sure to a man who had lived only in the jealous society of books.

What horrid feelings indeed have I now. I seem alone, and desperate in my loneliness. O! this dawning feeling of isolation maddens me-makes me cease to be a man, and if not dispossessed of it I shall degenerate into a devil. But be quiet, my soul! Dissolution is not a great way off, since it were nothing to live, and all to die. Let me bear it a little longer, for life beguiles us only, that eternity may be faithful.

But what is eternity? A vast hunting ground? halls fitted up for drinking sack? a war country, with Odin the god? a throne, with the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost? yes, all of these -and time, but a little atom of eternity, shall be obliterated; and hope, and faith, and cause, shall alone exist, and misery shall rest on the bosom of hope-vice made not to be viceman regenerate, and an angel.

[Written on the morning of the suicide, and found on the face of the open Bacon.]

OCTOBER 6th.-I am going to visit and converse with Socrates and Plato-with the immortal Bacon. I shall be honored. I will tell them of the discoveries in matter, and of mind, since they have left this life-land. I will hold communion of spirit with them, and I will chant with them the hymns of that eternity-home.

It is but a short time now, and I shall be no more. It is no matter, my exit will grieve no heart, my old friend may sigh, but only think that then he will be free from the society, hated it must have been to him, of a wretch like myself.

Even to the last I cling to a book, and here in this favorite

one, a last will and testament I would leave, if ought I had bestow, or request. But I possess nothing of a worldly nat Poor destitute! who is not left even a heart.

I am agitated, yet I fear not to die. But that would be than brute spirit which could coldly remove itself from life. Stoic could not die without a struggle; a dog longs in his agonies; and how should a feeling, sensitive man die? wit mental firmness, yet with the unstilled heart of a god.

Dearest old friend! you are all it pains me to part from n but methinks you may not be less happy without me; and poor, troubled spirit will be better resting in quiet than guishing and giving anguish here.

It pains me to part with my books, with the flowers, fields, the streams; but my poor dog died yesterday, I had sorrow of parting with him, not he with me. But I give last tearful blessing to all things which have made associa dear; and for the pen-O! the pen which has followed up thoughts and feelings-my nearest and dearest companion tear and a kiss.

My last is written, and I fly the scenes which have given pleasure, lest my heart break, ere the spark which lights it upon the water.