He had evidently cherished a secret hope that some impulse would at
length be given him, or that he would muster sufficient energy of will
to return into the world, and act a wiser and happier part than his
former one. But life never called the dreamer forth; it was Death that
whispered him. It is to be regretted that this portion of his old
journal contains so few passages relative to this interesting period;
since the little which he has recorded, though melancholy enough,
breathes the gentleness of a spirit newly restored to communion with its
kind. If there be anything bitter in the following reflections, its
source is in human sympathy, and its sole object is himself.

"It is hard to die without one's happiness; to none more so than myself,
whose early resolution it had been to partake largely of the joys of
life, but never to be burdened with its cares. Vain philosophy! The
very hardships of the poorest laborer, whose whole existence seems one
long toil, has something preferable to my best pleasures.

"Merely skimming the surface of life, I know nothing, by my own
experience, of its deep and warm realities. I have achieved none of
those objects which the instinct of mankind especially prompts them to
pursue, and the accomplishment of which must therefore beget a native
satisfaction. The truly wise, after all their speculations, will be led
into the common path, and, in homage to the human nature that pervades
them, will gather gold, and till the earth, and set out trees, and build
a house. But I have scorned such wisdom. I have rejected, also, the
settled, sober, careful gladness of a man by his own fireside, with
those around him whose welfare is committed to his trust and all their
guidance to his fond authority. Without influence among serious
affairs, my footsteps were not imprinted on the earth, but lost in air;