weary of it, since forms, however beautiful, please by their variety; and the lady's talent, by humiliating him, was to him rather a cause of dislike than of admiration. I will not affirm that he hated Isabella, but he chafed impatiently under the tie, and even more impatiently when he found that he could not free himself from it, and strengthened it irrevocably by a fatal knot. His mind was closed against the noble, the decorous, the right, and the beautiful. If Isabella recited her own or another's poetry, he would fall asleep—a terrible slight to a poet, but to a poetess culpable beyond measure. Music gave him the headache. With all this he was tormented by a cold and apathetic jealousy, not because he loved Isabella, but because he wished Isabella to love him;—he wished that all might read around her neck these words, which used to be engraved upon the collars of slaves: "The property of Troilo Orsini." In short, the time had arrived when the joyous rosy garland woven by love was changed to a chain of remorse and hate, forged by the hands of the infernal Furies.