1 lous; and 1 laugh now to reflect on the sober good faith with which I long set myself against the current. Circumstances mixed me up pretty largely with society of various kinds. I had an immense and heterogeneous assemblage of friends and acquaintance; and circumstances also placed me in positions where I had an extensive power of expressing my opinions. I do not think there is any possible combination of laudatory words with which I am not acquainted -which I have not in some shape applied to every living creature I know-and what was my reward? All made use of me, and yet scarcely considered my services worthy of thanks; and at last a wit whom I had puffed, even to my last puff, remarked in an aside, meant to be audible, that if my words could be distilled and bottled, they might be hung against peach-trees to catch wasps with, instead of honey-water! In private, my good nature equally, or even more signally failed. From my multitudinous connexions, I had the mortification of hearing every one I knew and cared for, severally and soundly abused. It was in vain I disproved, proved, and reproved the more I tried to stop the scandal, the faster it moved-it was Mynheer Von Wodenblock's enchanted leg. Surely I was a true friend! How I travelled from circle to circle the perfect genius of laudation, and the personification of Thomson's "etherial mildness!" I am afraid there was a little alloy in my motive springing from the timidity of my nature;-hating and dreading censure myself, I supposed every one else hated and dreaded it equally; and I hoped, that if I was so generous in administering praise, others would be as generous in making a return. I found out at last, that the majority of persons in the world-persons, rather, who live before the world-do not care what or how much is said of them; and that the major part of the ill-nature in the world is oftener the result of wit and idleness, than of sheer malice and ill intention. But these praiseful moods of mine are long since past; I no longer tax my memory to carry to this friend the compliment I heard paid him by that; I no longer transmit to one author the eulogy penned upon him by another; I can join in a laugh at my neighbour's expense; and instead of discreetly forgetting a witty libel, I can help to affix it to the back it was meant for. It was in self-defence that I suffered my transcendental goodnature to ooze from me-I found that I was invariably reckoned on as a sure man-I found that not more than a few did justice to my real kindliness of heart-I found that, with all my sparing of others, I was never spared myself; or, if spared, was laughed at-I found myself slighted in public and passed over in parties-no one asked my opinion, and no one listened to my remarks Augusta sings, but no one hears her; Augusta sighs, but no one cheers her. I was such "a good creature" that every one treated me badly, till self-love would bear it no longer, and I determined to amend. Since I altered my tactics, it is astonishing how much my position in society is improved-how much more attention I gain-and how much better I am thought of. I can now barb an epigram with the best, (and may in time come to dip the point in poison,)—I can twist a meaning, suggest a motive, affix a soubriquet, add wings to a personal joke, sneer in print, talk scandal in private, and cut throats in my dreams. And I am better liked-have gained a character for being clever, whilst my personal comfort is increased. People who ventured to slight me in my good-natured days, are paragons of attention to me, now that I am good-natured no longer. I am listened to when I speak; and if I promise a service, it is no longer considered a right, but a favour. The only danger is, that I may go too far; and in my escape from an excess of complimentary, obliging, officious desire to please, may become really spiteful -as indiscriminate in my sarcasms as I once was in my praise. I sometimes fear that I may prove, that very sour vinegar can be made from very sweet sugar. Athenæum. II. THE SLEEPER. YE waters, flow tranquilly on to the ocean, Ye winds, through the green branches tenderly sighing, And still as an infant whose slumber is deep- Ye sweet birds, so lightly among the leaves springing, 2 E Monthly Mag. THE WORLD AS IT IS. "WHAT a delightful thing the world is! Lady Lennox's ball, last night-how charming it was!-every one so kind, and Charlotte looking so pretty-the nicest girl I ever saw! But I must dress now. Balfour is to be here at twelve with the horse he wants to sell How lucky I am to have such a friend as Balfour!—so entertaining so good-natured-so devilish clever too-and such an excellent heart! Ah! how unlucky! it rains a little; but never mind, it will clear up; and if it don't-why, there's billiards. What a delightful thing the world is!" me. So soliloquized Charles Nugent, a man of twenty-one—a philanthropist an optimist. Our young gentleman was an orphan, of good family and large fortune; brave, generous, confiding, and openhearted. His ability was above the ordinary standard, and he had a warm love and a pure taste for letters. He had even bent a knee to Philosophy, but the calm and cold graces with which the goddess receives her servants had soon discontented the young votary with the worship. "Away!" cried he, one morning, flinging aside the volume of La Rochefoucault, which he had fancied he understood; "Away with this selfish and debasing code !-men are not the mean things they are here described-be it mine to think exultingly of my species!" My dear Experience, with how many fine sentiments do you intend to play the devil? It is not without reason that Goethe tells us, that though Fate is an excellent, she is also a very expensive schoolmistress. "Ha! my dear Nugent, how are you?" and Captain Balfour enters the room: a fine, dark, handsome, fellow, with something of pretension in his air and a great deal of frankness. "And here is the horse. Come to the window. Does not he step finely? What action! Do you remark his forehand? How he carries his tail! Gad, I don't think you shall have him, after all!" "Nay, my dear fellow, you may well be sorry to part with him. Quite sound-eh ?" "Have him examined." would not take your word for it? The price?" Prince Paul once offered me a hundred-and-eighty; but to you"You shall have it." "No, Nugent-say, a hundredand-fifty." "I won't be outdone-there's a draft for the 180%." "Upon my soul, I'm ashamed; but you are such a rich fellow. John, take the horse to Mr Nugent's stables. Where will you dine He is superb! "Do you think I "Fix it yourself. to-day?-at the Cocoa-tree?" "With all my heart." The young men rode together. Nugent was delighted with his new purchase. They dined at the Cocoa-tree. 66 Balfour ordered some early peaches. Nugent paid the Bill. They went to the Opera. "Do you see that danseuse, Florine ?" asked Balfour. "Pretty ancle-eh ?" Yes, camme ca-but dances awkwardlynot handsome." "What! not handsome? Come and talk to her. She's more admired than any girl on the stage." They went behind the scenes, and Balfour convinced his friend that he ought to be enchanted with Florine. Before the week was out, the danseuse kept her carriage, and in return, Nugent supped with her twice aweek. Nugent had written a tale for "The Keepsake;" it was his first literary effort; it was tolerably good, and exceedingly popular. One day he was lounging over his breakfast, and a tall, thin gentleman, in black, was announced by the name of Mr Gilpin. "Mr Gilpin made a most respectful bow, and heaved a peculiarly profound sigh. Nugent was instantly seized with a lively interest in the stranger. "Sir, it is with great regret," faltered forth Mr Gilpin, "that I seek you. I—I—I—” A low, consumptive cough checked his speech. Nugent offered him a cup of tea. The civility was refused, and the story continued. Mr Gilpin's narration is soon told, when he himself is not the narrator. An unfortunate literary man-once in affluent circumstances-security for a treacherous friend-friend absconded-pressure of unforeseen circumstancesangel wife and four cherub children-a book coming out next season-deep distress at present-horror at being forced to beg―generous sentiments expressed in the tale written by Mr Nugent forcibly struck him-a ray of hope broke on his mind-and voila the causes of Mr Gilpin's distress and Mr Gilpin's visit. Never was there a more interesting personification of the afflicted man of letters than Gregory Gilpin. He looked pale, patient, and respectable; he coughed frequently, and he was dressed in deep mourning. Nugent's heart swelled-he placed a bank-note in Mr Gilpin's handshe promised more effectual relief, and Mr Gilpin retired, overpowered with his own gratitude and Mr Nugent's respectful compassion. "How happy I am to be rich!" said the generous young philanthropist, throwing open his chest. She Nugent went to a conversazione at Lady Lennox's. Her Ladyship was a widow, and a charming woman. She was a little of the blue, and a little of the fine lady, and a little of the beauty, and a little of the coquette, and a great deal of the sentimentalist. had one daughter, without a shilling; she had taken a warm interest in a young man of the remarkable talents and amiability of Charles Nugent. He sate next her-they talked of the heartlessness of the world-it is a subject on which men of twenty-one and ladies of forty-five are especially eloquent. Lady Lennox complained, Mr Nugent defended. "One does not talk much of innocence," it is said, or something like it is said, somewhere in Madame d'Epinay's Memoirs, "without being sadly corrupted ;" and nothing brings out the goodness of our own hearts more than a charge against the heartlessness of others. "An excellent woman!" thought Nugent; "what warm feelings!-how pretty her daughter is! Oh, a charming family!" Charlotte Lennox played an affecting air; Nugent leaned over the piano; they talked about music, poetry, going on the water, sentiment and Richmond Hill. They made up a party of pleasure. Nugent did not sleep well that night he was certainly in love. When he rose the next morning, the day was bright and fine; Balfour, the best of friends, was to be with him in an hour; Balfour's horse, the best of horses, was to convey him to Richmond; and at Richmond he was to meet Lady Lennox, the most agreeable of mothers-and Charlotte, the most enchanting of daughters. The danseuse had always been a boreshe was now forgotten. "It certainly is a delightful world!" repeated Nugent, as he tied his neckcloth. It was some time-we will not say how long-after the date of this happy day; Nugent was alone in his apartment, and walking to and fro-his arms folded, and a frown upon his brow. "What a rascal! what a mean wretch!-and the horse was lame when he sold it not worth ten pounds!-and I so confiding-damn my folly! That, however, I should not mind; but to have saddled me with his cast-off mistress!-to make me the laughing-stock of the world! By heavens he shall repent it! Borrowed money of me, then made a jest of my good-nature !-introduced me to his club, in order to pillage me!-but, thank God, thank Ġod, I can shoot him yet! Ha! Colonel; this is kind!" Colonel Nelmore, an elderly gentleman, well known in society, with a fine forehead, a shrewd, contemplative eye, and an agreeable address, entered the room. To him Nugent poured forth the long list of his grievances, and concluded by begging him to convey a challenge to the best of friends-Captain Balfour. The Colonel raised his eyebrows. "But,—my dear sir,-this gentleman has certainly behaved ill to you, I allow it—but for what specific offence do you mean to challenge him?" "For his conduct in general." The Colonel laughed. 66 For saying yesterday, then, that was grown a damned bore, and he should cut me in future. He told Selwyn so in the bow-window at White's." The Colonel took snuff. "My good young friend," said he, "I see you don't know the world. Come d dine with me to-day-a punctual seven. We'll talk over these |