of satiety's children. He may be, as favorites always are, very smart, and even astute, and as some kings and kingdoms can testify; he is nothing more than a pet monkey, in whom the instinctive principle of self-love is strong. This man I will not refuse the service of; for, not much below his torrent of wit, flows a full, wide stream of common sense.

AUGUST 9th.-There is one feeling which I would give the world to have, for I do not imagine for a moment that I have ever known it: that feeling is love. Now I have met with some few of the other sex, whom I have esteemed, highly esteemed with whom I have had considerable sympathy of mind. But the all-consuming fire which men talk about, poets exalt and idealize, and artists strike forth on the canvas, is quite unknown to me. Really I am inclined to doubt its existence, though I have heard it insisted on by very excellent men, that there is such a thing. And that, under its influence, we forget that other feelings require a share of our time, and we scarcely know that any other individual lives; more especially of the woman kind, than the one, the great source of this temporary happiness.

How such a state of abstraction of feeling from the world, and from all save one object alone can exist, I cannot conceive. But I suppose it must be so; for, in argument, they say, that must be true which every one unites in pronouncing so.

I have often thought it singular, that those heathens of the past, in making love blind, had not made him likewise foolish. They did make him a child; but folly is a degree beyond childishness it is an advancement on it, that degrades human

nature.

I do not think, so far as I have had the means of judging,

that there is that childish simplicity about the heart in love, said to be. I consider it the shrewdest affection of the mind; for, take two persons in love-I write, of course, from observation; for no matter how much I am inclined to respect, esteem, or love a lady, I had made a vow never to pay my addresses to one, until I should be released from the pursuit of law. How painful, therefore, is my situation. In all probability I shall never marry. If I should induce a lady to believe I loved her, how natural; yet I could go no farther consistently with my vow, which I consider as holy.

You may see the soul, as to be forBut to the faith of come forward, and

Then, about the two persons in love. anxious and yearning look; so wrapt the getful of the presence of every individual. it-to its shrewdness. Let another object sue for the affection which is laid claim to-then there is the expression changed into the restless, the envious look: now we see the most powerfully concentrated art in the jealous one, in the endeavor to peer into the thoughts, to form a correct judgment of the real feelings of the object of devotion. To an uninterested person, individuals in love hold the most singularly foolish and undesirable position in the world. To see the soft, translucent, drooping eye, the pale and relaxed lip, the expression of profound languor in the face, the indifferent and careless appearance of the whole body; to observe the ear which catches every syllable of a word, and the every tone in which it is uttered; the look, as though the loss of the object would involve a world in misery.

Thank heaven I have never been in love, or, perhaps, I would not have chuckled over actions which the actors little thought were to the view of any but themselves. For lovers,

like the individuals of a prolonged intrigue, become careless of time and space; and presently, are observed by those who would never have sought them, or thought them in intrigue. We cannot avoid seeing that which is palpable. Who has not seen many a glance pass between parties? Many a longing look, many a shy touch, that showed the state of matters plainly enough? For myself, and I am unfortunately sensitive to such things, there come many undesired sights, since I have repeatedly fallen among persons in intrigue, without being at all aware of my situation. Indeed, I begin to think it my misfortune to see all the villany going forward in this world, which begins to need another deluge.

It is singular how unwise the wise act in love-how undignified the dignified act; frequently more in folly than the most ignorant, and ridiculous to perfection. Let men explain it as they will. But I think that as all wisdom is folly, and all dignity is ridiculous, and love being very artful in its attacks, makes men, by its influence, forget their art, and appear what they really are just like removing the surface of gold from brass plates, or the polish from mock woods.

I have very little to do with the world; therefore, my opinion as to its wisdom or dignity, is not worth much. However, it is my impression, that there is no wisdom, nor has there been any in the world. That those whom we call sages, because of an order superior to others, are sages comparatively and not abstractly; and in number, through all ages, and in all places, do not amount to six. That of those who are called great a lower order than that of sages—there are not that number-perhaps four. And I reckon all the rest of men great from their folly, not their wisdom; and in degree, as they

fall below the sages and the great. If it were necessary, I could prove it: there are two orators and about three poets. Rather fewer, however, than may be found in any country town. For among such and some people, any man is an orator who knows all the beautiful figures about the eagle and the lion, and can misquote Homer, Virgil, and Shakspeare. He is a poet, who has arrived at the high art of making two lines jingle. I do not confine myself to those who write down their immortal verses in public places; but I mean those of a higher order-those who have now and then an idea, though it be stolen, but really dressed up so fine, that it would frequently puzzle the old gentleman author himself to say whether it was, or was not, his idea, now arrayed in all the fashion and foppery of the day.

Now, as to dignity, which, I was saying, sometimes fell in love. I dislike to speak of dignity, for it makes me laugh. But oh, my soul! is it not the most ridiculous thing in the world, to see a fool with his dignity on him, whether in or out of love. The so-called dignity, so far falls short of the real, it is so unlike the ease and simplicity of the only true dignity. This dignity, if 1 had time and ink to throw away on it, might, perhaps, be put in its true light. I could tell how a child might discompose and discomfort it; how the slightest accident would tear its mental coat. I have always placed, as contradistinguished to these dignified men, those who are "nature's noblemen."

I begin to think that when I take up my pen, I do not know when to put it down; but what difference does it make? I sat down to enjoy an outpouring of my thoughts, and I have done so. Besides, it is of no consequence, since it is the busi

ness only of myself. If any one should find this manuscript after I am gone, that person surely would not be foolish, nay, thoughtless enough, to attempt an interpretation of these waves and straight lines. In speaking of straight lines, I am having no thought of geometry. I never fancied such phantoms as the propositions of Euclid. I could not, when at college, imagine such confounded things in the air, as I never thought fairly proven on the black-board.

But I have not yet asked myself, what is love-but how useless to put a question I cannot answer-I have never known love; but from the expressed experience of others. Judging from what they tell me, I should say that love in the beginning, and perhaps throughout its course, is nothing more than a sentiment existing between individuals of similar prejudices, tastes and feelings. Now, as to prejudices, I have known two persons, both of whom being very fervent in their dislike of another individual; and becoming acquainted with each other, and expressing their impressions in regard to this individual, find that they agree exactly in their opinions-immediately is created a sympathy between them, while up to this time, there was mere similarity of prejudice-now imagination goes to fill up the void; and they imagine that in all things they assimilate; this deception goes on, and eventually, gives rise to what is called love. Such, alas! is love-a whimsicality. Again, I have known two persons devoted to a particular art— as that of painting; become known to each other-talk over their beloved art, and in the most impassioned language. Corinne is not of this class. It is not long before these two are mad with love; and, having never spoken of anything, when together, but painting. How many households have been