but if the heart be oppressed, or there be 'a thorn in the flesh,' the _Mordecai_ travels with us. We cannot run away from ourselves. To be happy in the limited sense which Providence permits, let us endeavour to make _home_ the centre of our enjoyments. The fulfilment of those little duties which are at every moment presenting their claims, may be thought by many a strange _receipt_ for contentment; yet it is a very sure one, and if there ever was an axiom on the truth of which we may rely, it is, that "the mind is its own place." Instead of looking to new faces, and seeking in new situations for that undiscovered _something_, we know not what, which upon approaching will, like the sailor's "Cape fly away," always vanish, or recede from our view; let us be assured that, in every condition of life, and in every spot of earth, much may be done with the materials that lie immediately around us; and if we evince no skill in the manufacture of these, we should not turn a wider range to profit. My dear friend Augusta begins to feel these truths, and when they come to be steadily acted upon, she will no more be a prey to disappointment--no more be accounted insincere. Her judgments will be slower, and therefore less apt to err; her friends will be fewer, and chosen not for their brilliancy so much as their worth, and Augusta will find that all the blessings which do not mock our grasp, are to be possessed _every where_, if sought upon the only principles which can never deceive." "Excellent sense," exclaimed Bentley, "my opinions are not expressed in such courtly phrase as my friend Otway uses; but I agree in the substance of every syllable that he has written. He is quite right, but, like the prophet who ordered a dip into the river Jordan to cure the leprosy, your moral physicians who prescribe simples which are to be met with in the field of our own minds, will never be attended to. No, no, we must ransack the remotest ends of the earth for our remedies, because no one is inclined to think his own case a common one. Mrs. Fitzroy returned at this moment with _another_ paper in her hand, over which she was laughing heartily. "Oh come," said she, "and read a most delightful copy of verses written impromptu this moment for me by 'poet Connor,' who, it appears, having missed us at Killarney, stepped across the country to Glenalta, that he might do honour in due form to the strangers. Arthur, he is inquiring for you, and as he is one of the most grotesque figures I ever saw, I pray that you may look at him." I went in quest of the poet, as I was desired, and you may form some idea of these Irish _improvisatori_ by the few commencing lines of Connor's composition in praise of Mrs. Fitzroy, which, if you _admire_, shall be preserved with their "_tail on_," along with his eulogy on your humble servant, for a future day. What think you of the following invocation:--