garding the
stability of your character than when I last conversed with you. You may
depend on whatever assistance lies in my power; but let me impress upon
you that the cultivation which your talents befit you to attain, cannot
be reached without strenuous exertions on your own part."

"I shall do all I can to make the most of my advantages, Aunt Agnes, you
may depend upon it; and I thank you heartily for your offer of help. I
hope I have done with frivolity forever."

"My niece marry a whipper-snapper like that Mr. Gale, indeed! Tell me!"

I had not the hardihood to correct her again, and so we parted.

II.

Wednesday was only the day after to-morrow, but in the interim I bought
a copy of Mr. Spence's Poems and also his volume of Essays, which
contained "The Economy of Speech," "The Overmuch and the Undermuch," and
"The Equipoise of Passion," the last-named being an exposition of the
selfishness of unlimited love. His poems, which were for the most part
written in early youth, were in striking contrast to the essays in tone.
Indeed, in the extracts from the newspaper criticisms prefixed to the
volume of verse he was in several instances spoken of as the Baudelaire
of America. They were alternately morbid and convivial in style, and
were concerned largely with death, the rapture of the wine-cup, or the
bitterness of unreciprocated attachment. I was inclined to be shocked at
the outset, for I had never read anything of the sort before, as
Baudelaire was then merely a name to me. I even took the book to my own
room from an unwillingness to leave it lying on the parlor table. But
after the first surprise and qualms I found myself rather fascinated by
the unusual nature of the man. At one moment he appeared to be flushed
with ecstasy, and the next in the depths,--an alternative so opposed to
the tenor of his later philosophy that I was fairly puzzled, until I
reflected that these poems had undoubtedly been composed during his
novitiate, while he was testing the extremes of life. It was obvious, if
his verse was any criterion, that he had been very thorough in his
investigations, and that Miss Kingsley's estimate of his offences
against morality was not an over-statement, to say the least. But my
curiosity was aroused to meet a person whose ideas and experiences were
so signally unlike my own, especially in view of the seeming total
transition of his sentiments as portrayed in his subsequent prose
writings. I thought