ould bestow."

* * * * *

LEAP-YEAR.--A TALE.

CHAPTER I.

In the summer of 1838, in the pleasant little county of Huntingdon, and
under the shade of some noble elms which form the pride of Lipscombe
Park, two young men might have been seen reclining. The thick, and
towering, and far-spreading branches under which they lay, effectually
protected them from a July sun, which threw its scorching brilliancy
over the whole landscape before them. They seemed to enjoy to the full
that delightful _retired openness_ which an English park affords, and
that easy effortless communion which only old companionship can give.
They were, in fact, fellow collegians. The one, Reginald Darcy by name,
was a ward of Mr Sherwood, the wealthy proprietor of Lipscombe Park; the
other, his friend, Charles Griffith, was passing a few days with him in
this agreeable retreat. They had spent the greater part of the morning
strolling through the park, making short journeys from one clump of
trees to another, and traversing just so much of the open sunny space
which lay exposed to all the "bright severity of noon," as gave fresh
value to the shade, and renewed the luxury of repose.

"Only observe," said Darcy, breaking silence, after a long pause, and
without any apparent link of connexion between their last topic of
conversation and the sage reflection he was about to launch--"only
observe," and, as he raised himself upon his elbow, something very like
a sigh escaped from him, "how complete, in our modern system of life, is
the ascendency of woman over us! Every art is hers--is devoted to her
service. Poetry, music, painting, sculpture--all seem to have no theme
but woman. It is her loveliness, her power over us, that is paraded and
chanted on every side. Poets have been always mad on the beauty of
woman, but never so mad as now; we must not only submit to be
sense-enthralled, the very innermost spirit of a man is to be
deliberately resigned to the tyranny of a smooth brow and a soft eye.
Music, which grows rampant with passion, speaks in all its tones of
woman: as long as the strain lasts we are in a frenzy of love, though it
is not very clear with whom, and happily the delirium ends the moment
the strings of the violin have ceased to vibrate. What subject has the
painter worth a rush but the beauty of woman? We gaze for ever on the
charming face which smiles on us from his canvass; we may gaze with
perfec