Posthumus received from Imogen? In short, you must kindle your
imagination at the lustre of this diamond, and make a legend for it."

Now such a task--and doubtless Clara knew it--was the most acceptable
that could have been imposed on Edward Caryl. He was one of that
multitude of young gentlemen--limbs, or rather twigs of the law--whose
names appear in gilt letters on the front of Tudor's Buildings, and
other places in the vicinity of the Court House, which seem to be the
haunt of the gentler as well as the severer Muses. Edward, in the
dearth of clients, was accustomed to employ his much leisure in
assisting the growth of American Literature, to which good cause he had
contributed not a few quires of the finest letter-paper, containing some
thought, some fancy, some depth of feeling, together with a young
writer's abundance of conceits. Sonnets, stanzas of Tennysonian
sweetness, tales imbued with German mysticism, versions from Jean Paul,
criticisms of the old English poets, and essays smacking of Dialistic
philosophy, were among his multifarious productions. The editors of the
fashionable periodicals were familiar with his autograph, and inscribed
his name in those brilliant bead-rolls of inkstained celebrity, which
illustrate the first page of their covers. Nor did fame withhold her
laurel. Hillard had included him among the lights of the New England
metropolis, in his Boston Book; Bryant had found room for some of his
stanzas, in the Selections from American Poetry; and Mr. Griswold, in
his recent assemblage of the sons and daughters of song, had introduced
Edward Caryl into the inner court of the temple, among his fourscore
choicest bards. There was a prospect, indeed, of his assuming a still
higher and more independent position. Interviews had been held with
Ticknor, and a correspondence with the Harpers, respecting a proposed
volume, chiefly to consist of Mr. Caryl's fugitive pieces in the
Magazines, but to be accompanied with a poem of some length, never