Sir Ambrose groaned in the spirit, and the unmerciful Abelard, taking that for a token of assent, deliberately unfolded the paper, and read as follows:-- "ON LOVE. "Of all the powers in Heaven above, Above all others, triumphs Love: Love rules the soul--the heart invades, Invades the cities and the shades. Shades form no shelter from its power, Power trembles in his courtly bower. Bower of beauty--art thou free? Free thou art not--nor canst thou be! Be every other class released, Released from love, thy woe's increased; Increased by all the weight of care, Care flowing from complete despair." "Humph!" said Sir Ambrose. "I hope your honour is pleased with this little effusion of my Muse?" "Oh yes, it is very fine, Abelard." "And your honour thinks it well turned, and well expressed." "Excellently! only I own I don't understand why despair comes in the last line." "Despair--despair: oh! to rhyme with care, your honour." "That reason is unanswerable," returned Sir Ambrose, smiling.--"And so you are quite sure you have lost Edric's note!--Not that it is of the least consequence, as nothing he could say, can possibly alter my opinion of his conduct; but, if you had had it--I thought I might as well have read it, to avoid the imputation of obstinacy." "It is irrevocably gone, your honour." "Well then, good night; and, if you should see Edric again, you may as well tell him the fate of his note;--for, shamefully as he has behaved, I would not give him reason to accuse me of obstinacy." This was the second time the baronet had made the same observation; and ill-natured people might have said--but what do the remarks of ill-natured people signify to us? We hope all our readers will be good-natured ones, and as they will assuredly put the best possible construction upon Sir Ambrose's conduct, we will not be so malicious as to suggest an evil one. Edric was exceedingly agitated by his encounter with Abelard; and, feeling convinced his father was in town, he determined to delay his journey no longer, as his dread of meeting him was excessive. He therefore resolved to seek his tutor, and, if he found him still inclined to procrastinate, to set off without him. On reaching the doctor's chamber, however, he found half his anger converted into laughter at the ludicrous situation of the poor philosopher, who, surrounded as he was on every side by a crowd of tradesmen clamorous for orders, looked something like Mercury encircled by a tribe of discontented ghosts upon the banks of the Styx. "Yes, yes, Mr. Jones," said he; "I see you understand me. The coats are to be those woven in machines, where the wool is stripped off the sheep's back by one end, and the coat comes out completely made, in the newest fashion, at the other."