selves till we forget those very others for whose applause we are striving; disappointment comes, as it often does, to even well-founded hopes—then how much more so to exaggerated expectation? mortification succeeds, and vanity covers all as a garment, but a poisoned one, like the centaur's, envenoming and inflaming every wound.
Conversation is forced or languid, insipid or ill-natured; and a celebrated author may retire, leaving his character behind, but taking with him the comfortable conviction that his mind has played false to its powers; that he has despised the flatterer, but loved the flattery—at once ungrateful and exacting; that he has praised himself—the worst of praise is that given in hopes of return; and that he carries away with him a worldliness and selfishness, which, like the coming of the sandy waves of the desert, will, sooner or later, dry up and destroy all the fair gardens and the fresh springs in the Egypt of his imagination.
We talk of the encouragement now given to talents—of genius as the most universal passport to society. This may be good for the individual, but not so for literature. The anxious struggle—the loneliness of neglect—the con-
