teach him all the excellences of the poets she loved; who had
stored his mind with Petrarch, and filled his imagination with Ariosto;
who taught him to recognise in himself feelings, and thoughts, and
hopes akin to those their heroes felt, and thus elevated him in his own
esteem. And what a genius was hers!--how easily she adapted herself to
each passing mood, and was gay or sorrowful, volatile or passionate, as
fancy inclined her. How instinctively her beautiful features caught up
the expression of each passion; how wild the transports of her joy; how
terrible the agonies of her hatred!

With what fine subtlety, too, she interpreted all she read, discovering
hidden meanings, and eliciting springs of action from words apparently
insignificant; and then her memory, was it not inexhaustible? An image,
a passing simile from a poet she loved, was enough to bring up before
her whole cantos; and thus, stored with rich gems of thought, her
conversation acquired a grace and a charm that were actual fascination.
And was he now to tear himself away from charms like these, and for
ever, too? But why was she displeased with him? how had he offended
her? Surely it was not the notice of the great poet had awakened her
jealousy; and yet, when she thought over her own great gifts, the many
attractions she herself possessed--claims to notice far greater than
his could ever be--Gerald felt that she might well have resented this
neglect.

'And how much of this is my own fault?' cried he aloud. 'Why did I not
tell the poet of her great genius? Why not stimulate his curiosity
to see and hear her? How soon would _he_ have recognised the noble
qualities of her nature!'

Angry with himself, and eager to repair the injustice he had done, he
arose and set out for the city, resolved to see Alfieri, and proclaim
all Marietta's accomplishments and talents.

'He praised _me_ last night,' muttered he, as he went along; 'but what
will he say of _her_? She shall recite for him the "Didone," the lines
beginning,

'"No! sdegnata non sono!"

If his heart does not thrill as he listens, he is more or less than man!
He shall hear, too, his own "Cleopatra" uttered in accents that he never
dreamed of. And then she shall vary her mood, and sing him one of ter
Sicilian barcarolles, or dance the Tiranna. Ah, Signor Poeta,' said he
aloud, * even thy lofty imagination shall gain by gazing upon one gifted
and beautiful as she is.'

When Gerald reached