kindness; and now all better recollections ended in the tomb. Evelyn, how vainly had her heart wasted itself upon him! and Henriette and Guido were cold in that grave, over whose gloom her spirit perpetually brooded. I have said that such a state of exhaustion and loneliness is one of general experience,—I was wrong. The lots of our days are differently cast. Some few have fallen in pleasant places; it is folly to say that we share and share alike. I have known many to whom the words of utter wretchedness were as a strange tongue, such as never had fallen from their own quiet lips; they grew up the darlings and delight of a circle, whose best hope was their happiness; they exchanged one home for another, girdled round by yet deeper love. To such as these, how many of the melancholy records of the poet's page—and there alone are they recorded—must seem wholly unintelligible! We need to suffer ere we understand the language of suffering; but, Heaven above knows! it is very generally understood. And hence the charm of the sad, sweet page, which idealises our anguish, and makes sorrow musical: if it does not come home to all, it does to the mass.
I have often been told that my writings are too melancholy. How can that be a reproach if
