This may not be intelligible to all my readers, for there are some persons who know nothing of the sympathies of the human heart. But is there one who has not felt his increased capability for enjoyment, when the heart is first warmed into life,—when the springs of affection first begin to flow. It is then that, stripped of sensuality, our thoughts seem purified. It is then, that even nature, seen through the first springings of pure affection, is lovelier than it is ever seen afterward, and we can then feel that we live. But delightful as those feelings are, like dew drops on flowers, they are beautiful, but last not;—no, an entrance into the world, is to them what frost is to the flowers. Yes, they wither and die, even while the functions of life are green on the tree. Feeling is to life, what malmsey is to wine. Yes, all that is beautiful and bright in life, dies while we are on the threshold. The loss of early feelings is beautifully described by Byron in the lines beginning “There's not a joy the world can give, Like that it takes away, When the flow of early thought declines In feeling's dull decay.” There is a sad truth in the lines here alluded to, which all who have read them, must have often felt. Gentle reader, hast thou ever watched and wept over the loss of thy early feelings; hast thou seen them fast ebbing away, and felt thyself growing old, while thou wert yet young in years. I have, and like a mother over a dying child, like a lover over the sinking pulse of his mistress, I have watched and wept as they left me. Reader, I have called thee gentle above, and I feel a sympathy for thee, though thou art unknown, for thou wilt see my wayward thoughts, and recollect that while tracing them, I held communion with thee. Yes, even at this moment, speculations float across my mind, as to the characters of the persons who may read them, and as to the impressions which my wayward fancies may produce. They may be glanced over, think I, by some early associate, and remind him perhaps of some long forgotten friend. But reader, whoever thou art, and whatever may be the cast of thy opinions, I sincerely hope, if thou wishest it, that the perusal of them may have the same effect upon thee, which the mere exertion of tracing them out has had upon me. It has served to rob life for a time of the tedium and weariness which often sits heavily upon me.