us character
of the author. Thus prepared, and aided by her own keen discernment,
she immediately detected his choice talents, his rare vein of
sentiment, his abiding hunger for affection. Ballanche was a
philosopher of solitude, a poet and priest of humanity, spending his
days far from the crowd and uproar of the world, his proper haunt the
summits of the loftiest minds, the mysterious cradle of the destinies
of society. His soul was an "AEolian harp," through which the music of
the pre-historic ages played. Chastity and sorrow were two geniuses,
who unveiled to him the destiny of man. His philosophy, so redolent
of the heart and the imagination, amidst the material struggles and
selfishness of the time, has been compared to a chant of Orpheus in
the school of Hobbes. The friendship which Madame Recamier gave this
lonesome, sad, expansive, and lofty spirit, was as if a goddess had
come down from heaven on purpose to minister to him. She brought him
the attention he needed, the sympathy he pined for, the position and
praise which were so grateful to his sensitive nature. She strove to
win for him from others the recognition he deserved, to call out his
powers, and to show off his gift to the best advantage. Ballanche was
timid, awkward, ugly, with no wealth, with no rank; but, in the sight
of Madame Recamier, the treasures and graces of his soul were an
intrinsic recommendation far superior to these outward advantages,
and she was ready to honor it to the full.

Never was kindness more worthily bestowed; never was it more
gratefully received. "I often," he says, "find myself astonished at
your goodness to me. The silent, weary, sad man, whom others neglect,
you notice, and seek with infinite tact to draw him out. You are
indulgence and pity personified, and you compassionately see in me a
kind of exile. Together with the feeling of a brother for a sister, I
offer you the homage of my soul." From that time, he belonged to her,
and could not bear to live separate from her. Under her appreciation
and encouragement, he expanded, like a plant moved from a chill shade
into the sunshine. His devotion was entire, and sought no equal
return. It was simply the natural expression of his gratitude to her,
his admiration of her, his delight in seeing her and in being with
her. His love for her, like that of Dante for Beatrice, was a
religious worship, a celestial exhalation of his soul, utterly free
from every alloy of earth and se