Pencil Sketches; or, Outlines of Character and Manners

by Eliza Leslie

PENCILLINGS ON SHIP-BOARD.

"Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight."—Byron.

"And now, dear Caroline, tell us some particulars of your passage home," said Mrs. Esdale to her sister, as they quitted the tea-table on the evening of Mr. and Mrs. Fenton's arrival from a visit to Europe.

"Our passage home," replied Mrs. Fenton, "was moderately short, and generally pleasant. We had a good ship, a good captain, splendid accommodations, and an excellent table, and were not crowded with too many passengers."

"Yet, let us hear something more circumstantial," said Mrs. Esdale.

"Dear Henrietta," replied her sister, "have I not often told you how difficult it is to relate anything amusingly or interestingly when you are expressly called upon to do so; when you are expected to sit up in form, and furnish a regular narrative, with a beginning, a middle, and an end."

"But indeed," rejoined Mrs. Esdale, "we have anticipated much pleasure from hearing your account of the voyage. Come,—let us take our seats in the front parlour, and leave your husband and mine to their discussion of the political prospects of both hemispheres. The girls and myself would much rather listen to your last impressions of life on ship-board."

"Do, dear aunt," said both the daughters of Mrs. Esdale, two fine girls of seventeen and fifteen—and taking their seats at the sofa-table, they urged Mrs Fenton to commence.

"Well, then," said Mrs. Fenton, "to begin in the manner of the fairy tales—once upon a time there lived in the city of New York, a merchant whose name was Edward Fenton—and he had a wife named Caroline Fenton. And notwithstanding that they had a town-house and a country-house, and a coach to ride in, and fine clothes, and fine furniture, and plenty of good things to eat and to drink, they grew tired of staying at home and being comfortable. So they sailed away in a ship, and never stopped till they got to England. And there they saw the king and queen, with gold crowns on their heads, and sceptres in their hands—(by-the-bye it was lucky that we arrived in time for the coronation)—and they heard the king cough, and the queen sneeze: and they saw lords with ribands and stars, and ladies with plumes and diamonds. They travelled and travelled, and often came to great castles that looked like giants' houses: and they went all over England and Wales, and Ireland and Scotland. Then they returned to London, and saw more sights; and then they were satisfied to come back to America, where they expect to live happily all the rest of their lives."

"Now, aunt, you are laughing at us," said Juliet Esdale—"your letters from Europe have somewhat taken off the edge of our curiosity as to your adventures there: and it is just now our especial desire to hear something of your voyage home."

"In truth," replied Mrs. Fenton, "I must explain, that on this, the first evening of my return, I feel too happy, and too much excited, to talk systematically on any subject whatever; much less to arrange my ideas into the form of a history. To-morrow I shall be engaged all day at my own house: for I must preside at the awakening of numerous articles of furniture that have been indulged during our absence with a long slumber; some being covered up in cases, and some shut up in closets, or disrespectfully imprisoned in the attics. But I will come over in the evening; and, if we are not interrupted by visiters, I will read you some memorandums that I made on the passage. I kept no regular journal, but I wrote a little now and then, chiefly for my amusement, and to diversify my usual occupations of reading, sewing, and walking the deck. Therefore excuse me to-night, and let me have my humour, for I feel exactly in the vein to talk 'an infinite deal of nothing.'"

"Aunt Caroline," said Clara, "you know that, talk as you will, we always like to hear you. But we shall long for to-morrow evening."

"Do not, however, expect a finished picture of a sea-voyage," said Mrs. Fenton, "I can only promise you a few slight outlines, filled up with a half tint, and without lights or shadows; like the things that the Chinese sometimes paint on their tea-chests."

On the following evening, the gentlemen having gone to a public meeting, and measures being taken for the exclusion of visitors, Mrs. Esdale and her daughters seated themselves at the table with their work, and Mrs. Fenton produced her manuscript book, and read as follows: having first reminded her auditors that her husband and herself, instead of embarking at London, had gone by land to Portsmouth, and from thence crossed over to the Isle of Wight, where they took apartments at the principal hotel in the little town of Cowes, at which place the ship was to touch on her way down the British channel.

---

Having amply availed ourselves of the opportunity (afforded by a three days' sojourn) of exploring the beauties of the Isle of Wight, we felt some impatience to find ourselves fairly afloat, and actually on our passage "o'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea." On the fourth afternoon, we walked down to the beach, and strolled amid shells and sea-weed, along the level sands at the foot of a range of those chalky cliffs that characterize the southern coast of England. It was a lovely day. A breeze from the west was ruffling the crests of the green transparent waves, and wafting a few light clouds across the effulgence of the declining sun, whose beams danced radiantly on the surface of the water, gilding the black and red sails of the fishing-boats, and then withdrawing, at intervals, and leaving the sea in shade.

"Should this wind continue," said Mr. Fenton, "we may be detained here a week, and have full leisure to clamber again among the ruins of Carisbrook Castle, and to gaze at the cloven chalk-rocks of Shankline Chine, and the other wonders of this pleasant little island."

We then approached an old disabled sailor, who was smoking his pipe, seated on a dismantled cannon that lay prostrate on the sands, its iron mouth choked up with the sea-weed that the tide had washed into it; and on entering into conversation with him, we found that he was an out-pensioner of Greenwich hospital, and that for the last ten years he had passed most of his time about Portsmouth and the Isle of Wight.

"Have you ever known a ship come down from London with such a wind as this?" inquired Mr. Fenton.

"No," replied the sailor.—"After she doubles Beachy Head, this wind would be right in her teeth."

"Then," said Mr. Fenton, turning to me—"till it changes, we may give up all hope of seeing our gallant vessel."

"What ship are you looking for?" asked the sailor.

"The Washington."

"Oh! an American ship—ay, she'll come down. They can make their way with any sort of wind."[81]

He had scarcely spoken, when the flag of our country appeared beyond the point, its bright stars half obscured by the ample folds of the white and crimson stripes that, blown backward by the adverse breeze, were waving across them. In a moment the snowy sails of the Washington came full into view, shaded with purple by the setting sun.

"There she is!" exclaimed my husband. "There she comes—is not an American ship one of the most beautiful objects created by the hand of man? Well, indeed, do they merit the admiration that is so frankly accorded to them by every nation of the earth."

My husband, in his enthusiasm, shook the hand of the old sailor, and slipped some money into it. We remained on the beach looking at the ship till

"——o'er her bow the rustling cable rung,
The sails were furl'd; and anchoring round she swung."

A boat was then lowered from her stern, and the captain came off in it. He walked with us to the hotel, and informed us that he should leave Cowes early the following day. We soon completed the preparations for our final departure, and before eight o'clock next morning we had taken our last step on British ground, and were installed in our new abode on the world of waters. Several of the passengers had come down in the ship from London; others, like ourselves, had preferred commencing their voyage from the Isle of Wight; and some, as we understood, were to join us at Plymouth.

We sailed immediately. The breeze freshened, and that night and the next day, there was much general discomfort from sea-sickness; but, fortunately for us both, I was very slightly affected by that distressing malady, and Mr. Fenton not at all.

On the third day, we were enabled to lay our course with a fair wind and a clear sky: the coast of Cornwall looking like a succession of low white clouds ranged along the edge of the northern horizon. Towards evening we passed the Lizard, to see land no more till we should descry it on the other side of the Atlantic. As Mr. Fenton and myself leaned over the taffrail, and saw the last point of England fade dimly from our view, we thought with regret of the shore we were leaving behind us, and of much that we had seen, and known, and enjoyed in that country of which all that remained to our lingering gaze was a dark spot so distant and so small as to be scarcely perceptible. Soon we could discern it no longer: and nothing of Europe was now left to us but the indelible recollections that it has impressed upon our minds. We turned towards the region of the descending sun—

"To where his setting splendours burn
Upon the western sea-maid's urn,"

and we vainly endeavoured to direct all our thoughts and feelings towards our home beyond the ocean—our beloved American home.

On that night, as on many others, when our ship was careering through the sea, with her yards squared, and her sails all trimmed to a fresh and favouring breeze, while we sat on a sofa in the lesser cabin, and looked up through the open skylight at the stars that seemed flying over our heads, we talked of the land we had so recently quitted. We talked of her people, who though differing from ours in a thousand minute particulars, are still essentially the same. Our laws, our institutions, our manners, and our customs are derived from theirs: we are benefited by the same arts, we are enlightened by the same sciences. Their noble and copious language is fortunately ours—their Shakspeare also belongs to us; and we rejoice that we can possess ourselves of his "thoughts that breathe, and words that burn," in all their original freshness and splendour, unobscured by the mist of translation. Though the ocean divides our dwelling-places: though the sword and the cannon-shot have sundered the bonds that once united us to her dominion: though the misrepresentations of travelling adventurers have done much to foster mutual prejudices, and to embitter mutual jealousies, still we share the pride of our parent in the glorious beings she can number among the children of her island home, for

"Yet lives the blood of England in our veins."

On the fourth day of our departure from the Isle of Wight, we found ourselves several hundred miles from land, and consigned to the solitudes of that ocean-desert, "dark-heaving-boundless—endless—and sublime"—whose travellers find no path before them, and leave no track behind. But the wind was favourable, the sky was bright, the passengers had recovered their health and spirits, and for the first time were all able to present themselves at the dinner-table; and there was really what might be termed a "goodly company."

It is no longer the custom in American packet ships for ladies to persevere in what is called a sea-dress: that is, a sort of dishabille prepared expressly for the voyage. Those who are not well enough to devote some little time and attention to their personal appearance, rarely come to the general table, but take their meals in their own apartment. The gentlemen, also, pay as much respect to their toilet as when on shore.

The coup d'œil of the dinner-table very much resembles that of a fashionable hotel. All the appurtenances of the repast are in handsome style. The eatables are many of them such as, even on shore, would be considered delicacies, and they are never deficient in abundance and variety. Whatever may be the state of the weather, or the motion of the ship, the steward and the cook are unfailing in their duty; constantly fulfilling their arduous functions with the same care and regularity. The breakfast-table is always covered with a variety of relishes, and warm cakes. At noon there is a luncheon of pickled oysters, cold ham, tongue, &c. The dinner consists of fowls, ducks, geese, turkeys, fresh pork or mutton; for every ship is well supplied with live poultry, pigs and sheep. During the first week of the voyage there is generally fresh beef on the table, it being brought on board from the last place at which the vessel has touched: and it is kept on deck wrapped closely in a sail-cloth, and attached to one of the masts, the salt atmosphere preserving it. Every day at the dessert there are delicious pies and puddings, followed by almonds, raisins, oranges, &c.; and the tea-table is profusely set out with rich cakes and sweetmeats. For the sick there is always an ample store of sago, arrow-root, pearl-barley, tamarinds, &c. Many persons have an opportunity, during their passage across the Atlantic, of living more luxuriously than they have ever done in their lives, or perhaps ever will again. Our passengers were not too numerous. The lesser cabin was appropriated to three other ladies and myself. It formed our drawing-room; the gentlemen being admitted only as visiters. One of the ladies was Mrs. Calcott, an amiable and intelligent woman, who was returning with her husband from a long residence in England. Another was Miss Harriet Audley, a very pretty and very lively young lady from Virginia, who had been visiting a married sister in London, and was now on her way home under the care of the captain, expecting to meet her father in New York. We were much amused during the voyage with the coquetry of our fair Virginian, as she aimed her arrows at nearly all the single gentlemen in turn; and with her frankness in openly talking of her designs, and animadverting on their good or ill success. The gentlemen, with the usual vanity of their sex, always believed Miss Audley's attacks on their hearts to be made in earnest, and that she was deeply smitten with each of them in succession; notwithstanding that the smile in her eye was far more frequent than the blush on her cheek; and notwithstanding that rumour had asserted the existence of a certain cavalier in the neighbourhood of Richmond, whose constancy it was supposed she would eventually reward with her hand, as he might be considered, in every sense of the term, an excellent match.

Our fourth female passenger was Mrs. Cummings, a plump, rosy-faced old lady of remarkably limited ideas, who had literally passed her whole life in the city of London. Having been recently left a widow, she had broken up housekeeping, and was now on her way to join a son established in New York, who had very kindly sent for her to come over and live with him. The rest of the world was almost a sealed book to her, but she talked a great deal of the Minories, the Poultry, the Old Jewry, Cheapside, Long Acre, Bishopsgate Within, and Bishopsgate Without, and other streets and places with, appellations equally expressive.

The majority of the male passengers were pleasant and companionable—and we thought we had seen them all in the course of the first three days—but on the fourth, we heard the captain say to one of the waiters, "Juba, ask that gentleman if I shall have the pleasure of taking wine with him." My eyes now involuntarily followed the direction of Juba's movements, feeling some curiosity to know who "that gentleman" was, as I now recollected having frequently heard the epithet within the last few days. For instance, when almost every one was confined by sea-sickness to their state-rooms, I had seen the captain despatch a servant to inquire of that gentleman if he would have anything sent to him from the table. Also, I had heard Hamilton, the steward, call out,—"There, boys, don't you hear that gentleman ring his bell—why don't you run spontaneously—jump, one of you, to number eleventeen." I was puzzled for a moment to divine which state-room bore the designation of eleventeen, but concluded it to be one of the many unmeaning terms that characterize the phraseology of our coloured people. Once or twice I wondered who that gentleman could be; but something else happened immediately to divert my attention.

Now, when I heard Captain Santlow propose taking wine with him, I concluded that, of course, that gentleman must be visible in propriâ personâ, and, casting my eyes towards the lower end of the table, I perceived a genteel-looking man whom I had not seen before. He was apparently of no particular age, and there was nothing in his face that could lead any one to guess at his country. He might have been English, Scotch, Irish, or American; but he had none of the characteristic marks of either nation. He filled his glass, and bowing his head to Captain Santlow, who congratulated him on his recovery, he swallowed his wine in silence. There was an animated conversation going on near the head of the table, between Miss Audley and two of her beaux, and we thought no more of him.

At the close of the dessert, we happened to know that he had quitted the table and gone on deck, by one of the waiters coming down and requesting Mr. Overslaugh (who was sitting a-tilt, while discussing his walnuts, with his chair balanced on one leg, and his head leaning against the wainscot) to let him pass for a moment, while he went into No. eleventeen for that gentleman's overcoat. I now found that the servants had converted No. 13 into eleventeen. By-the-bye, that gentleman had a state-room all to himself, sometimes occupying the upper and sometimes the under berth.

"Captain Santlow," said Mr. Fenton, "allow me to ask you the name of that gentleman."

"Oh! I don't know"—replied the captain, trying to suppress a smile—"at least I have forgotten it—some English name; for he is an Englishman—he came on board at Plymouth, and his indisposition commenced immediately. Mrs. Cummings, shall I have the pleasure of peeling an orange for you?"

I now recollected a little incident which had set me laughing soon after we left Plymouth, and when we were beating down the coast of Devonshire. I had been trying to write at the table in the Ladies' Cabin, but it was one of those days when

"Our paper, pen and ink, and we
Roll up and down our ships at sea."

And all I could do was to take refuge in my berth, and endeavour to read, leaving the door open for more air. My attention, however, was continually withdrawn from my book by the sound of things that were dislodged from their places, sliding or falling, and frequently suffering destruction; though sometimes miraculously escaping unhurt.

While I was watching the progress of two pitchers that had been tossed out of the washing-stand, and after deluging the floor with water, had met in the Ladies' Cabin, and were rolling amicably side by side, without happening to break each other, I saw a barrel of flour start from the steward's pantry, and running across the dining-room, stop at a gentleman that lay extended in a lower berth with his room door open, and pour out its contents upon him, completely enveloping him in a fog of meal. I heard the steward, who was busily engaged in mopping up the water that had flowed from the pitchers, call out, "Run, boys, run, that gentleman's smothering up in flour—go take the barrel off him—jump, I tell you!"

How that gentleman acted while hidden in the cloud of flour, I could not perceive, and immediately the closing of the folding doors shut out the scene.

For a few days after he appeared among us, there was some speculation with regard to this nameless stranger, whose taciturnity seemed his chief characteristic. One morning while we were looking at the gambols of a shoal of porpoises that were tumbling through the waves and sometimes leaping out of them, my husband made some remark on the clumsy antics of this unsightly fish, addressing himself, for the first time, to the unknown Englishman, who happened to be standing near him. That gentleman smiled affably, but made no reply. Mr. Fenton pursued the subject—and that gentleman smiled still more affably, and walked away.

Nevertheless, he was neither deaf nor dumb, nor melancholy, but had only "a great talent for silence," and as is usually the case with persons whose genius lies that way, he was soon left entirely to himself, no one thinking it worth while to take the trouble of extracting words from him. In truth, he was so impracticable, and at the same time so evidently insignificant, and so totally uninteresting, that his fellow-passengers tacitly conveyed him to Coventry; and in Coventry he seemed perfectly satisfied to dwell. Once or twice Captain Santlow was asked again if he recollected the name of that gentleman; but he always replied with a sort of smile, "I cannot say I do—not exactly, at least—but I'll look at my manifest and see"—and he never failed to turn the conversation to something else.

The only person that persisted in occasionally talking to that gentleman, was old Mrs. Cummings; and she confided to him her perpetual alarms at "the perils of the sea," considering him a good hearer, as he never made any reply, and was always disengaged, and sitting and standing about, apparently at leisure while the other gentlemen were occupied in reading, writing, playing chess, walking the deck, &c.

Whenever the ship was struck by a heavy sea, and after quivering with the shock, remained motionless for a moment before she recovered herself and rolled the other way, poor Mrs. Cummings supposed that we had run against a rock, and could not be convinced that rocks were not dispersed every where about the open ocean. And as that gentleman never attempted to undeceive her on this or any other subject, but merely listened with a placid smile, she believed that he always thought precisely as she did. She not unfrequently discussed to him, in an under tone, the obstinacy and incivility of the captain, who she averred, with truth, had never in any one instance had the politeness to stop the ship, often as she had requested, nay implored him to do so even when she was suffering with sea-sickness, and actually tossed out of her berth by the violence of the storm, though she was holding on with both hands.

One day, while we were all three sitting in the round-house (that very pleasant little saloon on the upper deck, at the head of the cabin-staircase), my attention was diverted from my book by hearing Mrs. Cummings say to that gentleman, "Pray, sir, can you tell me what is the matter with that poor man's head? I mean the man that has to stand always at the wheel there, holding it fast and turning it. I hear the captain call out to him every now and then (and in a very rough voice too, sometimes), 'How is your head?' and 'How is your head now?' I cannot understand what the man says in answer, so I suppose he speaks American; but the captain often tells him 'to keep it steady.' And once I heard the captain call out 'Port—port,' which I was very glad of, concluding that the poor fellow had nearly given out, and he was ordering a glass of port wine to revive him. Do you think, sir, that the poor man at the wheel has a constant headache like my friend Mrs. Dawlish of Leadenhall street, or that he has hurt his head somehow, by falling out of the sails, or tumbling down the ropeladders—(there now—we've struck a rock!—mercy on us—what a life we lead! I wish I was on Ludgate Hill.) Talking of hurts, I have not escaped them myself, for I've had my falls; and yet the captain is so rude as to turn a deaf ear, and keeps sailing on all the same, even when the breath is nearly knocked out of me, and though I've offered several times to pay him for stopping, but he only laughs at me. By-the-bye, when I go back again to dear old England, and I'm sorry enough that I ever left it (as Mr. Stackhouse, the great corn-chandler in Whitechapel, told me I certainly should be), I'll see and take my passage with a captain that has more feeling for the ladies. As for this one, he never lets the ship rest a minute, but he keeps forcing her on day and night. I doubt whether she'll last the voyage out, with all this wear and tear—and then if she should give in, what's to become of us all? If he would only let her stand still while we are at table, that we might eat our dinners in peace!—though it's seldom I'm well enough to eat anything to speak of—I often make my whole dinner of the leg and wing of a goose, and a slice or two of plum-pudding; but there's no comfort in eating, when we are one minute thrown forward with our heads bowing down to the very table-cloth, and the next minute flung back with them knocking against the wall."

"There was the other day at breakfast you know, we had all the cabin windows shut up at eight o'clock in the morning, which they called putting in the dead-lights—(I cannot see why shutters should be called lights)—and they put the lid on the skylight, and made it so dark that we had to breakfast with lamps. There must have been some strange mismanagement, or we need not have been put to all that inconvenience; and then when the ship almost fell over, they let a great flood of sea come pouring down among us, sweeping the plates off the table, and washing the very cups out of our hands, and filling our mouths with salt water, and ruining our dresses. I wonder what my friend Mrs. Danks, of Crutched Friars, would say if she had all this to go through—she that is so afraid of the water, she won't go over London Bridge for fear it should break down with her, and therefore visits nobody that lives in the Borough—there now—a rock again! I wish I was in St. Paul's Church Yard! Dear me!—what will become of us?"

"Upon my word I can't tell," said that gentleman, as he rose and walked out on deck.

I then endeavoured to set the old lady right, by explaining to her that the business of the man at the wheel was to steer the vessel, and that he was not always the same person, the helmsman being changed at regular periods. I also made her understand that the captain only meant to ask in what direction was the head of the ship—and that "port—port," signified that he should put up the helm to the larboard or left side.

I could not forbear repeating to Captain Santlow the ludicrous mistake of Mrs. Cummings, and her unfounded sympathy for the man at the wheel. He laughed, and said it reminded him of a story he had heard concerning an old Irish woman, a steerage passenger, that early in the morning after a stormy night, was found by the mate, cautiously creeping along the deck and looking round at every step, with a bottle of whiskey half-concealed under her apron. On the mate asking her what she was going to do with the whiskey, she replied, "I'm looking for that cratur Bill Lay, that ye were all calling upon the whole night long, and not giving him a minute to rest himself. I lay in my bed and I heard ye tramping and shouting over head!—'twas nothing but Bill Lay[82] here, and Bill Lay there, and Bill Lay this, and Bill Lay that—and a weary time he's had of it—for it was yourselves that could do nothing without him, great shame to ye. And I thought I'd try and find him out, the sowl, and bring him a drop of comfort, for it's himself that nades it."

Mrs. Cummings's compassion for the helmsman was changed into a somewhat different feeling a few days after. The captain and Mr. Fenton were sitting near the wheel earnestly engaged in a game of chess. The wind had been directly ahead for the last twenty-four hours, and several of the passengers were pacing the deck, and looking alternately at the sails and the dog-vane—suddenly there was an exclamation from one of them, of "Captain—captain—the wind has changed—it has just gone about!" Captain Santlow started up, and perceived that the little flag was apparently blowing in another direction; but on looking at the compass, he discovered the truth—it was now found that the steersman, who happened to understand chess, was so interested with the game which was playing immediately before him, that he had for a moment forgotten his duty, and inadvertently allowed the head of the ship to fall off half a dozen points from the wind. The error was immediately rectified; and Captain Santlow (who never on any occasion lost his temper) said coolly to the helmsman, "For this, sir, your grog shall be stopped."

This little incident afforded an additional excitement to the ever-ready fears of Mrs. Cummings, who now took it into her head that if (as she phrased it) the wheel was turned the wrong way, it would overset the ship. Upon finding that the delinquent was an American, she opined that there could be no safety in a vessel where the sailors understood chess. And whenever we had a fresh breeze (such as she always persisted in calling a violent storm) she was very importunate with the captain not to allow the chess-man to take the wheel.

"Ah!" said Mrs. Cummings, "I am sure there is no such thing in his majesty's ships, as sailors knowing chess or any of those hard things that are enough to set one crazy to think of. In my own dear country, people are saving of their wits; but you Americans always know more of everything than you ought to. I don't wonder so few of you look plump and ruddy. You all wear yourselves out with head-work. Your eyes are not half so big as ours, for they are fairly sunk in your heads with thinking and contriving. To be sure, at our house in the Minories we always kept a pack of cards in the parlour closet. But we never played any but very easy games, for it was not our way to make a toil of pleasure. Mercy on me!—what a rock!—I wish I was at the Back of St. Clements—How I have seen the Potheridge family in Throgmorton street, ponder and study over a game of whist as if their lives depended on every card. I had to play whist whenever I drank tea there, for they were never satisfied unless they were at it every night; and I hated it, because I always happened to get old Miss Nancy for a partner, and she was so sharp and so cross, and was continually finding fault with me for something she called reneaging. Whenever I gave out that I was one by honours, she always said it was no such thing; and she downright scolded, when after she had played an ace I played a king; or when she had trumped first and I made all sure by trumping too. Now what I say is this—a trick can't be too well taken. But I'm not for whist—give me a good easy game where you can't go wrong, such as I've been used to all my life; though, no doubt when I get to America, I shall find my son Jacky playing chess and whist and despising Beggar my neighbour."

In less than a fortnight after we left the British Channel, we were off the Banks of Newfoundland; and, as is frequently the case in their vicinity, we met with cold foggy weather. It cleared a little about seven in the morning, and we then discovered no less than three ice-bergs to leeward. One of them, whose distance from us was perhaps a mile, appeared higher than the mainmast head, and as the top shot up into a tall column, it looked like a vast rock with a light-house on its pinnacle. As the cold and watery sunbeams gleamed fitfully upon it, it exhibited in some places the rainbow tints of a prism—other parts were of a dazzling white, while its sharp angular projections seemed like masses of diamonds glittering upon snow.

The fog soon became so dense, that in looking over the side of the ship we could not discern the sea. Fortunately, it was so calm that we scarcely moved, or the danger of driving on the ice-bergs would have been terrific. We had now no other means of ascertaining our distance from them, but by trying the temperature of the water with a thermometer.

In the afternoon, the fog gathered still more thickly round us, and dripped from the rigging, so that the sailors were continually swabbing the deck. I had gone with Mr. Fenton to the round-house, and looked a while from its windows on the comfortless scene without. The only persons then on the main-deck were the captain and the first mate. They were wrapped in their watch-coats, their hair and whiskers dripping with the fog-dew. Most of the passengers went to bed at an early hour, and soon all was awfully still; Mrs. Cummings being really too much frightened to talk, only that she sometimes wished herself in Shoreditch, and sometimes in Houndsditch. It was a night of real danger. The captain remained on deck till morning, and several of the gentlemen bore him company, being too anxious to stay below.

About day-break, a heavy shower of rain dispersed the fog—"the conscious vessel waked as from a trance"—a breeze sprung up that carried us out of danger from the ice-bergs, which were soon diminished to three specks on the horizon, and the sun rose bright and cheerfully.

Towards noon, the ladies recollected that none of them had seen that gentleman during the last twenty-four hours, and some apprehension was expressed lest he should have walked overboard in the fog. No one could give any account of him, or remember his last appearance; and Miss Audley professed much regret that now, in all probability, we should never be able to ascertain his name, as, most likely, he had "died and made no sign." To our shames be it spoken, not one of us could cry a tear at his possible fate. The captain had turned into his berth, and was reposing himself after the fatigue of last night; so we could make no inquiry of him on the subject of our missing fellow-passenger.

Mrs. Cummings called the steward, and asked him how long it was since he had seen anything of that gentleman. "I really can't tell, madam," replied Hamilton; "I can't pretend to charge my memory with such things. But I conclude he must have been seen yesterday—at least I rather expect he was."

The waiter Juba was now appealed to: "I believe, madam," said Juba—"I remember something of handing that gentleman the bread-basket yesterday at dinner—but I would not be qualified as to whether the thing took place or not, my mind being a good deal engaged at the time."

Solomon, the third waiter, disclaimed all positive knowledge of this or any other fact, but sagely remarked, "that it was very likely that gentleman had been about all yesterday, as usual; yet still it was just as likely he might not; and there was only one thing certain, which was, that if he was not nowhere, he must, of course, be somewhere."

"I have a misgiving," said Mrs. Cummings, "that he will never be found again."

"I'll tell you what I can do, madam," exclaimed the steward, looking as if suddenly struck with a bright thought—"I can examine into No. eleventeen, and see if I can perceive him there." And softly opening the door of the state-room in question, he stepped back, and said with a triumphant flourish of his hand—"There he is, ladies, there he is in the upper berth, fast asleep in his double-cashmere dressing-gown. I opinionate that he was one of the gentlemen that stayed on deck all night, because they were afraid to go to sleep on account of the icebergers.—Of course, nobody noticed him—but there he is now, safe enough."

Instantly we proceeded en masse towards No. eleventeen, to convince ourselves: and there indeed we saw that gentleman lying asleep in his double cashmere dressing-gown. He opened his eyes, and seemed surprised, as well he might, at seeing all the ladies and all the servants ranged before the door of his room, and gazing in at him: and then we all stole off, looking foolish enough.

"Well," said Mrs. Cummings, "he is not dead, however,—so we have yet a chance of knowing his name from himself, if we choose to ask him. But I'm determined I'll make the captain tell it me, as soon as he gets up. It's all nonsense, this making a secret of a man's name."

"I suspect," said Mr. Fenton, who had just then entered the cabin, "we shall find it

——'a name unpronounceable,
Which nobody can speak and nobody can spell.'"

"I never," observed Mrs. Cummings, "knew but one name that could neither be spoke nor spelt—and that was the great general's, that was so often in the papers at the time people were talking about the Poles."

"Sczrynecki?" said Mr. Fenton.

"Oh! I don't know how you call him," replied Mrs. Cummings; "but Mr. Upshaw of Great Knight Rider street, said it was 'Screw him sky high.' And Dr. Mangleman of Cateaton street (who was always to me a very disagreeable person, because he always talked of disagreeable things), said it was 'Squeeze neck and eyes out.' A very unpleasant person was Dr. Mangleman. His talk was enough to make well people sick, and sick people sicker—I'm glad he's not on board o' ship with us. He told us one day at Mrs. Winceby's dinner-table, when some of us were eating calf's head, and some roast pig, about his dissecting a man that was hanged, and how he took his knife and—"

"I really believe," said I, wishing to be spared the story, "that we have actually struck a rock this time."

"There now," exclaimed Mrs. Cummings, "you see I am right, after all. If it is not a rock, it is one of those great hills of ice that has turned about and is coming right after us—Mercy on us! I wish I was in Middle Row, Holborn! Let us go on deck, and see."

We went on deck, and saw a whale, which was spouting at a distance. While looking at it, we were joined by Captain Santlow, and the conversation turning entirely on whales, that gentleman and his name were again forgotten.

Among the numerous steerage passengers was a young man whose profession was that of a methodist preacher. Having succeeded in making some religious impressions on the majority of his companions, he one Sunday obtained their consent to his performing divine service that evening in the steerage: and respectfully intimated that he would be highly gratified by the attendance of any of the cabin passengers that would condescend to honour him so far. Accordingly, after tea, we all descended to the steerage at early candle-light, and found everything prepared for the occasion. A barrel, its head covered with a piece of sail-cloth, served as a desk, lighted by two yellowish dip candles placed in empty porter bottles. But as there was considerable motion, it was found that the bottles would not rest in their stations; therefore, they were held by two boys. The chests and boxes nearest to the desk, were the seats allotted to the ladies and gentlemen: and the steerage people ranged themselves behind.

A hymn was sung to a popular tune. The prayer and sermon were delivered in simple but impressive language; for the preacher, though a poor and illiterate man, was not deficient either in sense or feeling, and was evidently imbued with the sincerest piety. There was something solemn and affecting in the aspect of the whole scene, with all its rude arrangement; and also in the idea of the lonely and insulated situation of our little community, with "one wide water all around us." And when the preacher, in his homely but fervent language, returned thanks for our hitherto prosperous voyage, and prayed for our speedy and safe arrival at our destined port, tears stood in the eyes of many of his auditors. I thought, when it was over, how frequently such scenes must have occurred between the decks of the May-flower, during the long and tempestuous passage of that pilgrim band who finally

"moored their bark
On the wild New England shore,"

and how often

"Amid the storm they sung,
And the stars heard, and the sea—"

when the wise and pious Brewster lifted his voice in exhortation and prayer, and the virtuous Carver, and the gallant Standish, bowed their heads in devotion before him.

Another of the steerage passengers was a lieutenant in the British army, a man about forty years old, of excellent education, polished manners, and a fine military deportment. He was accompanied by his family, and they excited much sympathy among the ladies and gentlemen of the cabin. He had a wife, a handsome, modest, and intelligent looking woman, and five very pretty children, three boys and two girls. Being reduced to half-pay, seeing no chance of promotion, and weary of living on "hope deferred that maketh the heart sick," Lieutenant Lynford had resolved to emigrate, and settle on a grant of land accorded to him in Canada in consequence of his having been in service there during our last war. He believed that the new world would offer better prospects to his children, and that he could there support his family at less expense than in Europe. Unable to afford the cost of their passage in the cabin, he was under the painful necessity of bringing them over in the steerage, amidst all its unimaginable and revolting inconveniences.

It was impossible to regard this unfortunate and misplaced family without emotions of deep interest and sincere commiseration; they were so evidently out of their proper sphere, and it must have been so painful to the feelings of a gentleman and lady to live in almost immediate contact with the coarse and vulgar tenants of that crowded and comfortless part of the vessel.

Mr. Fenton, and others of the gentlemen, took great pleasure in conversing with Lieutenant Lynford; though, according to rule, the poor officer was not permitted, as a steerage passenger, to come aft the mainmast. Therefore, their conversations had to take place at the extreme limits of the boundary line, which the lieutenant was scrupulous in never overstepping.

His wife, a lady both in appearance and manner, was seldom seen on deck, except when her husband prevailed on her to come up with him to look at something that made a spectacle, or an event, in the monotony of our usual sea-view. We understood that they had surrounded the narrow space allotted to their beds with a sort of partition, made by suspending a screen of quilts and blankets, so as to interpose a slight barrier between themselves and the disgusting scenes, and frequently disgusting people with whom it was their hard fate to be associated during the voyage; and whose jealousy and ill-will would have been immediately excited by any attempt on the part of the captain or the cabin passengers, to alleviate the discomforts to which the unfortunate Lynfords were subjected.

The regulation that no light shall be allowed in the steerage, except on some extraordinary occasion (and which originates in the danger of the ship being carelessly set on fire), must have been an almost intolerable grievance to Lieutenant Lynford, and his wife and children. I often thought of them while we were spending our evenings so agreeably in various amusements and occupations round the cabin tables, brightly illuminated by the elegant lamps that were suspended from the ceiling. I felt how long and how dismally their evenings must have passed, capable as they were in mind, in taste, and in education, of the same enjoyments as ourselves; and therefore feeling with double intensity the severe pressure of their hard and unmerited condition.

After crossing the Banks we seemed to feel ourselves on American ground, or rather on American sea. As our interest increased on approaching the land of our destination, that gentleman was proportionably overlooked and forgotten. He "kept the even tenor of his way," and we had become scarcely conscious that he was still among us: till one day, when there was rather a hard gale, and the waves were running high, we were startled, as we surrounded the luncheon table, by a tremendous noise on the cabin staircase, and the sudden bursting open of the door at its foot. We all looked up, and saw that gentleman falling down stairs, with both arms extended, as he held in one hand a tall cane stool, and in the other the captain's barometer, which had hung just within the upper door; he having involuntarily caught hold of both these articles with a view of saving himself. "While his head, as he tumbled, went nicketty nock," his countenance, for once, assumed a new expression, and the change from its usual unvarying sameness was so striking, that, combined with his ludicrous attitude, it set us all to laughing. The waiters ran forward and assisted him to rise; and it was then found that the stool and the barometer had been the greatest sufferers; one having lost a leg, and the other being so shattered that the stair-carpet was covered with globules of quicksilver. However, he retired to his state-room, and whether or not he was seen again before next morning, I cannot positively undertake to say.

On the edge of the Gulf Stream, we had a day of entire calm, when "there was not a breath the blue wave to curl." A thin veil of haziness somewhat softened the fires of the American sun (as it was now called by the European passengers), and we passed the whole day on deck, in a delightful state of idle enjoyment; gazing on the inhabitants of the deep, that, like ourselves, seemed to be taking a holiday. Dolphins, horse-mackerel, and porpoises were sporting round the vessel, and the flying-fish, "with brine still dropping from its wings," was darting up into the sun-light; while flocks of petrels, their black plumage tinged with flame-colour, seemed to rest on the surface of the water; and the nautilus, "the native pilot of his little bark," glided gayly along the dimpling mirror that reflected his tiny oars and gauzy sail. We fished up large clusters of sea-weed, among which were some beautiful specimens of a delicate purple colour, which, when viewed through a microscope, glittered like silver, and were covered with little shell-fish so minute as to be invisible to the naked eye.

It was a lovely day. The lieutenant and his family were all on deck, and looked happy. That gentleman looked as usual. Towards evening, a breeze sprung up directly fair, and filled the sails, which all day had been clinging idly to the masts; and before midnight we were wafted along at the rate of nine knots an hour, "while round the waves phosphoric brightness broke," the ship seeming, as she cleaved the foam, to draw after her in her wake a long train of stars.

Next day, we continued to proceed rapidly, with a fair wind, which we knew would soon bring us to the end of our voyage. The ladies' cabin was now littered with trunks and boxes, brought from the baggage-room that we might select from them such articles as we thought we should require when we went on shore.

But we were soon attracted to the deck, to see the always interesting experiment of sounding with the deep-sea lead. To our great joy, it came up (though from almost immeasurable depth) with a little sand adhering to the cake of tallow at the bottom of the plummet. The breeze was increasing, and Mr. Overslaugh, whose pretensions to nautical knowledge were considered very shallow by his fellow amateurs, remarked to my husband: "If this wind holds, I should not wonder if we are aground in less than two hour."

Before Mr. Fenton could reply, Mrs. Cummings exclaimed: "Aground, did you say!"—And she scuttled away with greater alacrity than we had ever seen her evince on any former occasion. Some time after, on entering the ladies' cabin, I found that the old dame, with her usual misconstruction of sea-phrases, had rejoicingly dressed herself in a very showy suit prepared for her first landing in America, and was now in the act of buttoning at the ankles a pair of frilled leggings to "go aground in," as she informed me.

I explained to her her mistake, at which she was wofully disappointed, and proportionately alarmed, ejaculating—"Oh! if I was only back again—anywhere at all—even in the very out-scouts of London—rather than stay another night in this dreadful ship!—To think, that after all my sufferings at sea, I may be blown headforemost ashore, and drowned on dry land at last!"

However, I succeeded in calming her terrors; and seeing her engaged in taking off her finery to resume the black silk she had worn during the voyage, I left Mrs. Cummings, and returned to my husband. The wind, though still fair, had decreased towards the close of the day, and was now mild and balmy. When I saw the white wings of a flight of curlews glancing against the bright crimson glories of the sunset sky, I could not help saying, "those birds will reach their nests at twilight, and their nests are in America."

We remained on deck the whole evening, believing it probably the last we should spend together; and the close companionship of four weeks in the very circumscribed limits of a ship, had made us seem like one family.

We talked of the morrow, and I forgot that that gentleman was among us, till I saw him leave the deck to retire for the night. The thought then struck me, that another day, and we should cease perhaps to remember his existence.

I laid my head on my pillow with the understanding that land would be discovered before morning, and I found it impossible to sleep. Mr. Fenton went on deck about midnight, and remained there till dawn. What American, when returning to his native country, and almost in view of its shores, is not reminded of that night, when Columbus stood on the prow of the Santa Maria, and watched in breathless silence with his impatient companions, for the first glimpse of the long wished-for land—that memorable night, which gave a new impulse to the world already known, and to that which was about to be discovered!

Near one o'clock, I heard a voice announcing the light on the highlands of Neversink, and in a short time all the gentlemen were on deck. At day-break Mr. Fenton came to ask me if I would rise, and see the morning dawn upon our own country. We had taken a pilot on board at two o'clock, had a fine fair breeze to carry us into the bay of New York, and there was every probability of our being on shore in a few hours. When I reached the deck, tears came into my eyes as I leaned on my husband's arm, and saw the light of Sandy Hook shining brilliantly in the dimness of the closing night, and emulating the morning star as it sparkled above the rosy streak that was brightening in the eastern horizon. We gazed till the rising sun sent up his first rays from behind the kindling and empurpled ocean, and our native shore lay clear and distinct before us.

Soon after sunrise we were visited by a news-boat, when there was an exchange of papers, and much to inquire and much to tell.

We were going rapidly through the Narrows, when the bell rung for breakfast, which Captain Santlow had ordered at an early hour, as we had all been up before daylight. Chancing to look towards his accustomed seat, I missed that gentleman, and inquired after him of the captain.—"Oh!" he replied, "that gentleman went on shore in the news-boat; did you not see him depart? He bowed all round, before he went down the side."

"No," was the general reply; "we did not see him go." In truth, we had all been too much interested in hearing, reading, and talking of the news brought by the boat.

"Then he is gone for ever," exclaimed Mrs. Cummings—"and we shall never know his name."

"Come, Captain Santlow," said Mr. Fenton, "try to recollect it.—'Let it not,' as Grumio says, 'die in oblivion, while we return to our graves inexperienced in it.'"

Captain Santlow smiled, and remained silent. "Now, captain," said Miss Audley, "I will not quit the ship till you tell me that gentleman's name.—I cannot hold out a greater threat to you, as I know you have had a weary time of it since I have been under your charge. Come, I set not my foot on shore till I know the name of that gentleman, and also why you cannot refrain from smiling whenever you are asked about it."

"Well, then," replied Captain Santlow, "though his name is a very pretty one when you get it said, there is a little awkwardness in speaking it. So I thought I would save myself and my passengers the trouble. And partly for that reason, and partly to tease you all, I have withheld it from your knowledge during the voyage. But I can assure you he is a baronet."

"A baronet!" cried Miss Audley; "I wish I had known that before, I should certainly have made a dead set at him. A baronet would have been far better worth the trouble of a flirtation, than you, Mr. Williams, or you, Mr. Sutton, or you, Mr. Belfield, or any of the other gentlemen that I have been amusing myself with during the voyage."

"A baronet!" exclaimed Mrs. Cummings; "well, really—and have I been four weeks in the same ship with a baronet—and sitting at the same table with him,—and often talking to him face to face?—I wonder what Mrs. Thimbleby of Threadneedle street would say if she knew that I am now acquainted with a baronet!"

"But what is his name, captain?" said Mr. Fenton; "still you do not tell us."

"His name," answered the captain, "is Sir St. John St. Leger."

"Sir St. John St. Leger!" was repeated by each of the company.

"Yes," resumed Captain Santlow—"and you see how difficult it is to say it smoothly. There is more sibilation in it than in any name I know.—Was I not right in keeping it from you till the voyage was over, and thus sparing you the trouble of articulating it, and myself the annoyance of hearing it? See, here it is in writing."

The captain took his manifest out of his pocket-book, and showed us the words, "Sir St. John St. Leger, of Sevenoaks, Kent."

"Pho!" said Mrs. Cummings. "Where's the trouble in speaking that name, if you only knew the right way—I have heard it a hundred times—and even seen it in the newspapers. This must be the very gentleman that my cousin George's wife is always talking about. She has a brother that lives near his estate, a topping apothecary. Why, 'tis easy enough to say his name, if you say it as we do in England."

"And how is that?" asked the captain; "what can you make of Sir St. John St. Leger?"

"Why, Sir Singeon Sillinger, to be sure," replied Mrs. Cummings; "I am confident he would have answered to that name. Sir Singeon Sillinger of Sunnock—cousin George's wife's brother lives close by Sunnock in a yellow house with a red door."

"And have I," said the captain, laughing, "so carefully kept his name to myself, during the whole passage, for fear we should have had to call him Sir St. John St. Leger, when all the while we might have said Sir Singeon Sillinger?"

"To be sure you might," replied Mrs. Cummings, looking proud of the opportunity of displaying her superior knowledge of something. "With all your striving after sense you Americans are a very ignorant people, particularly of the right way of speaking English. Since I have been on board, I have heard you all say the oddest things—though I thought there would be no use in trying to set you right. The other day there was Mr. Williams talking of the church of St. Mary le bon—instead of saying Marrow bone. Then Mr. Belfield says, Lord Cholmondeley, instead of Lord Chumley, and Col. Sinclair, instead of Col. Sinkler; and Mr. Sutton says Lady Beauchamp, instead of Lady Beachum; and you all say Birmingham, instead of Brummagem. The truth is, you know nothing about English names. Now that name, Trollope, that you all sneer at so much, and think so very low, why Trollope is quite genteel in England, and so is Hussey. The Trollopes and Husseys belong to great families. But I have no doubt of finding many things that are very elegant in England, counted quite vulgar in America, owing to the ignorance of your people. For my part, I was particularly brought up to despise all manner of ignorance."

In a short time a steamboat came alongside into which we removed ourselves, accompanied by the captain and the letter bags; and we proceeded up to the city, where Mr. Fenton and myself were met on the wharf, I need not tell how, and by whom.

Captain Santlow informed us during our little trip in the boat, that soon after breakfast, the steward had brought him a letter which he had just found on the pillow in that gentleman's birth. It was directed to Lieutenant Lynford. The captain immediately went forward and presented it to him, and the poor officer was so overcome after opening it, that he could not forbear making known to Captain Santlow that it contained a draft for five hundred dollars on a house in New York, and a few lines signed St. John St. Leger, requesting Lieutenant Lynford to oblige the writer by making use of that sum to assist in settling his family in Canada.

We were now all warm in our praise of that gentleman's generosity. And Mrs. Cummings recollected that she had heard from her cousin George's wife that her brother of Sunnock often said that, though he never spoke if he could help it, nobody did kinder things in his own quiet way than Sir Singeon Sillinger.

---

THE SERENADES.

"Sleep you, or wake you, lady bright?"—Lewis.

"And now tell me the reason of your giving us the slip on Tuesday night," said Charles Cavender to Frederick Merrill, as they came out of court together, and walked into the shade of the beautiful double row of linden trees that interlace their branches in front of the Philadelphia State House, perfuming the atmosphere of early summer with the fragrance of their delicate yellow blossoms.

"To tell you the truth," replied Merrill, "I never had much fancy for these regular serenading parties. And as, on Tuesday night, I had a presentiment that the course of ours was not going to run smoothly, and as I found it impossible to play with such a second as Dick Doubletongue, I resigned my flute to Walton, and went home for my guitar, being very much in the notion of taking a ramble on my own account, and giving a little unpretending music to several pretty girls of my own acquaintance."

"Ah! that guitar!" exclaimed Cavender: "Since you first heard Segura, no Spaniard can be more completely fascinated with the instrument. And, to do Segura justice, he has made an excellent guitar player of you, and cultivated your voice with great success."

"But how did you proceed after I left you?" asked Merrill.

"Oh! very well!" replied Cavender; "only that infernal piano, that Harry Fingerley insisted on being brought along with us, was pretty considerable of a bore."

"So I thought," responded Merrill; "to me there appeared something too absurd in conveying through the streets at night so cumbrous an instrument—carrying it on a hand-barrow, like porters."

"Well," observed Cavender, "there were, however, enough of us to relieve each other every square. By-the-bye, I suspect that your true reason for deserting was to avoid taking your turn in carrying the piano."

"You are not far wrong," replied Merrill, smiling.

"It was a ridiculous business," resumed Cavender. "As Fingerley cannot touch an instrument without his notes, and always chooses to show off in difficult pieces, a lantern was brought along, which one of us was obliged to hold for him whenever he played. Unluckily, a music stool had been forgotten, and poor Harry, who, you know, is one of the tallest striplings in town, was obliged to play kneeling: and he wore the knees of his pantaloons threadbare, in getting through a long concerto of Beethoven's, before Miss Flickwire's door."

"To what place did you go after I left you?" inquired Merrill.

"Oh! to serenade that saucy flirt, Miss Lawless, Frank Hazeldon's flame. We ranged ourselves in front of the house, set down the piano and its elegant supporter, the hand-barrow, upon the pavement, and all struck up the Band March, with our eyes turned upwards, expecting that we should see the shutters gently open, and the pretty faces of Lucy Lawless and her two sisters slyly peeping down at us. But we looked in vain. No shutters opened, and no faces peeped."

"Perhaps," said Merrill, "the family were all out of town?"

"No, no," replied Cavender; "a bright light shone through the fan-glass over the door, which opened at last, just as we had concluded the Band March, and out came Bogle, followed by two or three other waiters of rather a more decided colour, who stood a little aloof. 'Gentlemen,' said Bogle, 'Miss Lawless desires her respects and compliments to you all, and wishes me to inquire if there is one Mr. Hazeldon among you?'—'Yes; I am Mr. Hazeldon,' said Frank, stepping out.—'Then,' resumed Bogle, with his usual flourish of hand, 'Miss Lawless presents her further respects and compliments, and requests me to make you acquainted that she has a party to-night, and as Frank Johnson was pre-engaged, and could not come, she desires you will play a few cotillions for the company to dance—and if there are any more gentlemen-fiddlers present, she will thank them to play too.'

"There was a general burst of mingled indignation and laughter. Some of the serenaders advanced to put Bogle into the gutter, but he very naturally resisted, justly declaring that he ought not to be punished for obeying the lady's orders, and delivering the message systematically, as he termed it.

"The windows of the front parlour were now thrown open, and Miss Lawless with her sisters appeared at them, dressed in lace and flowers. Both parlours were lighted up with chandeliers, and filled with company.

"'Mr. Hazeldon,' said Miss Lawless, 'you and your friends have come precisely at the right time. Nothing could be more apropos than your arrival. We were all engaged with the ice-creams and jellies while you were playing the Band March (which, to do you justice, you performed very respectably), or we should have sent Bogle out to you before. Pray, Mr. Hazeldon, give us "Love was once a little boy;"—it makes an excellent cotillion—and we shall then be able to decide between the merits of your band and that of Mr. Francis Johnson.'—'But we are all gentlemen, madam,' said the simple Bob Midgely, 'and this is a serenade.'—'The more convenient,' replied Miss Lawless, who is really a very handsome girl; 'a serenade may thus be made to answer a double purpose—killing two birds with one stone, in proverbial parlance.'

"Poor Frank Hazeldon was so much annoyed as to be incapable of reply, being also vexed and mortified at having no invitation to his lady-love's party.

"But I went forward, and said to Miss Lawless, that if she and her friends would come out, and perform their cotillions on the pavement, we would have much pleasure in playing for them. To this she replied, that she now perceived we had no tambourine with us, and that a dance without that enlivening instrument must always be a very spiritless affair. Therefore she would excuse, for the present, the services of Mr. Hazeldon and his musical friends.

"She then closed the window, and we bowed and moved off; resolved that for the future we would take care to avoid the awkward contre-tems of serenading a lady when she is in the act of having a party. Frank Hazeldon loudly protested against the insolence of his dulcinea, 'who,' said he, 'would not dare to say and do such things, only that she knows herself to be (as she certainly is), the most beautiful creature on the face of the earth.' However, he averred that he had done with Miss Lawless entirely, and would scrupulously avoid all further acquaintance with her, now that she had not only affronted himself, but his friends. We advised him to consider it not so deeply."

"He seems to have taken your advice," observed Merrill; "for there he is, just turning the corner of Sixth street with her—she laughing at him as usual, and he, as usual, thankful to be laughed at by her. But where else did you go?"

"We went to two other places," replied Cavender; "where nothing particular happened, except that at one of them the ladies threw flowers down to us. Afterwards, Dick Doubletongue proposed our going into Market street to serenade two very pretty girls, the daughters of a wealthy tradesman, who, being an old-fashioned man, persevered in the convenience of living in the same house in which he kept his store. Unluckily, it was the night before market-day. We began with 'Life let us cherish,' which Dick assured us was a special favourite with the young ladies—and our music soon aroused the market-people, some of whom were sleeping in their carts that stood in the street, others, wrapped in coverlets, were bivouacking on the stalls in the market-house, to be ready on the spot for early morning. They started up, jumped down, gathered around us, and exclaimed—'Well, did ever!'—'Now, that's what I call music!'—'There, Polly, there's the right sort of fiddling for you!'—'Well, this beats me!'—'Law, Suz!—how they do play it up!'—and other equally gratifying expressions. And one woman called out to her husband—'Here, daddy, take up the baby, and bring him out of the cart, and let him hear some music-playing, now he has a chance.' So the baby was brought, and daddy held him close up to the flute-players, and the baby cried, as all babies should do when they are taken up in the night to hear music.

"To crown all, the concert was joined by a dozen calves, who awoke from their uneasy slumbers in the carts, and began bleating in chorus; and by the crowing of various fowls, and the quacking of various ducks that were tied by the legs in pairs, and lying under the stalls. Every moment fresh market-carts came jolting and rattling over the stones, and we would have gone away at the conclusion of 'Life let us cherish,' only that Dick begged us to remain till we saw some indications of the ladies being awake and listening to us—a circumstance always gratifying to serenaders. While we were in full performance of 'The Goddess Diana,' we saw a light in a room up stairs, a window was opened, and there appeared at it two young ladies, who had evidently taken the trouble to arrange their hair, and attire themselves very becomingly in pink gowns and white collars, for the purpose of doing honour to the musicians and themselves. After this, we could do no less than play another of their favourites. When it was finished, we bowed up to the window, and they curtsied down to us, and the market-women approved, saying—'Law, now, if that a'n't pretty!—all making their manners to one another!—well, if we a'n't in luck to-night!'"

"The combination of noises that accompanied your Market street serenade," observed Merrill, "reminds me of a ridiculous incident that occurred one night, when I and my flute were out with Tom Clearnote and Sam Startlem; Clearnote having his Kent bugle, and Startlem making his first public essay on the trombone, which he had taken a fancy to learn. We went to a house in Chestnut street, where there were three charming girls, who we soon saw had all properly disposed themselves for listening at the windows. We commenced with the March in Masaniello. Unfortunately, Sam Startlem, from having a cold, or some other cause, and being but a novice on the trombone, found it impossible to fill the instrument, or to produce any sound but a sort of hollow croak, that went exactly like 'Fire! fire!'—the cry which so often frights our town from its propriety.

"Just then the watchman was passing with a dog that always followed him, and that had a habit of howling whenever he heard the alarm of fire. On meeting the strange sounds, half guttural, half nasal, from Startlem's trombone, he very naturally mistook them for the announcement of a conflagration, and set up his customary yell.[83] In a few minutes, the boys issued from all quarters, according to their practice, by day and by night whenever there is anything to be seen or heard that promises a mob. The supposed cry of fire was reiterated through the street; and spread all round. Presently two or three engines came scampering along, bells ringing, trumpets braying, torches flaring, and men shouting—all running they knew not whither; for as yet the bell of the State House had not tolled out its unerring signal.

"In the general confusion, we thought it best to cease playing, and quietly decamp, being ashamed (for the honour of our musicians) to inform the firemen of the real cause of the mistake; so we gladly stole out of the crowd, and turned into a private street.—But excuse me for interrupting you.—Finish your narrative."

"There is little more to be said," resumed Cavender. "By the time we had afforded sufficient amusement to the market-people, the moon had long since set, and the stars begun to fade. So we all put up our instruments, and wearily sought our dwelling-places;—Harry Fingerley wisely hiring relays of black men to carry home the piano.

"But we have been talking long enough under these trees," continued Cavender; "let us walk up Chestnut street together, and tell me what befell yourself while serenading according to the fashion of Old Castile. Of course, you went first to Miss Osbrook?"

"I did," replied Merrill, smiling, and colouring a little; "and I played and sung for her, in my very best style, several of my very best songs. And I was rewarded by obtaining a glimpse of a graceful white figure at the window, as she half unclosed it, and seeing a white hand (half hidden by a ruffle) resting gently on one of the bars of the Venetian shutter—and as the moon was then shining brightly down, I knew that my divine Emily also saw me.

"From thence I went to the residence of a blooming Quaker girl, who, I understood from a mutual friend, had expressed a great wish for a serenade. She came to the window, and was soon joined by an old nurse, who, I found by their conversation, had been kindly awakened by the considerate Rebecca, and invited by her to come to the front room and listen to the music; on which the half-dozing matron made no comment, but that 'sometimes the tune went away up, and sometimes it went right down.'

"Having commenced with 'The Soldier's Bride,' I was somewhat surprised at the martial propensities of the fair Quakeress, who in a loud whisper to her companion, first wished that Frederick Merrill (for she had at once recognised me) would play and sing 'The Soldier's Tear,' and then 'The Soldier's Gratitude.' When I had accomplished both these songs, I heard her tell the old woman, that she was sure 'The Battle of Prague' would go well on the guitar. This performance, however, I did not think proper to undertake, and I thereupon prepared to withdraw, to the audible regret of the lovely Rebecca.

"As I directed my steps homeward, I happened to pass the house of a young lady whose family and mine have long been somewhat acquainted, and who has acquired (I will not say how deservedly) a most unfortunate sobriquet. At a fancy ball, last winter, she appeared in the character of Sterne's Maria, dressed in a white jacket and petticoat, with vine leaves in her hair, and a flageolet suspended by a green riband over one shoulder. Her mother, a very silly and illiterate woman, announced her as 'Strange Maria'—absurdly introducing her by that title, and saying repeatedly through the evening to gentlemen as well as to ladies—'Have you seen my daughter yet?—Have you seen Strange Maria?—There she is, sitting in that corner, leaning her head upon her hand—it is a part of her character to sit so—and when she is tired, she gets up and dances. She appears to-night as Strange Maria, and it suits exactly, as her name is really Maria. Her aunt, Mrs. Fondlesheep, chose the character for her out of some book, and Madame Gaubert made the jacket.'

"From that night, the poor girl has gone unconsciously by this foolish nickname. And, unfortunately, she is almost as much of a simpleton as her mother, though she was educated at a great boarding-school, and said a great many long lessons.

"I took my seat on the marble carriage-step in front of the house, and the moon having declined, I played and sung 'Look out upon the stars, my love.' Soon after I commenced, I saw a window in the second story thrown open, and the literal Maria doing exactly as she was bid, in earnestly surveying the stars—turning her head about that she might take a view of them in every direction.

"I then began the beautiful serenading song of 'Lilla, come down to me,' with no other motive than that of hearing myself sing it. At the conclusion of the air, the front door softly opened, and Strange Maria appeared at it, dressed in a black silk frock, with a bonnet and shawl, and carrying a bundle under her arm.

"She looked mysterious, and beckoned to me. I approached her, somewhat surprised. She put the bundle into my hands, and laying her finger on her lips, whispered—'All's safe—we can get off now—I have just had time to put up a change of clothes, and you must carry them for me.'

"'My dear Miss Maria,' said I, 'what is it you mean? Excuse me for saying that I do not exactly comprehend you.'

"'Now, don't pretend to be so stupid,' was the damsel's reply; 'did you not invite me in the song to come down and run away with you? You sung it so plain that I heard every word. There could not be a better opportunity, for ma's in the country, and there is never any danger of waking pa.'

"'Really, Miss Maria,' said I, 'allow me to say that you have totally misunderstood me.'

"'No such thing,' persisted the young lady. 'Did I not hear you over and over again say, "Lilla, come down to me?" Though I never was allowed to see a play or read a novel, I am not such a fool that I cannot understand when people want to run away with me. By Lilla you of course meant me, just as much as if you had said Maria.'

"'On my honour,' I expostulated, 'you are entirely mistaken. Only permit me to explain'—

"'Nonsense,' interrupted the lady; 'the song was plain enough. And so I got ready, and stole down stairs as quickly as possible. Alderman Pickwick always sits up late at night, and rises before day to write for the newspapers. He lives just round the corner, and never objects to marry any couple that comes to him. So let's be off.'

"'I entreat you,' said I, 'to listen to me for one moment.'

"'Did you bring a ring with you?' continued the fair eloper, whose present volubility surprised me no less than her pertinacity, having hitherto considered her as one of the numerous young ladies that are never expected to talk.

"'A ring!' I repeated; 'you must pardon me, but I really had no such thought.'

"'How careless!' exclaimed Maria. 'Don't you know that plain rings are the only sort used at weddings? I wish I had pulled one off the window curtain before I came down. I dare say, Squire Pickwick would never notice whether it was brass or gold.'

"'There is no need of troubling yourself about a ring,' said I.

"'True,' replied she, 'Quakers get married without, and why should not we? But come, we must not stand parleying here. You can't think, Mr. Merrill, how glad I am that you came for me before any one else. I would much rather run away with you, than with Mr. Simpson, or Mr. Tomlins, or Mr. Carter. Pa' says if ever he does let me marry, he'll choose for me himself, and I have no doubt he'll choose some ugly fright. Fathers are such bad judges of people.'

"'Miss Maria,' said I, 'you mistake me entirely, and this error must be rectified at once. I must positively undeceive you.'

"At that moment, the door half opened—a hand was put out, and seizing the arm of Maria, drew her forcibly inside. The door was then shut, and double locked; and I heard her receding voice, loudly exclaiming—'Oh! pa'—now, indeed, pa'—who'd have thought, pa', that you were listening all the time!'

"I stood motionless with joy and surprise at this opportune release—and I recollected that once during our scene on the door-step, I had thought I heard footsteps in the entry.

"Presently the father put his head out of his own window and said to me—'Young man, you may go, I have locked her up.'—I took him at his word and departed, not a little pleased at having been extricated in so summary a way from the dilemma in which the absurdity of Strange Maria had involved me."

---

About a week after this conversation, Cavender inquired of his friend, who was visiting him at his office, if he had again been out solus on a serenading excursion.

"No," replied Merrill, "I have had enough of that nonsense. There is no better cure for folly, and particularly for romantic folly, than a good burlesque; and I find I have been parodied most ridiculously by that prince of fools, old Pharaby, the bachelor in an auburn wig and corsets, that lives next door to Miss Osbrook. This said Pharaby assumes a penchant for my opposite neighbour, the rich and handsome young widow, Mrs. Westwyn. Taking a hint from my serenading Emily Osbrook, but far outdoing me, he has every night since presented himself under the windows of the fair widow, and tinkled a guitar—which instrument he professes to have learned during a three months' consulship in one of the Spanish West India Islands. He plays Spanish, but sings Italian; and with a voice and manner to make Paggi tear his hair, and Pucci drop down dead.

"Mrs. Westwyn, whom I escorted home last evening from a visit to Miss Osbrook, was congratulating herself on the appearance of rain; as it would of course prevent her from being disturbed that night by her usual serenader, the regularity of whose musical visitations had become, she said, absolutely intolerable.

"About twelve o'clock, however, I heard the customary noise in front of Mrs. Westwyn's house, notwithstanding that the rain had set in, and was falling very fast. I looked out, and beheld the persevering inamorato standing upright beneath the shelter of an umbrella held over his head by a black man, and twitching the strings of his guitar to the air of 'Dalla gioja.' I was glad when the persecuted widow, losing all patience, raised her sash, and in a peremptory tone, commanded him to depart and trouble her no more; threatening, if he ever again repeated the offence, to have him taken into custody by the watchman. Poor Pharaby was struck aghast; and being too much disconcerted to offer an apology, he stood motionless for a few moments, and then replacing his guitar in its case, and tucking it under his arm, he stole off round the corner, his servant following close behind with the umbrella. From that moment I abjured serenades."

"What! all sorts?" inquired Cavender.

"All," replied Merrill—"both gregarious and solitary. The truth is, I this morning obtained the consent of the loveliest of women to make me the happiest of men, this day three months; and therefore I have something else to think of than strumming guitars or blowing flutes about the streets at night."

"I congratulate you, most sincerely," said Cavender, shaking hands with his friend; "Miss Osbrook is certainly, as the phrase is, possessed of every qualification to render the marriage state happy. And though I and my other associates in harmony have not so good an excuse for leaving off our musical rambles, yet I believe we shall, at least, give them up till next summer—and perhaps, by that time, we may have devised some other means of obtaining the good graces of the ladies."

"But apropos to music," continued Cavender; "if I can obtain my sister's permission, I will show you a letter she received some time since from a young friend of hers with whom she is engaged in a whimsical correspondence under fictitious names, somewhat in imitation of the ladies of the last century. Both girls have been reading the Spectator, and have consequently taken a fancy to the Addisonian plan of occasionally throwing their ideas into the form of dreams or visions; addressing each other as Ariella Shadow and Ombrelina Vapour."

Cavender then withdrew to his sister's parlour, and in a few minutes returned with the letter, which he put into Merrill's hand, telling him to read it while he finished looking over some deeds that had been left with him for examination.

Merrill opened the letter, and perused its contents, which we will present to our readers under the title of

A DREAM OF SONGS.

My Dear Ombrelina,

Last evening, on my return from Melania Medley's musical party, where nothing was played or sung that had been out more than two or three weeks, I could not but reflect on the fate that attends even the most meritorious compositions of the sons of song: honoured for awhile with a short-lived popularity, and then allowed to float down the stream of time unnoticed and forgotten—or only remembered as things too entirely passé to be listened to by "ears polite"—or even mentioned in their presence. It is true that as soon as a song becomes popular it ceases to be fashionable; but is not its popularity an evidence of its merit, or at least of its possessing melody and originality, and of its sounds being such as to give pleasure to the general ear? Who ever heard a dull and insipid tune played or sung in the streets, or whistled by the boys?

Falling asleep with these notions in my head, they suggested a dream in which I imagined myself visited by impersonations of almost innumerable songs, many of which had been "pretty fellows in their day," but have now given place to others whose chief characteristic is that of having no character at all.

The following outline may give you, dear Ombrelina, a slight idea of my vision, making due allowance for the confusion, incoherence, and absurdity that are always found in those pictures that imagination, when loosened from the control of reason, presents to the mind's eye of the slumberer.

"I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls," being mistress of a handsome and spacious mansion in a fine romantic country, whose hills and woodlands sloped down towards the ocean. I seemed to be duly prepared for the reception of a numerous party of visiters, whom I recognised intuitively, as soon as I saw them, for the heroes and heroines of certain well-known songs—also being familiar with the characters of many of them from my intimate acquaintance with Aunt Balladina's old music-books.

The earliest of my guests were some much-esteemed friends, descendants of the "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled"—they wore "The Tartan Plaidie" and "The White Cockade"—and they looked as if they had all been "Over the Water to Charlie." I felt particularly honoured by the presence of that gallant chieftain, "Kinloch of Kinloch," who, for the express purpose of making me a visit, had relinquished for a time his grouse-shooting excursions "O'er the moor among the heather"—had given up his musings on "The banks and braes o' Bonnie Doon," and bade for awhile "Adieu, a heartwarm fond adieu" to "The Birks of Aberfeldy."

Next arrived the ancient laird "Logie o' Buchan;" and then "Auld Robin Gray" came tottering along supported by his pensive daughter Alice, and by "Duncan Gray," his laughter-loving son, well known among the lasses as "The Braw Wooer." The Gray family took their seats at "The Ingle Side," where old "John Anderson" and his wife had already established themselves close together in two arm-chairs. "Logie o' Buchan" joined them; but his habits being somewhat taciturn, it was not till they talked of "Auld lang syne" that he was induced to mingle in the conversation—yet the ice once broken, he was as merry in his reminiscences as either of his companions.

Robin Gray reminded the laird of Buchan of his elopement with that extreme blonde the "Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," who, when only "Within a mile of Edinburgh," had given him the slip and ran off with "Jockey to the Fair." The laird retaliated by laughing at Robin for having been one of the six-and-thirty suitors of that ugliest of heiresses, "Tibby Fouller o' the Glen." John Anderson was made to recollect his having been deserted in his youth by the beautiful but mercenary "Katrine Ogie," who afterwards became "Roy's wife of Aldivalloch," and in taking the carle and leaving her Johnnie, furnished another illustration of the fallacy of the remark, "Oh! say not woman's heart is bought."

These old stories were at first very amusing, but they continued so long and with so many episodes and digressions, that we at length discovered "We were a' noddin." Finally they were interrupted by the arrival of "Bonnie Jean," "The Lass of Patie's Mill," "Bessie Bell and Mary Gray," and other "Flowers o' the Forest," who were following that gay deceiver "Robin Adair," himself a verification of the well-known fact that "Though love is warm awhile, soon it grows cold."

Robin Adair, whose mind, after all, seems to have run chiefly on balls and plays (a visit to Paris having quite spoiled him for the society of "The Braes of Balquither"), had first made love to the unfortunate "Highland Mary," and then gayly and heartlessly quitted her with that useless piece of advice which nobody ever took, "Sigh not for love." Next he paid his devoirs to "Jessie the flower o' Dumblane," as he met her one morning "Comin' thro' the rye." And he had subsequently entered into a flirtation with "Dumbarton's bonny Belle"—a young lady whose literary and scientific achievements had lately procured for her the unique title of "The Blue Bell of Scotland." But it was whispered in the most authentic circles that she had recently frightened him away by asking him that puzzling question "Why does azure deck the sky?"

Yet, however the follies and inconstancies of Robin Adair might have rendered him a favourite with the ladies (who often tapped him with their fans, saying, "Fly away pretty moth"), he did not seem to be held in equal esteem by his manly compatriots. On his presuming to clap "Young Lochinvar" on the shoulder, and accost him as "Friend of my soul," that high-spirited chieftain immediately proceeded to "Draw the sword o' Scotland," with a view of chastising his familiarity. But "Swift as the flash," Robin eluded the blow, and danced out of the room singing "I'd be a Butterfly."

At the desire of several of the ladies, I accompanied them to the veranda to look at the prospect of the beautiful surrounding country, and our attention was soon arrested by notes of distant music.

"What airy sounds!" was our unanimous exclamation; and we almost fancied that they must have proceeded from the "Harp of the winds," till presently we heard the tramp of horses, and beheld a numerous company descending by its circuitous path the hill that rose in front of the house. As "I saw them on their winding way," I had no difficulty in recognising each individual of the troop.

Foremost came "The Baron of Mowbray" mounted on his "Arab Steed," and accompanied by a "Captive Knight" whom he had rescued from a Saracen prison, and I soon discovered that it was "Dunois the young and brave." Dunois was followed by his accomplished but wilful page, "The Minstrel Boy," who, having broken his harp in a fit of spite, was obliged to substitute an inferior instrument, and to strike "The Light Guitar," which he retained as "The Legacy" of a "Gallant Troubadour" who had fallen beside him in battle, and of whose untimely fate he had sent notice to his "Isabelle" by a "Carrier Pigeon."

Behind the youthful minstrel strode a "Happy Tawny Moor" performing powerfully on "The Tartar Drum."

"The Young Son of Chivalry" brought with him a beautiful damsel whom he had found in a "Bower of Roses by Bendameer's Stream"—and whose eyes, resembling those of "The Light Gazelle," identified her as "Araby's Daughter." "Rich and rare were the gems she wore;" and she had testified her readiness to "Fly to the Desert" with her bravo Dunois; to glide with him "Thro' icy valleys," in the wilds of Siberia; or to accompany him even across "The sea—the sea—the open sea." No music would have sounded so sweetly in her ear as "The Bridemaid's Chorus," and she would willingly have given all her pearls and diamonds in exchange for "The plain gold ring."

Next came a gentleman in naval uniform, whom I gladly recognised as my former acquaintance, "The Post Captain;" for the last time "We met—'twas in a crowd"—and I had not an opportunity of saying more than a few words to him. He was not in his usual spirits, having lately been jilted by the beautiful but "Faithless Emma," who knew not how to value "The Manly Heart" that had so long been devoted to her. He was accompanied by a "Smart Young Midshipman," and followed at a respectful distance by some hardy-looking "Tars of Columbia," who, whether exposed to the storms of "The Bay of Biscay," or sailing before the wind with "A wet sheet and a flowing sea," or engaged in contest with "The Mariners of England," are always ready to venture life and limb in the cause of "America, Commerce, and Freedom."

After them came a motley group whose homes were to be found in every part of the world, and amongst whom even "The Gipsies' Wild Chant" was heard at intervals. Looking as if he had just issued from "The vale of Ovoca," and wrapping around him a damp overcoat, threadbare wherever it was whole, came an "Exile of Erin," who proved to be the famous serenading robber, "Ned of the Hills." Near him was another outlaw, "Allen-a-Dale," who, being something of an exquisite (notwithstanding his deficiency in ploughland and firewood) looked with hauteur on "The wayworn Traveller." The Hibernian freebooter was not, it is true, as well supported as when "Proudly and wide his standard flew;" having found by recent experience that it is not always safe to go a-robbing with flying colours: but he was not without his followers (what Irishman is?) and he and they returned with interest the contemptuous glances of the English brigand.

There were representatives of every nation and of every period in which the voice of music has been heard. Some were serious and some were gay—some were dignified, and others very much the contrary—some had always moved in the first circle, and some were in the people's line. I saw a "Bavarian Broom Girl" endeavouring to persuade "Mynheer Van Clam" to waltz with her round the hill: but finding it impossible to induce in him a rotatory motion, and that his steps never could be made to describe a circle, she wisely gave him up for a "Merry Swiss Boy," who whirled round with her to her heart's content, though his sister would not dance, but was perpetually wailing "Oh! take me back to Switzerland." There was also the disdainful "Polly Hopkins" sailing round her ill-used but persevering lover, "Tommy Tompkins." Among others came the foolish "Maid of Lodi," ambling on her poney; the deplorable "Galley Slave;" the moaning "Beggar Girl;" and several others with whose company I could well have dispensed.

The sound of voices now came from the sea, and we saw several boats approaching the shore—"Faintly as tolls the evening chime," we distinguished the Canadian rowers. Next came the fellow-fishermen of Masaniello chanting their Barcarole; and next we recognised the swiftly-gliding and "Bonnie Boat" of a party of musical Caledonians on their return from a fruitless attempt to wake the "Maid of Lorn." I looked in vain for my sensible and excellent friend, "The Pilot," whom I was afterwards informed by his daughter, "Black-eyed Susan," had gone to the assistance of an endangered vessel, whose "Minute Gun at Sea" he had heard the night before.

I went down with the other ladies to the portico to receive the company that was every moment arriving, and I found the avenue that led to it already filled. Among the Hibernians, we saw a wandering musician who had "Come o'er the sea" to pursue his profession. However, he succeeded but badly; after several attempts, finding it impossible even to "Remember the glories of Brian the Brave." The truth is, he was confused and disconcerted by discovering, when too late, that the harp he had in haste brought with him, was the identical one which had hung so long on Tara's walls that its soul of music was undoubtedly fled; all the strings being broken. This contre-tems excited the sneers of the English part of his audience, but I besought them to "Blame not the bard," whose countrymen I saw were beginning to kindle in his behalf, and knowing that "Avenging and bright are the swift swords of Erin," I made peace by ordering refreshments to be brought out, and sending round among them the "Crooskeen Lawn."

Again the sound of distant music floated on the air from "Over the hills and far away." At first, we thought that "The Campbells were coming" (none of that noble and warlike clan having accompanied the numerous "Sons of the Clyde" that had already arrived), and the male part of our company were preparing to "Hurrah for the Bonnets of Blue." But as the sounds approached, they were easily distinguished for the ever-charming and exhilarating notes of "The Hunters' Chorus," that splendid triumph of musical genius. We soon saw the bold yagers of the Hartz forest descending the path that led round the hill, their rifles in their hands, their oak-sprigs in their hats, and looking as much at home as if they were still in their "Father-land."

I welcomed the whole company, though well aware that among them all there was "Nobody coming to marry me;" and, as "Twilight dews were falling fast," I invited them into the house, which fortunately was large enough to accommodate them. The evening was spent in much hilarity. "Merrily every bosom boundeth," and "Away with melancholy," was the general feeling. A toast was suggested in compliment to their hostess; but unwilling that they should "Drink to me only," I proposed "A health to all good lasses," and it went round with enthusiasm.

Our festivity met with a little interruption from "The Maid of Marlivale," who, while taking one of her usual moonlight rambles, had been frightened by something that she supposed to be "The Erl King," and she rushed in among us, in a state of terror which we had some difficulty in appeasing.

After supper, at which "Jim Crow" was chief waiter (till his antics obliged me to dismiss him from the room), music and dancing continued till a late hour. At length "I knew by the smoke" that the lamps were about to expire, and I was not sorry when the party from Scotland broke up the company by taking leave with "Gude night, and joy be wi' you a'"—and in a short time "All the blue bonnets were over the border." I must tell you in confidence, my dear Ombrelina, that "A chieftain to the highlands bound" presented me "The last rose of summer," and was very importunate with me to become the companion of his journey and the lady of his castle; but I had no inclination to intrust my happiness to a stranger, and to bid "My native land, good night."

Hitherto, whenever, "I've wandered in dreams," it has generally been my unlucky fate to lose all distinct recollection of them before "The morn unbars the gates of light." This once I have been more fortunate. But still, my dear Ombrelina, I think it safest to intrust to your care this slight memorandum of my singular vision. And should you lose it, and I forget it, we have still the consolation that "'Tis but fancy's sketch."

Ariella Shadow.

"In truth," said Merrill, folding up the letter, after making various comments upon it, "on the subject of music, this young lady seems quite au naturel. I fear for her success in society."

"Then," observed Cavender, "you must exert your influence in inducing her to change or suppress her opinion on this topic, and perhaps on some others in which she may be equally at variance with les gens comme il faut."

"My influence?" replied Merrill. "Is it possible that I know the lady?"

"You know her so well," answered Cavender, "that I wonder you are unacquainted with her autograph; but I suppose your courtship has been altogether verbal."

"Emily Osbrook!" exclaimed Merrill. "Is she, indeed, the author of this letter? It is singular enough that I have never yet happened to see her handwriting; and once seen, I could not have forgotten it. But I can assure you that she has sufficient knowledge of the art to be fully capable of appreciating its difficulties and understanding its beauties, and of warmly admiring whatever of our fashionable music is really good; that is, when the sound is not only a combination of beautiful tones, but also an echo to the sense. We have often lamented that so many fine composers have deigned to furnish charming airs for common-place or nonsensical poetry, and that some of the most exquisite effusions of our poets are degraded by an association with tasteless and insipid music. But when music that is truly excellent is 'married to immortal verse,' and when the words are equal to the air, who does not perceive that the hearers listen with two-fold enjoyment?"

"Two-fold!" exclaimed Cavender.—"The pleasure of listening to delightful notes, with delightful words, uttered with taste and feeling by an accomplished and intellectual singer, is one of the most perfect that can fall to the lot of beings who are unable to hear the music of the spheres and the songs of Paradise."

---

SOCIABLE VISITING.

"Shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it."—Addison.

After a residence of several years at their country-house in the vicinity of Philadelphia, circumstances induced Mr. Heathcote to establish himself again in the city. This removal gave great satisfaction to his family, particularly to his wife and to his two elder children, Harriet and Albert, as they all had very good reasons for preferring a decided town-life to the numerous conveniences of ruralizing at a villa both in winter and summer. They were called on in due time by all their former city friends; most of whom, indeed, had sedulously kept up their acquaintance with the Heathcote family by frequent visits to them during their long sojourn in the country.

By all these friends, the Heathcotes were invited to tea in form, sometimes to large parties, sometimes to small parties, and sometimes to meet only the family circle. And Mrs. Heathcote had made a return for these civilities by giving an evening party, which included the whole range of her friends and acquaintances, while her husband got rid of his similar obligations by a series of dinners.

These duties being over, and the family settled quietly down into every-day life, the invitations for particular times became less frequent; gradually subsiding into pressing entreaties from their friends to waive all formality, and to come sociably and take tea with them whenever they felt an inclination, without waiting for the ceremony of being regularly asked. These intimations were at once declined by Mrs. Heathcote, who declared herself "no visitor," her large family (for she had eight children) giving her always sufficient occupation at home. Such excuses, however, were not admitted from Harriet, who was handsome, lively, and intelligent, and much liked by all who knew her. She was fond of society, and had no objection to visiting in all its branches. Her days were generally passed in constant and rational employment, and though her evenings were pleasant enough at home, still she liked variety, and thought it would be very agreeable to visit her friends occasionally on the terms proposed; and she anticipated much quiet enjoyment at these extemporaneous tea-drinkings. We must premise that the sociable visits performed by our heroine did not, in reality, all follow each other consecutively, though, for the sake of brevity, it is expedient for us to relate them in that manner. Between some of them were long intervals, during which she, of course, received occasional invitations in regular form; and a due proportion of her evenings was spent in places of public amusement. Our present design is merely to give a sketch of the events which ensued when Harriet Heathcote, taking her friends at their word, availed herself of their earnest entreaties to visit them sociably: that is, without being either invited or expected.

In compliance with the oft-repeated request of her old acquaintances, the two Miss Drakelows, to spend a long afternoon with them, coming early and bringing her sewing, our heroine set out on this visit at four o'clock, taking her work-basket in her hand. The Miss Drakelows, indeed, had urged her to come immediately after dinner, that they might have the longer enjoyment of her company; and Harriet, for her part, liked them so well (for they were very agreeable girls), that she had no apprehension of finding the visit tedious.

On arriving at the house, the servant who opened the door informed her that both the young ladies were out. Harriet, much disappointed, was turning to go home again, when their mother, old Mrs. Drakelow, appeared at the door of the front parlour, and hastening forward, seized her by both hands, and insisted on her coming in, saying that Ellen and Fanny had only gone out shopping with Mrs. Eastwood (their married sister), and that she was in momentary expectation of their return. Harriet found it so difficult to resist the entreaties of the old lady, who was always delighted to see visiters, that she yielded and accompanied her into the parlour.

"Well, my dear Miss Harriet," said Mrs. Drakelow, "I am really very glad that you have come, at last, just as we wished you, without any ceremony. I always think a visit the more agreeable for being unexpected. Do take off your cloak. My daughters will be at home in a few minutes, and I dare say they will bring Mrs. Eastwood with them, and then we will make her stay to tea. We shall have a charming evening."

Miss Heathcote took out her work, and Mrs. Drakelow resumed her knitting, and endeavoured to entertain her guest by enumerating those among her own acquaintances that persisted in using knitting-sheaths, and those that could knit just as well without them by holding the needles in a different manner. She also discussed the relative merits of ribbed welts and rolled welts, and gave due honour to certain expeditious ladies that could knit a pair of large stockings in three days; and higher glory still to several that had been known to perform that exploit in two days.

In truth, the old lady was one of those dull wearisome people, that are only tolerated because they are good and respectable. She had no reading; no observation, except of trifles not worth observing; no memory, but of things not worth remembering, and her ideas, which were very limited in number, had all her life flowed in the same channel. Still, Mrs. Drakelow thought herself a very sensible woman, and believed that her conversation could not be otherwise than agreeable; and therefore, whenever she had an opportunity, she talked almost incessantly. It is true, that when her daughters were present, she was content to be comparatively silent, as she regarded them with great deference, and listened to them always with habitual admiration.

Evening came, and the young ladies did not return; though Mrs. Drakelow was still expecting them every moment. Finally, she concluded that Mrs. Eastwood had prevailed on them to go home and take tea with her. "So much the better for me," said Mrs. Drakelow, "for now, my dear Miss Harriet, I shall have you all to myself." She then ordered tea to be brought immediately, and Harriet saw nothing in prospect but a long, tedious evening with the prosing old lady; and she knew that it would be at least nine o'clock, or perhaps ten, before her brother came to see her home.

The evening, as she anticipated, was indeed tedious. Mrs. Drakelow took upon herself "the whole expense of the conversation," talked of cheap shops and dear shops, and specified the prices that had been given for almost every article of dress that had been purchased by her daughters or herself during the last year. She told a long story of a piece of linen which her friend Mrs. Willett had bought for her husband, and which went to pieces before it was made up, splitting down in streaks during the process of stroking the gathers. She told the rent that was given by all her acquaintances that lived in rented houses, and the precise price paid by those that had purchased their dwellings. She described minutely the particulars of several long illnesses that had taken place among her relations and friends; and the exact number of persons that attended their funerals when they died, as on those occasions she said she made it a rule always to count the company. She mentioned several circumstances which proved to demonstration, that the weather was usually cold in winter and warm in summer; and she gave a circumstantial history of her four last cats, with suitable episodes of rats and mice.

The old lady's garrulity was so incessant, her tone so monotonous, and her narratives so totally devoid of either point or interest, that Miss Heathcote caught herself several times on the verge of falling asleep. She frequently stole anxious glances at the time-piece, and when it was nine o'clock she roused herself by the excitement of hoping every moment for the arrival of Albert.

At length she heard the agreeable sound of the door-bell, but it was only a shoemaker's boy that had brought home a pair of new shoes for Mrs. Drakelow, who tried them on, and talked about them for half an hour, telling various stories of tight shoes and loose shoes, long shoes and short shoes. Finally, Albert Heathcote made his welcome appearance, and Harriet joyfully prepared for her departure; though the old lady entreated her "to sit awhile longer, and not to take away her brother so soon."

"You cannot imagine," said Mrs. Drakelow, "how disappointed the girls will feel, at happening to be from home on this afternoon above all others. If they had had the most distant idea of a visit from you to-day, they would, I am sure, have either deferred their shopping, or made it as short as possible. But do not be discouraged, my dear Miss Harriet," continued the good old lady, "I hope you will very soon favour us with another sociable visit. I really do not know when I have passed so pleasant an evening. It has seemed to me not more than half an hour since tea."

About a fortnight afterwards, Miss Heathcote went to take tea, sociably, with her friend Mrs. Rushbrook, who had been married about eighteen months, and whom she had known intimately for many years. This time, she went quite late, and was glad to be informed that Mrs. Rushbrook was at home. She was shown into the parlour, where she waited till long after the lamp was lighted, in momentary expectation of the appearance of her friend, who had sent down word that she would be with her in a few minutes. Occasionally, whenever the nursery door was opened, Harriet heard violent screams of the baby.

At length Mrs. Rushbrook came down, apologized to Miss Heathcote for making her wait, and said that poor little George was very unwell, and had been fretful and feverish all day; and that he had just been got to sleep with much difficulty, having cried incessantly for more than an hour. Harriet now regretted having chosen this day for her visit (the baby being so much indisposed), and she offered to conclude it immediately, only requesting that the servant-man might see her home, as it had long been quite dark. But Mrs. Rushbrook would not listen to Harriet's proposal of going away so soon, and insisted on her staying to tea as she had intended; saying that she had no doubt the baby would be much better when he awoke. At her pressing instances, Miss Heathcote concluded to remain. In a short time Mr. Rushbrook came home, and his wife detailed to him all the particulars of the baby's illness. Harriet, who was accustomed to children, saw that in all probability the complaint would be attended with no serious consequences. But young married people are very naturally prone to take alarm at the slightest ailment of their first child: a feeling which no one should censure, however far it may be carried, as it originates in the best affections of the human heart.

Though Mr. and Mrs. Rushbrook tried to entertain their visitor, and to listen to her when she talked, Harriet could not but perceive that their minds were all the time with the infant up-stairs; and they frequently called each other out of the room to consult about him.

After tea, the baby awoke and renewed its screams, and Mr. Rushbrook determined to go himself for the doctor, who had already been brought thither three times that day. Finding that it was a physician who lived in her immediate neighbourhood, Harriet wisely concluded to shorten her unlucky visit by availing herself of Mr. Rushbrook's protection to her own door. Mrs. Rushbrook took leave of our heroine with much civility, but with very evident satisfaction, and said to her at parting, "To tell you the truth, my dear Harriet, if I had known that you designed me the pleasure of a visit this evening, I would have candidly requested you to defer it till another time, as poor little George has been unwell since early in the morning."

Harriet's next sociable visit was to the two Miss Brandons, who had always appeared to her as very charming girls, and remarkable for their affectionate manner towards each other. Being left in affluent circumstances at the decease of their father (the mother died while they were children), Letitia and Charlotte Brandon lived together in a very genteel establishment, under the protection of an unmarried brother, who was just now absent on business in the West. Harriet had always imagined them in possession of an unusual portion of happiness, for they were young, handsome, rich, at their own disposal, with no one to control them, and, as she supposed, nothing to trouble them. She did not know, or rather she did not believe (for she had heard some whispers of the fact), that in reality the Miss Brandons lived half their time at open war; both having tempers that were very irritable, and also very implacable, for it is not true that the more easily anger is excited, the sooner it subsides. It so happened, however, that Miss Heathcote had only seen these young ladies during their occasional fits of good-humour, when they were at peace with each other, and with all the world; and at such times no women could possibly be more amiable.

On the morning before Harriet Heathcote's visit, a violent quarrel had taken place between the two sisters, and therefore they were not on speaking terms, nor likely to be so in less than a fortnight; that being the period they generally required to smooth down their angry passions, before they could find it in their hearts to resume the usual routine of even common civility. There was this difference in the two ladies: Charlotte was the most passionate, Letitia the most rancorous.

When Harriet arrived, she found the Miss Brandons alone in the back parlour, sitting at opposite sides of the fire, with each a book. Charlotte, who was just the age of Harriet, looked pleased at the sight of a visiter, whose company she thought would be preferable to the alternative of passing the evening with her sister in utter silence; and she had some faint hope that the presence of Miss Heathcote might perhaps induce Letitia to make some little exertion to conceal her ill-humour. And therefore Charlotte expressed great pleasure when she found that Harriet had come to spend the evening with them. But Letitia, after a very cold salutation, immediately rose and left the room, with an air that showed plainly she did not intend to consider Miss Heathcote as in part her visiter, but exclusively as her sister Charlotte's.

Charlotte followed Letitia with her eyes, and looked very angry, but after a few moments, she smothered her resentment so far as to attempt a sort of apology, saying, "she believed her sister had the headache." She then commenced a conversation with Harriet, who endeavoured to keep it up with her usual vivacity; but was disconcerted to find that Charlotte was too uncomfortable, and her mind evidently too much abstracted, either to listen attentively, or to take the least interest in anything she said.

In a short time the table was set, and Charlotte desired the servant to go up-stairs and ask Miss Letitia if she was coming down to tea, or if she should send her some. The man departed, and was gone a long while. When he returned—"Is Miss Letitia coming down to tea?" asked Charlotte anxiously; "Miss Letitia don't say," replied the man. Charlotte bit her lip in vexation, and then with something that resembled a sigh, invited Harriet to take her seat at the table, and began to pour out. When tea was about half over, Letitia made her appearance, walking with great dignity, and looking very cross. She sat down in silence, opposite to Harriet. "Sister," said Charlotte, in a voice of half-suppressed anger, "shall I give you black tea or green? you know you sometimes take one and sometimes the other." "I'll help myself," replied Letitia, in a voice of chilling coldness. And taking up one of the tea-pots she proceeded to do so. As soon as she put the cup to her lips, she set it down again with apparent disgust, saying—"This tea is not fit to drink." Charlotte, making a visible effort to restrain herself, placed the other tea-pot within her sister's reach; Letitia poured out a few drops by way of trial, tasted it, then pushed it away with still greater disgust than before, and threw herself back in her chair, casting a look of indignation at Charlotte, and murmuring,—"'Tis always so when I do not preside at the tea-table myself."

Charlotte sat swelling with anger, afraid to trust herself to speak, while Harriet, affecting not to notice what was passing, made an attempt to talk on some indifferent subject, and addressed to Letitia a few words which she did not answer, and handed her some waffles which she would not take. Never had Harriet been present at so uncomfortable a repast, and heartily did she wish herself at home, regretting much that she had happened to pay a visit during this state of hostilities.

After the failure of both sorts of tea, Letitia sat in silent indignation till the table was cleared, leaning back in her chair, eating nothing, but crumbling a piece of bread to atoms, and pertinaciously averting her head both from Charlotte and Harriet.

When tea was over, Harriet hoped that Letitia would retire to her own room, but on the contrary the lady was perversely bent on staying in the parlour. Charlotte and Harriet placed themselves at the sofa-table with their sewing, and Letitia desired the servant-man to bring her one of the new table-cloths that had been sent home that morning. Then making him light a lamp that stood in the corner of the mantel-piece, she seated herself under it on a low chair, and commenced silently and sedulously the task of ravelling or fringing the ends of the table-cloth, while Charlotte looked at her from time to time with ill-suppressed resentment. Now and then, Harriet, in the hope of conciliating Letitia into something like common civility, addressed a few words to her in as pleasant a manner as possible, but Letitia replied only by a cold monosyllable, and finally made no answer at all. Charlotte was too angry at her sister to be able to sustain anything that could be called a conversation with Miss Heathcote, and Harriet, rather than say nothing, began to describe a very entertaining new novel that had lately appeared, relating with great vivacity some of its most amusing scenes. But she soon found that Charlotte was too much out of humour with her sister to be able to give much attention to the narrative, and that her replies and comments were distrait and mal-à-propos.

Letitia sat coldly fringing the table-cloth, and showing no sort of emotion, except that she threw the ravellings into the fire with rather more energy than was necessary, and occasionally jogged the foot that rested on a cushion before her; and she resolutely refused to partake of the refreshments that were brought in after tea.

Miss Heathcote sat in momentary dread of an explosion, as she saw that the angry glances of Charlotte towards the lady fringing the table-cloth, were becoming more frequent and more vivid, that her colour was heightening, and the tremor of her voice increasing. Our heroine was heartily glad of the arrival of her brother about nine o'clock, an hour earlier than she expected him. He explained, in a few words, that being desirous of returning to the theatre to see a favourite after-piece, he had thought it best to come for his sister as soon as the play was over, rather than keep her waiting for him till near eleven, before which time it was not probable that the whole entertainment would be finished. Charlotte, who was evidently impatient for an outbreak, saw Miss Heathcote depart with visible satisfaction, and Letitia merely bowed her head to the adieu of our heroine, who, vexed at herself for having volunteered her visit on this ill-omened day, felt it a relief to quit the presence of these unamiable sisters, and "leave them alone in their glory."

The black girl that had brought down her hood and cloak, ran forward to open the street door, and said in a low voice to Harriet, "I suppose, miss, you did not know before you came, that our ladies had a high quarrel this morning, and are affronted, and don't speak. But I dare say they will come to, in the course of a few weeks, and then I hope you'll pay us another visit, for company's scace."

When Harriet equipped herself to pass a sociable evening with the Urlingford family, who were among the most agreeable of her friends, she could not possibly anticipate any contre-tems that would mar the pleasure of the visit. She arrived about dusk, and was somewhat surprised to find the whole family already at their tea. Mrs. Urlingford and the young ladies received her very cordially, but looked a little disconcerted, and Harriet apologized for interrupting them at table, by saying, that she thought their tea-hour was not till seven o'clock.

Mrs. Urlingford replied, that seven o'clock was their usual hour for tea, but on that evening they had it much earlier than usual, that it might be over before the arrival of some of their musical friends, who were coming to practise with her daughters.

"Really, my dear Harriet," pursued Mrs. Urlingford, "I am rejoiced that you happened to fix on this evening for favouring us with an unceremonious visit. Though I know that you always decline playing and singing in company, and that you persist in saying you have very little knowledge of music, yet I think too highly of your taste and feeling not to be convinced of your fondness for that delightful art, and I am certain you will be much gratified by what you will hear to-night, though this is only a private practising; indeed a mere rehearsal. Next week we will have a general music-party, the first of a series which we have arranged to take place at intervals of a fortnight, and to which we intend ourselves the pleasure of sending invitations to you and all our other friends. This, of to-night, is, I repeat, nothing more than a rehearsal, and we expect only a few professional musicians, whose assistance we have secured for our regular musical soirées. I am very glad, indeed, my dear Harriet, that you chance to be with us this evening. As I said, we have tea earlier than usual, that the music may begin the sooner, and at ten o'clock we will have coffee and other refreshments handed round."

By this time, the table was newly set, fresh tea was made, and some additional nice things were produced. Harriet, who was very sorry for having caused any unnecessary trouble, sat down to her tea, which she despatched in all possible haste, as she knew that Mrs. Urlingford must be impatient to have the table cleared away, previous to the arrival of the musicians, who were now momentarily expected. Just as Harriet was finishing, there came in a German that played on the violon-cello, and was always very early. On being asked if he had taken tea, he replied in the affirmative, but that he would have no objection to a little more. Accordingly he sat down and made a long and hearty meal, to the evident annoyance of the family, and still more to that of Harriet Heathcote, who knew that the table would long since have been removed, had it not been detained on her account. There was nothing now to be done, but to close the folding-doors, and shut in the German till he had completed his repast, as others of the company were fast arriving. And though Harriet had been told that this was merely a private practising, she soon found herself in the midst of something that very much resembled a large party; so many persons having been invited exclusive of the regular performers. She understood, however, that nobody had been asked to this rehearsal, who had not a decided taste for music.

Our heroine, for her part, had no extraordinary talent for that difficult and elegant accomplishment; and, after taking lessons for about a year, it was considered best that she should give it up, as her voice was of no great compass, and there was little probability of her reaching any proficiency, as an instrumental musician, that would compensate for an undue expense of time, money, and application. Therefore, Harriet had never advanced beyond simple ballads, which she played and sang agreeably and correctly enough, but which she only attempted when her audience consisted exclusively of her own family; and none of her brothers and sisters had as yet shown any taste for that sort of music which is commonly called scientific.

The Urlingfords, on the contrary, could all sing and play; the girls on the harp, piano, and guitar; and the boys on the flute, and violin. They all had voices of great power, and sung nothing but Italian.

The evening was passed in the performance of pieces that exhibited much science, and much difficulty of execution: such pieces, in short, as Dr. Johnson wished were "impossible." Being totally at variance with the simplicity of Harriet's taste, she found them very uninteresting, and inconceivably fatiguing, and after a while she had great difficulty in keeping herself awake. Of course, not a word was uttered during the performance, and the concertos, potpourris, arias, and cavatinas succeeded each other so rapidly that there was no interval in which to snatch a few moments of conversation. It is true the purport of the meeting was music, and music alone.

Miss Heathcote almost envied a young lady, who, having learnt all her music in Europe, had come home with an enthusiasm for feats of voice and finger, that on all these occasions transported her into the third heaven. She sat with her neck stretched forward, and her hands out-spread, her lips half open, her eyes sometimes raised as in ecstasy, and sometimes closed in overpowering bliss. But Harriet's envy of such exquisite sensations was a little checked, when she observed Miss Denham stealing a sly glance all round, to see who was looking at her, and admiring her enthusiasm. And then Harriet could not help thinking how very painful it must be (when only done for effect) to keep up such an air and attitude of admiration during a whole long evening.

Our heroine was also much entertained in the early part of the performance, particularly during a grand concerto, by observing the musician who officiated as leader, and was a foreigner of great skill in his profession. In him there was certainly no affectation. To have the piece performed in the most perfect manner, was "the settled purpose of his soul." All the energies of his mind and body were absorbed in this one object, and he seemed as if the whole happiness of his future life, nay, his existence itself, depended on its success. The piece was proceeding in its full tide of glory, and the leader was waving his bow with more pride and satisfaction than a monarch ever felt in wielding his sceptre, or a triumphant warrior in brandishing his sword. Suddenly he gave "a look of horror and a sudden start," and turning instantly round, his eyes glared fiercely over the whole circle of performers in search of the culprit who had been guilty of a false note; an error which would scarcely have been noticed by any of the company, had it not been made so conspicuous by the shock it had given to the chief musician. The criminal, however, was only discovered by his injudiciously "hiding his diminished head." Better for him to have been "a fine, gay, bold-faced villain."

Harriet could not help remarking that though the company all applauded every song that was sung, and every piece that was played, and that at the conclusion of each, the words "charming," "exquisite," "divine," were murmured round the room, still almost every one looked tired, many were evidently suppressing their inclination to yawn—some took opportunities of looking privately at their watches; and Mr. Urlingford and another old gentleman slept a duet together in a corner. The entrance of the coffee, &c., produced a wonderful revival, and restored animation to eyes that seemed ready to close in slumber. The company all started from the listless postures into which they had unconsciously thrown themselves, and every one sat up straight. As soon as she had drunk a cup of the refreshing beverage, Miss Heathcote was glad to avail herself of her brother's arrival and take her leave; Mrs. Urlingford, congratulating her again on having been so fortunate as to drop in exactly on that evening, and telling her that she should certainly expect her at all her musical parties throughout the season.

And Harriet might perhaps have gone to the first one, had she not been so unluckily present at the rehearsal.

On the next uninvited visit of our heroine, she found her friends, the three Miss Celbridges, sitting in the parlour with their mother, by no other light than that of the fire, and all looking extremely dejected. On inquiring if they were well, they answered in the affirmative. Her next question was to ask when they had heard from Baltimore, in which place some of their nearest relations were settled. The reply was, that they had received letters that morning, and that their friends were in good health. "Well, girls," said Harriet, gayly, "you see I have taken you at your word, and have come to pass the evening with you sans ceremonie."

The Miss Celbridges exchanged looks with their mother, who cast down her eyes and said nothing; and one of the young ladies silently assisted Harriet in taking off her walking habiliments. There was an air of general constraint, and our heroine began to fear that her visit was not quite acceptable. "Is it possible," thought she, "that I could unconsciously have given any offence at our last meeting?" But she recollected immediately, that the Miss Celbridges had then taken leave of her with the most unequivocal evidences of cordiality, and had earnestly insisted on her coming to drink tea with them, as often as she felt a desire, assuring her that they should always be delighted to see her "in a sociable way."

The young ladies made an effort at conversation, but it was visibly an effort. The minds of the Miss Celbridges were all palpably engrossed with something quite foreign to the topic of discussion, and Harriet was too much surprised, and too much embarrassed to talk with her usual fluency.

At length Mr. Celbridge entered the room, and after slightly saluting Miss Heathcote, asked why the lamp was not lighted. It was done—and Harriet then perceived by the redness of their eyes, that the mother and daughters had all been in tears. Mr. Celbridge looked also very melancholy, and seating himself beside his wife, he entered into a low and earnest conversation with her. Mrs. Celbridge held her handkerchief to her face, and Harriet could no longer refrain from inquiring if the family had been visited by any unexpected misfortune. There was a pause, during which the daughters evidently struggled to command their feelings, and Mr. Celbridge, after a few moments' hesitation, replied in a tremulous voice: "Perhaps, Miss Heathcote, you know not that to-day I have become a bankrupt; that the unexpected failure of a house for which I had endorsed to a large amount, has deprived me of the earnings of twenty years, and reduced me to indigence."

Harriet was much shocked, and expressed her entire ignorance of the fact. "We supposed," said Mrs. Celbridge, "that it must have been known universally—and such reports always spread with too much rapidity." "Surely," replied Harriet, taking the hand of Mrs. Celbridge, "you cannot seriously believe that it was known to me. The slightest intimation of this unfortunate event, would certainly have deterred me from interrupting you with my presence at a time when the company of a visitor must be so painfully irksome to the whole family."

She then rose, and said that if Mr. Celbridge would have the kindness to accompany her to her own door, she would immediately go home. "I will not dissemble, my dear Miss Heathcote," replied Mrs. Celbridge, "and urge you to remain, when it must be evident to you that none of us are in a state to make your visit agreeable to you, or indeed to derive pleasure from it ourselves. After the first shock is over, we shall be able, I hope, to look on our reverse of fortune with something like composure. And when we are settled in the humble habitation to which we must soon remove, we shall be glad indeed to have our evenings occasionally enlivened by the society of one whom we have always been so happy to class among our friends."

Mr. Celbridge escorted Harriet to her own residence, which was only at a short distance. She there found that her brother, having just heard of the failure, and knowing that she intended spending the evening at Mr. Celbridge's, had sent her from his office a note to prevent her going, but it had not arrived till after her departure.

Among Miss Heathcote's acquaintances was Mrs. Accleton, a very young lady recently married, who on receiving her bridal-visits, had given out that she intended to live economically, and not to indulge in any unnecessary expense. She emphatically proclaimed her resolution never to give a party; but she did not even insinuate that she would never go to a party herself. She also declared that it did not comport with her plans (young girls when just married are apt to talk much of their plans) to have any regularly invited company; but that it would always afford her the greatest possible pleasure to see her friends sociably, if they would come and take tea with her, whenever it was convenient to themselves, and without waiting for her to appoint any particular time. "My husband and I," said Mrs. Accleton, "intend spending all our evenings at home, so there is no risk of ever finding us out. We are too happy in each other to seek for amusement abroad; and we find by experience that nothing the world can offer is equal to our own domestic felicity, varied occasionally by the delightful surprise of an unceremonious visit from an intimate friend."

It was not till after the most urgent entreaties, often reiterated, that Harriet Heathcote undertook one of these visits to Mrs. Accleton. After ringing at the street-door till her patience was nearly exhausted, it was opened by a sulky-looking white girl, who performed the office of porteress with a very ill grace, hiding herself behind it because she was not in full dress; and to Harriet's inquiry if Mrs. Accleton was at home, murmuring in a most repulsive tone that "she believed she was."

Our heroine was kept waiting a considerable time in a cold and comfortless, though richly-furnished parlour, where the splendid coal-grate exhibited no evidences of fire, but a mass of cinders blackening at the bottom. At length Mrs. Accleton made her appearance, fresh from the toilet, and apologized by saying, that expecting no one that afternoon, she had ever since dinner been sitting up stairs in her wrapper. "About twelve o'clock," said she, "I always, when the weather is fine, dress myself and have the front-parlour fire made up, in case of morning-visiters. But after dinner, I usually put on a wrapper, and establish myself in the dining-room for the remainder of the day. My husband and I have got into the habit of spending all our evenings there. It is a charmingly comfortable little room, and we think it scarcely worth while to keep up the parlour-fire just for our two selves. However, I will have it replenished immediately. Excuse me for one moment." She then left the room, and shortly returning, resumed her discourse.

"I determined," said she, "from the hour I first thought of housekeeping, that it should be my plan to have none but white servants. They are less wasteful than the blacks; less extravagant in their cooking; are satisfied to sit by smaller fires; and have fewer visiters. The chief difficulty with them is, that there are so many things they are unwilling to do. Yesterday my cook left me quite suddenly, and to-day a little girl about fourteen, whom I hired last week as a waiter, was taken away by her mother; and I have just now been trying to persuade Sally, the chambermaid, to bring in the coal-scuttle and make up the fire. But she has a great objection to doing anything in presence of strangers, and I am rather afraid she will not come. And I do not much wonder at it, for Sally is a girl of a very respectable family. She has nothing of the servant about her."

"So much the worse," thought Harriet, "if she is obliged to get her living in that capacity."

After a long uncomfortable pause, during which there were no signs of Sally, Mrs. Accleton involuntarily put her hand to the bell, but recollecting herself, withdrew it again without pressing the spring. "There would be no use," said she, "in ringing the bell, for Sally never takes the least notice of it. She is principled against it, and says she will not be rung about the house like a negro. I have to indulge her in this laudable feeling of self-respect, for in everything that is essential she is a most valuable girl, and irons my dresses beautifully, and does up my collars and pelerines to admiration."

So saying, Mrs. Accleton again left the parlour to have another expostulation with Sally, who finally vouchsafed to bring in the coal-scuttle, and flinging a few fresh coals on the top of the dying embers (from which all power of ignition had too visibly fled), put up the blower, and hurried out of the room. But the blower awakened no flame, and not a sound was heard to issue from behind its blank and dreary expanse. "I am afraid the fire is too far gone to be revived without a regular clearing out of the grate," said Mrs. Accleton, "and I doubt the possibility of prevailing on Sally to go through all that. Anthracite has certainly its disadvantages. Perhaps we had better adjourn to the dining-room, where there has been a good fire the whole day. If I had only known that you intended me the pleasure of this visit! However, I have no doubt you will find it very comfortable up stairs."

To the dining-room they accordingly went. It was a little narrow apartment over the kitchen, with a low ceiling and small windows looking out on the dead wall of the next house, and furnished in the plainest and most economical manner. There was a little soap-stone grate that held about three quarts of coal, which, however, was burning; a small round table that answered for every purpose; half a dozen wooden-bottomed cane-coloured chairs; and a small settee to match, covered with a calico cushion, and calculated to hold but two people. "This is just the size for my husband and myself," said Mrs. Accleton, as she placed herself on the settee. "We had it made on purpose. Will you take a seat on it, Miss Harriet, or would you prefer a chair? I expect Mr. Accleton home in a few minutes." Harriet preferred a chair.

The conversation now turned on housekeeping, and the nouvelle mariée gave a circumstantial detail of her various plans, and expressed some surprise that, notwithstanding the excellence of her system, she found so much difficulty in getting servants to fall into it. "I have the most trouble with my cooks," pursued Mrs. Accleton. "I have had six different women in that capacity, though I have only been married two months. And I am sure Mr. Accleton and myself are by no means hard to please. We live in the plainest way possible, and a very little is sufficient for our table. Our meat is simply boiled or roasted, and often we have nothing more than a beefsteak. We never have any sort of dessert, considering all such things as extremely unwholesome." "What is the reason," thought Harriet, "that so many young ladies, when they are first married, discover immediately that desserts are unwholesome; particularly if prepared and eaten in their own houses?"

Mrs. Accleton made frequent trips back and forward to the kitchen, and Harriet understood that tea was in agitation. Finally, Sally, looking very much out of humour, came and asked for the keys; and unlocking a dwarf side-board that stood in one of the recesses, she got out the common tea-equipage and placed it on the table. "You see, Miss Harriet, we treat you quite en famille," said Mrs. Accleton. "We make no stranger of you. After tea, the parlour will doubtless be warm, and we will go down thither." Harriet wondered if the anthracite was expected to repent of its obstinacy, and take to burning of its own accord.

Mr. Accleton now came home, and his wife, after running to kiss him, exclaimed: "Oh! my dear, I am glad you are come! You can now entertain Miss Heathcote while I go down and pay some attention to the tea, for Sally protests that she was not hired to cook, and, if the truth must be told, she is very busy ironing, and does not like to be taken off. This is our regular ironing-day, and one of my rules is never, on any consideration, to have it put off or passed over. Method is the soul of housekeeping."

Mr. Accleton was naturally taciturn, but he made a prodigious effort to entertain Harriet, and talked to her of the tariff.

It was near eight o'clock before Sally condescended to bring up the tea and its accompaniments, which were a plate containing four slices of the thinnest possible bread and butter, another with two slices of pale toast, and a third with two shapeless whitish cakes, of what composition it was difficult to tell, but similar to those that are called flap-jacks in Boston, slap-jacks in New York, and buckwheat cakes in Philadelphia.[84] In the centre was a deep dish with a dozen small stewed oysters floating in an ocean of liquor, as tasteless and insipid as dish-water. The tea also was tasteless, and for two reasons—first, that the Chinese herb had been apportioned in a very small quantity; and secondly, that the kettle had not "come to a boil."

"We give you tea in a very plain style," said Mrs. Accleton to Harriet; "you see we make no stranger of you, and that we treat you just as we do ourselves. We know that simple food is always the most wholesome, and when our friends are so kind as to visit us, we have no desire to make them sick by covering our table with dainties. It is one of my rules never to have a sweetcake or sweetmeat in the house. They are not only a foolish expense, but decidedly prejudicial to health."

The hot cakes being soon despatched, there was considerable waiting for another supply. Mr. and Mrs. Accleton were at somewhat of a nonplus as to the most feasible means of procuring the attendance of Sally. "Perhaps she will come if we knock on the floor," said Mrs. Accleton; "she has done so sometimes." Mr. Accleton stamped on the floor, but Sally came not. Harriet could not imagine why Sally's pride should be less hurt by coming to a knock on the floor than to a ring of the bell; but there is no accounting for tastes. Mr. Accleton stamped again, and much more loudly than before. "Now you have spoiled all," said his wife, fretfully; "Sally will never come now. She will be justly offended at your stamping for her in that violent way. I much question if we see her face again to-night."

At last, after much canvassing, it was decided that Mr. Accleton should go to the head of the stairs and venture to call Sally; his wife enjoining him not to call too loudly, and to let his tone and manner be as mild as possible. This delicate business was successfully accomplished. Sally at last appeared with two more hot cakes, and Mrs. Accleton respectfully intimated to her that she wished her to return in a few minutes to clear away the table.

Mr. Accleton, who was a meek man, being sent down by his wife to reconnoitre the parlour fire, came back and reported that it was "dead out." "How very unlucky," said Mrs. Accleton, "that Miss Heathcote should happen to come just on this evening! Unlucky for herself, I mean, for we must always be delighted to see her. However, I am so fond of this snug little room, that for my own part I have no desire ever to sit in any other. My husband and I have passed so many pleasant hours in it."

The ladies now resumed their sewing; Mrs. Accleton talked of her plans, and her economy, and Sally; and Mr. Accleton pored over the newspaper as if he was learning it all by heart, even to the advertisements; while his wife, who had taken occasion to remark that the price of oil had risen considerably, managed two or three times to give the screw of the astral lamp a twist to the left, which so much diminished the light that Harriet could scarcely see to thread her needle.

About an hour after tea, Mrs. Accleton called her husband to the other end of the room, and a half-whispered consultation took place between them, which ended in the disappearance of the gentleman. In a short time he returned, and there was another consultation, in the course of which Harriet could not avoid distinguishing the words—"Sally refuses to quit her clear-starching." "Well, dear, cannot I ask you just to do them yourself?" "Oh, no! indeed, it is quite out of the question; I would willingly oblige you in anything else." "But, dear, only think how often you have done this very thing when a boy." "But I am not a boy now." "Oh, but dear, you really must. There is no one else to do it. Come now, only a few, just a very few." There was a little more persuasion; the lady seemed to prevail, and the gentleman quitted the room. A short time after, there was heard a sound of cracking nuts, which Mrs. Accleton, consciously colouring, endeavoured to drown by talking as fast and as loudly as possible.

We have said that Mr. Accleton was a meek man. Having finished his business down-stairs, he came back looking red and foolish; and after awhile Sally appeared with great displeasure in her countenance, and in her hands a waiter containing a plate of shellbarks, a pitcher of water, and some glasses. Mr. Accleton belonged to the temperance society, and therefore, as his wife said, was principled against having in his house, either wine, or any other sort of liquor.

The arrival of Albert Heathcote put an end to this comfortless visit; and Mrs. Accleton on taking leave of Harriet, repeated, for the twentieth time, her regret at not having had any previous intimation of it.

Our heroine could not but wonder why marriage should so soon have have made a change for the worse, in the lady with whom she had been passing the evening, and whom she had known when Miss Maiden, as a lively, pleasant, agreeable girl, not remarkable for much mind, but in every other respect the reverse of what she was now. Harriet had yet to learn that marriage, particularly when it takes place at a very early age, and before the judgment of the lady has had time to ripen by intercourse with the world, frequently produces a sad alteration in her habits and ideas. As soon as she is emancipated from the control of her parents, and when "her market is made," and a partner secured for life, all her latent faults and foibles are too prone to show themselves without disguise, and she is likewise in much danger of acquiring new ones. Presuming upon her importance as a married lady, and also upon the indulgence with which husbands generally regard all the sayings and doings of their wives in the early days of matrimony, woman, as well as man, is indeed too apt to "play fantastic tricks when dressed in a little brief authority."

Next day, Harriet was surprised by a morning visit from Mrs. Accleton, who came in looking much discomposed, and, after the first salutations, said in a tone of some bitterness, "I have met with a great misfortune, Miss Heathcote. I have lost that most valuable servant, Sally. The poor girl's pride was so deeply wounded at being obliged to bring in the waiter before company (and as her family is so respectable, she of course has a certain degree of proper pride), that she gave me notice this morning of the utter impossibility of her remaining in the house another day. I tried in vain to pacify her, and I assured her that your coming to tea was entirely accidental, and that such a thing might never happen again. All I could urge had no effect on her, and she persisted in saying that she never could stay in any place after her feelings had been hurt, and that she had concluded to live at home for the future, and take in sewing. So she quitted me at once, leaving me without a creature in the house, and I have been obliged to borrow mamma's Kitty for the present. And I have nearly fatigued myself to death by walking almost to Schuylkill to inquire the character of a cook that I heard of yesterday. As to a chambermaid, I never expect to find one that will replace poor Sally. She was so perfectly clean, and she clear-starched, and plaited, and ironed so beautifully; and when I went to a party, she could arrange my hair as well as a French barber, which was certainly a great saving to me. Undoubtedly, Miss Heathcote, your company is always pleasant, and we certainly spent a delightful evening, but if I had had the least intimation that you intended me the honour of a visit yesterday, I should have taken the liberty of requesting you to defer it till I had provided myself with a cook and a waiter. Poor Sally—and to think, too, that she had been ironing all day!"

Harriet was much vexed, and attempted an apology for her ill-timed visit. She finally succeeded in somewhat mollifying the lady by presenting her with some cake and wine as a refreshment after her fatigue, and Mrs. Accleton departed in rather a better humour, but still the burthen of her song was, "of course, Miss Heathcote, your visits must be always welcome—but it is certainly a sad thing to lose poor Sally."

Our heroine's next attempt at a sociable visit was to her friend Amanda Milbourne, the eldest daughter of a large family. As soon as Harriet made her entrance, the children, with all of whom she was a great favourite, gathered round, and informed her with delighted faces, that their father and mother were going to take them to the play. Harriet feared that again her visit had been ill-timed, and offered to return home. "On the contrary," said Mrs. Milbourne, "nothing can be more fortunate, at least for Amanda, who has declined accompanying us to the theatre, as her eyes are again out of order, and she is afraid of the lights. Therefore she will be extremely happy to have you spend the evening with her." "It is asking too much of Harriet's kindness," said Amanda, "to expect her to pass a dull evening alone with me; I fear I shall not be able to entertain her as I would wish. The place that was taken for me at the theatre will be vacant, and I am sure it would give you all great pleasure if Harriet would accept of it, and accompany you thither." This invitation was eagerly urged by Mr. and Mrs. Milbourne, and loudly reiterated by all the children, but Harriet had been at the theatre the preceding evening, the performances of to-night were exactly the same, and she was one of those that think "nothing so tedious as a twice-seen play," that is, if all the parts are filled precisely as before.

Mrs. Milbourne then again felicitated Amanda on being so fortunate as to have Miss Heathcote to pass the evening with her. "To say the truth," said the good mother, "I could scarcely reconcile myself to the idea of your staying at home, particularly as your eyes will not allow you to read or to sew this evening, and you could have no resource but the piano." Then turning to Harriet, she continued, "When her eyes are well, it may be truly remarked of Amanda, that she is one of those fortunate persons 'who are never less alone than when alone;' she often says so herself."

Accordingly Harriet was prevailed on to go through with her visit. And as soon as tea was over, all the Milbourne family (with the exception of Amanda) departed for the theatre.

Harriet produced her bead work, and endeavoured to be as amusing as possible, but her friend seemed silent, abstracted, and not in the vein for conversation, complaining at times of the pain in her eyes, which, however, looked as well as usual. Just after the departure of the family, Amanda stole softly to the front-door and put up the dead-latch, so that it could be opened from without. After that, she resumed her seat in the parlour, and appeared to be anxiously listening for something. The sound of footsteps was soon heard at the door, and presently a handsome young gentleman walked in without having rung the bell, and as he entered the parlour, stopped short, and looked disconcerted at finding a stranger there. Amanda blushed deeply, but rose and introduced him as Captain Sedbury of the army. Harriet then recollected having heard a vague report of an officer being very much in love with Miss Milbourne, and that her parents discountenanced his addresses, unwilling that the most beautiful and most accomplished of their daughters should marry a man who had no fortune but his commission.

The fact was, that Captain Sedbury, after an absence of several months at his station, had only arrived in town that morning, and finding means to notify his mistress of his return, it had been arranged between them that he should visit her in the evening, during the absence of the family, and for this purpose Amanda had excused herself from going to the theatre. He took his seat beside Amanda, who contrived to give him her hand behind the backs of their chairs, and attempted some general conversation, catching, at times, an opportunity of saying in a low voice a few words to the lady of his love, whose inclination was evidently to talk to him only.

Harriet Heathcote now found herself in a very awkward situation. On this occasion she was palpably what the French call Madame de Trop, a character which is irksome beyond all endurance to the lady herself, if she is a person of proper consideration for the convenience of others. Though conscious that they were wishing her at least in Alabama, she felt much sympathy for the lovers, as she had a favoured inamorato of her own, who was now on his return from Canton. She talked, and their replies were tardy and distrait; she looked at them, and they were gazing at each other, and several times she found them earnestly engaged in a whisper. She felt as if on thorns, and became so nervous that she actually got the headache. The dullness of Mrs. Drakelow, the sick baby of Mrs. Rushbrook, the feuds of the Miss Brandons, the failure of Mr. Celbridge, the music-practising of the Urlingfords, the maid Sally of the Accletons, had none of them at the time caused our heroine so much annoyance as she felt on this evening, from the idea that she was so inconveniently interrupting the stolen interview of two affianced lovers. At last she became too nervous to endure it any longer, and putting away her bead work, she expressed a desire to go home, pleading her headache as an excuse. Captain Sedbury started up with alacrity, and offered immediately to attend her. But Amanda, whose eyes had at first sparkled with delight, suddenly changed countenance, and begged Harriet to stay, saying, "You expect your brother, do you not?"

"Certainly," replied Harriet, "but as the distance is short, I hope it will be no great encroachment on Captain Sedbury's time. And then," she added with a smile, "he will of course return hither and finish his visit, after he has deposited me at my own door."

Amanda still hesitated. She recollected an instance of a friend of hers having lost her lover in consequence of his escorting home a pretty girl that made a "deadset" at him. And she was afraid to trust Captain Sedbury with so handsome a young lady as Miss Heathcote. Fortunately, however, Harriet removed this perplexity as soon as she guessed the cause. "Suppose," said she to Amanda, "that you were to accompany us yourself. It is a fine moonlight night, and I have no doubt the walk will do you good, as you say you have not been out for several days."

To this proposal Amanda joyfully assented, and in a moment her face was radiant with smiles. She ran up stairs for her walking equipments, and was down so quickly that Harriet had not much chance of throwing out any allurements in her absence, even if she had been so disposed. The captain gave an arm to each of the ladies, and in a short time the lovers bade Miss Heathcote good night at the door of her father's mansion.

Harriet now comprehended why her friend Amanda "was never less alone than when alone."

Three weeks afterwards, when Miss Milbourne and Captain Sedbury had effected a runaway marriage, and the parents had forgiven them according to custom, Amanda and her husband made themselves and Harriet very merry by good-humouredly telling her how much her accidental visit had incommoded them, and how glad they were to get rid of her.

We have only to relate one more instance of Harriet Heathcote's sociable visits. This was to her friends the Tanfields, a very charming family, consisting of a widow and her two daughters, whom she was certain of finding at home, because they were in deep mourning, and did not go out of an evening.

Harriet had been detained by a visiter, and it was nearly dark when she reached Mrs. Tanfield's door, and was told by the coloured man who opened it, that all his ladies had set out that morning for New York, having heard that young Mr. Tanfield (who lived in that city) was dangerously ill. Harriet was sorry that her friends should have received such painful intelligence, and for a few moments could think of nothing else, for she knew young Tanfield to be one of the best of sons and brothers. Her next consideration was how to get home, as there was no possibility of staying at Mrs. Tanfield's. Her residence was at a considerable distance, and "the gloomy night was gathering fast." She thought for a moment of asking Peters, the black man, to accompany her; but from the loud chattering and giggling that came up from the kitchen, (which seemed to be lighted with unusual brightness), and from having noticed, as she approached the house, that innumerable coloured people were trooping down the area-steps, she rightly concluded that Mrs. Tanfield's servants had taken advantage of her absence to give a party, and that "high life below stairs" was at that moment performing.

Fearing that if she requested Peters to escort her, he would comply very ungraciously, or perhaps excuse himself, rather than be taken away from his company, Miss Heathcote concluded on essaying to walk home by herself, for the first time in her life, after lamplight. As she turned from the door, (which Peters immediately closed) she lingered awhile on the step, looking out upon the increasing gloom, and afraid to venture into it. However, as there seemed no alternative, she summoned all her courage, and set off at a brisk pace. Her intention was to walk quietly along without showing the slightest apprehension, but she involuntarily shrunk aside whenever she met any of the other sex. On suddenly encountering a row of young men, arm in arm, with each a segar in his mouth, she came to a full stop, and actually shook with terror. They all looked at her a moment, and then made way for her to pass, and she felt as if she could have plunged into the wall to avoid touching them.

Presently our heroine met three sailors reeling along, evidently intoxicated, and singing loudly. She kept as close as possible to the curbstone, expecting nothing else than to be rudely accosted by them, but they were too intent upon their song to notice her; though one of them staggered against her, and pushed her off the pavement, so as almost to throw her into the street.

Her way home lay directly in front of the Walnut Street Theatre, which she felt it impossible to pass, as the people were just crowding in. And she now blessed the plan of the city which enabled her to avoid this inconvenience by "going round a square." The change of route took her into a street comparatively silent and retired, and now her greatest fear was of being seized and robbed. She would have given the world to have met any gentleman of her acquaintance, determining, if she did so, to request his protection home. At last she perceived one approaching, whose appearance she thought was familiar to her, and as they came within the light of a lamp, she found it to be Mr. Morland, an intimate friend of her brother's. He looked at her with a scrutinizing glance, as if he half-recognised her features under the shade of her hood. Poor Harriet now felt ashamed and mortified that Mr. Morland should see her alone and unprotected, walking in the street after dark. She had not courage to utter a word, but, drawing her hood more closely over her face, she glided hastily past him, and walked rapidly on. She had no sooner turned the corner of the street, than she regretted having obeyed the impulse of the moment, lamenting her want of presence of mind, and reflecting how much better it would have been for her to have stopped Mr. Morland, and candidly explained to him her embarrassing situation. But it was now too late.

Presently there was a cry of fire, and the State House bell tolled out north-east, which was exactly the contrary direction from Mr. Heathcote's residence. Immediately an engine came thundering along the street, accompanied by a hose, and followed by several others, and Harriet found herself in the midst of the crowd and uproar, while the light of the torches carried by the firemen glared full upon her. But what had at first struck her with terror, she now perceived to be rather an advantage than otherwise, for no one noticed her in the general confusion, and it set every one to running the same way. She found, as she approached her father's dwelling, that there was no longer any danger of her being molested by man or boy, all being gone to the fire, and the streets nearly deserted. Anxious to get home at all hazards, she commenced running as fast as she could, and never stopped till she found herself at her own door.

The family were amazed and alarmed when they saw Harriet run into the parlour, pale, trembling, and almost breathless, and looking half dead as she threw herself on the sofa, unable to speak; and she did not recover from her agitation, till she had relieved the hurry of her spirits by a flood of tears.

It was some minutes before Harriet was sufficiently composed to begin an explanation of the events of the evening.

"It is true," said she, "that I have not been actually molested or insulted, and I believe, after all, that in our orderly city there is little real danger to be apprehended by females of respectable appearance, when reduced to the sad necessity of walking alone in the evening. But still the mere supposition, the bare possibility of being thus exposed to the rudeness of the vulgar and unfeeling, will for ever prevent me from again subjecting myself to so intolerable a situation. I know not what could induce me again to go through all I have suffered since I left Mrs. Tanfield's door.—And this will be my last attempt at sociable visiting."

---

We submit it to the opinion of our fair readers, whether, in nine cases out of ten, the visits of ladies do not "go off the better," if anticipated by some previous intimation. We believe that our position will be borne out by the experience both of the visiters and the visited. Our heroine, as we have seen, did not only, on most of these occasions, subject herself to much disappointment and annoyance, but she was likewise the cause of considerable inconvenience to her entertainers; and we can say with truth, that the little incidents we have selected "to point our moral and adorn our tale," are all sketched from life and reality.

---

COUNTRY LODGINGS.

"Chacun a son gout."—French Proverb.

It has often been a subject of surprise to me, that so many even of those highly-gifted people who are fortunate enough to possess both sorts of sense (common and uncommon), show, nevertheless, on some occasions, a strange disinclination to be guided by the self-evident truth, that in all cases where the evil preponderates over the good, it is better to reject the whole than to endure a large portion of certain evil for the sake of a little sprinkling of probable good. I can think of nothing, just now, that will more aptly illustrate my position, than the practice so prevalent in the summer-months of quitting a commodious and comfortable home, in this most beautiful and convenient of cities, for the purpose of what is called boarding out of town; and wilfully encountering an assemblage of almost all "the ills that flesh is heir to," in the vain hope of finding superior coolness in those establishments that go under the denomination of country lodgings, and are sometimes to be met with in insulated locations, but generally in the unpaved and dusty streets of the villages and hamlets that are scattered about the vicinity of Philadelphia.

These places are adopted as substitutes for the springs or the sea-shore; and it is also not unusual for persons who have already accomplished the fashionable tour, to think it expedient to board out of town for the remainder of the summer, or till they are frightened home by the autumnal epidemics.

I have more than once been prevailed on to try this experiment, in the universal search after coolness which occupies so much of the attention of my fellow-citizens from June to September, and the result has been uniformly the same: a conviction that a mere residence beyond the limits of the city is not an infallible remedy for all the désagrémens of summer; that (to say nothing of other discomforts) it is possible to feel the heat more in a small house out of the town than in a large one in it.

The last time I was induced to make a trial of the delights of country lodgings, I had been told of a very genteel lady (the widow of an Englishman, said to have been highly connected in his own country), who had taken a charming house at a short distance from the city, with the intention of accommodating boarders for the summer; and I finally allowed myself to be prevailed on to become an inmate of her establishment, as I had just returned from the north, and found the weather still very warm.

Two of my friends, a lady and gentleman, accompanied me when I went to engage my apartment. The ride was a very short one, and we soon arrived at a white frame house with green window-shutters, and also a green gate which opened into a little front garden with one gravel walk, two grass plats, and four Lombardy poplar trees, which, though excluded in the city, still keep their ground in out-of-town places.

There was no knocker, but, after hammering and shaking the door for near five minutes, it was at last opened by a barefooted bound-girl, who hid herself behind it as if ashamed to be seen. She wore a ragged light calico frock, through the slits of which appeared at intervals a black stuff petticoat: the body was only kept together with pins, and partly concealed by a dirty cape of coarse white muslin; one lock of her long yellow hair was stuck up by the wreck of a horn comb, and the remaining tresses hung about her shoulders. When we inquired if Mrs. Netherby was at home, the girl scratched her head, and stared as if stupified by the question, and on its being repeated, she replied that "she would go and look," and then left us standing at the door. A coloured servant would have opened the parlour, ushered us in, and with smiles and curtsies requested us to be seated. However, we took the liberty of entering without invitation: and the room being perfectly dark, we also used the freedom of opening the shutters.

The floor was covered with a mat which fitted nowhere, and showed evidence of long service. Whatever air might have been introduced through the fire-place, was effectually excluded by a thick chimney-board, covered with a square of wall-paper representing King George IV. visiting his cameleopard. I afterwards found that Mrs. Netherby was very proud of her husband's English origin. The mantel-piece was higher than our heads, and therefore the mirror that adorned it was too elevated to be of any use. This lofty shelf was also decorated with two pasteboard baskets, edged with gilt paper, and painted with bunches of calico-looking flowers, two fire-screens ditto, and two card-racks in the shape of harps with loose and crooked strings of gold thread. In the centre of the room stood an old-fashioned round tea-table, the feet black with age, and the top covered with one of those coarse unbleached cloths of figured linen that always look like dirty white. The curiosities of the centre-table consisted of a tumbler of marigolds: a dead souvenir which had been a living one in 1826: a scrap work-box stuck all over with figures of men, women, and children, which had been most wickedly cut out of engravings and deprived of their backgrounds for this purpose: an album with wishy-washy drawings and sickening verses: a china writing-apparatus, destitute alike of ink, sand, and wafers: and a card of the British consul, which, I afterwards learnt, had once been left by him for Mr. Netherby.

The walls were ornamented with enormous heads drawn in black crayon, and hung up in narrow gilt frames with bows of faded gauze riband. One head was inscribed Innocence, and had a crooked mouth; a second was Beneficence, with a crooked nose; and a third was Contemplation, with a prodigious swelling on one of her cheeks; and the fourth was Veneration, turning up two eyes of unequal size. The flesh of one of these heads looked like china, and another like satin; the third had the effect of velvet, and the fourth resembled plush.

All these things savoured of much unfounded pretension; but we did not then know that they were chiefly the work of Mrs. Netherby herself, who, as we learned in the sequel, had been blest with a boarding-school education, and was, according to her own opinion, a person of great taste and high polish.

It was a long time before the lady made her appearance, as we had arrived in the midst of the siesta in which it was the custom of every member of the establishment (servants included) to indulge themselves during the greatest part of the afternoon, with the exception of the bound-girl, who was left up to "mind the house." Mrs. Netherby was a tall, thin, sharp-faced woman, with an immense cap, that stood out all round, and encircled her head like a halo, and was embellished with an enormous quantity of yellowish gauze riband that seemed to incorporate with her huge yellow curls: fair hair being much affected by ladies who have survived all other fairness. She received us with abundance of smiles, and a profusion of flat compliments, uttered in a voice of affected softness; and on making known my business, I was conducted up-stairs to see a room which she said would suit me exactly. Mrs. Netherby was what is called "a sweet woman."

The room was small, but looked tolerably well, and though I was not much prepossessed in favour of either the house or the lady, I was unwilling that my friends should think me too fastidious, and it was soon arranged that I should take possession the following day.

Next afternoon I arrived at my new quarters; and tea being ready soon after, I was introduced to the other boarders, as they came down from their respective apartments. The table was set in a place dignified with the title of "the dining-room," but which was in reality a sort of anti-kitchen, and located between the acknowledged kitchen and the parlour. It still retained vestiges of a dresser, part of which was entire, in the shape of the broad lower-shelf and the under-closets. This was painted red, and Mrs. Netherby called it the side-board. The room was narrow, the ceiling was low, the sunbeams had shone full upon the windows the whole afternoon, and the heat was extreme. A mulatto man waited on the tea-table, with his coat out at elbows, and a marvellous dirty apron, not thinking it worth his while to wear good clothes in the country. And while he was tolerably attentive to every one else, he made a point of disregarding or disobeying every order given to him by Mrs. Netherby: knowing that for so trifling a cause as disrespect to herself, she would not dare to dismiss him at the risk of getting no one in his place; it being always understood that servants confer a great favour on their employers when they condescend to go with them into the country. Behind Mrs. Netherby's chair stood the long-haired bound girl (called Anna by her mistress, and Nance by Bingham the waiter), waving a green poplar branch by way of fly-brush, and awkwardly flirting it in every one's face.

The aspect of the tea-table was not inviting. Everything was in the smallest possible quantity that decency would allow. There was a plate of rye-bread, and a plate of wheat, and a basket of crackers: another plate with half a dozen paltry cakes that looked as if they had been bought under the old Court House: some morsels of dried beef on two little tea-cup plates, and a small glass dish of that preparation of curds, which in vulgar language is called smearcase, but whose nom de guerre is cottage-cheese, at least that was the appellation given it by our hostess. The tea was so weak that it was difficult to discover whether it was black or green; but, finding it undrinkable, I requested a glass of milk: and when Bingham brought me one, Mrs. Netherby said with a smile, "See what it is to live in the country!" Though, after all, we were not out of sight of Christ Church steeple.

The company consisted of a lady with three very bad children; another with a very insipid daughter, about eighteen or twenty, who, like her mother, seemed utterly incapable of conversation; and a fat Mrs. Pownsey, who talked an infinite deal of nothing, and soon took occasion to let me know that she had a very handsome house in the city. The gentlemen belonging to these ladies never came out till after tea, and returned to town early in the morning.

Towards sunset, I proposed taking a walk with the young lady, but she declined on account of the dew, and we returned to the parlour, where there was no light during the whole evening, as Mrs. Netherby declared that she thought nothing was more pleasant than to sit in a dark room in the summer. And when we caught a momentary glimpse from the candles that were carried past the door as the people went up and down stairs, we had the pleasure of finding that innumerable cockroaches were running over the floor and probably over our feet; these detestable insects having also a fancy for darkness.

The youngest of the mothers went up stairs to assist her maid in the arduous task of putting the children to bed, a business that occupied the whole evening; though the eldest boy stoutly refused to go at all, and stretching himself on the settee, he slept there till ten o'clock, when his father carried him off kicking and screaming.

The gentlemen talked altogether of trade and bank business. Some neighbours came in, and nearly fell over us in the dark. Finding the parlour (which had but one door) most insupportably warm, I took my seat in the entry, a narrow passage which Mrs. Netherby called the hall. Thither I was followed by Mrs. Pownsey, a lady of the Malaprop school, who had been talking to me all the evening of her daughters, Mary Margaret and Sarah Susan, they being now on a visit to an aunt in Connecticut. These young ladies had been educated, as their mother informed me, entirely by herself, on a plan of her own: and, as she assured me, with complete success; for Sarah Susan, the youngest, though only ten years old, was already regarded as quite a phinnominy (phenomenon), and as to Mary Margaret, she was an absolute prodigal.

"I teach them everything myself," said she, "except their French, and music, and drawing, in all which they take lessons from the first masters. And Mr. Bullhead, an English gentleman, comes twice a week to attend to their reading and writing and arithmetic, and the grammar of geography. They never have a moment to themselves, but are kept busy from morning till night. You know that idleness is the root of all evil."

"It is certainly the root of much evil," I replied; "but you know the old adage, which will apply equally to both sexes—'All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.'"

"Oh! they often play," resumed Mrs. Pownsey. "In the evening, after they have learned their lessons, they have games of history, and botany, and mathematics, and all such instructive diversions. I allow them no other plays. Their minds certainly are well stored with all the arts and science. At the same time, as I wish them to acquire a sufficient idea of what is going on in the world, I permit them every day to read over the Marianne List in our New York paper, the Chimerical Advertiser, that they may have a proper knowledge of ships: and also Mr. Walsh's Experts in his Gazette; though I believe he does not write these little moral things himself, but hires Mr. Addison, and Mr. Bacon, and Mr. Locke, and other such gentlemen for the purpose. The Daily Chronicle I never allow them to touch, for there is almost always a story in every paper, and none of these stories are warranted to be true, and reading falsehoods will learn them to tell fibs."

I was much amused with this process of reasoning, though I had more than once heard such logic on the subject of fictitious narratives.

"But, surely, Mrs. Pownsey," said I, "you do not interdict all works of imagination? Do you never permit your daughters to read for amusement?"

"Never," replied this wisest of mothers; "amusement is the high-road to vice. Indeed, with all their numerous studies, they have little or no time for reading anything. And when they have, I watch well that they shall read only books of instruction, such as Mr. Bullhead chooses for them. They are now at Rowland's Ancient History (I am told he is not the same Rowland that makes the Maccassar oil), and they have already got through seven volumes. Their Aunt Watson (who, between ourselves, is rather a weak-minded woman) is shocked at the children reading that book, and says it is filled with crimes and horrors. But so is all the Ancient History that ever I heard of, and of course it is proper that little girls should know these things. They will get a great deal more benefit from Rowland than from reading Miss Edgeworth's story-books, that sister Watson is always recommending."

"Have they ever read the history of their own country?" said I.

"I suppose you mean the History of America," replied Mrs. Pownsey. "Oh! that is of no consequence at all, and Mr. Bullhead says it is never read in England. After they have got through Rowland, they are going to begin Sully's Memoirs. I know Mr. Sully very well; and when they have read it, I will make the girls tell me his whole history; he painted my portrait, and a most delightful man he is, only rather obstinate; for with all I could say, I could not prevail on him to rub out the white spots that he foolishly put in the black part of my eyes. And he also persisted in making one side of my nose darker than the other. It is strange that in these things painters will always take their own course in spite of us, as if we that pay for the pictures have not a right to direct them as we please. But the artist people are all alike. My friend, Mrs. Oakface, tells me she had just the same trouble with Mr. Neagle; in that respect he's quite as bad as Mr. Sully."

She paused a moment to take breath, and then proceeded in continuation of the subject. "Now we talk of pictures, you have no idea what beautiful things my daughters can paint. The very first quarter they each produced two pieces to frame. And Mary Margaret is such a capital judge of these things, that whenever she is looking at a new souvenir, her first thought is to see who did the pictures, that she may know which to praise and which not. There are a great many artists now, but I remember the time when almost all the pictures were done by Mr. Sculp and Mr. Pinx. And then as to music! I wish you could hear my daughters. Their execution is wonderful. They can play crotchets quite as well as quivers; and they sing sollos, and dooets, and tryos, and quartetties equal to the Musical Fund. I long for the time when they are old enough to come out. I will go with them everywhere myself; I am determined to be their perpetual shabberoon."

So much for the lady that educated her daughters herself.

And still, when the mother is capable and judicious, I know no system of education that is likely to be attended with more complete success than that which keeps the child under the immediate superintendence of those who are naturally the most interested in her improvement and welfare; and which removes her from the contagion of bad example, and the danger of forming improper or unprofitable acquaintances. Some of the finest female minds I have ever known received all their cultivation at home. But much, indeed, are those children to be commiserated, whose education has been undertaken by a vain and ignorant parent.

About nine o'clock, Mrs. Netherby had begun to talk of the lateness of the hour, giving hints that it was time to think of retiring for the night, and calling Bingham to shut up the house: which order he did not see proper to obey till half-past ten. I then (after much delay and difficulty in obtaining a bed-candle) adjourned to my own apartment, the evening having appeared to me of almost interminable length, as is generally the case with evenings that are passed without light.

The night was warm, and after removing the chimney-board, I left the sash of my window open: though I had been cautioned not to do so, and told that in the country the night air was always unwholesome. But I remembered Dr. Franklin's essay on the art of sleeping well. It was long before I closed my eyes, as the heat was intense, and my bed very uncomfortable. The bolster and pillow were nearly flat for want of sufficient feathers, and the sheets of thick muslin were neither long enough nor wide enough. At "the witching time of night," I was suddenly awakened by a most terrible shrieking and bouncing in my room, and evidently close upon me. I started up in a fright, and soon ascertained the presence of two huge cats, who, having commenced a duel on the trellis of an old blighted grape-vine that unfortunately ran under the back windows, had sprung in at the open sash, and were finishing the fight on my bed, biting and scratching each other in a style that an old backwoodsman would have recognised as the true rough and tumble.

With great difficulty I succeeded in expelling my fiendish visiters, and to prevent their return, there was nothing to be done but to close the sash. There were no shutters, and the only screen was a scanty muslin curtain, divided down the middle with so wide a gap that it was impossible to close it effectually. The air being now excluded, the heat was so intolerable as to prevent me from sleeping, and the cats remained on the trellis, looking in at the window with their glaring eyes, yelling and scratching at the glass, and trying to get in after some mice that were beginning to course about the floor.

The heat, the cats and the mice, kept me awake till near morning; and I fell asleep about daylight, when I dreamed that a large cat stood at my bed-side, and slowly and gradually swelling to the size of a tiger, darted its long claws into my throat. Of course, I again woke in a fright, and regretted my own large room in the city, where there was no trellis under my windows, and where the sashes were made to slide down at the top.

I rose early with the intention of taking a walk, as was my custom when in town, but the grass was covered with dew, and the road was ankle-deep in dust. So I contented myself with making a few circuits round the garden, where I saw four altheas, one rose-tree, and two currant-bushes, with a few common flowers on each side of a grass-grown gravel walk; neither the landlord nor the tenant being willing to incur any further expense by improving the domain. The grape-vine and trellis had been erected by a former occupant, a Frenchman, who had golden visions of wine-making.

At breakfast, we were regaled with muddy water, miscalled coffee; a small dish of doubtful eggs; and another of sliced cucumbers, very yellow and swimming in sweetish vinegar; also two plates containing round white lumps of heavy half-baked dough, dignified by the title of Maryland biscuit; and one of dry toast, the crumb left nearly white, and the crust burnt to a coal.

After breakfast, there came walking into the room a tame white pigeon, which Mrs. Netherby told us was a turtle-dove. "Dear sweet Phebe," she exclaimed, taking up the bird and fondling it, "has it come for its breakfast; well, then, kiss its own mistress, and it shall have some nice soft bread."

The pigeon was then handed round to be admired (it was really a pretty one), and Mrs. Netherby told us a long story of its coming to the house in the early part of the summer with its mate, who was soon after killed by lightning in consequence of sitting on the roof close by the conductor during a thunderstorm, and she was very eloquent and sentimental in describing the manner in which Phebe had mourned for her deceased companion, declaring that the widowed dove often reminded her of herself after she had lost poor dear Mr. Netherby.

Our hostess then crumbled some bread on the floor, and placed near it a saucer of water, and she rose greatly in my estimation when I observed the fixed look of delight with which she gazed on the pet-bird, and her evident fondness as she caressed it, and carried it out of the room, after it had finished its repast. "Notwithstanding her parsimony and her pretension," thought I, "Mrs. Netherby has certainly a good heart."

I went to my own room, and could easily have beguiled the morning with my usual occupations, but that I was much incommoded by the intense heat of my little apartment, whose thin walls were completely penetrated by the sun. Also, I was greatly annoyed by the noise of the children in the next room and on the staircase. It was not the joyous exhilaration of play, or the shouts and laughter of good-humoured romping (all that I could easily have borne); but I heard only an incessant quarrelling, fighting, and screaming, which was generally made worse by the interference of the mother whenever she attempted to silence it.

Shortly before dinner, the bound-girl came up and went the rounds of all the chambers to collect the tumblers from the washing-stands, which tumblers were made to perform double duty by figuring also on the dining-table. This would have been no great inconvenience, only that no one remembered to bring them back again, and the glasses were not restored to our rooms till after repeated applications.

The dinner consisted of very salt fried ham; and a pair of skeleton chickens, with a small black-looking leg of mutton; and a few half-drained vegetables, set about on little plates with a puddle of greasy water in the bottom of each. However, as we were in the country, there was a pitcher of milk for those that chose to drink milk at dinner. For the dessert we had half a dozen tasteless custards, the tops burnt, and the cups half-full of whey, a plate of hard green pears, another of hard green apples, and a small whitish watermelon.

"What a fine thing it is to be in the country," said Mrs. Netherby, "and have such abundance of delicious fruit! I can purchase every variety from my next neighbour."

The truth is, that even where there is really an inclination to furnish a good table, there is generally much difficulty and inconvenience in procuring the requisite articles at any country place that is not absolutely a farm, and where the arrangements are not on an extensive scale. Mrs. Netherby, however, made no apology for any deficiency, but always went on with smiling composure, praising everything on the table, and wondering how people could think of remaining in the city when they might pass the summer in the country. As the gentlemen ate their meals in town (a proof of their wisdom), ours were very irregular as to time; Mrs. Netherby supposing that it could make no difference to ladies, or to any persons who had not business that required punctual attention.

Two days after my arrival, the dust having been laid by a shower, Mrs. Pownsey and myself set out to walk on the road, in the latter part of the afternoon. When we came home, I found that the washing-stand had been removed from my room, and the basin and pitcher placed in the corner on a little triangular shelf that had formerly held a flower-pot. The mirror was also gone, and I found as a substitute a little half-dollar Dutch glass in a narrow red frame. The two best chairs were also missing, one chair only being left, and that a broken one; and a heavy patch-work quilt had taken the place of the white dimity bed-cover. I learnt that these articles had been abstracted to furnish a chamber that was as yet disengaged, and which they were to decorate by way of enticing a new-comer. Next morning, after my room had been put in order, I perceived that the mattrass had been exchanged for a feather-bed, and on inquiring the reason of Mrs. Netherby she told me, with much sweetness, that it had been taken for two southern ladies that were expected in the afternoon, and who, being southern, could not possibly sleep on anything but a mattrass, and that she was sorry to cause me any inconvenience, but it would be a great disadvantage to her if they declined coming.

In short, almost every day something disappeared from my room to assist in fitting up apartments for strangers; the same articles being afterwards transferred to others that were still unoccupied. But what else was to be done, when Mrs. Netherby mildly represented the impossibility of getting things at a short notice from town?

My time passed very monotonously. The stock of books I had brought with me was too soon exhausted, and I had no sewing of sufficient importance to interest my attention. The nonsense of Mrs. Pownsey became very tiresome, and the other ladies were mere automatons. The children were taken sick (as children generally are at country lodgings), and fretted and cried all the time. I longed for the society of my friends in the city, and for the unceremonious visits that are so pleasant in summer evenings.

After a trial of two weeks, during which I vainly hoped that custom would reconcile me to much that had annoyed me at first, I determined to return to Philadelphia; in the full persuasion that this would be my last essay at boarding out of town.

On the day before my departure, we were all attracted to the front-garden, to see a company of city volunteers, who were marching to a certain field where they were to practise shooting at a target. While we were lingering to catch the last glimpse of them as long as they remained in sight, the cook came to Mrs. Netherby (who was affectedly smelling the leaves of a dusty geranium), and informed her that though she had collected all the cold meat in the house, there was still not enough to fill the pie that was to be a part of the dinner.[85] "Oh! then," replied Mrs. Netherby, with perfect sang-froid, and in her usual soft voice, "put Phebe on the top of it—put Phebe on the top." "Do you mean," said the cook, "that I am to kill the pigeon to help out with?" "Certainly," rejoined Mrs. Netherby, "put Phebe in the pie."

There was a general exclamation from all present, except from the automaton young lady and her mamma; and the children who were looking out of the front windows were loud in lamentations for the poor pigeon, who, in truth, had constituted their only innocent amusement. For my part, I could not forbear openly expressing my surprise that Mrs. Netherby should think for a moment of devoting her pet pigeon to such a purpose, and I earnestly deprecated its impending fate.

Mrs. Netherby reddened, and forgetting her usual mildness, her eyes assumed a very cat-like expression as she replied to me in a loud sharp voice. "Upon my word, miss, this is very strange. Really, you astonish me. This is something quite new. I am not at all accustomed to having the ladies of my family to meddle in my private affairs. Really, miss, it is excessively odd that you should presume to dictate to me about the disposal of my own property. I have some exquisite veal-cutlets and some delicious calves-feet, but the pie is wanted for a centre dish. I am always, as you know, particular in giving my table a handsome set-out."

In vain we protested our willingness to dine without the centre dish, rather than the pigeon, whom we regarded in the light of an intimate acquaintance, should be killed to furnish it, all declaring that nothing could induce us to taste a mouthful of poor Phebe. Mrs. Netherby, obstinately bent on carrying her point (as is generally the case with women who profess an extra portion of sweetness), heard us unmoved, only replying, "Certainly, miss, you cannot deny that the bird is mine, and that I have a right to do as I please with my own property. Phillis, put Phebe in the pie!"

The cook grinned, and stood irresolute; when suddenly Bingham the waiter stepped up with Phebe in his hands, and calling to a black boy of his acquaintance, who lived in the neighbourhood, and was passing at the moment: "Here, Harrison," said he, "are you going to town?" "Yes," replied the boy, "I am going there of an errand." "Then take this here pigeon with you," said Bingham, "and give it as a gift from me to your sister Louisa. You need not tell her to take good care of it. I know she'll affection it for my sake. There, take it, and run." So saying, he handed the pigeon over the fence to the boy, who ran off with it immediately, and Bingham coolly returned to the kitchen, whistling as he went.

"Well, if I ever saw the like!" exclaimed Mrs. Netherby. "But Bingham will always have his way; he's really a strange fellow." Then, looking foolish and subdued, she walked into the house. I could not help laughing, and was glad that the life of the poor pigeon had been saved on any terms, though sorry to find that Mrs. Netherby, after all, had not the redeeming quality I ascribed to her.

To conclude,—I have no doubt that summer establishments may be found which are in many respects more agreeable than the one I have attempted to describe. But it has not been my good fortune, or that of my friends who have adopted this plan of getting through the warm weather, to meet with any country lodgings (of course, I have no reference to decided farm-houses), in which the comparison was not decidedly in favour of the superior advantages of remaining in a commodious mansion in the city, surrounded with the comforts of home, and "with all the appliances, and means to boot," which only a large town can furnish.

---

CONSTANCE ALLERTON;