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;
  The harmless Ghost, that walks with helm unbarred
    And beckoning hand;

  And, beautiful as dreams of maidenhood,
    That doubt defy,
  Young Hamlet, with his forehead grief-subdued,
    And visioning eye.

  O fair dead world, that from thy grave awak’st
    A little while,
  And in our heart strange revolution mak’st
    With thy brief smile!

  O beauties vanished, fair lips magical,
    Heroic braves! 
  O mighty hearts, that held the world in thrall! 
    Come from your graves!

  The Poet sees you through a mist of tears,—­
    Such depths divide
  Him, with the love and passion of his years,
    From you, inside!

  The Poet’s heart attends your buskined feet,
    Your lofty strains,
  Till earth’s rude touch dissolves that madness sweet,
    And life remains: 

  Life that is something while the senses heed
    The spirit’s call,
  Life that is nothing when our grosser need
    Engulfs it all.