Unhappy Avondale! even such an avowal did not open his eyes, or deter him from his pursuit. Love blinds the wisest: and fierce passion domineers over reason. The dread of another separation inspired him with alarm. Agitated—furious—he now combatted every objection, ventured every promise, and loved even with greater fondness from the increasing dread of again losing what he had hoped was already his own.—“Men of the world are without religion,” said Calantha with tears; “Women of the world are without principle. Truth is regarded by none. I love and honour my God, even more than I love you; and truth is dearer to me than life. I am not like those I see:—my education, my habits, my feelings are different; I am like one uncivilized and savage; and if you place me in society, you will have to blush every hour for the faults I shall involuntarily commit. Besides this objection, my temper—I am more violent—Oh that it were not so; but can I, ought I, to deceive you?”... “You are all that is noble, frank and generous: you shall guide me,” said Lord Avondale; “and I will protect you. Be mine:—fear me not:—your principles, I venerate; your religion I will study—will learn—will believe in.—What more?” Lord Avondale sought, and won that strange uncertain being, for whom he was about to sacrifice so much. He considered not the lengthened journey of life—the varied scenes through which they were to pass; where all the qualities in which she was wholly deficient would be so often and so absolutely required—discretion, prudence, firm and steady principle, obedience, humility.—But to all her confessions and remonstrances, he replied:—“I love, and you return my passion:—can we be otherwise than blest! You are the dearest object of my affection, my life, my hope, my joy. If you can live without me, which I do not believe, I cannot without you; and that is sufficient. Sorrows must come on all; but united together we can brave them.—My Calantha you torture me, but to try me. Were I to renounce you—were I to take you at your word, you, you would be the first to regret and to reproach me.”—“It is but the name of wife I hate,” replied the spoiled and wayward child.—“I must command:—my will.”—“Your will, shall be my law,” said Lord Avondale, as he knelt before her: “you shall be my mistress—my guide—my monitress—and I, a willing slave.”—So spoke the man, who, like the girl he addressed, had died sooner than have yielded up his freedom, or his independence to another; who, high and proud, had no conception of even the slightest interference with his conduct or opposition to his wishes; and who at the very moment that in words he yielded up his liberty, sought only the fulfilment of his own desire, and the attainment of an object upon which he had fixed his mind.