ccompanied him.

It is a good many years since. I have seen the diamond in the Duchess
of X.'s coronet, at the drawing-room, often,--but I have never seen
Delphine. The Marquis begged me to retain the chain, and I gave myself
the pleasure of presenting it, through her mother, to the Baroness
Stahl. I hear, that, whenever she desires to effect any cherished object
which the Baron opposes, she has only to wear this chain, and effect it.
It appears to possess a magical power, and its potent spell enslaves the
Baron as the lamp and ring of Eastern tales enslaved the Afrites.

The life she leads has aroused her. She is no longer the impassive
Silence; she has found her fire. I hear of her as the charm of a
brilliant court, as the soul of a nation of intrigue. Of her beauty one
does not speak, but her talent is called prodigious. What impels me
to ask the idle question, If it were well to save her life for this?
Undoubtedly she fills a station which, in that empire, must be the
summit of a woman's ambition. Delphine's Liberty was not a principle,
but a dissatisfaction. The Baroness Stahl is vehement, is Imperialist,
is successful. While she lives, it is on the top of the wave; when she
dies,--ah! what business has Death in such a world?

As I said, I have never seen Delphine since her marriage. The beautiful
statuesque girl occupies a niche into which the blazing and magnificent
_intrigante_ cannot crowd. I do not wish to be disillusioned. She has
read me a riddle,--Delphine is my Sphinx.

* * * * *

As for Mr. Hay,--I once said the Antipodes were tributary to me, not
thinking that I should ever become tributary to the Antipodes. But such
is the case; since, partly through my instrumentality, that enterprising
individual has been located in their vicinity, where diamonds are not to
be had for the asking, and the greatest rogue is not a Baron.

* * * * *

HAMLET AT THE BOSTON.

We sit before the row of evening lamps,
Each in his chair,
Forgetful of November dusks and damps,
And wintry air.

A little gulf of music intervenes,
A bridge of sighs,
Where still the cunning of the curtain screens
Art's paradise.

My thought transcends those viols' shrill delight,
The booming bass,
And towards the regions we shall view to-night
Makes hurried pace:

The painted castle, and the unneeded guard
That ready stand;