hat other, a brother whom he ardently loved, by continuing to exist. Had
he met with fondness in his parents, or sociability in his playfellows,
these fancies would have left him as he grew into life. But the affections
of his parents were settled on his more promising brother; and his manners
daily increasing in their repulsive traits, drove his companions to the
society of others, more agreeable to their own buoyancy and joy.

Had Francis Denbigh, at this age, met with a guardian clear-sighted enough
to fathom his real character, and competent to direct his onward course,
he would yet have become an ornament to his name and country, and a useful
member of society. But no such guide existed. His natural guardians, in
his particular case, were his worst enemies; and the boys left school for
college four years afterwards, each advanced in his respective properties
of attraction and repulsion.

Irreligion is hardly a worse evil in a family than favoritism. When once
allowed to exist, in the breast of the parent, though hid apparently from
all other eyes, its sad consequences begin to show themselves. Effects are
produced, and we look in vain for the cause. The awakened sympathies of
reciprocal caresses and fondness are mistaken for uncommon feelings, and
the forbidding aspect of deadened affections is miscalled native
sensibility.

In this manner the evil increases itself, until manners are formed, and
characters created, that must descend with their possessor to the tomb.

In the peculiar formation of the mind of Francis Denbigh, the evil was
doubly injurious. His feelings required sympathy and softness, and they
met only with coldness and disgust. George alone was an exception to the
rule. _He_ did love his brother; but even his gaiety and spirits finally
tired of the dull uniformity of the diseased habits of his senior.

The only refuge Francis found in his solitude, amidst the hundreds of the
university, was in his muse and in the powers of melody. The voice of his
family has been frequently mentioned in these pages; and if, as Lady Laura
had intimated, there had ever been a siren in the race, it was a male one.
He wrote prettily, and would sing these efforts of his muse to music of
his own, drawing crowds around his windows, in the stillness of the night,
to listen to sounds as melodious as they were mournful. His poetical
efforts partook of the distinctive character of the man, being melancholy,
wild, and sometim