vibrates with the effort; it will break beneath our strength. Not a jot
of it! we cease; we are more entangled than ever! wings, feet, frame,
the foul slime is over all! where shall we turn? every line of the web
leads to the one den,--we know not,--we care not,--we grow blind,
confused, lost. The eyes of our hideous foe gloat upon us; she whetteth
her insatiate maw; she leapeth towards us; she fixeth her fangs upon us;
and so endeth my parallel!


* One ought, however, to be very cautious before one condemns a
philosopher. The master's opinions are generally pure: it is the
conclusions and corollaries of his disciples that "draw the honey forth
that drives men mad." Schlegel seems to have studied Spinoza /de
fonte/, and vindicates him very earnestly from the charges brought
against him,--atheism, etc.--ED.


But what has this to do with my tale? Ay, Reader, that is thy question;
and I will answer it by one of mine. When thou hearest a man moralize
and preach of Fate, art thou not sure that he is going to tell thee of
some one of his peculiar misfortunes? Sorrow loves a parable as much as
mirth loves a jest. And thus already and from afar, I prepare thee, at
the commencement of this, the third of these portions into which the
history of my various and wild life will be divided, for that event with
which I purpose that the said portion shall be concluded.

It is now three months after my entire recovery from my wounds, and I am
married to Isora!--married,--yes, but /privately/ married, and the
ceremony is as yet closely concealed. I will explain.