to which either event was attributable. The book, in truth; was both
the history and emblem of his ardent, ambitious, imaginative, yet
practical and laborious life. He handled physical details as if there
were nothing beyond them; yet spiritualized them all, and redeemed
himself from materialism by his strong and eager aspiration towards
the infinite. In his grasp the veriest clod of earth assumed a soul.
Georgiana, as she read, reverenced Aylmer and loved him more
profoundly than ever, but with a less entire dependence on his
judgment than heretofore. Much as he had accomplished, she could not
but observe that his most splendid successes were almost invariably
failures, if compared with the ideal at which he aimed. His brightest
diamonds were the merest pebbles, and felt to be so by himself, in
comparison with the inestimable gems which lay hidden beyond his
reach. The volume, rich with achievements that had won renown for its
author, was yet as melancholy a record as over mortal hand had penned.
It was the sad confession and continual exemplification of the
shortcomings of the composite man, the spirit burdened with clay and
working in matter, and of the despair that assails the higher nature
at finding itself so miserably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps
every man of genius, in whatever sphere, might recognize the image of
his own experience in Aylmer's journal.

So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana that she laid her
face upon the open volume and burst into tears. In this situation she
was found by her husband.

"It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer's books," said he with a smile,
though his countenance was uneasy and displeased. "Georgiana, there
are pages in that volume which I can scarcely glance over and keep my
senses. Take heed lest it prove as detrimental to you."