lull all of the strong passions to sleep, and, in their place, a thousand petty emotions hurry about, making up in noise what they want in importance. The society and solitude of an author's life realise the old fable of Castor and Pollux, who had an earthly and heavenly life between them. In society, all his more earthly nature preponderates; his mind, however different its stature and fashion may be, must wear the same dress as its neighbours.
There is nothing people are so much ashamed of as truth. It is a common observation, that those whose writings are most melancholy are often most lively in conversation. They are ashamed of their real nature; and it is a curious fact, but one which all experience owns, that people do not desire so much to appear better, as to appear different from what they really are. A part is to be played in company, and most desire that part to be an attractive one; but nothing is more mistaken than the means. A sincere wish to please is sure to be successful: but instead of wishing to please, we rather desire to display. The eye is restless to watch its opportunity—the lip feverish with some treasured phrase; we grow jealous from competition, and envious with apprehension; we think of our-
