to my wild imaginations, in case the heroines of the pony chaise were unworthy of leading me into danger.

"To be sure he knowed them ladies!" was his reply to my cross-examination. "There

varnt better nor kinder ladies in the willage. Nobody but 'ud go through fire and vater for 'em.-Yes! they vas sisters, one on 'em married -one on 'em single: couldn't say vhich was vhich. They vas Vestingines. Mr. Greysdale the 'usband was away and expected back; and they lived quiet and retired, and seed no company during his absence."

This was dreadfully satisfactory! I began to suspect that the anaconda near the bread-fruit tree must be a prototype of myself; and Saladin evidently thought so too,-for five minutes afterwards, I was ringing at the gate of the Cottage.

ALEXANDER, my fine fellow!-in spite of thy adnomen of GREAT, thou wast a man of little mind, who couldst despond after new worlds

to conquer; as if it were necessary for the planets to be whirled out of their spheres to accomplish such a mystery!-Why the world is full of new worlds!-In the way of difficulties to be overcome, every next street contains the embryo of a Conquest of Persia; while almost every park paling surrounds the germ of a romance, such as would put Pyramus and Thisbe, or Romeo and Juliet, out of countenance. -Be it observed, by the way, en passunt, that the last century and the present have failed to add a single classical couple to the muster roll of Cupid. Among wrong people, I believe, St. Preux and Julie are sometimes quoted; and to my thinking, Scott's Master of Ravenswood and Lucy Ashton are worth all the Petrarchs and Lauras that ever were tied together in poetical true lover's knots. But I doubt whether even these will receive legitimate Paphian Canonization. If any worthy pairs, therefore, have pretensions to this species of immortality,

and purpose applying to the Dunmow of

Cyprus,

Cuneti adsint, meritæque exspectent præmiæ palmæ !

Such vagaries as these however, were not passing through my mind while waiting at the cottage gate that my card might be taken into Mrs. Greysdale.-I was merely guessing whether that matronly title belonged by right to Annie or Soph; for worlds depended to me upon the solution of the enigma.

Impossible to determine! Annie was alone. when I entered: and offered me her hand so cordially, that I was too much flattered to notice whether she alluded to her sister's absence as to that of the lady of the house, or merely as regretting that "Soph" would lose the pleasure of my visit. The next minute, I was too much charmed to find myself seated in a lounging chair not half a yard from her work-table, to trouble myself further about the matter.

It is only boys who adore the belle of the ball room those who have attained years of

discretion abhor the meretricious delusions of

white satin and blonde lace.

To the eyes of all men worthy the name, a woman never looks more charming than in the disarray of a morning visit; her dress simpleher cheeks unheated,-her manner easy.-She is then, herself.-No false excitement, no vain coquetry. How much more indicative of the wife, the gentle companion, the fireside friend, than when fluttering through the mazes of a waltz with roving eye and moistened skin, a mark for the audacity of the unprincipled, and the pity of the wise.

This really was passing through my mind, as I watched the taper fingers of Annie manœuvring her needle now under, now over, the white canvas of her delicate little tapestry frame; ever and anon stopping short in her work, and throwing back her curls which had fallen forward while stooping over her work, as she looked smilingly in my face, to answer some question, or propose another.

She placed me at my ease at once, by showing me that I was no obstacle to her occupations; yet not too much at my ease, by giving me reason to suppose my presence an absorbing interest,-dividing her attention pretty equitably betwixt me and her lambswools.

I never saw a sweeter countenance,—a face of so fine an oval,—or curls more soft and glossy. People incurious in human physiognomy, think it a fine thing to assert that nature has but a single mould for peer and peasantthe duchess and her waiting-woman. Right, perhaps, as far as Nature is concerned! But Art, her hand-maiden, is a mighty disfigurer of her performances; and let any one whose time is passed exclusively in royal circles, where every feature is trained and every expression calculated, turn for a second to some kind fair guileless visage, whose conciliations are instinctive, and which exercises without shame its smiles and tears, because they are nature's indications of sensibility, as much as our eyes