 heavenly suavity which never forsakes her; that equanimity of smiling yet obstinate fortitude; that hilarity of heart that knows not gloom because it knows not evil; that inscrutable purity which rests secure that all like itself are natively immaculate; that—Pshaw!—I can find no words, find you imagination therefore, and think not I will labour at impossibility. You have

read of ancient vestals, of the virgins of Paradise, and of demi-deities that tune their golden harps on high?—Read again—And, having travelled with prophets and apostles to the heaven of heavens, descend and view her, and invent me language to describe her, if you can!
Curse on this Frank Henley! But for him my vengeance never would have been roused! Never would the fatal sentence have passed my lips!—'Tis now irrevocable—Sure as the lofty walls of Troy were doomed by gods and destiny to smoke in ruins, so surely must the high-souled Anna fall—"Ill starred wench!"—I, Fairfax, like other conquerors, cannot shut pity from my bosom. While I cry havoc I could almost

weep; could look reluctant down on devastation which myself had made, and heave a sigh, and curse my proper prowess!—In love and war alike, such, Fairfax, is towering ambition. It must have victims: its reckless altars ask a full and large supply; and when perchance a snowy lamb, spotless and pure, bedecked for sacrifice, in all the artless pomp of unsuspecting innocence is brought, bright burns the flame, the white clouds curl and mantle up to heaven, and there ambition proudly sits, and snuffs with glut of lusty delight the grateful odour.
I know your tricks, Fairfax; you are one of the doubtful doctors; you love to catch credulity upon your hook. I hear fat laughter gurgling in your throat, and

out bolts your threadbare simile—"Before the battle's won the Brentford hero sings Te Deum."—But don't be wasteful of the little wit you have. Do I not tell you it is decreed? When was I posted for a vapouring Hector? What but the recollections of my reiterated ravings, resolves, threats, and imprecations could keep me steady; assailed as I am by gentleness, benevolence, and saint-like charity?
By the agency of subtlety, hypocrisy, and fraud, I seek to rob her of what the world holds most precious. By candour, philanthropy, and a noble expansion of heart, she seeks to render me all that is superlatively great and good—Why did she not seek all this in a less offensive way?
