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    TO R.W.E.

’23d Feb., 1840.—­I am like some poor traveller of the desert, who saw, at early morning, a distant palm, and toiled all day to reach it.  All day he toiled.  The unfeeling sun shot pains into his temples; the burning air, filled with sand, checked his breath; he had no water, and no fountain sprung along his path.  But his eye was bright with courage, for he said, “When I reach the lonely palm, I will lie beneath its shade.  I will refresh myself with its fruit.  Allah has reared it to such a height, that it may encourage the wandering, and bless and sustain the faint and weary.”  But when he reached it, alas! it had grown too high to shade the weary man at its foot.  On it he saw no clustering dates, and its one draught of wine was far beyond his reach.  He saw at once that it was so.  A child, a bird, a monkey, might have climbed to reach it.  A rude hand might have felled the whole tree; but the full-grown man, the weary man, the gentle-hearted, religious man, was no nearer to its nourishment for being close to the root; yet he had not force to drag himself further, and leave at once the aim of so many fond hopes, so many beautiful thoughts.  So he lay down amid the inhospitable sands.  The night dews pierced his exhausted frame; the hyena laughed, the lion roared, in the distance; the stars smiled upon him satirically from their passionless peace; and he knew they were like the sun, as unfeeling, only more distant.  He could not sleep for famine.  With the dawn he arose.  The palm stood as tall, as inaccessible, as ever; its leaves did not so much as rustle an answer to his farewell sigh.  On and on he went, and came, at last, to a living spring.  The spring was encircled by tender verdure, wild fruits ripened near, and the clear waters sparkled up to tempt his lip.  The pilgrim rested, and refreshed himself, and looked back with less pain to the unsympathizing palm, which yet towered in the distance.

’But the wanderer had a mission to perform, which must have forced him to leave at last both palm and fountain.  So on and on he went, saying to the palm, “Thou art for another;” and to the gentle waters, “I will return.”

’Not far distant was he when the sirocco came, and choked with sand the fountain, and uprooted the fruit-trees.  When years have passed, the waters will have forced themselves up again to light, and a new oasis will await a new wanderer.  Thou, Sohrab, wilt, ere that time, have left thy bones at Mecca.  Yet the remembrance of the fountain cheers thee as a blessing; that of the palm haunts thee as a pang.

’So talks the soft spring gale of the Shah Nameh.  Genuine Sanscrit I cannot write.  My Persian and Arabic you love not.  Why do I write thus to one who must ever regard the deepest tones of my nature as those of childish fancy or worldly discontent?’

PROBLEMS OF LIFE.