"WHAT a delightful thing the world is! Lady Lennox's ball, last night--how charming it was!-every one so kind, and Charlotte looking so pretty-the nicest girl I ever saw! But I must dress now. Balfour is to be here at twelve with the horse he wants to sell me. How lucky I am to have such a friend as Balfour!-so entertaining-so good-natured-so devilish clever too-and such an excellent heart! Ah! how unlucky! it rains a little; but never mind, it will clear up; and if it don't-why, there's billiards. What a delightful thing the world is!"

So soliloquized Charles Nugent, a man of twenty-one-a philanthropist an optimist. Our young gentleman was an orphan, of good family and large fortune; brave, generous, confiding, and open-hearted. His ability was above the ordinary standard, and he had a warm love and a pure taste for letters. He had even bent a knee to Philosophy, but the calm and cold graces with which the goddess receives her servants had soon discontented the young votary with the worship. "Away!" cried he, one morning, flinging aside the volume of La Rochefoucault, which he had fancied he understood; "Away with this selfish and debasing code!-men are not the mean things they are here described-be it mine to think exultingly of my species!" My dear Experience, with how many fine sentiments do you intend to play the devil? It is not without reason that Goëthe tells us, that though Fate is an excellent, she is also a very expensive schoolmis

tress.

"Ha! my dear Nugent, how are you?" and Captain Balfour enters the room; a fine dark, handsome fellow, with something of pretension in his air and a great deal of frankness. "And here is the horse. Come to the window. Does not he step finely? What action! you remark his forehand? How he carries his tail! Gad, I don't think you shall have him, after all!”

Do

Nay, my dear fellow, you may well be sorry to part with him. He is superb! Quite sound-eh ?"

"Have him examined."

“Do you think I would not take your word for it? The price?" "Fix it yourself. Prince Paul once offered me a hundred-andeighty; but to you

"You shall have it."

"

"No, Nugent-say, a hundred-and-fifty."

"I won't be outdone-there's a draft for the 1801."

Upon my soul, I'm ashamed; but you are such a rich fellow. John, take the horse to Mr. Nugent's stables. Where will you dine to-day?at the Cocoa-tree?"

"With all my heart."

The young men rode together. Nugent was delighted with his new purchase. They dined at the Cocoa-tree. Balfour ordered some early peaches. Nugent paid the Bill. They went to the Opera.

"Do you see that danseuse, Florine?" asked Balfour. "Pretty

ancle-eh?"

“Yes, comme ça --but dances awkwardly-not handsome."

"What! not handsome? Come and talk to her. She's more admired than any girl on the stage."

They went behind the scenes, and Balfour convinced his friend that he ought to be enchanted with Florine. Before the week was out the danseuse kept her carriage, and in return, Nugent supped with her twice a-week.

Nugent had written a tale for "The Keepsake;" it was his first literary effort; it was tolerably good, and exceedingly popular. One day he was lounging over his breakfast, and a tall, thin gentleman, in black, was announced, by the name of Mr. Gilpin.

Mr. Gilpin made a most respectful bow, and heaved a peculiarly profound sigh. Nugent was instantly seized with a lively interest in the stranger. "Sir, it is with great regret," faltered forth Mr. Gilpin, "that I seek you. I-I-I-" A low, consumptive cough checked his speech. Nugent offered him a cup of tea. The civility was refused, and the story continued.

Mr. Gilpin's narration is soon told, when he himself is not the narrator. An unfortunate literary man-once in affluent circumstances -security for a treacherous friend-friend absconded-pressure of unforeseen circumstances-angel wife and four cherub children-a book coming out next season-deep distress at present-horror at being forced to beg-generous sentiments expressed in the tale written by Mr. Nugent forcibly struck him-a ray of hope broke on his mind-and voila the causes of Mr. Gilpin's distress and Mr. Gilpin's visit. Never was there a more interesting personification of the afflicted man of letters than Gregory Gilpin. He looked pale, patient, and respectable; he coughed frequently, and he was dressed in deep mourning. Nugent's heart swelled-he placed a bank-note in Mr. Gilpin's hands-he promised more effectual relief, and Mr. Gilpin retired, overpowered with his own gratitude and Mr. Nugent's respectful compassion.

"How happy I am to be rich!" said the generous young philanthropist, throwing open his chest.

Nugent went to a conversazione at Lady Lennox's. Her Ladyship was a widow, and a charming woman. She was a little of the blue, and a little of the fine lady, and a little of the beauty, and a little of the coquette, and a great deal of the sentimentalist. She had one daughter, without a shilling; she had taken a warm interest in a young man of the remarkable talents and amiability of Charles Nugent. He sate next her-they talked of the heartlessness of the world-it is a subject on which men of twenty-one and ladies of fortyfive are especially eloquent. Lady Lennox complained, Mr. Nugent defended. "One does not talk much of innocence," it is said, or something like it is said, somewhere in Madame d'Epinay's Memoirs, "without being sadly corrupted;" and nothing brings out the goodness of our own hearts more than a charge against the heartlessness of others.

"An excellent woman!" thought Nugent; "what warm feelings! -how pretty her daughter is! Oh! a charming family!"

Charlotte Lennox played an affecting air; Nugent leaned over the piano; they talked about music, poetry, going on the water, senti

ment, and Richmond Hill. They made up a party of pleasure. Nugent did not sleep well that night-he was certainly in love.

When he rose the next morning, the day was bright and fine; Balfour, the best of friends, was to be with him in an hour; Balfour's horse, the best of horses, was to convey him to Richmond; and at Richmond he was to meet Lady Lennox, the most agreeable of mothers and Charlotte, the most enchanting of daughters. The danseuse had always been a bore-she was now forgotten. "It certainly is a delightful world!" repeated Nugent, as he tied his neckcloth.

It was some time-we will not say how long-after the date of this happy day; Nugent was alone in his apartment, and walking to and fro-his arms folded, and a frown upon his brow. "What a rascal ! what a mean wretch!—and the horse was lame when he sold it—not worth ten pounds!-and I so confiding-damn my folly! That, however, I should not mind; but to have saddled me with his castoff mistress !—to make me the laughing-stock of the world! By heavens, he shall repent it! Borrowed money of me, then made a jest of my good-nature !-introduced me to his club, in order to pillage me!-but, thank God, thank God, I can shoot him yet! Ha! Colonel; this is kind!"

Colonel Nelmore, an elderly gentleman, well known in society, with a fine forehead, a shrewd, contemplative eye, and an agreeable address, entered the room. To him Nugent poured forth the long list of his grievances, and concluded by begging him to convey a challenge to the best of friends-Captain Balfour. The Colonel raised his eyebrows.

"But, my dear Sir,-this gentleman has certainly behaved ill to you, I allow it—but for what specific offence do you mean to challenge him?"

"For his conduct in general."

The Colonel laughed.

"For saying yesterday, then, that I was grown a d-d bore, and he should cut me in future. He told Selwyn so in the bow-window at White's."

The Colonel took snuff.

My good young friend," said he, "I see you don't know the world. Come and dine with me to-day-a punctual seven. We'll talk over these matters. Meanwhile, you can't challenge a man for calling you a bore."

"Not challenge him!-what should I do then?"

Laugh-shake your head at him, and say—'Ah! Balfour, you're a sad fellow !'"

The Colonel succeeded in preventing the challenge, but Nugent's indignation at the best of friends remained as warm as ever. He declined the Colonel's invitation-he was to dine with the Lennox's. Meanwhile, he went to the shady part of Kensington Gardens to indulge his reflections.

He sat himself down in an arbour, and looked moralizingly over the initials, the dates, and the witticisms, that hands, long since mouldering, have consigned to the admiration of posterity.

A gay party were strolling by this retreat-their laughter and voices preceded them. "Yes," said a sharp, dry voice, which Nugent recognised as belonging to one of the wits of the day-" Yes, I saw you, Lady Lennox, talking sentiment to Nugent-fie! how could you waste your time so unprofitably !"

"Ah! poor young man! he is certainly bien bête, with his fine phrases and so forth: but 'tis a good creature on the whole, and exceedingly useful!”

"Useful!"

“Yes; fills up a vacant place at one's table, at a day's warning; lends me his carriage-horses when mine have caught cold; subscribes to my charities for me; and supplies the drawing-room with flowers. In a word, if he were more sensible, he would be less agreeable: his sole charm is his foibles."

Proh, Jupiter! what a description from the most sentimental of mothers of the most talented, the most interesting of young men. Nugent was thunderstruck; the party swept by; he was undiscovered.

He raved, he swore, he was furious. He go to the dinner to-day! No, he would write such a letter to the lady-it should speak daggers! But the daughter: Charlotte was not of the party. Charlotte-oh! Charlotte was quite a different creature from her mother-the most natural, the most simple of human beings, and evidently loved him. He could not be mistaken, there. Yes, for her sake he would go to the dinner; he would smother his just resentment.

He went to Lady Lennox's. It was a large party. The young Marquis of Austerly had just returned from his travels. He was sitting next to the most lovely of daughters. Nugent was forgotten.

After dinner, however, he found an opportunity to say a few words in a whisper to Charlotte. He hinted a tender reproach, and he begged her to sing "We met; 'twas in a crowd." Charlotte was hoarse-had caught cold. Charlotte could not sing. Nugent left the room. When he got to the end of the street, he discovered that he had left his cane behind. He went back for it, glad (for he was really in love) of an excuse for darting an angry glance at the most simple, the most natural of human beings, that should prevent her sleeping the whole night. He ascended the drawing-room; and Charlotte was delighting the Marquis of Austerly, who leaned over her chair, with "We met; 'twas in a crowd."

Charlotte Lennox was young, lovely, and artful. Lord Austerly was young, inexperienced, and vain. In less than a month, he proposed, and was accepted.

"Well, well!" said poor Nugent one morning, breaking from a reverie; "betrayed in my friendship, deceived in my love, the pleasure of doing good is still left to me. Friendship quits us at the first stage of life, Love at the second, Benevolence lasts till death! Poor Gilpin how grateful he is: I must see if I can get him that place abroad." To amuse his thoughts, he took up a new magazine. He opened the page at a violent attack on himself-on his beautiful tale in the "Keepsake." The satire was not confined to the work; it extended to the author. He was a fop, a coxcomb, a ninny, an intellectual dwarf, a miserable creature, and an abortion. These are pleasant studies for a man out of spirits, especially before he is used

to them. Nugent had just flung the magazine to the other end of the room, when his lawyer came to arrange matters about a mortgage, which the generous Nugent had already been forced to raise on his estates. The lawyer was a pleasant, entertaining man of the world, accustomed to the society, for he was accustomed to the wants of young men. He perceived Nugent was a little out of humour. He attributed the cause, naturally enough, to the mortgage; and to divert his thoughts, he entered first on a general conversation.

"What rogues there are in the world!" said he. Nugent groaned. "This morning, for instance, before I came to you, I was engaged in a curious piece of business enough. A gentleman gave his son-inlaw a qualification to stand for a borough: the son-in-law kept the deed, and so cheated the good gentleman out of more than 3007. a-year. Yesterday I was employed against a fraudulent bankrupt— such an instance of long, premeditated, cold-hearted, deliberate rascality! And when I leave you, I must see what is to be done with a literary swindler, who, on the strength of a consumptive cough, and a suit of black, has been respectably living on compassion for the last two years."

"Ha!"

"He has just committed the most nefarious fraud—a forgery, in short, on his own uncle, who has twice seriously distressed himself to save the rogue of a nephew, and who must now submit to this loss, or proclaim, by a criminal prosecution, the disgrace of his own family. The nephew proceeded, of course, on his knowledge of my client's goodness of heart; and thus a man suffers in proportion to his amiability."

"Is his name Gil-Gil-Gilpin !" stammered Nugent.

"The same! O-ho! have you been bit, too, Mr. Nugent?"

Before our hero could answer, a letter was brought to him. Nugent tore the seal: it was from the editor of the magazine in which he has just read his own condemnation. It ran thus :

"Sir,-Having been absent from London on unavoidable business for the last month, and the care of the Magazine having thereby devolved on another, who has very ill discharged its duties, I had the surprise and mortification of perceiving, on my return this day, that a most unwarrantable and personal attack upon you has been admitted in the number for this month. I cannot sufficiently express my regret, the more especially on finding that the article in question was written by a mere mercenary in letters. To convince you of my concern, and my resolution to guard against such unworthy proceedings in future, I enclose you another, and yet severer attack, which was sent to us for our next number, and for which, I grieve to say, the unprincipled author has already succeeded in obtaining from the proprietors-a remuneration," &c. &c. &c.

Nugent's eyes fell on the enclosed paper: it was in the hand-writing of Mr. Gregory Gilpin, the most grateful of distressed literary men.

"You seem melancholy to-day, my dear Nugent," said Colonel Nelmore, as he met his young friend walking with downcast eyes on the old mall of St. James's Park.

"I am unhappy, I am discontented; the gloss is faded from life," answered Nugent, sighing.

"I love meeting with a pensive man," said the Colonel: "let me