A cursory observation of the world must convince us of one painful and inexplicable truth;—that there are some men (and frequently the best) who, even from their earliest youth, appear born to be the victims of undeviating misfortune; whom Providence seems to have gifted with free-agency only to lead them to unhappiness and ruin. Ever disappointed in his most ardent hopes—frustrated in his dearest objects—his best intentions overthrown—his purest motives calumniated and abused,—no rank or station suffices to shelter such an unfortunate:—_ennui_ creeps upon his hopeless mind, communicates a listless languor to a sinking constitution, and at length he almost joyfully surrenders an existence which he finds too burdensome to be supported.[15] ----- Footnote 15: I cannot better illustrate the state of a person so chased by misery, than by quoting a few unpublished lines, the composition of a very young lady, Miss M. T., with whom, and with whose amiable family, I have the pleasure of being intimate. I am aware that I do her great injustice by quoting these particular verses—some of the most _inferior_ of her writings; but they seem so much to the point, that I venture to risk her displeasure. She is not, indeed, irritable; and I promise to atone for my error by a few further quotations from her superior compositions. I. I never sought a day’s repose But some sharp thorn pierced my breast; I never watch’d the evening’s close, And hoped a heaven of rest; But soon a darkling cloud would come Athwart the prospect bright, And, pale as twilight on a tomb, My hopes grew dim in night. II. Oft have I mark’d the heav’nly moon Wandering her pathless way Along the midnight’s purple noon, More fair—more loved than day: But soon she flung her shadowy wreath O’er dark eternity, As a faint smile on the cheek of death ’Twixt hope and agony. III. Oft on the rainbow’s bloom I’ve gazed, Arch’d as a gate of heaven, Till gushing showers its portals razed, And bathed the brow of even. ’Tis thus young hopes illume the sky Of Life’s dark atmosphere, Yet, like the rainbow’s splendid dye, They meet and disappear. IV. Ev’n so, the mirth of man is madness;— His joy as a sepulchral light, Which shows his solitude and sadness, But chaseth not the night. -----