heavy weeks of unmitigated dulness and empty trifling, he still looked upon her lips as eloquence. She drove him at length, however, from all his positions and defences, and he is now certified that his wife is a fool. Now an ill-conditioned countenance, accompanied, as it always is of course, with shining abilities, and all the arts of pleasing, has this signal compensation; that it improves under observation, grows less and less objectionable the more you look into it and the better you know it; till it becomes almost agreeable on its own account-nay, really so-actually pretty whereas beauty, we have seen, witless beauty, cannot resist the test of long acquaintance, but declines, as you gaze, while in the full pride of its perfection; "fades on the eye, and palls upon the sense," with all its bloom about it. Talents bribe and bias the judgment in favour of ordinary features, in the same manner that it is sometimes bewitched by beauty in behalf of folly; with this distinction, that in the first case the error, once formed, knows no change; and in the other is but a passing dream-the mistake of a month the fascination of a honey-moon.

I may illustrate this point, I hope, without the charge of irreverence, by some notice of our sentiments with regard to brute animals, who, whatever may be their own convictions, are, in our opinions, distinguished by great personal contrasts, many gradations of comeliness, and striking differences of feeling and intelligence. I went the other day to visit a collection of wild beasts, which had just arrived in a retired country town, where, being quite new to most of the people, they were received with eager curiosity. The first word uttered by every one on his entrance into the place of exhibition, was some expression of sudden and irresistible disgust at the elephant-that monster of matter, and miracle of mind, as Buffon calls it-an animal that nature seems to have only half made; the sketch, the rough-draught of a brute; a mass of deformity rendered hideous by a resemblance only to life-like the sculptor's statue just visible in the block; or some creature that a child might scrawl upon paper. Look at his clubbed, post-like legs! What a foot and ancle! And

then his tail!-if ever a tail were ignominious, it is his: and mercy!his carcase!-mean with all its magnitude,-his hogged back-sneaking haunches and rugged, sooty, stony, hide!-a hay-stack set upon piles, or the waggon that encloses him, might as soon be mistaken for a living being. Loathsome! frightful! dreadful! such was the style of comment that escaped from the mouths of men and women, as they cast a hasty and scornful glance upon this wise brute of the east. They then crowded about the dens of the other beasts, and nothing was heard but exclamations of delight and admiration at the grand mane of the lion, the rich spotted skin of the tiger, and the dazzling stripes of the zebra. It was curious to observe how soon this feeling subsided, how soon the interest of mere colour and form was exhausted, and lost in satiety-indifference-disregard. In the mean time, a little group that have recovered from the hurry of their first impressions, and are in a state to receive the truth, assemble about the poor patient piece of overgrown awkwardness, whom we have just so much abused-the calumniated elephant. He begins to be found out— he has had time to unfold himself, and his party every moment increases: now a deserter from the lion, and now a turn-coat from the tiger, come over to his side, till at last the whole company, who had so lately combined to vilify him, are jostling and elbowing one another, to witness his sagacity and share his notice. No one talks of his unsightliness now; his intelligence, his gentle manners, and kind, communicative, eye, have won all hearts: he is the sole favourite the pet of the show. The miracles of his trunkexercise alone are worth all the lions in the world, and the zebras to boot. Observe with what mixed propriety, handiness, and grace, he turns, and curves, and curls, that wonderful instrument, which can knock down a house, or pick up a pin! See with what politeness and tenderness he gives his keeper the wall!a horse would tread upon your toes and say nothing; but he knows his own weight and your worth better. Look at him! a lamb in every thing but littleness:-like Elia's giantess, "he

goeth mincingly"-being nine thousand six hundred pounds weight. And is this a creature to be despised for his hide? No, no---the women now are patting his iron sides, and think him" really not so very ugly;" they coax him, and joke, and laugh with him, and pull out their halfpence ungrudgingly, to buy him cakes, and see him eat them. "Now, ma'am, observe," says the keeper and straight he pokes a biscuit into that droll little puckered mouth of his, like a letter into a letter-box -and that is all you have for your penny. And now a mother trusts her infant to his keeping; he cradles it in a bend of his trunk, and stands motionless, like a figure of patience and parental love. The child screams, and he hears and understands; nay, fear not, he would not, his eye swears to you he would not, harm it, for his liberty. There is no standing this---bursts of applause---" noble brute"-" generous animal"-"tender soul"- -come quick from all tongues; nay, as a climax to his triumph, even, "pretty creature," is not spared, so true it is that, "handsome is, that handsome does." To pursue the parallel to the utmost of its bearing on my subject, I may state that this affectionate admiration was not more lively than it will be durable. The good folks will soon forget the lion's mane and the zebra's stripes; but their interchange of kindly thoughts and kindly acts with the elephant, are matters of the head and heart, and are not to be forgotten.

I

To return to my humanities. have hitherto presumed, in compliance with the exactions of the censorious, that a person, to be handsome, must be without mind and feeling; and have made out, I think, even with this admission, that good looks have still their term of reverence. But, as I have already intimated, my actual opinions are far less harsh and exclusive. However the case may be between the tyger and the elephant, I am by no means assured that, with us, the highest intelligence, and the most engaging manners, are inseparable from the coarsest figures. The elephants amongst us have their sure reward, and they deserve it (that is my moral); but we are not all elephants

that look so. I have no faith in the natural alliance of beauty and folly: whatever may be the laws of its distribution, I believe that mind has no uniform dependance upon our eyes and noses; I believe that there are no mutual influences between wisdom and a white skin; in a word, that the loveliest woman on earth may have all the wit, and fancy, and tenderness, and polish, and grace, that ennoble the sallow Mrs. Band the red-haired Miss C- - I am aware of the disturbance that I may raise about my ears, by this inordinate declaration. Am I raving? do I know what I mean? What excuse do I propose to the worthy many, the ugly, the plain, the middling, and the so-so, when I thus load the few-the elect, forsooth, with the means of gaining, not alone all eyes, but all hearts? Patience--patience---the case is not altered a tittle. If the beautiful win hearts and retain them (for that is the desideratum) they derive their power from their intellects, and their affections, from all those qualities which they have in common with the ugly; (our language is sadly deficient in terms for those who are not handsome); while their beauty is still no more than I have described it to be--a light additament---not eyes and nose, but their colour and shape; a pretty, a very pretty, trifle, well worth the having; but not worth the pride and arrogance of many that have it, nor the envy and illhumour of more that want it. This is the fact, be assured: quote not from Moore or his imitators; look to nature and truth: look round upon your married acquaintance.

There is one certain comfort for all those who are foolish and cruel enough to desire it. The most beautiful must lose their beauty---a forfeiture that at once atones for all their crimes of face. The leveller, Fifty, will have his day, when the beauty will find no sighs for her losses in any heart but her own. I advert to this pitiless epoch, much less as a consolation to the envious, than as a warning to those whom it most concerns; and with this warn ing (beware and be wise), delivered with all friendliness and respect from one not of the elect, I conclude.

R. A.

-an

A POOR Relation is-the most irrelevant thing in nature, a piece of impertinent correspondency,odious approximation,-a haunting conscience, a preposterous shadow, lengthening in the noon-tide of your prosperity, an unwelcome remembrancer, -a perpetually recurring mortification,--a drain on your purse, -a more intolerable dun upon your pride, a drawback upon success, a rebuke to your rising,-a stain in your blood,--a blot on your scutcheon, a rent in your garment,—a death's head at your banquet,-Agathocles' pot, a Mordecai in your gate,-a Lazarus at your door,-a lion in your path,-a frog in your chamber, -a fly in your ointment,-a mote in your eye, a triumph to your enemy, an apology to your friends,-the one thing not needful,-the hail in harvest,--the ounce of sour in a pound of sweet, the bore par excellence.

He is known by his knock. Your heart telleth you "That is Mr. -." A rap, between familiarity and re

spect; that demands, and, at the same time, seems to despair of, entertainment. He entereth smiling, and-embarrassed. He holdeth out his hand to you to shake, anddraweth it back again. He casually looketh in about dinner time—when the table is full. He offereth to go away, seeing you have companybut is induced to stay. He filleth a chair, and your visitor's two children are accommodated at a side table. He never cometh upon open days, when your wife says with some complacency, "My dear, perhaps Mr.

will drop in to-day." He remembereth birth-days-and professeth he is fortunate to have stumbled upon one. He declareth against fish, the turbot being small-yet suffereth himself to be importuned into a slice against his first resolution. He sticketh by the port-yet will be prevailed upon to empty the remainder glass of claret,-if a stranger press it upon him. He is a puzzle to the servants, who are fearful of

being too obsequious, or not civil enough, to him. The guests think "they have seen him before." Every one speculateth upon his condition; and the most part take him to be a tide-waiter. He calleth you by your Christian name, to imply that his other is the same with your own. He is too familiar by half, yet you wish he had less diffidence. With half the familiarity, he might pass for a casual dependent; with more boldness, he would be in no danger of being taken for what he is. He is too humble for a friend, yet taketh on him more state than befits a client. He is a worse guest than a country tenant, inasmuch as he bringeth up no rent-yet 'tis odds, from his garb and demeanour, that your other guests take him for one. He is asked to make one at the whist table; refuseth on the score of poverty, and -resents being left out. When the company break up, he proffereth to go for a coach-and lets the servant go. He recollects your grandfather; and will thrust in some mean, and quite unimportant anecdote of-the family. He knew it when it was not quite so flourishing as "he is blest in seeing it now." He reviveth past situations, to institute what he calleth-favourable comparisons. With a reflecting sort of congratulation, he will inquire the price of your furniture; and insults you with a special commendation of your windowcurtains. He is of opinion that the urn is the more elegant shape, but, after all, there was something more comfortable about the old tea-kettle -which you must remember. He dare say you must find a great convenience in having a carriage of your own, and appealeth to your lady if it Inquireth if you have had your arms done on vellum yet; and did not know till lately, that such-and-such had been the crest of the family. His memory is unseasonable; his compliments perverse; his talk a trouble; his stay pertinacious; and when he goeth away, you dismiss his chair into a corner, as precipitately as possible, and feel fairly rid of two nuisances.

is not so.

There is a worse evil under the sun, and that is-a female Poor Relation. You may do something with the other; you may pass him off tolerably well; but your indigent she

Relative is hopeless." He is an old humourist," you may say, "and affects to go threadbare. His circumstances are better than folks would take them to be. You are fond of having a Character at your table, and truly he is one." But in the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman dresses below herself from caprice. The truth must out without shuffling. "She is plainly related to the Ls; or what does she at their house?" She is, in all probability, your wife's cousin. Nine times out of ten, at least, this is the case. Her garb is something between a gentlewoman and a beggar, yet the former evidently predominates. She is most provokingly humble, and ostentatiously sensible to her inferiority. He may require to be repressed sometimes-aliquando sufflaminandus erat-but there is no raising her. You send her soup at dinner, and she begs to be helped-after the gentlemen. Mr. requests the honour of taking wine with her; she hesitates between Port and Madeira, and chooses the former-because he does. She calls the servant Sir; and insists on not troubling him to hold her plate. The housekeeper patronizes her. The children's governess takes upon her to correct her, when she has mistaken the piano for a harpsichord.

Richard Amlet, Esq. in the play, is a notable instance of the disadvantages, to which this chimerical notion of affinity constituting a claim to acquaintance, may subject the spirit of a gentleman. A little foolish blood is all that is betwixt him and a lady with a great estate. His stars are perpetually crossed by the malignant maternity of an old woman, who persists in calling him "her son Dick." But she has wherewithal in the end to recompense his indignities, and float him again upon the brilliant surface, under which it had been her seeming business and pleasure all along to sink him. All men, besides, are not of Dick's temperament. I knew an Amlet in real life, who, wanting Dick's buoyancy, sank indeed. Poor W

was of my

own standing at Christ's, a fine classic, and a youth of promise. If he had a blemish, it was too much pride; but its quality was inoffensive; it

was not of that sort which hardens the heart, and serves to keep inferiors at a distance; it only sought to ward off derogation from itself. It was the principle of self-respect carried as far as it could go, without infringing upon that respect, which he would have every one else equally maintain for himself. He would have you to think alike with him on this topic. Many a quarrel have I had with him, when we were rather older boys, and our tallness made us more obnoxious to observation in the blue clothes, because I would not thrid the alleys and blind ways of the town with him, to elude notice, when we have been out together on a holiday in the streets of this sneering and prying metropolis. W– went, sore with these notions, to Oxford, where the dignity and sweetness of a scholar's life, meeting with the alloy of a humble introduction, wrought in him a passionate devotion to the place, with a profound aversion from the society. The servitor's gown (worse than his school array) clung to him with Nessian venom. He thought himself ridiculous in a garb, under which Latimer must have walked erect; and in which Hooker, in his young days, possibly flaunted in a vein of no discommendable vanity. In the depth of college shades, or in his lonely chamber, the poor student slunk from observation. He found shelter among books, which insult not; and studies, that ask no questions of a youth's finances. He was lord of his library, and seldom cared for looking out beyond his domains. The healing influence of studious pursuits was upon him, to soothe and to abstract. He was almost a healthy man; when the waywardness of his fate broke out against him with a second and worse malignity. The father of W- had hitherto exercised the humble profession of house painter at N near Oxford. A supposed interest with some of the heads of colleges had now induced him to take up his abode in that city, with the hope of being employed upon some public works which were talked of. From that moment I read in the countenance of the young man, the determination which at length tore him from academical pursuits for ever.

To a person unacquainted with our Universities, the distance between the gownsmen and the townsmen, as they are called---the trading part of the latter especially---is carried to an excess that would appear harsh and incredible. The temperament of W's father was diametrically the reverse of his own. Old Wwas a little, busy, cringing tradesman, who, with his son upon his arm, would stand bowing and scraping, cap in hand, to any thing that wore the semblance of a gown---insensible to the winks, and opener remonstrances of the young man, to whose chamber-fellow, or equal in standing perhaps, he was thus obsequiously and gratuitously ducking. Such a state of things could not last. W-must change the air of Oxford, or be suffocated. He chose the former; and let the sturdy moralist, who strains the point of the filial duties as high as they can bear, censure the dereliction; he cannot estimate the struggle. I stood with W, the last afternoon I ever saw him, under the eaves of his paternal dwelling. It was in the fine lane leading from the High-street to the back of college, where W– kept his rooms. He seemed thoughtful, and more reconciled. I ventured to rally him--finding him in a better mood---upon à representation of the Artist Evangelist, which the old man, whose affairs were beginning to flourish, had caused to be set up in a splendid sort of frame over his really handsome shop, either as a token of prosperity, or badge of gratitude to his saint. W- looked up at the Luke, and like Satan, "knew his mounted sign---and fled." A letter on his father's table the next morning announced, that he had accepted a commission in a regiment about to embark for Portugal. He was among the first who perished before the walls of St. Sebastian.

I do not know how, upon a subject which I began with treating half seriously, I should have fallen upon a recital so eminently painful; but this theme of poor relationship is replete with so much matter for tragic as well as comic associations, that it is difficult to keep the account distinct without blending. The earliest impressions which I received on this matter, are certainly not attended