so I will spare you more of my lamentable metaphors: had you shot Lord
Borodaile, your happiness would now be complete! Everybody talks of
your luck. La Meronville tending on you with her white hands, the
prettiest hands in the world: who would not be wounded even by Lord
Borodaile, for such a nurse? And then Talbot's--yet, I will not speak
of that, for you are very unlike the present generation; and who knows
but you may have some gratitude, some affection, some natural feeling
in you? I had once; but that was before I went to France: those
Parisians, with their fine sentiments, and witty philosophy, play the
devil with one's good old-fashioned feelings. So Lord Aspeden is to
have an Italian ministry. By the by, shall you go with him, or will
you not rather stay at home, and enjoy your new fortunes,--hunt, race,
dine out, dance, vote in the House of Commons, and, in short, do all
that an Englishman and a gentleman should do? Ornamento e splendor
del secolo nostro. Write me a line whenever you have nothing better
to do.

And believe me, Most truly yours, HAVERFIELD.

Will you sell your black mare, or will you buy my brown one? Utrum
horum mavis accipe, the only piece of Latin I remember.

LETTER FROM LORD ASPEDEN.

My Dear Linden,--Suffer me to enter most fully into your feeling.
Death, my friend, is common to all: we must submit to its
dispensations. I heard accidentally of the great fortune left you by
Mr. Talbot (your father, I suppose I may venture to call him).
Indeed, though there is a silly prejudice against illegitimacy, yet as
our immortal bard says,--