TIMOTHY HIGGINS, or, as he prefers to see his name printed, T. HIGGINS, Esquire, writer of Foreign Correspondence for the daily newspapers, was sitting one hot July afternoon, in the French Café in Warren street, with the Evening Post in his hand, and a fragrant iced beverage on the little table beside him-the only two objects of whose presence a casual observer, noting the abstraction with which he pored into the one, and the quiet regularity of his sips at the other, would have deemed him conscious. A nicer eye, however, would have seen also, that the degree of consciousness with which he regarded even these objects, was of the lowest order, and required the slightest possible exertion of attention and volition; for the position of the newspaper that so apparently engaged him, included only "our advertising columns," which, from the variety of their contents, are not often equal to supporting a sustained interest; while his hand, which ever and anon grasped the tumbler containing the beverage aforesaid, had that peculiar air of not knowing what it was about, which indicated it to be acting less in obedience to the conscious will, than to the blind requirements of habit.

The truth was, the soul of TIMOTHY WAS reposing. He had finished that morning three sets of letters for three different journals, giving three versions of the accounts from Europe just received through Willmer & Smith; and the exertion of going over the same narrative so often had fatigued his mental powers to that degree that on the completion of his labors, he had availed himself with no little eagerness of the hospitality of Signor Blin. In fact, he had rushed into the café, under the conviction that he had accomplished enough for that morning, and would resolutely devote the remaining portion of the day to rest and rational enjoyment.

The weather was intolerably hot; and the faint breath of coolness which stole through the blinds of the café was very agreeable after the stifled atmosphere of

Nassau street. The nature of the Beyerage of which our friend was partaking, it is not necessary to the purpose of this narrative to specify: let it suffice that it was far from being disagreeable to the palate, and was particularly grateful and soothing to the senses. All the accompaniments of the place and time were naturally suggestive of retirement, shadiness, and quiet. One old French gentleman was reading the Courrier des Etats Unis, through an eye-glass, and sipping iced claret, at a table on the other side of the room; two respectable-looking foreigners, habitués, it seemed, of the place, were playing at billiards, in the distance, which they did so noiselessly that nothing was audible save the occasional clicking of the balls; and the waiter, with his elbows spread out and his head buried in his arms, was sound asleep within the bar. The noise of Broadway, deadened and softened by the distance, came through the blinds in a confused hum, that crept into the ear like the drowsy murmur of a waterfall.

It was quite natural that TIMOTHY, situated thus comfortably, should lapse into a sort of half revery.

He continued to read column after column, sometimes advertisements, sometimes political matter, (generally his aversion,) among which it happened was a long letter from Mr. Van Buren. "Now," thought he, "here is a fine opportunity to try myself; there is nothing to disturb me; let's see if I cannot read this stuff understandingly, all through."

Accordingly, under the full inspiration of drowsiness and a virtuous determination, he plunged into Mr. Van Buren. As he waded on through the long cautious sentences, he became aware that two gentlemen, whom he had not before noticed, sitting at an adjacent table, were continually discussing the French Revolution. He could hear, were he disposed to listen, every word they uttered; but being determined not to be diverted from his purpose of reading Mr. Van Buren's letter, it

the story: shall it be a romantic legend, or supernatural, or a picture of every day life, or tragic, historic, comic, or picturesque? Then secondly, as to time: shall it be laid before the flood, or since the crusades, in the days of seventy-six, or now? Thirdly, how shall it be told, in the first person, the second person, or the third person; in the form of letters to a friend, a diary, or fragments found in a madhouse? Shall the characters speak for themselves, or shall the narrative save them the trouble? Suppose all these things settled, there arises a new set of difficulties consequent on the act of beginning. The first sentence-Oh that first sentence! If it were not for that, I have sometimes fancied I could write a passable story myself—something in the way of a temperance tale, or a pathetic history intended to warn the female sex against thin shoes. Ah me! what heart-rending things of this kind have I not heard woven into sermons and lectures! The whole story of the downfall of a beautiful young gent, clerk to a large tailoring establishment in the metropolis of New England, traced out minutely from its commencement amid the gayeties of fashionable life at our great Hotels, to its conclusion in the wretchedness of the calabozo at New Orleans! That fascinating young lady, the delight of the bon ton, how often have I attended her to the ball-room, witnessed her triumphs, and then returned to see her sit disconsolate by her bedside, tearing the jewels from her tresses, and lamenting the hollowness of earthly enjoyments! If I could but conquer the first sentences of somethings in this vein, readers might look to their eyes. I flatter myself I could condole in some measure!

But Timothy Higgins was not so much as this inspired by confidence in his first attempt at story-telling, and he had crossed the ferry, and wandered beyond Elysian Fields, and over the meadows, even to the base of the rocky declivity of West Hoboken, without having decided aught more definitely than that his story should be a narrative, and should combine Instruction and Entertainment.

Exhausted by the intensity of thought which he had expended upon this conclusion, he at length, at a retired and inviting place, under the foot of the woody thicket

that overgrows the steep ledge, stretched himself upon the grass, and fell into a doze, or rather day-dream; for he was not insensible, but enjoyed the repose and fragrance of the leaves that trembled over his head, and the delicate grass that luxuriates in such cool recesses. He philosophized on the wonders of nature that lay within a few feet of his nose, the graceful forms of the leaves, and the intricate structure of their transparent net-work. There were a few pale flowers that quivered beneath the light whispers of the evening air, and our embryo novelist was simple enough to be amused with the trials and perplexities of a laborious ant, who seemed to have lost his way, and imagined his only chance of finding it was in going to the very extremity of every spire that came within his ken.

Gradually the soul of Mr. Higgins, under the gentle persuasion of nature, rested from its toil: the pale flowers nodded, and so did the pale brow beneath them; the ant travelled up and down seven long stalks unobserved. It was nearly sunset, and beneath the shadowy bushes it was now quite dark.

Had HIGGINS fallen into a sound sleep, he would probably have lain there all night, and caught I dare say a severe cold, which would greatly have interrupted his labors as a writer. But he was not so unfortunate.

For somehow, precisely when he knew not, he heard a small voice close by his ear, speaking on in slow measured tones, as if reading poetry. He grew more awake at once, and listened attentively, believing it to be of course a dream, and careful not to stir, lest he might break the charm. Presently he could distingush what seemed lines of blank verse, recited in a grave scholar-like manner, as if they were read by some person of excellent taste, who was relishing their beauty and pondering on their import. He cautiously opened his eyelids, and with less surprise than might be imagined, for he was still confident that it could be only a dream, he beheld a little manikin, not more than a hand's breadth high, walking to and fro on a broad blade of grass, that reached across from one green clump to another at a short distance before him. He was a handsome little creature, very youthful, straight and well shaped, and was clad in silver doublet and

small clothes, and had wings of blue and gold, like those of the dragon fly, folded upon his shoulders in such a manner that they resembled a Spanish cloak. On his head he wore a long, tapering cap, in the front of which was a jewel, or brilliant, that made a light around him. He had also on his feet long pointed shoes, like those anciently worn in England, and as he paced to and fro, his shoes and cap waved lightly, like the antennæ of the mammoth butterfly. In his left hand he held a tiny book, from which it appeared he was reading, by the light that flamed from his forehead. The leaves of the book were all gilt, and as he held it spread open upon his palm, he kept them in their place with his right hand, just as students are accustomed to do, who read as they perambulate their chambers. All his motions were lofty and graceful-somewhat more rapid than those of a full-sized man, but very elegant and dignified. Presently, without lifting his eyes from his book, he began to read again:

"The lunatic, the lover, and the poet,
Are of imagination all compact:
One sees more devils than vast hell can hold ;
That is the madman: the lover all as frantic,
Sees Helen's beauty in a brow of Egypt:
The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth

to heaven;

And as imagination bodies forth

The forms of things unknown, the poet's pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation, and a name."

Then closing the book, he continued to pace up and down as before, meditating apparently on the eloquence of the Duke's language, and the wonderful art with which his heroic character is developed. HIGGINS was familiar, as I think most of my readers must be, with the beautiful play, and often reflected on it, in his philosophy, as an example of the necessity in works of extreme fancifulness, of relieving the beautiful and quaint, by the grotesque and absurd.

But the reality of what he saw and heard was so palpable, that he was now in the greatest perplexity what to think. He felt awake; he remembered where he was, and why he came there. But then here was an actual sprite before his very eyes; and what was most singular, reading

Shakspeare! He had never heard that the fairies had editions of the great poet suited to their eyes, though that they should admire him, particularly his Midsummer Night's Dream, seemed not unlikely. He resolved to interrupt the little gentleman's meditations, and if possible to make his acquaintance. Accordingly he raised himself on his elbow and hemmed softly, till the elfin philosopher paused and looked towards him, evidently with much surprise, on discovering the nature of the noise, and seeing that his private walk had、 been overlooked by the eye of a dull son of clay. He drew himself up with great dignity, however, and little as he was, there was so much authority in his frown, that HIGGINS almost sank beneath it. He endeavored to be respectful, however, and bending low his head addressed him as follows:

"I pray your highness be not displeased with a rude mortal for an intrusion upon your presence, which was wholly accidental, but which, if you pardon him, he will not regret; and if he may presume to hope that it may confer upon him the honor of your acquaintance, he will consider it an occurrence no less fortunate than it is uncommon."

I suppose Higgins thought it necessary to be particularly polite on this occasion, for it is not probable he ever spoke in so courtly a style before in his life."

The little student smiled at this address, and held out his hand.

"Timothy Higgins," said he, "I am very glad to see you. I knew you would be somewhere in the neighborhood this evening, but was not aware you were quite so near.'

"Indeed," said Timothy, astonished to find himself known; may I inquire with whom I have the pleasure of speaking?" "I am Prince HовоK," replied the little gentleman, "Lord of Weehawken; and my father is Hum, King of Snake Hill, who marches seven hundred and fifty billions of mosquitoes across the Bergen meadows!"

"A powerful monarch," said Higgins; "I have often encountered his troops. But how was your Highness aware of my coming hither to-night?"

"Oh," said the Prince, "a party of gentlemen of my household visited the city last evening to see the Viennese children. Re