enough as times go, but there are no Ciceros now-a-days; declares it is a bore that people talk so long and make so much noise; wishes that fellow would have done with his bombast; and adds that he has a deal of mannerism and affectation, while his gestures are entirely too violent; it quite fatigues one to see them! Your ardor suddenly cools; you begin to ask whether that which appeared to you, a moment before, as finished grace, may not be mannerism and affectation; whether those gestures are not too vehement; whether that voice is not too loud; and whether there is not a touch of bombast in the discourse. You have begun to criticise, to question the grounds for your enjoyment; the oration no longer carries you away; you are half ashamed or afraid to recognize its beauties, while sitting beside Quenchum.
Next, Quenchum accompanies you to the opera. It is to hear a prima donna who has gathered laurels in both hemispheres, and received the approving nod of crowned heads, the applause of sceptred hands. The opera represented is one of Bellini's noblest inspirations. You believe it physically impossible that any one can be insensible to its soul-stirring strains. Ah! you know little of the impervious texture of Quenchum's soul. Bellini is as incomprehensible to him as the riddle of the Sphinx. Just as your heart gives an inward echo to the "bravo" that resounds on every side, Quenchum coolly exclaims, "How ab-
