The volume,
rich with achievements that had won renown for its author, was yet as
melancholy a record as ever mortal hand had penned. It was the sad
confession and continual exemplification of the shortcomings of the
composite man, the spirit burdened with clay and working in matter,
and of the despair that assails the higher nature at finding itself
so miserably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every man of genius,
in whatever sphere, might recognize the image of his own experience
in Aylmer's journal.
So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana, that she laid her
face upon the open volume and burst into tears. In this situation she
was found by her husband.
"It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer's books," said he with a smile,
though his countenance was uneasy and displeased. "Georgiana, there
are pages in that volume which I can scarcely glance over and keep my
senses. Take heed lest it prove as detrimental to you."
"It has made me worship you more than ever," said she.
"Ah, wait for this one success," rejoined he, "then worship me if you
will.
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