The steed that never has felt the curb, as it flies lightly and wildly proud of its liberty among its native hills and valleys, may toss its head and plunge as it snuffs the air and rejoices in its existence, while the tame and goaded hack trots along the beaten road, starting from the lash under which it trembles and stumbling and falling, if not constantly upheld.—Now see the goal before her. Calantha starts for the race. Nor curb, nor rein have ever fettered the pupil of nature—the proud, the daring votress of liberty and love. What though she quit the common path, if honour and praise accompany her steps, and crown her with success, shall he who owns her despise her? or must he, can he, mistrust her? He did not; and the high spirits of uncurbed youth were in future her only guide—the gayest therefore, where all were gay—the kindest, for excess of happiness renders every heart kind. In a few months after Lady Avondale’s arrival in London, she was surrounded, as it appeared, by friends who would have sacrificed their lives and fortunes to give her pleasure. Friends!—it was a name she was in the habit of giving to the first who happened to please her fancy. This even was not required: the frowns of the world were sufficient to endear the objects it censures to her affection; and they who had not a friend, and deserved not to have one, were sure, without other recommendation to find one in Calantha. All looked fresh, beautiful and new to her eyes; every person she met appeared kind, honourable and sincere; and every party brilliant; for her heart, blest in itself reflected its own sunshine around. Mrs. Seymour, after her arrival in town was pleased to see Calantha so happy. No gloomy fear obtruded itself; she saw all things with the unclouded eye of virtue; yet when she considered how many faults, how many imprudences, her thoughtless spirits might lead her to commit, she trembled for her; and once when Calantha boasted of the extacy she enjoyed—“long may that innocent heart feel thus,” she said, “my only, my beloved niece; but whilst the little bark is decked with flowers, and sails gaily in a tranquil sea, steer it steadily, remembering that rough gales may come and we should ever be prepared.” She spoke with an air of melancholy: she had perhaps, herself, suffered from the goodness and openness of her heart; but whatever the faults and sorrows into which she had fallen, no purer mind ever existed than hers—no heart ever felt more strongly.