to form new ties. In proportion to the time that we have been faithful-in proportion to the feelings we have sacrificed-in proportion to the wealth of soul-of affection, of devotion that we have consumed, are we shut out from the possibility of atonement elsewhere. But this is not all-the other occupations of the world are suddenly made stale and barren to us! the daily avocations of life-the common pleasures--the social diversions so tame in themselves, had had their charm when we could share, and talk over, them with another. It was sympathy which made them sweet-the sympathy withdrawn they are nothing to us-worse than nothing. The talk has become the tinkling cymbal, and society the gallery of pictures. Ambition, toil, the great aims of life-even these cease abruptly to excite. What, in the first place, made labour grateful and ambition dear? Was it not the hope that their rewards would be reflected upon another self? And now there is no other self. And, in the second place (and this is a newer consideration), does it not require a certain calmness and freedom of mind for great efforts? Persuaded of the possession of what most we value, we can look abroad with cheerfulness and hope; -the consciousness of a treasure inexhaustible by external failures, makes us speculative and bold. Now, all things are coloured by our despondency; our self-esteem-that necessary incentive to glory-is humbled and abased. Our pride has received a jarring and bitter shock. We no longer feel that we are equal to stern exertion. We wonder at what we have dared before. And therefore it is, that when Othello believed himself betrayed, the occupations of his whole life suddenly become burthensome and abhorred. "Farewell," he saith, "Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! And then, as the necessary but unconscious link in the chain of thought, he continues at once “Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war! But there is another and a more permanent result from this bitter treason. Our trustfulness in human nature is diminished. We are no longer the credulous enthusiasts of Good. The pillars of the moral world seem shaken. We believe, we hope, no more from the faith of others. If the one whom we so worshipped, and so served—who knew us in our best years -to whom we have offered countless, daily offerings-whom we put in our heart of hearts-against whom if a world hinted, we had braved a world--if this one has deserted us, who then shall be faithful? At length, we begin to reconcile ourselves to the worst; gradually we gather the moss of our feelings from this heart which has become to us as stone. Our pride hardens down into indifference. Ceasing to be loved, we cease to love. Seasons may roll away, all other feelings ebb and flow. Ambition may change into apathy-generosity may sour into avaricewe may forget the enmity of years-we may make friends of foes; but the love we have lost is never renewed. On that dread vacuum of the breast the temple and the garden rise no more:-that feeling, be it hatred, be it scorn, be it indifference, which replaces love, endures to the last. And, altered for ever to the one-how many of us are altered for ever to the world; -neither so cheerful, nor so kind, nor so active in good, nor so incredulous of evil as we were before! The Deluge of Passion has rolled back-the Earth is green again. But we are in a new world. And the New World is but the sepulchre of the Old. FI-HO-TI. OR, THE PLEASURES OF REPUTATION. A CHINESE TALE. FI-HO-TI was considered a young man of talents; he led, in Pekin, a happy and comfortable life. In the prime of youth, of a highly-respectable family, and enjoying a most agreeable competence, he was exceedingly popular among the gentlemen whom he entertained at his board, and the ladies who thought he might propose. Although the Chinese are not generally sociable, Fi-ho-ti had ventured to set the fashion of giving entertainments, in which ceremony was banished for mirth. All the pleasures of life were at his command: he drank, though without excess, the cup of enjoyment;-ate, laughed, and loved his fill. No man in Pekin was more awake during the day, or enjoyed a serener slumber during the night. In an evil hour, it so happened that Fi-ho-ti discovered that he possessed the talents we have referred to. A philosopher, -who, being also his uncle, had the double right, both of philosophy and relationship, to say every thing unpleasant to him, took it into his head to be very indignant at the happy life which Fi-ho-ti so peacefully enjoyed. Accordingly, one beautiful morning he visited our young Chin-Epicurean. He found him in his summer-house, stretched on luxurious cushions, quaffing the most delicious tea, in the finest little porcelain cups imaginable, reading a Chinese novel, and enlivening the study, from time to time, by a light conversation with a young lady, who had come to visit him. Our philosopher was amazingly shocked at the prospect of so much comfort. Nothing could be more unphilosophical; for the duty of Philosophy being to charm us with life, she is anxious, in the first place, to make it a burden to us. goddess is enamoured of patience, but indignant at pleasure. The Our sage was a man very much disliked and very much respected. Fi-ho-ti rose from his cushions, a little ashamed of being detected in so agreeable an indolence, and reminded, for the first time, of the maxims of Chinese morality, which hold it highly improper for a gentleman to be seen with a lady. The novel fell from his hand; and the young lady, frightened at the long beard and the long nails of the philosopher, would have run away, if her feet would have allowed her; as it was, she summoned her attendants, and hastened to complain to her friends of the manner in which the pleasantest têtes-à-tête could be spoilt, when young men were so unfortunate as to have philosophers for uncles. The Mandarin,-for Fi-ho-ti's visiter enjoyed no less a dignity, and was entitled to wear a blue globe in his cap,*—seeing the coast clear, hemmed three times, and commenced his avuncular admonitions. that "Are you not ashamed, young man," said he, " of the life you lead?—are you not ashamed to be so indolent and so happy? You possess talents; you are in the prime of youth, you have already attained the rank of Keu-jin;†-are you deaf to the noble voice of ambition? Your country calls upon you for exertion, seek to distinguish your name,-recollect the example of Confucius,-give yourself up to study,—be wise and be great." Much more to this effect spoke the Mandarin, for he loved to hear himself talk; and, like all men privileged to give advice, he fancied that he was wonderfully eloquent. In this instance, his vanity did not deceive him; for it was the vanity of another that he addressed. Fi-ho-ti was moved; he felt he had been very foolish to be happy so long. Visions of disquietude and fame floated before him he listened with attention to the exhortations of the philosopher; he resolved to distinguish himself, and to be wise. The Mandarin was charmed with the success of his visit : it was a great triumph to disturb so much enjoyment. He went home, and commenced a tract upon the advantages of philosophy. Every one knows that in China learning alone is the passport to the offices of state. What rank and fortune are in other countries, learning is in the Celestial Empire. Fi-ho-ti surrendered himself to Knowledge. He retired to a solitary *The distinction of Mandarins of the third and fourth order. state. A collegiate grade which renders those who attain it eligible to offices of cavern, near upon Kai-fon-gu; he filled his retreat with books and instruments of science; he renounced all social intercourse ; the herbs of the plain and the water of the spring sufficed the tastes hitherto accustomed to the most delicious viands of Pekin. Forgetful of Love and of pleasure, he consigned three of the fairest years of his existence to uninterrupted labour. He instructed himself-he imagined he was capable of instructing others. Fired with increasing ambition, our student returned to Pekin. He composed a work, which, though light and witty enough to charm the gay, was the origin of a new school of philosophy. It was at once bold and polished; and the oldest Mandarin or the youngest beauty of Pekin could equally appreciate and enjoy it. In one word, Fi-ho-ti's book became the rage,-Fi-ho-ti was the author of his day. Delighted by the novelty of literary applause, our young student more than ever resigned himself to literary pursuits. He wrote again, and again succeeded;-all the world declared that Fi-ho-ti had established his reputation, and he obtained the dazzling distinction of Bin-sze. Was Fi-ho-ti the happier for his reputation? You shall judge. He went to call upon his uncle, the Mandarin. He imagined the Mandarin would be delighted to find the success, of his admonitions. The philosopher received him with a frigid embarrassment. He talked of the weather and the Emperor,the last pagoda and the new fashion in tea-cups: he said not a word about his nephew's books. Fi-ho-ti was piqued; he introduced the subject of his own accord. "Ah!" said the philosopher drily, “I understand you have written something that pleases the women; no doubt you will grow solid as your judgment increases. But, to return to the tea-cups Fi-ho-ti was chagrined; he had lost the affection of his learned uncle for ever; for he was now considered to be more. learned than his uncle himself. The common mortification in success is to find that your own family usually hate you for it. "My uncle no longer loves me," thought he, as he re-entered his palanquin. "This is a misfortune."-Alas!-it was the. effect of REPUTATION! The heart of Fi-ho-ti was naturally kind and genial; though the thirst of pleasure was cooled in his veins, he still cherished the social desires of friendship. He summoned once more around him the comrades of his youth: he fancied they, at |