ful to a susceptible mind, to receive the shafts of malevolent criticism, or the fulsome praises of undiscriminating friends. It is still wearisome to a modest spirit to live in the eye of the public. The brain is the same delicate organ as it was in the days of Collins and Chatterton. Egotism is still as naturally the offspring of constant self-communion, and an unhealthy self-consciousness as readily induced by long and loving dalliance with one's own ideas. Literary disappointment is as liable to produce malignant criticism as in the time of Dennis, and literary success has diseased the organ of self-esteem as frequently in our day, as when poor Goldsmith wondered at the crowd for finding more attraction in a mountebank than a poet. The grave of Smollet at Leghorn is yet a landmark to those who would live upon popular favor; and the slab of Keats at Rome breathes a touching lesson to the young and susceptible aspirant for literary renown. "The glorious privilege of being independent," continues to be exposed to imminent hazard by the profession of literature. It is true the days of courtly patronage and mercenary dedication are well nigh passed, but public opinion is a more severe master than any king, and the "fawning" for that "thrift" is equally degrading. We have now no Charles II. to blight the hopes of a Cowley, on account of a republican ode, but we have instead a thousand prejudices which a writer must flatter, or forfeit success, and a trivial standard of taste, conformity to which is a Procrustean bed to a manly intellect. We have no Inquisition to threaten a Galileo with the torture for declaring a truth, but we have innumerable worshippers of authority, who hawk at the free soul when it rises on too bold a wing, and would fain alarm it from the empyrean of original inquiry.

Flavius was praised by his tutors as a promising writer, and,

when quite young, published a work which was very generally commended. Its merit consisted, however, more in the industrious research and tact it exhibited, than in novelty of sentiment, or uncommon beauty of style. Its success determined Flavius to abandon a lucrative employment, for a path to which literary ambition allured him. To that passion he at once surrendered his soul. He was then in early manhood, enjoying robust health, and a slight acquaintance revealed many halfdeveloped qualities, full of promise to himself and society. His talents as a writer were only very respectable, his habits those of intense application. He trusted in the power of industry to realize the fruits of rare abilities. There was nothing in his native endowments to warrant the hope that by devotion to literature he could greatly advance any important principle, or lead the way to new truth. Yet he commenced the profession of literature with the ardor of a votary, and the confidence of a genius. It gradually not only employed, but absorbed his energies. The mania of writing took complete possession of the whole man. His day was passed in printing-offices, reviews haunted his slumbers, scraps of verse dropped insensibly from his lips. Every person and thing in life became valuable in his eyes only so far as it ministered to his profession. He pounced upon a man of experience as a repository of facts; he drew upon the reminiscences of old ladies for hints wherefrom to construct a tale; he cultivated the friendship of booksellers for their publications, of authors for their countenance, of editors for their puffs. Even nature, to whose cheerful freedom most men turn for pure enjoyment, was to him a scene of care. He walked amid the fairest landscape in a mood abstracted by ambitious reveries, or peered about to discover a new metaphor in some familiar phenomenon, or gather the materials of a fine

description. To female society he resorted not so much for refreshment and delight, as to kindle a flame of sentiment, in the warmth of which he could strike off some glowing thoughts or new images. Thus all his life was laid under contribution for ideas, and like an intellectual tax-gatherer, Flavius roamed to collect tithes of thought and contributions of wit. These were fused in the crucible of his fevered mind, and appeared in the form of critical essays, sketches, rhymes, and paragraphs. He soon became notorious, and mistook publicity for glory. For this he neglected his meals and his person, acquired habits of selfish reserve, resigned the grace of manner and the charm of friendship. For this he wandered among his kind, ever wrapt in the solitude of reflection. For this he resigned the happiness and improvement of social intercourse. For this sleep fled from his pillow, and buoyaney from his heart. For this he sacrificed mental freedom, cheerfulness, and health. Inordinate ambition, irregular habits of diet and exercise, and an unremitted activity of the brain, soon demolished even the strong constitution of Flavius. He died a victim to literature, in whose annals his name will scarcely appear. To the last moment he grasped his pen, and his death-bed was littered with magazines, uncorrected proofs, and scraps of manuscript. The illusion of his life was an erroneous estimate of the importance of literary labor, and of his own capacity in that sphere. As an occasional means of usefulness, a liberal accomplishment, a refined recreation, literature would have proved a blessing; instead of appropriating for an inadequate end all the vigor and freshness of his being, and consigning him to an early grave.

205

HAIR.

There seems a life in hair though it be dead.

LEIGH HUNT.

HAIR is an eloquent emblem. It is the mother's pride to dress her child's rich locks; the lover's joy to gaze on the hairlocket of his mistress; the mourner's despair to see the ringlet stir, as if in mockery of death, by the marble cheek of the departed. How the hue of hair is hallowed to the fancy! From the "glossy raven " " to the "silver sable," from the "brown in the shadow, and gold in the sun," to the blonde and silken thread, there is a vocabulary of hues appealing to each memory.

The beautiful economy of nature is signally displayed in the human hair. The most simple expedient in the animal frame, the meanest adjunct, as it were, to the figure, yet how effective!

"Hyacinthine locks

Round from his parted forelock manly hung
Clustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad:

She, as a veil, down to the slender waist,
Her unadorned tresses wore,
Dishevelled, but in wanton ringlets waved,
As the vine curls her tendrils, which implies
Subjection, but required with gentle sway,
And by her yielded, by him best received,
Yielded with coy submission, modest pride,
And sweet, reluctant, amorous delay."

In this passage, the blind bard of Paradise has interpreted the natural language of woman's hair before the artifices of fashion had marred its natural grace. Whoever has attentively perused one of the pictures of the old masters, where a female figure is represented, must have perceived, perhaps unconsciously, that the long flexible ringlets conveyed an impression to the mind of dependence. The short, tight curls of a gladiatorial statue, on the contrary, give the idea of self-command and unyielding will. There is a poetical charm in the unshorn tresses of a beautiful woman, which Milton has not exaggerated. I have seldom received a more sad conviction of the bitterness of poverty, than was conveyed by the story of a lovely girl in one of the continental towns, who was obliged to sell her hair for bread. She was of humble parentage, but nature had adorned her head with the rarest perfection. Her luxuriant and glowing ringlets constituted the pride of her heart. She rejoiced in this distinction as the redeeming point of her destiny. Often would a blush of pleasure suffuse her cheek as she caught a stranger's eye regarding them with admiration, when at her lowly toil. The homeliness of her garb, and the poverty of her condition, were relieved by this native adornment. It is wonderful to what slight tokens the self-respect of poor mortals will cling, and how the very maintenance of virtue often depends upon some frail association. A strain of music, glimpses of a remembered countenance, a dream, a word, will often annihilate a vile intention, or unseal the fountain of the heart. A palm tree in England drew tears from an Eastern wanderer; and the native wisdom of Jeanie Deans led her to make her first visit to the Duke of Argyle, arrayed in a plaid, knowing his honor's heart "would warm to the tartan." And thus to the simplehearted maiden her rich and flowing hair was a crown of glory