been taught. Paleski discovered to you what you ought to have discovered yourself, that my arts were mere delusions, and now you conclude that I can produce nothing but delusions. Perhaps you go still farther, and deny even the possibility of apparitions, because I have raised in Amelia’s house a ghost who was none. At bottom you keep firm to your character; you came over to my party because your _feelings_ found their account in doing so; you find you have been deceived, and you fly back again to the opposite party because you _fancy_ to find truth there. However you are really guided only by a blind instinct, by sentiment and opinion. And with _these_ guides do you fancy you can penetrate to the sanctuary of truth and happiness?----Unhappy young man! you are doomed to deceive yourself and to be deceived.” After a short pause the Irishman resumed: “Pardon my frankness, my Lord! I have done.” (_To be continued._) * * * * * * * * * _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._ * * * CHARACTER OF A POOR MAN. Rhebo is hollow-eyed, lank and meagre of visage. He sleeps little, and his slumbers are very short. He is absent, he muses, and, though a man of sense, has a stupid air. He imagines himself troublesome to those he is conversing with. He relates every thing lamely, and in a few words. No one listens to him, he does not raise a laugh. He applauds and smiles at what others say to him, and is of their opinion. He runs, he flies, to do them little services. He is complaisant, bustling, and a flatterer. There is no street how crowded soever, but he can easily pass through it without the least trouble, and slips away unperceived. When desired to sit, he scarce touches the frame of the chair. He speaks low in conversation, and is inarticulate; yet sometimes he discourses freely on public affairs, and is angry at the age. He coughs under his hat, and spits almost upon himself, he endeavours to sneeze apart from the company; and puts no person to the trouble of saluting, or paying him a compliment.----He is poor. * * * * * GLEANINGS. A good author should have the style and courage of a captain, the integrity of a dying man, and so much sense and ingenuity, as to impose nothing, either weak or needless, on the world. The best of authors are not without their faults, and if they were, the world would not entertain them as they deserve. Perfection is often called for, but nobody would bear it. The only perfect man that ever appeared in the world was crucified. The man whose book is filled with quotations, may be said to creep along the shore of authors, as if he were afraid to trust himself to the free compass of reasoning. Others defend such authors by a different allusion, and ask whether honey is the worse for being gathered from many flowers?