FRANCIS (throws himself on his neck). Infamous! most infamous Charles! Oh, had I not my forebodings, when, even as a boy, he would scamper after the girls, and ramble about over hill and common with ragamuffin boys and all the vilest rabble; when he shunned the very sight of a church as a malefactor shuns a gaol, and would throw the pence he had wrung from your bounty into the hat of the first beggar he met, whilst we at home were edifying ourselves with devout prayers and pious homilies? Had I not my misgivings when he gave himself up to reading the adventures of Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, and other benighted heathens, in preference to the history of the penitent Tobias? A hundred times over have I warned you--for my brotherly affection was ever kept in subjection to filial duty--that this forward youth would one day bring sorrow and disgrace on us all. Oh that he bore not the name of Moor! that my heart beat less warmly for him! This sinful affection, which I can not overcome, will one day rise up against me before the judgment-seat of heaven. OLD M. Oh! my prospects! my golden dreams! FRANCIS. Ay, well I knew it. Exactly what I always feared. That fiery spirit, you used to say, which is kindling in the boy, and renders him so susceptible to impressions of the beautiful and grand--the ingenuousness which reveals his whole soul in his eyes--the tenderness of feeling which melts him into weeping sympathy at every tale of sorrow--the manly courage which impels him to the summit of giant oaks, and urges him over fosse and palisade and foaming torrents--that youthful thirst of honor--that unconquerable resolution--all those resplendent virtues which in the father's darling gave such promise-- would ripen into the warm and sincere friend--the excellent citizen--the hero--the great, the very great man! Now, mark the result, father; the fiery spirit has developed itself--expanded--and behold its precious fruits. Observe this ingenuousness--how nicely it has changed into effrontery;--this tenderness of soul--how it displays itself in dalliance with coquettes, in susceptibility to the blandishments of a courtesan! See this fiery genius, how in six short years it hath burnt out the oil of life, and reduced his body to a living skeleton; so that passing scoffers point at him with a sneer and exclaim--"_C'est l'amour qui a fait cela_." Behold this bold, enterprising spirit--how it conceives and executes plans, compared to which the deeds of a Cartouche or a Howard sink into insignificance. And presently, when these precious germs of excellence shall ripen into full maturity, what may not be expected from the full development of such a boyhood? Perhaps, father, you may yet live to see him at the head of some gallant band, which assembles in the silent sanctuary of the forest, and kindly relieves the weary traveller of his superfluous burden. Perhaps you may yet have the opportunity, before you go to your own tomb, of making a