A dear old sentimental friend, with whom I discoursed on the subject of novels yesterday, said that her favorite hero was Lord Orville, in “Evelina,” that novel which Dr. Johnson loved so. I took down the book from a dusty old crypt at a club, where Mrs. Barbauld's novelists repose: and this is the kind of thing, ladies and gentlemen, in which your ancestors found pleasure:—
“And here, whilst I was looking for the books, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and, approaching me with a look of anxiety, said, 'Is this true, Miss Anville—are you going?'
“'I believe so, my lord,' said I, still looking for the books.
“'So suddenly, so unexpectedly: must I lose you?'
“'No great loss, my lord,' said I, endeavoring to speak cheerfully.
“'Is it possible,' said he, gravely, 'Miss Anville can doubt my sincerity?'
“'I can't imagine,' cried I, 'what Mrs. Selwyn has done with those books.'
“'Would to heaven,' continued he, 'I might flatter myself you would allow me to prove it!'
“'I must run up stairs,' cried I, greatly confused, 'and ask what she has done with them.'
“'You are going then,' cried he, taking my hand, 'and you give me not the smallest hope of any return! Will you not, my too lovely friend, will you not teach me, with fortitude like your own, to support your absence?'