another body made a material alteration in your former situation; that it called for a new set of precautions and instincts to provide for its wants and wishes? or would you persist in it that you were just where you were, that no change had taken place in your being and interests, and that your new body was in fact your old one, for no other reason than because it was yours? To my thinking, the case would be quite altered by the supererogation of such a new sympathetic body, and I should be for dividing my care and time pretty equally between them. Captain C. You mean that in that case you would have taken in partners to the concern, as well as No. I.?

B. Yes; and my concern for No. II. would be something very distinct from, and quite independent of, my original and hitherto exclusive concern for No. I.

A. How very gross and vulgar! (whispering to D, and then turning to me, added,)—but why suppose an impossibility? I hate all such incongruous and far-fetched illustrations.

B. And yet this very miracle takes place every day in the human mind and heart, and you and your sophists would persuade us that it is nothing, and would slur over its existence by a shallow misnomer. Do I not by imaginary sympathy acquire a new interest (out of myself) in others as much as I should on the former supposition by physical contact or animal magnetism? and am I not compelled by this new law of my nature (neither included in physical sensation nor a deliberate regard to my own individual welfare) to consult the feelings and wishes of the new social body of which I am become a member, often to the prejudice of my own? The parallel seems to me exact, and I think the inference from it unavoidable. I do not postpone a benevolent or friendly purpose to my own personal convenience, or make it bend to it

"Letting I should not wait upon I would,
Like the poor cat in the adage."

The will is amenable not to our immediate sensibility but to reason and
imagination, which point out and enforce a line of duty very different
from that prescribed by self-love. The operation of sympathy or so-
cial feeling, though it has its seat certainly in the mind of the indivi-
dual, is neither for his immediate behalf nor to his remote benefit, but
is constantly a diversion from both, and therefore, I contend, is not in
any sense selfish.
The movements in my breast as much originate in,
and are regulated by, the idea of what another feels, as if they were go-
verned by a chord placed there vibrating to another's pain. If these
movements were mechanical, they would be considered as directed to
the good of another: it is odd, that because my bosom takes part and
beats in unison with them, they should become of a less generous cha-
racter. In the passions of hatred, resentment, sullenness, or even in
low spirits, we voluntarily go through a great deal of pain, because
such is our pleasure; or strictly, because certain objects have taken hold
of our imagination, and we cannot, or will not, get rid of the impres-
sion: why should good-nature and generosity be the only feelings in
which we will not allow a little forgetfulness of ourselves? Once
more. If self-love, or each individual's sensibility, sympathy, what
you will, were like an animalcule, sensitive, quick, shrinking instantly

from whatever gave it pain, seeking instinctively whatever gave it pleasure, and having no other obligation or law of its existence, then I should be most ready to acknowledge that this principle was in its nature, end, and origin, selfish, slippery, treacherous, inert, inoperative but as an instrument of some immediate stimulus, incapable of generous sacrifice or painful exertion, and deserving a name and title accordingly, leading one to bestow upon it its proper attributes. But the very reverse of all this happens. The mind is tenacious of remote purposes, indifferent to immediate feelings, which cannot consist with the nature of a rational and voluntary agent. Instead of the animalcule swimming in pleasure and gliding from pain, the principle of self-love is incessantly to the imagination or sense of duty what the fly is to the spiderthat fixes its stings into it, involves it in its web, sucks its blood, and preys upon its vitals! Does the spider do all this to please the fly? Just as much as Regulus returned to Carthage and was rolled down a hill in a barrel with iron-spikes in it to please himself! The imagination or understanding is no less the enemy of our pleasure than of our interest. It will not let us be at ease till we have accomplished certain objects with which we have ourselves no concern but as melancholy truths.

A. But the spider you have so quaintly conjured up is a different animal from the fly. The imagination on which you lay so much stress is a part of one's-self.

B. I grant it and for that very reason, self-love, or a principle tending exclusively to our own immediate gratification or future advantage, neither is nor can be the sole spring of action in the human mind. A. I cannot see that at all.

D. Nay, I think he has made out better than usual.

B. Imagination is another name for an interest in things out of ourselves, which must naturally run counter to our own. Self-love, for so fine and smooth-spoken a gentleman, leads his friends into odd scrapes. The situation of Regulus in the barrel with iron-spikes in it was not a very easy one: but, say the advocates of refined selflove, their points were a succession of agreeable punctures in his sides, compared with the stings of dishonour. But what bound him to this dreadful alternative? Not self-love. When the pursuit of honour becomes troublesome, "throw honour to the dogs-I'll none of it!" This seems the true Epicurean solution. Philosophical self-love seems neither a voluptuary nor an effeminate coward, but a cynic, and even a martyr, so that I am afraid he will hardly dare show his face at Very's, and that, with this knowledge of his character, even the countenance of the Count de Stutt-Tracy will not procure his admission to the saloons.

A. The Count de Stutt-Tracy, did you say? Who is he? heard of him.

I never

B. He is the author of the celebrated "Idéologie," which Bonaparte denounced to the Chamber of Peers as the cause of his disasters in Russia. He is equally hated by the Bourbons; and what is more extraordinary still, he is patronised by Ferdinand VII. who settled a pension of two hundred crowns a year on the translator of his works. He speaks of Condillac as having "created the science of Ideology," and holds Helvetius for a true philosopher.

A. Which you do not! I think it a pity you should affect singularity of opinion in such matters, when you have all the most sensible and best-informed judges against you.

B. I am sorry for it too; but I am afraid I can hardly expect you with me, till I have all Europe on my side, of which I see no chance while the Englishman with his notions of solid beef and pudding holds fast by his substantial identity, and the Frenchman with his lighter food and air mistakes every shadowy impulse for himself.

THE FRENCH GOVERNESS.

OUR modish manners well we vaunt.
When we behold our daughters flaunt
In Gallic silks and dresses;

And give them, in our foreign whims,
(Their minds to garnish like their limbs,)
Parisian governesses.

Able her mother-tongue to talk,

To cry

mon Dieu !" to shrug-to walk

With true Parisian wriggle,

Tight in her waist, but loose of speech,
Prompt, if her teeth be white, to teach
The most becoming giggle,—
Some sage mamma in ecstasies
Snaps up the fresh-imported prize,
And puffs her as a pattern;
Her faults the pupil quickly learns,
Pert, prating, shallow, and by turns
A dandisette or slattern.-
Attempting all things, versed in none,
How glibly Miss's accents run,
How fluently she smatters!
What erudition-what a vast
Display of nonsense, and how fast

Her broken French she chatters!

That many, tutored thus, receive
No taint, we willingly believe,

We are no loose impeachers;-
But French romances, novels warm
And amorous songs that often form

The reading of French teachers,-
May sometimes generate, methinks,
A prurient, vain, romantic minx,

Not French, nor English neither;
A mongrel mischief, nothing loth
To learn whatever's bad in both,
Without the good of either.-

LETTERS FROM THE LEVANT, NO. VIII.

Castelorizo, Antiphellus, &c.

THE morning was splendidly beautiful, when about sunrise we drove past the Hephta Kavi, or Seven Capes, and bore down upon the island of Castelorizo. These frequent divergences from his course to Cyprus did not seem to incommode our commander in the slightest degree; he had no specific business at the island farther than to land us according to agreement, and to take on-board some fresh provisions; but even without these obligations he would no doubt have been induced to put in for a day or two, by his invariable principle of never remaining more than eight and forty hours at sea at a time, when he could avoid it. In this part of the Mediterranean, too, islands are so very frequent that our navigation seemed rather inland than at sea. We never ost sight of one cluster till a second rose to view; and, as the seamen who traffic from port to port, form numerous acquaintances at each, a trip through" the Arches" is, to a Greek, merely a succession of visits to old friends, since he only parts with one in the morning to sup with another at night. The Karavi Kyrios wears none of the important looks of a supercargo; he is totally freed from the annoyances of charts and logbooks, and observations and bearings; a deviation from his course is never a matter of either moment or reflection, and even the business of his life becomes but a vehicle of pleasure, his ship being rather his yacht than a merchantman, and his voyage as much a matter of amusement as of speculation. This propensity is well illustrated by a modern poet :—

"A merchant, who sailing from Greece to Triestè,
Grew vex'd with the crew and avowedly testy,
Because, as he said, being lazy and Greeks,

They were always for putting in harbours and creeks,
And instead of conveying him quick with his lading,
(As any men would who had due sense of trading,)

Could never come near a green isle with a spring,

こ

But smack they went to it like birds on the wing."

About noon we passed the outer bay, and rounding a narrow cape at the entrance to the harbour, came to an anchor about an hour after midday. The island, like the adjacent coast of Karamania, is formed of steep and precipitous cliffs of limestone, through which a red ochreous matter is constantly exuding, which communicates its tinge to the surrounding rocks. Hence it may have obtained from the Genoese and Maltese who have at different periods held possession of it, the name of Castel Rosso, corrupted by the modern Greeks into Kaoreλopio, but whether it be the Cisthenè of Strabo, the Rhogè of Pliny, or the Megisté of Ptolemy, seems yet undecided, though the fact of its being the "largest" island on the coast, as well as its coincidence with the details of Livy, has induced Captain Beaufort to decide in favour of the latter. We landed at the beach, and proceeded to a miserable coffee-house, whence, whilst our host was preparing some partridges and pilaff for our dinner, we sallied out to take our survey of the town.

* Leigh Hunt.

+ Hist. Nat. 1. v. xxvi.

Karamania, p. 12.

Of about five hundred houses, of which it consists, we saw none that did not bear the traces of abject poverty, and numbers were totally in ruins and uninhabited, their late occupants having fled to Adalia,* and other towns on the Karamanian coast, in order to avoid the grinding exactions of the present Aga, whose term of tenure being of very uncertain continuance, he is forced to lose no time in reimbursing himself by sedulous extortion for the sums he has expended in the purchase of his government from the Pacha of Rhodes. The few remaining inhabitants are miserably poor, and subsist, almost exclusively, by piloting vessels to the different ports of Syria and of Egypt, by dealing in firewood from the opposite coast, or in wine from the Cyclades, and provisions from Adalia, with which they supply the seamen who may enter the harbour. The island is scantily covered with a sprinkling of calcareous soil, but produces neither fruit, verdure, nor crops, and even for their fresh water the natives are forced to be dependent on the wintry rains, or the wells of the neighbouring shore. Trade they have none, and though, before the opening of the Greek revolution, they possessed a petty commerce in naval timber with the Hydriots and Spezziots, it has now been prohibited in toto by the Turkish authorities. The town stretches along the borders of the sea, but, as the cliff rises suddenly into a precipice behind it, a number of the retired streets and passages are forced to be chiselled into steps from the rock, and these, owing to their steepness, are in general more clean and orderly than the less lofty portions of the town. Immediately on the summit of the cliff, at an elevation of some hundreds of feet above the level of the sea, stands a ruinous castle, built by the Genoese, chiefly from ancient materials, but now incapable of either assault or defence. Three or four useless cannon, of small calibre, are all that remain on the battlements, the others having been carried off by some Greek cruisers, a few years since, and transferred to the navy of Hydra. A little fort lower down, towards the point of the cape, in an equally tottering condition, completes the batteries of Castelorizo; but the walls of both have never yet recovered the injuries which they sustained from the Russians, who, in 1770, captured and reduced them to their present state of helpless ruin. They are still, however, garrisoned by two hundred Turks, who are maintained by the impoverished islanders; and so jealous of the inspection of strangers was the tyrannous Aga, that it was with considerable difficulty we obtained a permission to visit the castles.

The men whom we met in our walks were poor and dejected in the extreme; every object wore an aspect of distress and melancholy; and the sombre sadness of the scene was aggravated by the unbroken silence which reigned around us, and which, at particular hours of the day, when the streets are deserted and the inhabitants are enjoying their noonday sleep in the shade, renders Castelorizo more like a city of the dead than a resort of the living. The women were any thing but handsome, and their costume peculiarly ungraceful; a red clumsy jacket reached below the hips, from beneath which appeared a cotton petticoat and striped trowsers. The head was enveloped in a coloured handkerchief; and, as at Simé, a row of metal bosses was arranged down the breast of the bodice, whilst

* Now Satalia, i. e. eis Adaλta.