roved him for reiterated misrepresentations and
calumnies of Theodore, with which he had harrassed the mind of Alida. He
knew that a discovery must now be made of his perfidy, and on his return
home to the village, he was confined to his room with a sudden illness,
succeeded by a dangerous fever.

CHAPTER XXXII.

O, time! roll on thy wheels, and bring around the period, when
social joy shall smile before me; when in the vernal day of life,
or evening serene, I grow of one dear object more and more
enamoured; while my remembrance swells with many a proof of
interested friendship.

[Thomson: _Seasons_: Spring, last 10 lines:

As ceaseless round a jarring world they roll,
Still find them happy; and consenting Spring
Sheds her own rosy garland on their heads:
Till evening comes at last, serene and mild;
When after the long vernal day of life,
Enamour'd more, as more remembrance swells
With many a proof of recollected love,
Together down they sink in social sleep;
Together freed, their gentle spirits fly
To scenes where love and bliss immortal reign.]

The present situation of Albert was happily independent. The prolific
soil of the estate, on which he lived, furnished him with an ample
abundance. The prospect that surrounded him was inimitably beautiful,
and the peculiar advantages of his eligible situation, was the
admiration of the stranger who frequented the vicinity, or resorted in
the summer season to the neighbouring village.

Albert had descended from an ancient family, he had an estate to
preserve, but not an entailed one, as was the case with many of his
family, at this time in England.

He was a gentleman, placid, humane and generous; altogether
unacquainted with that ambition which sacrifices every thing to the
desire of fortune, and the superfluous splendour that follows in her
train. He was unacquainted with love too, the supreme power of which
absorbs and concentrates all our faculties upon one sole object. That
age of innocent pleasure, and of confident credulity, when the heart is
yet a novice and follows the impulse of youthful sensibility, and
bestows itself unreservedly upon the object of disinterested affection;
then, surely, friendship is not a name.

[_NY Weekly_: Baron de Lovzinski:

How happy, but how fleeting is that time of life, when one is
unacquainted with ambition, which sacrifices every thin