by the profits of the succeeding day, and all be set right, where gain
is the sole idol; but when fame is mixed up in the pursuit, there is a
suffering beyond the hour, the day, or the year--mixed up in the defeat.
Hope is crushed; and after her flittering shade spring up misanthropy and
despair.

Light and fickle as is the public taste for literature, we are disposed
to think that, (barring the influence of great names) the chances of
success are as frequent in this as in any other field of human ingenuity;
and we can assure the public that our repose has not always been on a bed
of roses. But it seems to be with certain literary candidates as with
nations: there is a certain point of fame which men seem content to reach,
after which, in return for the darling caresses of the world, they kick at
their patrons; and if the maxim work true, that the fame of authors suffers
by our known contact and conversation with them, Sir Walter Scott's recent
avowal is a dangerous step, unless he was tired of his fame. Of course, we
have not yet arrived at the above point, so that our readers need not fear
our ingratitude; and we are willing to abide by the condition, that when we
forget our patrons, may they forget us.

* * * * *


CURE FOR ENVY.


Bishop Berkeley (that acute reasoner) contrived a lucky antidote, for the
suffering of envy. "When I walk the streets," says he, "I use the following
natural maxim, (viz. that he is the true possessor of a thing who enjoys
it, and not he that owns it without the enjoyment of it,) to convince