fancied would interest me, such as fashion plates, engravings of
ladies' bonnets, interesting stories, like that of Reboul, the baker
of Nimes, Jasmin, the hairdresser of Agen, or _Monsieur_, the history
of your own life. They know, Monsieur, that above all things I love
poetry, especially that which brings tears into the eyes."

"Ah, I know," said I with a smile, "you are poetical as the winds
which sigh amid your olive-groves, or the dews which drip from your
fig trees."

"No, Monsieur, I am only a mantua-maker--a poor seamstress in ...
street, in Aix, the name of which I am almost ashamed to tell you. I
am no finer lady than was my mother. Once I was servant and nurse in
the house of M.... Ah! they were good people and treated me always as
if I belonged to the family. I too thought I did. My health however,
obliged me to leave them and establish myself as a mantua-maker, in
one room, with no companion but a goldfinch. That, however, is not the
question you asked me,--why I have come hither? I will tell you."

* * * * *

Truth is altogether ineffably, holily beautiful. Beauty has always
truth in it, but seldom unadulterated.

* * * * *

The poet's soul should be like the ocean, able to carry navies, yet
yielding to the touch of a finger.

* * * * *