these books, and generally brought one downstairs in the afternoon. Swift she did not quite understand, and he frightened her; she never, in fact, got through anything but Gulliver and the Tale of a Tub; but some of his sayings stuck to her and came up against her again and again, until, like most of us who have had even a glimpse of the dark and dreadful caverns in that man's soul, she wished that he had never been born. For years, even to the day of her death, the poison of one sentence in the Tale of a Tub remained with her--those memorable words that "happiness is a perpetual possession of being well deceived." Yet she pitied him; who does not pity him? Who is there in English history who excites and deserves profounder pity? Of all her treasures, however, the one which produced the deepest impression on her was "Romeo and Juliet." She saw there the possibilities of love. For the first time she became fully aware of what she could have been. One evening she sat as in a trance. Cowfold had departed; she was on the balcony in Verona, Romeo was below. She leaned over and whispered to him-- "My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep: the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite." She went on; the day was breaking; she heard the parting-- "Farewell! farewell! one kiss and I'll descend," Her arms were round his neck with an ecstasy of passion; he was going; the morning star was flashing before the sun, and she cried after him-- "Art thou gone so? love, lord, ay husband, friend! I must hear from thee every day in the hour, For in a minute there are many days." Ah, God! what is the count of all the men and women whom, since it was first "plaid publiquely with great applause," this tragedy has reminded of the _what might have been_! Mr. Didymus Farrow, during his wife's absence in Verona, had been very much engaged in whittling a monkey which toppled over on a long pole, but being dissatisfied with its performance he had taken his accordion out of the box, and, just as Lady Capulet called, he struck up "Down amongst the dead men," which, whatever its merit may be, is not particularly well adapted to that instrument. Verona and Romeo were straightway replaced by Cowfold and the Cowfold consort. He was in the best of spirits, and he stooped down just as his wife was waking, took the cat--which was lying before the fire--and threw it on her lap. "Oh, please do not!" she exclaimed, a little angry, shocked, and sad. "I wish you would not sit and addle your brains over those books. Blessed if I don't burn them all! What good do they do? Why don't you talk?" "I've nothing particular to say." "You never have anything to say when you've been reading. Now if I read a bit of the newspaper, I've always something to talk about." She was silent, and her husband continued his tune. "Miriam, my dear, you aren't well. Are you in pain?"