I never saw Lolah again. I struggled with my feelings in exercising this self-denial; but I knew we had both altered, and I felt that I had rather retain the recollection of our girlish, loving intercourse undimmed. She was a public _danseuse_, rich, courted, and, the world said, free in her morals—I, a plain, unknown woman, with tastes, associations, and opinions widely differing from hers. Better to retain the bright recollection of the past, and the uncertain knowledge of the present, than to risk coldness, or even a realization of what I feared—that Lolah Montes, the woman, was not the innocent, pure, guileless Lolah Lalande of school memory. Many may censure, and call this the cold reasoning of a woman bound down by conventional prejudices; but how else is a woman to be governed, if she wishes to secure, not her own happiness, but the happiness of those around her; and living in a conventional world, she be not directed and ruled by this same reasoning, which is called cold and cramping? The gentle graces of charity and indulgence to the frailties of others, are beautiful, and should be peculiar qualities of the feminine character; but they may be extended too far, and instead of giving a helping hand to suffering, oppressed virtue, encourage evil. “After all,” said my father, one moonlight evening, as we sat on the deck of the vessel, “Homeward Bound,” watching the silver flood of light streaming down upon the billows, and discussing this same subject, “after all, Enna, she may not be Lolah Lalande, it may only be a woman’s fancy and imaginings.” I did not reply; but the recollection of that lovely form, rich, dark, soul-subduing eyes, and flowing hair, with the delicate brow, and full, red, laughing lips, came before me strangely blended with the cold, _fierté_ expression of the tall, beautiful _danseuse_ I looked at in Munich with tearful eyes. . . . “I’d have seen her,” said Kate, when I concluded; “I would at least have satisfied myself.” “So would I, dear Kate,” I replied, “at your age; but when you are older, you will argue differently. A recollection of pleasure is better than a reality of pain.” * * * * * [Illustration: Painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds Engraved by H. S. Wagner THE FIRST LOSS. Engraved Expressly for Graham’s Magazine] * * * * * THE FIRST LOSS. WITH AN ENGRAVING. ’Tis her first loss, and tear-drops fall Upon her cherished friend, Whose voice once echoed to her call— Whose wants she loved to tend. ’Tis her first grief. Alas! that life Full many a care will bring, With keener pang and sharper strife, That gentle heart to wring. * * * * * REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.