his happiness was murdered by her forfeiting it; such was mine before Rosalie proved unworthy. Can this be forgotten as well as forgiven? You will yourself say, no. You have sometimes ('twas only sometimes) thought that she was, after all, innocent. "Make me to think so twenty years together, Madness, indeed! for was she not wedded, a voluntary bride, within a little, little month? It will not bear a thought. But even though wedded, and to me for ever lost, so little personal is my feeling, that to establish her innocent, and to think her so, even in the arms of her husband, I should be happy. But such comfort is not for me. At the same time I so far agree with you, that if chance should ever throw me in her way, resentment would not be the feeling I should exhibit. Indifference, in fact, is the only revenge I seek. I am more certain in this, from having disobeyed you with impunity. For, spite of your prohibition, I have visited the dreaded pictures once more, and write from the very chamber which contains them. Yet my pulse is as quiet, and my temples are as cool, as yours. You can wish for no better proofs of my forgiveness; but oblivion is very different. To-morrow I start. My old and my new friend accompany me, or rather, I them. They engage much of my attention by their sympathy; for they both enter into my feelings as I could wish. All therefore is not lost in the world. Of that world Fitzwalter is, or says he is, a citizen, and will have no attachments to men, women, or country. Not so my good Oldacre, who is still too much wedded to England, and even to Yorkshire, to be like his friend, and wonder at nothing. Yet, with all his asserted indifference, that friend talks of not leaving me-nay, of accompanying me abroad. He thinks so entirely as I do, of the total overthrow of English interests and the English character, that I could almost consent. But, though old enough to do so, he knows nothing of love, or at least of that blight of love which cankers the soul, and changes the whole habit and character of man. I know not that he has ever been disappointed; but if he has, his very principle is to forget, whatever becomes of forgiveness. He is still however young, versatile, sensible, and I believe honest. He at least hates upstarts. The difference between us is, that they make him laugh, while they make me weep. He knows the English, but not the Spanish character. But why do I talk of Spain? Adieu, my dear, my only dear one! If things change either for better or for worse, and only if they do so, we shall see one another again. Till then farewell. You will, I know, think often of one whom you have so long loved, and so well counselled, Your affectionate, PENRUDDOCK. P.S. You have repeatedly asked, what I am still too ignorant of my plans to answer. I go indeed to forget myself, if that be possible, but know not where-in order to find diversion of thought from domestic or public madness. I go, therefore, but without knowing in what direction, except that some of my old haunts may tempt me preliminarily to visit them. Perhaps the Rhine-if so, Switzerland; or perhaps the Loire-if so, the Pyrenees. Alas! if the last, how near to Spain! But you shall know more when I know more myself. LETTER XII. Fitzwalter to Strickland. TRAVEL. in I MERELY told you, my last, the route we had decided upon, not the previous deliberations which led to it. I was for the beautiful Loire; the classical Orleans; the interesting Blois; the magnificent Bordeaux;-and then, to the cradle of all that had been chivalrous-the romantic Pau. But the baronet gave a sigh when he put a negative upon this. It is too near Spain," said he. We then traversed the map, to look towards the Rhine. "I love the Germans,” continued Sir Robert, "with their best of all philosophy, never to hazard positive good, to be prospectively, but uncertainly better. It will be time enough to change, when they feel the necessity for it. Besides, their women, being farther from the Seine, have less imagination, and therefore less inconstancy, than the French or Italians." Here he hesitated, as if about to name another class of nations; but a cloud came over him. I understood him, and was silent. It was at length decided that we should pursue the Rhine. I studied my fellow-traveller closely, and his countenance, as well as his cheerfulness, began to expand the farther he got from home. "That word, home," said he, "once had charms for me that were inexpressible. But where the heart and mind are unseated, the body can never be settled. I struggled hard; but, like you, though with far more reason, I now wish to be a citizen of the world. Let us try Munich; I am told it is the theatre of arts, and the resort of the gay, the polite, and the idle; and what are we, to whom our country has left nothing worth pursuing, but the idle? To be kept out of mischief is happiness enough." We coursed it merrily, therefore, up the Rhine; drank Johannisberg in its very vineyard, and pored over Rhine legends till we forgot the age we were in. Identifying ourselves with their heroes and love adventures, we felt we had lived at least three centuries before. At one place, however, the palace of a sovereign prince, a home truth, which much affected him, brought my companion to his senses. In traversing the garden, a permission kindly allowed to stran |