unfearing certainty that Fame has conquered Death! and then for this
humble and impotent clay, this drag on the spirit which it does not
assist but fetter, this wretched machine of pains and aches, and
feverish throbbings, and vexed inquietudes, why, let the worms consume
it, and the grave hide--for Fame there is no grave."

At that moment one of those unfortunate women who earn their polluted
sustenance by becoming the hypocrites of passions abruptly accosted
them.

"Miserable wretch!" said Warner, loathingly, as he pushed her aside;
but Clarence, with a kindlier feeling, noticed that her haggard cheek
was wet with tears, and that her frame, weak and trembling, could
scarcely support itself; he, therefore, with that promptitude of
charity which gives ere it discriminates put some pecuniary assistance
in her hand and joined his comrade.

"You would not have spoken so tauntingly to the poor girl had you
remarked her distress," said Clarence.

"And why," said Warner, mournfully, "why be so cruel as to prolong,
even for a few hours, an existence which mercy would only seek to
bring nearer to the tomb? That unfortunate is but one of the herd,
one of the victims to pleasures which debase by their progress and
ruin by their end. Yet perhaps she is not worse than the usual
followers of love,--of love, that passion the most worshipped, yet the
least divine,--selfish and exacting,--drawing its aliment from
destruction, and its very nature from tears."

"Nay," said Clarence, "you confound the two loves, the Eros and the