That sympathy, which the author of Hyperion so eloquently remarks is requisite for the appreciation of genius, seemed characteristic of the fair unknown. The gradual development of her history, as gleaned from these scattered thoughts and opinions, and the general tenor of her mind, interested me far more than I was disposed to admit, even to myself. That I may not be deemed unnaturally visionary, or sentimental, I shall quote a few passages, which, though taken at random, may serve to show the source from which I drew my deductions. The delicate hand of the commentator had slightly touched the following: “Her youth was filled with hope, and many colored dreams; she loved, and the hues of morning slept upon the yet disenchanted earth. The heavens to her were not as the common sky; the wave had its peculiar music to her ear, and the rustling leaves a pleasantness that none, whose heart is not bathed in the love and sense of beauty, could discern.” From the remarks that were attached to this, I pictured the sympathising reader, who so feelingly dwelt upon it, as one, beautiful like Gertrude, and constituted to love with the same fervency and devotion. She was evidently young—her thoughts were tender—her sentiments lively and refined. That she was beautiful, my fancy did not permit me to doubt. The next passage left rather a disagreeable impression: “I look upon the world, and see all that is fair and good; I look upon _you_, and see all that I can venerate and adore.” She doubtless intended this quotation for one she loved. I began to experience all the pangs of jealousy; for well convinced that she was beautiful, young, and gifted, I did not conceive it improbable that I might have a rival, whose precedence in her affections could not but materially affect my chances of success, should I ever be fortunate enough to find her. As soon as I became sufficiently calm, I pursued my task. The concluding pages were evidently stained with tears. This greatly excited my curiosity; but I fancied her grief was attributable to the recollection of some misfortune conjured up by an allusion to the grave: “The chords of thought, vibrating to the subtlest emotions, may be changed by a single incident, or in a single hour; a sound of sacred music, a green and quiet burial place, may convert the form of death into the aspect of an angel. And, therefore, wisely, and with a beautiful love, did the Greeks strip the grave of its unreal gloom; wisely did they body forth the great principle of rest, and by solemn and lovely images—unconscious of the northern madness that made a spectre of repose!”