he returned; and all the while his imps were about him and upon him, riding him, prompting, driving, inspiring him with outrageous pathos, an eloquence to move any one but the dead, which its object seemed to be in her torpid attention.  He heard them, he talked to them, caressed them; he flung them off, and ran from them, and stood vanquished for them to mount him again and swarm on him.  There are men thus imp-haunted.  Men who, setting their minds upon an object, must have it, breed imps.  They are noted for their singularities, as their converse with the invisible and amazing distractions are called.  Willoughby became aware of them that night.  He said to himself, upon one of his dashes into solitude:  I believe I am possessed!  And if he did not actually believe it, but only suspected it, or framed speech to account for the transformation he had undergone into a desperately beseeching creature, having lost acquaintance with his habitual personality, the operations of an impish host had undoubtedly smitten his consciousness.

He had them in his brain:  for while burning with an ardour for Laetitia, that incited him to frantic excesses of language and comportment, he was aware of shouts of the names of Lady Busshe and Mrs. Mountstuart Jenkinson, the which, freezing him as they did, were directly the cause of his hurrying to a wilder extravagance and more headlong determination to subdue before break of day the woman he almost dreaded to behold by daylight, though he had now passionately persuaded himself of his love of her.  He could not, he felt, stand in the daylight without her.  She was his morning.  She was, he raved, his predestinated wife.  He cried, “Darling!” both to her and to solitude.  Every prescription of his ideal of demeanour as an example to his class and country, was abandoned by the enamoured gentleman.  He had lost command of his countenance.  He stooped so far as to kneel, and not gracefully.  Nay, it is in the chronicles of the invisible host around him, that in a fit of supplication, upon a cry of “Laetitia!” twice repeated, he whimpered.

Let so much suffice.  And indeed not without reason do the multitudes of the servants of the Muse in this land of social policy avoid scenes of an inordinate wantonness, which detract from the dignity of our leaders and menace human nature with confusion.  Sagacious are they who conduct the individual on broad lines, over familiar tracks, under well-known characteristics.  What men will do, and amorously minded men will do, is less the question than what it is politic they should be shown to do.

The night wore through.  Laetitia was bent, but had not yielded.  She had been obliged to say—­and how many times she could not bear to recollect:  “I do not love you; I have no love to give”; and issuing from such a night to look again upon the face of day, she scarcely felt that she was alive.

The contest was renewed by her father with the singing of the birds.  Mr. Dale then produced the first serious impression she had received.  He spoke of their circumstances, of his being taken from her and leaving her to poverty, in weak health; of the injury done to her health by writing for bread; and of the oppressive weight he would be relieved of by her consenting.