"For me, Lorenzo," said the Countess, "there is no hope. Worlds could not purchase for me another hour's life. We meet now for the last time! You are ill, Lorenzo,--you have travelled far--I should not have sent to you--I trouble you too much. But I am going on a long journey--a travel from which I shall not return. I am a weak creature--too weak--but I am dying. Bless you, Lorenzo, for thinking of me this once! I shall die now content--content and happy. For I shall not have seen him, for whom I sacrificed both life and honour--while I still lived--devoted to another." Avarice, ambition, terror, may have mercy; but there is one passion lurks within the human breast, whose very instinct's murder. Once lodged within the heart, for life it rules--ascendant and alone! Sports in the solitude like an antic fiend; it feeds on blood, and rivers would not sate its appetite. Minds strongest in worth and valour stoop to meanness and disgrace before it. The meanest soul--the weakest--it can give courage to, beyond the daring of despair! What is the sting which no balm can assuage? What is the wound that death alone can heal? What is the injury that--once done--can never be repaired? whose is the sword that, once when drawn, the scabbard must be cast away for ever? When is it that man has no ear but for the tale that falls like molten lead upon his brain; no eye but for the plucked-out heart of him he hates; no hand but for that clutch--that one last clutch--which earth may not resist--that gripes his dagger? Who is it that bears about him a life, horrible to himself, and dangerous to the world? Who has been wise, yet now will cast away reason?--was kind and pitiful, yet mimics the humanity of the wild dog? Who is it hews his foe to mammocks; writes "Acquittal" on his tomb--and dies? Who is it that stabs, yet will not blame; drinks--as his draught of life--another's blood; yet feels there is but one relief--to shed his own? That wretch is JEALOUS! Oh! talk not of remembrance--consciousness beyond the grave!--once sleeping, let the jealous never wake again! Pity him, whatever his crimes! Were they ten thousand fathom past the reach of mercy, they are punished. The gamester whose last piece is lost--the merchant whose whole risk the sea has swallowed up--the child whose air-bubble has burst,--may each create a bauble like the former! But he whose treasure was in woman's love; who trusted as men once trust, and was deceived!--that hope once gone! weep--search--regret--despair--seek thyself blind--there is again no finding--no restoring it! Woman! symbol of woe, and nature's weakness! gamester of hope and happiness! thy love must be integral--single--perfect--or be nothing. Like the glass toy that has amused thy childhood, entire it sparkles, shining, bright, and precious; but from the farthest thread--the finest--break off but one fibre--it is gone--form--shape--design--material--substance! That flaw has shivered