more popular avocations or enterprising pursuits) entirely unexceptionable in the line of conduct which they pursue. They also, in their turn, are too much in the habit of treating with a kind of reserved and implied contempt, those who are not of the same tastes and habits as themselves; and whilst they are too much in the habit of arrogating the infallibility of their own judgments, they call in question the utility of those other pursuits, which they do not follow, and affect to ridicule those other occupations, simply either because they do not understand, or take no interest in them. There are, indeed, a few, but very few, who steer safely between the two extremes, and thereby conciliate the good will and favourable opinion of both, which is no easy task. I would, for all these reasons, recommend, as it were, a cessation of hostilities, and that an end should be put to those injurious and useless distinctions between the different classes of our fellow-citizens which tend only to exasperate one against the other, and diseredit both. But there are those who, in their endeavours to ingratiate themselves with all parties, forfeit the esteem and good-will of both : take, for instance, C. How unenviable is his lot, and how unpopular his character! he takes delight in prying into every one's affairs, in giving his advice, which, though at all times bad, is then, perhaps, particularly unseasonable; he obtrudes himself upon your time, when you are most deeply engaged, and is as loth to take his departure as he is happy to torment you (though he does it unconsciously) by his frequent visits; his conversation, though

shallow and unsubstantial, has, at least, the merit, or rather demerit, of being incessant, and he leaves you apparently satisfied that he has produced a favourable impression upon your mind; he knows enough of the different pursuits of his companions, to imagine that he is well qualified to become their most intimate and valued friend; and yet, in reality, he knows too little to be the intimate or valued friend of any this, perhaps, is the very worst of all characters. Let us turn for a moment to the character of Mr. Theophilus Headstrong, the leading features of whose character are, activity, obstinacy, and ignorance. His mind, being of the most enlightened kind, naturally soars above all vulgar prejudices that books or book-learning are in any way desirable; it embraces nothing but field-sports, for the manliness of which, and for the folly, inexpediency, and slavishness, of following any other avocations, he is a most ignorant, obstinate, and furious, stickler.

My friend, Lorenzo Languish, falls into the opposite extreme he terms cricket nothing more than the knocking of balls about, and whilst he broods sulkily over what he daily sees passing before his eyes, for his part, he cannot help expressing his unfeigned surprise, that any one should think it worth while to give himself so much unnecessary trouble in a rowing-match, or heat himself so violently in any bodily exercises.

There is also another class, who look down upon all; who are of opinion, that games, reading, and every other avocation, are entirely beneath them; whose powers of conversation are extremely small; who can converse

upon no subjects except the number of rich livings in the disposal of their families; the number of valets, butlers, grooms, &c. &c. which they keep. But it is an insult to our community to suppose that this is a common case. An example of this sort is Lord *

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who appears to be incapable of conversing upon any topics of real interest: but though persons like him have not the good sense to escape this snare, the world either laughs this fault away, or, should it lie too deep for that, they become intolerably disagreeable; but I am sure you will agree with me, that nothing can be more ridiculous, and that nothing can display more vais ton," than to say presumptuous things of one's self; and even if there really is ground for self-approbation, does it not argue a sounder judgment, and a safer discretion, to repress the exultation which may be felt upon the shadowy and unsubstantial compliments of temporary friends?

mau

My only object in writing the above, my dear Sir, has been, to excite in your mind the same reflections that have been called forth in mine, and to suggest to you the propriety of employing some part of your valuable time in endeavouring to remedy this serious evil, and in throwing out some recommendations upon the subject to which I have alluded, to those among our fellow-citizens who would be so ready to receive them.

I am, my dear Sir,

Your obliged servant,

BENJAMIN BENEDICT.

THE CAPTIVE.

Ye mighty barriers, why do ye array
Your craggy pinnacles in proud disdain,
Pile beyond pile? and think ye thus to bind
What neither tyrant's arm, nor torture's pangs,
Nor e'en these manacles I hear, coerced ?
Frown on I spurn ye: never shall this free,
This adamantine, spirit crouch beneath
E'en Nature's yoke: it soars beyond the scope
Of human vision, toward those glorious realms
Polluted nor by filth, nor mortal dross
Degenerate ye torrents of yon height,
I hail ye as congenial to my soul;

Howl on, ye whirlwinds, through th' impervious glade,
And ye foreboding spirits, in the gloom

Shriek ominous; your horrors I revere :
Let others serve, let others bend the knee,
And act the parasite; degenerate herd,
Servile in body, and debas'd in soul,

Ye fawning sycophants, I here renounce ye;
Ye neither feel, nor act, nor utter sounds
As honour dictates; honour is a name
To you unknown, unsought for, unrever'd.
This is your creed; to this degrading faith
Ye cling enamour'd; and in heart and soul
Cringe to that wretch ye tremble to disdain.
War has his victims, servitude her spoils ;
The first I courted, and the second gain'd,
My doom irrevocable; nor from heaven
Beams the bright Sun, nor with his gladd'ning ray
These desolate, inhospitable, crags,

These emblems of captivity illumines;
Yet I repine not-nor within my breast
Boils Indignation's too impetuous tide;

'Tis stifled by Contentment's aid divine;

Foam, then, ye torrents, down your native heights;
Flash bright, ye meteors, o'er the troubled sky;
And ye eternal snows, engulf this frail,
This unsubstantial shadow in your tomb,
But still my spirit, undismay'd, as erst,
Triumphant soars above Perdition's wave.

THE CHARMS OF MYSTERY.

Dear Mr, Bouverie;

I have lately been much discomposed by the circula tion of sundry whispers, intimating that a part of the mask, a corner of the veil, that at present screens you from vulgar eyes, is to be raised. You must know that I am much accustomed to picture to myself the exact locality of the scenes, and features of the characters, that interest me, and have consequently a lively idea of the face and stature of Hercules and Jack the Giant-Killer; can give you a correct ground-plan of the Castles of Udolpho and Torquilstone; and, aided by your works, have traced to my fancy, no faint out-line, but a highlycoloured portrait, of yourself. Often have I exclaimed, when a pensive figure in the twilight glade of Poet'swalk, or the retiring gloom of the Cloisters, has glided past my eyes, "It must be Bouverie!" This interesting idea naturally inspires me with the highest respect for your character, but I much fear it will cease, if you really prove to be a common cricket-playing, absence-attending, animal like myself. Nor can I doubt that such a discovery will have wider influence; for, when did the potent spell of Mystery fail to fascinate? who has not felt "the icy scalp of fear" grow colder on his head at the bare recital of those dark tales never to be unravelled by human knowledge? From what other source can we derive that all-pervading feeling of interest to which the Man of the Iron Mask owes the celebrity of his sufferings, his dearly-bought pre-eminence among