hint that a partner at a ball often became a partner for life;-nor was her corpulent mother omitted, who carried vanity so far as even to affect a slight degree of palsy, that the motion of her head might give a more dazzling lustre to the magnificent diamonds with which it was thickly studded. I see her now, at her old place in the card-room, shaking and sparkling like an aspen-tree in the sunshine of a white frost. I behold, also, the bustling little old man, her father, receiving the tickets of admission in all the pomp of office, with his snuff-coloured suit, and the powdered and pomatumed peak coming to a point in the centre of his bald head. I hear him boasting, at the same time, of his wealth and his drudgery, and declaring that, with all the hundreds he had spent upon his hothouses and plantations at Hackney, he had never seen them except by candle-light. As for the daughter, thank Heaven, I never danced with her but once; and my mind's eye still beholds her webby feet paddling down the middle, with the floundering porpus-like fling she gave at the end, only accomplished by bearing half her weight upon her partner, and invariably out of tune. Often have I wondered at the patience of the musicians, in wasting rosin and catgut upon her timeless sprawls. She was obtuse in all her perceptions, and essentially vulgar in appearance: in the consciousness of her wealth she sometimes strove to look haughty, but her features obstinately refused to assume any expression beyond that of inflexible stupidity. She was too opulent, according to the sapient calculations of the world, to marry any but a rich

man; and she succeeded, at length, in realizing her most ambitious dreams. Her husband is a yellow little nabob, rolling in wealth, and half suffocated with bile. She has three rickety children, whom she is ashamed to produce. With no more ear than a fish, she has a box at the Opera, and gives private concerts. In short, there is no luxury she is incapable of relishing, which her fortune does not enable her to command; and no enjoyment really adapted to her taste, in which her imagined gentility does not deter her from indulging.

What a contrast was the accomplished, the fascinating Fanny with her lovely features irradiated with innocent hilarity, yet tempered with sentiment and deep feeling. She was all intelligence— spiritual-ethereal; at least, I often thought so, as her sylph-like form seemed to be treading upon air, while it responded spontaneously to every pulsation of the music, like a dancing echo. In the romance of a first love, one who thought it would be delightful to die for her sent her the inclosed song, but she never noticed the effusion, though she never returned it. Poor Fanny! she fell a sacrifice to one of those pests of society, a dangler, a male coquet; who paid her his addresses, won her affections, changed his mind, and married another-the scoundrel! Her pride might have borne the insult, but her love could not be recalled-her heart was broken. Her fine mind began to prey upon itself—the sword wore out the scabbard-her frame gradually faded away, and a rapid decline at length released her from her uncom

plaining misery. Many a vow have I made to suppress my unavailing grief, and refrain from visiting the place of her burial; when, in the very midst of my resolutions, my feet have unconsciously carried me to it again. Most truly might I have exclaimed with Tibullus,

"Juravi quoties rediturum ad limina nunquam ?
Cùm bene juravi, pes tamen ipse redit."

SONG. TO FANNY.

When morning through my lattice beams,
And twittering birds my slumbers break,
Then, Fanny, I recall my dreams,

Although they bid my bosom ache,

For still I dream of thee.

When wit, and wine, and friends are met,
And laughter crowns the festive hour,
In vain I struggle to forget;

Still does my heart confess thy power,

And fondly turn to thee.

When night is near, and friends are far,

I

And, through the tree that shades my cot

gaze upon the evening star,

How do I mourn my lonely lot,

And, Fanny, sigh for thee!

I know my love is hopeless-vain,
But, Fanny, do not strive to rob
My heart of all that soothes its pain-
The mournful hope, that every throb

Will make it break for thee!

ON AN INFANT SMILING AS IT AWOKE.

AFTER the sleep of night, as some still lake
Displays the cloudless Heavens in reflection,
And, dimpled by the breezes, seems to break
Into a waking smile of recollection,

As if from its calm depths the morning light
Call'd up the pleasant dreams that gladden'd night:-

So does the azure of those laughing eyes

Reflect a mental Heaven of thine own; In that illumined smile I recognize

The sunlight of a sphere to us unknown ; Thou hast been dreaming of some previous bliss In other worlds, for thou art new to this.

Hast thou been wafted to Elysian bowers,

In some blest star where thou hast pre-existed;
Inhaled th' ecstatic fragrancy of flowers

Around the golden harps of Seraphs twisted,
Or heard those nightingales of Paradise
Pour thrilling songs and choral harmonies?

Perchance all breathing life is but an essence
From the great Fountain Spirit in the sky,
And thou hast dreamt of that transcendant presence
Whence thou hast fall'n, a dew-drop from on high,
Destined to lose, as thou shalt mix with earth,
Those bright recallings of thy heavenly birth.

We deem thy mortal memory not begun,—
But hast thou no remembrance of the past-
No lingering twilight of a former sun,

Which o'er thy slumbering faculties hath cast
Shadows of unimaginable things,

Too high or deep for human fathomings?

Perchance, while reason's earliest flush is brightening
Athwart thy brain, celestial sights are given ;
As skies that open to let out the lightning

Disclose a transitory glimpse of Heaven;
And thou art wrapt in visions, all too bright
For aught but Cherubim, and Infant's sight.
Emblem of heavenly purity and bliss—

Mysterious type which none can understand,
Let me with reverence approach, to kiss

Limbs lately touch'd by the Creator's hand :-
So awful art thou, that I feel more prone
To claim thy blessing than bestow mine own.

ENGLISH GENEALOGY.-SUNDAY.

"I am no herald to enquire of men's pedigrees; it sufficeth me if I know their virtues."

SIDNEY.

"Sunday must needs be an excellent institution, since the very breaking of it is the support of half the villages round town." BONNEL THORNTON.

If it were possible to trace back the current of an Englishman's blood to its early fountains, what a strange compound would the mass present! What a confusion and intermingling of subsidiary streams from the Britons, Romans, Danes, Saxons, and Normans; amalgamating with minor contributions from undiscoverable sources, mocking the chemist's power to analyse, and almost bewildering imagination to conceive! Being myself "no tenth transmitter of a foolish face," I have sometimes maliciously wished