yet ravishing and
irresistible, compared with which all former transports, no matter how
violent, tumultuous, and exciting, seemed evanescent and superficial:
they were indeed the wind, the fire, and the tempest that had gone
before, but this was the still small voice that followed, excelled,
and survived their might and majesty, unearthly and eternal!

His heart melted to his daughter, nor did he care to live without her
love and presence. His philosophical theories all vanished. He felt
how dependent we are in this world on our natural ties, and how
limited, with all his arrogance, is the sphere of man. Dreaming of
philanthropy, he had broken his wife's heart, and bruised, perhaps
irreparably, the spirit of his child; he had rendered those miserable
who depended on his love, and for whose affection his heart now
yearned to that degree, that he could not contemplate existence
without their active sympathy.

Was it then too late! Was it then impossible to regain that Paradise
he had forfeited so weakly, and of whose amaranthine bowers, but a few
hours since, he had caught such an entrancing glimpse, of which the
gate for a moment seemed about to re-open! In spite of all, then,
Annabel still loved him, loved him passionately, visited his picture,
mused over the glowing expression of their loves, wept over the bridal
bed so soon deserted! She had a dog, too, when Venetia was a child,
and called it Marmion.

The recollection of this little trait, so trifling, yet so touching,
made him weep even with wildness. The tears poured down his cheeks in
torrents, he sobbed convulsively, his very heart seemed to burst. For
some minutes he leant over the balustrade in a paroxysm of grief.

He looked up. The convent hill rose before him, bright in the moon;
beneath was his garden; around him the humble roofs that he made
happy. It was not without an effort that he recalled the locality,
that he remembered he was at Arqua. And who was sleeping within the
house? Not his wife, Annabel was far away with their daughter. The
vision of his whole life passed before him. Study and strife, and fame
and love; the pride of the philosopher, the rapture of the poet,
the blaze of eloquence, the clash of arms, the vows of passion, the
execration and the applause of millions; both once alike welcome to
his indomitable soul! And what had they borne to him? Misery. He
called up the image of his wife, young, beautiful, and noble, with a
mind capable