There are inscriptions on our hearts, which, like that on Dighton Rock, are never to be seen except at dead-low tide.

There is a woman’s footstep on the sand at the side of my deepest ocean-buried inscription!

—­Oh, no, no, no! a thousand times, no!—­Yet what is this which has been shaping itself in my soul?—­Is it a thought?—­is it a dream? —­is it a passion?—­Then I know what comes next.

—­The Asylum stands on a bright and breezy hill; those glazed corridors are pleasant to walk in, in bad weather.  But there are iron bars to all the windows.  When it is fair, some of us can stroll outside that very high fence.  But I never see much life in those groups I sometimes meet;—­and then the careful man watches them so closely!  How I remember that sad company I used to pass on fine mornings, when I was a schoolboy!—­B., with his arms full of yellow weeds,—­ore from the gold mines which he discovered long before we heard of California,—­Y., born to millions, crazed by too much plum-cake, (the boys said,) dogged, explosive,—­made a Polyphemus of my weak-eyed schoolmaster, by a vicious flirt with a stick,—­(the multi-millonnaires sent him a trifle, it was said, to buy another eye with; but boys are jealous of rich folks, and I don’t doubt the good people made him easy for life,)—­how I remember them all!

I recollect, as all do, the story of the Hall of Eblis, in “Vathek,” and how each shape, as it lifted its hand from its breast, showed its heart,—­a burning coal.  The real Hall of Eblis stands on yonder summit.  Go there on the next visiting-day, and ask that figure crouched in the corner, huddled up like those Indian mummies and skeletons found buried in the sitting posture, to lift its hand,—­look upon its heart, and behold, not fire, but ashes.—­No, I must not think of such an ending!  Dying would be a much more gentlemanly way of meeting the difficulty.  Make a will and leave her a house or two and some stocks, and other little financial conveniences, to take away her necessity for keeping school.—­I wonder what nice young man’s feet would be in my French slippers before six months were over!  Well, what then?  If a man really loves a woman, of course he wouldn’t marry her for the world, if he were not quite sure that he was the best person she could by any possibility marry.

—­It is odd enough to read over what I have just been writing.—­It is the merest fancy that ever was in the world.  I shall never be married.  She will; and if she is as pleasant as she has been so far, I will give her a silver tea-set, and go and take tea with her and her husband, sometimes.  No coffee, I hope, though,—­it depresses me sadly.  I feel very miserably;—­they must have been grinding it at home.—­Another morning walk will be good for me, and I don’t doubt the schoolmistress will be glad of a little fresh air before school.

—­The throbbing flushes of the poetical intermittent have been coming over me from time to time of late.  Did you ever see that electrical experiment which consists in passing a flash through letters of gold-leaf in a darkened room, whereupon some name or legend springs out of the darkness in characters of fire?