reason for his writing nothing, and never, amid all her tears and
recitals of distress, suffering one syllable to escape her lips that
could convey a doubt of him, or a complaint, or a lessening of pride
in his genius and good intentions. Her daughter died a year and a
half since, but she did not desert him. She continued his ministering
angel--living with him, caring for him, guarding him against
exposure, and when he was carried away by temptation, amid grief and
the loneliness of feelings unreplied to, and awoke from his self
abandonment prostrated in destitution and suffering, _begging _for
him still. If woman's devotion, born with a first love, and fed with
human passion, hallow its object, as it is allowed to do, what does
not a devotion like this-pure, disinterested and holy as the watch of
an invisible spirit-say for him who inspired it?

We have a letter before us, written by this lady, Mrs. Clemm, on the
morning in which she heard of the death of this object of her
untiring care. It is merely a request that we would call upon her,
but we will copy a few of its words--sacred as its privacy is--to
warrant the truth of the picture we have drawn above, and add force
to the appeal we wish to make for her:

"I have this morning heard of the death of my darling Eddie. . . .
Can you give me any circumstances or particulars? . . . Oh! do not
desert your poor friend in his bitter affliction! . . . Ask -Mr. --
to come, as I must deliver a message to him from my poor Eddie. . . .
I need not ask you to notice his death and to speak well of him. I
know you will. But say what an affectionate son he was to me, his
poor desolate mother. . ."

To hedge round a grave with respect, what choice is there, between