it was written with elegance, and, foreigner as she was, with great command

of language. The hand-writing itself was exquisitely beautiful; there was

something in her very paper and its folds, which even I, who did not love,

and was withal unskilled in such matters, could discern as being tasteful.

There was much kindness, gratitude, and sweetness in her expression, but no

love. Evadne was two years older than Adrian; and who, at eighteen, ever

loved one so much their junior? I compared her placid epistles with the

burning ones of Adrian. His soul seemed to distil itself into the words he

wrote; and they breathed on the paper, bearing with them a portion of the

life of love, which was his life. The very writing used to exhaust him; and

he would weep over them, merely from the excess of emotion they awakened in

his heart.

Adrian's soul was painted in his countenance, and concealment or deceit

were at the antipodes to the dreadless frankness of his nature. Evadne made

it her earnest request that the tale of their loves should not be revealed

to his mother; and after for a while contesting the point, he yielded it to

her. A vain concession; his demeanour quickly betrayed his secret to the

quick eyes of the ex-queen. With the same wary prudence that characterized

her whole conduct, she concealed her discovery, but hastened to remove her

son from the sphere of the attractive Greek. He was sent to Cumberland; but

the plan of correspondence between the lovers, arranged by Evadne, was

effectually hidden from her. Thus the absence of Adrian, concerted for the

purpose of separating, united them in firmer bonds than ever. To me he

discoursed ceaselessly of his beloved Ionian. Her country, its ancient

annals, its late memorable struggles, were all made to partake in her glory

The Last Man