276 A HUMAN HEART. 



against the beach (of which I am so completely in the vicinity) that 

 prevents my slumbers, or in pity disturbs them in the moment of 

 some horrible dream. 



Here I have dwelt for years ! here I will dwell till this frame 

 shall sink- -till this heart ah, this heart ! shall be scathed in form 

 as it is now in spirit, till it shall be pulseless, passionless, cold. 



I have books. I read much ; but, for the most part, my hours- 

 there are no hours to me, it is either daylight or darkness ; exist- 

 ence, then, is spent in a kind of muse, a something between scrutiny 

 of my present thought and recurrence to the events of my past life ; 

 from the vivid portraiture of these, I sink gradually into a torpor, 

 resembling the unconsciousness of death. The period this may con- 

 tinue I cannot determine. I have neither watch nor timepiece of 

 any description. I take but little exercise; rny frame is too feeble 

 to admit of distant rambling; besides, I have other reasons. In the 

 day-time I seldom venture out; it is then, if I can accomplish it, I 

 lull myself to sleep. My slumbers are so light, that the mere sigh- 

 ing of the wind has awakened me ; they are disturbed, too, by ter- 

 rific dreams, so that I have become careless of encouraging sleep at 

 all. My favourite hour is the depth of midnight ; then I clothe my- 

 self in black, and wander forth. Then the stars are generally con- 

 gregated in the far blue : the stars ! it is the stars I worship beyond 

 the light even of the moon. I know of none who may be near, yet 

 I creep so stealthily that I should by necessity be taken for a shadow. 

 I wander on till I reach the beach. I descend so low, that my feet 

 are often wet from the tide as it rolls in. The view hence is bound- 

 less, and, in tempestuous nights, sublime. For miles I watch the 

 billows writhing and tossing to the clouds. It is amidst this uproar 

 of the elements I live. It is the turmoil of the world, the splendid 

 distractions of that world whose precincts I shall never enter more, 

 in allegory. At least, so to me it seems, and it is the fancy of this 

 which, though it cannot radically alleviate, diverts my grief. The 

 weather, too, is almost always tempestuous. The coast rises sud- 

 denly, at frequent intervals, into abrupt head-lands; these to ma- 

 riners, at least is known, are the minister?, or rather cradles of strong 

 and impetuous winds. My view is to the direct east, so I see the 

 approaches of the first rays of the sun. These are the signal for my 

 departure homewards. There is neither domestic, nor dog, nor any 

 thing breathing to welcome my return. My heart has cherished too 

 much ; let me not speak of affections ; I have not a care to bestow 

 now save on the dead. This is the hour my bodily frame suffers 

 most. I throw myself on a rough-hewn figure of a couch, ex- 

 hausted. I take three tea-spoonsful of wine, and, after some time, 

 I partially recover. I then rise, and, while my mind retains the first 

 purity of its midnight meditations, I unlock a large sea-chest, and 

 from its furthest depths, enrolled in the thickest folds of alternate 

 wool and crimson satin, draw first one portrait, then another, and, 

 finally, a third. My tears never sully them, my lips never approach 

 them ; but, as I gaze, a heavy dew breaks over my forehead, my 

 knees clash, and, did I not instantly enclose and put them back, they 



