"And that is exactly what he was," answered Cyprian. "But to prove this to you, I should require to know whole scenes by heart, which the author communicated to us. I remember one in particular, very vividly, which seemed to me magnificent. King Waidewuthis knew that none of his sons would succeed him in the crown, so he selected a boy--I think he appeared about twelve years old--as his successor. In the night they two--Waidewuthis and the boy--are lying by the fire, and Waidewuthis. occupies himself in kindling the boy's courage towards the idea of the godly-might of the Euler of a People. This address of Waidewuthis seemed to me quite masterly, quite perfect. The boy, who has a young tame wolf, his faithful playmate, in his arms, listens attentively to the old man's words; and when the latter at last asks him if, for the sake of power he would be capable of sacrificing even his wolf, the boy looks him gravely in the face, and without a word, throws the wolf into the flames." "I know," cried Theodore, as Vincent smiled strangely, and Lothair seemed on the point of breaking out from inward impatience, "I know what you are going to say--I hear the severe sentence of condemnation with which you dismiss the author; and I will admit that I should have perfectly agreed with you only a day or two ago, and been of the same opinion, not so much from conviction, as from anger that the author should have entered upon paths which must for ever carry him away from me, Bo that a re-encounter between us must have appeared scarcely conceivable, and moreover, almost not to be desired. It would have been quite justifiable for the world, considering the manner in which the author had commenced his career, to think that there was evidence of an untruthful inconstancy--a weathercockiness--of mind, disposed to cast over others the veil which self-deception had woven around him; although, all this time, the truth had torn this veil asunder, with rude vigour, so that the world could discern, in his heart, a wicked spirit of self-seeking, endeavouring to gain the glitter of false fame for purposes of self-beatification. But I am obliged to confess that his preface to his sacred drama, 'The Mother of the Macabees,' has completely disarmed me. And this preface can only be perfectly understood by the few friends of his who were closely associated with him in his most beautiful blossoming-time. It contains the most affecting admissions of culpable weaknesses; the most pathetic lamentations over powers for ever lost. Those things may have escaped the writer involuntarily, and it is very likely that he did not, himself, perceive that deeper significance which the friends whom he had abandoned must have seen in those words. As I read this preface, I seemed to see, through a dim, colourless ocean of cloud, rays feebly piercing of a lofty, noble spirit, rising beyond the crack-brained follies of immature perversity, and, if not fully conscious of its own