vows of my heart. Yes, my only folly is in the power of discerning beauty; my only crime is being sensible to it. There is nothing in this I ought to blush for.

(Less lively, but always with passion.)

What arrows of fire seem to issue from this object to burn my senses, and to carry away my soul unto their source! Alas! she remains immovable and cold, while my heart, consumed by her charms, longs to quit my own body to give warmth to hers. I imagine in my delirium that I could spring from myself, that I could give to her my life, that I could animate her with my soul. Ah, let Pygmalion die, to live in Galatea ! - What do I say, O Heaven? If I were she, I should no longer see her; I should not be he that loves her! —No, let my Galatea live; but let not me become Galatea. O! let me always be another, always wish her to be herself, to love her, to be beloved

(Transported.)

Torments, vows, desires, impotent rage, terrible, fatal love-O! all hell is in my agitated heartPowerful, beneficent Gods! - Gods of the people, who know the passions of men, ah, how many miracles have you done for small causes! Behold this object, look into my heart, be just, and deserve your altars!

(With a more pathetic enthusiasm.)

And thou, sublime essence, who, concealing thyself from the senses, art felt in the heart of men, soul of the universe, principle of all existence, thou who by love givest harmony to the elements, life to

matter, feeling to bodies, and form to all beings; sacred fire, celestial Venus, by whom everything is preserved, and unceasingly reproduced! Ah, where is thy equalizing justice? Where is thy expansive power? Where is the law of nature in the sentiment I experience? Where is thy vivifying warmth in the inanity of my vain desires? All thy flames are concentrated in my heart, and the coldness of death remains upon this marble; I perish by the excess of life which this figure wants. Alas! I expect no prodigy; already one exists, and ought to cease; order is disturbed, nature is outraged; restore to her laws their empire, re-establish her beneficent course, and equally shed thy divine influence. Yes, two beings are left out of the plenitude of things. Divide between them that devouring ardor which consumes the one without animating the other. is thou who hast formed by my hand these charms, and these features, which want but life and feeling. Give to her the half of mine. Give all, if it be necessary. It shall suffice me to live in her. O thou! who deignest to smile upon the homage of mortals, this being who feels nothing, honors thee not. Extend thy glory with thy works. Goddess of beauty, spare this affront to nature, that a form so perfect should be an image of which there is no living model!

It

(He gradually re-approaches the statue with an air of confidence and joy.)

I resume my senses. What an unexpected calm! What unhoped courage re-animates me! A mortal fever burned my blood, a balm of confidence and

hope flows in my veins, and I feel a new life. Thus the sense of our dependence sometimes becomes our consolation. However unhappy mortals may be, when they have invoked the Gods, they are

tranquil. And yet this unjust confidence deceives those who form senseless wishes. Alas! in the condition I am in, we call upon every one, and no one hears us; the hope which deceives is more senseless than the desire.

Ashamed of so many follies, I dare no more to contemplate the cause of them. When I wish to raise my eyes towards this fatal object, I feel a new trouble, a sudden palpitation takes my breath, a secret tremor stops me

(With bitter irony.)

O, look, poor soul! summon courage enough to dare behold a statue.

(He sees it become animated, and turns away with alarm; his heart oppressed with grief.)

What have I seen? Gods! what have I imagined that I saw? A color on the flesh, a fire in the eyes, even movement. It was not enough to hope for a miracle; to complete my misery, at last I have seen (With expressive melancholy.)

Unhappy creature, all is over with thee

- thy delirium is at its height-thy reason as well as thy genius abandons thee. Regret it not, Pygmalion, for the loss will conceal thy shame.

(With indignation.)

The lover of a stone is too happy in becoming a visionary.

(He turns again, and sees the statue move and de

scend the steps in front of the pedestal. He falls on his knees, and raises his hands and eyes towards

heaven.)

Immortal Gods! Venus, Galatea!

of a furious love!

(Galatea touches herself and says) Me! (Pygmalion transported) — Me!

(Galatea touching herself again) — It is myself. (Pygmalion) — Ravishing illusion, which even reaches my ears! O, never, never abandon me.

(Galatea moves towards another figure and touches it) - Not myself.

(Pygmalion in an agitation, in transports which he can with difficulty restrain, follows all her movements, listens to her, observes her with a covetous attention, which scarcely allows him to breathe. Galatea advances and looks at him; he rises hastily, extends his arms, and looks at her with delight. She lays her hand on his arm; he trembles, takes the hand, presses it to his heart, and covers it with ardent kisses.)

(Galatea, with a sigh) — Ah! it is I again.

(Pygmalion) Yes, dear and charming objectthou worthy masterpiece of my hands, of my heart, and of the Gods! It is thou, it is thou alone - I have given thee all my being-henceforth I will live but for thee.

1820.

ON THE SUBURBS OF GENOA AND THE COUNTRY ABOUT LONDON.*

DEA

EAR N.: I could bear my large study † no longer; so I have mounted into

my third story, and intrenched myself, as usual, in a little corner room. It is about the size of the study in where we all adjourned on the morning of Twelfth Night, to take breakfast. Do you remember that night? how we sung "To ladies' eyes a round, boys;" and how the eyes were as sparkling and triumphant at six o'clock in the morning, as they were at six in the evening? "Can I forget it?" say you: "Can anybody forget it?" I think not. The very walls must remember it. A living poet, whom we were near killing with laughter at two in the morning, has doubtless written his best things upon eyes since the appearance of that ocular constellation. I am sure a living novelist would have made his heroines equal to the rest of his characters, and done himself a world of good into the bargain, had he not

This essay was carefully corrected for republication by the author, who ruthlessly drew his pen through many of its graceful sentences. Though we gladly avail ourselves of most of his verbal emendations, we have not the heart to omit the pleasant passages which he marked for suppression, and therefore reprint the article in its entirety, without the loss of a paragraph. We do not think the reader will blame us for retaining the anecdote of Shelley, and the description of the suburbs of Genoa. - ED.

+ There is a description of this study in the chapter on My Books, in the IndiThe "dear N." to whom this article is addressed is Vincent Novello, "my good Catholic friend Nov.," of Elia's Chapter On Ears. Ed.

cator.