This filling has been, with us at least, a matter of no little difficulty. We believe, however, that the affair is intended to run thus:—Waldron is enticed to some vile sins by Bore, and the knowledge of these, on the part of Alice, places the former gentleman in her power. We are now introduced to a _fête champêtre_ at the residence of Acus, who, by the way, has a son, Clifford, a suitor to Geraldine with the approbation of her father—that good old gentleman, for whom our sympathies were excited in the beginning of things, being influenced by the consideration that this scion of the house of the tailor will inherit a plum. The worst of the whole is, however, that the romantic Geraldine, who should have known better, and who loves Waldron, loves also the young knight of the shears. The consequence is a rencontre of the rival suitors at the _fête champêtre_; Waldron knocking his antagonist on the head, and throwing him into the lake. The murderer, as well as we can make out the narrative, now joins a piratical band, among whom he alternately cuts throats and sings songs of his own composition. In the mean time the deserted Geraldine mourns alone, till, upon a certain day, A shape stood by her like a thing of air— She started—Waldron’s haggard face was there. . . . . . . . . . He laid her gently down, of sense bereft, And sunk his picture on her bosom’s snow, And close beside these lines in blood he left: “Farewell forever, Geraldine, I go Another woman’s victim—dare I tell? ’Tis Alice!—curse us, Geraldine!—farewell!” There is no possibility of denying the fact: this _is_ a droll piece of business. The lover brings forth a miniature, (Mr. Dawes has a passion for miniatures,) _sinks_ it in the bosom of the lady, cuts his finger, and writes with the blood an epistle, (_where_ is not specified, but we presume he indites it upon the bosom as it is “close beside” the picture,) in which epistle he announces that he is “another woman’s victim,” giving us to understand that he himself is a woman after all, and concluding with the delicious bit of Billingsgate dare I tell? ’Tis Alice!—curse us, Geraldine!—farewell! We suppose, however, that “curse us” is a misprint; for why should Geraldine curse both herself and her lover?—it should have been “curse it!” no doubt. The whole passage, perhaps, would have read better thus— oh, my eye! ’Tis Alice!—d—n it, Geraldine!—good bye!