(of Satanic construction) who have the art of enslaving the men unhappy enough to cross their path.  The nature of the art was hinted, with the delicacy of dainty feet which have to tread in mire to get to safety.  Men, alas! are snared in this way.  Instances too numerous for the good repute of the swinish sex, were cited, and the question of how Morality was defensible from their grossness passed without a tactical reply.  There is no defence:  Those women come like the Cholera Morbus—­and owing to similar causes.  They will prevail until the ideas of men regarding women are purified.  Nevertheless the husband who could forgive, even propose to forgive, was deemed by consent generous, however weak.  Though she might not have been wholly guilty, she had bitterly offended.  And he despatched an emissary to her?—­The theme, one may, in their language, ‘fear,’ was relished as a sugared acid.  It was renewed in the late Autumn of the year, when Antonia published her new book, entitled the young Minister of state.  The signature of the authoress was now known; and from this resurgence of her name in public, suddenly a radiation of tongues from the circle of Lady Wathin declared that the repentant Mrs. Warwick had gone back to her husband’s bosom and forgiveness!  The rumour spread in spite of sturdy denials at odd corners, counting the red-hot proposal of Mr. Sullivan Smith to eat his head and boots for breakfast if it was proved correct.  It filled a yawn of the Clubs for the afternoon.  Soon this wanton rumour was met and stifled by another of more morbific density, heavily charged as that which led the sad Eliza to her pyre.

ANTONIA’s hero was easily identified.  The young Minister of state could be he only who was now at all her parties, always meeting her; had been spied walking with her daily in the park near her house, on his march down to Westminster during the session; and who positively went to concerts and sat under fiddlers to be near her.  It accounted moreover for his treatment of Constance Asper.  What effrontery of the authoress, to placard herself with him in a book!  The likeness of the hero to Percy Dacier once established became striking to glaringness—­a proof of her ability, and more of her audacity; still more of her intention to flatter him up to his perdition.  By the things written of him, one would imagine the conversations going on behind the scenes.  She had the wiles of a Cleopatra, not without some of the Nilene’s experiences.  A youthful Antony Dacier would be little likely to escape her toils.  And so promising a young man!  The sigh, the tear for weeping over his destruction, almost fell, such vivid realizing of the prophesy appeared in its pathetic pronouncement.