has afforded me the opportunity of enjoying an
unexpected intellectual pleasure.

I refer to the perusal (which I have just
completed) of this interesting Diary.

There are many hundred pages here. I can
lay my hand on my heart, and declare that every
page has charmed, refreshed, delighted me.

To a man of my sentiments, it is unspeakably
gratifying to be able to say this.

Admirable woman!

I refer to Miss Halcombe.

Stupendous effort!

I refer to the Diary.

Yes! these pages are amazing. The tact
which I find here, the discretion, the rare courage,
the wonderful power of memory, the accurate
observation of character, the easy grace of style,
the charming outbursts of womanly feeling,
have all inexpressibly increased my admiration
of this sublime creature, of this magnificent
Marian. The presentation of my own character
is masterly in the extreme. I certify, with my
whole heart, to the fidelity of the portrait. I
feel how vivid an impression I must have
produced to have been painted in such strong,
such rich, such massive colours as these. I
lament afresh the cruel necessity which sets our
interests at variance, and opposes us to each
other. Under happier circumstances how worthy
I should have been of Miss Halcombe—how
worthy Miss Halcombe would have been of ME.

The sentiments which animate my heart assure
me that the lines I have just written express a
Profound Truth.

Those sentiments exalt me above all merely
personal considerations. I bear witness, in the
most disinterested manner, to the excellence of
the stratagem by which this unparalleled woman
surprised the private interview between Percival
and myself. Also to the marvellous accuracy of
her report of the whole conversation from its
beginning to its end.

Those sentiments have induced me to offer
to the unimpressionable doctor who attends
on her, my vast knowledge of chemistry, and
my luminous experience of the more subtle
resources which medical and magnetic science
have placed at the disposal of mankind. He has
hitherto declined to avail himself of my assistance.
Miserable man!

Finally, those sentiments dictate the lines—
grateful, sympathetic, paternal lines—which
appear in this place. I close the book. My strict
sense of propriety restores it (by the hands
of my wife) to its place on the writer's table.
Events are hurrying me away. Circumstances
are guiding me to serious issues. Vast
perspectives of success unrol themselves before my
eyes. I accomplish my destiny with a calmness
which is terrible to myself. Nothing but the
homage of my admiration is my own. I deposit
it, with respectful tenderness, at the feet of
Miss Halcombe.

I breathe my wishes for her recovery.

I condole with her on the inevitable failure of
every plan that she has formed for her sister's
benefit. At the same time, I entreat her to
believe that the information which I have
derived from her diary will in no respect help me
to contribute to that failure. It simply confirms
the plan of conduct which I had previously
arranged. I have to thank these pages for
awakening the finest sensibilities in my nature—
nothing more.

To a person of similar sensibility, this simple
assertion will explain and excuse everything.

Miss Halcombe is a person of similar
sensibility.

In that persuasion, I sign myself,

FOSCO.

THE NARRATIVE OF FREDERICK FAIRLIE, ESQUIRE,
OF LIMMERIDGE HOUSE.*

* The manner in which Mr. Fairlie's Narrative
and other Narratives that are shortly to follow it,
were originally obtained, forms the subject of an
explanation which will appear at a later period of the
Story.

IT is the grand misfortune of my life that
nobody will let me alone. Why—I ask everybody
—why worry me? Nobody answers that
question; and nobody lets me alone. Relatives,
friends, and strangers all combine to annoy me.
What have I done? I ask myself, I ask my
servant, Louis, fifty times a day—what have I
done? Neither of us can tell. Most
extraordinary!

The last annoyance that has assailed me is
the annoyance of being called upon to write this
Narrative. Is a man in my state of nervous
wretchedness capable of writing narratives?
When I put this extremely reasonable objection,
I am told that certain very serious events,
relating to my niece, have happened within
my experience; and that I am the fit person
to describe them on that account. I am
threatened, if I fail to exert myself in the manner
required, with consequences which I cannot
so much as think of, without perfect prostration.
There is really no need to threaten me.
Shattered by my miserable health and my family
troubles, I am incapable of resistance. If you
insist, you take your unjust advantage of me;
and I give way immediately. I will endeavour
to remember what I can (under protest), and to
write what I can (also under protest); and
what I can't remember and can't write, Louis
must remember, and write for me. He is an
ass, and I am an invalid; and we are likely to
make all sorts of mistakes between us. How
humiliating!

I am told to remember dates. Good Heavens!
I never did such a thing in my life—how am I
to begin now?

I have asked Louis. He is not quite such an
ass as I have hitherto supposed. He remembers
the date of the event, within a day or two—and
I remember the name of the person. The date
was either the fifth, sixth, or seventh of July;
and the name (in my opinion a remarkably vulgar
one) was Fanny.

On the fifth, sixth, or seventh of July, I was
reclining, in my usual state, surrounded by the