present day, she strengthens her claims to distinction in the world of taste and fashion, when she shows herself capable of writing two stanzas of sense and metre, or a couple of pages of racy prose.

My friend Major Roche is a very clever fellow, rich, good-tempered, and tolerably well informed, a tasteful dresser, a good dancer, and as skilful a musician and painter as a mere amateur should be; but he had, has is not the word, in my estimation, one striking blemish; it was that of showing absolute horror for the class of females described under the once unlucky epithet "blues." He disliked learned ladies so much, that, in truth, he had little acquaintance with women of sense; the honor of his notice being seldom extended beyond those who were entirely unsuspected of capacity to give offence on the score of much learning or deep reading. Never did my friend bestow a second glance, or second bow, upon the unfortunate female suspected of bluism. Mark the sequel. Robin Roche lost his heart to a blue-stocking. Would you believe it of one so thoroughly a worshipper of the opposite qualities in a female? - he was led a willing captive in the meshes of a blue-eyed girl, who could

talk you Latin as the famous Colman the younger proposed to sell butter, — by the yard,

and who was much better read in the Greek authors than many who have favored the world with erudite translations of, and annotations upon, them.

He had reached his twenty-seventh year, without giving a single indication of an intention to follow the example of his fathers in taking a wife to his bosom. He had been long given over as incorrigible; and even the children of his friends were taught to lisp, in connection with his name, the ominous note, "old bachelor." Women of sense, it was seen, he avoided, and he was supposed to possess too much of that redeeming quality, to marry a fool. So the sentimental wrote him down one who had de

termined to tread the " weary path of life" alone. Fond lovers and the happily married pitied his forlorn state, and deprecated his crazed resolve; while those who were poor in the treasures of connubial felicity, applauded him to the skies for his wisdom, and pointed him out as a second Daniel come to judgment.

We were in London in the latter part of the month of August, which, as all of you that have lived in England know, is a period of great

dulness. Major Roche then came to me, and, complaining of ennui, proposed that we should take a trip to Paris, and see what they were doing in the Boulevard Italien, and saying in the Chaussée d'Autin. It was the very thing I had been conning over in my mind for some three weeks before; so I gave a ready acquiescence, and we set out the next day for Dover, there to take shipping for the port once denominated by British monarchs "our city of Calais." Nothing occurred worthy of note till we had been received on board the boat which yearly conveys so many idle fellows across the Channel, to lose their money at écarté, in the salons of Paris, or otherwise waste it in dissipations of which that capital is so prolific.

I was walking the deck of the steamer, ruminating on matters and things, the beauty of the English coast, the smoothness of the sea, when my friend the major came up to me with anxiety depicted on his fine countenance, a slight blush crossing his handsome cheek, and his manner very solemn and thoughtful. Taking me by my arm, and drawing a very deep sigh, he ejaculated, "My time has come!" Not knowing the motive or feeling which prompted the exclamation, I confess I was much startled

by it. I am a firm believer in signs, omens, and portents, vulgarly called forerunners; and it struck me that he had received one of those "solemn hints" which announce our speedy disappearance from the theatre of earthly troubles and vanities. I was at the point of repeating Wolsey's pathetic lament on the brevity and uncertainty of human life and honors, when I was relieved from my fears—that is, the sombre class of them-by his second exclamation, "She is an angel!"

"Who is an angel?" I demanded.

"The lovely little creature who is sitting at the door of the ladies' cabin, tête-à-tête with a gentleman old enough to be her father. And thus it is, the course of true love never did run smooth.' But, Chester, you shall see this beautiful girl, and judge if I have not reason to be thus smitten."

On descending to the cabin, the first glimpse I caught of the object of Roche's sudden passion, was certainly such as led me to think highly of his taste. I do not think I ever saw a more beautiful woman. Indeed, were I required to point out the most beautiful face I have ever seen, I should name hers. And then there dwelt such an unspeakable charm in her countenance,

and so much grace in her manner, so muchbut she was incomparable. Happily for the major, the gentleman who attended her proved to be an old acquaintance of mine, a married man, with daughters nearly as old as his lovely ward. At my request, he introduced "Miss Lemmen." Behold, then, my friend on the summit of human felicity. He was soon able to engross the whole conversation of the lovely girl, his tender interest increasing every moment, while the glance of her soft eye evinced decided approbation of his conversation and manners. Before they had been half an hour in each other's company, I set them down "paired and matched." I never saw two persons become more deeply enamored at a first interview. Happily, the subjects first introduced were those he had been accustomed to hear discussed in fashionable circles dress, dancing, music, drawing, recent marriages and engagements in the beau monde, parties formed for the watering-places, all topics of much and engrossing interest in the higher circles. So far all was well; but as those who begin to feel la belle passion are always more or less poetical and sentimental, and, like the dying Falstaff, "babble of green fields," my enamored friend would needs be asking the