In his grasp, the veriest
clod of earth assumed a soul. Georgiana, as she read, reverenced
Aylmer, and loved him more profoundly than ever, but with a less
entire dependence on his judgment than heretofore. Much as he had
accomplished, she could not but observe that his most splendid
successes were almost invariably failures, if compared with the
ideal at which he aimed. His brightest diamonds were the merest
pebbles, and felt to be so by himself, in comparison with the
inestimable gems which lay hidden beyond his reach. 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 short-comings of the
composite man- the spirit burthened 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.
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