sign. Many a mystery was revealed, many a wonder grew familiar; but
still death remained at the end of all things, as before. One night
I was on the terrace of my tower. Above me was the deep, blue sky,
with its stars--worlds filled, perchance, with the intelligence which
I sought. On the desert below was the phantasm of a great city.
I looked on its small and miserable streets, where hunger and cold
reigned paramount, and man was as wretched as if flung but yesterday
on the earth, and there had been as yet no time for art to yield its
assistance, or labour to bring forth its fruit. I gazed next on scenes
of festivity, but they were not glad; for I looked from the wreath into
the head it encircled, and from the carcanet of gems to the heart which
beat beneath--and I saw envy, and hate, and repining, and remorse.
I turned my last glance on the palace within its walls; but there the
purple was spread as a pall, and the voice of sorrow and the cry of pain
were loud on the air. I bade the shadows roll away upon the winds, and
rose depressed and in sorrow. I was not alone: one of those glorious
spirits, whose sphere was far beyond the power of our science, whose
existence we rather surmised than knew; stood beside me.

From that hour a new existence opened before me. I loved, and I was
beloved--love, to which imagination gave poetry, and mind gave strength,
was the new element added to my being. Alas! how little do the miserable
race to which I belong know of such a feeling. They blend a moment's
vanity, a moment's gratification, into a temporary excitement, and they
call it love. Such are the many, and the many make the wretchedness of
earth. And yet your own heart, Leoni, and that of my gentle cousin, may
witness for my words, there are such things as truth, and tenderness,
and devotion in the world; and such redeem the darkness and degradation
of its lot. Nay, more, if ever the mystery of our destiny be unravelled,
and happiness be wrought out of wisdom, it will be the work of love.