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?’

“‘My lord,’ cried I, endeavoring to disengage my hand, ‘pray let me go!’

“‘I will,’ cried he, to my inexpressible confusion, dropping on one knee, ‘if you wish me to leave you.’

“‘Oh, my lord,’ exclaimed I, ’rise, I beseech you; rise.  Surely your lordship is not so cruel as to mock me.’

“‘Mock you!’ repeated he earnestly, ’no, I revere you.  I esteem and admire you above all human beings!  You are the friend to whom my soul is attached, as to its better half.  You are the most amiable, the most perfect of women; and you are dearer to me than language has the power of telling.’

“I attempt not to describe my sensations at that moment; I scarce breathed; I doubted if I existed; the blood forsook my cheeks, and my feet refused to sustain me.  Lord Orville hastily rising supported me to a chair upon which I sank almost lifeless.

“I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraven on my heart; but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for repetition; nor would he, in spite of my repeated efforts to leave him, suffer me to escape; in short, my dear sir, I was not proof against his solicitations, and he drew from me the most sacred secret of my heart!"*

* Contrast this old perfumed, powdered D’Arblay conversation with the present modern talk.  If the two young people wished to hide their emotions now-a-days, and express themselves in modest language, the story would run:—­

     “Whilst I was looking for the books, Lord Orville came in. 
     He looked uncommonly down in the mouth, as he said:  ’Is this
     true, Miss Anville; are you going to cut?’