Has it never occurred to you why it is that we hear so many persons express the disappointment generally felt in the society of authors whose works have afforded them the greatest pleasure? Is it not, that in the works we perused the secret thoughts, the elevated aspirations poured forth in solitude, and addressed to the minds, and not to the ears, of men? How much more freely can a writer give forth his sentiments to the public, than to his most intimate friends! In perusing a work, we make acquaintance at once with the mind of its creator, free from the constraint imposed by conventional ceremony. We are not influenced by his countenance or manner; by the sound of his voice, or the tie of his cravat; all of which frivolous accessories bias our judgment of him, more or less, however much we may disclaim the humiliating imputation. His works admit us to a familiarity

with his secret thoughts; we become gratified by finding in ourselves a sympathy with his feelings; and we quit his productions with self-complacency, because delighted by the discovery of the elevated sentiments they have awakened in us.

We encounter the man who has conferred upon us these benefits: we are surprised and disappointed at finding that he gives us only the ordinary topics of the day; and even those, perhaps, are delivered with the reserve which the conventions of society impose, or with the flippancy that the exhilaration of gay companionship occasionally produces.

His appearance, manner, or the tone of his voice, is not precisely what we expected; for people always form an idea of an author, and are apt to be displeased when he is found to be dissimilar to it. The cut of his coat, fashion of his waistcoat, tie of his cravat, or

colour of his gloves, may, as I before said, give offence, and direct against his person the raillery of those who, perhaps, have most loudly praised his works.

Absurd as these remarks may appear, they are, nevertheless, true. Often have I known such unworthy trifles as some of these I have described produce dislike, nay, injustice. An author comes into society, often tired and jaded from writing, to discharge some duty imposed by politeness; or simply to unbend his mind, its force and depth being reserved solely for his study. In his works is seen the profound, but clear stream of his unbroken thoughts; but in society an occasional ripple only is perceived, that but faintly indicates the vigour, the majesty, of the under-current. The conversation of even the most distinguished writer is ever, more or less, influenced by the persons around him; and, like the

chameleon, it too often takes the hue of the nearest object. He adopts, perhaps, this particular tone, not for the purpose of displaying his own thoughts, for they attain publicity through the channel of his writings, but in the idea of suiting the moral calibre and temper of the often uncongenial circle in which he finds himself. Hence the disappointment experienced by those who, having known the author only by his works, find the man, however agreeable or even brilliant, possessed of, seemingly, very disproportioned powers.

I have been writing to you about critics, style, and authors, as if my mind were perfectly at ease: never was it less so, and I have trifled on these subjects to escape from one that engrosses every thought, every feeling. Strange that, conscious as I am of the hopelessness, the madness of the passion that consumes me, I cannot conquer it. In flight alone

could I find safety, but I have not fortitude enough to banish myself from her I adore.

I can now sympathise with those who are the prey to an ungovernable affection, and believe all the follies to which it can lead its victims; yet am I more than ever sceptical that any man of honour could, under its influence, betray the woman he really loved, into guilt and shame. I have never, even in the wildest dreams of passion, pictured to myself the possibility of triumphing over her virtue. Nay, more; frail and selfish as is the nature I have never even dared to desire

of man, such a result. She, pure and bright as she is, might look with the same pity on the sentiment she has given birth to in my breast, as that which angels are supposed to entertain for those almost idolatrous affections of mortals, which are extenuated, if not redeemed, by their intensity, and freedom from guilt. But never