"Though I do not condescend to use the fulsome language of _a mean dependant_, I am not forgetful of the kindness I have received from your ladyship. It has not been without a _painful_ struggle that I have broken my bonds asunder--the bonds of what is _falsely_ called _duty: spontaneous_ gratitude ever will have full, _indisputable, undisputed_ power over the _heart_ and _understanding_ of "ANNE-ANGELINA WARWICK. "P.S. It will be in vain to attempt to discover the place of my retreat. All I ask is to be left in peace, to enjoy, in my retirement, _perfect felicity_." CHAPTER II. Full of her hopes of finding "perfect felicity" in her retreat at Angelina Bower, exulting in the idea of the courage and magnanimity with which she had escaped from her "aristocratic persecutors," our heroine pursued her journey to South Wales. She had the misfortune--and it is a great misfortune to a young lady of her way of thinking--to meet with no difficulties or adventures, nothing interesting upon her journey. She arrived, with inglorious safety, at Cardiffe. The inn at Cardiffe was kept by a landlady of the name of Hoel. "Not high-born Hoel. Alas!" said Angelina to herself, when the name was screamed in her hearing by a waiter, as she walked into the inn. "Vocal no more to high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellynn's lay!" A harper was sitting in the passage, and he tuned his harp to catch her attention as she passed. "A harp!--O play for me some plaintive air!" The harper followed her into a small parlour. "How delightful!" said Miss Warwick, who, in common with other heroines, had the habit of talking to herself; or, to use more dignified terms, who had the habit of indulging in soliloquy:--"how delightful to taste at last the air of Wales. But 'tis a pity 'tis not North instead of South Wales, and Conway instead of Cardiffe Castle." The harper, after he had finished playing a melancholy air, exclaimed, "That was but a melancholy ditty, miss--we'll try a merrier." And he began-- "Of a noble race was Shenkin." "No more," cried Angelina, stopping her ears; "no more, barbarous man!--you break the illusion." "Break the what?" said the harper to himself; "I thought, miss, that tune would surely please you; for it is a favourite one in these parts." "A favourite with Welsh squires, perhaps," said our heroine; "but, unfortunately, _I_ am not a Welsh squire, and have no taste for your 'Bumper Squire Jones.'" The man tuned his harp sullenly. "I'm sorry for it, miss," said he: "more's the pity, I can't please you better!"