that species of poetry which unites with the method and symmetry
something of the coldness of Art. How did you like Alfieri?"

"His language is a kind of Spartan French," answered Evelyn, in one of
those happy expressions which every now and then showed the quickness of
her natural talent.

"Yes," said Maltravers, smiling, "the criticism is acute. Poor Alfieri!
in his wild life and his stormy passions he threw out all the redundance
of his genius; and his poetry is but the representative of his thoughts,
not his emotions. Happier the man of genius who lives upon his reason,
and wastes feeling only on his verse!"

"You do not think that we _waste_ feeling upon human beings?" said
Evelyn, with a pretty laugh.

"Ask me that question when you have reached my years, and can look upon
fields on which you have lavished your warmest hopes, your noblest
aspirations, your tenderest affections, and see the soil all profitless
and barren. 'Set not your heart on the things of earth,' saith the
Preacher."

Evelyn was affected by the tone, the words, and the melancholy
countenance of the speaker. "You, of all men, ought not to think thus,"
said she, with a sweet eagerness; "you who have done so much to awaken
and to soften the heart in others; you--who--" she stopped short, and
added, more gravely. "Ah, Mr. Maltravers, I cannot reason with you, but
I can hope you will refute your own philosophy."

"Were your wish fulfilled," answered Maltravers, almost with sternness,