But are we, therefore, to say there is no such thing as friendship, or that it is not worth seeking? morosely repel it, or suspiciously distrust it? If we do, we shall pay our folly's price in the forfeiture of that, without which, however we may pretend, we never are or can be happy; preferring to go without the very greatest of all earthly good, because it is not what, perhaps, it may be in heaven. Rather than this, it would be wise so to moderate our expectation, and adapt our conduct, as to gain of it a greater measure, or, as far as may be possible, to gather of its flowers without exposing ourselves to be wounded by the thorns it bears. This is only to be done by setting out in life with juster feelings and fairer expectations. It is not true, that friends are few and kindness rare. No one ever needed friends, and deserved them, and found them not; but we do not know them when we see them, or deal with them justly when we have them. We must allow others to be as variable, and imperfect, and faulty, as ourselves. We do not wish our readers to love their friends less, but to love them as what they are, rather than as what they wish them to be; and instead of the jealous pertinacity that is wounded by every appearance of change, and disgusted by every detection of a fault, and ready to distrust and cast away the kindest friends on every trifling difference of behavior and feeling, to cultivate a moderation in their demands; a patient allowance for the effect of time and circumstance; an indulgence towards peculiarities of temper and character; and, above all, such a close examination of what passes in their own hearts, as will teach them better to understand and excuse what they detect in the hearts of others; ever remembering that all things on earth are earthly; and therefore changeful, perishable, and uncertain. KINDRED HEARTS. Oh! ask not, hope thou not too much Of sympathy below; Few are the hearts whence one same touch, Bids the same fountain flow; Few, and by still conflicting powers Forbidden here to meet, Such ties would make this life of ours Too fair for aught so fleet. It may be that thy brother's eye Sees not as thine, which turns, In such deep reverence, to the sky Where the rich sunset burns; It may be that the breath of spring, Born amidst violets lone, A rapture o'er thy soul can bring, A dream to his unknown. The tune that speaks of other times-- A sorrowful delight! The melody of distant chimes; The sound of waves by night; The wind that with so many a tone Some cord within can thrill; These may have language all thine own, To _him_ a mystery still.