papers.

These are found to be the love letters received by the wife of Sir
Thomas Chichley, one of the admirals of King William. Most of the
letters were ruined by damp and mould, but "here and there," says the
_Tatler_, "a few words such as 'my soul,' 'dearest,' 'roses,' and 'my
angel,' still remained legible, resisting the corrupting influence of
Time."

One of these letters in a grave, which Lady Chichley had requested might
be buried with her in her coffin, was found entire, though discoloured
by the lapse of twenty years. Its words were these:

"Madam:

"If you would know the greatness of my love, consider that of your own
beauty. That blooming countenance, that snowy bosom, that graceful
person, return every moment to my imagination; the brightness of your
eyes hindered me from closing mine since I last saw you. You may still
add to your beauties by a smile. A frown will make me the most wretched
of men, as I am the most passionate of lovers."

[Sidenote: The Advertisement]

Death is the advertisement, at the end of an autobiography, wherein
people discover its virtues. The public which refused a bare subsistence
to the living genius will make his children comfortable by generously
purchasing his letters, which were never meant for them.

The pathetic story of the inner struggle, which would have crucified the
sensitive soul were it known to any save his dearest friends, is proudly
blazoned forth--in print! Hopes and fears and trials are no longer
concealed. Illness, poverty, and despair are given rubricated pages. The
sorrowful letter to a friend, asking for five or ten dollars, is
reproduced in facsimile.

[Sidenote: The Soldier of the World]

That it shows the human side of the genius is no excuse for the
desecration. What of the sunny soul who always sang courage, while he
himself was suffering from hope deferred! What of him who wrote in an
attic, often hungry for his daily bread, and took care to give the
impression of warmth and comfort! Why should his stern necessity be
disclosed to the public that would not give him bread in return for his
songs? It is enough to make the gallant soldier of the world turn
uneasily in his grave.

In this way a bit of the greatness so bravely won is often lost, and
sometimes illusions are dispelled which all must regret. For years, we
have read with delight Mrs. Browning's exquisite poem beginning:

"I have a name, a little name
Uncadenced for the