leisure hour without a fishing-rod in his hand; at that other youth--his book is his constant companion by the fountain and the hill; at that religious devotee--prayer and Bible-reading are his heaven; at that butcher's boy, who is now killing a lamb--his father has put the knife into his hand to please him--he is an enthusiast in butchery--his passion feeds on itself: it is, like virtue, its own reward--he cares not for cutlets or brown roasts. Having thus narrowed the field to a class, I shall now select an individual, and that individual shall be one with whom I have had many opportunities of becoming well acquainted. Curious reader, it is not you, nor your brother Robert, nor your uncle Andrew, nor any, so far as I know, of your kindred--it is "myself." And how has enthusiasm wrought in me? That I am just going to tell you. It has made me, in the first place, miserable--most miserable; and I'll tell you how. I took it into my head, when a boy of about eight or nine years of age, that my mother--my only living parent--was mortal; nay, that she was so old and infirm--though she was not more than fifty, and in perfect health--that she would drop down dead, even before my eyes. I followed her wherever she went; held on by her apron-string, roaring aloud most mournfully, and shedding, besides, a world of tears. In vain did my kind mother endeavour to rally me, to reason me, to scold me, and even to chastise me, out of my dream: it had taken such hold of my imagination, that, sleeping or waking, it was there. When my mother travelled anywhere abroad, I was sure to be after her, like a domestic cur. When she went to offer up her private oblations to a throne of mercy, I crept in under her plaid, and heard every audible aspiration. In my sleep she was still before me as I had seen my grandmother--the lips parted, the eyes open, and set in night. It was horrible. I started into real life, and wept aloud. I rushed into my mother's apartment, felt her face all over, and cried bitterly. Reader, have you always been made of pot-mettle? Have you never experienced any such nervous enthusiasm as this? Have you been at all times a child of realities--a very steady, thinking, prudent person; slept like a top, ate like a raven, and talked to the amazement even of the minister himself? You may be a steady, good person now. You may even be married, with a family of thirteen children. You may have succeeded in the world, and feathered your nest. You may have presided well at various public dinners, and "Never wrote One line which, dying, you would wish to blot;"