180 IN A WINTER CITY.
in its pictm'es, they are aU painted en grisaille.
Pleasm'e alone cannot content any one whose
character has any force, or mind any high intel¬
ligence. Society is, as you say, a book we soon
read through, and know by heart tUl it loses aU
interest. Art alone cannot fiU more than a cer¬
tain part of our emotions ; and culture, how¬
ever perfect, leaves us unsatisfied. There is
only one thing that can give to Ufe what your
poet caUed the Ught that never was on sea or
land—and that is human love."
His ejes rested on her; and for once in her
life her own eyes feU ; a troubled softness came
for a moment on her face, dispersing aU its
languor and its coldness. In another moment
she recovered herself, and smiled a Uttle.
"Ah! you are appassionato, as becomes your
DeUa Eocca looked at her with somethins
of disappointment and something of distaste;
he rose and approached the grand piano.
"You aUow me?" he said, and touched a
few of the chords. He sang very low, and almost
as it were to himself, a canzone of the people—