P.S.

  Mary has seen thus far.—­I am really so angry, Louisa,—­
  Quite out of patience, my dearest!  What can the man be intending? 
  I am quite tired; and Mary, who might bring him to in a moment,
  Lets him go on as he likes, and neither will help nor dismiss him.

  IX.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  It is most curious to see what a power a few calm words (in
  Merely a brief proclamation) appear to possess on the people. 
  Order is perfect, and peace; the city is utterly tranquil;
  And one cannot conceive that this easy and nonchalant crowd, that
  Flows like a quiet stream through street and market-place, entering
  Shady recesses and bays of church, osteria and caffe,
  Could in a moment be changed to a flood as of molten lava,
  Boil into deadly wrath and wild homicidal delusion.

  Ah, ’tis an excellent race,—­and even in old degradation,
  Under a rule that enforces to flattery, lying, and cheating,
  E’en under Pope and Priest, a nice and natural people. 
  Oh, could they but be allowed this chance of redemption!—­but clearly
  That is not likely to be.  Meantime, notwithstanding all journals,
  Honor for once to the tongue and the pen of the eloquent writer! 
  Honor to speech! and all honor to thee, thou noble Mazzini!

  X.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  I am in love, meantime, you think; no doubt, you would think so. 
  I am in love, you say; with those letters, of course, you would say so.

  I am in love, you declare.  I think not so; yet I grant you
  It is a pleasure, indeed, to converse with this girl.  Oh, rare gift,
  Rare felicity, this! she can talk in a rational way, can
  Speak upon subjects that really are matters of mind and of thinking,
  Yet in perfection retain her simplicity; never, one moment,
  Never, however you urge it, however you tempt her, consents to
  Step from ideas and fancies and loving sensations to those vain
  Conscious understandings that vex the minds of man-kind. 
  No, though she talk, it is music; her fingers desert not the keys; ’tis
  Song, though you hear in her song the articulate vocables sounded,
  Syllabled singly and sweetly the words of melodious meaning.

  XI.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.

  Ah, let me look, let me watch, let me wait, unbiased, unprompted! 
  Bid me not venture on aught that could alter or end what is present! 
  Say not, Time flies, and occasion, that never returns, is departing! 
  Drive me not out, ye ill angels with fiery swords, from my Eden,
  Waiting, and watching, and looking!  Let love be its own inspiration! 
  Shall not a voice, if a voice there must be, from the airs that environ,
  Yea, from the conscious heavens, without our knowledge or effort,
  Break into audible words?  Let love be its own inspiration!

  XII.—­CLAUDE TO EUSTACE.