as the sensitive plant, all nerve. I
did not desire sympathy and aid in ambition or wisdom, but sweet and
mutual affection; smiles to cheer me and gentle words of comfort. I
wished for one heart in which I could pour unrestrained my plaints,
and by the heavenly nature of the soil blessed fruit might spring from
such bad seed. Yet how could I find this? The love that is the soul of
friendship is a soft spirit seldom found except when two amiable
creatures are knit from early youth, or when bound by mutual suffering
and pursuits; it comes to some of the elect unsought and unaware; it
descends as gentle dew on chosen spots which however barren they were
before become under its benign influence fertile in all sweet plants;
but when desired it flies; it scoffs at the prayers of its votaries;
it will bestow, but not be sought.

I knew all this and did not go to seek sympathy; but there on my
solitary heath, under my lowly roof where all around was desart, it
came to me as a sun beam in winter to adorn while it helps to dissolve
the drifted snow.--Alas the sun shone on blighted fruit; I did not
revive under its radiance for I was too utterly undone to feel its
kindly power. My father had been and his memory was the life of my
life. I might feel gratitude to another but I never more could love or
hope as I had done; it was all suffering; even my pleasures were
endured, not enjoyed. I was as a solitary spot among mountains shut in
on all sides by steep black precipices; where no ray of heat could
penetrate; and from which there was no outlet to sunnier fields. And
thus it was that although the spirit of friendship soothed me for a
while it could not restore me. It came as some gentle visitation; it
went and I hardly felt the loss. The spirit of existence was dead
within me; be not surprised therefore that when it came I welcomed not
more gladly, or when it departed I lamented not more bitterly the best
gift of heaven--a friend.

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,