and virtuous couple, who thought him the best of sons, and one of the first of geniuses; but, as they were not able to persuade the rest of the family of this latter truth, when they died, Darcy's uncle and guardian insisted on his going into a merchant's counting house in London, instead of being educated for one of the learned professions. Darcy had a mind too well disciplined, to rebel against his guardian's authority. He therefore submitted to his allotment in silence; resolving that his love of letters and the muses should not interfere with his duties to his employer, but he devoted all his leisure hours to literary pursuits; and, as he had real talents, he was at length raised from the unpaid contributor to the poetical columns in the newspaper, to the paid writer in a popular magazine; while his poems, signed Alfred, became objects of eager expectation. But Darcy's own family and friends could not have been more surprised at his growing celebrity than he himself was; for he was a sincere, humble christian; and, having been accustomed to bow to the opinion of those whom he considered as his superiors in intellect and knowledge, he could scarcely believe in his own eminence. But it was precious to his heart, rather than to his vanity; as it enabled him to indulge those benevolent feelings, which his small income had hitherto restrained. At length he published a duodecimo volume of poems and hymns, still under the name of Alfred, which was highly praised in reviews and journals, and a strong desire was expressed to know who the modest, promising, and pious writer was.

Notwithstanding, Darcy could not prevail upon himself to disclose his name. He visited his native town every year, and in the circle of his family and friends, was still considered only as a good sort of lad, who had been greatly overrated by his parents-was just suited for the situation in which he had been placed-and was very fortunate to have been received into partnership with the merchant to whom he had been clerk. In vain did Darcy sometimes endeavor to hint that he was an author; he remembered the contempt with which his uncle and re

lations, had read one of the earliest fruits of his muse, when exhibited by his fond father, and the advice given to burn such stuff, and not turn the head of a dull boy, by making him fancy himself a genius. Therefore, recollecting the wise saying quoted above, he feared that the news of his literary celebrity would not be received. with pleasure, and that the affection with which he was now welcomed might suffer diminution. Besides, thought he, and then his heart rose in his throat, with a choking, painful feeling, those tender parents, who would have enjoyed my little fame, are cold, and unconscious now; and the ears, to which my praises would have been sweet music, cannot hear; therefore, methinks, I have a mournful pleasure in keeping on that veil, the removal of which cannot confer pleasure on them."-Consequently he remained contented to be warmly welcomed at D— for talents of an humble sort, such as his power for mending toys, making kites, and rabbits on the wall; which talents endeared him to all the children of his family and friends ; and, through them, to their parents. Yet it may be asked, was it possible that a young man so gifted, could conceal his abilities from observation?

Oh, yes. Darcy, to borrow Addison's metaphor concerning himself, though he could draw a bill for £1000, had never any small change in his pocket. Like him, he could write, but he could not talk; he was discouraged in a moment; and the slightest rebuff made him hesitate to a painful degree. He had, however, some flattering moments, even amidst his relations and friends; for he heard them repeating his verses and singing his songs. He had also far greater joy in hearing his hymns in places of public worship; and then, too much choked with grateful emotion to join in the devotional chorus himself, he used to feel his own soul raised to heaven upon those wings which he had furnished for the souls of others. At such moments he longed to discover himself as the author; but was withheld by the fear that his songs would cease to be admired, and his hymns would lose their usefulness, if it were known that he had written

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them. However, he resolved to feel his way; and once, on hearing a song of his commended, he ventured to observe, I think I can write as good a one."-" You! cried his uncle; "what a conceited boy! I remember that you used to scribble verses when a child; but I thought you had been laughed out of that nonsense."My dear fellow, nature never meant thee for a poet, believe me," said one of his cousins conceitedly, a young collegian. "No, no; like the girl in the drama, thou wouldst make 'love' and 'joy' rhyme, and know no better."-" But I have written, and I can rhyme," replied Darcy, coloring a little." Indeed!" replied his formal aunt; “Well, Mr Darcy Pennington, it really would be very amusing to see your erudite productions; perhaps you will indulge us some day."—"I will; and then you may probably alter your opinion." Soon after Darcy wrote an anonymous prose tale in one volume, interspersed with poetry, which had even a greater run than his other writings; and it was attributed first to one person, and then to another; while his publisher was excessively pressed to declare the name of the author; but he did not himself know it, as he only knew Darcy, avowedly, under a feigned name. But, at length, Darcy resolved to disclose his secret, at least to his relatives and friends at D-; and just as the second edition of his tale was nearly completed, he set off for his native place, taking with him the manuscript, full of the printer's marks, to prove that he was the author of it.

He had one irresistible motive for thus walking out from his incognito, like Homer's deities from their cloud. He had fallen in love with his second cousin, Julia Vane, an heiress, and his uncle's ward; and had become jealous of himself, as he had, for some months, wooed her in anonymous poetry, which she, he found, attributed to a gentleman in the neighborhood, whose name he knew not; and she had often declared that, such was her passion for poetry, he who could woo her in beautiful verse was alone likely to win her heart.

On the very day of his arrival, he said in the family

;

circle that he had brought down a little manuscript of his own, which he wished to read to them. Oh! the comical grimaces! the suppressed laughter, growing and swelling, however, till it could be restrained no longer, which was the result of this request! And oh! the looks of consternation when Darcy produced the manuscript from his pocket! "Why, Darcy," said his uncle, "this is really a word and a blow; but you cannot read it tonight; we are engaged."-" Certainly, Mr Darcy Pennington," said his aunt, "if you wish to read your astonishing productions, we are bound in civility to hear them but we are all going to Sir Hugh Belson's, and shall venture to take you with us, though it is a great favor and privilege to be permitted to go on such an occasion; for a gentleman is staying there who has written such a sweet book! It is only just out; yet it cannot be had; because the first edition is sold, and the second not finished. So Sir Hugh, for whom your uncle is exerting himself against the next election, has been so kind as to invite us to hear the author read his own work. This gentleman does not, indeed, own that he wrote it; still he does not deny it; and it is clear, by his manner, that he did write it, and that he would be very sorry not to be considered as the writer."" Very well, then; the pleasure of hearing another author read his own work shall be delayed," replied Darcy smiling. "Perhaps, when you have heard this gentleman's, you will not be so eager to read yours, Darcy," said Julia Vane; "for you used to be a modest man." Darcy sighed, looked significantly, but remained silent.

In the evening they went to Sir Hugh Belson's, where, in the Captain Eustace, who was to delight the company, Darcy recognised the gentleman who had been pointed out to him as the author of several meagre performances handed about in manuscript in certain circles; which owed their celebrity to the birth and fashion of the writer, and to the bribery which is always administered to the self-love of those who are the select few chosen to see and judge on such occasions.

Captain Eustace now prepared to read; but when he named the title of the book which he held in his hand, Darcy started from his seat in surprise; for it was the title of his own work! But there might be two works with the same title; and he sat down again; but when the reader continued, and he could doubt no longer, he again started up, and with stuttering eagerness said, "Wh`wh-who, sir, did you say, wrote this book?"—" I have named no names, sir," replied Eustace conceitedly; "the author is unknown, and wishes to remain so.' "Mr Darcy Pennington," cried his aunt, " sit down and be quiet;" and he obeyed. "Mr Pennington," said Sir Hugh, affectedly, "the violet must be sought, and is discovered with difficulty, you know; for it shrinks from observation, and loves the shade." Darcy bowed assent; but fixed his eyes on the discovered violet before him with such an equivocal expression, that Eustace was disconcerted; and the more so, when Darcy, who could not but feel the ludicrous situation in which he was placed, hid his face in his handkerchief, and was evidently shaking with laughter. "Mr Darcy Pennington, I am really ashamed of you," whispered his aunt; and Darcy recovered his composure. He had now two hours of great enjoyment. He heard that book admirably read which he had intended to read the next day, and knew that he should read ill. He heard that work applauded to the skies as the work of another, which would, he feared, have been faintly commended, if known to be his; and he saw the fine eyes of the woman he loved drowned in tears, by the power of his own simple pathos. The poetry in the book was highly admired also; and, when Eustace paused to take breath, Julia whispered in his ear, "Captain Eustace is the gentleman who, I have every reason to believe, wrote some anonymous poetry sent me by the post; for Captain Eustace pays me, as you see, marked attention; and as he denies that he wrote the verses, exactly as he denies that he wrote the book which he is now reading, it is very evident that he wrote both." "I dare say," replied Darcy, coloring with resentment,