with all his propensities, some of his feelings are as noble as those which prompt the best men; yet they cannot be brought to light, because his soul is in the shadow of ill deeds, and because the world scorns to invite him to offer up his greatest sacrifice for country's good, or for some individual act, that would remove crime-that spots a name. No; from him the world does not expect, does not ask, in faith, does not wish ought but the reverse; I must stay to his farther disclosure, ere I am willing to point to him, with the awful sceptre of defamation.

OCTOBER 17th.-Enough! enough of authorship! since the reward of an author's toil is neglect too often, misconception as often, and abuse always. But I will not become sentimental with Othello, and give vent to my feelings as thus;

"O now, forever,

Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars,

That make ambition virtue! O, farewell!"

And conclude, in that woebegone language:

"Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!"

То say that I have not feelings of bitterness toward the world, would not be strictly true. I know not who to lay my misfortune with in particular-therefore, I lavishly hate all, for the cold reception with which my book has been received. And moreover, this same bitterness, has much mingled with it of chagrin, a most hated feeling.

To have passed the many studious hours,-to have spent the wearing thought; and while I will not speak of the midnight oil, so much the talk of studious men; yet will I say, that I have watched my portion of the hours of night, as well as been

t

active through the day. My toil has been no common toil, but I care not, nor could I give expressions after such a fashion as did a celebrated Frenchman: "Je demande une grace que je crains qu'on ne m'accorde pas; c'est de ne pas juger, par la lecture d'un moment, d'un travail de vingt années; d'appruver ou de condamner le livre entier, et non pas quelques phrases. Si l'on vent chercher le dessein de l'auteur, on ne le peut bien decouvrir que dans le dessein de l'ouvrage." I had not spent twenty years in thinking on my subject and writing out my work; nor, would I sacrifice twenty years to the sole devotion of any pursuit. Twenty years, it must be considered, is a length of time; and if a man gives that much of his life, to researches necessary for the production of a work for posterity, and to render him famous, then I never would be famous; nor would I be wise enough, perhaps, to derive any possession at so dear a cost. I am conscious that a man engaged in a pursuit, fortunately suited to his taste, finds unremitting pleasure therein. But who will undertake to prove to me, that a man does not, in his old age, look back regretfully, at what he esteems too much of his time spent in something very like profitless study, or some delving calling; and too little in the individual, and transitory enjoyment of earlier days in the world, it is natural; and, let Cicero say what he pleases, about the pleasures of old age, it is not pleasant unless occupied with thoughts on the fullness of enjoyment, in those days, when mind, body and soul were susceptible of pleasure from their youthful vigor.

But who will describe the feelings of a man, whose ambition is disappointed? Do authors tell all they feel? I know they have told much; but the greater part is yet unwritten. Then can the painter give it in his picture-if so, where is it? No;

neither the pen or the pencil can give the whole feeling-the whole thought expression. I will attempt it, though with not a hope of success-but I feel that I can somewhat accomplish it, being actuated by the force of a painful experience.

woman.

A few months ago, and my heart throbbed for excitement, and I wished to have the feelings of an author, whose work was before the people, the great, the humbug people. Well, I have written, re-written, erased, supplied, criticised, and given the finishing touch to a poem ; it was a poem then. The subject was one of deep intercst, because the history of an unfortunate She excelled her sex in beauty; she had attainments, was accomplished, and possessed a comprehensive mind. There was in her nature, a noble enthusiasm, and a remarkable capacity for happiness. She in a high degree, had all the charms of a sweet and early maidenhood, when the stealthy step of one wearing the garb of a sacred order, and bearing about him all the austerity and severity of virtue of a high and solemn character, approached her. His manners were insinuating; his word was influence and power. He induces her to enter an enchanted castle, where all around is excellence above nature; and hence with the alluring scenes surrounding her; the fascinations of the inmate's learning, of his eloquence, of his love she is in fancy carried away. And then all and equal delights are promised, so long as she will dwell there.

Ere long she becomes so infatuated, and her taste grows so fastidious, that ordinary scenes can produce no longer the most common pleasure.

Presently she leaves the

Excitement cannot always endure. enchanted castle, to return to the world. She returns, but no longer the same being-she is filled with visionary notions.

Alas! she is a fanatic, and wanders about she knows not whither. She talks no more as she did, before visiting this strange, unnatural place-sweet words now are exchanged for idle and wild expressions.

From a fanatic she becomes a maniac, and tears her hair— returns wild looks for the kind ones of her hoping and doting parents. But now she raves-and tears her flesh. She must be chained to the floor of her cell. She is a demoniac now; and a thousand shapeless forms stretch their wiry hands to grasp and to torture her. She strives to evade their dreadful clutches; and struggling, encircles her neck with the cruel chain. She chokes-strangles-dies. And a beautiful and happy maiden is, in a short time, transformed into the hideous and disfigured wreck of an infuriate demon.

I thought I treated this subject as it deserved-for I carefully avoided being too intricate in the plot; and in the whole development, I studied, as does an artist, his entire picture to the minutest form, and the shade of the smallest and most evanescent object.

I fear that the cause of its failure is to be sought in its having been thoroughly, both in thought and expression, my own. I surely endeavored to render it real-to make fancy give way to more beautiful truth. It cost me, before I sat down to write it out, I know not how much thought. I meditated on it when alone, and when too I should have enjoyed beautiful and sublime scenery. I thought of it, perhaps I contemplated it, when all was gay, sportive, and full of all that is passing away around me.

Oh! when pleasure was uppermost in the minds of others, and glad days seasoned it, and no canker was there; and I too

might have been happy, and not given to vain things-my best, my choicest hours. I watched its growth with that critical eye, which a mother certainly never looked on her darling, first, and only child. At one time, I would correct it, as a mother does her child, and seek to uproot and remove sophistry-strike out dangerous and delusive errors, and make all be ruled by the magic power of truth and reason. And, I think, seldom is to be discovered here, thought and expression leaving their teachers, reason and truth, or pursuing obscurity in preference to simplicity.

Perhaps I had clung too fondly and too long to a darling idea -because I have felt toward it, as a parent to some imagined excellence in his child. And, at times, I have parted from an idea with the same reluctant feelings of a mother who sees her own blood spilt in the person of her child. These, then, are my faults, but they are so natural that I have thought they might have been borne with, if not excused. Ah! we all cling to that which is dear to us we all love that, an hundred fold more, which we see may be lost to us. Even for our known faults, after habit we acquire feelings of attachment-a spendthrift loves the very thought that he is a spendthift-the miser esteems himself because he is a miser. So the robber prides himself in the thought that he is a robber; and the lover looks on that thought as the dearest, that he loves woman-man holds it to be great that he hates his enemy and loves his friend.

Of all these, one example may suffice-I know a beautiful and intelligent woman, who has loved a man from his childhood, because he was devoted to her. Then through long years, she has acquired the habit-she has committed the fault of loving him. After a time, she began to love him too wholly