air. I cannot express the regret I felt upon beholding the fairest and most beautiful part of the creation thus thrown into shade. I thought I perceived that the fine arts began to languish, the paintings that made their appearance at the time were neither boldly sketched, nor so brightly coloured, as those I was wont to survey; they were chiefly confined to still life. I observed, however, that the extinction of love affected poetry still more than painting. It no longer regaled the mind with descriptions of beauty; or softened it with tender distress. Its enchantment was entirely dissolved; that enchantment that will carry us from world to world without moving from our seat, will raise a visionary creation around us, will make us to rejoice when there is nothing to rejoice in, and tremble when there is nothing to alarm us. These interesting situations, which awaken the attention, and enchain the mind in solemn suspense, till it breaks forth into agony or rapture, now no longer existed in nature, and were no longer described by the poet; he wrote rather from memory than feeling, for the breath of inspiration had ceased. Upon this occasion I was not at all suprised at the decline of eloquence. I have often thought love the nurse of sensibility, and that, if it were not cherished by this passion, it would grow cold, and give way to a selfish indifference. My conjecture was now abundantly confirmed; for though I saw many discourses, composed at this time, that were well argued, elegant, and correct, they all wanted those essential touches that give language its power of persuading. One thing a good deal surprised me, and that was to observe that even the profound parts of learning were less attended to than ever. I was well aware that few apply themselves closely to study, but with the hope of sometimes displaying their acquisitions to the public; and I had imagined fame was a sufficient recompense for any toil human nature could sustain; but I was surprised to find that, in all great and noble undertakings, the desire of appearing respectable in the eyes of a beloved object was of more consequence than the general admiration of mankind. These I thought were not the only melancholy consequences that flowed from the departure of love. It may be sufficient, however, to observe in general, that human nature was becalmed, and all its finest emotions frozen into a torpid insensibility. The situation of mankind was truly pitiable. Strangers to the delicate pleasures of the heart, every thing around them looked cheerless and barren. Calamity left them nothing to hope, and prosperity gave them nothing to enjoy. I observed that they were now as desirous of bringing back the agency of love as they had been before to exclude | it. At length, I imagined that Jupiter was touched with compassion at their unhappy situation, and appointed a day in which love was to revisit the abodes of men. An immense number of people, of all orders and ranks, and of every age and condition, assembled themselves, as you may suppose, to behold the descent of the goddess, and to hail her approach. The heavens, I thought, glowed as she descended, and so many beautiful streaks of light glanced along the surface of the sky that they divided it into separate tracts, brightened up every cloud within it, and turned the whole into an aerial landscape. The birds at the same time leaping among the branches, and warbling their sprightliest notes, filled the air with a confused melody of sounds that was inexpressibly delightful. Every thing looked brighter than before, every thing smelled sweeter, and seemed to offer up fresh incense to the goddess. The face of nature was changed, and the creation seemed to grow new again. My heart glowed with delight. I rejoiced in the renovation of nature, and was revived through my inmost powers. There thrilled through me a delightful sensation of freshness and novelty, similar to what a happy spirit may be supposed to feel when first he enters a new state of existence, and opens his eyes on immortality. I thought I had but a very confused idea of the person of the goddess herself, for her raiment was so full of light and lustre that I could scarcely take a steady view of her. I observed, however, that her complexion was rather too glowing, and the motions of her eye too piercing and fiery for perfect feminine beauty. Her beauty, I thought, was too raised, and had too much glory in it, to be entirely attractive. I was very much astonished to observe that whoever she glanced her eye upon, immediately fell under the influence of the passion over which she presided. It was a very singular sight, to see a whole assembly, one after another, falling into love; and I was much entertained in observing the change it occasioned in the looks of each of them, according to their different temper and constitution. Some appeared wild and piercing, others dejected and melancholy. The features of several glowed with admiration, whilst others looked down with a timid and bashful respect. A trait of affectation was plainly to be discerned in all of them, as might well be expected from a passion the very first effect of which is to make one lose the possession of one's self. Several ladies in particular, seemingly careless and gay, were whispering to those who stood next them, and assuming airs of particular vivacity, whilst you might easily see their counte- | nance was chequered with anxiety, lest they should chance not to please those upon whom they had fixed their affections. The greater part of the fair sex, however, I observed, smiled with an ineffable sweetness, nor could any thing appear more lovely than their features, upon which there was imprinted a tender reserve, mingled with modest complacency and desire. I imagined that after the goddess had thoroughly surveyed the assembly, and they had seated themselves into some degree of composure, she thus addressed them:— 'Ye children of men, ye abound in the gifts of Providence, and many are the favours heaven has bestowed upon you. The earth teems with bounty, pouring forth the necessaries of life and the refinements of luxury. The sea refreshes you with its breeze, and carries you to distant shores upon its bosom; it links nation to nation in the bonds of mutual advantage, and transfers to every climate the blessings of all. To the sun you are indebted for the splendour of the day, and the grateful return of ' season; it is he who guides you as you wander through the trackless wilderness of space, lights up the beauties of nature around you, and makes her break forth into fruitfulness and joy. But, know that these, though delightful, are not the pleasures of the heart. They will not heal the wounds of fortune; they will not enchant solitude, or suspend the feeling of pain. Know that I only am mistress of the soul. To me it belongs to impart agony and rapture. Hope and despair, terror and delight, walk in my train. My power extends over time itself, as well as over all sublunary beings. It can turn ages into moments, and moments into ages. Lament not the dispensations of Providence, amongst which the bestowment of my influence is one. He who feels it may not be happy; but he who is a stranger to it must be miserable.' KNOWLEDGe of life. Books without the knowledge of life are useless; for what should books teach but the art of living? To study manners, however, only in coffee-houses, is more than equally imperfect. The minds of men who acquire no solid learning, and only exist on the daily forage that they pick up by running about, and snatching what drops from their neighbours as ignorant as themsslves, will never ferment into any knowledge valuable or durable; but like the light wines we drink in hot countries, please for the moment though incapable of keeping. In the study of mankind, much will be found to swim as froth, and much must sink as feculence, before the wine can have its effect, and become that noblest liquor, which rejoices the heart and gives vigour to the imagination.-Dr Johnson. THE DIAMOND RING. EDWARD MANSFIELD was the son of a wealthy Manchester merchant. Of a prepossessing manner and appearance, and cheerful disposition, he was a very general favourite. His age, at the time of our story, might be about twenty or twenty-one. His father intended him to become a merchant, and, with this view, was training him up in his own countinghouse. For a long while, young Mansfield was all that his father could wish him, steady and attentive to business, and exhibiting a great deal of general talent. But a melancholy and most unexpected change gradually took place. Having formed an acquaintance with a set of loose, reckless, young fellows, he contracted habits of intemperance and extravagance, spent his nights, and often his days, in the tavern, and, finally, entirely lost his father's confidence, and, of course, regard. As is not unusual in such cases, young Mansfield made repeated promises of amendment, but as often broke them. The natural consequences of such courses followed. He became more and more reckless and intemperate, until at length, in a fit of desperation, he enlisted in the -th regiment of foot, which was soon after ordered to Gib raltar. Young Mansfield's father was perfectly aware of the step his son had taken, and had been repeatedly importuned by friends to purchase his discharge, but this he peremptorily refused to do, saying that his son's conduct had been so very bad that he had determined he should be allowed to feel the full weight of its consequences. He had, in truth, resolved that Edward should be left to the experiences of a year or two's service in the army, which, he hoped, would bring him to his senses, and render him a wiser if not a better man. He had also determined, that if his son should then show symptoms of amendment, he would not only purchase his discharge, but reinstate him in the counting-house. In the mean time, Edward, as mentioned, had gone to Gibraltar with his regiment, where the improvement in his conduct, which his father rather hoped than expected, did, in time, really take place. Humble as Edward's position was, he had the good sense to endeavour to make the most of it, and soon became distinguished as one of the cleanest and smartest soldiers in the regiment. This circumstance, added to his superior education and manners, recommended him to the special favour of his Colonel, who appointed him, what is called in military phrase, his orderly. The duties of this appointment, which includes a sort of personal attendance on the Colonel-to receive and execute his commissions-necessarily brought Edward much about that officer's residence, and, consequently, in frequent contact with the various members of his family. Amongst the latter was Emily the Colonel's only child, a beautiful girl of between seventeen and eighteen years of age. Great, however, as was the disparity, as regarded present position, between the Colonel's orderly and his daughter, it formed no hinderance to the springing up of an ardent attachment between them. An attachment it was, however, which they had to conceal with a trembling and watchful anxiety; for the Colonel was a proud and stern man, and the slightest suspicion on his part, of its existence, would have brought down his direst vengeance on the heads of the lovers,-on Mansfield for his presumption on his daughter for her undutifulness in disregarding the dignity of his position. In the mean time, months passed away, and the lovers continued to feast in secret on their love, which grew stronger by indulgence, until at length their existence, their very souls, became intertwined. While matters stood thus, Colonel ——, at the urgent entreaties of some near relatives in England, resolved on sending Emily home, to complete her education, expecting that he himself should follow in about twelve months, as the regiment, he believed, would be ordered home about the expiry of that time. The resolution was no sooner formed than executed; for Colonel was prompt and decisive in every thing. Emily, accompanied by a female attendant, was put on board the first ship bound for England, and, consigned to the especial care of the captain, was quickly on her way to her nativo land. On the bitterness of the parting between the lovers we need not enlarge. Suffice it to say, that according to use and wont in such cases, they swore eternal fealty to each other, and, with bursting hearts, 'tore themselves asunder.' But they did not do so without interchanging anticipations of a happy future. Edward told Emily that he expected he should soon have his discharge. Tha: he would then return to England, and endeavour by good conduct to regain his father's favour. That succeeding in this, as he had no doubt he should, he would soon be in such a position as should enable him to come openly for ward as a claimant for her hand. And, in the sanguineness of their affections, the lovers did not doubt the realization, in due time, of their delightful anticipations. In the afternoon of the day on which Emily sailed for England, Colonel 's lady met him at the door, as he returned from parade, with the inquiry, whether he kne what had become of the diamond ring?' 'What diamond ring, Jess?' said her husband in reply. 6 Why, your mother's, my dear. The ring she left to Emily, but which Emily has always insisted on my wearing. I left it on the mantle-piece in the parlour yesterday, and forgot it till to-day. It is now gone.' 'Very odd,' replied the Colonel, but I know nothing about it. I never saw it.' 'Well, James,' said his lady, there has been no one but ourselves in that room since, excepting Mansfield, and I must say, I strongly suspect he has taken it.' 'What! do you think so?' exclaimed the Colonel, fiercely, and at once imbibing the suspicions of his wife. We shall have that looked into directly.' Acting with his usual promptitude, the Colonel sent instantly for a serjeant, and having stated the circumstance to him, desired him to go to Mansfield's room and search his knapsack for the missing ring. The serjeant did so, Mansfield being at the moment absent, and carefully turned out article after article, till he came to a small leathern bag or purse, in which were some coins. This he drew open, and emptied its contents on the table, amongst which out tumbled the diamond ring. The suspicions, then, of the Colonel's lady had been well founded. Mansfield's guilt was clear. He was instantly put under arrest, on the following day tried by a court-martial, and sentenced to receive five hundred lashes. The day of punishment came. The regiment was turned out. The unfortunate young man was tied up to the halberts, and the full measure of his sentence mercilessly inflicted. Mansfield, through all this trying scene, maintained the utmost composure of manner, and bore the terrible infliction, to which he had been doomed, without wincingwithout allowing the slightest expression of pain to escape him. On being taken down, he was conveyed to the hospital, where, in despite of very efficient medical attendance, he, in a few days after, fevered and died. A result of the excessive severity of his punishment, aggravated by distress of mind. Shortly after Mansfield's death, the Colonel's lady casually mentioned the circumstance, in a letter to her sister in England, with whom her daughter, Emily, was then residing. On her aunt, who read the letter aloud, coming to the account of Mansfield's death, his crime, and punishment, the poor girl sprung from her seat, and seizing her aunt convulsively by the arm, uttered a piercing shriek, exclaiming, at the same time, in tones of the wildest despair, that it was she who had given the ring to Mansfield, as a parting token of love and affection. Such was, indeed, the truth, and the unfortunate young man, rather than betray the secret of her love, which he knew would have exposed her to the deepest wrath of a stern and unforgiving father, and, perhaps, have subjected her conduct to offensive remark, had borne the stigma of crime, and the pains of its punishment, silently and unflinchingly. When charged with the theft, he did not deny it. He said nothing. When under the biting lash he gave no hint of his innocence. When dying, he still kept his secret, and finally carried it with him to the grave. 6 on a reef of rocks and went to pieces, only fifty men out eight hundred being saved, to which number, however, the widow's darling son did not belong. Then we have the gloomy news of William's death reaching Sunnyside the pension settled on his mother as the reward of his gallantry-a letter from William himself, written shortly before his death, full of high spirits and warm affection and the thought, as again and again she perused it, that tore the widow's heart: the hand that wrote these lines is cold. But deeper trials awaited her: 'this was the first blow only; ere the new moon was visible, the widow knew that she was altogether childless.' We are next told with what beautiful and christian composure she bore her sorrows and-but we shall let Professor Wilson tell the remainder. LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF SCOTTISH LIFE.* WE regard the publication in a cheap form, of Professor Wilson's Lights and Shadows of Scottish Life, as no small boon to the reading portion of the community. The older and costlier editions we are aware may be found 'Such was the account of her, her sorrows, and her rein every town and village library; that we notice at pre- signation, which I received on the first visit I paid to a sent will, we feel assured, like Bunyan's Pilgrim's Pro- family near Castle-Holm, after the final consummation gress, ere long have a place on the shelf of every cottage of her grief. Well known to me had all the dear bors in the kingdom. The work, as its name indicates, has been; their father and mine had been labourers in the especial claims on Scotsmen, which they will not be slow same vineyard; and as I had always been a welcome visito admit. This is true popularity,' remarked the poet ter, when a boy, at the Manse of Castle-Holm, so had I Gray, on seeing a well-thumbed copy of Thomson's Sea- been, when a man, at Sunnyside. Last time I had been sons in a blacksmith's shop. The Lights and Shadows there, it was during the holidays, and I had accompanied of Scottish Life have not exactly reached as yet this the three boys on their fishing excursions to the lochs in point of popularity: we venture to predict that they will the moor; and in the evenings pursued with them their do so. They are well worthy of it. We know few tales, or humble and useful studies. So I could not leave Castlescenes, as perhaps they should rather be called, better Holm without visiting Sunnyside, although my heart misfitted to improve the heart and strengthen its best affec- gave me, and I wished I could have delayed it till antions. A warm religious spirit pervades the most of other summer. I sent word that I was coming to see her, them, which more than compensates for certain other and I found her sitting in that well-known little parlour qualities in which, it must be admitted, they are deficient. where I had partaken the pleasure of so many merry If there be the absence of intricate and well-woven plot, evenings, with those whose laughter was now extinguishkindling as he advances the interest of the reader, and ed. We sat for a while together speaking of ordinary tokeeping his curiosity keenly alive till he comes to the pics, and then utterly silent. But the restraint she had close of the narrative, there is the presence of things more imposed upon herself she either thought unnecessary any useful by far, and, as many will think, more entertaining longer, or felt it to be impossible; and rising up, went to and delightful. Every page is replete with sentiments a little desk, from which she brought forth three miniahonourable to humanity, sentiments on the side of piety, tures, and laid them down upon the table before us, truth, and virtue. There is a life-like reality in the in- saying, Behold the faces of my three dead boys!' So cidents brought before us. There are displays of the bright, breathing, and alive did they appear, that for a best affections of the heart, which at once excite our moment I felt inipelled to speak to them, and to whisper sympathy and admiration. There is much, very much, their names. She beheld my emotion, and said unto me, to make the reader believe that Wilson is a being to Oh! could you believe that they are all dead! Does not be loved as well as admired; that he is a man of large that smile on Willy's face seem as if it were immortal! and glowing affections, as well as high genius. There Do not Edward's sparkling eyes look so bright as if the is much, very much, that does honour to his heart as well mists of death could never have overshadowed them! and as his head. We do not recollect anything finer than think-oh! think, that ever Henry's golden hair should the remark he is said to have made to his students when, have been draggled in the brine, and filled full, full, I on the occasion of his wife's death, he came into the class- doubt not, of the soiling sand! I put the senseless images room with a bundle of essays in his hand, and thus apolo- one by one to my lips, and kissed their foreheads-for gized for not having read them: The truth is, gentlemen, dearly had I loved these three brothers; and then I shut I could not see to read them in the dark valley of the them up and removed them to another part of the room. shadow of death.' None but a man of genius could have I wished to speak, but I could not; and, looking on the made such a speech, so intensely, we had almost said face of her who was before me, I knew that her grief would painfully beautiful. We detect the spirit that prompted find utterance, and that not until she had unburdened her it on almost every line of the Lights and Shadows.' heart could it be restored to repose. 'They would tell We would not like to meet the man who could read with you, sir, that I bear my trials well; but it is not so. a dry eye stories like Blind Allan, Lilias Grieve, the Many, many unresigned and ungrateful tears has my God Elder's Death-bed, and, indeed, we might name nearly all to forgive in me, a poor, weak, and repining worm. in the volume. The Minister's Widow' is an especial most every day, almost every night, do I weep before favourite with us. We have first the sickness and death these silent and beautiful phantoms; and when I wipe of the christian pastor: then the departure of the widow away the breath and mist of tears from their faces, there with her three sons, William, Edward, and Harry, from are they smiling continually upon me! Oh! death is a the parish manse to the pleasant cottage at Sunnyside:shocking thought, when it is linked in love with creatures their visits to their father's grave along with their mother: their choice of professions in the army and navy: the return of Harry, the dashing young midshipman, for one short week to his mother's fireside: the death of all the three, with scarce an interval between the events; for William was shot dead in an instant while leading the forlorn hope in storming an Indian fort: Edward was found deal at Talavera with the colours of his regiment tied round his body;' and the ship of which poor Harry was wont to talk so proudly, was drifted by a hurricane * Edinburgh: BLACKWOOD & SONS. New Edition. Al so young as these! More insupportable is gushing tenderness than even dry despair; and, methinks, I could even bear to live without them, and never to see them more, if I could only cease to pity them! But that can never be. It is for them I weep, not for myself. If they were to be restored to life, would I not lie down with thankfulness into the grave? William and Edward were struck down, and died, as they thought, in glory and triumph. Death to them was merciful. But who can know, although they may try to dream of it in horror, what the youngest of them, my sweet Harry, suffered, through that long dark howling night of snow, when the ship was going to 6 pieces on the rocks!' That last dismal thought held her for a while silent; and some tears stood in drops on her eyelashes, but seemed again to be absorbed. Her heart appeared unable to cling to the horrors of the shipwreck, although it coveted them; and her thoughts reverted to other objects. I walk often into the rooms where they used to sleep, and look on their beds till I think I see their faces lying with shut eyes on their pillows. Early in the morning, do I often think I hear them singing-I waken from troubled unrest, as if the knock of their sportive hands were at my door summoning me to rise. All their stated hours of study and of play-when they went to school and returned from it-when they came into meals-when they said their prayers-when they went leaping at night to bed as lightsomely, after all the day's fatigue, as if they had just risen. Oh, sir, at all these times, and many, and many a time besides these, do I think of them whom you loved!' While thus she kept indulging the passion of her grief, she observed the tears I could no longer conceal; and the sight of my sorrow seemed to give, for a time, a loftier character to hers, as if my weakness made her aware of her own, and she had become conscious of the character of her vain lamentations. Yet, why should I so bitterly weep? Pain had not troubled them-passion had not disturbed them-vice had not polluted them. May I not say, 'My children are in heaven with their father-and ought I not, therefore, to dry up all these foolish tears now and for evermore ? Composure was suddenly shed over her countenance, like gentle sunlight over a cheerless day, and she looked around the room as if searching for some pleasant objects that eluded her sight. See,' said she, yonder are all their books, arranged just as Henry arranged them on his unexpected visit. Alas! too many of them are about the troubles and battles of the sea! But it matters not now. You are looking at that drawing. It was done by himself that is the ship he was so proud of, sailing in sunshine and a pleasant breeze. Another ship, indeed, was she soon after, when she lay upon the reef! But as for the books, I take them out of their places and dust them, and return them to their places every week. I used to read to my boys, sitting round my knees, out of many of these books, before they could read themselvesbut now I never peruse them, for their cheerful stories But there is one book I do read, and without it I should long ago have been dead. The more the heart suffers, the more does it understand that book. Never do I read a single chapter, without feeling assured of something more awful in our nature than I felt before. My own heart misgives me; my own soul betrays me; all my comforts desert me in a panic; but never yet once did I read one whole page of the New Testament that I did not know that the eye of God is on all his creatures, and on me like the rest, though my husband and all my sons are dead, and I may have many years yet to live alone on the earth.' After this we walked out into the little avenue, now dark with the deep rich shadows of summer beauty. We looked at that beauty, and spoke of the surpassing brightness of the weather during all June, and advancing July. It is not in nature always to be sad; and the remembrance of all her melancholy and even miserable confessions was now like an uncertain echo, as I beheld a placid smile on her face, a smile of such perfect resignation, that it might not falsely be called a smile of joy. We stood at the little white gate; and with a gentle voice, that perfectly accorded with that expression, she bade God bless me; and then with composed steps, and now and then turning up, as she walked along, the massy flower-branches of the laburnum, as, bent with their load of beauty, they trailed npon the ground, she disappeared into that retirement, which, notwithstanding all I had seen and heard, I could not but think deserved almost to be called happy, in a world which even the most thoughtless know is a world of sorrow.' are not for me. We take leave of this volume, earnestly advising our readers to supply themselves with a copy of it, now that it can be had at so cheap a rate. SUPPERS IN STOCKHOLM. (FROM THE SWEDISH OF FREDERICA BREMER.) DEAR AMELIA,-You inquire how I employ myself while the imperial diet waves his strife-proclaiming banners, while the prudent and imprudent heads of the metropolis are all thrust together, and the uninitiated are eagerly expecting the common weal of the empire to escape from the stupendous impulse in the new-fashioned council of Minerva. You ask what I am doing during this time! Ah, my love, I sup and yawn! The day before yesterday I was at a supper; yesterday I was at a supper; to-day I am to be at a supper; and if I live until to-morrow, tomorrow also I shall be at a supper. A supper! I hear you exclaim, what is there so awful in it ? Amelia, thou happy daughter of the country, remain by thy needle-work and thy flowers, let the pure air caress thy cheeks, sing thy simple songs, close the day in peace and joy, consume thy frugal supper, go to rest at nine o'clock, and feel thankful you are preserved from the life and suppers of the metropolis. But if you would learn something of the pleasures of the great and fine world, then follow me, in imagination, for a few minutes, and you shall be initiated into the mysteries of suppers. We must first adorn ourselves with flowers! Having been invited eight days ago to take part in the feast of pleasure, in order to greet it properly, we must call up our sweetest smiles. The clock strikes eight; we leave the mirror with a parting glance, step into the carriage standing ready for us, which hurries us along the street at a rattling pace, to the house whose long row of windows stream with light. Not a word of fallen locks, crumpled dresses, and a thousand other little travelling mishaps. One must be able to forget trifles. With all expedition the ornaments are put in order, and the pleasant smile, which was forgotten when descending the steps, is again assumed. The doors of the saloon are opened, and we glide in. Is that the simoom or sirocco that is rising from the mass of light and human beings, and floating toward us? One or other it certainly is, and you already feel a universal relaxation and paralysis invading all your intellectual faculties. The first salutations over, we seat ourselves for a quiet rest! If no earthquake happen, we shall not rise again in a hurry. Closely wedged together, the ladies sit side by side, paying each other compliments and courtesies, and peaking out their mouths as if sucking candied sugar. The eyes sparkle, the heads shake, the feathers wave, here and there the silk dresses rustle. The greeting, questioning, and answering over, the murmur and hum become weaker, like a dying storm-the murmur ceases │—it begins again—it dies—and all is still. The card table is set in order, tea is handed round, and prints and drawings are exhibited. Some play and are silent, some puff and drink, others observe and yawn. It is warm and sultry. The time passes slowly. The heat in the apartment increases, curled locks are straightened, noses become red, the ears burn, the eyes water, one becomes uneasy, moves back and forward, blows and torments one's self. Conversation is now attempted. A few lively ideas, like the water from a bubbling fountain, might animate our wearied senses, but alas! ideas have vanished from our heads like the pomade from our locks, and we are hardly so lively or clever as to speak sensibly of the state of the weather. You compel yourself, however, to speak of something, and receive for an answer a pretty yes, or no, or indeed, or just so-just as much as to say, goodness! give yourself no trouble! But see, a gentleman with his hat in his hand approaches you, without doubt for a little lively chat. What said he to you, you smiled so sweetly? Something courteous? No. Something witty? No. Something stupid, then? No. Why, certainly, it was something? Yes, something, yet absolutely nothing. The poor fellow was somewhat drowsy, had lost at play, and, besides, had stood under the influence of the supper sirocco; what then could you expect him to say, but "Tis horribly warm here.' To arouse your almost sleeping faculties, you look around the numerous assemblage, hoping to find something worth notice, something attractive, but in vain, all is uniformity. High ton and fashion have so trained and adorned the circle-have so banished all diversity of figure and originality-that you can observe no difference but that which is slightly seen in dress, or that which kind nature, the foe of dejected uniformity, ever takes care to preserve between the nose, mouth, and eyes of different individuals; excepting these you can find no other. Ices and confections are handed round. You feel a slight stir in the room and in your senses. Each one thrusts his tea-spoon into his mouth, and enjoys his custard in silence. From the side apartments you hear the name of the trump cards as the players cast them on the table. The company in the saloon get into motion, one turns himself, another rises, sets his saucer on the table, stands, and takes breath. The piano is struck up. Good! The magic tones of music will surely put the demon weariness to flight. A half-bashful half-confident lover is brought forward to play. He assures you he cannot, yet he takes his place at the instrument. He blushes, sighs, trembles, yet strikes the patient keys aptly enough, and commences a song. Now, 'tis finished, and nothing serious has happened. opportunity that offers itself. One is now satisfied, nay, more than satisfied, yet one eats on with undiminished zeal. At length the dessert appears. The mothers, being satisfied, convey what remains from the plates to their reticules and kerchiefs, probably to give to the children who have been left at home, whilst the daughters, displaying a like degree of stupidity, read the devices, and exercise their wit in explaining the charades inscribed on the confections. Supper time, like every thing else, hath an end. The money of our entertainers rests in our stomachs in the shape of roast veal, turtle soup, and wines. With this burden we return to the saloon, where pour l'honneur, we stand a while and talk about nothing. At last we take leave, and return home, wearied both in body and soul. About one or two we retire to bed, with overloaded stomachs, empty heads and hearts, which retain no other recollections of the by-past hours than such as refer to the crabbedness and headaches of the following day. Meanwhile, our host and hostess wander about the apartment, among the expiring lights, wishing each other joy of the entertainment, and comfort themselves, on the score of expense, with the reflection that it has been very splendid, and given great satisfaction and pleasure. Selfdeceived and short-sighted mortals! wait a little. Soon shall your grateful guests fully repay you, with suppers in return, for the languor and weariness which yours has cost them. Another, of real ability, is now produced; unassuming There, Amelia, you have a short sketch of city suppers, and steady, conscious of his powers. 'Tis a song from and, with few exceptions, of all the suppers of the metroFrithiof, by the tone. The music and poetry are beauti-polis. They are a crowd of drowsy sisters, whom their ful. The voice of the singer is steady and agreeable, but mother idleness, and foster-mother fashion, lead about its effect is lost in the over-crowded apartment. The curtseying from house to house. A thousand times have last note expires; whence this silence, this immobility in they been called intolerable, but no one dares to banish the company? Is it pleasure-transport-ecstacy? Let them, because idleness and fashion are potent dames, ill-suppressed yawns and sleepy eyes answer the question. who know what respect is due to them, and whom no one The singer has sung to the walls. The supper sirocco has can despise without suffering merited punishment. Dare paralyzed every sensation. even to smile at their hooped petticoats, and you are in danger of being called foolish and impudent. - Still dimmer burn the lights—the heat is more oppressive the atmosphere more sultry. The company feel a dead silence stealing over them; they compel themselves to be sprightly; they speak of fashions, dinners, and deputations to the imperial diet, &c., &c. They strive to expel heaviness, they exaggerate, they lie, they scandalize, being compelled, in the anguish of their spirit, to say something And they wish themselves far away. The hours pass heavily, the minutes rack and stretch themselves, and one feels the necessity of doing the same. Once more the drawings are admired, taken into the hand and turned upside down. We still speak, saying yes instead of no, and no instead of yes. You suppress a yawn, though in danger of choaking. You feel the langour intolerable, still you simper and smile as pleasantly as possible. From eight to nine, from nine to ten, from ten to eleven, from eleven to twelve, have we sat, quietly and patiently, in this little hell of heat and courtesy. Our strength is at an end, midnight is struck, and now we should certainly faint or die outright, but the doors of the dining-room are opened, and the savoury smells of the dishes operate on our nerves like Eau de Cologne. A voice calls, supper is served,' and we are delivered. The company hastily arise en masse. We move in pairs, or one after another, into the dining-room, where an enormous table-a second land of Canaan-furnished with all the gifts of superfluity, presents itself to the wearied and dessert-worn travellers. We spread our selves around the table; we crowd together, each one seeking a place; one will not sit beside this one, another beside that one. At last all are seated, and eating commences with the greatest earnestness and expedition; all conversation ceases, nothing is heard but the noise of knives and forks during the whole meal. One course is served after another. One eats, and eats, and eats. One feels a despairing desire to excuse one's self, by any kind of action, for the unmerciful listlessness and languor to which one has been subjected, and thus seizes on the only If you say that November spleen has cast a slight shade over my description of city suppers, I do not entirely deny it; but in the chief features it is perfectly correct, and no caricature. I cannot conceive how so many rational mortals can meet together merely to be wearied. Were the genius of pleasure to put out a proclamation to his admirers, how they might best enjoy themselves, it would, I think, certainly convey the following notice:'Friends of pleasure, serenity, and joy, old and youngye who would enjoy the few short hours, the fleeting moments of life-Flee! Flee from suppers! Would you wish to banish the dark spirit of dulness during the long winter evenings, then hear my recipe. Collect your relations, acquaintances, and friends, but not too many of them, for the supper sirocco originates in crowds and heat. Be few, then, but cheerful. Light up the lamps of your apartments, but, still earlier, those of rationality and joyfulness in your own heart and head. Let the flame of joy burn for every one. Once more. Be modest, be kind, and if you can, be witty. Dance, play, and sing, but do all so that it may increase enjoyment. Begin nothing in dulness, end nothing in dulness. Weave the wreath of innocent enjoyment with light fingers, and let each one, unassumingly, contribute his flower to it. You should prize the pleasure of conversation. Let the fire of your ideas circulate freely. Throw out, now and then, those sparks of wit which give light but do not burn. Let thought respond to thought, feeling to feeling, smile to smile, like melodious echoes, or, rather, like the mild and beautiful tones which the gentlest touch evokes from the chords of the full-tuned harp. But the well-regulated spirit does not neglect the material, the soul does not neglect the body. Administer, therefore, to the refreshment of the body, but let this be light, and it will also be a pleasure. When one sits down with a determined air to eat, and handle his knife and fork, it is then a labour. We eat to live, we do not live to eat,' said a philosopher. And if you would have en |