fulvous and fulgurous lady grew comparatively 
tranquil ; the pair withdrew.  The old woman lay 
sprawled along the divan sunk in a drunken 
torpor. 
I unrolled the manuscript and read. 
Brutal truth-telling humour, at times perhaps 
too Rabelaisian ; lyrics, some of enchanting beauty, 
others painfully imitative ; sonnets of exceedingly 
unequal power, a perfectly heartless introduction 
(some fools would call it pathetic), and, as a 
synthesis of the whole, an impression of profound 
sadness and, perhaps, still deeper joy, were my 
reward.  Together with a feeling that the writer 
must have been a philosopher of the widest and 
deepest learning and penetration, and a regret that 
he showed no more of it in his poetry.  First 
and last, I stood amazed, stupefied :  so stand I still. 
Dramatic propriety forbade me seeing him 
again ; he was alone when he started. 
Let us not too bitterly lament !  He would hate 
him who would “ upon the rack of this tough 
world stretch him out longer.” 
 
x