"How happy," said Maynard, "would one half the praise and the honour lavished on an author after his death have made him during his lifetime! Let the grave close over the hand that has laboured through feverish midnights,—over the warm heart that beat so painfully; let the ear be closed to that applause which was its sweetest music;—and then how lavish we grow of all that was before so harshly denied! Then the marble is carved with eulogium; then the life is written; and thousands are lavish of pity and sympathy: every thing is given when it is too late to give anything!"
"But you, my dear Walter,"interrupted his friend, "are a successful writer;
'Your works are charming, for they sell;
and you are yourself a welcome guest, flattered!"
"You have used the right word," interrupted the young poet, colouring; "I am flattered, because flattery is a sort of com-
