We’ll trust the heavens with something. ‘Dear Lord Howe, You’ll find a story on another leaf That’s Marian Erle’s,—what noble friend of yours She trusted once, through what flagitious means To what disastrous ends;—the story’s true. I found her wandering on the Paris quays, A babe upon her breast,—unnatural Unseasonable outcast on such snows Unthawed to this time. I will tax in this Your friendship, friend,—if that convicted She Be not his wife yet, to denounce the facts To himself,—but, otherwise, to let them pass On tip-toe like escaping murderers, And tell my cousin, merely—Marian lives, Is found, and finds her home with such a friend, Myself, Aurora. Which good news, ‘She’s found,’ Will help to make him merry in his love: I send it, tell him, for my marriage gift, As good as orange-water for the nerves, Or perfumed gloves for headaches,—though aware That he, except of love, is scarcely sick; I mean the new love this time, ... since last year. Such quick forgetting on the part of men! Is any shrewder trick upon the cards To enrich them? pray instruct me how it’s done. First, clubs,—and while you look at clubs, it’s spades; That’s prodigy. The lightning strikes a man, And when we think to find him dead and charred ... Why, there he is on a sudden, playing pipes Beneath the splintered elm-tree! Crime and shame And all their hoggery trample your smooth world, Nor leave more foot-marks than Apollo’s kine, Whose hoofs were muffled by the thieving god In tamarisk-leaves and myrtle. I’m so sad, So weary and sad to-night, I’m somewhat sour,— Forgive me. To be blue and shrew at once, Exceeds all toleration except yours; But yours, I know, is infinite. Farewell. To-morrow we take train for Italy. Speak gently of me to your gracious wife, As one, however far, shall yet be near In loving wishes to your house.’ I sign. And now I’ll loose my heart upon a page, This— ‘Lady Waldemar, I’m very glad I never liked you; which you knew so well, You spared me, in your turn, to like me much. Your liking surely had done worse for me Than has your loathing, though the last appears Sufficiently unscrupulous to hurt, And not afraid of judgment. Now, there’s space Between our faces,—I stand off, as if I judged a stranger’s portrait and pronounced Indifferently the type was good or bad: What matter to me that the lines are false, I ask you? Did I ever ink my lips By drawing your name through them as a friend’s, Or touch your hands as lovers do? thank God I never did: and, since you’re proved so vile, Ay, vile, I say,—we’ll show it presently,— I’m not obliged to nurse my friend in you, Or wash out my own blots, in counting yours,