the deed was done. he had thrown the manuscripts into the hottest of the fire, which at first seemed to shrink away, but soon curled around them, and made them a part of its own fervent brightness. oberon stood gazing at the conflagration, and shortly began to soliloquize, in the wildest strain, as if fancy resisted and became riotous, at the moment when he would have compelled her to ascend that funeral pile. his words described objects which he appeared to discern in the fire, fed by his own precious thoughts; perhaps the thousand visions which the writer's magic had incorporated with these pages became visible to him in the dissolving heat, brightening forth ere they vanished forever; while the smoke, the vivid sheets of flame, the ruddy and whitening coals, caught the aspect of a varied scenery.