. Thackerayana;. st and solicitation; everyone by different ways endeavouring to secure the bliss of publica-tion. I cannot but consider myself placed in a very incommodioussituation, where I am forced to repress confidence which it ispleasing to indulge, to repay civilities with appearances of neglect,and so frequently to offend those by whom I was never offended. The Rambler.—Vol. I. No. 59. Strangulat inclusus dolor, atque exsestuat intus, Cogitur et vires multiplicare suas.—Ovid. In vain by secrecy we would assuage Our cares ; conceald they gather tenfold rage.— Lewis. It is common to dist
. Thackerayana;. st and solicitation; everyone by different ways endeavouring to secure the bliss of publica-tion. I cannot but consider myself placed in a very incommodioussituation, where I am forced to repress confidence which it ispleasing to indulge, to repay civilities with appearances of neglect,and so frequently to offend those by whom I was never offended. The Rambler.—Vol. I. No. 59. Strangulat inclusus dolor, atque exsestuat intus, Cogitur et vires multiplicare suas.—Ovid. In vain by secrecy we would assuage Our cares ; conceald they gather tenfold rage.— Lewis. It is common to distinguish men by thenames of animals which they are supposedto resemble. Thus a hero is frequentlytermed a lion, and a statesman a fox, anextortioner gains the appellation of vul-ture, and a fop the title of is also among the various anoma-lies of character which a survey of theworld exhibits, a species of beings in human form which may be properly marked out as the screech-owls of mankind. c c 2. 388 THA CKERA YANA. These screech-owls seem to be settled in an opinion that thegreat business of life is to complain, and that they were born forno other purpose than to disturb the happiness of others, to lessenthe little comforts and shorten the short pleasures of our condition,by painful remembrances of tlie past, or melancholy prognostics ofthe future; their only care is to crush the rising hope, to dampthe kindling transport, and alloy the golden hours of gaiety withthe hateful dross of grief and suspicion. I have known Suspirius, the screech-owl, fifty-eight years andfour months, and have never passed an hour with him in which hehas not made some attack upon my quiet. When we were firstacquainted, his great topic was the misery of youth withoutriches; and whenever we walked out together, he solaced me witha long enumeration of pleasures, which, as they were beyond thereach of my fortune, were without the verge of my desires, andwhich I should never have conside
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