The grand Descartes, modestest of men, who, observes Bulwer, wished to live in a town where he should not be known by sight, felt so keen an anguish at the snubbings and censures his writings procured him, that he meditated the abandonment of philosophy and the abjuration of his own injured identity by a change of name. Happily for mankind, some encouraging praises came to his ears, and restored the equilibrium of his self-esteem, vanity (if all pleasure in approbation is to be so called) reconciling him once more to the pursuit of wisdom. Gray's diffidence, or fastidiousness, according to Hazlitt, was such as to prevent his associating with his fellow-collegians, or mingling with the herd, till at length, like the owl, shutting himself up from society and daylight, he was hunted and hooted at like the owl whenever he chanced to appear, and was even assailed and disturbed in the haunts in which "he held his solitary reign." He was driven from college to college, and was subjected to a persecution the more harassing to a person of his indolent and retired habits. But he only shrunk the more within himself in consequence, read over his favorite authors, corresponded with his distant friends, was terrified out of his wits at the bare idea of having his portrait prefixed to his works, and probably died from nervous agitation at the publicity into which his name had been forced by his learning, taste, and genius. Such was the author of the immortal Elegy, which Daniel Webster died repeating, and of which Wolfe said he would rather be the author than be conqueror of Quebec. Washington Irving's modesty and diffidence did not make him shut "himself up from society and daylight," but it made him a stranger to many of his neighbors, and even to the boys about Sunnyside. It will be a surprise to many to know that one morning he was ordered out of a field he was crossing--belonging to a neighbor of his, a liquor dealer, who threatened, if he found the "old vagabond" on his premises again, he would set his dogs on him! It will also be a surprise to know that the distinguished author of The Sketch Book was a confessed orchard thief. Once, when picking up an apple under a tree in his own orchard, he was accosted by an urchin of the neighborhood, who, not recognizing him as the proprietor, offered to show him a tree where he could "get better apples than those." "But," urged the boy, "we must take care that the old man don't see us." "I went with him," said Irving, "and we stole a dozen of my own apples!" IX. PARADOXES.