CONTENTS. No. 2.-Concisely indulges in the retrospective No. 3.-At Genoa :-Whom he meets, and what he meditates No-not for this the Bard was born. - 160 No. 4.—A recurrence to Berkeley—and a meaning No. 7.-Manageth a Ball-an Overture-a Ballet No. 9.-How Shaftesbury spoke at Pisa and else No. 15.-" The devil! What are the contents ?" No. 16.-Ōr full report of certain speeches, at a certain Assembly, in a certain hotel, cer- - 269 resolutions are easier concocted than kept; besides plans of operations, suggestions of VILLIERS. BOOK III. No. 4.-An Outcast. betrayed, despised, distrest, And hissing infamy proclaims the rest. JOHNSON.-Vanity of Human Wishes. Where wast thou then, sweet Charity? COWPER.-Charity. At last he spoke-and with an effort-" Mary Travers!" She burst into tears. It was a pitiable presentment, and a strange: that gorgeously-decked room-that glittering chandelier-those majestic mirrors lining the walls that faultless profusion of luxury; and that weeping woman, whose sighs shook the sofa where she lay that younger Emile, scanning her with deepest commiseration: here, the revelation of ineradicable grief-there, the uneffectual longing to comfort: startling, inexplicable admixture of magnificence and misery! Her looks were brilliant-their restlessness, of desperation her color high-obviously artificial: her bosom white-of that allied with dissolution. "From my core," he cried, "I feel for you!— But my succor shall be yours. Compose yourself and tell" Verging into insensibility, she was unequal to speech; but, revived, from the carafon of wine, she exclaimed wildly, "I'd forgotten you were in the world.-World?—we're on this side the Morgue, still?-when I was going beyond it for another that can't be worse." She became more placid, though awfully moved withal. Villiers gently untwined her matted fingers, and tried to lift a hand to his lips: hers ? -he conquered resolutely the abhorred sensation-and kissed it! "But what is this?" she cried, gaining glimpse of herself in the neighboring mirror; and redoublingly her limbs quivered. Frantically clutching a napkin, she roughly applied to rub the paint from her person: and then-as, gradually, art's coating evanished-as, line by line, the emaciated and sickly remains of nature were displayed-as scar after scar, and furrow after furrow, bared into reality-till the halffalse, half-true, but whole-ghastly, complexion-a life in death-was exhibited in its nakednessVilliers rushed from the exposure, affrighted, appalled, deranged, to the far extremity. Again misconstruing the movement, "You're wrong," she cried vehemently (with what pathos!) -"Depraved, lowest of the low, damned even on earth, I have not ruined everything that was better! There's feeling yet-and accomplishments"—(incoherently continuing with fearful merriment) "malgré mes plaintes"—and flung madly on a stool before the harpsichord, and commenced Hertz's "Suissesse au bord du lac." Long since, he had adapted words to a portion, and warbled them for her. It touched him indescribably. Already witness to excessive distresses, none, of course, carried such home-thrust. If unexpiated before, it should have canceled the guilt near B-ford. |