The story of Captain Mansana, a sort of Italian Don Quixote, and a seething volcano of passion and extravagance, is absurdly unnatural and improbably; but the skill of the teller is so great, he has drawn his picture with such art, that we are entrapped into believing in it. The impossible characters, reminiscent of Dumas at his best, seem to be real men and women, and his story of their adventures is so exciting that we hold our breath till we have ended the book.
mer times. Her own husband had been a man of delicate health, quite unequal to the strain of managing his worldly affairs; he had married her in order that she might supply his deficiencies. She had undoubtedly increased the value of his property; but in the process she wore him down. This man with his gentle smile, his varied intellectual interests, and his lofty ideals, suffered in her society. She could not destroy his nobler nature, but his peace of mind and content she did contrive to ruin. And yet the beauty of his character, which she had ignored while he lived, exercised its influence over her after he was dead; and when she saw it reanimated in the sons, or looking, as if in reproachful reminiscence of the past, through the pure eyes of her daughter-in-law, she felt herself subdued and overawed.
I have said the stones thrown by the grandmother seemed to have struck home in the grandsons and to have lodged deep in their hearts. Look at the two men as they walk in the procession! The younger--th