leaving her heart behind. Sweet hospitalities she extends to me, but in the point where I yearn for her sympathy, or would fain lay my honors at her feet, she keeps silence. I wrote, by request, a lyric to be sung at the anniversary of her favorite academy, which the chief musician scornfully declined to perform, and it was read among the prose exercises. I prepared poems with my whole heart, for her beautiful bi-centennial birthday, and they were refused admission into the fair volume that described the festivity.
I mention these trifling circumstances, not by way of complaint, for they are unworthy of it, but simply as facts to prove that I have no other claim to the title of prophet, save the absence of honor in my own country, and with some slight thrill of the sadness of a child, whose filial love has failed of reciprocity.
Yes, my literary course has indeed been a most happy one. At an age surpassing threescore and ten, I still pursue it with unimpaired delight and unspectacled eyes. Through its agency, and the Divine blessing, I feel no loneliness, though my household contains only servants, with the exception of occasional guests. Praise be unto Him who hath led me all my life long unto this day; and if any good fruit shall ever spring from the seed He hath enabled me to sow, to His name be all the glory.
