For that great procession of the UNLOVED, who not only wear the crown of thorns, but must hide it under the locks of brown or gray,--under the snowy cap, under the chilling turban,--hide it even from themselves,--perhaps never know they wear it, though it kills them,--there is no depth of tenderness in my nature that Pity has not sounded.

Somewhere,--somewhere,--love is in store for them,--the universe must not be allowed to fool them so cruelly.

What infinite pathos in the small, half-unconscious artifices by which unattractive young persons seek to recommend themselves to the favor of those towards whom our dear sisters, the unloved, like the rest, are impelled by their God-given instincts! Read what the singing-women--one to ten thousand of the suffering women--tell us, and think of the griefs that die unspoken! Nature is in earnest when she makes a woman; and there are women enough lying in the next churchyard with very commonplace blue slate-stones at their head and feet, for whom it was just as true that "all sounds of life assumed one tone of love," as for Letitia Landon, of whom Elizabeth Browning said it; but she could give words to her grief, and they could not .-- Will you hear a few stanzas of mine?
THE VOICELESS.
We count the broken lyres that rest Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,-- But o'er their silent sister's breast The wild flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string, And noisy Fame is proud to win them;-- Alas for those that never sing, But die with all their music in them! Nay, grieve not for the dead alone Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,-- Weep for the voiceless, who have known The cross without the crown of glory! Not where Leucadian breezes sweep O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, But where the glistening night-dews weep On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no sign Save whitening lip and fading tresses, Till Death pours out his cordial wine Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,-- If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! I hope that our landlady's daughter is not so badly off, after all.
That young man from another city who made the remark which you remember about Boston State-house and Boston folks, has appeared at our table repeatedly of late, and has seemed to me rather attentive to this young lady.

Only last evening I saw him leaning over her while she was playing the accordion,--indeed, I undertook to join them in a song, and got as far as "Come rest in this boo-oo," when, my voice getting tremulous, I turned off, as one steps out of a procession, and left the basso and soprano to finish it.

I see no reason why this young woman should not be a very proper match for a man that laughs about Boston State-house.