ter to the sex; not to mention the infamous passages, where he calumniates the accomplished Montague, there is a remarkable proof of his acerbity, as well as total want of candour, in one of those poems, which he chooses to call Moral Epistles. He is elaborately and exquisitely describing the versatile powers and lust of applause, so conspicuous in the character of a modern Alcibiades. The poet takes this occasion, and by no means in the spirit of a knight errant, to introduce certain charmers into very strange society.

Wharton! the scorn and wonder of our days,
Whose only passion was the lust of praise,
Born with whate'er could win it from the wise,
Women and fools must like him, or he dies.

It is perfectly amazing that many names should be inscribed on the rolls of literature in France, instead of being set down as mere units in some ephemeral Mercury of the mode, or some almanac for the use of old women. We will always abstain from every thing like censure, touching the Augustan age of Louis XIV, but in the succeeding reigns, a number of superficial, not to say illiterate men, were strangely crowned with laurel, instead of being branded for ignorance. Many a philopher has not understood even the elements of science, and the doors of academies have been expanded to receive mere mountebanks, who should have harangued to no other auditors, than the gaping crowd at a fair.

Marmontel, describing the character of the count de Caylus, says very happily, what may amply illustrate the position. He gave himself importance for the most futile merit and the most trivial of talents. He attached the highest value to his minute researches and his antique gewgaws. He concealed a very adroit and refined vanity and a most imperious pride, under the rough and simple form in which he had the art of enveloping it. Supple and pliant among the courtiers and placemen, on whom the artists depended, he obtained a credit with the former whose influence was dreaded by the latter. He insinuated himself into the company of men of erudition, and persuaded them to compose memoirs on the gimcracks, which he had bought of some broker. He made a splendid collection of this trumpery, which he called antique. He proposed prizes on Isis and Osiris, in order to have the air of being himself initiated in their mysteries; and, with this charlatanism of learning, he crept into the academies, without knowing either Latin or Greek. He had so often said, he had so often published, by those

whom he paid to praise him, that in architecture he was the restorer of the simple style, of simple beauty, and beautiful simplicity, that the ignorant believed it; and by his correspondence with the Dilettanti, he made himself pass in Italy and many other parts of Europe for a sort of inspirer of the fine arts. I felt for him, therefore, that species of natural antipathy, which ingenuous and honest men always feel for impostors.

The science of pure and mixed mathematics has been derided in moments of levity by the petulance of wit and with the acrimony of censure. It has been sometimes plausibly urged that mathematics render us too careless of moral evidence, and that the diagrams of Euclid are destructive to the sallies of Pleasantry and the inventions of Imagination. This theory seems to be perfectly overthrown by the example of Dr. Arburthnot, who was unquestionably the wittiest man of his age, and one of the most original writers of any age. He was not only a profound mathematician, but wrote a most acute and eloquent defence of his favourite science. D'Alembert and several of the French geometricians were remarkable for the variety of their attainments, and for their admirable combination of the profound with the playful. Mathematics, therefore, must not be shut out of the company of the Sciences, but permitted to have a share in learned conversation. Only let us take care, as her phrase is very precise and her tone extremely dictatorial, that she do not absolutely engross the whole talk to herself. For, after all, though to have a slight acquaintance with her is an enviable privilege, yet it is incomparably better to know her as a transient mistress, than as a constant wife. In the latter case, her dominion is too absolute and jealous, and she too often shuts the door in the face of every visitor. The example is before us. W. is a man of sense, a man of principle, and a man of prudence. His decent circumspection qualifies him for a good house carpenter. He has all the diligence of a Dutchman, and all the geometry of the schools, but all his ideas may be inscribed within the narrowest circle of his compass!

The conversation of Dr. Johnson, as we learn from all his contemporaries, was frequently enlivened by Wit and Humour, but, in his writings, the solemn, for the most part, predominates over the playful. Even in his Idler, where it was absolutely necessary that he should unbend, and become a fine frolicksome fellow, his merriment is of an awkward and constrained character, and his forced laughter is almost

as uncouth as the jocularity of a New England deacon. But in his preface to Shakspeare, where he is expressing all his contempt for the commentators,

From slashing Bentley down to piddling Tibbalds,

he indulges himself in a strain of sarcastic drollery, of which neither Aristophanes, nor the Edinburg reviewers might lawfully be ashamed.

"If my readings are of little value, they have not been ostentatiously displayed, or importunately obtruded. I could have written longer notes, for the art of writing notes is not of difficult attainment. The work is performed first, by railing at the stupidity, negligence, ignorance, and asinine tastelessness of the former editors, and showing, from all that goes before and all that follows, the inelegance and absurdity of the old reading; then by proposing something, which, to superficial readers, would seem specious, but which the editor rejects with indignation; then by producing the true reading, with a long paraphrase, and concluding with loud acclamations on the discovery, and a sober wish for the advancement and prosperity of genuine criticism.

Milton, in a sort of rapture, exclaims

Let me wander. not unseen,

By hedgerow elms, o'er hillocks green.

Although the poet is delineating the habits and humours of a cheerful and social man, yet it is difficult to conceive why such a pedestrian, in a morning ramble through groves and gardens, should want a witness of his delight, or a spy upon his pleasures. If the bard had said quite unseen, we think the costume of his merry man would not have been violated. But Milton, sublime and beautiful as he undoubtedly is, must always acknowledge a master even in his own art; and one, in the delineation of manners and character, incomparably his superior. Take, for example, one of the initial scenes of Romeo and Juliet. Lady Montague, the anxious mother of a romantic son, desperately in love with Rosalind, very tenderly inquires of her kinsman, the bland Benvolio,

Where is Romeo? saw you him today?

to which his friend replies, in one of the softest and sweetest of Shak speare's speeches,

Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun

Peep'd from the golden windows of the East,

A troubled mind drove me to walk abroad,
Where, underneath the grove of sycamore,
That westward rooteth from the city's side,
So early walking did I see your son:

Towards him I made; but he was 'ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood;

I, measuring his affections by my, own,

That most are busied, when they are most alone,
Pursued my humour, not pursuing his,

And gladly shunn'd, who gladly fled from me.

In this highly poetical passage, the very echo of the voice of Nature and Passion, the dramatist, with admirable accuracy and the most consummate justice, describes two young gentlemen of Verona, near relations and fast friends, studiously shunning, in a contemplative walk, the company of each other. No matter, if it be said that Romeo was thinking of his mistress, and Benvolio of his studies, it was natural that each of them should wish to be alone. Shakspeare is assuredly right, and Milton as clearly wrong. No man meets the sun upon the upland lawn, or walks under the shade of melancholy boughs, or crops eglantine, or smells daisies, or plucks cowslips, or hearkens to the carrolling of birds, or gazes at the playfulness of lambs, with any desire that either boys, or clowns, or milkmaids should remark his rapture. Such a rural enthusiast chooses to be alone, whether his humour be grave or mellow, whether he be in love with Laura or with Literature.

The following, as the delineator himself remarks, is the most extraordinary character that can be found in society. What adds to our wonder is, that this curious portrait before it was exhibited to any body else, was shown to the whimsical original, who by no means disapproved of the resemblance. It is drawn with the spirit and fidelity of La BRUYERE. The painter pledges himself for the truth and accuracy of his outline, but we suspect that there is some exaggeration in the features; and as for the tints, they are obviously couleur du rose. Our artist proclaims himself an intimate acquaintance of the original, but we have endeavoured in vain to discover who he was.

ASTACUS is a composition the most singular in nature. The versatility of a mind full of original ideas and caprice, the agitation of his heart, the fervency of his blood, the irritation of his bile, the vivacity of his mind, the weakness of his body, altogether form an individual, who would suffice to compose half a dozen characters distinctly marked, and which altogether present a being the most extraordinary that

one could meet in society. Happily for the friends of Astacus, his ideas, his caprices, his passions have nothing offensive in them. If he is not. of their opinion, he allows them to differ from his, provided they give him leave to dispute at leisure, which he does with sparkling wit, and subtle logic. If he is in love, he does not pretend that it should be to the exclusion of others. He forms a friendship with his rivals, and invites them to dinner with her he loves. His caprices put none under restraint. His ill health serves as an excuse for his eccentricities, for his deviations from the rules of society, and for his following his own inclination. He has so well established this prerogative that his friends allow it him as his right, but he makes compensation by his promptness to oblige. He gives willingly. He lends nobly. Are you anxious to be introduced to an amiable woman? Are you solicitous to gain a friend? are you desirous of an interview with an illustrious or an ingenious man? beg Astacus to procure you these advantages, and Astacus complies with alacrity.

Astacus has read much. He knows the best authors in Latin, in French, and in English. He has a natural good taste, a refined judgment without the knowledge of any one element of abstruse science. But he is not at a loss on that account; he avows his insufficiency, and makes it up by the multiplicity and frankness of his questions.

He has a great elevation of mind. The rank and riches of those with whom he associates have no weight with him. He is humane, charitable, choleric, and gentle, lively and indolent; a warm friend, a generous enemy, if it can be said that he has any enemy; impatient from constitution, indulgent from reflection, simple one moment, witty the next, rarely enjoying delight, often languishing with ennui, forming brilliant plans, but seldom putting any in execution.

A very lively and intelligent Traveller, describing the delights he enjoyed during a summer visit to Chanteloup, the magnificent villa of a French nobleman, introduces a curious story, illustrating the influence of habit, and the inconstancy of a Lounger's character.

The custom at Chanteloup, after conversation or the promenade, was to retire for a few hours, each to his own apartment. This is what they called L'avant soir. One either passed it alone, or in making visits. The Duke used to go to his sister, the Duchess of Gramont, the Abbe Barthelemy to the Duchess of Choiseul, and the others where they pleased. We followed, in that respect, the custom at Paris, which was to pass the evenings with some friend until supper time. I have known men, who made it so much a habit, that they have been wretched if they had not a house where they could regular