a side-table, whispered to him something.

Meantime who was he? where was he, this youth who had struck all the
wits of London with admiration? His galloping charger had returned to
the City; his splendid court-suit was doffed for the citizen's gabardine
and grocer's humble apron.

George de Barnwell was in Chepe--in Chepe, at the feet of Martha
Millwood.

VOL III.

THE CONDEMNED CELL.

"Quid me mollibus implicas lacertis, my Elinor? Nay," George added, a
faint smile illumining his wan but noble features, "why speak to thee in
the accents of the Roman poet, which thou comprehendest not? Bright One,
there be other things in Life, in Nature, in this Inscrutable Labyrinth,
this Heart on which thou leanest, which are equally unintelligible to
thee! Yes, my pretty one, what is the Unintelligible but the Ideal? what
is the Ideal but the Beautiful? what the Beautiful but the Eternal? And
the Spirit of Man that would commune with these is like Him who wanders
by the thina poluphloisboio thalasses, and shrinks awe-struck before
that Azure Mystery."

Emily's eyes filled with fresh-gushing dew. "Speak on, speak ever thus,
my George," she exclaimed. Barnwell's chains rattled as the confiding
girl clung to him. Even Snoggin, the turnkey appointed to sit with the
Prisoner, was affected by his noble and appropriate language, and also
burst into tears.

"You weep, my Snoggin," the Boy said; "and why? Hath Life been so
charming to me that I should wish to retain it? hath Pleasure no
after-Weariness? Ambition no Deception; Wealth no Care; and Glory no
Mockery? Psha! I am sick of Success, palled of Pleasure, weary of Wine
and Wit, and--nay, start not, my Adelaide--and Woman. I fling away all
these things as the Toys of Boyhood. Life is the Soul's Nursery. I am
a Man, and pine for the Illimitable! Mark you me! Has the Morrow any
terrors for me, think ye? Did Socrates falter at his poison? Did Seneca
blench in his bath? Did Brutus shirk the sword when his great stake was
lost? Did even weak Cleopatra shrink from the Serpent's fatal nip? And
why should I? My great Hazard hath been played, and I pay my forfeit.
Lie sheathed in my heart, thou flashing Blade! Welcome to my Bosom, thou
faithful Serpent; I hug thee, peace-bearing Image of the Eternal!
Ha, the hemlock cup! Fill high, boy, for my soul is thirsty for
the Infinite! Get ready the bath, friends; prepare me for the feast
To-morrow--bathe my limbs in odors, and put ointment