COLERIDGE. _Piccolomini._

It would be difficult adequately to portray the conflict of emotions
which now agitated our hero. His life at Trevethlan Castle might be
described as a long childhood, and the boy became a man at one bound,
instead of by insensible degrees. Hence he had not learned to control
his sensations. He was driven about by every wind. His will was
almost passive. No master-feeling yet called it into action. We have
seen how keenly alive he was to the want of that deference which he
considered his due; how his pride revolted from the familiarity of
those around him; how his feigned name continually irritated him. And
all these feelings were embittered by the visit to the opera. Often
afterwards he remembered the dark presentiment which oppressed him
during the gloomy ride, and which returned while he gazed, rapt in
ecstasy, on that fair vision near him, on Mildred Pendarrel. In her he
recognised the image which of late years haunted his dreams by the
sea; the heroine of the romances which his fancy created; the mistress
of his enchanted castle. She was the object for which he had been
secretly yearning; the being destined to fill a void which had opened
in his existence; the woman for whom he would live and die. In the
first few moments he looked at her, his eyes drank in a deep draught
of love, and he was hers for ever.

He revelled in the new passion. In those few moments he lived an age.
What face was that which intervened between him and his love? Where
had he seen those proud lineaments? He required no hint from Helen to
remind him of the miniature. He recognised his father's Esther at a
glance; he sprang to the conclusion that it was her daughter he
adored; and he remembered the vow that lay upon his soul. What wonder
that he should feel a presentiment of ill?

There are those who smile when they hear of "love at first sight." But
he who drew Romeo was better versed in the heart of man. Such love is
a more turbulent and consuming passion than the happier affection
which grows up by gentle steps. Swift as the lightning, it is also as
desolating. Hope cherishes the softer emotion; hopelessness often
seems to fan the more sudden fire.

The first effect of his new passion upon Randolph was to give tenfold
vigour to his hatred of his assumed name. Of right, he was Mildred's
equal. Even studying for his profession as Randolph Trevethlan, he
would still be her equal. But as the obs