be isolated from the gaieties of life; could I be thrust into a dungeon, or on a solitary island, for a certain period, and with a certain object; could I, in any way, rescue myself entirely from the innumerable influences around me, and become actually the master of my own mind, I would not pass away from the earth an unremembered creature. I would leave a monument; but without resolution, this is but an idle reverie. Yes-and I fear it would be no more, even in the dungeon, or the island. My own thoughts would be my enemies. Pleasure comes like a spring sun, and dissolves all my snowy designs. The satisfaction of a present impulse has always been more important to me than the success of a remote plan. Irresolution is a habit which creeps upon its victim with a fatal facility. It is not vicious, but it leads to vice, and many a fine heart has paid the penalty of it at the scaffold.-Trifling as it appears in the wavering steps of the young, as they grow older its form changes to that of a hideous monster, which leads them to destruction with their eyes open. The idler, the spendthrift, the epicurean, the drunkard, are among its victims. Perhaps in the latter its effects appear in the most hideous form. He knows that the goblet which he is about to drain, is poison, yet he swallows it. He knows, for the example of thousands have painted it to him in glaring colours, that it will deaden all his faculties-take the strength from his limbs and the happiness from his heart-oppress him with foul diseases, and hurry his progress to a dishonoured grave; yet he drains it under a species of dreadful spell, like that by which small creatures are said to approach and leap into the jaws of the loathsome serpent, whose fiendish eyes have fascinated them. How beautiful and manly is that power by which the resolute man passes unmoved through these dangers.

!

SONG OF THE SEASONS.

BY S. P. WALKER.

The prettiest time of all the year,
Is the gay and smiling spring,
When the sun is bright and the sky is
clear,

And the fruits are blossoming.
When the flow'ret leaves of every die,
In their rife and blushing bloom,
Blend each breeze that passes by,
With a soft and sweet perfume.

When every hill has a diadem

Of moss and verdant green,
And life is hung on every stem,
And nature's smile is seen.
The liveliest song is sung
in spring,
When the birds in their plumage fair,
Carolling on their sunny wing,
Enliven all the air.

The sweetest time of all the year,
Is when the genial rays
Of summer, fling their dancing cheer
In fêtes and roundelays.

When ripened berries in their blush
The sportive young invite-
And joyous souls are in the flush
Of frolicksome delight.

Ah! summer days are golden dreams—
When humming hourïs, on the wing,
And honey bees, and gushing streams
Our steps are all enlivening.
The saddest time of all the year

Is when the autumn gale
Is stripping with its fanning shear
The beauties of the vale.

When landscapes take another hue

Of fading looks, and smile no moreAnd falling leaves the ground bestrew, And lawny trips and sports are o'er. And then it is, when all the dress

Which gilds the meteor day
Of life, flings back its emptiness,

And wears its charm away.
The dreariest time of all the year,

Is when chilly Winter spreads
His frosty mantle far and near,

And sets his seal on fountain heads. When icicles, like bijouterie,

Which glisten for awhileOn every bough of every tree

Are hung in studded file.

The wildest strain, is when the moan
Of hollow winds lament,
In bleaky nights, on deserts lone,
The winter's discontent.
The prettiest time of all the year,

Is the gay and smiling springWhen the sun is bright, and the sky is clear,

And the fruits are blossoming.

WOMAN'S CONFIDENCE. There is something so beautifully confiding in the natural feelings of a woman's heart, that she will never doubt till she has been taught to do so.

GENIUS, like fire, is a good servant, but a terrible master.

ALARMS OF A BACHELOR.

BY A QUIET GENTLEMAN.

Ir must be an extraordinary thing to have a wife. Not that a married man is an extraordinary thing; but the certainty of being married must be extraordinary. To behold your Eve at last in the sweet wilderness of the world, to feel that you are no longer alone. To look down upon a group of lovely children-those little angel resemblancesthose "blooming responsibilities"-those flattering miniatures-ourselves uncorrupted, unwrinkled, rejuvenized, sleeping while we watch, smiling while we weep, pure while we sin, living when we die, and preserving our very identity from the maw of death.

"Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face: These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of

his:

This little abstract doth contain that large, Which died in Geffrey; and the hand of time Shall draw this brief into as high a volume." I could never read that passage without pitying a bachelor, and beholding in perspective a dozen "little abstracts at least, climbing my chair and peeping from behind the curtain, and yet I never married. I am a hardened, hopeless, obtuse Benedict, knocking about the world at random, an uncared for creature, thrust into the worst room, and put off the last on all occasions. The young women draw themselves up cautiously when I approach; and as I am but a younger brother upon five hundred a-year, which I can never make more, but which I have several ways of making less, the more aspiring mothers get their chickens under their wings from me, as a hen gathers her brood when a hawk hovers over the barn-yard. London, that "dear, distracting town," I have long ago abandoned, and make Travelling my bride.

All those four quarters of the globe which I could scarce find with my finger at school, I have now trodden with my foot. I have lived to weary of Smyrna and Egypt; I am sated with reminiscences of Greece among her broken temples; I went for excitement from Rome to America, and after tasting the hospitality of New York, Boston, and Philadelphia, I came back yawning to Paris.

"The deuse!" I said to my friend Rider.

"How?” replied he interrogatively. "Life is a bore," yawned I. "It is a bliss," said he.

"I am always wretched," said I. "I am perfectly happy," rejoined he, "It is constitutional," said I.

"Pooh!" replied he.

"Heaven help me !" said I. "You must help yourself," said he.' "I want excitement," said I. "You want a wife," said he. I looked him full in the eyes. "Will you do me a favour?" asked I, earnestly.

"If I can," said he.

"You are married, are you not?" asked I.

"I am," replied he. "Thank heaven, I am."

"Then tell me," cried I, "as you love How is it?"

me.

66

Enough," said I, "I'll think of it." I was now ready to leave Paris, and calling a cab, soon arrived at the Messageries Royales rue Montmatre.

We were presently in an immense court-yard, filled with twenty or thirty diligences coming and going every minute, amid the bustle of the crowd, the confusion of loading and unloading baggage, the clattering of horses' feet, the blasts of the horns, and the everlasting sacré of every Frenchman who had anything whatever to do. In a few more minutes I was seated in the interieur of a 'diligence just ready to set off for Boulogne and Calais; my portmanteau was deposited on the top, my cloak and "Gibbon" with me, and I sat waiting with some impatience the arrival of whatever persons fate had selected for my fellow passengers.

It is a busy and grotesque scene a "messagerie" at Paris -new numbers were swarming in, and new incidents were every moment soliciting my attention in different parts of the yard. I closed the "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." As I turned down the leaf at the "character and studies of the Senator Boethius," a carriage drove up, containing a very lovely young girl of eighteen or perhaps twenty, who, after alighting, passed the window hanging on the arm of a gentleman. They inquired for the voiture for Boulogne, and were shewn to the carriage in which I sat. "By Jove," said I to myself, "she is very pretty."

After a friendly leave, taken in French, the old gentleman handed her in, shook her heartily by the hand, and pleading some particular engagement, departed.

"Mais Monsieur B.," cried his fair

companion, in French, "tell me how much must I give the man for carrying the portmanteau ?"

"One franc," replied the old gentleman, and again he bowed off.

The conducteur came by suddenly and closed the door. There we sat, alone.

I offered her the choice of seats. No, she was very well. I was about to add something to relieve the awkwardness, but glancing at the face of my companion, I perceived she was in tears.

There was a moment's silence; then, as if unable any longer to restrain her sorrows, she somewhat hastily disentangled from her reticule a cambric kerchief, covered her face in it, and, with a slight rocking motion of the head, wept bitterly.

"Bless my soul!" thought I, "I wish I could do something for her. What could be the matter? Was she French or English?" Her language was that of the former. Her manner and face proclaimed her the latter. Her dress was exceedingly neat and elegant, and very French. In a moment her grief appeared excessive, and knowing my inability to console her, and that the greatest kindness a stranger could extend, would be to withdraw all observation and leave the swollen tide to subside by itself, I had re-opened Gibbon, and was forcing my sympathies from the visible grief of my present companion, to the remoter and much more feeble claims of poor Boethius, when the carriage-door opened, and a porter popped his uncombed head in to demand pay for the lady's portmanteau. She fumbled a minute in her purse and gave him a franc. The fellow began, as those scoundrels always do, particularly when they think they can extort, by rude importunity, double pay from a stranger or an unprotected female. "A franc was not half enough. He must have three francs. He never received less than three francs at least;" and he held the piece in his hand, as if about to return it. The poor girl muttered "dear me !" in sweet English, and put her hand into her purse again. "I was told," she said again in French to the man, "that one franc was quite enough fot carrying so very small a trunk, merely from the carriage to the diligence."

"Oh no, madame, three francs is my least pay. I must have three."

"You must have no such thing," said I, "and you shall not. Pray, madame, allow me the pleasure of dismissing this scoundrel, who is well paid with twenty sous."

"If you would be so very kind," murmured the lady.

"If you would meddle with your own affairs," growled the rascal.

"If you would close the door, conducteur," said I, with affected sternness.

The fellow scowled at me and withdrew. The conducteur closed the door. The lady leaned back in her seat and resumed her weeping. I opened Gibbon again and went on with Boethius.

"Allons! en voiture!" shouted the conducteur, and the door was again opened for more passengers. They were an elderly lady in deep black, and a young man of perhaps eighteen. As they seated themselves, the driver and the conducteur clambered up to their places; the five giant horses began to move, the horn sounded, the whip cracked, the postilion swore his usual sacré, and off we started for London.

As we moved heavily along through the gloomy, crowded and filthy, but most picturesque streets, the lovely young girl, after one or two glances along the far and narrow perspectives, again resorted to her kerchief; and I turned to survey the other two, whom some single, and to me unknown, influence among the many thousands that flow towards London, was drawing to that immense metropolis. I was rather surprised to perceive that the elderly lady in black was also strongly agitated with anguish; tears stealing each moment from her aged eyes, which, whenever she deemed herself unobserved, were lifted with a deep earnestness to heaven, as if entreating strength to bear some too grievous burden. Both the ladies thus in tears, I cast my eyes on the youth whose mother had made the second in our sorrowing circle. The young man was also labouring under an evident excitement, but of an opposite nature. He was continually betraying the stirrings in his heart of a delight and joy which he could neither repress nor conceal. Sometimes he assumed a solemn demeanour and spoke to his mother in a tone of seriousness, but the next minute he was rubbing his hands gleefully together, smiling to himself out of the carriage-window, laughing aloud at ordinary trifles, and pressing his arms and elbows suddenly against his sides with a gesture of hearty gratification.

They were three interesting characters to a lover of human nature and of adventure; and I waited, with a mixture of sympathy and curiosity, the unfolding of the plot.

"Dear, dear, dear!" said the young

girl, at length; "we are at the gate already." She took another tearful glance, and flung herself back again with her handkerchief to her face.

"Yes, we're here true eneugh;" said the youth, with a broad Scotch accent, and rubbing the palms of his hands together. The elderly lady in black rolled up her eyes, clasped her hands, and sighed. I turned over another leaf of Boethius. A half hour thus passed away, when the young girl, who had been raining and clearing up again like an April heaven, every five minutes, suddenly bethought herself of something which she seemed to fear was lost, and the search for which diverted her mind from her sorrow. She looked here and there, under her, in her bosom, in her reticule, and in a pretty basket in which female voyageuses often carry the minor necessaries of the journey, cakes, peppermints, etc. etc. At length, after several "oh my's," and "dear, dear me's," she drew it forth in the form of a letter, closely written, and crossed at right angles. Her eyes sparkled with pleasure, her face brightened with a smile, and she received our congratulations upon her recovery, with much grace and good humour. The young Scotchman said, hel "tho't how it wad be, but he would na say onything." The elderly lady in black smiled faintly at the elastic spirits of her companion; I kept on close with Boethius. After the brief interruption to the general silence, they all relapsed into their own thoughts. The lad pressed his elbows against his sides, rubbed his hands and chuckled; the elderly lady clasped her hands under some agonizing recollection; and the girl, after carefully perusing almost half the letter, threw herself back once more in a new fit of anguish, which appeared greatly heightened by the late found

treasure.

"So ho," thought I, "a letter-a loveletter. Poor girl! Some desperate attachment! Some fine, fond, fascina ting young Frenchman-with mustaches -a cruel father-the whole thing forbidden - recalled from Paris-heartbroken-poor creature, poor creature

I read on through my reverie, and was just thinking whether the "consolation of philosophy" composed by Boethius in the tower of Pavia, could have contained any antidote against love in the bosom of a young girl of twenty, when the object of my speculations suddenly tore the letter with some vehemence, once, twice, three, four times, and then

taking carefully the fragments, tore each one separately into bits small enough for a theatrical snow-storm, and scattered them out of the window along the road. I flatter myself I behaved as a grave gentleman should; I neither smiled nor raised my eyes, but kept on till poor Boethius yielded to his horrid fate; though, I confess, I witnessed his end with as little pity as Theodoric himself. I had insensibly become interested in the scene.

"This was then no true-lover whom she mourned," thought I. "Some heartless flirt has won and slighted her affections; but then, heartless flirts' don't write letters of four pages, crossed at right angles."

66

Pray, sir," said she, suddenly addressing me, "can you tell me whether it is really necessary to have a letter about one, directed to oneself, to hand into the custom-house with the passports?"

"By no means," I replied; "at least I have never heard of such a necessity."

"An' if there be," said the Scotchman, "I've got one about me from my uncle, that I think will get me through." The elderly lady in black gave a shudder.

The lad chuckled and winked to me.

Our fair companion, whose grief appeared to come and pass away by momentary impulses, now busied herself in taking off her bonnet; tying it up to the netting on the top; arranging her cap and curls. Her complexion was of the fairest. Her eyes large, blue, and full of expression; her teeth white and regular, and her cheeks and lips, without any poetry or nonsense, really rosy. In short, she was a fresh, glowing English girl, full of health, esprit and naiveté, whose evident anguish made sympathy with her only an amusement, since it had left her youthful graces all as fresh and fair as a half-blown rose. She was certainly pretty-dangerous eyes for a bachelor. I began to think with my friend Rider, "certainly I want a wife. Peradventure my time is come."

She had now arranged herself to her satisfaction; and having nothing more to do, fell back into melancholy. Something was said respecting the comfort of the seats.

"Ah," said she, apparently half talking to herself, "how time and circumstances change one's ideas. When I came to Paris, I was as particular where I sat as can be, but now. She sighed with an air of careless despair;

"I do not care in the least where I am now; here, or there, or on the top, or behind, it's all the same to me."

Once more her eyes filled with tears. Once more I dropped my attention to the "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."

"Weel, I'm glad I have such a comfortable place at last," said the Scotchman. "I shall sleep to night like a stone."

"Poor boy!" said the mother, with a sigh, "this is his fifth night in the diligence."

"Dear! dear! dear!" exclaimed the girl, "what can make you in such a hurry?"

She said this rather as a comment than an interrogation.

The elderly lady in black only wiped the corner of her eyes.

The lad laughed outright, and pressed his sides contentedly with his elbows. "Dear me," said the pretty incognita, "what a lovely scene! Did you ever see anything so beautiful, sir ?"

"A great many things," answered I, smiling.

"But, I think I never saw anything so lovely as this."

"Parting from those we love," said I aloud, "must certainly—————”

I looked up. Her eyes were swimming in tears, and out came the handkerchief again.

The elderly lady in black had both her hands before her face.

The Scotchman rubbed his palms together, and looked out of the window. I laid my hand once more on the "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire."

But, my companion seemed to find relief in unbosoming her grief. Perhaps she felt intuitively that I sympathized with her. Perhaps she thought the "Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire" a very voluminous volume, for the only talking one among her fellowpassengers.

"Yes, sir," she resumed, taking down the handkerchief, "parting from those we love, is indeed, a trial. But I am used to trials. My life has not been long, but you would scarcely believe, sir, what I have suffered, young as I am."

"I trust your adversity is now over," said I.

"Ah no, sir, I fear not; we can never say our adversity is over in this world. I shall never be happy again till I see Paris, I am sure-never, never."

Her face darkened a little. I thought she was going to weep again, but she did not.

"Well, then," asked I, "if you dislike England, and are so pleased with Paris, why do you not reside there ?"

"Oh, sir, my husband can't endure Paris."

"Your what? I beg your pardon," said I. "Can't endure Paris?"

66

66

Why yes," she said, with a smile, you said you could not just now." "But why does he stay in it, then," said I. The word husband lending a new key to the mystery.

"Dear me, sir," said she, "he does not stay in it.'

"Why you said—that is—I thought your husband was in Paris."

"Oh dear, no. He is in London." She leaned back again in tears, and covered her face with the handkerchief.

"Weel. Here we are at St. Denis," said the Scotchman, "and now we'll change horses. I wish the deevils would go along faster, for I 'm in a braw humour for my dinner. I hae nae tasted a morsel these fifteen hours, and then naething to speak of. Dinna ye feel hungry, mother?"

"No, my child," replied the matron,