swollen eyes were more eloquent than words: they spoke forcibly to the heart of Florien, and staggered his resolutions. Yet Thérèse was young, volatile, and lovely; he had not been her first lover, and would not be the last. This reflection lessened the agony of Florien, and, with averted eyes, he bade her adieu for ever. At the first onset of his journey he was sad, but as he drew nearer home, he became more composed. Who does not forget the whole world in contemplating the scenes of infant pleasure? Thérèse's love, her father's anger, all faded from his mind; in imagination he already heard the voices of his mother and Ernestiné welcoming their wanderer home. He recalled with delight the simple manners of his countrymen, so different from those of the polished city he had quitted. In the scene of gaiety and pleasure in which he had of late been engaged, his own had attained much of their refinement, but it was at the expense of that purity of heart which he possessed when he left home. It was not without a sigh that he thought on the change which so short a period had made in his mind, and he inwardly cursed the hour when he first entered the world of dissipation and folly. With these reflections he arrived at a little village, two days' journey from Sonnemburg. The day was fast declining, and he resolved to pass the night there. After having taken some refreshment, he quitted the inn, and strolled out into the village. It was the FIRST OF MAY, every thing seemed to denote peace and innocence, and the whole scene harmonized with his feelings.

[To be concluded in our next.]

SKETCHES OF SOCIETY.

No. VII.

the sequel proves it. We are both single: the difference is, you are the builder of your own happiness, while I--but no matter; I will not spoil your relish for a dinner by a lunch.

that

You remember, about 178-, you were called by pressing business into Scotland. I scarcely knew what to do without you. No delightful port-wineand olive duets; no bosom-friend to talk to over our "kidneys and Burton;" no nothing. I verily believe that I should have committed suicide, or,-what's far worse,-matrimony, had I continued so much longer. I walked about the inns, like a body withont a soul-like a male Dido, whose Æneas would not come,-or like Barrister B, with nothing to do. But at length I had something to occupy my thoughts-no less than the management of a cause in behalf of an injured husband who sought to obtain a divorce from a faithless wife. I did all I could for him, though I thought he deserved his fate, and by a most eloquent address to the Court, gained my client his freedom. He thanked me (and what was better, paid me)--" I was his deliverer; I mght command his purse, &c. &c."

Well, my job was finished (and a precious job it was to speak on behalf of a man who commits matrimony), and all that remained for me to do was to wait upon the faithless one about some little settlements concerning marriage portion, &c. at Hammersmith. I dreaded the interview as I would a meeting with a scorpion. I had never seen the defendant. Ĭ had often looked on women that I suspected to be

CHAPTER FROM THE LIFE OF A BACHELOR."no better than they should be;" in fact I seldom saw

one of the sex without the idea coming in my mind.
But here was one of acknowledged frailty; and I
was to meet her to talk to her-I! don't you pity
me, Dick? But, however unpleasant the task, it must
morning, about 10, I got into the Hammersmith coach.
be done; so, one splendid "London original" foggy
I needn't tell you what coaches were forty years ago.
much the same thing in these days) of Omnibi-what
Oh, Shillibeer! thou talented inventor (or adaptor-
does not London owe to thee?

Who was it taught the Cockney's mind
To deem "far"-" near?"
To travel faster than the wind?
Who was it?-Shillibeer!
Who was it lessened coachmen's fees
Before so dear?

And sixpence charged for two miles' ease?
Who was it?-Shillibeer!

You remember our having chambers together in Lincoln's Inn? Yes--I know you do. It was (egad! it seems but yesterday!) nearly forty years ago. Ah! Dick, we were wild dogs-but you were the worst ; deny it not, or I will use the power of Shakespeare's witches, and summon before you a long line of black and blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked damsels. I think Shakespeare's procession ends with a child-cannot I carry How different was the vehicle into which I stepped the simile even thus far? There, spare your blushes: on the morning in question! It was miserable in the I never tell tales out of school. As I said, we were extreme! The unshapeable and unshaped leathern wild dogs. I wonder whether the poor watchman box in which I was deposited was completely satuhas yet been "gathered to his fathers," whom we rated with the liquid smoke that formed the atmostransported, box and all, from his post to the Hamps-phere of this healthy spot. However, I threw myself stead-fields, and there upset him into a ditch. And back on the seat, and wrapped comfortably in my then, Dick, your pretty cousin, Meg Lindsey-ah, great-coat, defied the fog which entered in at the illthat was a desperate conflict for you. You had to joined pane, and began to consider how I should oppose a dark pair of laughing eyes, rosy lips, and communicate my purpose to the object of my journey, a perfect little figure, together with sundry plots laid when I was almost sent on my face by the coach by Harry Careless and myself to make you a Bene-stopping, and put "quite in a twitter" by the sound dict. But it would'nt do. "A man that's born to of a female voice of unusual sweetness. be hanged will never be drowned," they say; and, "Have you any room inside, Coachman ?" by the same rule, I suppose that a man who is des- Plenty, Ma'am-gee-who! Hammersmith, tined to drink his bottle of claret after dinner, single, at 60, will never be married. You resisted--I don't believe that I could have done so; I know I couldn't

Ma'am?"

"Set me down at the Linen-draper's, just at the commencement of the town."

The door was opened-the lady entered-"all | stant bickerings and misery. She bore it for some right"—and off we went. time patiently, till at length, insulted beyond bearing, she left the house, unknown to her brother, and came to London, where she doubted not she would be heartily welcomed by a school-friend, who had often solicited her to visit at her house. The circumstances, however, under which she now accepted the invitation seemed altogether to alter this welcome. She was received, it is true, but after remaining a week with her friend, and suffering many delicate hints that she might find another asylum, she had stated to her her intention of returning to her brother's, and had left

I should'nt have liked the addition, even if it had been a gentleman; but a lady-I wished her at Jericho. It's very odd, Dick, that people can't have one coach for male, and another for female passengers! Here I was, however, without hope of retreat, seated vis-a-vis to a woman--a pretty woman, as I had perceived by a chance (quite a chance) peep I got at her face as she entered the coach, so I endeavoured to be resigned.

"And where do you now purpose going?" "Alas! 'tis that makes me miserable-I am without money, and without a friend."

This was too much-I raised the fair hand, which

For some time we neither of us spoke, and I, wrap-them." ped up in the unpleasant commission I had to execute, had almost brought myself to forget that there was such a thing as a woman in the world, much more so very near me, when a deep sigh from my companion awoke me from my dream of bonds and settlements, contracts and divorce. You know, Dick, how ten-she had suffered me to retain all this while to my lips, der-hearted I was, (and still am) how much the creature of impulse! The moment before, I imagined her happy, and wished her at Jericho; now, her spirits seemed depressed, and I would have done any thing to have comforted her. I inquired in a tone of solicitude if she was well? Again she sighed— Yes, she thanked me, she was quite well."

I wasn't satisfied. I still pressed to know the source of her sorrow. I was confident that some sudden indisposition had attacked her. Would she like the window down?-should I stop the coach? My only answer was a violent flood of tears; and she covered her face with a snowy handkerchief held in one of the whitest and prettiest hands I ever saw. Now, I am naturally sympathetic, and though my tender feelings did not carry me so far as he of Norfolk, who "held an umbrella over a duck in a shower of rain," still I couldn't bear to see a woman in tears, We had hitherto been sitting opposite to each other; I instantly changed my position, and took up one by the side of the lovely mourner. She was sobbing almost convulsively. What could I do? I took her passive hand in mine, and pressing it tenderly, bade

her take comfort.

"Comfort!" she ejaculated, in broken accents, "where shall I find it? The ship-wrecked wretch may comfort himself with the hope of escaping his fate--the felon may find a temporary relief in the expectation of a respite-but I-I am too wretched for aught to comfort me but death!" and again she was interrupted by the briny flood.

I was quite upset--I pressed her hand, and solicited her confidence; I endeavoured to persuade her that sorrow loses a part of its sharpness by being imparted to another. At length succeeded, and, after many efforts, drew from her the following history of

herself:

“She was the daughter of a gentleman of independent property-(her name and residence she must conceal.) Her mother had died before she was of an age to know or feel the tender ties of nature; and, by the time she attained her 18th summer, her father wa called away, leaving her under the protection of a brother, about four years her senior. Nearly two years after the demise of her last parent, her brother introduced to her a gentleman of his acquaintance, in the light of a suitor, but of most repulsive manners and person. She had refused him her hand, and, in consequence, her home had been made a scene of con

and imprinted divers very unbachelor-like kisses upon it-vowing that I would never see her want--(I verily believe, Dick, I said something about a ring)– mise to meet me that evening in Kensington Gardens. and ended this farago of nonsense by making her proThe coach now stopped before the Bull Inn, Hammersmith, and I took a tender leave of my inamorataau revoir—and entered the parlour to take a little refreshment previous to fulfilling my commission with the faithless object of my journey.

"Mrs. N. at home?"

*

I was shown into the back room, and the servant went to acquaint the lady of my presence. While I was screwing up my courage to enable me to meet this (necessarily) awful woman, I heard the following conversation pass in the next room :

"Can you go to the opera to-night, my love?" said a female voice.

"I thank you," replied another of the same sexthe voice went to my heart--"I thank you, but I intend taking an airing this evening in Kensington

Gardens."

They were here interrupted by the servant opening the door, to acquaint them with my presence. I now mustered all my courage to "the sticking-point,” when the door opened, and-

*

Oh, Dick! don't you pity my situation? You can't as much as it deserves, for you've never been so placed yourself. How shall I tell you? but it must the Court of King's Bench, was the very lady who had so fairly tricked me with her pitiable story in the Hammersmith Coach! I don't know how I got out of the house; but when I recovered my recollection, I found myself seated outside (no more insides for me, Dick !) of a coach, on my return to London!!

out. The faithless divorced wife--the defendant in

THE END OF THE FESTIVAL.
The Dance is over, and the guests are gone,
The wearied Hostess walks the room alone!
The mirth is ended, and the music fled,
And languid Beauty droops the dizzy head!
She, who was lightest in the mazy dance,
Whose eyes enkindled many an ardent glance,
Now on her couch, supine and listless thrown,
Acts o'er again in dreams the moments gone!
Such is the end of Pleasure here below!
So brief and transient are the joys we know!

The above-quoted authority proves that the Coquette is of the butterfly species, for, when deprived of its ephemeral blandishments, it appears in its pristine deformity. The insect is of French origin, and although abundant quantities of the animal exist in this country, retains its Gallic cognomen. The only literal translation of its name into English is rendered in the word "Man-trap."

The education of the Coquette is usually derived from boarding-schools, and its sentiment from songbooks. It learns precepts of morality from novels, and examples of virtue from waiting-maids; and the only evidence it shows of possessing the of reapower soning is the ingenuity with which it special-pleads out of broken vows. If it have a heart, that is like the Public Ledger, "open to all parties and influenced by none."

At Church it ogles under smart bonnets, and attracts general attention from its gaudy attire, while, at the theatre, it becomes the focus of every opera-glass, on account of its levity.

This insect is carniverous, feeding upon the human heart as spiders do upon flies. It spreads the net of insinuation and encouragement, inveigles its victim into the web, and makes a boast and glory of the agonies it may cause.

Its ideas are singularly confused about the monosyllables "Yes," and "No," frequently substituting the one for the other, so that it looses all chances of matrimony, and it is to be anticipated that to this fact and the general contempt into which the race is gradually falling, the Coquette population will decrease in a Malthusian ratio.

66

Maids and Widows! if you wish to arrive at that consummation devoutly to be wished," good husbands, eschew coquetry; and ye, O! Wives, who have already got them, be not Coquettes lest they flee from ye!

ORIGINAL POETRY.
Written expressly for this Work.
THE VIRGIN AND CHILD.
A CHRISMMAS HYMN.

BY MRS. CORNWELL BARON WILSON.

Holy Mother! meekly bending
O'er the infant Saviour-King!
While hosannas, high ascending,
Hailed Salvation's mighty spring!
As thou watched the cradle-manger,
Where an helpless Babe he lay;
Spared no pang,-to nought a stranger,-
Common to the Sons of clay;
Did'st thou share a Mother's feelings,
Pond'ring what thy Child would be?
Or, did Heav'n, in high revealings,
Shadow forth his destiny?

Did'st thou, when the Magi brought him
Fair Arabia's spices sweet,
See the future groups that sought him,
Laying homage at his feet ? °

87

i

Did'st thou mark the "Man of sorrow,"
Laden with a Nation's crime?

Did thine eye, prophetic, borrow
Light to pierce the veil of Time?

Did'st thou, when his own betrayed him,
Hear his vexed spirit spirit pray,
(Nature's bitter conflict made him,)
That such cup might pass away?"
Did'st thou see his brow of anguish,

When the blood-drops trickled down?
Did'st thou view him faint and languish
'Neath the scourge and thorny crown?
Did'st thou trace the wond'rous story
With a Prophet's searching eye?
See the Lord of life and glory
Meekly live-and humbly die?
Yes! all-all that bosom treasur'd,
Which his infant cries had stilled;
Till its fulness Time had measur'd,
And each type had been fulfill'd!
THEN, unveiled, the World beheld him
Triumph o'er the gloomy Grave;
Owning love divine impell'd Him
Thus, Man's guilty race to save!

EPISTLE

FROM A DANDY ON THE PAVE IN LONDON TO A MORE
FORTUNATE FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

BY G. S. D. B. D. ESQ.

Your gay Country Houses, dear Tom, are the thing,
When in Town we have scarcely a friend or relation;
When every one's gone, or at least on the wing;
But Christmas is come-and I've no invitation!
Envelop'd in fogs, as well as my cloak,

I am sure you will pity my sad situation,

I hurry to White's, read the papers, and croak,
For Christmas is come, and I've no invitation!
Your shooting gives me shooting pains in my head,
And oh! how I envy your evening flirtation;
My departure of course in the Post you have read,
But Christmas is come, and I've no invitation!
A Dowager dinner or so, at the best,

Is all I can get what a state of starvation!
Old women I always have voted a pest;

But Christmas is come, and I've no invitation !
I've been asked to the Play, by way of a blind,
When Mamma in her head has some nice speculation;
You must own, my dear fellow, the world is unkind,
For Christmas is come, and I've no invitation !
One morning a letter arrived; and I thought,
Well! at last for my grief here's indemnification ;
But 'twas only about a few things to be bought-
So Christmas is come, and I've no invitation!
Last ev'ning, when thinking had made me get ill,
A billet doux came-ah! some kind assignation!

I opened and found my Tailors old Bill,
Which each Christmas appears, but--without invitation!

I used to be fêted, and never left out,
But my friends now are alter'd, as much as the nation;
I must beg of you, though, not to put it about
That Christmas is come, and I've no invitation'

CUPID'S TELEGRAPH.-If a gentleman wants a wife, he wears a ring of diamond on the first finger of the left hand; if he is engaged, he wears one on the second finger; if married, on the third; and on the fourth, if he never intends to be married. When a lady is not engaged, she wears a hoop or diamond on the first finger; if married, on the third; and on the fourth, if she intends to die a maiden. When a gentleman presents a flower, a fan, or a trinket to a lady with the left hand, it is on his hand an overture of regard; if she receives it by the left hand, it is an acceptance of his esteem; but if by the right hand, it is a refusal of the offer.

6. A pretty graceful ballad, very light, and the accom- appear. paniament easy.