behind. By command of his wife, he had the enthusiast bound over to keep the peace. "Ah!" sighed Pax, "I wish his worship could bind me over, to keep it. Wouldn't I !"

Of course he never attended a public meeting, except a Quaker's. Of every species of lusus naturæ, the Agitator was the most anomalous to him. How people could delight in excitement, turmoil, and contention, to the total sacrifice of a quiet life, was as mysterious as to hear of fish enjoying the butter they are fried in. Nothing puzzled him more than such political convulsions as the Polish insurrection. Why could not Poles, he wondered, "take things easy," and remain in peace and tranquillity. He conjectured that people lived very quietly in Siberia.

To the Chinese war he was gently opposed, deeming it lamentable that a breach of the peace should have arisen out of the question of opium; a thing which, if taken in sufficient quantities, was calculated to make people extremely quiet. He gave himself no concern about the matter, but he used to wish, as he passed through the streets, that the mandarins in the grocers' shops would keep their heads still.

His favourite story-book was "Robinson Crusoe;" although he thought it a pity that Friday should ever have escaped, to interrupt the course of the solitary's remarkably quiet life. His pet poem was the "Prisoner of Chillon," who passed his time, particularly when he had the dungeon all to himself, very quietly.

It was Bella's pleasure, one day, that he should throw up his snug situation, and open a magnificent hotel at the terminus of a railway. Anything for a quiet life; and he ruined himself accordingly, with more expedition indeed than was strictly consonant with comfort.

After spending a few weeks in the hot season at Margate, to get a little repose, he began to undergo the exertion of thinking that something must be done to recruit his finances; that some slow, steady, tranquil avocation had become eminently desirable. But what should it be! When a boy, he used to think how he should like to be a London watchman; the watchmen led such quiet lives. But these, to the very last of the roses, were faded and gone; and as cad to an omnibus,for one who along the "sequestered vale of life" would keep the "noiseless tenour of his way,"-there was small chance perhaps of uninterrupted felicity.

Happily, in this dilemma, a patron in the post-office proffered a carriership, and Bella determined that it was the very thing. Burthened with a full-sized packet of penny missives, the devotee of quit and ease went forth on his several daily rounds; but he had a tranquil little spirit, and a snail's pace; he had never hurried himself in his life, and hated loud knocks at the door; so he rapped with extreme gentleness, waited five minutes at every house, and then crept serenely on his way to deliver the next letter.

A large quantity accumulating daily on his hands, for want of time to complete his rounds, Bella insisted that he should not think of delivering them at all; they should be burnt. He almost ventured to protest audibly against this step, and he did look reluctant, but, anything for a quiet life, they were burnt upon the spot.

When he sneaked back into the noisy streets again, after his twelvemonth's imprisonment, the last month solitary, "Well," said he, in his small, calm way, "I must say I've had a very quiet time of it there. I'm so glad poor Bella got off.”

Shortly after, with unexampled serenity, he took leave

of these turbulent shores, to settle tranquilly, and secure a quiet life, in a far-distant colony; forgetting, however, to leave his direction with his amiable wife. It would have been of no service to her; for the ship foundered, and Pax quietly went down with her, in the Pacific Ocean.

AN ESSAY-ON LEGS.

Ir we admit self-preservation to be the first law of nature, we must acknowledge that self-love stands as A 1. among the Affections.

Some degree of self-love, more or less, is at all events common, by common consent, to the children of men. But among man's male children, another rule holds good, and it is this: that the said self-love divides and subdivides itself into a multitude of little predilections and partialities, that settle upon some particular quality of the brain, or faculty of the body; so that in addition to one's proper and natural amount of affection, due to and diffused over one's entire self, we have branch-affections extending and belonging, and carrying especial liking and favour, to various distinct portions of our own organisation.

That one man, in addition to his stock of general and equally distributed self-love, cherishes a particular regard for some particular vice that forms part of himself, requires no vehemence of assertion. He loves that one disposition of his nature, because it is a manly vice, or a small tender vice, or a frank bold vice, or a vice that hurts nobody but himself (for it is astonishing how readily self-love reconciles itself to self-injury), or because it is a pleasant vice, or a profitable one, or one that is less shabby than his neighbour's. He has his favourite

aversions too, as well as his favourite attachments. This is admitted.

Admitted, too, that another man, equally self-loving, has as fond and exclusive a partiality for some especial virtue that belongs to him. He is fond of it perhaps for its own sake, perhaps because it happens to be his (for he might not have admired it in another); or because its maintenance through life has cost him something; or because it has brought him some credit and renown; a value-received virtue. He is proud of his humility, he frankly brags of his candour, he is intoxicated with a sense of his exemplary sobriety. All this is undeniable.

At the same time, it is perfectly intelligible. We may openly proclaim the hatred we cherish, and, according to Johnson, get liked for it: we may secretly nurture an overweening regard for any stray virtue we may chance to possess; we may encourage a partiality for any small talent that may be ours over other talents as surely our own, and of infinitely more importance; that is to say, a man who is great at chiseling a statue, may take a more particular pride in being famous for cutting out paper-likenesses with scissors; and one who is confessedly able in debate, may like much better to be told that he dances well. There have been philosophers, who would have been less pleased with the tribute, "You reason wisely," than with the compliment, "You sing like a gentleman."

Extol some great lawyer for unerring judgment, and profundity of knowledge, and he may listen unmoved; but praise his taste in wines, and you pour delight into his very soul. There was a great comedian who felt no pleasure in the laughter he everywhere raised; but if you told him that his whist playing was perfect, you made him happy for a week.

These examples of the little wayward partialities in which self-love indulges are, as we have said, intelligible enough. Not equally so are those that extend to, and settle upon, some particular organ of the animal frame which each man owns; some feature of the face, some limb of the body natural.

Yet what so common as instances of this species of favouritism; rather should we not say, what so universal as these predilections?

Go where we will, among the sublime of the earth or the ridiculous, among the beautiful or the ordinary, the gray-headed or the flaxen-haired; take all degrees from Hyperion to Caliban; and what is to be seen but evervarying examples of this same favouritism settling upon limbs and features in which nobody but their owners ever perceived any distinguishing mark, not possessed by other limbs and features of their class.

Self-love, however it may love the all of self, loves some one bit of it better than the rest. It is the most volatile of affections, until it has once fixed itself; and then it never after stirs from the spot. It will cling to the little finger of the right hand; it will settle on the great toe of the left foot; it will hang upon an eyebrow; it will take up its everlasting rest, astride, upon the bridge of a nose.

Seeing the places where this most perverse and whimsical feeling of preference makes its selection and takes up its abode, it is not too absurd to suppose that a man may be suspected of cherishing a particular partiality for the nape of his neck. He may not be vain of his high forehead, nor of his broad chest, nor of his wellturned feet; but he may think there is something not unhandsome, about the nape of his neck.

The hand, wheresoever regarded as an index to birth,