Watch her through its transparent walls;--her bosom is heaving; but it is in a vacuum.

Death is no riddle, compared to this.

I remember a poor girl's story in the "Book of Martyrs." The "dry-pan and the gradual fire" were the images that frightened her most.

How many have withered and wasted under as slow a torment in the walls of that larger Inquisition which we call Civilization! Yes, my surface-thought laughs at you, you foolish, plain, overdressed, mincing, cheaply-organized, self-saturated young person, whoever you may be, now reading this,--little thinking you are what I describe, and in blissful unconsciousness that you are destined to the lingering asphyxia of soul which is the lot of such multitudes worthier than yourself.

But it is only my surface- thought which laughs.