society, but he was scarcely social. Trained from his early boyhood to
solitude, he was seldom weary of being alone. He sought the crowd, not
to amuse himself, but to observe others. The world to him was less as a
theatre on which he was to play a part, than as a book in which he loved
to decipher the enigmas of wisdom. He observed all that passed around
him. No sprightly cavalier at any time; the charm that he exercised at
will over his companions was that of softness, not vivacity. But amidst
that silken blandness of demeanour, the lynx eye of Remark never slept.
He penetrated character at a glance, but he seldom made use of his
knowledge. He found a pleasure in reading men, but a fatigue in
governing them. And thus, consummately skilled as he was in the science
du monde, he often allowed himself to appear ignorant of its practice.
Forming in his mind a beau ideal of friendship and of love, he never
found enough in the realities long to engage his affection. Thus,
with women he was considered fickle, and with men he had no intimate
companionship. This trait of character is common with persons of genius;
and, owing to too large an overflow of heart, they are frequently
considered heartless. There is always, however, danger that a character
of this kind should become with years what it seems; what it soon learns
to despise. Nothing steels the affections like contempt.

The next morning an express from England reached the young traveller.
His father was dangerously ill; nor was it expected that the utmost
diligence would enable the young man to receive his last blessing. The
Englishman, appalled and terror-stricken, recalled his interview
with the astrologer. Nothing so effectually dismays us, as to feel a
confirmation of some idea of supernatural dread that has already found
entrance within our reason; and of all supernatural belief, that of
being compelled by a predecree, and thus being the mere tools and
puppets of a dark and relentless fate, seems the most fraught at once
with abasement and with horror.

The Englishman left Rome that morning, and sent only a verbal and
hasty message to the astrologer, announcing the cause of his departure.
Volktman was a man of excellent heart; but one would scarcely like to
inquire whether exultation at the triumph of his prediction was not with
him a far more powerful sentiment than grief at the misfortune to his
friend!

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE YOUTH OF LUCILLA VOLKTMAN.--