find it impossible to reconcile themselves to the vulgar truisms and smooth inanities of fashionable talkers, amongst whom a new thought or a pleasant paradox is as startling as a rocket, and interrupts their general harmony and their placid self-satisfaction. Literary men, therefore, are not fitted for society, nor society for them. Both parties are rendered uneasy by the connection, and the more the former confine themselves to the company of their own class, the better for themselves and for the world. The disrespect which so often attends the personal presence of an author may interfere with the influence of his works. His associates rarely look upon his published labours with that reverence which they excite in strangers. This is the reason why literature is so little regarded in our City of Palaces*." There is no such thing as fame in a small community. Men cannot easily imagine that those with whom they associate familiarly are much greater than themselves. When they see so much in the literary man that is common to all, and can only discover his superiority by an effort of abstraction, or by a reference to his writings, they soon cease to regard him with any peculiar interest. If they admire his works, it is usually with astonishment that any thing so remarkable should proceed from so ordinary a source; but generally speaking, as I have already observed, the disrespect to his person is transferred to his productions. In a vast city like that of London, the humblest literary man may acquire more real fame, however limited, than can be obtained in Calcutta by the most successful author. In England, when a man's productions are once familiar to the public, there is a vague and undefinable magic in his name that renders him an object of interest to his fellow-men. His person is shrouded in impenetrable obscurity, and they only catch his voice from out * Calcutta. the gloom. But in the metropolis of British India there is no public-no mystery-no fame ;-the poet seems as prosaic as the coarsest utilitarian, and the man of letters has no more influence than the merchant's clerk. It is imagined by some, that the lover of fame is so voracious of praise, that he is indifferent to its quality. This is not the case. The smiles of vulgar patronage, or the blundering eulogies of ignorance, are always offensive and disgusting. "I love praise," says Cowper in one of his letters, "from the judicious, and those who have so much delicacy themselves as not to offend mine." The applause of men who are themselves eminent in literature often thrills an ambitious author with that inexpressible delight which can never be occasioned by the adulation of common minds. When Lord Byron's high opinion of Sheridan's powers was communicated to that wild but sensitive genius, he burst into a flood of tears. His joy overpowered him, and was far too intense to find relief in words*. They who analyze their own feelings and the feelings of others, soon discover, that with various modifications, that mysterious law of our nature, which urges us to look even beyond the grave and anticipate the future, operates alike on all men. The love of fame still haunts us to the last. "E'en in our ashes live their wonted firest." * See Lord Byron's Journal, published in Moore's Life of the Noble Poet. "A power above us hath instincted in the minds of all men an ardent appetition of a lasting fame. Desire of glory is the last garment that even wise men lay aside."-Feltham's Resolves. There is a good passage on this subject in Fitzosborne's Letters. "Can it be reasonable to extinguish a passion which nature has universally lighted up in the human breast, and which we constantly find to burn with most strength and brightness in the noblest bosoms? Accordingly Revelation is so far from endeavouring to eradicate the seed which nature has thus deeply planted, that she rather seems, on the contrary, to cherish and forward its growth. To be exalted with honour, and to be had in everlasting remembrance, are in the number of those encouragements which the Jewish dispensation offered to the virtuous." There is scarcely a being in the world, however humble, who does not pant for some kind of notice from his fellow-men; and it is in proportion to the energy of his character and the power of his intellect, that a man is disposed to challenge attention by means more or less spiritual and refined. Some persons are contented with a reputation of which the nature and limits appear contemptible and narrow to more ardent minds, that would fain extend their influence over distant countries and through successive ages. But this thirst for sympathy, and applause, and power is so natural to all men, though infinitely varied in its intensity, that as utter annihilation is inconceivable by the human mind, they project their hopes of fame with their dearest human associations beyond their mortal life. It is not only a regard for the interest of survivors, which may cause us to be solicitous about our after-fame. Though a man were fully aware that he should not leave a single friend behind him who would be either injured or distressed by a cloud upon his memory, it would embitter his last hours if he thought that a stigma would attach to his name when he was no longer living to refute it. Yet the dull cold ear of death is no more sensible to the voice of censure than to the voice of praise. This concern for our future reputation seems as instinctive as our hopes of a future existence, and a continued consciousness of earthly fame is not wholly inconsistent with our notions of happiness hereafter. A great author may perhaps be permitted, even in heaven, to rejoice in that "perpetuity of praise," which, as Milton proudly asserts, God and good men have decreed as the reward of those whose published labours have benefitted mankind." He may possibly look back upon this mortal world with an affectionate greeting, and cherish a blameless exultation :— 66 "Because on earth his name In Fame's eternal volume shines for aye!" OCEAN SKETCHES. Written on the voyage to India. I. [A BREEZE AT MID-DAY.] THE distant haze, like clouds of silvery dust, Now sparkles in the sun. The freshening breeze and like a steed Whitens the liquid plain; With proud impatience fired, the glorious ship Fringed with the hoar frost of a wintry morn; And then, like blossoms from a breeze-stirred bough, The light spray strews the deep. How fitfully the struggling day-beams pierce Sprinkling the air, the speck-like petrels form Mingle scarce-seen among the misty clouds, Till suddenly their white breasts catch the light, And flash like silver stars! II. [A STORM-AT NIGHT.] Yon cloud-arch spreads,—the black waves curl and foam The fierce insatiate winds, like demons, howl Struck with dismay, are fluttering in the gale, And sound like far-off thunder. Now the heart Of ocean quails to its profoundest depths; The dark heavens groan,-the wildly scattered clouds, The dim-discovered stars. Up lofty hills, Calm as a silver cloud on summer skies, Or yon pale moon amid the strife of heaven! How terrible, yet glorious is the scene! How swells the gazer's heart!—The mighty main D |