ne apart on the sofa, or bury myself in the recesses of a
_fauteuil_; when I am aware that my mind is wandering away to
forbidden themes, I force my attention to what is going forward; and
often see and hear much that is entertaining, if not improving. People
are so accustomed to my pale face, languid indifference and, what
M---- calls, my _impracticable_ silence, that after the first glance
and introduction, I believe they are scarcely sensible of my presence:
so I sit, and look, and listen, secure and harboured in my apparent
dullness. The flashes of wit, the attempts at sentiment, the
affectation of enthusiasm, the absurdities of folly, and the blunders
of ignorance; the contrast of characters and the clash of opinions,
the scandalous anecdotes of the day, related with sprightly malice,
and listened to with equally malicious avidity,--all these, in my days
of health and happiness, had power to surprise, or amuse, or provoke
me. I could mingle _then_ in the conflict of minds; and hear my part
with smiles in the social circle; though the next moment, perhaps, I
might contemn myself and others: and the personal scandal, the
characteristic tale, the amusing folly, or the malignant wit, were
effaced from my mind--

----"Like forms with chalk
Painted on rich men's floors for one feast night."

Now it is different: I can smile yet, but my smile is in pity, rather
than in mockery. If suffering has subdued my mind to seriousness, and
perhaps enfeebled its powers, I may at least hope that it has not
soured or imbittered my temper:--if what could once _amuse_, no longer
amuses,--what could once _provoke_ has no longer power to irritate:
thus my loss may be improved into a gain--_car tout est bien, quand
tout est mal_.

It is sorrow which makes our experience; it is sorrow which teaches us
to feel properly for ourselves and for others. We must feel deeply,
before we can think rightly. It is not in the tempest and storm of
passions we can reflect,--but afterwards when _the waters have gone
over our soul_; and like the precious gems and the rich merchandize
which the wild wave casts on the shore out of the wreck it has
made--such are the thoughts left by retiring passions.

Reflection is the result of feeling; from that absorbing,
heart-rending compassion for oneself (the most painful sensation,
_almost_, of which our nature is capable), springs a deeper sympathy
for others; and from the sense of our own weakness, and