The name of my friend was Woodville.[51] I will briefly relate his history that you may judge how cold my heart must have been not to be warmed by his eloquent words and tender sympathy; and how he also being most unhappy we were well fitted to be a mutual consolation to each other, if I had not been hardened to stone by the Medusa head of Misery.  The misfortunes of Woodville were not of the hearts core like mine; his was a natural grief, not to destroy but to purify the heart and from which he might, when its shadow had passed from over him, shine forth brighter and happier than before.

Woodville was the son of a poor clergyman and had received a classical education.  He was one of those very few whom fortune favours from their birth; on whom she bestows all gifts of intellect and person with a profusion that knew no bounds, and whom under her peculiar protection, no imperfection however slight, or disappointment however transitory has leave to touch.  She seemed to have formed his mind of that excellence which no dross can tarnish, and his understanding was such that no error could pervert.  His genius was transcendant, and when it rose as a bright star in the east all eyes were turned towards it in admiration.  He was a Poet.  That name has so often been degraded that it will not convey the idea of all that he was.  He was like a poet of old whom the muses had crowned in his cradle, and on whose lips bees had fed.  As he walked among other men he seemed encompassed with a heavenly halo that divided him from and lifted him above them.  It was his surpassing beauty, the dazzling fire of his eyes, and his words whose rich accents wrapt the listener in mute and extactic wonder, that made him transcend all others so that before him they appeared only formed to minister to his superior excellence.

He was glorious from his youth.  Every one loved him; no shadow of envy or hate cast even from the meanest mind ever fell upon him.  He was, as one the peculiar delight of the Gods, railed and fenced in by his own divinity, so that nought but love and admiration could approach him.  His heart was simple like a child, unstained by arrogance or vanity.  He mingled in society unknowing of his superiority over his companions, not because he undervalued himself but because he did not perceive the inferiority of others.  He seemed incapable of conceiving of the full extent of the power that selfishness & vice possesses in the world:  when I knew him, although he had suffered disappointment in his dearest hopes, he had not experienced any that arose from the meaness and self love of men:  his station was too high to allow of his suffering through their hardheartedness; and too low for him to have experienced ingratitude and encroaching selfishness:  it is one of the blessings of a moderate fortune, that by preventing the possessor from confering pecuniary favours it prevents him also from diving into the arcana of human weakness or malice—­To bestow on your fellow