written the most perfect knowledge of human nature that man without inspiration-was it without?-ever possessed, it may be thought absurd to say one syllable more upon the subject, except that although still young I have lived long enough to observe, that so far from a man not having a feeling in his business, it is completely the reverse; his feeling in his business is so strong, that it supersedes any feeling towards any trade except his own. Send for your carpenter, bid him put you up some fifty yards of treillage whereupon you wish your jessamines and honeysuckles to twine, or over which you propose your clustering ivy to creep; his point is the treillage, and in order that he may make what he thinks a workmanlike job of the treillage, half your jessamines and honeysuckles and two-thirds of your ivy are destroyed. To him follows the painter, who cares as little for the carpenter as he does for the remnant of your shrubs and climbers; he, only desirous of setting himself off as an artist in his way, not only paints the treillage, but covers with his invisible green-visible to the naked eye

the stems, branches, and leaves of every one of the pet plants, which unconsciously conniving at your scheme of screening, are good enough to intertwine themselves in your treillage. The bricklayer heedlessly annihilates the efforts of the painter, in making his work strong and good which is to support the superstructure; and the plumber, who comes to consolidate certain corners and crannies, completes the job by sending his Etna-like rivers of boiling lead over the roots of the unhappy specimens for which all the pains have been taken and all the pence expended.

I remember hearing Mathews, who, as the reader knows, was my first enticer to dramatic writing, tell a story of a man who had made, with exquisite neatness and beauty, so far as the word is applicable to such a subject, a Hessian boot, the height of which did not exceed three or four inches, but the sole and body of which presented as beautiful a specimen of workmanship as ever was seen. Mathews was delighted with the ingenuity and skill displayed in the construction of this little bijou, and offered to buy it. The

artist declined selling it. Mathews then proposed that he should let him have a repetition of it. The difference between a repetition and a copy has been established by Lawrence and other illustrious painters. "No, Sir," said the man, "I would do anything for you that I could do for anybody, but I made that little boot in a moment of enthusiasm, and I feel confident that I never could make another like it."

This is a proof that a man may be really enthusiastic, and have the powerful "feeling of his business," which I contend generally exists, and which ought always to exist to ensure success; and I say so, not only upon Dr. Johnson's principle, that, whatever is worth doing, is worth doing well, but because I am certain that, unless a man believe the particular pursuit in which he is engaged, let it be what it may, to be vitally important to society at large, he never will be anything in the craft or trade which he may have adopted.

I have spoken of one actor-whose whole

heart and mind are occupied in his profession, Mathews and not only are his heart and mind engaged in it, as the "means whereby he doth sustain his house;" but they are more honourably and more enthusiastically involved in an anxiety to uphold the character of the profession which he so brightly adorns. Terry-a man of great reading-of powerful intellect and of high available talent-has but recently come amongst us; but if I prophecy aright, Terry will never attain his just rank as an actor. The reason is plain; he treats his art as a trade, and feels always disposed to laugh at himself, even when he is on the edge of a great performance. If he take a fancy to a part, he will act it, con amore, but only as a joke; and although still new to the London boards, it is clear to me that his perception of the ridiculous, makes him sneer at the success which his not half-developed powers procure him: so, as I have already said, it is with all men; and as a proof how far the "enthusiasm of the moment" will carry me, I will write down here, that which, as

I never read what I write, and as my papers are not intended for the public eye, or public criticism, it does not much matter if I have written down before, a dialogue I once overheard between two scavengers at the corner of Spring-gardens.

They were sweeping up the mud, and spooning it into a cart with an almost inevitable certainty of Shrapnelizing the "passing villagers," when in a pause from their labours, one, he with the shovel, said to the other, "I say, Bill, what's gone with Jim, I han't seen him about a long time?"

"Can't say," said Broom; "I guess as how som'think's happened to him unforseen."

"He was a good un," said Scoop.

"Yes," said he of the besom, "he was a smartish chap at a crossing, or anything straight forward; but as for a bit of fancy work, sweeping round a post, or anything o' that sort, he hadn't no kind of taste whatsumever."

If I am inadvertently repeating myself, I