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"How do you do?" inquired the merchant." Sick-ver sick," replied monsieur. "What's the matter ?""De times is de matter."

"Detimes? what disease is that ?"" De malaidie vat break all de marchants, ver much.

"Ah, the times, eh?-well, they are bad, very bad, sure enough; but how do they affect you ?" " Vy, monsieur, I lose de confidance."

"In whom?"- "In everybody."

"Not in me, I hope ?"-" Pardonnez moi, monsieur; but I do not know who to trust à present, when all de marchants break several times, all to pieces."

"Then I presume you want your money?" "Oui, monsieur, I starve for want of l'argent.'

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"Can't you do without it ?"-" No, monsieur, I must have him."

"You must ?""Oui, monsieur," said little dimity breeches, turning pale with apprehension for the safety of his money?

"And you can't do without it ?"--"No, monsieur, not von other leetle moment longare."

The merchant reached his bank bookdrew a check for the amount, and handed it to his visiter.

"Vat is dis, monsieur ?""A check for five thousand dollars, with the interest.”

"Is it bon ?" said the Frenchman with amazement.- "Certainly."

"Have you de l'argent in de bank?"— "Yes."

"And it is parfaitement convenient to pay de sum ?"

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JOTTINGS DOWN IN LONDON, 1839.
BY N. P. WILLIS,

Author of "Pencillings by the Way."
No. II.

Re

I WAS at Almack's on Wednesday. membering the former earliness of its hours, compared with other London balls, I lost my coffee at a most agreeable dinner party, to be there at eleven. No long queue of carriages in King street, no lines of footmen from perron to staircaise! I shewed my ticket, paid my half-guinea, mounted to the ante-room, and entered the blazing hall solitary as a ruin in Persepolis. I turned aside to the tea-room. The maids all stood silent behind their "black and green," and stretched out upon one of the red sofas, lay one unhappy French dandy, contemplating his patent leather shoe with the fixedness of a statue. I stepped up to the nearest table. "Black or green, sir?" said the maid. "Did you mean that emphasis upon the green," thought I.

I drank my tea, and re-entering the hall, was struck with its alteration since I had last seen it. The old fashioned and cracked blue relievos were replaced by gilding and mirrors, frescos, and painted wreaths, the orchestra had been embellished, and the long settees covered with a showy chintz. The candelabras against the walls seemed to have increased from hundreds to thousands, and the hall altogether appeared to have been made more worthy than it used to be, of the flowering-place of birth and beauty.

All at once, at a quarter to twelve, the carriages began to pour into King street, the let down steps rat-tat-tat-ed, the "all right" of the footman followed like the answers to a roll call, and up the broad staircase, in a long and steady procession, came the shawled and flowered advent of aristocratic girlhood.Five hundred belles, beaux, and chaperons entered the dazzling hall within fifteen minutes; and within twenty minutes from the hushed and complete desertion I have described, Weippert's band was pouring forth its intoxicating music, and the five hundred "brave and beautiful" whirling in the waltz.

I

Describing a ball is like describing a spot of green-sward, or a hand's breadth of sky on a starry night. How to get you behind me that you may see through my eyes.-My first thought at Almack's was to discover my old friends, those who had shone in my time, the newly "come outs" of four years ago. forgetfully looked for them in the waltz; under white roses-those who had buds in their hair-who could afford to dress with a severe simplicity. Scarce one to be seen! On the floor I had no acquaintances; but on the long banquettes, more gaily dressed-with full blown red flowers for the white buds, and with pearls, emeralds, and rouge for lilies of the valley, blue riband and blushes,-there

I found them, with their eyes upon younger and fairer likenesses of themselves; the sisters who had replaced them in the hollow of the waltzer's arm!-Growing old! Growing old!

I sat down by one of the most beautiful debutantes of 1835: a magnificent woman still; but the mother of three or four heirs and heiresses of a great fortune and great name-whom I never remembered to have seen sitting in a ball room before.

"Is it a good or a bad thing," I asked, "that there is no progression in one's memory of people ?" "How?"

"Why, I remember you slight as Psyche, in white muslin, and with a single japonica on your temple-never more dressed. For five years, up to this moment, that is my memory of Lady ! And here, in a single minute, I must replace this long familiar picture by a turban and diamonds; the slight form of dancing seventeen for

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This was not very flattering, but I was talking to a sensible woman, who was quite willing to speculate with me, either upon the changes in herself or others. I could not go on, however, without saying what would have seemed complimentary, for, as a young mother, she was of that style of beauty which is seldom seen out of England-the beauty of mature form in higher health and bloom even than in girlhood.

"How is it," she asked, "that all the young men come back from America so desperately in love? Are the American girls so much prettier than ours?"

It was a question for which I was prepared, for I had insensibly drawn a comparison between our ladies and those of England at every party and in every drive since my arrival. When I was in this country before, my comparisons were between the English and Continental women. Between these and ours the contrast was to my eye entirely

new.

The bust and neck of almost every lady within reach of our eyes, might have served as models for sculpture. From the zone to the chin of English women from seventeen to thirty, are almost invariably superb. We looked in vain for a hollow chest, or a bent back, or what is sometimes called a "threadpaper looking girl." The shoulders full, were dazzlingly fair, and of the healthiest tint of white, and the carriage of the whole bust graceful and stately. Within these limits I think (and my friend agreed with me) lie all the perfections of the English Venus.—We look at features. There was scarcely a classic forehead or nose in the room. At the feet: they were rather of useful than of ornamental proportion to the figure. At the grace of the dancers; you could not find in

all France so indifferent a dancer as the best at Almack's. At the complexion: ruddy and coarse, though for the best of reasons, that probably every lady on the floor had been on horseback for three or four hours every day in the season, exposed to the tender mercies of a riding hat, and such sun and wind as pleases the clerk of English weather.

We busied ourselves, composing a Venus from the national beauties. The French furnished the limbs and grace of movement, the Greeks and Asiatics the nose and forehead; the English, hair, throat, neck, and bust; the American, complexion, feet, and eyes. The mouth was still to be provided, but we agreed to share the honours of that feature between All this of course might be disputed on individual exceptions, but it is curious how nearly universal are these perfections to the nations to which we named them.

us.

In the course of the evening I found myself vis-a-vis in the quadrille to the Queen's most beautiful maid of honour. She is a daughter of Lord Rivers, rather tall, and combining a most majestic embonpoint of figure, with a slightness of limb, and a slenderness and stateliness of neck, seldom seen in such graceful proportion. To the three hundred pounds a year, which the maids of honour receive for dress, the queen, my partner informed me, has added another hundred, thinking the sum insufficient. You know, probably, that on their marriage they receive also a dowry of one thousand pounds. Then there are the ladies in waiting, who are of the highest rank of nobility, and the bedchamber women, who receive also three hun dred pounds a year, and are generally ladies of good birth in reduced circumstances. These all take their turns of service for two months together.

My pretty and noble informant gave me these household statistics very good naturedly, between pastorale and dos à dos, and she was closely connected with those who had the best opportunity of knowing. I asked her a question or two touching the personal qualities of her Majesty. She thought Victoria fancied herself very beautiful, "which she was not," and a very good horsewoman, "which she was not, decidedly;" and that she was very impatient of a difference of opinion when in private with her ladies. She admitted, however, that she was generous, forgiving, and "cleverer than most girls of her age.' When alone with two or three of her maids, she said the queen was "no more like a queen than any body else," and was very fond of a bit of fun or a bit of scandal, or any thing that would not have done if other people were present.' As far as it went, I should think this might be relied on as the impression her majesty makes upon those who daily associate with her.

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I made the round of the dowagers on the

back seats after a while, and heard the same complaints I had heard five years before of the deterioration of Almack's, and "what it was once," &c., &c.; the tune for ever harped upon by those who forget nothing of the past, and remember nothing of the present but the drawbacks. I saw the same rank present, however, the younger daughters of the same noble houses, and I was told that there was the same or more difficulty than ever in procuring tickets from the ladies patronnesses. So I conclude Almack's is what it was, in fashion, and it seems to my eye not "gone off" in beauty.

They have here a new quadrille called the Queen's favourite, which is sung by the band to castanets. It flies into one's heels, like Mercury.

The candles had long looked sickly, and the windows were like transparencies with the daylight coming through the linen curtains, long before the ball was over. I left the floor crowded with untired waltzers, and walked to my lodgings in Bond Street, in broad day-nothing stirring but the sun, however, except the cabs of the roués at the play-house in St. James's Street, and then here and there one who like myself was loitering to enjoy the morning air on his way to bed. A month of this life once in three years would be, I should think, a full surfeit for a man who was old enough to have come to his senses.

MISCELLANY.

[From the American Papers.]

Charles Dickens.-We copy from an American paper, (Boston Weekly Messenger,) a portrait of an Author whose commanding talents are appreciated in both hemispheres.

"In person he is a little above the standard height, though not tall.-His figure is slight, without being meagre, aud is well proportion

ed. The face, the first object of physical interest, is peculiar though not remarkable. An ample forehead is displayed under a quantity of light hair worn in a mass on one side rather jauntily, and this is the only semblance of dandyism in his appearance. His brow is marked, and his eye, though not large, bright and expressive. The most regular feature is the nose, which may be called handsome; an epithet not applicable to his lips, which are too large. Taken altogether, the countenance, which is pale without sickliness, is in repose extremely agreeable, and indicative of refinement and intelligence. Mr. Dickens's manners and conversation, except perhaps in the porect abandon among his familiars, have no exhibition of particular wit, much less of hu

mour.

He is mild in the tones of his voice and quiescent; evincing habitual attention to etiquette and the conventionalisms of polished

circles. His society is much sought after, and possibly to avoid the invitations pressed upon him, he does not reside in London; but with a lovely wife and two charming children, has a retreat in the vicinity. He is about twentysix years of age, but does not look more than twenty-three or four. Mr. Dickens is en

tirely self-made, and rose from an humble station by virtue of his moral worth, his genius, and his industry."

"Remarkable tough story; nevertheless it may be true."-On the passage of the ship Alexander, from New Orleans to New York, a young lad of about fourteen years old, from a natural frolicsome and mischievous disposition, became so troublesome in his pranks that he was threatened by the captain, if they were continued, that he would confine him in a water cask. Our youngster took no heed, however, and at his next offence was put in the cask, which was headed up, leaving a large bung-hole for the admission of air. That night the ship encountered a violent storm, and, in a sudden lurch, the cask containing the boy rolled over into the sea. The circumstance was not noticed by those on board. Fortunately the cask struck bung up, and floated about thirty hours, when it was thrown upon the beach, at Cape St. Blas. Here the boy made desperate efforts to extricate himself from his prison without success, and, in despair, gave up to die.Some cows, however, strolling on the beach, were attracted to the cask, and on walking around it, one of the number, it being fly time, switched her tail into the bung-hole, which the boy grasped with a desperate resolution. The cow bellowed and set off for life, and after running some two hundred yards with the cask, struck it against a log on the beach, and knocked it, as we may say, into a cocked hat. The boy thus providentially released, was discovered by some fishermen on the point, and taken into Apalachicola, where a collection being made for him, he was enabled to proceed north by the way of Columbus.-St. Joseph's Times.

Miss Jane Shirreff has been giving concerts in Buffalo. They were crowded to excess. In every city, town and hamlet where she has given concerts, her rooms have been thronged with people.

Ingenious Device.-A convict at Blackwell's Island, had a grave dug, and concealing himself therein, had it sodded over, leaving a small hole to breathe. General and unavail

ing search was made for him. At night he swam the river, and escaped.

What's in a name?-A New York paper says, We once heard of a facetious person, whose name was "New," who christened his first child "Something," as it was "Something New." His second was christened "Nothing," it being "Nothing New."

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THE CAMP MEETING. On the sixteenth day of September, in a memorable year, a Camp Meeting was appointed. It was to take place not many miles from New York, and great preparations were making. Notice was given in every direction. The religious and the irreligious, the devout and the curious, alike convened at the time appointed, with equal impatience, though not with the same motives. To the pious Methodist it was to be a season of prayer, of holy communion, of divine influences, of deep self-abasement, and of inward strivings. To the idle and restless it was merely a method of beguiling time. To the vulgar and profane it afforded opportunities for carousal, for foolish jests, and licentious conduct. Every precaution was, as usual, taken for securing the band of Christians who encamped from riot and intrusion, but beyond the lines expressly marked for their purpose they could have no control, and the road was bordered for several miles by wagons, by booths where liquor was sold and distributed, and by mountebanks and fiddlers.

The spot selected for the encampment was a green valley. On one side of it arose grass

covered hills, and on the other flowed a clear, deep, and rapid stream. The tents, amounting to several hundred, were pitched on the hills around. Some of them were of plain white cloth, others of a more fanciful form, and diversified by stripes of red or blue. A stage, which answered for a pulpit, was erected of plain boards and placed on the banks of the water. It was large enough to contain five or six preachers at once, and had a flight of steps ascending to it. In front of this were seats arranged in rows, with aisles dividing them, the men sitting on one side, the women on the other. The seats covered a great extent of ground, and rose gradually, so that the last row of seats overlooked the whole.

It was not till the evening of the second day that the meeting was general, and all the tents pitched. A shrill blast was then blown from a trumpet, and the people quitted their tents, where they had established their domestic comforts, and took their seats fronting the pulpit, which was filled by preachers. So far, the scene was noble and picturesque. The multitude, as you looked down from the hills around, was countless. They had, like the children of Israel, pitched their tents in the

* In our next will appear an account of a Camp Meeting held last month in America.

VOL. I.

E

wilderness, and stood waiting on the banks of Jordan till they might cross to the land of spiritual promise. All was solemn and impressive. Even the scoffers, if such there were, were awed into silence. The moon

rose in the heavens with unshorn majesty, its silver rays reflected by the stream, and forming a beautiful contrast to the red light that glared from lamps suspended from the trees, or raised aloft by poles.

The meeting was opened by fervent prayer. Every hearer was still and mute. One preacher after another arose and addressed the audience. Sometimes a deep, low groan was heard, but the work appeared to linger. The language of the preacher became more and more vehement. At length a pale young man rose up, and commenced in a melodious and commanding tone :

"Why tarry ye, O Lord God of Hosts? Why tarry ye? Gird on thy sword and come forth! Call on the young men and the maidens -the infant that is just opening upon the morning of life, and the hoary head that is sinking with the last rays of evening. Tell them that the reaper is come-that even now the chaff is to be separated from the wheat! Tell them that the day of judgment is at hand! It is at hand!" he exclaimed, with vehemence, and striking on the thin boards of the pulpit with a force that resounded to the most distant tents, while the sweat fell in drops from his face. "The day of judgment has come ! Howl and gnash your teeth! Call on the mountains to cover you! flee! hide yourselves! the Avenger has come ! the Lord is here-He is here-He is here!"

Shrieks of "He is here!" "He is here!" resounded from every part of the valley, as the preacher, exhausted by his own emotion, sunk back upon the seat, and covered his face. The work was now begun. Many a poor wretch felt that there was no hope for him, and declared that the fire was already consuming his soul. A ring was formed round the pulpit, and those who were "under conviction" brought into it. Some continued screaming and calling for mercy until they sunk under the violence of their excitement and fell upon the ground, motionless and apparently dead. Others, with uplifted voices, sung rapturous hymns of joy over the fallen convicts, and others burst out into loud and vehement shouts of "Glory! glory! glory!" As it approached midnight, it was thought best by those who were least excited, to dissolve the meeting. The apparently lifeless were borne to the tents to which they respectively belonged. In some of the tents the voice of prayer, of praise, of deprecation, and self-condemnation was still heard, but, in most, the flesh had overcome the spirit, and tables were set out with provisions, which they hastily swallowed, and then flung themselves on their beds of straw and slept profoundly.

One only was left upon the ground. It was a young girl of a fair and delicate complexion. Her dress did not resemble that of the Methodists, but was of a fashionable and rich texture. Her mind had evidently yielded to the general excitement, and she lay in an obscure spot, overcome by her emotion, and her face still wet with the tears she had shed, of penitence or terror. It is possible she might have remained in this situation till morning, had not one solitary wanderer passed that way -the young preacher who had first kindled the flame that had spread so widely. He had remained, in imitation of our Saviour, to watch and pray, regardless of hunger or fatigue, until his hair was damp with the dew of the night.

Perhaps when he first saw the form of the beautiful being who obstructed his path, he imagined that the angels had come to minister unto him. He stopped, however, and gazed upon her with a surprise that partook more of earth than heaven, then, bending over her, he exclaimed, “ Awake, O sleeper, awake!” His voice roused her from her insensible, dreaming state, and, raising herself on her elbow, she looked wildly about her.

"Oh! what will become of me," said she, bursting into a flood of tears, "what will become of me!"

There is something in real feeling that speaks to the heart. The preacher quitted his solemn, inflated language, and said, in a natural tone," I will conduct you to your

tent."

He attempted to raise her, but she was powerless.

He

"I will go and get help to carry you," said he, kindly; but she caught his arm, and intreated him not to leave her alone. shrunk from her touch. Strange thoughts crossed his mind. It was true, the being before him looked innocent and lovely, but she might be Lucifer or some other fallen angel. Christ was tempted in the wilderness, and his heated imagination had already drawn a parallel between himself and the Saviour of the world. With uplifted hands he knelt and prayed. The tears of the young girl again fell in torrents; her sobs became audible; it was evident that emotion wrought powerfully upon her mind. The terrors of conscience again returned; she called herself the most vile, the most abandoned of creatures. Such language was music to the ears of the pious preacher. He no longer dreaded a mortal, humbled by the sense of her own guilt. He ceased to use the threatenings and denunciations of the gospel. He talked to her of mercy and pardon, and, as he gazed upon her tender and innocent face, believed they might be in store for her. Various were the alternations of her countenance. It seemed to accommodate itself to the language of the preacher. When he prayed it was sublimed

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