sources of emotion dammed up, were wasting my heart away with a suppressed ebb and flow, as if all my keenest energies were rusting in their scabbard. I should not, were I plunged into action, have time to die. As it is, I feel, like the old sage, who covered his face with his cloak, and sate himself down, waiting for death.

A. But why not enter public life then at once? L. Look at me. Am I in a state to canvass some free borough? to ride here to walk there -to disguise-to bustle-to feast-to flatterto lie?

A. But your relation, Lord L?

L. Has offered me a seat if I will support his party, the old Tories.

A. And your college friend, N?

L. Has forgotten me; yet none more than he will grieve, for an hour at least, when I am dead. Let me return to my image of the sage and his cloak, I have always thought it one of the most affecting anecdotes in history. When Pericles, hearing of the determination of the

philosopher, (who, you remember, was his preceptor, Anaxagoras,) hastened to the spot where he sat, and tarried for the last release; he implored the sage in a late and unavailing grief to struggle with his approaching fate, and to baffle the gathering death. "Oh, Pericles," said the old man, stung by the memory of long neglect, and in a feeble and dying voice, as he just lifted his face from his mantle, "they who need the lamp do not forget to feed it with oil."

Returning to the excitement and the animation of the political world around; how strangely falls the sound of tumult on the ear of one who is about to die-how strange doth it seem to behold life so busy and death so near! It is this contrast which, I own, gives me the most mournful-though vague and reluctantly acknowledged-feelings that I experience; it gives me a dejection, an envy; my higher and more soaring thoughts desert me, I become sensible only of my weakness, of my want of use, in this world where all are buckling to their armour, and awaiting an excitation, an enterprise, and a

danger. I remember all my old ambition—my former hopes-my energies-my anticipations; I see the great tides of action sweep over me, and behold myself not even wrestling with death, but feel it gather and darken upon me, unable to stir or to resist. I could compare myself to some neglected fountain in a ruined city: amidst the crumbling palaces of Hope, which have fallen around me, the waters of life ooze away in silence and desolation."

L's voice faltered a little as he spoke, and his dog, whether, as I often think, there is in that animal an instinct which lets him know by a look, by a tone of voice, when the object of his wonderful fidelity and affection is sad at heart; his dog, an old pointer, that he had cherished for many years, and was no less his companion in the closet, than it had been in the chase, came up to him and licked his hand. I own this little incident affected me, and the tears rushed into my eyes. But I was yet more

softened when I saw L

's tears were falling

fast over the honest countenance of the dog; I

knew well what was passing in his mind-no womanly weakness-no repining at death; of all men he had suffered most, and felt most keenly, the neglect and perfidy of friends; and, at that moment, he was contrasting a thousand bitter remembrances with the simple affection of that humble companion. I never saw Lweep before, though I have seen him in trying afflictions, and though his emotions are so easily excited that he never utters a noble thought, or reads a touching sentiment in poetry, but you may perceive a certain moisture in his eyes, and a quiver on his lips.

Our conversation drooped after this, and though I stayed with him for some hours longer, I do not remember any thing else that day, worth repeating.

VOL. II.

CONVERSATION THE THIRD.

THE FRENCH WORLDLY PHILOSOPHERS-THE FIRST STEP IN WISDOM IS TO LEARN TO THINK, NO MATTER HOW-THOUGHT CORRECTS ITSELF-BRILLIANT WRITERS LESS DANGEROUS THAN DULL ONES -WHY-FAULTS OF CERTAIN PHILOSOPHERS-L...., THE RESPECTFUL AFFECTION HE EXCITES-THE HEART TURNS FROM DEATH PASSAGE IN BOLINGBROKE PRIVATE LIFE DOES NOT AFFORD A VENT FOR ALL OUR SUSCEPTIBILITIES—A TOUCHING

THOUGHT IN MILTON'S LATIN POEMS-REMARKS ON BYRON, AND THE CHARACTERISTICS OF A TRUE POET FOR THE PRESENT DAYPORTRAIT OF A HERO IN THE SERVICE OF TRUTH.

I CALLED on Lthe next day; K——————, one of the few persons he admits, was with him; they were talking on those writers who have directed their philosophy towards matters of the world; who have reduced wisdom into epigrams, and given the Goddess of the Grove and the Portico the dress of a lady of fashion. "Never,