ng, with my head uncovered, and my eyes cast on
the ground, 'Be seated, sir,' said he in a solemn voice; 'be seated. I
have to thank the notoriety of your debaucheries for learning the place
of your abode. It is the privilege of such fame as yours, that it
cannot lie concealed. You are acquiring celebrity by an unerring path.
Doubtless it will lead you to the Greve,[1] and you will then have the
unfading glory of being held up to the admiration of the world.'

"I made no reply. He continued: 'What an unhappy lot is that of a
father, who having tenderly loved a child, and strained every nerve to
bring him up a virtuous and respectable man, finds him turn out in the
end a worthless profligate, who dishonours him. To an ordinary reverse
of fortune one may be reconciled; time softens the affliction, and even
the indulgence of sorrow itself is not unavailing; but what remedy is
there for an evil that is perpetually augmenting, such as the
profligacy of a vicious son, who has deserted every principle of
honour, and is ever plunging from deep into deeper vice? You are
silent,' added he: 'look at this counterfeit modesty, this hypocritical
air of gentleness!-- might he not pass for the most respectable member
of his family?'

"Although I could not but feel that I deserved, in some degree, these
reproaches, yet he appeared to me to carry them beyond all reason. I
thought I might be permitted to explain my feelings.

"'I assure you, sir,' said I to him, 'that the modesty which you
ridicule is by no means affected; it is the natural feeling of a son
who entertains sincere respect for his father, and above all, a father
irritated as you justly are by his faults. Neither have I, sir, the
slightest wish to pass for the most respectable member of my family. I
know that I have merited your reproaches, but I conjure you to temper
them with mercy, and not to look upon me as the most infamous of
mankind. I do not deserve such harsh names. It is love, you know it,
that has caused all my errors. Fatal passion! Have you yourself never
felt its force? Is it possible that you, with the same blood in your
veins that flows in mine, should have passed through life unscathed by
the same excitements? Love has rendered me perhaps foolishly
tender--too easily excited-- too impassioned--too faithful, and
probably too indulgent to the desires and caprices, or, if you will,
the faults of an adored mistress. These are my crimes; are the