, and so delighted!"

"No doubt; well, well, silly girl! have your own way." And Ellen having sent for places in the W-mail, ran to talk to her aunt and cousins on the only subject uppermost in her young and confiding heart; namely, the joy of a first visit to the metropolis, and of the delight which her unexpected presence there would occasion her dear, dear Charles: for Ellen, though she had a fine understanding, had a heart even too fond and too confiding, and she was only eighteen. Charles Mandeville, who, at the age of fiveand-twenty, was to come into possession of a handsome fortune, had finished his classical studies under the tuition of a country clergyman in the village where Sir George Mortimer resided, and thenee had had an intimate and frequent intercourse with Sir George's family, which had ended in a tender attachment between him and his cousin Ellen Mortimer, whose mother was his father's sister.

Not that any thing like an engagement existed between them; that Sir George had positively forbidden. He had represented to them that they were as yet too young to know their own minds; and that, as Mr. Mandeville could not marry till he was of age, it would be better to prove the strength and reality of their attachment by absence, and by mixing with the world. The young lovers would have talked of eternal constancy, and declared their hearts were unalterably fixed on each other if he would have allowed them to do so; but he forbade it, assuring them that their rhapsodies would not carry conviction to his mind, as he had known many a passion, which the retirement of a village had created, vanish away in the varied intercourse and pleasures of busy life. And very soon was absence the great test of affection to prove that of Charles Mandeville, for his guardian wrote to tell him it was time for him to enter himself at Lincoln's-inn. As Mandeville's father had been a strict dissenter, he had forbidden his son to be educated at college; therefore, instead of going to Cambridge, he received the private tuition which I have mentioned, and was then to commence his legal studies, as intellectual pursuit of some sort was wisely deemed necessary for him during the years that were yet to come of his long minority. But a young man, who knows that at five-and-twenty he shall have a large fortune, is not likely from principle and the love of employment to study very hard. The known expectations, the handsome person, prompt attentions, musical powers, and pleasing manners of Charles Mandeville, soon gave him entrance into some gay and fashionable circles in the metropolis; and at the end of six months after he left the village of R, his letters to Ellen were neither so frequent nor so long as they had been, but they contained some tender words, such as "dearest, beloved girl," and so on; and Ellen tried to be satisfied; for how was it possible that Charles should have changed so soon, if at all; since her heart was unchanged, though she had had temptations to falsehood thrown in her way.

Sir Henry Claremont, a young Baronet, came to reside on a beautiful estate belonging to a friend of his, who was forced to live abroad on account of his health. This estate joined the Park-gate of Sir George Mortimer. Sir Henry on losing a mother, whom he almost adored, felt himself unable to remain in his own house where every thing reminded him of his loss, he therefore hired the seat in question of its owner. But he declined visiting his neighbours, and had gained the title of the recluse, when he saw Ellen at church soon after she finally left school, and from that moment he was a recluse no longer; for as soon as Sir George found that the young Baronet sought, rather than avoided him, he invited him to his house; and a great deal of visiting intercourse took place, till, on the obvious intimacy and attachment which ensued between Ellen and Charles, Sir Henry gradually ceased his visits, and his love of solitude and home returned. But when Charles went to London, and when, on inquiry, Sir Henry found

that no engagement existed between him and his cousin, he again became sociable, and at length after "a series of quiet attentions, not so pointed as to alarm or so vague as to be misunderstood," he ventured to ask leave to address Miss Mortimer. But Ellen was firm in her refusal of his addresses; and Sir George could not help saying, "Well, Ellen, I only hope that Charles may prove himself worthy of the sacrifice you are making for his sake." "Sacrifice, my dear uncle!""Yes; for is not Sir Henry Claremont every thing a father would desire in a husband for his daughter, or his daughter for herself? Is he not handsome, young, good, pious, studious. Before his rich neighbours knew him did not his poor ones bless him, Ellen?"-" Oh yes, he is very good, and charming I dare say, and if I did not love Charles, I—but I do love Charles, so I cannot have Sir Henry."

Sir George shook his head, sighed, and told Sir Henry he had nothing at present to hope. Sir Henry sighed also, but he contrived to remember the "at present" qualified the refusal from the lips of Sir George, and he resolved to hope on; in the mean while Ellen could not express a wish which was not immediately fulfilled: presents so delicately offered that they could not be refused, and attentions so well timed that they could not be dispensed with, proved the continuation of his love; a love which, though silent in words, spoke in every glance of his intelligent eye, and seemed resolved to burn unchanged even in the midst of despair. There were times when Ellen herself thought it was a pity she could not reward such love as that of Sir Henry; but this was only when she had for a few days vainly expected a letter from Charles. If the expected letter, when it came, contained its usual quantity of tender epithets, and one regret at being separated from her, then she forgot Sir Henry's incessant assiduity; she heard with calm approbation only of his benevolent exertions, and had no wish so near her heart as to see Charles again; no regret but that she did not receive the long-promised invitation to London from her mother's old friend, Mrs. Ainslie. At length this precious invitation arrived, and Ellen was requested to set off immediately, as at the end of the month her friend would be obliged to travel to the north. It was the suddenness of the summon which tempted Ellen to surprise Charles, as she hoped, agreeably; and Sir George, who suspected that Charles's attachment had not resisted the destroying power of absence as well as hers had done, was willing that he should be taken by surprise, as he thought that, if Ellen could see her favourite's heart off its guard, she might find out that he had ceased to love her, and might thence derive power to conquer her own attachment.

The parting hour with her relations was, on Ellen's side, one of tears quickly succeeded by smiles when she found herself really seated in the mail, and really on her journey to London; that journey, at the end of which she was to see, though not alas! immediately, the face which haunted her dreams, and gave interest to

her waking hours; and to hear that voice whose parting accents still rung mournfully and melodiously in her ears. To Ellen the novelty of the present scene, and the expectation of the future, gave a feeling of intoxication which made her almost troublesomely loquacious to her companion, Mr. Betson, for she could only converse concerning London, and ask incessant questions relative to the place of her destination. As they passed Sir Henry Claremont's Park-gate, Ellen saw him leaning on it as if watching to catch a last look of her. She eagerly returned his bow of adieu, and kissed her hand kindly to him, but was soon again engrossed in questioning her companion. As it grew dark, Mr. Betson's answers were shorter and shorter; and, when night came on, his replies dwindled down to a plain "Yes," and "No." At last Ellen with dismay saw him, after a hearty yawn, put on his night-cap, and settle himself down in the corner. "Dear me, Sir!" she exclaimed, "to be sure you are not going to sleep?" "Why not, Miss Mortimer; I am not a young man, and I really advise you to sleep yourself, for you will want all your spirits for the journey, and for London when you get there." Ellen was disappointed, but she saw that sleep was so much dearer to Mr. Betson as a companion than she was, that she submitted in silence to the preference; or rather she talked, as talk she must, to her aunt's maid now, for the time being her own, and in projecting alterations which she was to execute in her old things, or in thinking over what new things she was to purchase, she beguiled part of the long night, which still separated her from London and her love, but at dawn she had talked herself into weariness, and sleep was not far behind. When she awoke, the approach to London, through Piccadilly, was in sight, and Ellen was in an ecstasy of admiration! Oh, the incessant questions with which she now assailed Mr. Betson. But the question nearest her heart was, "Pray, Sir, where is Albany? Because this is Piccadilly, you say, and Albany, I know, is near it." But Mr. Betson had never heard of Albany, which Charles mentioned as a most fashionable residence, ergo, Mr. Betson was a vulgar man, and knew nothing of ton and life.

Ellen now began to regret that she had not written to request Charles to meet her, or rather to let him know she was to be seen at seven o'clock in the morning at the Golden Cross, Charing Cross. No doubt he would have been there, and then she should have seen him so much sooner. This consideration had led her into a deep reverie, when the mail turned into the Inn-yard at one of the entrances, and she found Mr. Ainslie's carriage waiting for her.

It is easy to imagine that Ellen's ideas of London were considerably lowered as she turned her back on the west end of the town; and after going down the comparatively gloomy Strand, in which the current of human life had not yet began its course, saw the carriage turn into the spacious but dark area of Serjeant's Inn; and Charles lived in Albany, and that was near Piccadilly! But the

warm affectionate greeting of her mother's friends, the cheerful fire, the refreshing breakfast, and the evidences of kind hearts, of taste and of opulence, which surrounded her, suspended for a while even the remembrance of Charles and regret that he was so far off; and Ellen was so cheered, so alive, that she could not be prevailed upon by her kind hostess to go to bed for a few hours. “Oh, no -it is impossible! I should not sleep if I did;" then blushing deeply, she said, that she must write a note. "You will find whatever you want for that purpose in your own chamber." -not unless you go with me thither," she replied, blushing still more, "for I want you to write what I shall dictate." Mrs. Ainslie accordingly accompanied Ellen to her room, and there she learnt what she wished her to write, as follows:

"No

"If Mr. Mandeville will take the trouble to call at Mr. Ainslie's, No. -, Serjeant's Inn, some time to-day, he will learn some intelligence respecting his cousin Ellen Mortimer."

"But why," said Mrs. Ainslie, "not tell him at once that you are here." The treasured fancy of her heart, however, was indulged, and Mrs. Ainslie did as she desired her, then sent her own servant to Albany with the note.

Mrs. Ainslie, in consequence of having been told in confidence by Sir George that he suspected Charles's heart of having played truant to Ellen, allowed the expression "some time to-day" to remain, and did not insist on changing it for a particular hour, as she thought that Charles coming early or late, according to the suggestions of his own heart, would prove the state of that heart beyond a doubt to her eyes, though not, perhaps, to Ellen's; therefore with some anxious expectation, though not equal to that of her young guest, Mrs. Ainslie awaited the arrival of Charles. But hour succeeded to hour, and yet he did not come;-while Ellen's cheek was now pale, now flushed, as disappointment or hope preponderated; yet it was in reality all disappointment, for if he had been interested in hearing aught concerning her he would have come directly. "Surely," said Ellen at last, no longer able to conceal her vexation. 66 Surely, Charles is not in town?” "You shall question my servant yourself," said Mrs. Ainslie, and she rung for him, though she already knew what he would reply, which was, that he saw Mr. Mandeville's servant, who told him he would give the note into his master's hand immediately. Yet it was three o'clock, and he was not at Serjeant's Inn. "Well," said Mrs. Ainslie, "I conclude, Ellen, you will not stay at home any longer in hopes of this truant's arrival. My carriage is coming round, and I must take you to see something, as you are neither tired nor sleepy." No,-Ellen was neither, but she was something much worse-she was sick at heart. The bright prospect that love and hope had pictured was blighted, and she wished already, earnestly wished, that she had never come to London. But the next moment she excused Charles's delay thus:-" He could not suppose he was to see me, and perhaps he thought it a hoax. Yes-yes-