since she felt conscious that to experience pain was most undignified and fashion is shocked at a want of complaisant ease among its followers, when under much disquiet. I think Pitt was right for I believe it was Pitt, who endeavored to give his sick room an air of impressiveness and dignity; but I do not like to hear men, who have broken their necks, say that nothing is the matter with them; or they have only sustained a slight injury on the ear.

I am frequently conscious of anxiety, and genuine pain of mind-perhaps I am not entirely free from it at this moment; but the little philosophy that I possess, shall clothe my nature in becomingness and dignity; and whatever of uncertainty may exist in my mind, as to my future success, I shall never discover it to men. I would not, if I felt satisfied of distinction tell it to men, lest, perchance, the temple rise not. I have hopes of success for amid my failures, a spirit has still whispered, that others have attempted to climb and have slipped; and tried again and succeeded.

But to come to the stout truth-success is dependent on the man, and no one ever was great who was idle. Tell you as much as men choose about this and that great man's not studying; depend on it, that while you are a hawk, their great example is an owl. And that while he is declaiming off-hand to an eager audience-or reciting to his friends, so called extemporaneous verses, he is but giving expression to the thoughts which tortured his mind for their evolution in words, last nightthat pained his body for denial of repose, and twisted his sheets into a thousand different folds. And here we find the reason that literary men and artists do not make pleasant companions

in marriage. They sit up all night to read the last criticism on their works the new productions-and the artist patiently sits up over his fire, his eyes fixed into its most lurid part, as though to see there the expression he would give to the canvas or the marble. Suppose he has gone to bed-well he cannot lie there, when the weight of unwritten thought is so heavy on his mind. This is the chosen hour for composing-he leaps from his comfortable bed-he leaves the side of his companion. Now he lights his lamp, and is in search of a lost pen—he wants a scrap of paper, or some book of reference-he would give two kingdoms for what he wants. Well, he will hunt until he finds it, if it be not before the morning-he will look for it once again, and more closely into that confused bookcase-when up starts the wife half crazed with fear, and rightly too; for I am averse to these men's marrying-they have no right to impose on the women and here the angel is waked up from her gentle slumbers, at the thoughts of robbers searching for valuables, or incendiaries hunting up combustible material. Oh! horrible sleep-walkers-star-gazers, unsociable wretches. If the women knew as much about you as I do, they would not desire husbands of poetic temperaments, however much they might like them as lovers. Bores they are to all, save those who are bores like themselves.

Authors of any note, are always students; but the geniusborn never studies. So he does not, but fungus-like, springs up under the shadow of night, and with the face of the day shrinks back into the womb as a grave. Editors, through duty, I suppose, and old women through pity, or a desire of losing no chance for indulging their tearful disposition, go around singing the young unfortunate's requiem. And to the

credulous neighbors says, "What a great man that boy would have made, for he wrote most beautiful poetry;" and I have known many a most pitiful dolt write "most beautiful poetry." And I have often thought, what a pity it was he was not likewise dead, since "those whom the gods love, die young." So I heard a boy in his humanities say.

Every body desires to be a genius. It is a pity nature could not make more of them than she does. It is a wonder

the Yankee has not turned his ingenuity that way, though I would not be thought as reproaching him for tardiness, when I know he can yield you a lawyer "as nice as any heart can wish," in six months, and a doctor equal to Sangrado himself, in from eight to a dozen moons. Simple as these wonderful improvements are, I am like the old people, and still must maintain the opinion, stale and foolish as it be, that men of genius are home manufacture-they make themselves.

Going back now to where I took my start, and viewing the course I have pursued here, I must say I have come to the conclusion that no path of life is smooth. Of course, I have travelled but one, and that was rugged. I have seen others pursuing other paths, and they tell me that they find earth not quite a paradise, or men angels; still they seem to accommodate themselves to both. Then, what reason is there that I should not do the same? And while other men are striving for glory, why am not I too? All have an equal chance for the goal; and he who reaches it first, perhaps deserves it most. Some fear to run for it, others start very boldly, but give out before the race is well begun. Neither of these shall be me, although mountains may rise before me, as they do in our

dreams, as we are approaching the desired object; I will cleave them with my wand, till I reach the end of the course.

Although I hope not to run about the streets crying, Eureka! Eureka! yet my heart will surely pour its flood more rapidly. ***** [Erased. Then commenced again.] When the hour of death shall come, my heart will applaud itself for its duty done. And then I will, as that noble but unfortunate child of imagination, the Russian poet, Púshkin, turn to my books, my happy! happy books! and say, "Farewell my friends." And the climax approaching, reach it, with the words full of that same duty done, "Life is finished!"

AUGUST 1st.-To-day I have met with a man who pretends a great liking for me, but in an odd way. He hints that he is willing to do anything, to make any sacrifice for me. Rather remarkable this, for a decided stranger. However, I never esteem anything strange; it would be too much like the world to say that strange things happen.

I am a man who desires that no one shall do the least thing for me, in the form of a favor. And I am certainly determined that no one shall make a sacrifice for me, for two very good reasons—the one on his account, the other on mine. First, in doing any small act, a man degrades himself, and reflects sadly on human nature; and he likewise secures from me sure contempt. Again, it is painful to me to think, that a man should make me intervene, and become the means of degrading himself.

As to the sudden and ill-hatched affection, I am well enough acquainted with the human heart to understand it. I have money he thinks, or something he would like to partake in the enjoyment, not as a friend, but as one serving me in some

capacity. Not as a slave, nor as a menial, but as a sycophantic wretch, who wishes to share, as an underling, one's fortune or reputation, as may be. They are different persons now it may be perceived: the one gives you the service of his hands for work, his feet for errands; the other caters for your amusement, tantalizes his intellect for your pleasure-in fact, gives you his mental service, and, if you wish it, is ready, likewise, to barter his soul's service for your gold; and, he cares not a tittle for your favor, if it come without your gold.

To have a slave is wise; for so many and so great are man's physical wants, and so contracted is his valuable time, that a serving man is positively demanded. Now, I have thought of it well-I have reasoned on it; and come to the conclusion, that it may also be most wise in man, to have one who can yield mental service, too; and when he comes uninvited, and you may likely get his services at your own price. I will try it, for at times there presses a weighty melancholy on my mind; and amusement, like the wind in the bay, which diverts the waters from their old channels, or chokes and swells them unnaturally there, is the blotting out, or smothering of painful memories.

Kings and feudal lords have had their fools to wile away the monotony of a seclusive life; and other men have had the same, frequently when they were unconscious of it; for as the king has his fool, you have your favorite servant, who is accustomed to serve the same end. And so all men, the major portion of whose lives are devoted to no particular end, but whose constant ailment is ennui.

Perhaps one of these creatures may serve for something more than the mere amusement of the otherwise lonely hours