"And thus passed to its account a human soul, after much self-inflicted suffering. Let us tread lightly upon the poet's ashes. For my part, I confess, that I have not the heart to take him from the general crowd of erring, sinful men, and judge him harshly. The little I have seen of the world, and know of the history of mankind, teaches me to look upon the errors of others in sorrow, not inanger. When I take the history of one poor heart that has sinned and suffered, and represent to myself the struggles and temptations it has passed,--the brief pulsations of joy,--the feverish inquie-tude of hope and fear,--the tears of regret,--the feebleness of purpose,--the pressure of want,--the desertion of friends,--the scorn of a world that has little charity,--the desolation of the soul's sanctuary,--and threatening voices within,--health gone,--happiness gone,--even hope, that stays longest with us, gone,--I have little heart for aught else than thankfulness, that it is not so with me, and would fain leave the erring soul of my fellow-man with Him, from whose hands it came, 'even as a little child, Weeping and laughing in its childish sport.' " "You are right. And it is worth a student's while to observe calmly how tobacco, wine, and midnight did their work like fiends upon the delicate frame of Hoffmann; and no less thoroughly upon his delicate mind. He who drinks beer, thinks beer; and he who drinks wine, thinks wine;--and he who drinks midnight, thinks midnight. He was a man of rare intellect. He was endowed with racy humor and sarcastic wit, and a glorious imagination. But the fire of his genius burned not peacefully, and with a steady flame, upon the hearth of his home. It was a glaring and irregular flame;--for the branches that he fed it with, were not branches from the Tree of Life,--but from another tree that grew in Paradise,--and they were wet with the unhealthy dews of night, and more unhealthy wine; and thus, amid smoke and ashes the fire burned fitfully, and went out with a glare, which leaves the beholder blind." "This fire within him was a Meleager's fire-brand; and, when it burned out, he died. And, as you say, marks of all this are clearly visible in Hoffmann's writings. Indeed, when I read his strange fancies, it is with me, as when in the summer night I hear the rising wind among the trees, and the branches bow, and beckon with their long fingers, and voices go gibbering and mockingthrough the air. A feeling of awe and mysterious dread comes over me. I wish to hear the sound of living voice or footstep near me,--to see a friendly and familiar face. In truth, if it be late at night, the reader as well as the writer of these unearthly fancies, would fain have a patient, meek-eyed wife, with her knitting-work, at his elbow." Berkley smiled; but Flemming continued without noticing the smile, though he knew what was passing in the mind of his friend;