disturbed because a wife has given too much time, and perhaps yielded too much devotion to some artist of painting, of music, or the like? Such is the influence of taste in producing love.

How strange is love! why, who has not known individuals so carried away by their passion for poetry, and reading, and repeating it in each other's society-that this same love has been developed within them, and ere long consumed them.

But the most perfect and thorough love, is where there is a community of feeling; as two persons strongly imbued with the feelings of revenge, fidelity, or the like. Notice them when they meet-they are constantly raising the favorite theme, and they are impressed with the perfect unity of feeling between them. No other society is pleasant-even tolerable to them; they meet to weave together their feelings-there is a perfect coalescence of feeling-they love.

Such is fickle, foolish love-and who would be in love? I think I can see some of the damsels, looking askance at me, and saying, "You, sir-would be." They tell us of broken hearts -I think, perhaps, there may be an approach to a broken heart. Persons in the habit of this constant interchange of feeling, when deprived of it, may receive a violent shock-but their separation may not, I think, result as that of the Siamese twins, in death.

I have always thought, that the shock to ambition must be the severest that man can experience. For I have seen men fall in love-deeply too, come out of it again-love another, and another, and sometimes another and another. Not so ambition-which if it miss its high aim; like an angel from heaven, falls to rise no more. The broken heart may be soothed, and softened down to the grave-but life with disappointed ambi

tion, palpitating and uncertain flame, leaps quickly from the wick, ere the oil is one-hundredth part consumed.

It seems to make no difference with me, on what subject I begin, I invariably end with something about ambition—I have a presentimeut-a premonition, that not only these ill-arranged thoughts will end with ambition,—but with it, my light will go out on the shore.

AUGUST 13th-There has always been a contest going on among men, as to the fact of there being more gained by the study of men, or the study of books. Now if they mean wealth by the word gained, I agree with them most cordially. If they mean more insight into the heart is arrived at, I am likewise inclined to agree with certain provisions. If they mean by the word gained, that more information is received, I shall give my vote to books in preference to men.

It is too evident, without any proof that can be adduced by me—that men have superior opportunities for the accumulation of riches in mingling with their fellow-men. Now as to the insight into the human heart, 1 shall ever admit that men of a particular clique, class or fashion, have the best knowledge of that same clique, class or fashion-but beyond that, they know nothing of consequence. They mingle with these from their youth, and therefore, must become acquainted with them. They know all the artifices of these men, because they have become initiated, as well into the motives as professions, which prompt men situated as themselves.

Now there is one, without the prejudices of clique, class or fashion—who steals noiselessly along, quite unknown and unregarded, but whom nature seems to have created an observer he stands off in the room of the auctioneer, and his mind works

its mighty, though hidden, machinery, with nothing to view but the face. The crowd intent on its various ends, never think of him-never trouble themselves with the wonders vithin that little body. At another time, he sits on some retired step, and all the world of action, feeling and motive travel past him, yet not unobserved, for in the vast treasure-house of his mind, he is recording the actions of this many-phased humanity. Again, this one in assemblies, stands out of the light and gaze of those around his greatness is not seen through the guise of the ordinary man. Seldom are the great distinguished in a crowd. This individual is as the cat in the corner of a room filled with persons-puss is the most quiet of any there; for she is a listener, and listeners are always quiet. While she seems indifferent to all that is going forward in the room, she sees every leer that is given, and every foot that is moved. Puss is looked on as a cypher-but I have always treated her with the greatest respect; and on entering a room she should be the first to whom I would speak, and the one to whom I should pay the most marked attention. I consider her favor worth more than that of the rest of the company, for she has an acute sensibility, and is very sarcastic, and devoted to ridicule.

Persons who are acquainted with cats, and know them from their general behavior, and from hearing them laughing and talking, never treat them with the slightest disregard or disrespect-but invariably with distinguished politeness.

I hope if this manuscript should fall into a cat's paws, in the course of her rumaging for the tender little mice; that she will properly appreciate my motive in what I am saying here. As a proof that we should not be indifferent to the feelings of cats. I will relate what I heard one night. There were three cats;

one was giving forth to the two others standing together on a wall, what happened in the chamber of an old maid-matters which I would not unfold for the world, for I do not believe they knew I was near. I was, however, attracted by the roars of laughter sent up by the two cats who were listening. The narrator, was now flirting, and curvetting about the wall, in mimicking the old maid before her mirror. I listened as long as my modest ears would allow me-for cats are not very particular in their conversation, or their language—and retired.

Now I shall never lose my respect for cats-although I must say, of the real cat, the degenerate tiger of our domestic use; I have not the greatest opinion as regards his fidelity. But it is a duty, I consider that we owe ourselves, to pay a proper deference to those who may possibly see cause to injure us. I have seen persons who would speak to cats through mere kindness, with even less feeling than he who " is all things to all men." Now cats can see as far into human feelings as any one-and those who know them, say they can see a little farther. I am acquainted with a few cats, and can say for them, that this is true. Therefore, to those would-be kindnesses, their manner is very sparing, and their words are very few,-they generally answer only mew; which means more than people imagine-for there is a bitterness- -a pleasing sarcastic expression in a cat's face; more, especially when he says mew, very similar to that we see on the mouth of Voltaire, in the pictures of him. perhaps, may he be who studies cliques, classes and fashions. As to whether more information is gained from books—certainly no wealth is—and not much insight into the human heart, for common sense men who understand human nature best, know very little of, and care much less about books. But,

Such,

I think, if men are cats, books are hardly second to cat-observations-for if we have contracted these habits of observation, and books contain the results of similar ones, then there must exist mental aid in each to each; and men can find pleasure either in books or in observation. Because in reading books they have recalled to their minds, those things which have passed before their view as observers-from this reading, they desire to fall into thought; and are presently led off into the luxury and enchantment of reverie. If they are occupied in observing men and manners, they revert to what they have read of a similar nature; and oftentimes feel a satisfaction and a pleasure in seeing their observations accord with those of other men, more watchful, shrewder, and wiser than themselves.

I have a contempt for the man who devours books, for he will after a time, assuredly become, as he who gluts food, fat and foolish; for having gone on feeding, he contracts a disease from his plethora, when all the heap of unassimilable and superfluous food must be removed from the system; then he must resort to venesection and violent purgatives, so as to be enabled to throw off the vast quantities, and various qualities of figures of speech, and poetry with a long et cetera. Oh! heavens-sooner than be tormented often by the unfortunate presence of these valetudinarians, I had rather you should give me for society, hypochondriacs on hypochrondriacs—and, if you consider that you are giving me too good a bargain, command me to dwell in a whole hospital of patients-send me to a mad-house, for the company of these will send me there; and think that you have done me a favor, and perhaps been the preserver of my life.

I have always been uncertain and undecided whether I should despise or tolerate the Italian book collector, Mayliabechi, the