bered those of delightful sensation, of full and soothing thought, of gratified tastes and affections, and of proud hope. Yet these last, if few, how lovely, how rich in presage! None, who have known them, can in their worst estate fail to hope that they may be again upborne to higher, purer blue.’
‘As I was steeped in the divine tenth book of the
Republic, came ——’s letter, in which he so insultingly
retracts his engagements. I finished the book
obstinately, but could get little good of it; then went to ask
comfort of the descending sun in the woods and fields.
What a comment it was on the disparity between my
pursuits and my situation to receive such a letter while
reading that book! However, I will not let life’s mean
perplexities blur from my eye the page of Plato; nor,
if natural tears must be dropt, murmur at a lot, which,
with all its bitterness, has given time and opportunity
to cherish an even passionate love for Truth and
Beauty.’
‘Black Friday it has been, and my heart is well nigh
wearied out. Shall I never be able to act and live with
persons of views high as my own? or, at least, with
some steadiness of feeling for me to calculate upon?
Ah, me! what woes within and without; what assaults
of folly; what mean distresses; and, oh, what wounds
from cherished hands! Were ye the persons who should
stab thus? Had I, too, the Roman right to fold my
robe about me decently, and breathe the last sigh! The
last! Horrible, indeed, should sobs, deep as these, be
drawn to all eternity. But no; life could not hold out
for more than one lease of sorrow. This anguish,
