der mother in the respectable Madame Fribsbi), in this island,
in this family? My genius would use itself in the company of these
rustics--the poesy of my art cannot be understood by these carnivorous
insularies. No--the men are odious, but the women--the women! I own,
dear Fribsbi, are seducing! I have vowed to marry one; and as I cannot
go into your markets and purchase, according to the custom of the
country, I am resolved to adopt another custom, and fly with one to
Gretna Grin. The blonde Miss will go. She is fascinated. Her eyes have
told me so. The white dove wants but the signal to fly."

"Have you any correspondence with her?" asked Fribsby, in amazement, and
not knowing whether the young lady or the lover might be labouring under
a romantic delusion.

"I correspond with her by means of my art. She partakes of dishes which
I make expressly for her. I insinuate to her thus a thousand hints
which as she is perfectly spiritual, she receives. But I want other
intelligences near her."

"There is Pincott, her maid," said Madame Fribsby, who, by aptitude or
education, seemed to have some knowledge of affairs of the heart, but
the great artist's brow darkened at this suggestion.

"Madame," he said, "there are points upon which a gallant man ought to
silence himself; though, if he break the secret, he may do so with the
least impropriety to his best friend--his adopted mother. Know then,
that there is a cause why Miss Pincott should be hostile to me--a cause
not uncommon with your sex--jealousy."

"Perfidious monster!" said the confidante.

"Ah, no," said the artist, with a deep bass voice, and a tragic
accent worthy of the Port St Martin and his favourite melodrames, "not
perfidious, but fatal. Yes, I am a fatal man, Madame Fribsbi. To inspire
hopeless passion is my destiny. I cannot help it that women love me. Is
it my fault that that young woman deperishes and languishes to the view
of the eye, consumed by a flame which I cannot return? Listen! There are
others in this family who are similarly unhappy. The governess of the
young Milor has encountered me in my walks, and looked at me in a way
which can bear but one interpretation. And Milady herself, who is of
mature age, but who has oriental blood, has once or twice addressed
compliments to the lonely artist which can admit of no mistake. I avoid
the household, I seek solitude, I undergo my destiny. I can marry but
one, and am resolved it shall be to a lady of