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labour thrown away. Those gay motes in the beam como about you, hovering and teasing, like so many coquettes, that will have you all to their self, and are jealous of your

abstractions. By the midnight taper, the writer digests his meditations. By the same light, we must approach to their perusal, if we would catch the flame, the odour. It is a mockery, all that is reported of the influential Phæbus. No true poem ever owed its birth to the sun's light. They are abstracted works

“ Things that were born when none but the still night,

And his dumb candle, saw his pinching throes.'

Marry, daylight-daylight might furnish the images, the crude material ; but for the fine shapings, the true turning and filing (as mine author hath it,) they must be content to hold their inspiration of the candle. The mild internal light, that reveals them, like fires on the domestic hearth, goes out in the sunshine. Night and silence call out the starry fancies. Milton's Morning Hymn on Paradise, we would hold a good wager, was penned at midnight; and Taylor's richer description of a sunrise smells decidedly of the taper. Even our self, in these our humbler lucubrations, tune our best measured cadences (prose has her cadences) not unfrequently to the charm of the drowsier watchman, “ blessing the doors ;" or the wild sweep of winds at midnight. Even now a loftier speculation than we have yet attempted courts our endeavours. We would endite something about the solar system. Betty, bring the candles



We grant that it is, and a very serious one-to a mans friends, and to all that have to do with him ; but whether the condition of the man himself is so much to be deplored, may admit of a question. We can speak a little to it, being ourself but lately recovered-we whisper it in confidence, reader -out of a long and desperate fit of the sullens. Was the cure a blessing ? The conviction which wrought it came too clearly to leave a scruple of the fanciful injuries—for they were mere fancies -- which had provoked the humour. But the humour itself was tou self-pleasing while it lasted-we know how


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bare we lay ourself in the confession—to be abandoned all at once with the grounds of it. We still brood over wrongs which we know to have been imaginary; and for our old acquaint

N. whom we find to have been a truer friend than we took him for, we substitute some phantom-a Caius or a l'itius—as like him as we dare to form it, to wreak our yet unsatisfied resentments on. It is mortifying to fall at once irom the pinnacle of neglect; to forego the idea of having been Il-used and contumaciously treated by an old friend. 'The first thing to aggrandize a man in his own conceit, is to conceive of himself as neglected. There let him fix if he can. To undeceive him is to deprive him of the most tickling morsel within the range of self-complacency. No flattery can tome near it. Happy is he who suspects his friend of an injustice ; but supremely blessed, who thinks all his friends in a conspiracy to depress and undervalue him. There is a pleasure (we sing not to the profane) far beyond the reach of all that the world counts joy-a deep, enduring satisfaction in the lepths, where the superficial seek it not, of discontent. Were we to recite one half of this mystery, which we were let into by our late dissatisfaction, all the world would be in love with disrespect; we should wear a slight for a bracelet, and negjects and contumacies would be the only matter for courtship. Unlike to that mysterious book in the Apocalypse, the study of this mystery is unpalatable only in the commencement. The first sting of a suspicion is grievous ; but wait-out of that wound, which to flesh and blood seemed so difficult, there is balm and honey to be extracted. Your friend passed you on such or such a day, having in his company one that you conceived worse than ambiguously disposed towards you - passed you in the street without notice. To be sure, he is something shortsighted ; and it was in your power to have accosted him. But facts and sane inferences are trifles to a true adept in the science of dissatisfaction. He inust have seen you; and

who was with him, must have been the cause of the contempt. It galls you, and well it may. But have patience. Go home and make the worst of it, and you are a made man from this time. Shut yourself up, and--rejecting as an enemy to your peace every whispering suggestion that bui insinuates there may be a mistake-reflect seriously upon he many lesser instances which you have begun to perceive, in proof of your friend's disaffection towards you. None of them singly was much to the purpose, but the aggregate weight is positive ; and

you have this last affront to clinch them. Thus far the process is anything but agreeable. But now to your relief comes in the comparative faculty. You conjure up all the

kind feelings you have had for your friend; what you have been to him, and what you would have been to him, if he would have suffered you; how you have defended him in this or that place; and his good name-his literary reputation, and 80 forth, was always dearer to you than your own! Your heart, spite of itself, yearns towards him. You could weep tears of blood but for a restraining pride. How say you? do you not yet begin to apprehend a comfort ? some allay of sweetness in the bitter waters ? Stop not here, nor penuriously cheat yourself of your reversions. You are on vantage ground. Enlarge your speculations, and take in the rest of your friends, as a spark kindles more sparks. Was there one among them who has not to you proved hollow, false, slippery as water ? Begin to think that the relation itself is inconsistent with mortality That the very idea of friendship, with its component parts, as honour, fidelity, steadiness, exists but in your single bosom. Image yourself to yourself, as the only possible friend in a world incapable of that communion. Now the gloom thickens. The little star of self-love twinkles, that is to encourage you through deeper glooms than this. You are not yet at the half-point of your elevation. You are not yet, believe me, half sulky enough. Adverting to the world in general, (as these circles in the mind will spread to infinity,) reflect with what strange injustice you have been treated in quarters where (setting gratitude and the expectation of friendly returns aside as chimeras) you pretended no claim beyond justice, the naked due of all men. Think the very idea of right and fit fled from the earth, or your breast the solitary receptacle of it, till you have swelled yourself into at least one hemisphere ; the other being the vast Arabia Stony of your friends and the world aforesaid. To grow bigger every moment in your own conceit, and the world to lessen: to deify yourself at the expense of your species; to judge the worldthis is the acme and supreme point of your mystery—these the true PLEASURES of suLKINESS. We profess no more of this grand secret than what ourself experimented on one rainy afternoon in the last week, sulking in our study. We had proceeded to the penultimate point, at which the true adept seldom stops, where the consideration of benefit forgot is about to merge in the meditation of general injustice—when a knock at the door was followed by the entrance of the very friend, whose not seeing of us in the morning, (for we will now confess the case our own,) an accidental oversight, had given rise 10) so much agreeable generalization! To mortify us still more, and take down the whole flattering superstructure which pride nad piled upon neglect. he had brought in his hand the idu

tical S in whose favour we had suspected him of the contumacy Asseverations were needless, where the frank manner of them both was convictive of the injurious nature of the suspicion. We fancied that they perceived our embarrassment; but were too proud, or something else, to confess to the secret of it. We had been but too lately in the condi. tion of the noble patient in Argos

" Qui se credebat miros audire tragedos,

In vacuo lætus sessor plausorque theatro”and could have exclaimed with equal reason against the friendly hands that cured us

“Pol me occidistis, amici,
Non servâstis, ait ; cui sic extorta voluptas,
Et demptus per vim mentis gratissimus error."



It was noontide. The sun was very hot. An old gentle. woman sat spinning in a little arbour at the door of her cottage. She was blind; and her grand-daughter was reading the Bible to her. The old lady had just left her work, to attend to the story of Ruth.

· Orpah kissed her mother-in-law; but Ruth clave untu her.” It was a passage she could not let pass without a comment. The moral she drew from it was not very new, to be sure.

The girl had heard it a hundred times before—and a hundred times more she could have heard it, without suspecting it to be tedious. Rosamund loved her grandmother.

The old lady loved Rosamund 100; and she had reason for so doing. Rosamund was to her at once a child and a servant. She had only her left in the world. They too lived together.

They had once known better days. The story of Rosa mund's parents, their failure, their folly, and distresses, may be told another time. Our tale hath grief enough in it.

It was now about a year and a half since old Margaret Gray had sold off all her effects, to pay the debts of Rosamund's father-just after the mother had died of a broken heart; for her hushand had fled his country to hide his shame in a foreign land.

At that period the old lady retired to a small cottage, in the village of Widford in Hertfordshire.

Rosamund, in her thirteenth year, was left destitute, without fortune or friends : she went with her grandmother. In all this time she had served her faithfully and lovingly.

Old Margaret Gray, when she first came into these parts, had eyes, and could see. The neighbours said, they had been dimmed by weeping: be that as it may, she was latterly grown quite blind.

“God is very good to us, child; I can feel you yet.” This she would sometimes say; and we need not wonder to hear that Rosamund clave unto her grand mother.

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