第75部分(第6/8 頁)

apery　to　shade　off；　a　touch　of　carmine；　too；　to　add　to　the　ripe　lips—a　soft　curl　here　and　there　to　the　tresses—a　deeper　tinge　to　the　shadow　of　the　lash　under　the　azured　eyelid。　I　was　absorbed　in　the　execution　of　these　nice　details；　when；　after　one　rapid　tap；　my　door　unclosed；　admitting　St。　John　Rivers。

“I　am　e　to　see　how　you　are　spending　your　holiday；”　he　said。　“Not；　I　hope；　in　thought？　No；　that　is　well：　while　you　draw　you　will　not　feel　lonely。　You　see；　I　mistrust　you　still；　though　you　have　borne　up　wonderfully　so　far。　I　have　brought　you　a　book　for　evening　solace；”　and　he　laid　on　the　table　a　new　publication—a　poem：　one　of　those　genuine　productions　so　often　vouchsafed　to　the　fortunate　public　of　those　days—the　golden　age　of　modern　literature。　Alas！　the　readers　of　our　era　are　less　favoured。　But　courage！　I　will　not　pause　either　to　accuse　or　repine。　I　know　poetry　is　not　dead；　nor　genius　lost；　nor　has　Mammon　gained　power　over　either；　to　bind　or　slay：　they　will　both　assert　their　existence；　their　presence；　their　liberty　and　strength　again　one　day。　Powerful　angels；　safe　in　heaven！　they　smile　when　sordid　souls　triumph；　and　feeble　ones　weep　over　their　destruction。　Poetry　destroyed？　Genius　banished？　No！　Mediocrity；　no：　do　not　let　envy　prompt　you　to　the　thought。　No；　they　not　only　live；　but　reign　and　redeem：　and　without　their　divine　influence　spread　everywhere；　you　would　be　in　hell—the　hell　of　your　own　meanness。

While　I　was　eagerly　glancing　at　the　bright　pages　of　“Marmion”　（f