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comes but seldom to our worn and saddened spirits. Still ‘the vision and the faculty divine’ are never quite extinguished; the spiritual fire rises when all around is night, and the sad and tender emotion finds its old accustomed resource in music.
"Such was now the case with Walter Maynard; the softening influence of the quiet garden and the dreamy evening had gradually subdued him. Scenes long since forgotten had been peopling his solitude with one still cherished image paramount over all, whose eyes seemed to look upon him reproachfully."
At length a friend procures for Maynard the office of secretary to Sir George Kingston, one of the gallant wits of the day. Servitude he could submit to, but not to dishonour. His whole nature recoils from the mean deceit he was expected to countenance. He is again thrown destitute on the world with fast declining health, and with no resources but his own wearied mind and exhausted energies. Remembering his first mean lodging when he came to London, as a cheap, out-of-the-way place, he repaired thither to die uncared for and unknown.
We cannot so explain all the intermediate scenes as to impart to this brief summary the touching interest attached to the visit of Maynard's earliest and dearest friends to his dying bed. Suffice it to say, that they who were the first companions of his youthful dreams were by his side in his last moments, sympathizing in his mournful situation, and gathering many a lesson of wisdom from his dying regrets and self-accusations.
"'I cannot bear,' said Walter, at one time, 'to be here thinking over thoughts that fret my very life away. Alas! how I pine over all that was yet stored in my mind! Do you know,' continued he, with the eagerness of slight delirium, 'I am far cleverer than
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