part I may say, that my first efforts of articulation were instinctively

in unison with her tones; and therefore it is, that I have never entered into argument with loud and boisterous speakers, or elevated my voice to the annoyance of any man’s ears, since I have been admitted into society.”

Such was Cecilia De Lancaster, who now in that sweet voice, which we have been describing--(Oh that ye would imitate it, ye tuneless talkers!) requested her father to impart to her his commands, not unaware that they most probably referred to his interview with her importunate admirer Sir Owen ap Owen, baronet, of Penruth Abbey.

This conjecture was soon confirmed by the recital, which her father now gave of the baronet’s proposals; he stated them as advantageously for the proponent, as the case would admit of: his family and fortune were unexceptionable; he saw no objection to him on the score of temper; he had the character of being a kind master, an easy landlord and a hospitable neighbour: it must be owned that the good man was not overstocked with wit or learning, but he had no conceit or self-sufficiency to betray him into attempts, that might subject him to ridicule: his pursuits were not above the level of his understanding, so that upon the whole he thought his friend Sir Owen might pass muster with the generality of country gentlemen.

I think of him, said Cecilia, exactly as you do; his pursuits are suited to his understanding, and his manners are suited to his pursuits: these are easily counted up, for they consist in little else but his hounds and his bottle: I can partake of neither; my happiness centers in the consciousness of possessing the good opinion and affection of my beloved father: That blessing I enjoy at home; I need not run to Penruth Abbey in pursuit of it; ’tis here, and ever present whilst I am with you. As for Sir Owen’s addresses, he has repeated them so often for the last five years, and has so constantly received the same answer, that I must suppose he now compliments me with his proposal rather from habit, than with any serious idea, that it can avail. As a neighbour I shall be glad to see Sir Owen, even at the tea-table, provided he is sober, but as a lover I hope to see no more of him, and I flatter myself I shall not; especially should a certain lady arrive, whom I understand he is expecting at the Abbey.

Upon De Lancaster’s asking who that lady was, Cecilia informed him that she was the widow of his brother David, the Spanish merchant, lately deceased. This lady she understood to be a native of Spain, and that she was bringing with her from Cadiz a boy, the nephew of Sir Owen, and of course presumptive heir to his estate and title. Judge then, added she, if some address will not be employed by Mrs. Owen to keep her son in the succession, and if my poor lover has nothing but his Welch wits to oppose to her Spanish finesse, it is easy to conjecture what turn the politics of Penruth Abbey are likely to take.

Well, cried the father, it was my part to make good my promise to Sir Owen; it is your’s to decide upon his fate. This you have done, and I may now say without scruple, you have wisely done; yet recollect my dear Cecilia, we have as yet but this one infant in our stock, and I do not expect that Mrs. De Lancaster will prove a very prolific mother.

I trust, replied Cecilia, that this fine boy will live, and then I shall think Mrs. De Lancaster a very fortunate mother, though she may never greet us with a second hope.

Heaven grant the child may live! exclaimed De Lancaster; devoutly I implore it. But oh! my dear Cecilia, where is our stream of ancestry alive but in yourself? In whose veins but in your’s does the ancient current of our blood run pure? Look at your brother! _Look at the rock, from which this child is hewn!_ Is there in that dead mass one spark of native fire, one quickening ray of genius?--No; not one. Stampt with an inauspicious name, he is of all the foregone Philips _Philippissimus_. Look at the hapless mother of the babe! Has she a heart? I know she has not that, which answers to the name: she had, but it is gone. Alas for thee, poor babe! being so fathered and so mothered, child, from whom can’st thou derive or heart or head--?

From you, his grandfather, replied Cecilia: Come, come, my dearest sir, I’ll not allow of this despondency. Rise from your chair, and come with me and visit this new scyon of your stock! Look in his lovely face; contemplate the bright promise of a true De Lancaster, a virtuous hero, born to crown your name with honour: See him! you’ll own how Providence has blessed you, and blush for having doubted.

The father rose, took the hand of his daughter, and, whilst the tears were brimming in his eyes, followed where she led.

Now, my friendly reader, if you have gone patiently along with me through the pages of this my first book, let me hope that you will proceed not unpleasantly to the conclusion of the next.

You know that every story must have time to expand itself: characters must not be hurried into action before they are understood; and a novel, though it ought to be dramatic, is not absolutely a drama.

My hero is yet in the cradle, and I must keep his grandfather and others in the foreground, till he is fit to be presented to you: when that time comes, old age may cease to prattle, philology may fall back and NATURE step forward to conduct and close the scene.

In the mean time if I take the freedom of saying a few words, whilst the fable pauses, recollect that I cannot in the course of nature have many more opportunities of conversing with you, and few have been the writers, with whom you have had more frequent intercourse, or who have been more pertinaciously industrious to deserve your favour and esteem, for I am now striving to amuse and edify even the youngest of my readers, when I myself am short of fourscore years by less than four; and I am inclined to believe, that the mere manual operation of writing these pages, (as I am now doing for the third time with my own hand) would be found task enough for any person of my age, without engaging in the labour of inventing, or the risque of fathering them.

Be that as it may, the work is done, and done, not in the evil spirit of the time, but without a single glance at any living character; conscious therefore that I have not endangered what is sacred to me as a gentleman, the critics are most cordially welcome to every thing they can find about me as an author. However as I know some of them to be fair and honourable gentlemen, I hope they will recollect how often I have been useful to them in the sale of their publications, and assist me now with their good word in the circulation of De Lancaster.

END OF THE FIRST BOOK.

BOOK THE SECOND.