sciousness of merit—the resources which open to a mind flung back upon itself—will do more to stimulate exertion than praise or even profit. The flattered and followed author sees too soon the worthlessness and hollowness of the prize for which he contends. That desire, which is fame in solitude, and vanity in society, is like gazing at the stars with the naked eye, and through a telescope. In the latter, we see only a small bright point, whose nature is analysed, and whose distance is measured;—in the former, we go forth into the silent midnight, and our whole soul is filled with the mystery and beauty of those glorious and unattainable worlds. In a little time, imagination—that vivifying and redeeming principle in our nature—will be left only to the young. Look on all the great writers of the present day; are they not living instances of the truth of this assertion? After all, literary life grows too like the actual one. Illusions merge in realities—imagination gives place to memory—one grows witty instead of romantic; and poetry ends in prose, all the world over.
