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TO R.W.E.

'_23d Feb., 1840._--I am like some poor traveller of the
desert, who saw, at early morning, a distant palm, and toiled
all day to reach it. All day he toiled. The unfeeling sun shot
pains into his temples; the burning air, filled with sand,
checked his breath; he had no water, and no fountain sprung
along his path. But his eye was bright with courage, for he
said, "When I reach the lonely palm, I will lie beneath its
shade. I will refresh myself with its fruit. Allah has reared
it to such a height, that it may encourage the wandering, and
bless and sustain the faint and weary." But when he reached
it, alas! it had grown too high to shade the weary man at its
foot. On it he saw no clustering dates, and its one draught of
wine was far beyond his reach. He saw at once that it was so.
A child, a bird, a monkey, might have climbed to reach it. A
rude hand might have felled the whole tree; but the full-grown
man, the weary man, the gentle-hearted, religious man, was no
nearer to its nourishment for being close to the root; yet he
had not force to drag himself further, and leave at once the
aim of so many fond hopes, so many beautiful thoughts. So he
lay down amid the inhospitable sands. The night dews pierced
his exhausted frame; the hyena laughed, the lion roared, in
the distance; the stars smiled upon him satirically from their
passionless peace; and he knew they were like the sun, as
unfeeling, only more distant. He could not sleep for
famine. With the dawn he arose. The palm stood as tall, as
inaccessible, as ever; its leaves did not so much as rustle an