cularly, it is a solemn recognition of the compact between king and people, which was entered into at the æra of the Revolution; by virtue of which the house of Hanover succeeded to the throne of the Stuarts. I am no disciple of that frigid philosophy that would teach us to look unmoved at a spectacle like this, which has something at once gratifying and ennobling in the associations it awakens. The solemn repetition of the same rites, which have been performed in the same place, by so many departed generations, connects the present times with the past, and by its appeal to the imagination, embellishes the realities of life with much of the charm of romance. I have no patience with those who say they can see the Coronation at Covent Garden theatre. It is true, they may do so as far as the eye is concerned; but it is Westminster Abbey, and the King, and the Nobles, and the hundred thousand spectators, in the verity of real existence, that constitute the glory of the scene, and give it all its power over the feelings. If the Coronation do not appeal more to the mind than to the eye, it is not worth seeing at all; and it is a sad degradation of the ceremony, to consider it as a mere theatrical exhibition to gratify the sense of sight. All, indeed, that the mimic representation of the theatre can give, is precisely that part which had much better be omitted in the real ceremony, for the taste of the times is no longer what it was: mankind have grown out of their admiration of diamond crowns, and gilded sceptres; and the age of humbug is passed and gone.

Again-what can be more absurd than the retention of the Champion's part in the pageant? In the chivalrous days of our Henrys and Edwards, in the civil wars of York and Lancaster, when the red rose became white with the blood it had lost, and the white rose became red with the blood it had shed, there was a meaning in the Champion's defiance which gave importance to his character;-for every body felt that he was in earnest. Now, however, it is equally notorious that the whole scene is a sham; and that the pretended Champion of England is a harmless young gentleman, mounted upon a pye-bald horse, belonging to the stud of a strolling theatre. How much too is one surprised, to see the nobles of England, at this time of day, condescending to put in their claims to perform the most menial offices, for the sake of the cast-off clothes, and plate, and furniture, which are allowed as the perquisites of such service; while the mob, by the same custom, have their share of the spoil, in being admitted to scramble for the fragments of the feast! How small is the difference on this occasion between the Nobility and the Mobility! Among the numerous demands, almost too ridiculous for discussion, was one prescribing for a right to hold the King's head when he was sick,-which was, however, I believe, dis

allowed, as a spurious claim. But to come to the really grand and affecting part of the ceremonial-the Coronation itself. The chair in which so many kings have been crowned, with the famous stone of Scotland, which was brought by Edward the First from Scone, incorporated within its seat, is placed on an elevated platform, in the centre of the great nave of the Abbey; and there, surrounded by the mighty dead of so many generations, the living King promises, before God and man, to make the laws the rule of his conduct, and to administer justice with mercy. Surely there is something more in this than an empty pageant! Here, however, again we regret that the venerable antiquity of this consecrated chair should be hidden under a covering of cloth of gold,--the common-place indication of grandeur which any four pieces of timber would suffice to support. There was an awful majesty in the worm-eaten relics of the old regal chair, full of poetical inspiration, and better worth than all the cloth of gold in the world. A King must be made of different materials from ordinary men, if he can pass through such a ceremony without deriving benefit from the lessons it is so well calculated to convey. At the moment of his inauguration, in the very scene of his glory, he is reminded, by the tombs of his ancestors, that there is but a step between him and death, when there will no longer be any distinctions of rank, but such as are founded on superiority in virtue. For life is like a game at chess; so long as the game is playing, all the men stand in their order, and are respected according to their places; one is a king, another a queen, another a bishop, another a knight, and another a pawn; but as soon as the game is ended, and they are shuffled together into one bag in the grave, they are all alike; and whether the king or the pawn be finally uppermost, must be left to the decision of that Great Being, who, as we are taught from the highest authority, is no respecter of persons.

Though no lover of crowds or pageants, I believe I shall not be able to resist the contagion of example, and so must e'en pay my three guineas for a seat; though it will be less to see the sight, than to save myself trouble, for it will probably be less troublesome to go, than to answer all the queries of my friends, upon my return to America, why it was that I did not go.

BLUES AND ANTI-BLUES.

It is no wonder that the world is full of paradox, extravagance, and morbid feeling, considering how much the tone of society runs counter to the natural habits of the greater part of its members. This is a thinking age; but we must beware of argument a reading age; but the stigma of blue hangs in terrorem over our heads, to fright us from treating of those objects which are uppermost and familiar. For such as us, whose busy hours are spent among books and their mighty parents, society has become a dead letter: if at any time with spirits elevated by the successful studies of the day, we venture into the drawing-room of an acquaintance, mirth forsakes us at the door, and before we arrive up stairs, propriety has been so busy lecturing on bienséance and the ton-on the topics to be pursued or avoided, that the gay good-humoured tripper on the pavé, is metamorphosed into the long-visaged and circumspect member of the coterie. To talk politics is out of the question (yet the Queen is a tempting subject for gossip);-the name of aught that sounds like a book, except it be a brief judgment on the new play, is shunned, as though each word tattoo'd the hearers with indigo;—of the Arts no one knows any thing, not even the professors; and of Music all know too much; yet, for these very reasons, they are the best possible conversation-topics. Thought, sense, or reason, would be thrown away on them, and the best way to hit the mark, is to shoot at random. Remarks are nothing, unless out o'the way, and all the better for being unintelligible. Yet, to be au fait at nonsense, is no easy matter. To be a good trifler, requires an apprenticeship, as well as to be a good weaver; and books are not the way to become free of either craft. But let them have their share, and let us not hold them up as scarecrows, to put to flight good-fellowship and gaiety.

The most amiable and elegant females on the tablets of our memory were blues; they filled up their leisure hours with books, and were not ashamed of them,-did not hide them under the sofa-cushions at the approach of visitors. They had modesty, but it was of that healthy kind, which never shunned, because it could not catch a stain. It was not of that sickly and fashionable cast, which is always in suspense whether it should blush or not-which one moment shrinks with horror from the distant allusions of Don Juan, and the next stands gazing at the most licentious conceptions of the artist-which, in short, will not glance at a doubtful picture, but has no objection to any opera or exhibition. This was not their modesty, and their taste was equally foreign to etiquette. If they happened to have perused a volume that filled them with delight, that delight overflowed,

and they were the arrantest and loveliest blues that ever prattled. Their look at this,' and 'look at that,' so natural and vivacious, the world set down as affected and stupid. But their spirits were too buoyant to be weighed down by such censure-too downy to be pierced by the shafts of ridicule. They have fulfilled their calling-surrounded by a happy family, their husbands have not found them less domestic, or less tender-hearted, for having extended their acquirements. And I find, that they alone among the "old familiar faces" have preserved in age the warm feelings of youth: love with them has not passed into a name, or romance into a shadow; their spirits have ever bathed and been renewed in the springs of poetry and genius; and thus it is, that my blue friends possess a green heart with a gray head.

*

But really this war of nick-names is most unfair. The gay and idle, when they were the most numerous and predominant, cried "Pedant" to the learned, lest the sons of knowledge should be too much for them. And now that letters and their votaries have overthrown their ignorant adversaries, they are themselves troubled with a meaner jealousy-a reading petticoat shakes their newly erected throne, and lo! they hasten to defend it with that powerful weapon of fishwomen and schoolboys, and cry,

"There's blue upon thy stocking,"

in the fearful tone of Macbeth. No marvel, if they frighten poor gentlewomen. Papa says, they must read, and improve

An Irish gentleman being asked by a stranger the meaning of blue, which he heard so constantly applied, the answer was, that blue, applied to gentlemen, signified orange, to females it signified deep-read.'

I know not what affinity there may be between the literary and political signification of this epithet, or whether our blues are at all allied to those of Butler and Cleveland.

""Twas Presbyterian true blue."-HUDIBRAS.

And Cleveland, in his Loyal Songs,

"How I did trot

With a great zealot to a lecture,
Where I a tub did view

Hung with an apron blue,

"Twas the preacher's, I conjecture;
His use and doctrine too

Were of no better hue," &c.

The English society of literary ladies, whencesoever they took the colour, certainly derived the emblematic stocking from Italy. Dunlop, speaking of the Novels of Malespini, gives an account of the original.

"In No.41, of the First Part, there is a curious account of the amusements of the Compagnia della Calza, so called from a particular stocking the members wore. This society, which existed in Italy during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, was neither, as some have imagined, a chivalrous nor academic institution, but merely an association for the purposes of public and private entertainments, as games, feasts, and theatrical representations. In course of time, this university became divided into different fraternities, as the Compagnia dei Floridi, Sempiterni, &c. each of which was governed by particular laws and officers, and the members were distinguished by a certain habit.-History of Fiction, vol. 2. p. 395.

their understandings. The beaus roar vengeance if they talk blue. Both are to be obeyed, and the ladies become cyphers.

It is quite occupation enough for them in society, to keep their tongues from giving vent to the fulness of their minds, and to put a timely check upon any unlucky train that might lead to the obvious but forbidden subject. Literature is sent into Coventry, nor allowed the least part in the game,-every one that it approaches, cries out in affright, as they used at school, “You're none of my child."

Gertrude and her sister are the very antipodes of bluism; and though they read really more than any of their acquaintance, the very mention of a book seems as if it would choak them. It is amusing malice to start a subject of the kind before them, and see the evasions and pretended ignorance with which they endeavour to be rid of it. Woe to the wight, that knowingly transgresses, if he have any horror of frowns and sour faces. The stranger who sins through ignorance, always receives the same ready answer, "Is it good?-No, I haven't seen it ;" and off goes the conversation into another channel. Books, however, are revenged of them, even while there is the greatest struggle to conceal that they hold any converse with such musty companions. Opinions "cut and dry" escape every moment; and it is surprising, really surprising, how their feelings agree with the last review, whose cover never profaned their eyes. Did they talk openly and discuss unconstrainedly books as well as other things, the acute spirit of conversation alone would strike out original opinions and ideas, even if they never arrived at such a trouble as thought. But all such avenues to good sense are closed: the hours of study, of conversation, and of complete leisure, are distinct-each season dedicated to itself. They do not aid one another, and being disunited, produce nothing. Between them the mind is disorganized and distracted; all the faculties frittered away, and all humours blended into insipidity. There is neither the sense of the thoughtful, nor the vivacity of the thoughtless; their seriousness is trifling, and their trifling seriousness. In short, they are "neither fish nor flesh, nor good red herring."

A downright reading lady is certainly a bore; yet she is something-an entity, which dull propriety is not. If a person will be but patient, and indulge her innocent humour, when the top of the cask runs off, there will be much worth coming at. And even the ridiculous part of the character is more in the name and cant of vituperation, than in any thing else. The anti-blue has double the quantity of pretence and vanity. The greatest of affectations is that of good sense-the affectation of being deep or well-read amounts not to one quarter of the self-importance