which could remain insensible to such genuine merít. The Curfew was again presented, but although sanctioned by Mr. Wroughton's eordial recommendation, was decidedly rejected; on what real grounds it would now be difficult to hazard a plausible conjecture. No feasible reason appears to have been alleged; but it has been suspected that the opposition originated in a supposed coincidence of opinions and sentiments with the celebrated author of Caleb Williams; a work which had, it is to be observed, formed the basis of a successful play. It is not easy to divine what were the sentiments contained in The Curfew which could inspire alarm, or incur reprobation. Not surely the following speech of Bertram. 'Tis now too late To measure back the dust of my progenitors, Because my father was a hind. I know not Why I was pressed into this bustling world; The concluding speech of Fitzharding is in a masterly strain of eloquence and pas sion. me, still What By darkness and by daylight my companion; In the history of the modern stage there is perhaps nothing more disgraceful than the unqualified rejection of a drama decidedly superior to the far greater part of cotemporaneous productions. From the unfortunate issue of this negociation, Tobin had reason to felicitate himself that his secret was unsuspected, and that the disappointment of his hopes was G not liable to that sinister interpretation which ignorance and detraction are ever ready to pronounce on similar disappoint ments. With the world, it is success alone that legitimates pretensions; and whoever is known to have often missed his aim, should look, not for sympathy and respect, but derision and contempt. It must be the inevitable tendency of defeat to create distrust even in amiable minds there often exists a sort of superstitious persuasion of a certain fatality attached to certain individuals, which, if it does not extinguish kindness, at least slackens the efforts of friendship. The disappointed man, by all but magnanimous or enthusiastic souls, is abandoned to his destiny: selfishness adopts the language of cautious calculation; and by an exaggeration of difficulties, adroitly evades the requisitions which might otherwise be made on sympathy or kindness. But Tobin stood not alone. In his bro ther he possessed a friend not to be moved by chance or circumstance: and sustained by his encouragement, and that latent confidence inseparable from the possession of real talent, he determined to persevere till he should overcome. His literary studies were still confined to those hours which should have been given to recreation from nine till twelve in the evening being the only portion of time that he could dedicate to his favorite pursuit. In society, although his conversation was spirited and intelligent, he excited no suspicions of authorship, and was generally considered as a sensible man, who cared less for money than books, and by his abstracted habits was unfitted for business. It was often with difficulty that Mr. James Tobin repressed the impulse which prompted him to do justice to his brother's merits; and when he heard his prudence suspected, or his indolence condemned, he was apt to say, with a secret consciousness of exultation, "There is more in John than you are aware of;" and by this ambiguous allusion to his brother's pursuit, in some degree relieved the feelings of his affectionate heart. Among Tobin's familiar associates there were also some well-meaning advisers, who exhorted him to think more of his clients, and less of managers; concluding with the trite remark, that poets lived and died in poverty. To such representations he sometimes replied with perfect good humour, "I shall yet live to be rich, and leave good copyhold property behind me." To a dramatic probationer there are few trials of temper more severe than those capricious gusts of popular feeling which sometimes lift into notice what was yesterday insignificant, and to-morrow shall be forgotten. Hitherto Tobin had seen his claims superseded by the prescriptive rights |