such the world keeps the wasted affection, the hope destroyed, the energy that preys upon itself, the kindly feeling unrequited, and the love that asks for happiness and finds despair or death. The lots in this existence are unequal. Some pass along a path predestined to weariness and tears. Such a destiny have I here recorded; and ere its truth be denied, I pray those who may turn these pages to think of those they have known, and their memory will witness for me. The kindest, the loveliest, the best, whom they can remember—has not life for them poured forth from its darkest cup?—have not they known the broken heart and the early grave? Such natures belong not to our soil—they are of another sphere; and it is mercy when Heaven recalls its own.
THE END.
LONDON:
J. MOYES, CASTEL STREET, LEICESTER SQUARE.
