unclosed,admittingSt.JohnRivers.

    “Iametoseehoendingyourholiday,”hesaid.“Not,Ihope,inthought?No,thatiswell:whileyoudrawyouwillnotfeellonely.Yousee,Imistrustyoustill,thoughyouhaveborneupwonderfullysofar.Ihavebroughtyouabookforeveningsolace,”andhelaidoableanewpublication—apoem:ohosegenuineprodussooftenvouchsafedtothefortunatepublicofthosedays—thegoldenageofmoderure.Alas!thereadersofoureraarelessfavoured.Butce!Iwillnotpauseeithertoaccuseorrepine.Iknowpoetryisnotdead,neniuslost;norhasMammongainedpowerovereither,tobindorslay:theywillbothasserttheirexisteheirpreseheirlibertyandstrengthagainoneday.Powerfulangels,safeinheaven!theysmilewhensordidsoulstriumph,andfeebleonesweepovertheirdestru.Poetrydestroyed?Geniusbanished?No!Mediocrity,no:doenvypromptyoutothethought.No;theynotonlylive,butreignandredeem:andwithouttheirdivineinfluencespreadeverywhere,youwouldbeihehellofyourownmeanness.

    WhileIwaseagerlyglangatthebrightpagesof“Marmion”(for“Marmion”itwas),St.Johnstoopedtoexaminemydrawing.Histallfigurespraagainwithastart:hesaidnothing.Ilookedupathim:heshunnedmyeye.Iknewhisthoughtswell,andcouldreadhisheartplainly;atthemomecalmerandcoolerthanhe:Ihadthentemporarilytheadvantageofhim,andIceivedaninationtodohimsomegood,ifIcould.

    “Withallhisfirmnessandself-trol,”thoughtI,“hetaskshimselftoofar:lockseveryfeelingandpangwithin—expresses,fesses,impartsnothing.IamsureitwouldbehimtotalkalittleaboutthissweetRosamond,whomhethinksheoughtnottomarry:Iwillmakehimtalk.”

    Isaidfirst,“Tak