ey they were inseparable. As
it so often happens in such cases, there was hardly any
perceptible bond of sympathy between them; they were so
strikingly dissimilar in character and in tastes, that one
could scarcely understand the pleasure they took in each
other's society. It is necessary to the subsequent unfolding
of my story that I should give some account of them, and of
the feelings with which I regarded, at that time, these two
men. They were both several years older than myself, but the
disparity was not enough to prevent my considering them as
friends and companions. They had both left Oxford some two or
three years before the time I am speaking of. Henry Lovell was
at once like and unlike his sister, Mrs. Middleton; he was
exceedingly attractive; there was no denying the charm that
existed in the rapid intelligence, the quick conception, and
the ready humour that lit up his eyes and countenance, and
sparkled in his repartee. His powers of captivation were as
great as hers, but he knew that power, and even used it for an
end; while in her it was spontaneous as the bubbling of a
stream, as the song of the birds, or as the joy of childhood.
Both had a keen perception of the ludicrous, but in her it
never amounted to ill-nature: she was as severe upon herself
as he was upon others; while she penetrated into their motives
she judged them kindly, and was at ready to detect evil in her
own heart as he was to suspect it in theirs. His smile was
sarcastic, and his remarks were often bitter. If he had not
been charming, he would have been odious; and to have been
loved at all, he must have been passionately loved, for no
feeling short of passion could have withstood the withering
influence of his profound selfishness. He was well versed in
the language of feeling, in the theory of enthusiasm; he could
speak of "whatsoever things are pure, of whatsoever things are
lovely, of whatsoever things are honest, of whatsoever things
are of good report." Where there was virtue, and where there
was praise, there was he ready to descant with eloquence, to
discuss with ability; there he was at home, at least in
conversation, for, in the varied range of human affections,
his intellect conceived what his heart did not feel.

At the time that I am writing of, when he and Edward Middleton
were the two persons who most occupied my thoughts, and
interested my girlish imagination, it would have been
difficult for me to describe what I