THE SIBYLLINE FLY-LEAF. 51 



The mystery is out ; yet the Poet stands aghast, fixed as in 

 a stupor of horror and dismay. He scarcely notices the es- 

 caped offender ; the buz of Blue-bottle now falls unheeded on 

 his ear ; the bouncings of Blue-bottle attract not his eye, for 

 his eye is strained on more appalling objects, on the printed 

 envelope of rancid butter, on the title-page of his first inde- 

 pendent and avowed production, on his own dishonoured 

 name conspicuous in the transparency of grease ! This, then, 

 was the publicity acquired by his first great work, and there, 

 torn from its very self, was the sibylline leaf, which had told 

 in the warning buz of that prophetic Fly, the coming fate of 

 his second, his still greater work, so laboured, so exquisitely 

 finished. Finished ! it is finished, indeed, with hope, with 

 effort ! So spoke more plainly than could words the deep 



drawn sigh with which poor H resumed his seat, not, we 



may be sure, to taste his ill-savoured bread and butter, but 

 only to sip his cold tea, as if to swallow down with it some- 

 thing of chagrin, or to sip in something of consolation. 



It was growing dusk, the time of day when poor Hi- 



was accustomed, whenever he stole an hour from his toil, to 

 stroll countrywards, in the direction of green fields, which, as 

 they grew more and more remote, he rarely enough contrived 

 to reach. But this evening he had no heart to leave his garret, 

 and not a breath of air came over the heated house-tops to 



