cannot comprehend me; though you showed me last night a penetration which did not flow from sympathy.  But this I may say—­though the glad light of hope and ambitious confidence, which has vitalized my mind, should be extinguished forever, I will not in life act a mean, ungenerous, or useless part.  Therefore, let not a slight thing lessen your respect for me.  If you feel as much pain as I do, when obliged to diminish my respect for any person, you will be glad of this assurance.  I hope you will not think this note in the style of a French novel.’

[Footnote A:  According to Dryden’s beautiful statement—­

  ’For as high turrets, in their airy sweep
  Require foundations, in proportion deep
  And lofty cedars as far upward shoot
  As to the nether heavens they drive the root;
  So low did her secure foundation lie,
  She was not humble, but humility.’]

POWER OF CIRCUMSTANCES.

’Do you remember a conversation we had in the garden, one starlight evening, last summer, about the incalculable power which outward circumstances have over the character?  You would not sympathize with the regrets I expressed, that mine had not been formed amid scenes and persons of nobleness and beauty, eager passions and dignified events, instead of those secret trials and petty conflicts which make my transition state so hateful to my memory and my tastes.  You then professed the faith which I resigned with such anguish,—­the faith which a Schiller could never attain,—­a faith in the power of the human will.  Yet now, in every letter, you talk to me of the power of circumstances.  You tell me how changed you are.  Every one of your letters is different from the one preceding, and all so altered from your former self.  For are you not leaving all our old ground, and do you not apologize to me for all your letters?  Why do you apologize?  I think I know you very, very well; considering that we are both human, and have the gift of concealing our thoughts with words.  Nay, further—­I do not believe you will be able to become anything which I cannot understand.  I know I can sympathize with all who feel and think, from a Dryfesdale up to a Max Piccolomini.  You say, you have become a machine.  If so, I shall expect to find you a grand, high-pressure, wave-compelling one—­requiring plenty of fuel.  You must be a steam-engine, and move some majestic fabric at the rate of thirty miles an hour along the broad waters of the nineteenth century.  None of your pendulum machines for me!  I should, to be sure, turn away my head if I should hear you tick, and mark the quarters of hours; but the buzz and whiz of a good large life-endangerer would be music to mine ears.  Oh, no! sure there is no danger of your requiring to be set down quite on a level, kept in a still place, and wound up every eight days.  Oh no, no! you are not one of that numerous company, who