ing the revolting aspect of the coarser creatures, that live and struggle and die, in the more easily resolvable portions of the water-drop, she was fair and delicate and of surpassing beauty. But of what account was all that? Every time that my eye was withdrawn from the instrument, it fell on a miserable drop of water, within which, I must be content to know, dwelt all that could make my life lovely.

5

lamp-light considerably. By the dim light that remained, I could see an expression of pain flit across her face. She looked upward suddenly, and her brows contracted. I flooded the stage of the microscope again with a full stream of light, and her whole expression changed. She sprang forward like some substance deprived of all weight. Her eyes sparkled, 10 and her lips moved. Ah! if science had only the means of conducting and reduplicating sounds, as it does the rays of light, what carols of happiness would then have entranced my ears! what jubilant hymns to Adonaïs would have thrilled the illumined air!

Could she but see me once! Could I for one moment pierce the mystical walls that so inexorably rose to separate us, and whisper all that filled my soul, I might consent to be satisfied for the rest of my 15 life with the knowledge of her remote sympathy. It would be something to have. established even the faintest personal link to bind us together, to know that at times, when roaming through those en- 20 chanted glades, she might think of the wonderful stranger, who had broken the monotony of her life with his presence, and left a gentle memory in her heart!

But it could not be. No invention, of 25 which human intellect was capable, could break down the barriers that Nature had erected. I might feast my soul upon her wondrous beauty, yet she must always remain ignorant of the adoring eyes that 30 day and night gazed upon her, and, even when closed, beheld her in dreams. With a bitter cry of anguish I fled from the room, and, flinging myself on my bed, sobbed myself to sleep like a child.

VI

I now comprehended how it was that the Count de Gabalis peopied his mystic world with sylphs, beautiful beings whose breath of life was lambent fire, and who sported forever in regions of purest ether and purest light. The Rosicrucian had anticipated the wonder that I had practically realized.

How long this worship of my strange. divinity went on thus I scarcely know. I lost all note of time. All day from early dawn, and far into the night, I was to be found peering through that wonderful lens. I saw no one, went nowhere, and scarce allowed myself sufficient time for my meals. My whole life was absorbed in contemplation as rapt as that of any of the Romish saints. Every hour that I 35 gazed upon the divine form strengthened my passion,- a passion that was always overshadowed by the maddening conviction, that, although I could gaze on her at will, she never, never could behold me!

I arose the next morning almost at daybreak, and rushed to my microscope. I trembled as I sought the luminous world 40 in miniature that contained my all. Animula was there. I had left the gaslamp, surrounded by its moderators, burning, when I went to bed the night before. I found the sylph bathing, as it were, with 45 an expression of pleasure animating her features, in the brilliant light which surrounded her. She tossed her lustrous golden hair over her shoulders with innocent coquetry. She lay at full length in 50 the transparent medium, in which she supported herself with ease, and gamboled with the enchanting grace that the Nymph Salmacis might have exhibited when she sought to conquer the modest 55 Hermaphroditus. I tried an experiment to satisfy myself if her powers of reflection were developed. I lessened the

At length I grew so pale and emaciated, from want of rest, and continual brooding over my insane love and its cruel conditions, that I determined to make some effort to wean myself from it. Come,' I said, 'this is at best but a fantasy. Your imagination has bestowed. on Animula charms which in reality she does not possess. Seclusion from female society has produced this morbid condition of mind. Compare her with the beautiful women of your own world, and this false enchantment will vanish.'

I looked over the newspapers by chance. There I beheld the advertisement of a celebrated danseuse who appeared nightly at Niblo's. The Signorina Caradolce had the reputation of being the most beautiful, as well as the most graceful woman in the

world. I instantly dressed and went to the theater.

agony. The wondrous forests appeared also to have lost half their beauty. Their hues were dim and in some places faded away altogether. I watched Animula for 5 hours with a breaking heart, and she seemed absolutely to wither away under my very eye. Suddenly I remembered that I had not looked at the water-drop for several days. In fact, I hated to see it; for it reminded me of the natural barrier between Animula and myself. I hurriedly looked down on the stage of the microscope. The slide was still there,but, great heavens! the water-drop had

The curtain drew up. The usual semicircle of fairies in white muslin were standing on the right toe around the enameled flower-bank, of green canvas, on which the belated prince was sleeping. Suddenly a flute is heard. The fairies start. The trees open, the fairies all stand on the left toe, and the queen enters. 10 It was the Signorina. She bounded forward amid thunders of applause, and lighting on one foot remained poised in air. Heavens! was this the great enchantress that had drawn monarchs at 15 vanished! The awful truth burst upon

her chariot-wheels? Those heavy muscular limbs, those thick ankles, those cavernous eyes, that stereotyped smile, those crudely painted cheeks! Where were the vermeil blooms, the liquid ex- 20 pressive eyes, the harmonious limbs of Animula?

The Signorina danced. What gross, discordant movements! The play of her limbs was all false and artificial. Her 25 bounds were painful athletic efforts; her poses were angular and distressed the eye. I could bear it no longer; with an exclamation of disgust that drew every eye upon me, I rose from my seat in the very 30 middle of the Signorina's pas-de-fascination, and abruptly quitted the house.

I hastened home to feast my eyes once more on the lovely form of my sylph. I felt that henceforth to combat this 35 passion would be impossible. I applied my eye to the lens. Animula was there, -but what could have happened? Some terrible change seemed to have taken place during my absence. Some secret 40 grief seemed to cloud the lovely features of her I gazed upon. Her face had grown thin and haggard; her limbs trailed heavily; the wondrous luster of her golden hair had failed. She was ill! ill, and I could not assist her! I believe at that moment I would have gladly forfeited all claims to my human birthright, if I could only have been dwarfed to the size of an animalcule, and permitted to 50 console her from whom fate had forever divided me.

me; it had evaporated, until it had become so minute as to be invisible to the naked eye; I had been gazing on its last atom, the one that contained Animula,— and she was dying.

I rushed again to the front of the lens, and looked through. Alas! the last agony had seized her. The rainbow-hued forests had all melted away, and Animula lay struggling feebly in what seemed to be a spot of dim light. Ah! the sight was horrible: the limbs once so round and lovely shriveling up into nothings; the eyes those eyes that shone like heaven - being quenched into black dust; the lustrous golden hair now lank and discolored. The last throe came. I beheld that final struggle of the blackening form — and I fainted.

When I awoke out of a trance of many hours, I found myself lying amid the wreck of my instrument, myself as shattered in mind and body as it. I crawled feebly to my bed, from which I did not rise for months.

They say now that I am. mad; but they are mistaken. I am poor, for I have neither the heart nor the will to work; all my money is spent, and I live on charity. 45 Young men's associations that love a joke invite me to lecture on Optics before them, for which they pay me, and laugh at me while I lecture. Linley, the mad microscopist,' is the name I go by. I suppose that I talk incoherently while I lecture. Who could talk sense when his brain is haunted by such ghastly memories, while ever and anon among the shapes of death I behold the radiant form of my lost Animula !

I racked my brain for the solution of this mystery. What was it that afflicted the sylph? She seemed to suffer intense 55 pain. Her features contracted, and she even writhed, as if with some internal

HENRY TIMROD (1829-1867)

The poems of Timrod take us to the South, to the little group of poets which in the years just before the war tried to make a southern literary center of Charleston, South Carolina. Born in the old city with its memories of the Revolution in which his grandfather had been a soldier, he grew up with Hayne and with the future scholar Gildersleeve as companions, attended for a time the University of Georgia, and wrote poetry of a Keat-like, feminine sweetness. He tried first the law, but, like all other poets, finding it distasteful, he abandoned it for teaching. His first thin volume of poems came out in Boston in 1859, but swiftly after its appearance he was awakened from poetic dreams by the clash of civil war. Army life was too strenuous for his frail physique, and during the years of the struggle he engaged in newspaper work, sending forth from time to time stirring lyrics which were for the South what Whittier's were for the North. The march of Sherman's army swept away all that he had, his health became shattered, and two years after the war closed he died in utter poverty.

Timrod was a poet of beauty, sensitive to the glories of nature, a disciple of Keats and the early Tennyson, inclining too often to the merely pretty and the sentimental. When the war broke out, stirred to the depths of his life, he cried out in major key, but his dainty instrument was not a trumpet: no soul was ever more unfitted for the harshness of war. A few stirring notes he blew, but not for long. At thirty-eight he was dead, as much a victim of the war as the soldiers who fell in battle.