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short, they can never agreeably make one of a social circle, and contribute to the general enjoyment by that ease and self-forgetfulness which is the charm of refined intercourse.

And yet, though their companionship is so unsatisfactory, these sensitive spirits are almost always rich in lovable attributes; their sympathies are quick, so quick, alas! that they are often wasted; their affections are ardent, so ardent that they are too readily excited and too easily betrayed; they are delicate instruments, Æolian harps, from which even a passing wind can draw forth strains of tender or mournful melody. But this lamentable sensitiveness is not the evidence of weak minds, nor of dwarfed intellects. Full-statured souls, lavishly dowered, have ever been the most vulnerable to petty arrows—arrows which, though hurled by despicable hands, have fallen with the violence of thunder-bolts upon these finely moulded and receptive natures. Sensitiveness is often the handmaiden of Genius, and gives sweetness to the world's approval, even as it imparts poison to the dispraise of fools; lending to both a fictitious value and an undue power.

It is fabled that when the bosom of the nightingale is pressed against a thorn she sings most melodiously; and often it is the poet's susceptibility to suffering, his very crisis of pain, that becomes his inspiration; his most glorious songs gush forth with the crucifixion groan; his brightest flowers