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certainly have made great progress in mathematics, if the thought of Miss St. Yves had not frequently distracted him.

      He read histories, which made him melancholy. The world appeared to him too wicked and too miserable. In fact, history is nothing more than a picture of crimes and misfortunes. The crowd of innocent and peaceable men are always invisible upon this vast theatre. The dramatis personæ are composed of ambitious, perverse men. The pleasure which history affords is derived from the same source as tragedy, which would languish and become insipid, were it not inspired with strong passions, great events, and piteous misfortunes. Clio must be armed with a poniard as well as Melpomene.

      Though the history of France is not less filled with horror than those of other nations, it nevertheless appeared to him so disgusting in the beginning, so dry in the continuation, and so trifling in the end, (even in the time of Henry IV.); ever destitute of grand monuments, or foreign to those fine discoveries which have illustrated other nations; that he was obliged to resolve upon not being tired, in order to go through all the particulars of obscure calamities confined to a little corner of the world.

      Gordon thought like him. They both laughed with pity when they read of the sovereigns of Fezensacs, Fesansaguet, and Astrac: such a study could be relished only by their heirs, if they had any. The brilliant ages of the Roman Republic made him sometimes quite indifferent as to any other part of the globe. The spectacle of victorious Rome, the lawgiver of nations, engrossed his whole soul. He glowed in contemplating a people who were governed for seven hundred years by the enthusiasm of liberty and glory.

      Thus rolled days, weeks, and months; and he would have thought himself happy in the sanctuary of despair, if he had not loved.

      The natural goodness of his heart was softened still more when he reflected upon the Prior of our Lady of the Mountain, and the sensible Kerkabon.

      "What must they think," he would often repeat, "when they can get no tidings of me? They must think me an ungrateful wretch." This idea rendered him inconsolable. He pitied those who loved him much more than he pitied himself.

1. In the play called Civilization, Hercules uses the following language:

      "In my barbarian days, I spoke the truth:

       Wrong'd not my neighbor: paid back benefits,

       With benefit and gratitude to boot;

       Dealt justly: held a friend to be a gift,

       Precious as stars dropt down from heaven: bowed

       Before the works of God: beheld in them

       His presence, palpable, as at an altar:

       And worshipp'd heaven at the mountain's foot.

       But this

       Was Barbarism, I am wiser now;

       More civilized. I know the way to lie,

       To cheat, deceive, and be a zealous Christian!"—E.

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