upon a mas style pers well covered with close crabbed writing. Its leaves were yellow and dark by time; innumerable corrections made the page unsightly. I'm sure,' she exclaimed, this can be no use now, there isn't room to add another word, so take it away; and the ponderous mass quickly joined the condemned heap upon the floor. Some days of indefatigable labour soon put the room to rights, and the lady impatiently waited her husband's return that she might show him the triumph she had achieved. When he came, scarcely were the first greetings over, when, with nods and smiles, and wise looks, she led the way to the library, and, throwing open the door of the modernized apartment, exclaimed, 'See what I have done while you have been away!' The silent gaze of sorrow, and the pale countenance of her awe-stricken husband, somewhat startled her, as, with a look of doubt, and trembling fear, he raised his eyes to the corner where he had left the completed volume of his dictionary! My love,' he said, with white lips and trembling tone, did you see in this corner some paper?' 'Oh, some yellow-looking rubbish-yes, and gave it to Betsy to burn! and think it's all gone by this time. It wasn't any use, was it?'

What the disconsolate author thought is not related: only that he said nothing, uttered no reproach; but to the day of his death, which happened a few years afterwards, he never took pen in hand again, and never spoke or looked like the same man. His wife, of course, when she discovered the destruction she had committed, was deeply grieved-but what availed her grief!

In the pleasant volumes of Mr. Gillies, there is much that might, with infinite amusement, be extracted; but we hesitate, from the length to which some of the anecdotes extend, to introduce them here. Our author, during his varied and unfortunate career, has fallen in with many adventures, and mixed in the society of men whose names are as familiar to us as 'household words.' Perhaps he does not tell us much about each; but then he presents us with lively gossip about all-gives us letters of some, little traits of others-all valuable to such as love to cherish the familiar sayings and doings of those whose talents have brought them publicly forward. Of Wordsworth there are many epistles, which, we believe, have not been before published; and Scott glides past us like a shadow. But, perhaps, in all Mr. Gillies's recollections there is not a pleasanter picture than that of the home of Dugald Stewart, who was so fitted by nature to adorn the society of the most learned. He visited but little, however, contenting himself with accepting a few only of the invitations showered upon him. His chief delight was to assemble his family and one or two guests in his drawingroom, and there, by the light of a blazing fire only, pass the

evening in quiet chat; his wife and other members of his family joining in whenever an opportunity presented itself. To his children he was most devotedly attached; and when he lost a beloved son, in 1811, he seemed to lose all relish for his public career, and wished immediately to retire into private life. At the intervention of numerous friends, however, he consented to appear again in the lecture-room, but very shortly really retired, and devoted himself to the quiet and steady pursuit of literature.

Of Byron, and his smaller satellites, we have little notice. Of Sir Walter Scott we have a few letters. The volumes are full of allusions to these and similar distinguished men; but as it is not practicable to assemble within the limits of an article all the brief remarks and observations of our author, we must request the reader to accompany Mr. Gillies in his career, and pass a pleasant hour or so in conning over the Memoirs of a Literary Veteran.'

Mr. Gillies is himself an author, has passed much of his time amongst literary men, and shows that he justly appreciates them by one most judicious observation, that the best writers are often the mildest critics. Most assuredly they are. Those conscious of mediocrity are fearful of a rival; and the moment a new aspirant makes his appearance, seek to cry him down. They are willing to give much credit to those already acknowledged by the world, because they dare not cry them down, and feel assured that any aspersions they cast on them will be received as betraying their own petty jealousy. If the greatest genius were suddenly to appear before them, they would long refuse to acknowledge him.

It is curious to observe the wisdom and penetration of those who have at all mingled in literary society. They read an author, study his peculiarities and style, and imagine they perfectly understand his whole system of thought, and could detect one mistake instantly. But to show that even authors themselves are not always infallible judges, we will relate an anecdote which has never yet been made public; though having received it from an undoubted source, we venture to vouch for its veracity. Shelley, whose poems many years ago were so much read and admired, necessarily excited much discussion in literary circles. A party of literary men were one evening engaged in canvassing his merits, when one of them declared that he knew the turns of Shelley's mind so well, that amongst a thousand anonymous pieces he would detect his, no matter where published. Mr. James Augustus St. John, who was present, not liking the blustering tone of the speaker, remarked, that he thought he was mistaken; and that it would, amongst so many, be difficult

to trace the style of Shelley. Every one present, however, sided with his opponent, and agreed that it was perfectly impossible that any one could imitate his style. A few days after, a poem entitled 'To the Queen of my Heart' appeared in the 'London Weekly Review,' with Shelley's signature, but written by Mr. St. John himself. The same coterie met and discussed the poem brought to their notice, and prided themselves much upon their discrimination; said, they at once recognised the style of Shelley, could not be mistaken, his soul breathed through itit was himself.' And so 'The Queen of my Heart' was settled to be Shelley's! and to this day it is numbered with his poems, and very few are in the secret that it is not actually his. The imitation was perfect, and completely deceived every one, much to the discomfiture of all concerned.

We have been a little betrayed from the volumes under consideration by the above anecdote. Let us, however, in conclusion, assure Mr. Gillies, that, whatever his misfortunes may have been, and however severe his sufferings, he has contrived, out of his experience, to produce a most entertaining book, full of amusing anecdotes, witty observations, and clever notices of men and things. His three volumes are well worthy of perusal; and no one can rise from them without a heartfelt conviction that the author deserved a better reward than he appears to have met with.

ART. VI.-The Metamorphoses of Apuleius: A Romance of the Second Century. Translated from the Latin. By Sir George Head. Post 8vo. Pp. 411. London: Longman and Co.

Ir is greatly to be wished that, by some legislative or other act, words of serious import to mankind could be fixed in some acknowledged meaning. We speak of religion, of happiness, or of good fortune; when what we mean by religion, may be what our hearers mean by impiety; and our best fortune their lowest conception of misery; nevertheless, they will necessarily, unless they happen to know us closely, associate their own ideas with our expressions, and thus, without meaning it, we are propagating lies. If a man were called,' writes Gibbon, 'to fix the period in the history of the world during which the condition of the human race was most happy and prosperous, he

See Shelley's Works, edited by Mrs. Shelley, vol. iv. p. 166. It deceived even his wife.

would, without hesitation, name that which elapsed from the death of Domitian to the accession of Commodus; the vast extent of the Roman empire was governed by absolute power under the guidance of virtue and wisdom." Out of every thousand readers of Gibbon, how many have paused over this passage, to consider what, in his philosophy, is the meaning of happiness; or what elements go most essentially to the making of human prosperity? It passes for ascertained historic truth; men of all opinions receive it and respect it, each in his own sense, and only when they compare notes begin to see that they have come away each with a different conclusion. It has been said Happy are the people whose annals are a blank,' who have gone on with the roll of the age silent and unnoticeable. Man, like the rest of God's creatures, 'eating, drinking, sleeping, labouring, marrying and giving in marriage, generation after generation, gliding from cradle to grave, leaving no record of great deeds, great thoughts, struggles, defeats, or victories ; without all these-and blessed in being without them-blessed in a common life, common duties, common trials, and common enjoyments. This is one form of happy life-most happy, to those whose hearts it satisfies, or whose philosophy it illustrates. Again, there is a happiness in the abundance of life's good things in a strong social order where, secured by law from violence, without danger to fear, or hardship to endure, men have leisure to devote themselves heart and soul to multiplying wealth, and what wealth can bring to cultivate pleasure as an art-in all ways to make the world, while they remain in it, smooth, and, as they say, comfortable; while, again, there are men to whom the common is the common; to whom the earth is only valuable for those rare occasions which it offers for heroism and nobleness; who do not care for ease, and hate luxury as a poison; whose life is militant, whose story is a struggle; for whom the whole worth of the human race lies in a few great names or great ages, as the aloe blossoms once only in a hundred years, and for the rest is but a dense, unlovely shrub.

Nor does philosophy much help us in our difficulties. Aristotle may define happiness as the energy of the most excellent functions of the spirit. But what are those most excellent functions? What occasions best call them out? In what atmosphere will they put on their most beautiful forms? It is said, and truly, that our trials lie necessarily most in common routine routine is the staple of our existence, and it is easier to behave well in one great trial than in a hundred little ones; it is easier to bear one great pain than a hundred annoyances, as the rock which the earthquake cannot tear is worn by the

water-drops. But, again, if he that is faithful in little is faithful in much, it is true also that men may be faithful in the little and yet fail in the much; and it remains a question which, on the whole, is best for us, a still, silent, peaceful life, or, a restless and agitated one. Nature will not answer it for us; she is ready, as she always is, to take all sides and give every man an answer or an illustration according to his own heart. Stagnant water is another name for pollution, and the running stream a synonym of purity; but the stagnant water teems with living things, and the torrent is untenanted by any growth, or disturbed by any motion, except its own. The diamond is beautiful, but clay is fertile-the mountains are magnificent, the meadow valleys sweet and fragrant. The climate of the south makes men indolent, but contented; the unkindly and uneasy north stirs them into unrest and energy; and so on through all her endless pages; she has varied food for all her children, and what is really most beautiful and most admirable, she leaves a secret open only to the noble heart. To the noble, she speaks nobly; to the weak, weakly; to the common, commonly; and in all the changes and chances of this mortal life,' in dark ages and in enlightened, in peace or struggle, in famine or in plenty, in routine or in revolution, there is never a time but what, from some aspect or other, the human fruit which it is producing may seem good or the best. Yet, letting all this pass, and pass for what it is worth, after all, the general instincts of men, as far as they have yet spoken themselves, have given a pre-eminence to one form of character over another, even when both are good in their kind; and, after making all allowance for our disposition to over-estimate the rare only because of its rarity, we mean something when we speak of men as great, as sublime, or as heroic. The very strong man, even when his strength lies, as in Cæsar, in the might of his own will and intellect, we admire as something larger and grander than ourselves, and far more when it lies in the love of God, of right, of justice, or of truth. There is a grandeur of worldliness which raises Cæsar's actions above the highest conceivable successes in the banking-house or in the Stock Exchange; and there is a grandeur of godliness which makes the ordinary goodness of ordinary good men comparatively very insignificant by the side of the martyr or confessor.

Now whatever may have been the amount of average comfort in the second century, of such fruit as this, there has never been any age, not any one age in all the long known story of the world, more hopelessly barren than those eighty years which Gibbon says was, undoubtedly, the most prosperous which the world has known. His theory of human nature was not thereGenerally sceptical as he was about human

fore, a lofty one.