Kensington Gardens. It was a cold, frosty day, and as Vivian flung himself upon one of the summer seats, the snow drifted from off the frozen board; but Vivian's brow was as burning hot, as if he had been an inhabitant of Sirius. Throwing his arms on a small garden table, he buried his face in his hands, and wept—as men can but once weep in this world!
Oh! thou sublime and most subtle philosopher, who, in thy lamp-lit cell, art speculating upon the passions which thou hast never felt! Oh! thou splendid and most admirable poet, who, with cunning words, art painting with a smile a tale of woe! tell me what is Grief? and solve me the mystery of Sorrow?
Not for himself—for after the first pang, he would have whistled off his high hopes with the spirit of a Ripperda—not even for Cleveland—for at this moment, it must be confessed, his thoughts were not for his friend—did Vivian Grey's soul struggle, as if it were about to
