have laid aside ambition, subdued vanity, and have so conducted himself in all the social relations as to have merited his own esteem, and to stand in no need of adventitious support against the upbraidings of conscience. Add to this the numerous occasions and various ways in which he may be seduced or betrayed into venturing before the public, the blandishments he has to resist, and the many apparent motives of public or of private duty which seem to demand a relaxation of the principle, and it will be admitted that he who uniformly acts up to it to the end, is a man of no common mould and consistency. This consideration, however, does not exhaust all the merit of the maxim. It is not alone the collateral excellence implied in its practice, but the many direct benefits attained, the many direct evils avoided, by the fulfilment of its obligations, that constitute its chief value as a rule of life. To have insisted upon a point of such major importance, was in itself a great stretch of philosophy; but the fact of having discovered it affords a still better claim on the admiration of posterity: for, it was a discovery made in the tecth of an almost universal prejudice to the contrary-a triumph over the natural instincts, which force us, as it were, out of ourselves to seek for notoriety and distinction.

It is now some two thousand years since the dogma was first broached, yet the number of its converts has ever been small. The great mass of its assumed disciples is composed only of those whom nature has made incapable of earning notoriety; while, here and there, a man of tranquil temperament really embraces it; and a small number have its practice forced upon them, by an apprehension of "old Father Antic, the law," and of the penal consequences which would follow rather too immediately for comfort, on their attracting the attention of the public, and of certain of its functionaries, to their persons and whereabouts. With respect to these last, indeed, their conduct is so much determined by that sera sapientia which constitutes, it is said, the whole wisdom of fools, that it should scarcely be permitted to weigh in the scale; for it is notorious that the extraordinary anxiety of these persons to conceal themselves uniformly arises from some unfortunate notoriety previously obtained; it being generally in the inverse proportion of a desire manifested by the public to become better informed of their goings on: which desire they have brought on themselves by an antecedent forgetfulness of the maxim they now seek to observe.

With these few exceptions, mankind in general are victims to the blandishments of publicity, and are making perpetual efforts to place themselves, in one way or other, before the eyes of their fellow-citizens. We will not so far abuse the patience of our readers as to instance the more common cases of statesmen, ministers, and senators-of generals and admirals-players, authors, painters, and musicians-who may all plead with Falstaff, that they do but "labour in their vocation." But the malady is not confined to these. Is it not also betrayed in all the endless artifices and ingenuities of advertisers in the newspapers, in "hand-writings on the wall," in attendances upon public meetings, canvassings for parochial offices, letter-writings to the editors of newspapers, and the thousand other similar contrivances of the little frogs of society, who are ambitious of blowing themselves up into the size and proportions of its oxen? The pranks of the smaller fry of " public men with public lives," adopted to keep themselves a step or two above the

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crowd, and to arrive at the digito monstrari et dicier hic est, are numerous to be mentioned;" and so, too, are the wrigglings of a large tribe, who attach themselves to different sects in religion, with the same ambitious view; for, down to the little boys who run about the streets with desperate chalk in their hands, scribbling " No poppery " upon dead walls and gateways, they are one and all infected with the cacoethes of notoriety, and a vain desire of becoming " somebody." Nor is this confined to the male sex. To what other purpose do the women flock in such crowds to Exeter Hall meetings, to auxiliary branch bible-meetings, and missionary-meetings? why do they betake themselves to bazaar-holdings, catechisings, cheap-repository-keepings (not overlooking, in our census of the folly, teetotal meetings), if it be not for the pleasure supposed to await on popularity, however small the sphere in which it is to be enjoyed? Nay, the vanity of distinction lies equally at the bottom of the spurred boots and moustachio'd phizes of the Messieurs Calico of Regent Street-of the splendid bonnets of village church-goers-even of the "decent mourning" of the middle classes, which, in nine cases out of ten, is far more an expression of a desire to escape from the nothingness of being reputed nobody, than of loyalty and attachment to the memory of the object of the ceremonial. The difficulty, in fact, of enumerating the several victims to this unhappy passion, great as it is, is less than that of discovering those needles in pottles of hay-the few who escape it.

It is a strange circumstance, then, amidst the multitudes who daily fall into the trap, and repent their simplicity when too late, that no one has been found to forewarn his fellow-creatures of the snare, and, by declaring the miseries of popularity, to open the eyes of the public to the true nature of an ignis fatuus, which leads only to the shipwreck of their happiness. Whether or no there be a sort of freemasonry in the affair, like that subsisting among married people-an understood agreement to carry on the humbug, and, like the fox who had lost his tail, to persuade as many more as possible to place themselves in the same false position as themselves-we cannot say; but certain it is, that, if such were the case, the secret could not have been better kept. To us, therefore, has been reserved the task of lifting up the veil, and declaring to the world a part at least of the manifold inconveniences, drawbacks, disadvantages, or, we might say, penal consequences, arising out of the very unenviable condition of a popular man. Perpend, then, oh! ye who are puffed up with a longing after newspaper immortality, ye who gaze with eyes of envious admiration upon each "bright particular star" of the "New Monthly " or " Blackwood"—who sicken over the long list of fashionable doings in the "Court Journal," when your own names are not therein enrolled, or whose little hearts beat high with exultation, when, by some piece of editorial condescension, they do figure there, -ye adorers of the Cabeiri of the pencil and the lyre-and ye who look up with a daring spirit of rivalry upon the aerial Mr. Green, the pneu matobatic Graham, or Duke Phaeton and his umbrella,-incline your ears to our narration, mark, listen, learn, and awake from your ivory dreams of the enchantments of popularity.

Popularity! what is it? whence comes it? whither does it go? how is it won? how lost? These are mighty questions, which, if properly answered, would perhaps save us the trouble of our narrative; for out of Sept.-VOL. LI. NO. CCI.

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these elements are created the major part of those various and multiform grievances and afflictions which must compose our tale. But the world has ceased from philosophising, it will not stand being preached at. It looks solely at effects, careless about the causes; it is greedy for results, but impatient of the weary analyses by which the teacher has attained to them. Essences and elixirs it must have, unencumbered with the mother waters, and capita mortua, in which nature has enveloped and concealed them. It must find without seeking, reap without sowing; it calls for knowledge that apes intuition-for instruction, which, in the language of the quack doctor's advertisements, "prevents it not from going about its business:" the whole doled out by pennyworths in flying sheets and weekly numbers: a duodecimo is too weighty for it. Such is the public of this present nineteenth century; and to its will we must bow, under pain of being sent to the trunk-makers. Proceed we therefore with our tale, and, taking popularity as we find it, hold out a timely warning to those "unhappy young men," and "unfortunate young women," who are smitten with its imaginary charms.

The best method, perhaps, of conveying a fact not directly presentable to the senses is by an image; those who cannot understand a ratiocination will comprehend a type, provided it be tolerably well selected. Hence the advantage of fables and emblems in the instruction of children, and of that mass of ordinary and inapprehensive people, who so closely resemble them. We shall not, therefore, pause to

but, following the approved example of Menenius Agrippa, desire those of our readers who are aspirant worshippers of the arbitrium popularis aura to figure to themselves the position of the successful candidate at an election, hoisted into an unsteady and uneasy seat upon the shoulders of four men, who, however unanimous in the choice of a member, are most geographically dissentient as to the speed and direction of their several progressions. Around him, in a dense phalanx, stand, move, or reel, his tried and most profusely perspiring friends, rendering back the beer he has liberally supplied them with, in the form of vapours, of which 66 a sweet smelling savour " is not the predominant characteristic. Above their heads, in multiplied gyrations revolve their cudgels, dangerous to all within their reach; and from their mouths proceed ear-piercing shrieks; while, in the back-ground, an opposing train of enemies, the zealous promoters of a perpetual motion, suffer no chance atoms to remain at rest, but, impressing all things movable into their service, sticks, stones, mud, eggs (not of to-day), cabbage-stalks, dead cats, &c. &c. (furor arma ministrat), keep up an incessant volley against the person thus elevated into a mark by a peoples' choice. There," there's honour for you!" Watch it as it proceeds, haply under a heavy storm of wind and rain, staggering and swaggering along, every step at the risk of life, or at best under the terrors of a broken limb, or a poached eye; and say to yourself, such is popularity under all its forms, and maugre all its seductions.

The fact is, that, among the numerous members of the " uneasy classes," none suffer more constant and more varied annoyances than the victims of popularity. In order to endure them, without an immo

derate impatience, it is necessary to be born to the business (the amenity and sang froid with which the native aristocrat ordinarily sustains the ennui are perfectly edifying); or, at all events, a long apprenticeship is required to fit the back to the burden. When, after passing a youth and prime in contented obscurity, a man him," and finds himself, without knowing how or why, suddenly popu"has fortune thrust upon lar, there are few constitutions that can bear the shock. If, for example, a plain, honest man, who has passed by slow gradations through the subaltern ranks of the navy, though not wholly "unknown to fame," yet without attaining to that sort of notoriety which leads to the popular, -if such a person happens to have been suddenly sent in search of the north-pole, or to have conducted a royal bride to her husband, he will find himself just in the situation to be victimized by popular favour. So, too, will the recluse who has stumbled on a subject for his pen which sets the world staring, or an humble and modest professor whom fashion, in want of a sensation, votes to be bon ton, or a foreigner whom caprice takes up for the moment. Such a person will not long have enjoyed his elevation before he will discover that he has lost the mastery of himself, and has become the property of the public, its ox, its ass, and its servant of all work. Not a movement can he make, but under the direction of his tyrant; not an intention can he fulfil, but as his master permits. Does he long to visit his aged parents, to return to his home and his family, to enjoy even one afternoon's quiet in a tête-à-tête diuner with a friend of his own-society is inexorable. He must stay to feast with Lord A., to be present at the Duchess of B.'s fête champêtre; he will never be forgiven if he omits Mrs. C. D.'s conversazione, and Sir John E. will take no excuse for his déjeûné dinatoire. It is in vain that his physician prescribes seclusion and a strict diet; it is to no purpose that his own tastes and habits are retiring. Go he must everywhere; he is, as the French say, arraché,-that is, torn to pieces by conflicting candidates for his envied presence; no matter if he dies in consequence of gout, of dyspepsia, or of pure fatigue. Then for his mornings: haply he has business to settle with his attorney, he has his banker's account to check, he has to visit the Lords of the Admiralty, to conclude the purchase of an estate, or to win a young lady for his wife; he has, perhaps, a book to bring out, MSS. to consult in the British Museum, commissions to execute for friends, curious and interesting collections to visit, experiments to make; in short, he has, he must have, some of the many indispensable duties to perform, from which no class in society is wholly exempt: no matter, he must first return the thousand-and-one visits which every idle and self-conceited blockhead in town thinks he has a right to exact from him, à charge d'autant. He must walk himself into a fever, or ruin himself in coach-hire, day by day, to get through his daily task; and still, like the stone of Sisyphus, he will never be rolled to the end of his journey. At his return home, a pack of fresh intruders will stare him in the face from his dressing-room table, larger than that he has cleared off; and the last condition of that man will be worse than the former. Nor does the labour of the morning end there; jaded and worn out as he returns from these his enforced perambulations, he must, before he dresses, sit down and answer the endless variety of notes, billets, and cards of invitation, which load his table. He has Lady Betty to accept, Sir Harry to refuse; he must

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apologize to one, arrange with another, explain to a third, ask a week's delay with a fourth, and answer all sorts of inquiries from all sorts of persons, on all sorts of particulars in which he is in no possible way personally interested.

From the popular man, also, all the sly enjoyments of life are torn. He cannot mob it to see a play in the pit, he cannot even venture in an omnibus to the city. He dare not accompany a fair friend to Vauxhall, nor enjoy the luxury of being alone in a crowd. Wherever he thus disappears in public, he will suddenly find himself the centre of a circle, all eyes, and all, directed to his person; and the next morning every newspaper of the town will trumpet forth his "doings." However it may suit his fortunes, he cannot dine at a cheap tavern, and take his glass of "cold without," as a substitute for the costly wines which lighten his pocket and load his stomach. Indeed, it is in this respect of dinners that your popular man is most especially aggrieved. If the dinners placed at his command were equally distributed over the whole year, he never need go to a chop-house at all; but they are usually heaped up thick and threefold upon those exclusive summer months, which constitute the winter season of London. At that time, a popular man is overloaded, oppressed, overwhelmed with the numbers of his cards. What can he do? Few persons can dine three or four times in one day, like poor Charles Dignum, of song-singing notoriety. Besides, every one now dines at the same hour, and the best digesting stomach in the world cannot be in two places at once. On the other hand, the loss of a dinner is a serious evil per se; to say nothing of the difficulty of selection, and the horror of a positive and indissoluble engagement to a mediocre house, when the long-desired card comes in from Lord L- -e, or from Rs. There are, to be sure, those who can cut this Gordian knot by cutting the modest Amphitryon who stands in their way, at the risk of being cut in return, once and for ever, by the offended party; but the number thus favoured by the gods is not very great. In general, men who respect no other human ties are faithful to their dinner engagements; though, like Pistol over his leek, they "eat and swear." Whether they carry their Christianity so far as to forgive the innocent causes of these delicate distresses, is more than we will take upon ourselves to affirm.

A popular man is a butt for all the world to shoot at. He is universally applied to in all manner of distresses, by those who do know him, and by those who do not. There is not a widow with seven small children," a respectable tradesman "overwhelmed by a concatenation of untoward events," a clergyman whose expenses have exceeded his income," or an elderly maiden escaped, in her chemise, from "the late calamitous fire," who does not make him acquainted with their respective misfortunes, and look to him for relief. The Duke of Wellington, we dare be sworn, has received more letters from the widows of officers slain at Waterloo, than ever fell in all his campaigns; and there is not a successful actor on the stage who could not furnish his quota of a correspondence with self-dubbed Thespians, dated from half the gaols of England. But if your popularity be literary, there is positively no end of this persecution. Every day brings its epic, or its drama, its novel in three volumes, or its voyage in two, with a modest request to wade through the ill-written MS.-criticise, amend, write a preface, and