be the oracles of their own circle, "bear, like the Turk, no brother near the throne," (though there are sometimes honourable exceptions to this general rule,) and are apt to judge with harshness, and deny the claims of any new competition for listeners and admirers. But, with what severity, and even contempt, do men and women, who pique themselves on their reasoning faculties and powers of argumentative conversation, regard those amongst their acquaintance, whose talents are of a different nature, especially if the exertion of their talents has given them any reputation in the world, while they are unconscious, probably, that their low estimation of the merit of their associates is caused by a feeling of rivalry"How can that be?" they might indignantly exclaim, our abilities are not of the same kind." No, but in the narrow circle in which they meet, they are competing for notice, admiration, and importance, and much of Dr. Goldsmith's feeling, mentioned in the preceding pages, is at work in them; they, therefore, are under the influence of particular competition. "Two of a trade can not agree," says the proverb; but it is equally true, though not generally felt, and therefore not sufficiently guarded against, that we are as liable to feel envy and jealousy of those whose abilities are wholly different to our own, as of those who possess the same gifts as ourselves; only in this latter case the jealousy is stronger and conscious, in the other it is often unconscious; but, unconscious it would not continue to be,

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if we were all in the salutary habit of ferreting out our secret motives, and could bear to contemplate" that ugly thing, a naked human heart."

Competition for the attribute called feeling or sensibility, leads as constantly to ungenerous detraction as any other. This is a quality which all persons arrogate to themselves, but rarely allow their relatives, friends, or acquaintances, to possess in an equal degree.

How common are the following observations: "Yes-she is a worthy woman, but I am sure she has but very little feeling,” and "Yes! I dare say he is a good man, but his sensibility will never hurt him." "How differently I should have behaved or felt under such circumstances." Here the detraction is evidently the result of the speaker's entering into competition with the party spoken of on the score of feeling. And this is an openly avowed species of competitionship. Yet surely, there is as much vanity displayed by the assumption of superior sensibility, as if one declared one's belief of being wiser or handsomer than one's neighbours; and to assert our superiority in any thing is a proof of self-conceit; still, there is an injustice commonly committed, on which I must observe, namely, that of considering persons of literary gifts and attainments as more vain and conceited than any other description of persons. But is this censure just? I will put this case. If an author were to talk of his own works in company, and speak of them and their usefulness with

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high commendation, he would deserve to be called offensively vain; but suppose another gentleman present should say, how shocked he had been at such a person's want of feeling, adding, "how differently I should have behaved under such a trial, but then, few persons feel acutely as I do!" would it not be very unfair to say the author was more vain than he was? the objects of their vanity were certainly different, but its degree the same. Again, suppose an authoress were to commend her own writings while with a party of friends, and boast of her own superiority, and that another lady should soon after depreciate the notability and domestic knowledge of some woman of her acquaintance, and describe her own superior cleverness in all domestic arrangements, asserting what a manager, what a nurse, what a physician also, she was upon occasions! more than insinuating that she was a paragon of perfection, in what, I admit, is the best knowledge of woman. I beg leave to ask whether, in such a case, the company present would be justified in saying that the authoress was the vainer of the two, and that the vanity of authors and authoresses was of the superlative degree; and whether truth would not demand, that the man of assumed superior feeling, and the woman of assumed superior notability, were not quite as conceited as the author and authoress; and yet it is probable, that the company present would only be conscious of the vanity of the two latter, and that the two former would be the

first to ridicule the excessive conceit of their literary associates. Yet, vanity is vanity, and conceit, conceit, whatever be the subject on which they are displayed: and whatever those persons are who assert their own superiority, they should be careful to speak with forbearance of the conceit attendant on authorship.

But to resume my subject. Many persons mischievously mistake irritability for sensibility, and impute actions and sufferings to feeling, which in reality are the result of illgoverned temper. I define irritability to be an excess of self-love and sensibility of social love. I have heard those whose peace of mind is often disturbed by their unhappy temper, assert that all good humoured persons are without sensibility, and that where good temper abounds, the feelings are comparatively blunt: thus blinded by self-love, they impute to excess of good feeling, what is, really, the consequence of want of religious or moral restraint; and instead of endeavouring to see themselves as they are, they impute to defect the charm admired in others therefore, as their vanity leads them to consider their fault as a proof of superior virtue, they have not the necessary stimulus to conquer their besetting sin. Irritability is often occasioned by weak nerves and bodily infirmity: but whatever be its cause, it frequently leads into detracting observations; and there is nothing that excites uncandid judgment more, nor is a want of sober-mindedness ever more conspicuous than in the estimate which we form of the degree.

of affliction exhibited by mourners. When we visit the afflicted in the first days of their distress, their apparent degree of misery rarely equals our expectation, but if they are as much subdued at first as we suspected, still they usually recover their spirits before they have our permission; and with no small complacency, we compare their rapidly-recovered cheerfulness, with what we believe would have been our protracted sufferings. We observe, ""it is amazing how soon Mr. or Mrs., or William or Mary such a one, has recovered his or her bereavement! and how happy it is for some folks that they do not feel such things as others do." The robber, Procrustes, used to tie the travellers whom he conquered on a bed, and if their length exceeded it, he caused their limbs to be cut off till they were of the just dimensions; and if they were shorter, he had them stretched till they reached its uttermost point. A similar sort of tyranny is exercised by observers on the afflicted. Mourners must express their sorrow exactly as the observers do; their grief must be of the same dimensions, or they can not believe them to be mourners at all. One says, "I called such a day on our friend so and so, and I was surprised to find him or her so well! He (or she) never once alluded to the deceased! almost forgotten already, I dare say." Another says, "I saw our friend such an one yesterday, and it was surprising how incessantly he or she talked of the departed, and of the affliction and so on. For my part, I never can talk of those I have lost, nor do I believe,