Not that I am any advocate in the world for rushing into print. The multitude of books is confessedly a sore evil under the sun and many an aspirant to literary reputation has found, at the expense of much valuable time and some worthless dross, that Fame is a coy mistress, oftener wooed than won.

Indeed, what else could be expected, if we take but a hasty glance over the works that are teeming from a prolific press; while some

"Just write, to make their barrenness appear,

And strain from hard-bound brains eight lines a-year;
Some, who, still wanting, though they live on theft,
Steal much, spend little, yet have nothing left;
And some who now to sense, now nonsense leaning,
Mean not, but blunder round about a meaning."

A well-known publisher, a man of shrewd intelligence and common sense, lamented to me a few days ago that this is a common failing, especially among gentlemen, who are very apt "to write," as they live "at ease," and seem to think how

"Pleasant it is to see one's-self in print:

A book's a book, although there's nothing in't."

He said this with a shake of the head, and an admonitory shrug, which intimated, (he is a person of too much politeness and good breeding to express it in as many words) that he hoped this was not the case with me. Alas! there have been too many who have had ample leisure and cause to repent of their "cacoethes scribendi"-many whose rueful lamentation has been

"Why did I write?—what sin, to me unknown,
Dipt me in ink, my parents' or my own?"

CHAPTER II.

ON THE PETTY JEALOUSIES AND ENVYINGS OF A COUNTRY NEIGHBOURHOOD.

SOME years ago, being desirous to renew my intimacy with an old and much valued friend, I paid him a visit, in a remote part of the north of Ireland where he then resided, and delighted myself with the rural quiet and charming scenery of the place. Being of a contemplative turn of mind, it was not long before I began to consider the characters and manners of the persons among whom I found myself thrown. On my first joining their society, I thought, in my simplicity, that as all was peace without, so all was harmony within. As it appeared to me to be the interest of all parties to live in the undisturbed interchange of kindly offices and good-fellowship, so I imagined that nothing could occur to ruffle the social tranquillity of the neighbourhood. But alas! my friend let me a little behind the scenes, and told me what sufficed to destroy the fair visions I had formed, and to satisfy me with an additional proof, that unrenewed human nature is ever the same; that the town and country are, in this respect, just alike; that the same petty jealousies, and envyings, and malignant passions, which are at hourly and busy work in the court and the city, are no less rife, and fully as malignant, among the quiet scenes of nature, "where nought but man is vile." He informed me that two of the gentlemen, whom I had met at his house, and whom for the present I shall designate as Asper and Hilario, lived close by, and, to all outward seeming, were friends; and he then gave me a description of these persons, much as follows:

Asper was possessor of the largest number of acres ; and, in consequence of what he considered his territorial

importance, expected that precedence should be universally yielded to him; in short, he looked upon himself, as that important personage, better known in former days, than in our own present enlightened age-the Squire of the parish. He adopted certain cheap and petty modes of asserting this pre-eminence, which, if particularised, would create a smile. It appears that his family had been of some consequence formerly, but that, owing to a variety of circumstances, its importance was now much diminished. His rent-roll was nominally large; but unfortunately, like too many Irish ones, "stat nominis umbra" might then be its motto. It was currently said that after the heavy incumbrances were deducted, his own receipts were small. My friend made no question but this had tended to sour his temper. Indeed I could not look upon him, but the character of the morose brother in Terence would come into my mind,

"Ille agrestis, sovus, tristis, parcus, truculentus, tenax."

When after a short acquaintance, I could form a better judgment of his character, he had all the appearance of a man, ill at ease with himself, and dissatisfied with the rest of the world. He quarrelled with the clergyman, he quarrelled with the priest; and his unpopularity among his tenants and dependants had been well earned by many an act of harshness and severity. His overweening sense of his own importance, and his inability at the same time to move in a style suitable to it, rendered him so painfully sensitive to any imaginary affront, that he was literally a self-tormentor. Not far from the residence of Asper stood the stately mansion of Hilario. His temper was the very opposite of his neighbour's. Cheerful, happy, and good-natured, he was universally popular. But it must be confessed, that he had external "appliances and means to boot," well calculated to augment the natural gaiety of his disposition. Although his landed property was not so

extensive as Asper's in this parish, yet he had estates in other parts of the country, and funded money, which rendered him a far more opulent man. This was visible in the whole style of his retinue and living, and served as gall-and-wormwood to his less wealthy neighbour. I had been introduced to them both by my friend, and it was not long before I could easily perceive that, amid all the outward courtesies of friendship, there was an under-current, which betrayed the insincerity of profession. And soon after I had returned home, I was informed that meetings at petty sessions, and committees, and other places of public resort, had produced such a degree of rivalry between the two (if rivalry that could be called, where the vexation and ill-temper existed only on the one side, "ubi pulsas solus, at ego vapulo tantum,") that at length, from the petulance of the one party, an undisguised and open rupture followed. What a feature is here presented of poor human nature! Behold two men, both in the rank of gentlemen-both, if they wished to apply them, blest at least with the means of contentment, if not of ample enjoyment; yet from a petty jealousy which could not, on the one side, brook the equality of the other, break out into dissensions, which perhaps time may not heal.

The real causes of sorrow in this world are so numerous-the avenues of human woe are so multiplied and diversified—that one can scarcely sympathise with this self-created species of fictitious misery, but is inclined to treat it with well-merited contempt. But its bearing upon the society where it occurs, and the consequences that flow from its corrupted source, give it an importance in the eye of the moralist, to which, irrespectively, it is not entitled. The effect upon the minds of the individuals themselves must be very deleterious; but this is of little value compared to the ill example. For rivalries among those of rank and influence have a thousand ramifications, down to the lowest grade of society.

If persons would only consult their own happiness, they would strive to subdue this corroding passion of the soul-envy. It makes them undervalue and overlook the blessings they already enjoy; because some advantages, as they think, possessed by a more fortunate neighbour, may not be within their reach. You will see one family surrounded with every comfort, which should call forth warm-hearted gratitude to the Giver of all good, yet discontented and miserable, because an acquaintance happens to be carried about in a more splendid equipage. Look round, and you may see the sunshine of another household clouded, and their peace marred, because their friends are going to enjoy the summer in a pleasant watering-place, while circumstances oblige them to remain at home. Manifold are the instances that might be adduced. And this is not the worst, inasmuch as this envious rivalry frequently induces its unhappy votaries to launch forth into an expensive imitation, which too often ends in ruin.

Without, at the present, taking a religious view of the question, there is something exceeding unmanly in such a temper. Should not a man rather reason thus with himself: What is it to me, if another excel me in wealth, or rank, or power? his adventitious circumstances of fortune render me neither better nor worse: I am, thank God, possessed of an independent mind, which should enable me to rise superior to petty comparisons with my neighbour. Let it be my endeavour, then, to perform my own part honourably and conscientiously in life, and minor considerations may well be disregarded. Let me impress on my mind the noble sentiment of the poet

"Honour or shame from no condition rise;

Act well your part-there all the honour lies."

The real estimation, in which a man is held, is measured, not by the office or rank which he occupies, but by his