ys of sorrow, my nights of crying. It was
indeed a terrific trial to us all, and those horrid stories of hair
turning white from grief made me rush to the glass every morning at
daybreak with a degree of terror that I know well I shall never be able
to throw off for many a year; for I can assure you, dearest, that
the washes are a mistake, and most pernicious! They are made of what
chemists call Ethiops mineral, which is as explosive as nitro-glycerine;
and once penetrating the pores, the head becomes, as Doctor Robertson
says, a 'charged shell.' Can you fancy anything as horrible? Incipient
grayness is best treated with silver powder, which, when the eyelashes
are properly darkened _at the base_, gives a very charming lustre to the
expression. On no account use gold powder.

"It was a Mr. Longworth, a neighbor of yours, whom you don't know,
brought me the first news; but it was soon all over Rome, for his
father--I mean Pracontal's--was formerly much employed by Antonelli, and
came here with the tidings that the mine had exploded, and blown up only
themselves. A very dreadful man his father, with a sabre scar down the
cheek, and deep marks of manacles on his wrists and ankles; but would
n't take money from the Cardinal, nor anything but a passport. And they
went away, so the police say, on foot, P. dressed in some horrid coarse
clothes like his father; and oh, darling, how handsome he was, and how
distinguished-looking! It was young France, if you like; but, after all,
don't we all like the Boulevard de Ghent better than the Faubourg St.
Germain? He was very witty, too; that is, he was a master of a language
where wit comes easy, and could season talk with those nice little
flatteries which, like _fioriture_ in singing, heighten the charm, but
never impair the force of the melody. And then, how he sang! Imagine
Mario in a boudoir with a cottage piano accompaniment, and then you have
it. It is very hard to know anything about men, but, so far as I can
see, he was not a cheat; he believed the whole stupid story, and fancied
that there had been a painter called Lami, and a beautiful creature who
married somebody and was the mother of somebody else. He almost made me
believe it, too; that is, it bored me ineffably, and I used to doze over
it, and when I awoke I was n't quite sure whether I dreamed he was a man
of fortune or that such was a fact. Do you think he 'll shoot himself? I
hope he 'll not shoot himself. It would th