on
reflections by the writer herself, not inferior in truth and depth to
his own; snatches of wild verse never completed, but of a power
and energy beyond the delicate grace of lady-poets; brief, vigorous
criticisms on books, above the common holiday studies of the sex;
indignant and sarcastic aphorisms on the real world, with high and sad
bursts of feeling upon the ideal one; all chequering and enriching the
various volumes, told of the rare gifts with which this singular girl
was endowed--a herbal, as it were, of withered blossoms that might have
borne Hesperian fruits. And sometimes in these outpourings of the
full mind and laden heart were allusions to himself, so tender and so
touching--the pencilled outline of his features, traced by memory in
a thousand aspects--the reference to former interviews and
conversations--the dates and hours marked with a woman's minute and
treasuring care!--all these tokens of genius and of love spoke to him
with a voice that said, "And this creature is lost to you, forever: you
never appreciated her till the time for her departure was irrevocably
fixed!"

Maltravers uttered a deep groan; all the past rushed over him. Her
romantic passion for one yet unknown--her interest in his glory--her
zeal for his life of life, his spotless and haughty name. It was as if
with her, Fame and Ambition were dying also, and henceforth nothing but
common clay and sordid motives were to be left on earth.

How sudden--how awfully sudden had been the blow! True, there had been
an absence of some months in which the change had operated. But absence
is a blank, a nonentity. He had left her in apparent health, in the time
of prosperity and pride. He saw her again--stricken down in body and
temper--chastened--humbled--dying. And this being, so bright and lofty,
how had she loved him! Never had he been so loved, except in that
morning dream, haunted by the vision of the lost and dim-remembered
Alice. Never on earth could he be so loved again. The air and aspect
of the whole chamber grew to him painful and oppressive. It was full of
her--the owner! There the harp, which so well became her muse-like
form that it was associated with her like a part of herself! There the
pictures, fresh and glowing from her hand,-the grace--the harmony--the
classic and simple taste everywhere displayed.

Rousseau has left to us an immortal portrait of the lover waiting
for the first embraces of his mistress. But to wait with a p