Which burned within him, withering up his prime,
And goading him, like fiends, from land to land.
--P. B. Shelley.

From Lady Roseville's I went to Glanville's house. He was at home. I was
ushered into a beautiful apartment, hung with rich damask, and
interspersed with a profusion of mirrors, which enchanted me to the
heart. Beyond, to the right of this room, was a small boudoir, fitted up
with books, and having, instead of carpets, soft cushions of dark green
velvet, so as to supersede the necessity of chairs. This room, evidently
a favourite retreat, was adorned at close intervals with girandoles of
silver and mother-of-pearl; and the interstices of the book-cases were
filled with mirrors, set in silver: the handles of the doors were of the
same metal.

Beyond this library (if such it might be called), and only divided from
it by half-drawn curtains of the same colour and material as the cushion,
was a bath room. The decorations of this room were of a delicate rose
colour: the bath, which was of the most elaborate workmanship,
represented, in the whitest marble, a shell, supported by two Tritons.
There was, as Glanville afterwards explained to me, a machine in this
room which kept up a faint but perpetual breeze, and the light curtains,
waving to and fro, scattered about perfumes of the most exquisite odour.

Through this luxurious chamber I was led, by the obsequious and bowing
valet, into a fourth room, in which, opposite to a toilet of massive
gold, and negligently robed in his dressing-gown, sate Reginald
Glanville:--"Good Heavens," thought I, as I approached him, "can this be
the man who made his residence par choix, in a miserable hovel, exposed
to all the damps, winds, and vapours, that the prolific generosity of an