He loved not poetry--nor ever took a lonely walk to meditate--never beheld virtue, which he did not try to disbelieve, or female beauty and innocence, which he did not lust to contaminate.
A sneer was perpetually upon his face, and malice _grinning_ at his heart.

He would say the most ill-natured things, with the least remorse, of any man I ever knew.

This gained him the reputation of a wit--other _traits_ got him the reputation of a villain.
And this man formerly paid his court to Elinor Clare!--with what success I leave my readers to determine.

It was not in Elinor's nature to despise any living thing--but in the estimation of this man, to be rejected was to be _despised_--and Matravis _never forgave_.
He had long turned his eyes upon Rosamund Gray.

To steal from the bosom of her friends the jewel they prized so much, the little ewe lamb they held so dear, was a scheme of delicate revenge, and Matravis had a twofold motive for accomplishing this young maid's ruin.
Often had he met her in her favorite solitudes, but found her ever cold and inaccessible.