generous disposition never dwelt in a human bosom; and as I was well acquainted with the goodness of his heart, I frequently made excuses for his impetuosity, where others would have been tempted to resent. Such compliances are absolutely necessary between friends; and who is worthy of being called a friend that is unwilling to yield such submission? The young and faithful vines entangle their branches, and bend together to the blast; and those who have united their hearts, should accord as if they were but one soul. Friendship is one of the purest of human ties; and the man that comes to me recommended as its participator, carries with him a surety of all other good qualities, and a ready passport to my heart. Poor Harry was rather tall and slight, having a pale complexion, which, however, added to the effect of a pair of bright hazel eyes, and a profusion of dark glossy locks. There was usually an expression of thoughtful melancholy in his features; but during moments of excitement, his face would light up with the intense fire of his spirit, and the past Harry Fielding could be scarcely recognized in the present. His face, indeed, was one of the most expressive I ever beheld, changing its character in harmony with his fluctuating feelings. The celerity with which his imagination passed from one subject to another, was very remarkable, and was, perhaps, closely connected with his future unhappiness. His affec tions were strong, and when they had become habitual, permanent; but, although he would fain persuade himself that his mind was perfectly under his control, his imagination was constantly undermining his heart. Too many, alas! thus deceive themselves, and believing that they can check their passions when they please, allow them to run unrestrained, until becoming conscious of their danger, they endeavour in vain to stop in their career, and, like an affrighted rider, who finds the horse no longer obedient to the rein, they suffer themselves to be hurried on to the destruction that awaits them.

"My friend had spent the greater part of his life with his family in the country; but possessing a little property, and feeling a confidence in his talents, he came to London, in order that his sphere of action might be enlarged, and that he might have an opportunity of obtaining that fame he so earnestly sought. I accompanied him, and being on terms of such friendly intimacy, we lived together. For some weeks after our arrival in town, we passed the time in visiting all those wonders which are considered so new and startling to strangers, but I well remember, that although my friend's spirit was bounding and happy, his anticipations of magnificence were disappointed. This was probably owing to the airy visions of grandeur, which his fancy had previously conjured up. It was, nevertheless, to us a new world,-one in which business and activity prevailed; and we delighted when we returned to our lodgings, to descant, sometimes in enthusiasm, sometimes in censure, on the objects we had seen, and to indulge in brilliant conjectures of our future career. Harry's features would then expand with the presumptuous joy of hope; and as he dwelt fondly on the imaginary homage of men, he turned his thoughts, and contemplated the

pleasure of proffering his own homage at the feet of his beloved Charlotte. But in all these things he was bitterly disappointed.

"Charlotte Grover was a sweet girl, and although her features were irregular, yet they were illumined by such an amiable expression, that it was impossible not to feel that she was beautiful. Harry had often been in her company; and he, always an admirer of intellectual beauty, gradually submitted to the influence of her charms. It is a difficult task to describe adequately the lovely Charlotte, or to tell in what charm her influence consisted it was not in the physical features, but in the moral ones, that her attractions dwelt; and if they did not astonish, they powerfully enchained the beholder. Her smile was one of the most witching that ever curled a downy lip; and a trick of pouting in mock anger, which she was habituated to, was, in her, perfectly enchanting. I can now, in my fancy, behold her little rosy lower lip swelling in disdain; and then turning her head, while a triumphant smile steals over her features; I can hear her gentle harmonious laugh, thrilling in sweet cadences, as if Rosini had set its tones to music. Her eyes were of a greyish blue colour, shaded by long dark eyelashes; but her soul shone through them, and gave them their captivation. In accordance with her character, her dark auburn hair, instead of being gathered up in a knot behind, was allowed to fall gracefully over her neck and shoulders; and sometimes, when she tossed her head with an air of regal dignity, her locks streamed backwards in wild natural beauty.

"It is not to be wondered that a poet should have admired such a graceful girl, and, admiring, should have glided into love. My friend delighted in her society, and before he left his home to enter upon his great career in life, he plighted her his troth. The maiden loved him with all the tenderness and ardour that inhabited her bosom, and was wont to gaze upon his intelligent face, and hang upon his words, as if he were a deity. Then, too, Harry loved her with equal intensity, and believed that neither time, place, nor other earthly considerations could ever diminish his affections. O! that there should be a fiend in man's own bosom, constantly tempting him to deviate from rectitude, by bribing his passions, glossing deceit, and excusing crime. The tempter rejoices in exposing the weakness of man, and encourages him to boast of his sincerity, only that his dereliction from his principles may be the more ignominious. But the principles of men in contending with the adversities of life, are too often like the bark, which, modelled on the best design, and constructed with the most unyielding strength, and, when launched into the sea, is the glory of the workman, returns, after a few tempestuous voyages, the victim of the winds,— a shattered and dangerous wreck.

"After we had spent a few weeks in London, my friend endeavoured to realise his glorious visions of honour, but found, that although London was a large place, and apparently offered more opportunities of advancement than any other, yet, in reality, its magnitude presented one of the greatest difficulties to the accomplishment of his wishes. When any of his plans had proved

abortive, he would return to his lodgings, and after he had communicated to me the first effervescence of spleen, he would seek consolation in abandoning himself to his recollections of his home, and Charlotte Grover. These remembrances, however, did not long act agreeably upon his mind, and I soon perceived that a settled melancholy and discontent tinged, with a gloomy colouring, all his thoughts.

"He had lately been accustomed to take solitary walks, and he had become fond of waiting upon a family that had shewn him great kindness, and which bore to him some distant relationship. I had always observed that when he returned from these visits he appeared troubled in mind, and cautiously avoided answering directly to the interrogatories, which I, in a friendly manner, sometimes put to him, respecting his secret disappearances. His humour was not rendered more agreeable by my allusions to Charlotte Grover, and if at any time I employed her name to rally him into cheerfulness, his irritablity was suddenly increased, and some careless or contemptuous expressions were not unfrequently dropped. I believed, however, that his chagrin was caused by his literary disappointments; for I knew his anxiety for fame to be intense, and his temper to be sensitive to an extreme degree. Acting upon these impressions, I occupied myself by devising new methods of success; but when I urged them upon him, I perceived that he had become negligent of further exertion, and that the subject was offensive to his mind. I then endeavoured to divert his attention by other means; but all my attempts failed, and there was evidently some cause of anguish existing that was unknown to me. At length he said to me, one evening in a tremulous tone- You know Charlotte, she is a gay girl; I do not think my death would grieve her much.' 'Nay, Harry,' answered I, she loves thee very devotedly; do not doubt her heart; thy death would certainly be the cause of hers.' He heaved a deep groan, and said in a thick sepulchral voice, if she does love me!' The gloom deepened over his brow, and fancying his grief was caused by a suspicion of Charlotte's levity, I answered, 'There is no if in the matter; her attachment is as eternal as her soul: his frame shuddered-and without noticing any further remark he abruptly left the apartment.

"His conduct was inexplicable, and I loved him so earnestly, that when he was gone, my bosom felt a pang for him, which it has not since felt for its own griefs. I had a great inclination to write to Charlotte; but what could I write? Should I ask her to send him a confession of her love? She had already made it. Should I inform her simply of his moody abstraction? How could that benefit him, if she knew not its cause ;-besides it was altogether imprudent, and perhaps, by a little more attention, I might be enabled to dissipate his gloom; and should thus avoid giving any unhappiness to others. Occupied with such troubled thoughts, and in doubt how to act, I paced to and fro the apartment, and then sat myself before a table, and tossed over some blotting paper that lay thereon, half unconscious of the action. As I turned over the

leaves, a sheet of paper caught my eye; and I immediately observed that verses were written upon it. The handwriting was Harry's, and knowing that he often scribbled these effusions, and having the prescriptive right of friendship to criticise or admire, I read them : These were the words :

The web, on which the sunbeams shine
Glistens t'allure the heedless fly,
Thus passion weaves its amorous line,
Enchaining all who fondly sigh.

To struggle with the toils is vain,
Each effort faster binds the cords;
Till death annuls the shame-the pain,
And shelter thus from woe affords.

Sweeter is death than passion burst-
Sweeter is death than memory's pang;
Cradled in thought young Love was nursed,
But round Death's head no memories hang.
We trod the beach, she leant on me,—
I loved her then-bear witness, Heaven!
I pledged my heart, and talked with glee,
Nor thought my heart would thus be riven!
She left her footsteps on the sand;
An envious wave the mark o'erswept :
Another paced the yielding strand,
The ocean rolled not where she stept.
An emblem of my heart; behold!
Once Charlotte's love its seal impressed,
Till razed by passions uncontrolled;

And Emma now rules o'er my breast.

"Well' said Ned, as the poet finished the recital of the verses, if thy friend could not string together better rhymes than those he deserved not the reputation he sought for. I could make better ones without warning, although I have never been in love; let us try'

'My heart is sick-I fain would fly

To regions where thou canst not come ;
Ah cruel fate! for both I sigh;

O diddly dee do diddly dum !'

"Hold thy peace, Ned," interrupted the Major, while, with the utmost difficulty, he restrained his risible muscles, 66 we will listen to thee when thou can'st write as well." Even the President smiled; and Dick reddening to the ears, entered with jealous anxiety into an elaborate defence of the verses. He analysed each sentiment, and exhibited it to us, in every possible relation, and then to excuse whatever appeared tame or obscure, he said, "You must remember, gentlemen, that these lines were written when my poor friend was in great anguish ; and, whatever critics may say to the contrary, I know, from my own experience, that there cannot be a worse time for composition. There is a certain repose necessary for the pursuit of ideas, and passion is entirely at variance with such a condition of mind. No good poetry can be written when the intellect is labouring under acute actual sorrow; although very excellent

poetry descriptive of the most intense passion, can be composed after the more violent excitement has subsided. This, must be my friend's extenuation." "Very good," said Subtle; "poetry is an art, an imitation of nature: your evidence goes to prove, that the mind must be moved by an artificial, not a natural passion, in order to write good poetry. "You see, gentlemen," continued the barrister, addressing the club triumphantly, "this fine sentimental poetry is nothing, after all, but an imposition, a mere farce; it is not necessary to possess those tender feelings which the poets would lead us to believe they do, to write sentiment!" "I beg your pardon, Mr. Subtle," returned Dick, somewhat piqued for the honour of his art, "the sentiment must have been felt in order to describe it faithfully; although it is not necessary that the mind should be under a natural agitation at the time, yet such feelings must have been previously experienced; for out of nothing comes nothing. Poetry is composed of the ideas impressed on the memory, adorned with the beautiful figures of the imagination, and arranged by the judgment in conformity with nature and good taste." This discussion might not have ended here, if the president, fearing an acrimonious dispute, had not interfered. "Prate is but prate," said he, “none can play the fool so well as a sage: a man's folly is his foe; his discretion is his best friend.-Let us make peace, and we shall be glad to hear our friend continue his tale."

Dick thus called upon, after waiting a few minutes to recover the train of his ideas, recommenced ::- "These verses immediately gave me the secret of my friend's grief; and I conceived, to their full extent, the dilemma in which he was placed, and the conflicting passions which must consequently harrow his mind. The conduct before so unaccountable, was now explained; and if anything yet appeared extraordinary, it was, that I had not been made acquainted with the state of his heart; and that I had not even heard the name of the maiden mentioned either in sport or sorrow. He was not, however, of a communicative temper; and he often felt deep perturbation of soul, without designing to proclaim it, so that he might have the comfort of another's participation.

For his was not that open artless soul,
That seeks relief by bidding sorrow flow;
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole,

Whate'er his grief might be, which he could not control.'

"His usual aspect was that of gloom; his character that of reserve; and although he had hitherto treated me with unbounded confidence, it was not often that I intruded on the secrets of his heart. Being now, probably, conscious of some indiscretion, and fearing my censure, he resolved rather to remain silent, than to submit his heart to the scrutiny of his friend. Suffering under his own condemnation, he dreaded the reproofs of another. Harry was in error if he supposed that I could be one who would have been eager to heap animadversion and contempt on misery. The heart that has erred, and is suffering for its error, should be treated with kindness rather than reprobation, and solicited rather than forced to the paths of virtue.

N. S.-VOL. II,

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