but they are not long such-caressed to day, they are discarded to-morrow. Such is the world; in striving to please which we displease the gods, and to which we cannot be true without being false to ourselves.

There are some natures that are acted upon by circumstance as the Æolian harp is acted upon by the winds-the music of their tempers being constantly varied as they are affected by the rude weather of stormy fortune, or the softer, balmier, and less disturbed atmosphere of joy and glad

ness.

It is because we are dissatisfied with ourselves that we are so anxious to have others think well of us, and were we conscious of meriting their good, we would care less for their ill, opinions.

The highest excellence is seldom attained in more than one vocation. The roads leading to distinction in separate pursuits diverge, and the nearer we approach the one, the farther we recede from the other.

DECISION.

I once heard a gentleman, remarkable for promptly disposing of any business on his hands, observe that he knew of no better rule for cooking a beefsteak than that furnished by Shakspeare:

"If it were done," &c.

This was putting the question of decision in a humorous and at the same time forcible shape. When the mind is made up to do a thing, delay breeds delay, and one pernicious example is the occasion of many, until our purpose becomes halting, and we limp, when we ought to run towards our object. When a man complains of being ill-treated by fortune, it is enough to excite a suspicion that he is making fortune the scape-goat of his indolence. He has missed his mark, it will be said of him, from loitering on the road which leads to it. The day of all days, then, is to-day; the hour of all hoursthe present.

There is one form of decision which originates in the will, and gets no farther than that. It prevails among those between whose resolves and whose executions there exists a long tract of untraveled country. They take up purposes with enthusiasm, and lay them down with indifference; their strong resolves end in

weak performances. To decide upon too many things, as with them, is to decide upon nothing.

Perhaps the most illustrious example of decision of character-of the ability to do instantly and with energy whatever it is expedient to do-was that of Milton. He who would write heroic poems, said this great man, his whole life must be a heroic poem. He acted up to "the height of his great argument." Blind, in poverty and in disgrace, with no eye to beam encouragement upon him, and no heart to cheer him in his lonely labors, he yet had the decision to commence, and the reso

lution to complete, what the world has acknowledged to be one of its greatest master-pieces of art.

There are none so low but they have their triumphs. Small successes suffice for small souls.

It is a sore evil for a female to be without personal attractions, as with men the eye is the arbiter of all qualities in the sex. Her beauty is her capital-her worth in the market matrimonial depends upon it. With her the Virtues are reverenced only when they are accompanied by the Graces. The sex understand this very well, and hence they seek mainly to make captive the eye, knowing the mind and heart will follow as a matter of course. Madame De Stael, in the height of her career, and when her reputation was at its zenith, is said to have remarked that she would cheerfully exchange all that her genius had won for her, for a share of that beauty which she so much envied in others of her sex.

A bachelor is one whose stock of love, sympathy and affection is so small that he cannot afford to share it with another, but must e'en keep it all for himself.

There are eras in our spirit's existence, as there are eras in our fortunes: eras, when the fate of the character hangs suspended upon some act of volition, some determination of the will.

An ambition to excel in petty things obstructs the progress to nobler aims. The aspiring spirit, like the winged eagle, should keep its gaze steadily fixed on the sun toward which it soars.

The highest moral and religious truths are as yet only recognized in theory, in

H. W. P.

THE house of the banker C*** in L, is the rendezvous of all the most distinguished strangers, who are in the habit of visiting the fairs held in that town. Each one is there certain of the most friendly reception, as well as of the most agreeable entertainment, at his weekly soirées, where intelligent men, beautiful women and maidens, together with excellent wines, are to be found in abundance.

A young merchant, who had just returned from Paris, brought with him many letters of recommendation to the banker, and received an invitation to his house the same evening.

When, at the appointed hour, he entered the gaily decorated and brilliantly lighted saloon, he found the greater part of the guests already assembled. The lady of the house received him with the grace which was peculiar to her; she presented him to the rest of the company, and, without farther ceremony, he was soon drawn into the conversation, which, fettered by no restraint, touched upon

the most remarkable occurrences and personages of the day.

Of the latter, the most interesting, without doubt, was the great dramatic vocalist Wilhelmine Schroder-Devrient, who the evening before had finished her engagement at L- in the character of Desdemona.

Fortune had been favorable to the young merchant. He had seen this actress in Paris, and was able, therefore, to speak of the impression which her excellent representations had produced in a sphere worthy of her abilities.

The fair mistress of the house smiled, and said, "that in L, in truth, no Malibran and Pasta, no Rubini and Lablache, had served as a foil to this admirable artist.

When the discourse had once turned upon Paris, they were not satisfied with leaving it, after discussing the Italian Opera merely. They inquired of the young merchant concerning things that he knew, and concerning things that he did not know; concerning the Boule

vards-the Bourse-the Café des nouveautés Père la Chaise-Chamber of Deputies, &c., &c. But above all things they asked after the authors of the new romantic school: Victor Hugo, Monsieur de Balzac, Alexander Dumas and Eugene Sue. In particular, many young dames wished to know how Victor Hugo looked.

en.

"And his wife?" cried a pretty maid"He is married, I hear, and on his wedding day wrote his dreadful Last Days of a Condemned Criminal.' ”

All laughed; and the master of the house maintained that a taste for the gloomy and fearful (which distinguished the romantic school in so high a degree) was at least as prevalent among the beauties of L- as among the fair Parisians; and that Victor Hugo could not do them a greater favor, than to work up in his manner, the history of those two actors who had been lately executed at Lyons.

"An ordinary Othello story;" said a young man who had entered unobserved. "I know a better, a more terrible plot for that author."

The whole company was in commotion-the men arose, the women whispered together.

The master of the house and his wife gave the new comer a friendly reception, and introduced him to the young merchant as the celebrated physician and brilliant writer, Adelbert.

A pretty maiden with a fair, bright complexion, had approached him. If that is the case," she said in a flattering tone, "you must relate the story to us. And besides, you have been idle long enough; I no longer find anything of yours in the magazines, let me watch as I will. Relate it then.". 1

All joined in expressing the same wish, and the Doctor, with a low bow, replied: "I willingly accede to your request. I confess, indeed, that I am doing a service to myself in imparting the secret to others. The last representation of our admirable country woman upon the boards moved me with strange power, and awaked in my bosom remembrances that have long slumbered; remembrances that I thought dead within me. To own the truth, the dreadful event which I am about to relate has an immediate reference to myself."

The company took their seats in a half circle around the physician, waiting in anxious suspense, and he began:

From my earliest youth I displayed great partiality for the study of anatomy. There was not an anatomical theatre within my reach that I did not visit, and I was considered an able and dexterous dissector, even by anatomists themselves. It must be about ten years since I pursued my studies in The dissector to the anatomical theatre of that place, was one of the most able men in his department. Devoted, body and soul, to his art, the medical world is indebted to him for many important discoveries; and his recent decease at an advanced age was universally deplored, both at home and abroad.

As he was passionately interested in everything which concerned science, I, not less enthusiastic and inquisitive than himself, was just his man, (as he called me,) although at that time I was but eighteen years of age. He employed me as his assistant in his most important labors, and with unwearied patience gave me all the information I desired concerning his curious preparations, most of which were the work of his own hands.

The study of Psychology and Physiognomy, interesting to every great anatomist, was of the highest importance in his eyes; and no subject in the least degree remarkable was dissected, before a drawing of the features had been prepared by him with the utmost care. For this purpose he employed, at his own expense, a young artist whom we now admire as one of our most spirited delineators of character.

But more than this! regardless of cost or labor, he had for more than forty years been busied in framing a collection, unique in its way, of the heads of executed criminals, and of those who had committed suicide. Thanks to his rare skill, he was enabled to preserve them in spirits in such a manner, that, even after thirty years and more, not the least change was visible in the features, so that it seemed as if the person had but just breathed his last.

It was no easy matter, however, to obtain a sight of this collection, as the anatomist was a strange fellow at times, and would then behave in a surly and gloomy manner to those who visited him; nay, oftentimes treated them with excessive rudeness, especially when he observed that their object was mere ordinary curiosity.

I was thus obliged to wait long before