Like the poetry of women in general, they were devoted to personal feeling,--they were not the mirror of a world, but reflections of a solitary heart.

Yet this is the kind of poetry most pleasing to the young.

And the verses in question had another attraction for Leonard: they seemed to express some struggle akin to his own,--some complaint against the actual condition of the writer's life, some sweet melodious murmurs at fortune.

For the rest, they were characterized by a vein of sentiment so elevated, that, if written by a man, it would have run into exaggeration; written by a woman, the romance was carried off by so many genuine revelations of sincere, deep, pathetic feeling, that it was always natural, though true to a nature for which you would not augur happiness.
Leonard was still absorbed in the perusal of these poems when Mrs.
Fairfield entered the room.
"What have you been about, Lenny,--searching in my box ?" "I came to look for my father's bag of tools, Mother, and I found these papers, which you said I might read some day." "I does n't wonder you did not hear me when I came in," said the widow, sighing.

"I used to sit still for the hour together, when my poor Mark read his poems to me.