such a mind, keenly sensitive to ridicule or neglect, in the gay saloon; with all his intellect he feels himself a mark for the sarcasm of the most insignificant. He can neither move, nor speak, and while his heart is overflowing with emotion, he is scorned as an unfeeling brute! No one cares for him—no one knows his sorrows—no eye “will mark _His_ coming, and look brighter when _he_ comes.” The joyful faces around him—the gay laugh ringing in his ears—the warm kiss of affection—the soft whisper of love—all, _all_ reveal the solitude, the hopelessness of his lot. How often have I been thus placed! How often, as I have stood, hour after hour, silent _and alone_, amidst a crowd of my species, have I thought, that a whole life’s love would not recompense one glance of remembrance—one word of welcome! All this too, while I have seen the selfish caressed—the ignorant flattered, and quailed beneath the eye of those, whom, if met upon the arena of mind, I could have crushed. But I have suffered most deeply, most keenly, from those in whose gratitude, at least, I had reposed some confidence. If there be one crime—_one_ of guilt so unmitigated as to wake the thunderbolt, as to call down retributive justice—it is that viper, ingratitude. No exertion of _human_ power can suppress it, laws cannot define it, penalties cannot reach it;—the law of love, that last hope of virtue, is powerless here. And yet, it is a crime which would drive all joy from earth—it would crush all that is holy in the heart—it would dissever man from his species. As the eye of one after another has lighted upon me, and turned scornfully from the uncouth clown before them, I have prayed—yes, prayed—it could not be impious—that their vision might for one instant be quickened, so as to penetrate the mind. It is too much to hope for _here_,—but “If there be, indeed, A shore where mind survives, ’twill be a mind All unincorporate.”