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P R E F A СЕ.

THOUGH well aware that to erase, even | important truth upon which all communifrom a popular volume, every sentence ties agree. against which an objection can be brought, must be to leave the author in the predicament of the complaisant artist who effaced his painting in his endeavours to please the public, in striking out every part which did not obtain entire approbation; yet is there one feature in the Pictures of Private Life which has been hinted at by more than one Review, of too important a na- | ture to be passed over without serious consideration.

It has been said of the First Series of this work that the religious sentiments it contains are not sufficiently decided.

If by decided is meant sectarian, I freely acknowledge that I have, both in the first and second volume, studiously avoided every sentiment, and every mode of expression, not common to Christians of every denomination, deeming the fundamental principles of religion all-sufficient for my purpose. Had that purpose been confined to the narrow circle of domestic life, I should doubtless have made many additions from my own peculiar views of what may be most expedient, useful and salutary under certain circumstances of birth and education. But these views, had they even agreed with one particular party, and obtained from that party the recommendation of being more decided, would have been of little service to the community at large, and might possibly in some cases have prevented the introduction of more

It must also be remembered that my object is rather moral than religious. To higher teachers I leave the definition of what religion is; my humbler and more befitting task is to show what we should be without its supporting and purifying influence; to point out the different paths which conduct us to or from this blessed goal; and, if possible, to spare the idle and the thoughtless the cost of learning by their own experience what fatal consequences attend upon the choice of an erroneous course.

I cannot commit the present volume to the good-will of the public, without one word of a lighter nature to the gossips who sit around the Christmas fire-to those whose busy hands are ever ready to direct the arrow for which they have not bent the bow. By such, a great deal has been said in reference to my last volume on the subject of personality—a subject on which I beg leave to assure them that I have been more guilty of inadvertency than design; and that many likenesses have been pointed out to me, with the coincidence of names and initials, of which I was altogether unconscious at the time of writing.

That an author should draw a likeness without knowing it, will scarcely be believed by those who are not acquainted with the process of thought by which an

abstract idea is derived. But to use the parallel of painting, as best adapted to the purpose, let us suppose an artist employed in representing a personification of melancholy. He gives himself up for a while to the abstract idea. But his business is to convey it to others, and imagination quickly produces the figure to which memory has (unconsciously to him) given the features of the person from whom he has possibly derived his first or most forcible impressions of melancholy. While absorbed in the single idea derived from these impressions, he pursues his work without recognizing the likeness, until others more discriminating are kind enough to point it out; and, then, if the representation should by chance be of any temperament, quality, or passion, more despicable than melancholy, woe to the poor painter !

There is no teacher like experience; there is no proper regret for the past but that which produces amendment for the

future. I now offer to the public a volume containing many characters, all so carefully selected, watched and guarded, that, but for the mere circumstance of their hu manity and consequent participation in human infirmities, I could almost defy the scrutiny of the most penetrating eye to detect a resemblance, unless it be to my friends' friends, and surely I shall not be considered accountable for that.

To those who have been more active than judicious in distributing the likenesses of the last volume, I would recommend that they look for themselves alone in this, and that they confine their search to the examples that are most praiseworthy. If they succeed, how happy will it be for them and me!-How much happier, than should they choose out the most exceptionable characters, fix them upon individuals of their acquaintance, and blame the writer for the consequences.

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PICTURES OF PRIVATE LIFE.

MISANTHROPY.

And none did love him, though to hall and bower
He gathered revellers from far and near,
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour;
The heartless parasites of present cheer,
Yea! none did love him-not his leman's dear.

CHAPTER I.

CHILDE HAROLD.

It was not long before he was again at her side.

As the Rev. Charles Forester, rector of the parish of Haughton, was turning down the brow of the hill which overlooked his own quiet dwelling in the valley, he was met by his sister, Mrs. Percival, who, laying hold of the rein of his bridle, playfully cried out, "A boon! a boon!" "What is your pleasure, fair dame ?" ask- she should catch cold—” ed the rector.

"I have been thinking," said he, "that the poor child has but little entertainment at home, and that, if she does really add so much pleasure to the party, she might as well go. But mind, sister; in the article of clothing, I depend upon you, as understanding these things better than myself; and if

"To-morrow is the day," replied the lady, "appointed for certain rural sports, such as fishing, boating, and the like: and we desire the company of your daughter Agnes, who always adds double pleasure to whatever party she may honour with her presence."

Mr. Forester shook his head. "I do not like your parties upon water; Agnes may sit in damp shoes, to say the least of the danger;" and he hit his pony a smart stroke upon the neck, which made him quickly disentangle his rein, and start off at a brisk

trot.

Mrs. Percival walked off also in the opposite direction, knowing, by long acquaintance with the habits and feelings of lordly man, that the less she said to urge her suit, the more likely was her brother's heart to relent.

"Thank you! thank you!" interrupted Mrs. Percival; "I will gladly bear all the punishment you may think fit to inflict upon me, if she should catch cold."

The morning was beautiful when the merry group set off. Agnes, who had not yet learned the painful lesson, that when boys go forth to enjoy themselves, girls must stay at home, took the place, prepared for her comfort and safety with cloaks, cushions, and wrappers, which she pushed aside as soon as her father and Mrs. Percival had concluded their many charges to the old, experienced watermen, and were fairly out of sight. Close beside her sat her cousin Arnold Percival, a tall, commanding-looking youth, some years older than herself, whose right to the privileged seat no one disputed; and at the farthest possible distance, stripped to

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