ing worth excites even more jealousy than arrogant bearing among those who pretend to superiority without possessing it, because its very unpretension seems to cast some sort of reproach upon themselves. They cannot imagine that a person who does not appear to think much of himself, should really be superior; and when they have proof positive that he is so, they are mortified at having been deceived.

Degerando says with truth, that real simplicity of character is rarely appreciated as it deserves. Of a simple character he says:— "Quel surprise ensuite n'excite-t-il pas, quand il vient à exécuter de si grandes choses, à les exécuter comme si elles lui etaient naturelles ! Ou avait vecu avec lui sans le remarquer; on l'avait dédaigné peut-être; on est contraint de l'admirer, et on se demande où donc il a puisé des forces si merveilleuses."

This surprise and consequent anger at finding superior worth under an exterior of humility, exists chiefly among small societies, and in remote places. Those who are accustomed to live in an extended and very refined society, acquire

too much knowledge of the varieties of human character to be easily deceived. They soon discover real merit; and even if they feel no admiration, yet they give it the praise it deserves. The tact acquired by living in culti vated society, shews them, that by withholding praise that is due, they would expose themselves to the charge of being envious. Pretension, too, is only tolerated in remote or small societies; for large societies generally contain many persons of real worth, and therefore, the pretensions of those who lay claim to merit without possessing it, are sure, in time, to be unmasked.

If we are willing, and really try to discover good qualities in others, our search is often rewarded with success. Perhaps the very wish to find the sunny side of the characters we meet with, calls their good qualities into play. When I am in a cheerful and benevolent humour, I almost invariably find these qualities in others; and vice versâ, when I am suspicious, uncharitable, and disagreeable, so are those I meet with.

There is an excitement in misfortune, which some people secretly enjoy. I mean, of course, when it is not caused by any fault of our own. When reverses of fortune call forth feelings of resignation or fortitude, the sensation produced is powerful, and therefore almost pleasant. Even without this, many of us prefer a new suffering to an old long-experienced prosperity; that is, in other words, we dislike even a monotony of happiness. To some people, an actual misfortune, a positive excuse for suffering, gives a vent to pent-up feelings of discontent and ill humour, which have long, though perhaps almost unconsciously, troubled their hearts. In this case it does good; the mind has been choked up by minor griefs and fancied ills, and like a muddy stream, it is purified by the overflowing torrent of misfortune.

It is very easy to find fault, and there are many reasons for doing so, besides its facility. These reasons are despicable, and show the worst parts of human nature; but still they are so strong, that few of us can resist being actuated

by them. To find fault, not only flatters our own self-love, but that of others. When we can thus gratify our friends at the expence of one unfortunate individual, the ill-natured impulse, already strong in itself, becomes almost irresistible.

The other night, when I beheld the beautiful Mrs. D, and her unfortunate-looking husband, I reflected that we too often do more for our enemies than for our friends. When a girl sacrifices her inclination, and marries a man she cannot love, to procure riches and honours, does she do so from a wish to acquire more good will or respect from those she loves? Certainly not; her object is to triumph over those who excite her envy and consequent dislike-none wish to raise themselves above those they really love.

CHAPTER IV.

Morling of Ulster-A Tale from the ancient history of Ireland.

Carrigmahon, Thursday.—THE wandering poet has been here several times lately-the old man who told me the story of the two wives, which was related in my Rambles in the South of Ireland. He accompanied us during our walk to-day, and the conversation happened to turn upon the absence of serpents from Ireland. I find he has not much respect for the popular notion, that St. Patrick expelled them from the country; but instead of rejecting a miraculous cause for their non-existence, he, with true antiquarian spirit,