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"Pietro.—What news, Tharsalio?
"Tharsalio.—O great. It has been settled in a conclave of authors, that from this
"time forward, there shall be no true history but romance, and no true romance
"but history. The venders have sworn to print, and the readers to buy nothing
"but rhodomontade; your travellers have pledged their honours to write so that
"none can tell whether they are dealing in fact or fiction; and the poets have
"made affirmation on Doomsdaybook, never to speak truth but when they have
"nothing else to say. For my part, I'll not be out of fashion—I'll lie like an
"almanac-maker.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The reader may possibly observe that the volume now offered to his acceptance, commences with page thirteen, and thence suppose there has been an omission of some portion of the work. This however is not the case. It originated in a mistake of the printer, and passed without being noticed by the editor until it was too late for correction. It may be as well to mention also, that the story of Phoebe Angevine alluded to in the prefatory memoir, as forming a part of the present volume, has been omitted, and another substituted. It will appear in a second series of tales, which will be shortly presented to the public.

MEMOIR OF THE UNKNOWN AUTHOR.

It hath been so often remarked by persons aiming at originality, that the pleasure of the reader is wonderfully enhanced by knowing something concerning the writer of the book he is about to devour, that the good natured world actually begins to believe it true, notwithstanding it hath so often grievously yawned over the lives of divers great authors. It is for this reason, that almost every work of any pretensions hath prefixed to it certain particulars concerning the writer, which in ordinary cases would be considered exceedingly frivolous, but inasmuch as they appertain to distinguished persons, partake in the dignity of the association, and like buttons of cheese paring on a satin doublet, become illustrious by the company they keep. Nothing indeed is more certain and irrefragable, than that every thing connected with or appertaining to an important gentleman, must of necessity be proportionably important. The world has nothing to do with the motions of ordinary men, on ordinary occasions; whether they have a good appetite, a good digestion, are in a good or bad humour, is a matter of not the least consequence. But it is far otherwise with great persons, whose every motion and impulse is felt like a pulsation running through the universe. Should a tailor prick his finger with a needle; or a worthy citizen invite his friends to a dinner, nobody is the worse or the wiser but themselves. But such matters appertaining to kings and people of consequence, are thought worthy of the most minute record. Hence it is that the most trifling acts of illustrious persons are matters of profound interest to ordinary people, and that the literary world hath received such singular satisfaction from being credibly certified that my Lord Byron drank gin and water, and tied his collar with a black ribbon, and that the Great Unknown is wonderfully addicted to Scotch herrings and whiskey punch.

We disclaim all pretensions to originality when we observe that the lives of literary persons are for the most part destitute of interest and adventure. In days long past, they lived in garrets, and nothing was more common than to find them starved or frozen to death of a cold frosty morning. Now, however, in this golden age of authors, we find them figuring in drawing-rooms, drinking toasts, and making speeches at public meetings, and performing all those great actions, which cause a man to be wondered at while living, and forgotten when dead. But still it is doubtless no small satisfaction to the curious reader to know, that there is nothing to be known worth knowing concerning the author whose work he is about devouring. It is to gratify this laudable propensity, that we proceed to detail the following particulars respecting the person who is shrewdly suspected of having indited the following Tales.

Concerning his family we regret to say little is known. Mr. Abraham Acker, of Staaten Island, the only person living who recollects any particulars concerning our author, thinks he remembers to have heard him say, that he came of the same stock with the Grand Turk, the Great Mogul, the emperor of China, Prester John the king of England, and divers other illustrious persons; but of this Mr. Acker, who we regret to say has nearly lost his memory, has great doubts. The same uncertainty rests on the place as well as the time of his birth. When questioned as to the first, he usually replied, that he was born in the Republic of Elsewhere; but as we cannot find such a place on any modern map, we are inclined to believe the worthy gentleman was partly mistaken.

So with respect to the time of his birth, which he once boasted was on the very day of the very year, that the Dutch took Holland; but in what year of our Lord that happened, we profess ourselves ignorant. But although neither the time or the place of his birth can now probably be ascertained, still there is only the greater elbow room for conjecture. From his well-remembered fondness for hasty pudding and pumpkin pies, it might be inferred that he was a native of Connecticut. Mr. Abraham Acker has a notion that he has some idea of hearing his father say that this was the case; but cannot be certain whether it was hasty pudding and pumpkin pies, or plumb pudding and apple dumplings, to which our author was so incontinently given. We will therefore content ourselves with stating the doubt, and leaving the courteous reader to draw his own conclusions. All we shall say is, that seven villages, that will no doubt live to be great cities, have long hotly disputed the glory of his birth; an honour we consider quite equal to the contest of seven ruined cities for the nativity of Daniel— or as he hath been flippantly called, Dan Homer.

On, however, questioning Mr. Acker still farther and more closely, we gathered that our author was deeply read in the Dutch language and antiquities; and that he not only smoked mortally, but spoke reverently of St. Nicholas and Admiral Van Tromp. He likewise affected Dutch sermons and Dutch psalms. We ourselves are for these reasons, rather inclined to the supposition of his having been originally derived from Holland; and in this we agree with Mr. Acker, who thinks he once heard his father hazard a supposition that he was of "Dutch distraction," as Mr. Acker is pleased to express it. But against this supposition there is another fact remembered by Mr. Acker, to wit: that he had a most pestilent and arrant propensity to grumbling and finding fault upon all improper occasions, whence it might reasonably be inferred that he had some affinity with the English blood. As however we cannot learn that he ever obfuscated his intellectual faculties with small beer, or attempted to hang himself even in the most gloomy period of his fortunes, but on the contrary did demean himself like a sober man, taking the ups and downs of life as they came, we consider the above theory as untenable, and the matter again resolving itself into its original uncertainty.

In our early interviews with Mr. Acker, he related a fact that he was almost sure he heard from somebody, which served to settle this interesting point at once—namely, that our author's death was partly laid to his having gone twenty miles in a snow storm to hear a Dutch sermon, and finding on his arrival, the vestry had decided upon having their preaching ever after in the English tongue. But what was our mortification, when on a succeeding interview with Mr. Acker, we found he could recollect nothing of the matter, and was inclined to believe his memory was not as good as it was in the Old French War. It is therefore with no little regret as well as mortification, that we are compelled to sit down under the painful conviction, that the parentage, as well as the time and place of our author's birth, are matters now for ever beyond the reach of detection.

Having thus proved to the satisfaction of the reader, that nothing is to be gathered worth knowing, concerning the birth and parentage of our author, we shall proceed to discuss his life, character, and actions, of which, as very little is known, we shall have occasion to say a great deal. It appears from the testimony of Mr. Acker, that the Alma Mater of our author was a log hut, which was standing about fifty years since, at the crossroads, about half a mile from Castleton. Here he was taught by the best of all possible teachers, self; the school master, a gallant bachelor and somewhat of a roue, for the most part spending the school hours in social chat, with a winsome, black eyed dame, who lived just by, and whose husband, being a pedlar, was frequently abroad, speculating in old iron and goose feathers. The scholars were thus left to follow the bent of their genius, and Mr. Acker affirms that the excellence of this system was in after times demonstrated, not only in the vast genius of our author, but in like manner, in he himself having risen to the rank of a justice of the peace, while three or four of his school mates became members of the legislature. There is little doubt but they would have become still more illustrious, had not the school been suddenly dissolved, by the elopement of the master with the black eyed pedlar's wife, whom he carried off triumphantly in one of the honest man's own tin carts. Hereupon the sprightly younkers set up a great shout, and scampered home right glad of releasement from such durance vile.

Our author after this, pursued the bent of his genius a year or two in doing nothing; being, according to tradition, a most determined idler, whose principal amusement, was to join in those little parties so common in country villages, where you may see one man at work, and half a dozen looking on. This however soon gave way to the delight of all delights, to the contemplative philosopher, to wit: angling. He would sit on the rocky projection of some bold promontory jutting out into the unparalleled Hudson, the chief of all rivers, and put Job himself to shame. Morning, noon, and evening, there he sat watching the end of his pole, and buried in that delicious vacuum, when the mind as it were resigning its bright sceptre, an interregnum succeeds and one calm nothingness pervades existence. Tradition says, he sat so long at last, that he actually grew to the rock, and in the attempt to extricate himself, was happy to escape with a whole skin, by leaving a most consequential portion of his breeches sticking to a projection of Horneblende, a monument to his immortal glory.

It was thus that buried in reveries and abstractions, he attuned his mind to the depths of philosophy, and learned the most important of all arts, that of thinking. But his course of philosophy was too soon interrupted, by his being sent to another school in Jersey, about ten miles from his home, as he hath frequently mentioned to Mr. Acker, with tears in his eyes. Here he staid with an old relative who lived by himself, about three miles from the school. The way was by a solitary "turpentine walk," as Mr. Acker expresses it, which led along the devious windings of a pretty stream, running at the foot of a hill. If any of our readers have ever in their boyish days, been condemned to a solitary walk like this, in their way to and from school, they can judge how tedious, how irksome, how endless it is to a sprightly lad, full of life, health, mischief, and wantonness. Man was not born to live alone, nor more especially boys. Often, as he said to Mr. Acker, has he sat down at the foot of some old tree, and played truant all day in weeping over his loneliness. His only resource, as Mr. Acker expresses it, was "to wrap himself up in himself," by which we understand that he tried to forget the past and the present, by looking forward to the future alone. His sole companion in those lonely walks was a poor dumb girl,—for the honest folks of that day considered schools as great nurseries of idleness,— who is believed to be the heroine of the story of Phoebe Angevine, in the following collection.

Our author, agreeably to his own account, delivered at various times, in desultory conversations with his friend, Mr. Acker, continued this mode of life, passing and repassing to and from school, with no other companion, except his own melancholy thoughts, for upwards of three years. During this period, his leisure hours were principally passed in reveries, abstractions, wool-gathering, and the cultivation of the noble science of castle building. His winter evenings he spent for the most part, by the kitchen fire side, in listening to the traditionary lore of an old black sybil almost blind, but wonderfully fond of frightening delighted youngsters and listening country maids, with stories of witches, goblins, Indians, and revolutionary horrors. By listening to the frequent repetition of these rural romances he appears to have been imbued with that not uncommon species of credulity, in which the mind sometimes sinking under, at others triumphing over, the delusions of the imagination, alternately derides and trembles, laughs at, and believes, according as we happen to be in sunshine and society, or alone and in darkness.

At the expiration of three years, he left school, or the school left him, we cannot ascertain which, and here, as he was wont to say, ended his scholastic studies. He often hinted to his friend, Mr. Acker, that he was early thrown upon the world, in one of our great cities, the name of which Mr. Acker does not recollect, where his skill in castle building was held in little or no estimation, when put in comparison with that of a tolerable mason or carpenter. His first vocation was that of junior clerk to a dry-goods store keeper, in which he distinguished himself, by running his nose against lamp posts, and being run over by carts, in going upon errands—in selling goods and forgetting to take pay for them—and in blowing a cracked flute behind the counter of evenings, so villanously, that he drove all persons of common sensibility to the other side of the street. His master, who despised philosophy, abstraction, and the fine arts, as desperate enemies to the first of all arts, that of making money, lectured him daily, and finally turned him out of the shop, as an incurable blockhead, because he refused to give his honour that a piece of chintz, which a lady was cheapening, was actually offered at less than the first cost.

Here we lose sight of our author for some years, until we find him, according to his friend Mr. Acker's recollection, in some business or other, the precise nature of which he does not recollect. He remembers however, sufficient to know, that our author made but a poor business of it, whatever it was. He was one of those unlucky people, who, destined as they are to immortality, seem good for nothing in this world while living. He took every thing by the left hand, and his fingers were all thumbs. He believed every body, and trusted every body; and this species of implicit faith, is of no great value in temporal things. Such a man is always a mark for the little rogues of this world, and never fails to allure about him a circle of petty depredators, that are sure to bring him to ruin at last. Such appears to have been the case with our author, who as it would seem, lost his money, if he ever had any, his credit and his patience, and suddenly turning from the extreme of credulity to that of scepticism, became a hater and despiser of the world. Like the rest of mankind, he judged of it as he found, or rather made it himself; and converted the little swarm of plunderers whom his easy credulity had attracted from the general mass to fatten upon him, into the representatives of the whole hive.

It appears from circumstances, that our author resented his misfortunes so seriously, that he quarrelled with the world outright, and to revenge himself the more effectually, retired into the bosom of Staaten Island, where he took lodgings at an obscure inn, on a bye road leading from the Narrows to the Blazing Star Ferry, where he lived upon the lean, or rather picked the bones of the land. This house, which has lately been pulled down, was at that time kept by a whimsical old bachelor, who having in early life been jilted by a buxom little Dutch damsel, in revenge put up the sign of a woman without a head, which he called "The Good Woman," thereby maliciously insinuating a horrible libel on the whole sex. Never man, according to Mr. Acker, who resided about a quarter of a mile from the "Good Woman," never man lived upon so little, or made a suit of clothes last so long as did our author. Nobody could exactly tell how he lived, for he neither begged, borrowed, or stole, nor did he labour with his hands, except in writing, which he did great part of the day, deducting the long intervals, when he sat with pen suspended in his hand, watching as it were the smoke as it curled from the landlord's pipe, in a state of perfect "distraction," as Mr. Acker expressed it. We ourselves are of opinion he meant abstraction; but the difference is not material. It is not our business to solve the mystery how authors manage to exist in this world; we mean those who are condemned to live by thier wits, without the aid of fashionable friends, fashionable reviewers, and fashionable readers. We leave the solution to Him who watches over the fall of a sparrow, and who sent the ravens to feed the prophet in the wilderness. There are certain invisible means, inscrutable to the fat kine, by which the lean kine, among which we emphatically reckon the class of authors alluded to, manage to live, and move, and have a being, as it were in spite of nature and fate. Far be it from us to draw the veil from over the hallowed retreats of indigent, unpatronized genius, struggling with the neglect of the world, and its own worldly incapacities, and finally, perhaps, reaching the goal of immortality through the gloomy solitudes of a prison.

Here our author resided during the remainder of his days, which space of time comprises almost twenty years. During all this period, he was absent but three times, as we have taken the freedom to suppose, for the purpose of disposing of his writings; for it is difficult to comprehend what other business he could have. He formed no intimacy except with Mr. Acker, whose countenance as a magistrate was convenient in defending him against the prying curiosity of the neighbourhood, and those evil suggestions which mystery, however innocent and unaffected, is sure to excite. The only remarkable actions he performed in the course of this long sojourn among the simple children of the fields and woods, were killing an opossum and a rattle snake with sixteen rattles, the last that ever were seen on the island, either of which exploits, in the opinion of Squire Acker, fairly entitles him to a biography. Finally, he died at the supposed age of fourscore and ten years, without pain, and without fear, as a blameless old man should die; and slept not with his fathers, but among the children of strangers, who knew not even whence he came.

The younger Mr. Acker, as he is called by his neighbours, and who is now nearly ninety years old, has unluckily forgot our author's name; neither is there any person living who remembers it, so far as we have been able to ascertain. Though this must of necessity be a great disappointment to the curious reader, yet we know not that it is a circumstance much to be lamented. On the contrary, we are inclined to believe, that the obscurity, which in spite of all our researches, still hovers in misty vagueness over his birth, his life, his family, and his name, may contribute materially to the interest and popularity of the present work. Obscurity is held one of the prime sources of the sublime, and it is a subject worthy of curious inquiry, how far the sublimity of a work may depend upon its author being either entirely unknown, or only suspected by the public. However this may be, certain it is, that a detected author, like a detected criminal, does not stand the best chance of being admired by his friends. Having now told all we know of our author, we shall proceed to account for the manner in which the present work fell into the hands of the editor, who has lost no time in giving it—as the genteel phrase is—to the world.

In the course of last summer, there died in the neighbourhood of the city a very wealthy old gentleman, whose heirs, according to a pious and long established custom, quarrelling about the division of the estate, it was disposed of at public auction. Among his most valuable possessions, was a large library containing many rare books and manuscripts, which being of no use to the heirs, were sold for what they would bring. The manuscript whence the following tales have been selected, was one of these; it was a prime favourite with the worthy old gentleman who used to read it to his family with great effect of a long winter's evening, and it is recorded that not one of them ever fell asleep on these occasions, except when they were very tired. If the reader requires any other proof of the excellence of the manuscript, he will doubtless find it in a perusal of the following tales, which are faithfully printed from the original, with the exception of a few slight alterations in the spelling, which we have made on the authority of Mr. Webster's truly valuable dictionary, a work honourable to this country. How the deceased old gentleman came by the manuscript is not exactly known: but Mr. Abraham Acker has some remote idea of hearing, or dreaming he heard, our author about a year before his death, boast with no small degree of exultation, that he had sold a manuscript work which cost him only eighteen years labour, for fifteen silver dollars, to an old gentleman living in the vicinity of New-York. There can be no hesitation in believing this must have been the identical work, a selection from which is now offered to the public, especially when we assure the reader that Mr. Acker assured us, that he almost recollects crossing the ferry about this time with our author who carried a large bundle of papers under his arm. This circumstance fastened itself on his memory, by the phenomenon which accompanied the old gentleman's return, to wit, the jingling of his pockets.

Be this as it may, the deceased gentleman placed almost as high a value upon this acquisition as if it could be traced in a direct line from a Coptic monastery in Upper Egypt. Whether this was owing to its intrinsic value, or to its being unquestionably unique, must be left to the judgment of the reader. However, the fortunate possessor having deceased somewhat more than a twelvemonth ago, his property as we before premised, was sold and has passed into the hands of strangers. The old house was purchased and pulled down, by a lucky speculator in gas stock, who began to build a vast wooden palace for his posterity to sell, but he unluckily failed, before it was finished, by dipping a little too deep in a cotton speculation, whereby he got nearly smothered, and was fain to go back to his honest calling of a shipwright.

What was most to be regretted however, was the sale and dispersion of his library, consisting among other valuables, of souvenirs, magazines, romances, novels, tales, lying reports of societies, orations, biographies and poems, all of the very latest production. This was done by the authority of persons, whose names we forbear to drag before the world, although we cannot but regret that disposition to slight learning, prevalent in this busy, thriving, and opulent metropolis. For our humble part we were not so fortunate as to inherit any thing from our father, but a good name, but if we had, we would not have sold his old mansion house, provided he had left one, so long as we could have kept it without robbing others of their due. Far less would we have disposed of those books that bore his venerated name— those "dead friends," as the Indians beautifully describe them, which were the blessing of his leisure, the fountains of his wisdom, the companions of his old age, to purchase all the luxuries of modern frippery. But we beg pardon of all weeping heirs, and melancholy legatees for this digression.

It was truly mortifying, as showing the uncertain tenure of immortal fame, to see the treasures of fashionable literature knocked down for almost nothing, by the ignorant, unfeeling auctioneer, who, it was apparent, had no more respect for books than a Turk. Some one indeed bid off Miss Edgeworth at a high price, which seemed to astonish the man of the hammer, who observed she had been long out of date. "You are mistaken," replied the purchaser, "wit, and a keen observation of life and manners, based on good sense, can never be out of date, though they may be out of fashion." The English annuals were struck off to a picture virtuoso, who declared his intention of cutting out the plates, and throwing the rest away. The American Souvenirs were knocked on the head by an unlucky observation from a spruce Englishman, who observed that they had not cost one tenth as much as "the Keepsake," which had been got up at an expense of eleven thousand guineas. The fortunate purchaser, of the Keepsake, on hearing this, fancied he had got possession of a treasure, though he had only gained the sweepings of English literature, sanctioned by popular names, and embellished with a parcel of engravings, from worn out plates. Don Juan was bought by a young gentleman in whiskers, who was educating himself for a roue; and the Corsair, by a black looking, weather beaten, mysterious person, who was shrewdly suspected of being one of the gang of pirates, dispersed and annihilated by the gallant Commodore Porter. The Loves of the Angels, Little's Poems, and divers others of the same author, were purchased for little or nothing, by a middle aged lady, dressed in the extravagance of the mode, who I afterwards recognized at the police, as the mistress of a disorderly house. Another, but staid, grave female in a plaid cloak secured a bushel of the latest popular English poetry, for the use of her nursery, observing that such had been the rapid "developement" of mind within a few years past, that the little children turned up their noses at Giles Gingerbread and Goody Two-Shoes. In short, a fashionable author, who thought himself sure of immortality, might here have received a mortifying lesson of the transitory nature of popular applause, and sighed over the anticipation of speedy oblivion. The last and most lamentable of these sacrifices, was that of two copies of the London Literary Gazette, and Blackwood's Magazine, which were bought for six cents a volume, by a famous grocer, who, comparatively speaking, hath destroyed more valuable works, in the course of his business, than were consumed in the Alexandrian Library.

It may be asked why we ourselves did not appropriate some of these ineffable varieties. But we had reasons for declining, which however old fashioned and obsolete, are not the worst in the world. We were fain to limit ourselves to the purchase of the manuscript to which we have so frequently alluded, for a sum which will be kept a profound secret. Whether it was so large as to amount to an imprudency on our part; or so small as to entitle the work to the scorn of all fashionable readers, is a mystery between ourselves and the auctioneer, who hath sworn by his hammer not to reveal it except to posterity.

Previous to concluding this interesting portion of our editorial labours, we will pause one moment in order to anticipate the cavils of certain critics, who we foresee will be inclined to make themselves amends for not being able to find fault with the work itself, without doing violence to their consciences, by denying the claims of our author to his own labours. Doubtless they will insist that there is nothing in the history and character of our author, or in the scanty information derived from Mr. Acker, to justify the assumption of his being capable of inditing tales, displaying a knowledge of life, and an acquaintance with the fashionable world, such as is found in the following work.

But let these gentlemen cavillers, who think they are marvellously conversant with high life, because they have read Pelham and Almacks, and perhaps figured at the tea parties of some rich broker—let them be quiet as becomes them. They know no more of fashionable life, than the authors of these works, or the broker himself; and may be likened to the mouse who fancied he had tasted the cream of the cheese, when he had only nibbled at the rind. Let them be told, and shut their mouths thereafter for ever, that there is no place in which a keen observer can attain to a clearer knowledge of the foibles and peculiarities of fashionable women, than a fashionable store, or tip-top milliner's. Where is it that they are so often found, and where else do they exhibit their tastes and propensities so frankly? It is there that their little caprices, their indecision, their extravagances, and all the changeable silk of their characters are exhibited without disguise; and it was doubtless while blowing his cracked flute behind the counter, that our author attained to that intimate knowledge as well as nice perception of character, so agreeably exhibited in the following work, which from having been written in that paradise of musquitoes, Staaten Island, at the sign of the "Good Woman," he hath sportively called "Tales of the Good Woman."

To that class of ill-natured and prying readers, which is ever finding out personal allusions and individual characters, in the most innocent generalities, we will content ourselves with stating, that our author certainly died at least ten years ago, according to the testimony of Mr. Acker, who has some idea of having attended his funeral. This single fact, we trust, will serve to do away all suspicion of any allusion to the fashionable society of the present day, since every body knows that a very large portion of those who figure as leaders in the beau monde, at present, were utterly unknown at that time.

TALES OF THE GOOD WOMAN. BY A DOUBTFUL GENTLEMAN. THE YANKEE ROUÉ.

—"I have more than I shall spend—mark sir!
"I would have this nephew of mine converse with gentlemen;
"I'll not pinch him in his allowance;
"The University had almost spoil'd him."
"With what, sir?"
"With modesty; a thing you know
"Not here in fashion—but that's almost cur'd."

Shirley.

CHAPTER I. THE UNCLE.

Young Calvin Sopus began life with every possible advantage for rising in the world, for he was born at the bottom of the wheel. He had no fortune, and there was therefore every motive to exert himself; he had no family, and was therefore not afraid of disgracing it by following any honest calling. I am not jesting, gentle reader, when I call these advantages. When thou hast seen as much of the world as I have, and witnessed the natural tendency of wealth and honours to sink, and of lowliness and poverty to rise, when left to their natural, unrestricted operation, thou wilt not hesitate to say with me, that to be placed in a situation where active exertion is necessary and honest occupation not beneath us, is to be born under a lucky star. Our hero—or rather our hero's uncle, had still another great natural advantage, if any more were necessary. He was blessed with a numerous race of brothers and sisters, who in good time made it necessary for the old ones to turn out of the hive to make way for the young ones. At the age of ten or eleven, or somewhere thereabout, he was placed with a neighbouring farmer, where he worked late and early—fed hard—slept hard—and had rather a hard time of it, as the well to do in the world say of those who are not so well fed, well clothed, and well lodged as themselves. They are not aware, poor souls! that labour which blesses others, blesses the labourer too; and that his very privations are hallowed as blessings, by the zest which wholesome occupation gives, to his amusements, his rest, and his food. Do these foolish people who pamper themselves into a delusion of happiness, by pitying the labouring classes, believe themselves selected from the great mass of mankind for exclusive enjoyments? Do they presume to think that Providence while bestowing upon them riches without labour or desert, hath entailed on all the rest of mankind the necessity of labour as a curse? That it hath condemned a vast majority of the human race to misery in this life, and a little meager minority to happiness without any peculiar merit of their own, because the one is obliged to labour, the other able to live in idleness? This cannot be. All that ambition wins, or avarice covets, can neither give or take away happiness. These are but straws and feathers for children to tire themselves with running after. They are the bones that Providence throws away, and which set the mighty mastiffs of the earth snarling and fighting evermore.

When Tamerlane the Great, who was lame of a leg, had conquered, taken prisoner, and overturned the throne of Bajazet the Great, Emperor of the Turks, who was blind of an eye, and the latter was brought before him, he burst into a fit of laughter. Bajazet reproached him with jesting at his misfortunes. "No," replied Tamerlane, "I was laughing to think what little value Allah must place upon power, wealth, and dominion, when he has taken an empire from a man with one eye to give to another with one leg."

But what has Calvin Sopus to do with Khans, Emperors, and Empires, quoth the critical reader. Be quiet, dear sir, I beseech thee; pray let me tell my story in my own way if you please. You don't know but I mean to make Calvin an Emperor before I have done with him. Stranger things than that have happened in our time—at least in fashionable novels.

Calvin remained with the farmer, working like one of his horses, every day and all day long, except Sundays, when he went to meeting in a new linsey woolsey suit of blue and grey mixture. Few and far between were the incidents that marked his life during the period between his debut and the age of sixteen years. One was the purchase of a beaver hat, which consumed the savings of years; the other his conversion to Methodism by a ghost which he saw on his return from a camp-meeting. He was passing a dark lane with a thick wood on either side, through which the little beams of moonlight darted here and there, when he saw something standing close to the fence. It was as white as a sheet, and there never was such a thing known as a black ghost. Had it been black, it would have been the Devil; but being white, it could be nothing but a ghost. The old farmer's wife threw up her eyes and took down her Hymn Book; the old farmer asked him why he did not speak to it.

"Speak to it!" quoth Calvin, "I had'nt breath to do any thing but run away."

So Calvin set it down that it was a ghost, and as ghosts never appear except for good reasons, which they always take care to keep to themselves, he took it for granted that something was going to happen. The very next night there was a bright aurora borealis, which set all the old women prophecying war, pestilence, and famine. Just such a thing appeared, exactly in the same place, just before the Revolutionary War. In addition to this, somebody saw a ball of fire, flashing before his window, and then there came a great clap of thunder, and then the windows rattled just as if there had been a great earthquake, just such a one as happened before the old French war in Canada. If the reader has ever lived—has ever had the happiness I would say, for if my memory don't deceive me, I was once happy there—if he has ever had the happiness of living in the country—he must have learned from his own experience, that the goddess Rumour was born and brought up in a country village. The people of crowded cities are nothing to the idle gossips of a village, for keeping up a rumour. Neither will he, I think, have failed to observe that there is much more of superstitious credulity in the retired shades of life than in the crowd; not because the people are more ignorant, but that there is something in the quiet of the country—the loneliness of the pathways— the whisperings of the woods, the murmuring of the waters, the very hum of the insects, added to the repose, the gravity—the almost sadness which nature sometimes wears—for even her smiles are melancholy—there is something in all this, which disposes the mind to cower under the imagination—to conjure up visions of possibilities it nover cherished before—to start at shadows— quail at a sound—to believe and tremble. I myself have felt all this a thousand times—although I confess, old as I am, my reveries were of another class when I was young. I never entered a solitude or buried myself in the wicked twilight of the woods, without directly conjuring up the bright vision of some reigning fair one, the distant unapproachable object of my dreams and reveries, in whose presence I had never dared to do any thing but look just like a fool. But alone by myself in a wood, not Demosthenes was more eloquent, when haranguing the brawling waves with his mouth full of pebbles. I wish I could remember, that I might repeat some of my declarations, for the benefit of the dumb dandies of the day, whose silence, as I am credibly informed, is much complained of by the young ladies.

Be this as it may, Calvin waxed very serious after the sight of the ghost—the mysterious light in the north—the ball of fire—the clap of thunder, and the rattling of the windows. The spectre of death now began to hover before him, in his solitary walks to and from the fields—his mind was gradually imbued with gloomy, superstitious ideas— he became thin, pale, and sad—and his labours often stood still while he was pondering on his approaching fate—for it was not long ere he convinced himself he was ill and going to die. He continued to attend the meetings which were from time to time held in the neighbourhood, and was at length "struck down," as the phrase is—that is, he sunk under his weakness of body and fearful depression of mind, and lay for a while howling on the floor, in a state half physically, half morally distracted. He revived after a time, and sunk into horrors inexpressible; day nor night, nor labour nor repose, nor prayer nor repentance, nor purposed amendment, afforded the poor youth relief or respite. He imagined himself wrestling with Satan, who was shaking him over the bottomless pit—and— but my object is not his history, but that of his nephew. The good farmer sent for a doctor, a shrewd, observing, experienced old humourist, as many country doctors are, who felt his pulse, asked some questions, consulted the head of his loaded whip, and called Calvin a great blockhead.

"The fellow has got the pulse of a horse, the nerves of a lion, and the heart of a weasel. He is as well as I am, and will live at least a hundred years after you and I are gone." So saying he gave Calvin a smart cut with his whip across the shins, told him to get to work as hard as he could, and mounting his horse trotted away to his next patient. Calvin was so delighted to hear that he was not like to die soon, notwithstanding the ghost, the light in the north, and the other omens, that he took the doctor's advice, fell to work harder than ever, and was soon strong enough to bid defiance to his old enemy the ghost. He is not the only example of this sort which has fallen under my notice. He continued, however, to frequent Methodist meetings, till he came to town and grew rich, when he bought a pew in a genteeler church, there being a gentility in religion as well as in every thing else. But I must not take up too much of the reader's attention with Calvin, and thereby make him the hero of my story, although in so doing I might plead the example of Homer, whose real hero is certainly Hector; or of Milton, who has, unwittingly without doubt, concentrated his genius upon a personage who shall be nameless.

About the time that Calvin attained the age of eighteen, the good farmer with whom he lived, smitten by the far off and cheap beauties of the west, sold his house and every thing belonging thereto, and packed himself away to Ohio, where he bought half a township, and in process of time became a patroon. Calvin had a great deal of industry and very little enterprize. He did not like to go so far from home; so he determined to go to the city and seek his fortune. He arrived there with the product of all his hard earnings and savings, which was just enough to purchase a horse and cart, with which he commenced Jehu. Of his progress from a cartman to a grocer, from a grocer to a shipping merchant, and thence to a bold trader to China and the Northwest Coast, we shall enter into no details. It is sufficient to say, that by the time he grew too old to enjoy riches, he was as rich as a broker. Nothing indeed is more easy than to grow rich. It is only to trust nobody—to befriend no one—to get every thing, and save all we get—to stint ourselves and every body belonging to us—to be the friend of no man, and have no man for our friend—to heap interest on interest, cent upon cent—to be mean, miserable, and despised, for some twenty or thirty years, and riches will come as sure as disease and disappointment.

Calvin was now almost sixty years old, and a bachelor. He had been so busy making money, that he could not spare time to look out for a wife. Now it was too late, and his first great disappointment, after getting his money, was not knowing what to do with it. There are no people more anxious for some one to give their money to after death, than those who give nothing away while living. He cast about among his relatives, of whom he had not hitherto taken the least notice, although there were divers good people in the Bowery and Pump-street, who boasted of being related to the rich China merchant, Calvin Sopus, Esquire, and much good did it do them. At length, he discovered among the sugar boxes, molasses hogsheads, and flies of a little corner grocery, "up town," a nephew, the son of his eldest sister, who had married an honest man of the name of Sheffield, whose mother's name had been Stafford. Agreeably to the fashion of the times, the eldest son was called Stafford Sheffield, and a very pretty name it was, and a very pretty lad was he. Nothing could equal his happiness, when the old man took him home, and announced that if he behaved himself like a man, he would make a man of him.

Rich old men, who have risen from a low state, generally despise gentlemen with all their might, yet are always desirous that their sons and heirs should be gentlemen. I never knew a rich cobbler or tailor, who was anxious that his son should follow his trade. There were two good reasons why Calvin should be a humourist. He was rich and a bachelor. Now only give an old man plenty of elbow room, and plenty of money, and ten to one, he will branch out into rare eccentricities, the greater in all probability, from their having been circumscribed in early life by poverty. There never was such a galley slave as poor Stafford Sheffield, from the moment he was transplanted from the shades of Pump-street to the sunshine of Hudson Square. He envied the cook in the kitchen, and the chimney sweepers in the street, for they were all free compared with him. There was not a moment of his life when he could do as he liked, and for some years he sustained a species of tyranny, which hath no name and no parallel in this world.

The old man had satisfied himself that the best, nay, the only effectual way of teaching young people self-denial, which in his opinion, and there he was right, was the safeguard of all the virtues, was never to permit them to do as they liked. Accordingly his practice was to ask the young man, if he would like to do this, or have that, or go thither; and if he replied "Yes," to deny him without ceremony. In this way, as he one day boasted to a neighbour, who was complaining of the conduct of his son—in this way he nipped his inclinations in the bud, and taught him the virtue of self-denial. It happened that our hero overheard this disclosure, and from that time he never wanted for any thing. "Boy," would Calvin say "should you like to go to the play to night" "N-n-o," would he answer, drawling and yawning, as if overcome with listelessness. "Why then, you shall go, you rascal," cries Calvin. "What a clever youth is my nephew," would he add when he was gone, "he cares nothing for frolic or amusement. Ah! this comes of my system of teaching self-denial." And he grew to love him so well, for having done so much honour to his system of self-denial, that Stafford had never afterwards any occasion to practice self-denial while the old man lived.

From the period in which Stafford attained the promise of manhood, attentions such as he had never received before, flowed in upon his uncle. The old man was continually invited out to dinners and parties, and there was hardly a day in which he did not receive some little present. In particular, a widow lady, who had nine pretty little accomplished daughters, who understood the art of spending according to the most fashionable canons of the day, almost stuffed him to death with jellies and blanc-mange. The dæmon of vanity actually awakened in the heart of the old man, and he sometimes thought to himself, the widow certainly had an eye upon him. He was mistaken, it was on his nephew. Whether it was gratitude for the jellies bestowed on his thrice honoured uncle, or the beauty of Miss Angelina's foot, that won him, I know not—but certain it is, that before our hero was twenty, he was irrevocably engaged to the young lady.

Luckily for young heirs, old men cannot live for ever. One day the enamoured widow sent Calvin a present of a pine-apple, of which he ate as he was wont to do of every thing that cost him nothing. The weather was very hot—and—why should I dwell on the heart-rending scene—in two short days Stafford was the disconsolate heir of—nobody could tell how much. But the widow, who had caused her son, who was an attorney and moreover a commissioner for taking affidavits, to make particular examination, privately assured Miss Angelina, that it was not far from half a million. Whereupon the young lady put on her hat, and shawl, and feathers, and flounces, and flags, and streamers, sticks, whalebones, combs, pearls, chains, squares, rounds, three corners, busks, bodices, scarfs, borders, fans, fardingales, puffs, cuffs, ruffs, muffs, puzzles, fuzzles, frizzles, frizlets, bandlets, fillets, crosslets, bracelets armlets, amulets pendulets, with divers other nameless embellishments, and went and ran up a bill of two hundred dollars at the milliners. "We shall have the wedding before the mourning is over. What's the use of standing on ceremony with the memory of an old hunks like Sopus," quoth the widow. But the widow reckoned without her host.

CHAPTER II. OUR HERO GOES ABROAD TO FINISH HIS EDUCATION.

There was one part of Calvin's will that pleased Stafford amazingly. "I give and bequeath the whole of my estate, real and personal, to my nephew Stafford Sheffield." There was another part that made him laugh outright—"And considering that he was of age the day before yesterday and having the fullest confidence in those lessons of self-denial I have taught him, I hereby make him my sole executor." There was another part that caused him to make wry faces—"Provided that he assume the name and arms of Sopus."

"Plague take his name, and his arms too," quoth Stafford—"Nobody ever heard of either of them before. Stafford Sheffield Sopus! Gods what an anti-climax. I must see whether it is worth my while to make such a sacrifice." Accordingly he took to examining the items and there he encountered such stocks, such mortgages, such real estates, that his heart forthwith relented; and he announced to Miss Angelina that he was in future to be Mr. Sopus. "Sopus!" screamed she—but discretion and love stopped what farther she would have said. That unfortunate young lady, however, underwent a severe struggle between the name of Mrs. Sopus and the half a million. Affection at length carried the day, and she decided in favour of the half a million.

But it is astonishing what different views of things people take at different times. It is like looking through a Claude Lorraine glass, where sunshine and shade, and twilight succeed each other by turns. A young gentleman in expectancy, thinks and sees very differently from a young gentleman in possession. Besides, Stafford— away with the vulgar name of Sopus, which we will not allow our hero to assume until sanctioned by the legislative authority—Besides, our hero had no conception of the real wealth of his uncle, neither was he actually certain of inheriting it until it fell into his mouth. Had it been fifty, or even a hundred thousand, he might have brought himself to bury himself, his talents, and his money, in the oblivion of this new world. But half a million! It was impossible for a young man with half a million, to set himself down quietly at home, marry and amen! "I must first see the world, that's settled," quoth he.

Accordingly one beautiful moonlight evening he paid Angelina a visit, and the prudent mother very considerately left the young people together. "Lovers can't resist the moon," thought she. "He'll certainly fix the day this night." So thought the young lady—but ladies old and young are often disappointed. Our hero began—"My beloved Angelina, suffer me to call you mine, now that I am about"—here the young lady thought it was certainly coming—"now that I am about leaving you for a time, a year perhaps—an age to those who love like me."

"Leave me!" exclaimed she, in great surprise.

"Yes, my own Angelina, I am going to make myself worthy of you and of the happiness to which I aspire. I am going to see the world and finish my education, which I am sorry to say has been greatly neglected."

"You know best," answered the gentle Angelina, "but you had better talk to mamma," and she was rising to ring the bell.

"O no, don't, for heaven's sake!" cried friend Sopus, "I can't bear to have the mysteries of our love developed. I will write to your mother from the Hook. Adieu! my best beloved—think of me, write to me, and never forget me. I go to return more worthy of thy love." So saying, he darted out of the room in an agony of grief.

"What shall I do—what shall I do," cried Angelina, as her mother entered the room.

"You'd better make friends with the young broker again," answered the discreet mother.

"But perhaps," cried the daughter, "perhaps he'll fulfil his vows after he has finished his learning."

"Pooh, girl, you talk like a simpleton."

"If I were a widow, I dare say I should know better," answered Angelina in a sulky whisper.

Our hero was sorry, very sorry, that he was under the necessity of going abroad and finishing his education; but his sorrow diminished with the distance from home. As he lost sight of the Highlands of Neversink, the figure of the gentle Angelina become dim. When he got to the Banks of Newfoundland, and caught such a plenty of cod-fish, it became indistinct, and by the time he got to the English coast, it had almost entirely disappeared. He came to England with his pockets full of money, and I advise every body not to go there without it. They will neither get good eating nor good manners. He went to a fox chase, and wonderful to relate, came back pefectly cured of his love. Accordingly the next morning he despatched a letter to Angelina, informing her that he had been at a fox chase, and that the superior transports of that noble amusement had satisfactorily convinced him there was something in the world he loved better than his adored Angelina. This being the case, as a man of honour, he was bound to release her from her engagement, which he now did, wishing she was only a man, that she might unite with him in the pleasures of fox hunting. Three weeks after the receipt of this letter, Angelina married the broker.

CHAPTER III. PROGRESS OF OUR HERO'S EDUCATION.

There was but one drawback upon our hero's happiness, on his arrival in England, and that was his name, which he cursed ten times a day. "I wish I had thought of it in time, and I would have applied to have Sopus put at the beginning instead of the end of my name, and then I could have sunk the old tea merchant. Now it is too late. But never mind—any name is genteel that is taken for an estate." But for all this he sunk the Sopus, every where but in his banker's books, and affected the name of Sheffield.

A man—a young man—with little experience and plenty of money, soon finishes his education abroad. It generally costs him more money than time. "But time is money," quoth poor Richard— and spending money to save time is therefore your true philosophy. Sopus had no more philosophy than a wild-goose—but nature often instinctively hits the true path of wisdom without a guide. It was so with our hero. In about two years, he got through the better half of half a million. He spent money in equipages—he spent it in horse races—at Brooke's—at taverns, and in worse places than either of these. He fancied that his half a million, was equal to a yearly income of half a million, and therefore entered the lists of folly with those who could afford to spend as much in one year, as he could all his life. No wonder he got on so fast with his education.

A party was going to Paris, having become somewhat tired of the English modes of spending money. There is nothing so tiresome, so sating, so absolutely sickening and monotonous, as a life of pleasure. While it incapacitates us for useful or rational pursuits, it supplies their absence by listlessness and vacuity. Our hero was tired of England, notwithstanding he had actually acquired some pretensions to the character of a Roué, which of all others is the one most coveted by young men of spirit, and most adored by young, aye, and old ladies of ton in England. He had had an affair— had taken his degree at Doctors Commons, and had only paid five thousand pounds for destroying the connubial felicity of a most amiable man, on the score of having proved that there was no connubial felicity to destroy. Nothing was wanting to the consummation of his fame but a duel. But alas! that was impossible. The injured party was a clergyman. So our hero was obliged to content himself with the honours of gallantry, foregoing those of courage.

Other exploits had contributed to raise his reputation. He had acted at a private theatre— made a speech at a meeting of the society for something or other—figured at a masquerade, and been introduced to the king. If this is not worth the half of half a million, I should like to know what is?

On his way to Dover, our hero looked several times out at the window of the post-chaise, but soon fell asleep, and waked only to eat his meals. "I came to study men and manners—it is not necessary for my education, that I should study landscapes and old Gothic trumpery—let painters and poets look to that." So he slept like a genuine tourist, from London to Dover; with the interregnums aforesaid.

In the steam-boat, he was politely accosted by a plain, yet dignified old gentleman, who observed that the boat was neither so elegant nor so swift as some of those he had seen in America. "Can't say, indeed," said our hero, superciliously. "I beg pardon," said the old gentleman, "I am an American, and thought I recognized you as a countryman." Friend Sopus was wroth: "What! not rubbed off the yankee yet?" quoth he. "Am I right?" asked the old gentleman. "Why—yes," said the other, "I was born in New-York—but really, as I mean to spend the rest of my life"— he ought to have said his money—"abroad, I have given up my country. I am no longer an American."

"Permit me to thank you, in the name of my countrymen," said the old gentleman, making him a low bow, and turning on his heel.

The companions of our hero burst into a loud laugh.

"What does the man mean?" cried he.

"He means that your countrymen are much obliged to you."

"If I thought so, I would—"

"Say nothing more about the matter," quoth his friend.

On arriving in Paris, Sopus called on the American minister, in whose person he recognized the old gentleman before whom he had abjured his country. Sopus made his visit as short as possible.

CHAPTER IV. OUR HERO FINISHES HIS EDUCATION AT PARIS.

Having still plenty of money, our hero found no difficulty in finding ways and means of spending it. Riches make themselves wings every where, but no where do they fly away more pleasantly than in Paris. He got acquainted with the dancers at the Opera Francois, and they furnished one wing. He got acquainted with the beau monde, and they furnished another. Finally, he got acquainted with some of the gambling houses, and they added two more. An American gentleman never suspects foul play in gambling with gentlemen, for he has no experience of that sort at home. But there are such things abroad, even among titled personages. A baron and a count attached themselves to him particularly, and what was not a little remarkable, never played without winning his money, although they never won before in their lives, and were especially mortified that this rare turn of fortune should be at the expense of their particular friend.

Our hero, while administering at the grocery in Pump-street, had whiled away the tedious intervals of leisure, by learning to play the fiddle a little. Transplanted to the genial regions of the Square, he took a master, and, as every man is good for something, he discovered an aptitude for music, and became a capital amateur. For the last twenty years music has got the better of all the arts and sciences in Europe. A Prima Donna reigns more despotically, and gives herself ten times more airs than a Semiramis; a fashionable composer, outranks a first rate poet or philosopher; and a man that can sing one of Rossini's songs, never wants a supper. Our hero got acquainted with Rossini, the vainest blockhead of the age, and gained his confidence to such a degree, that he told him in private, he had received immense offers through the British Ambassador, who had been specially instructed by his government. He thought, however, he should decline them, lest it might occasion a war between the two countries. "And what will the poor Dutchess de—say?" quoth Rossini, taking a pinch of snuff out of a gold box set with diamonds, and bearing the picture of an emperor, which had been given him for composing "Di tanti palpiti ," an air he had stolen from the Tyrolese, and spoiled a little.

Sopus was now at the pinnacle. He was introduced to Mademoiselle Sontag, who sung him a song which cost him five hundred guineas, in suppers and tickets for her benefit. He played the fiddle for her, and she declared every where in the first circles, that he played like a king. Now every thing done in the manner of kings, is perfect in Paris, except among the Liberals. Accordingly, the Liberals abused, and the Ultras praised; all Paris was divided into factions, and Rossini become jealous lest our hero's fiddle should cut out his piano. A musical war raged for some time, and produced great discords in the beau monde.

All this while our hero's money, which after all is a sine qua non in the fashionable world, was melting, or rather flying away rapidly. How could it do otherwise when it had so many wings? It is astonishing how little difference there is between a great deal and a little money. Every thing depends on the owner. If he is a prudent man, with moderate desires, he has always a plenty of money; but if, like our hero, he has been properly initiated into the virtue of self-denial, let him have boundless wealth, and he will always be wanting. It is not the money, but the man, makes the real difference between a competency and wealth. All other is ideal.

The ultras were delighted with our hero's fiddle, because he played like a king; and especially because he was an amateur, and it was charming to get so expensive an article as music for nothing. Among every people except barbarians and semibarbarians, it is the custom to devote all our attention to married ladies, leaving the young unmarried ones to get married as soon as possible. The unenlightened semi-barbarians of this republic rail at this as indicating corruption of manners. They should have heard the sentiments of our hero, derived from a first rate philosopher, on this subject. He was accustomed to assert that this fashion of following married women was founded in the strictest reason and propriety. In reason, because a man could not pay particular attention to a single lady without exciting disreputable suspicions that he intended to marry her. In propriety, because every body knew a man could not well marry a woman who already had a husband, and therefore nobody could suspect him of such an intention. It deceived no one and therefore there was no harm in it. The custom he maintained, was moreover founded, in the highest possible respect for the sex, since it furnished the best evidence of the virtue of the married ladies, who certainly would not permit such attentions, unless they felt themselves above all danger. Finally, it was his opinion that the custom was invaluable to the interests of the world at large, because it encouraged marriages, as the only means of gaining those attentions which are so indispensable to a fashionable lady.

"But what do the husbands say to all this?" asked some one.

"Husbands? why what business is it to them?" replied Sopus.

What a fine thing is travelling, if a man only knows how to make good use of his opportunities— and how much he may improve his countrymen, and more especially his countrywomen when he comes home!

Friend Sopus finished his education as a roué, and his estate about the same time. The count and the baron never had such a run of luck before, and fortune now seemed to make them ample amends for all her former frowns. But a man can't sleep forever, and all at once it occurred to our hero that this unceasing run of the count and baron was somewhat singular. He determined to watch them, but he might as well have let it alone; for they would not have completely finished him in a month or two perhaps, if they had not perceived with the quick instinct of guilt, that he began to be a little suspicious of his friends. Taking advantage of one of those tides on which the affairs of men float to success or ruin, when our hero was flushed with wine, and with a billet from a dutchess who was a grandmother—ergo—a perfect Ninon, they assailed him with the oft practised and oft detected arts of a gambler, and completed his ruin in a single night, at a single sitting. They left him, as poor as old Sopus when he began the world with his horse and cart.

Our hero knew enough of the world, to know that the less the world knows of a man's wants, the better is he likely to be treated. He therefore said nothing about his being a ruined man. But murder will out, and so will poverty, either at the elbows or somewhere else. There is a pestilent servility commonly attendant upon it, that never fails to betray it to the eyes of experience. I never see a person that has treated me as a common acquaintance, or perhaps neglected me entirely for years, grow all at once very attentive, in calling and leaving cards, but I begin to suspect the rogue is going down hill—and, alas! for human nature—my suspicions are generally realized in the end. From being impudent, or rather from possessing that open self-possession, and happy confidence, which attends a man conscious of wealth, and sure of a welcome reception, our hero dwindled all at once into a mighty modest gentleman, and sneaked into a drawing room as quietly as a cat. Hereupon the bon ton began to smell a rat. Nothing but poverty, thought the wiser ones, can bring a fashionable roué to this pass. The suspicion was verified not long after, in his making a demonstration upon the purse of one of his best friends—a man who delighted in his music beyond measure so long as it cost him nothing. But though he loved music, he loved his money still better, and came off triumphantly, with an apology and a quick step.

Our hero became melancholy and thoughtful. Nay, he moralized, and railed at the ingratitude and bad taste of the Parisians, who would give every thing but money for a song. When a man is unhappy abroad, ten to one, but he begins to think of "home, sweet home." I heard three chimney sweeps singing that charming song in the snow the other day; so the sentiment must be universal. Our hero first thought—then sighed—then pined for home. Finally, he came to the resolution of once more visiting his dear native country, and marrying Angelina—for he had not heard of the inconstancy of that faithless woman. "I will teach them," quoth he, "to estimate properly the value of a fiddler—the delights of the opera, and the opera dancers—I will refine, enlighten, and civilize my semi-barbarous countrymen, who don't know the exquisite propriety of courting the married, and neglecting the single ladies, except the latter are rich; and my more than semi-barbarous countrywomen, who are as skittish as wild colts, a sure sign of ill breeding. I will teach the young gentlemen the proper value of whiskers—the young ladies the importance of rouge—the married women to flirt, and the married men to shut their eyes. In short, I will be the Solon of the fashionable world. The ladies will have me at their parties—the citizens will give me dinners— the single ladies will set their caps at me, and their mammas will encourage them, so long as they remain ignorant of the mortality of old Sopus' money bags—and that I shall take care they shall not soon know. I'll marry an heiress—I'll gallant the married ladies—I'll"—But where is the money to clear you out of Paris, and pay your passage across the seas—whispered that ill natured rascal, matter of fact.

He cast about among his dear friends. He went to the count and the baron, and stated his case frankly. The count and the baron had only won a couple of hundred thousands, and they generously lent him ten thousand francs. "You may depend on my remitting you the money on my arrival." "My dear friend, say no more—the money is yours." "What a couple of generous fellows are the count and the baron," quoth Sopus. And having finished his education, he embarked for the new world.

CHAPTER V. OUR HERO RETURNS TO HIS NATIVE CITY.

Rumour had wafted the fame of Sopus to the uttermost ends of the city, even into the farthest parts of Pump-street. It was reported by divers supercargoes and sea captains, who had been to London and Paris, that he moved in the highest circles—that he had lost a thousand guineas to the Duke of York, on a race—dined with the Duke of Sussex—had his health drank at a sheep shearing, at Holkham—and danced a minuet at Almacks with a dutchess, of three tails. These were his English glories. At Paris he was in the first circles too—supped with the Sontag—was adth whd behind the scenes at the grand opera—and played duetts with the Grandissimo Rossini. The very paving stones of the happy city, pricked up their ears, when our hero first set foot upon them; the fashionable world received him with open arms; the young ladies looked up to him as a glorious conquest—the young gentlemen studied him as a model; the mothers took every opportunity of telling him how much he was adthred by their daughters; and the rich brokers hailed him as an accession of specie, or a rise in bank stock. But they did not know he was only worth five thousand franks in the world. "What a wonderful improvement," cried Mrs Cridler, who had never seen him before in her life—"What an air—O, there is nothing like travelling," cried Mrs. Crawbuck—"What a head, a perfect Appleo," cried Mrs. Smirk—And "Heavens! what a pair of whiskers!" cried Mrs. Rosencrantz—at a small party given in honour of our hero's arrival.

"I wonder if they are natural," cried a young lady of great inexperience, being just from the Springs, after six weeks absence from town.

"O certainly," answered Heartwell, a young fellow of whom the reader will hear more anon, "certainly, it is a revival of an old fashion, with a little alteration. Then the swallows built in old men's beards, now they prefer young ones—that's all, madam."

"La!" cried the inexperienced young lady, "you don't say so?" a question not to be answered; so Heartwell strolled away in search of farther food for his satire. He was one of those men who can say what they please. What a glorious privilege! It is better than being an English bishop!

Sopus—unhappy name to pollute our high bred pages—Sopus, after he had been in town about a fortnight, thought he would go and see Miss Angelina. It was rather an impudent thing, but nothing for a man who had finished his education abroad. He knocked at the door of the widow, and asked for the young lady. She was married and had six children! "Base woman!" exclaimed our hero to himself, "I'll go and reproach her for her falsehood. It is true I resigned her when I went abroad, but how could she tell whether I would not have claimed her when I came home. But these women have no patience." He went according to the direction given him, and found the house where his mistress resided, large and splendid. The broker had got rich, heaven knows how, it is not my business. "Faith," said Sopus, "the lady is not without excuse." He rung, and was adth whd. The lady of the house came forward without knowing to whom, as we don't announce names here. She was as fat and as ugly as—there is no comparison that will do her justice. Sopus was struck into a cold shiver at the precipice he had escaped, and finding the lady did not immediately recollect him, made a low bow, saying he had unfortunately mistaken the house, and retreated with vast precipitation. "I forgive her," said he, "for not waiting for me;" and Angelina told every body of the strange man with great whiskers, that had called to see her by mistake.

Our hero notwithstanding the numerous invitations he received, and the life of pleasure he led, felt himself frequently at a loss for excitement. Excitement! that is as necessary to people that have nothing to do as air is to animated nature. It is in search of excitement, that men plunge into vices, and women into follies if not crimes. Excitement is the will o' the wisp, that leads to a thousand paths of misery and repentance; that like jealousy increases by what it feeds on, and finally from gentle impulses, proceeds to excesses that mar the ends of our existence, and end in irretrievable misery and disgrace. "When I hear young ladies talk as they do about wanting excitement," said Heartwell one day to me, "I figure to myself a being sated with all the rational delights of the world, wasted by indolence—weakened by dissipation—pampering her imagination with dangerous delusions, and sighing for fleeting pleasures either beyond her reach or if within it, fatal in the enjoyment." So said Heartwell, but he was sometimes a most intolerable proser.

When men lose their taste for innocent amusements and rational pleasures, if they are not restrained either by conscience, or by want of means and opportunity, they begin to seek those that are neither one nor the other. A life of pleasure is therefore, too often a life of progressive deterioration. He who is tired of the company of pure and innocent females, sinks too often down to the society of those who are not so. He to whom the gentle smiles of young unsuspecting preference, the speaking eye full of innocent yet expressive meanings, has become incapable of making his heart throb, and his imagination dance, will most likely seek these excitements in tumultuous revelry, or lascivious debaucheries. He, in short, who has properly completed his education abroad, cannot possibly live without the excitement of something a little piquant in morals, a little spice of foreign seasoning, in short he will require the excitement of something either unattainable, or attainable only at the price of some little delicious fashionable wickedness such as is quite compatible with the character of a gentleman. It was so with our hero—to him fruit was of no value unless it was forbidden fruit. He would not have picked up a pippin on the highway, but he was ready to risk his neck in climbing after a crab apple. He pined for two things especially. A single lady with plenty of money for a wife; a married one with plenty of beauty for a friend. To these objects he was resolved to devote himself. In the mean time, he made acquaintance with several fashionable young men of fortune about town, whom he tried all he could to enlighten in the ways of the old world. Among the rest he became acquainted with Heartwell, a youth of about seven-and-twenty, tall, handsome, well born, well brought up, and well educated. Heartwell had been abroad too, but he brought home something besides vices and follies. He brought home a diminished adthration of Europe, and an increased adthration of his own country. Simple, yet dignified high bred manners, a simple taste in dress, a fine, open, manly heart, and not whiskers enough for a humming bird to build his nest in. He was in the main, good natured and tolerant of foibles, but withal this, there was a vein of sarcastic humour about him, that some people who dreaded it, called ill-nature.

CHAPTER VI. ROUÉISM AND THE FINE ARTS.

Our hero had brought home with him a thorough contempt for his own country. Ignorant himself of literature, and the first rudiments of the fine arts, still he fancied that having been abroad, he must of necessity be highly accomplished both in one and the other. He had never read any thing but the lowest periodicals in foreign literature: such as Blackwood's Magazine, and La Belle Assemblee, and from these had learned all the self-sufficient arrogance for which they are so peculiarly distinguished. Without knowing what his countrymen had done, or being able to judge of what they were capable of doing, he adopted the slang of those who knew as little as himself. He pronounced them destitute of genius, devoid of taste, and ignorant of all the refinements of civilization. It is a common foible with my countrymen abroad, basely to surrender their country to the scoffs of witlings, and to imagine they exempt themselves from the general condemnation, by joining in the sneer or the laugh.

Our country affords but few resources for idle men. They are not yet sufficiently numerous and rich to form a separate caste, and afford themselves the resources of a perpetual succession of amusements. Sopus was soon at a loss what to do with himself, for he could not be always playing the fiddle, or devoting himself to the married ladies. He sometimes found them actually busy; sometimes not fit to be seen; and sometimes, though of course very rarely, he found them out. What, however, most annoyed him, was their condign ignorance of fashionable life abroad, in supposing that his visits were either to their husbands or their daughters. One of them in particular, came nigh to causing his utter annihilation. He had paid her most obsequious homage at all places where he happened to meet her, and from the smiles and simperings with which it was received, had already began to cherish hopes that his person and accomplishments would prove irresistible.

One delicious morning in the month of June, when the purity of the air, and the luxurious blandness of the weather reminded him of Italy, he called upon the lady, at an hour when he knew the husband was absent. He found her in the graceful undress of a matron, sitting on a rich ottoman of pale yellow silk. The curtains of the windows were of a pink colour, and as the sun shone upon them, threw a rich tint, and delicious glow upon the face, the arms, and the neck of the beautiful wife. Sopus mistook it for a blush, and at that moment determined to make his declaration. The lady had been mending a silk stocking. He took it up, and it afforded him a theme for some very pretty little sly hints and innuendoes, which a truly modest woman never understands. Our hero's experience had made him estimate all women by the same standard. I must speak plainer, thought he, and allow her at least the honour of a summons before she surrenders.

He dropped on his knee, and exclaimed—

"Madam, I am the most miserable of men!"

"I am sorry for it, Mr. Sopus," replied the lady, taking up a stitch.

"You pity me then, angel of a woman?"

"If you are miserable, I certainly do."

"And pity is akin to love."

"So they say," replied the lady, quietly.

"But will you not permit me to love—to hope— to be happy?"

"Ask my daughter."

Zounds! thought Sopus, what a barbarous country, where the mothers ask the consent of the daughters, instead of the daughters the mothers.

"Your daughter, madam?"

"Yes; I never mean to give my daughter away without her own consent. I'll send her to you," and the good matron took the silk stocking, and quietly walked out of the room.

Friend Sopus was in a dilemma. The daughter was a fine, intelligent, well-bred girl, much adthred by Heartwell; but her father was a hale, hearty, middle aged man, and though rich, might not die in half a century. "These fellows," quoth our hero, "nine times in ten, outlive their heirs— but mum." The young lady entered, curtsied, I mean bowed, and sat down on the sofa, with as little emotion as if the room had been empty. These American women have no more sensibility and warmth than a cucumber, quoth our hero. At length the young lady broke silence.

"My mother mentioned you had something particular to communicate, Mr. Sopus," said she, while a little shade of a smile passed over her face, and settled in the corner of her eye, as she pronounced his name. Ah! that cursed name, thought he, I shall never prosper under it; and now the fortune is gone, I wish the name were gone with it.

"Madam," said he, and though he had finished his education abroad, he actually felt a little awkward, "do you mean to go to the fancy ball to-night?"

The young lady laughed. "I believe I shall."

"Well then—hem—ha—may I have the superlative pleasure of dancing the first cotillion with you?"

"Certainly, Mr. Sopus," and again that wicked laugh lurked in the corner of her eye.

Sopus made a profound bow, and so did the lady, not being able to curtesy, on account of the Cantelos—and thus they parted.

What a barbarous country! thought our hero, where a married woman don't know whether you are making love to herself or her daughter.

"Well, Julia," said the mother, "are you engaged?"

"To dance the first cotillion," said Julia; and she threw herself on the sofa, and laughed till she got a great pain in her side.

Coming out of the house, he encountered Heartwell, who was passing up the street.

"So," said he, "you've been paying your morning devoirs to Miss Wingate, a fine girl."

"Delightful," answered the other, and fell to praising her to the skies.

Heartwell paused, and looked a little serious; but suddenly resuming his wonted free and spirited manner, he proposed to take Sopus to the Academy of Arts, to see a collection of original paintings, by the most celebrated masters of the Italian and Flemish schools, exhibiting there.

"An Academy of Arts!" quoth Sopus, "Pooh, what can you have worth seeing there? But come, any thing to kill time."

"Ah!" cried he, as they entered the exhibition room, and saw the very worst collection ever imposed upon the good people of the city, labelled with the names of Michael Angelo, Raphael, Domenichino, Salvator and the Carracci. "Ah! really now, this is something like; I declare this really does honour to the country. It reminds me of the gallery at Florence. Why the names are the very same." Whereupon he out with his glass after the manner of travelled men, and fixing himself opposite to an immeasurable daub, full of green lions and brown trees, labelled Sal. Rosa, began to be quite enthusiastic. "What expression in the trees! What grace in the very rocks! What dignity in the lions! Any body could tell they were the kings of the beasts! There is nobody after all equal to Sally Rosa, for persuasive grace of attitude, softness of expression, and felicity of groping," as he was pleased to call it—"I knew her in Florence. She was a most elegant woman."

Heartwell stuffed the whole catalogue into his mouth, and walked away at a quick step. He however returned in a few moments.

"You are right," said he, "Miss Sally was particularly remarkable for all these characteristics. I see you are a connoiseur.

"A piece of a one," answered he, pulling up his stock, and adjusting his striped gingham collar. "But my dear Heartwell, never again call a foreign lady Miss or Mistress. It is Madame or Signora Sally Rosa."

"I shall bear it in mind," said the other.

After spending some time in pointing out the various excellencies of this rare collection of originals, by the great Italian and Flemish masters, in which Sopus displayed equal taste and accuracy, he was carried into the apartment where the statuary and busts are deposited.

"What in the name of all that is monstrous and vulgar, have we got here?" cried he, stopping opposite the Laocoon."

"'Tis the famous Laocoon," said Heartwell.

"La—La—ocoon," said Sopus, "who is it by?"

"The name of the artist is somewhat doubtful. It is supposed to be a work of great antiquity."

"Yes any body can see it must have been done in the infancy of the arts. The artist did well to keep his name secret. But who is this tall, long-spliced, sprawling fellow, standing on one leg?"

"That is the Apollo Belvidere. You must have seen it before."

"O, aye—I think I do recollect something of a wooden statue, stuck up at the Belvidere House, where my uncle's club used to meet. I suppose they call it the Apollo Belvidere on that account. Can you tell me who carved it?"

"No, I regret to say that I have forgot it," replied Heartwell, again having recourse to the system of gagging.

"No matter," said the other; "It is not worth remembering. Let us go back, I want to take another look at the Sally—or as these vulgarians call her, Sal."

Coming out of the Academy through the park, Heartwell said something about the City Hall, which set Sopus retailing the cant he had learned from the foreign periodicals.

"I've seen a handsomer stable than that, in England," said he. "Do you remember Lord Darlington's stables?"

"No," said Heartwell, "I confess I did not pay any particular attention to stables."

"No!" said the other in astonishment. "Were you never at Tattersall's?"

"Never."

"Why what the d—l did you travel for?"

"To see the world," replied Heartwell.

"And where could you see it better than at Tattersall's?"

"Why, as far as grooms, jockies, black legs, and sporting heroes go to the formation of a world. I don't know a better place. But I had no ambition to figure in such society."

"No!" answered the other, with a look of wonder. "But did you ever see Carlton House?"

"I did, and thought it a disgrace to the nation and its king."

"What, when it was lighted up with gas lamps?"

"Even when it was lighted up with gas lamps."

"But what think you of Windsor Castle. Is not that a palace worthy of a king?"

"Certainly; but that is a building of another age, and even the bad taste of the present has not been able to spoil it altogether. Indeed I may say of England, and of all Europe in fact, that so far as my experience goes, there is no building erected within the last two hundred years, that can claim the rank of a model. All the most perfect specimens of architecture, are of a date anterior to the settlement of this country, and our people are no more to be reproached for a bad taste in architecture, than those nations which have not any more than ourselves, produced master pieces within that period. The cathedrals which comprise all the treasures of architecture in England, and nearly all of later origin in Europe, are without exception comparatively ancient. They belong to other times; they are the proper boast of our ancestors, and as we are equally the descendants of the different nations of Europe, with the present race of Europeans, we have as fair a right to plume ourselves upon the triumphs of former ages It is so with painting, sculpture and poetry. The highest honours in all these, belong to ages, anterior to our existence as a separate nation. The modern Greeks might as well boast of their Homer, as the modern English of their Shakspeare and Milton, who were as much superior to their Byrons and their Moores, as Homer is to a modern Greek rhymer. The truth is, and I challenge any man of taste to deny it, that the two Banks in Philadelphia, the Little Phoenix of New-York, and the Capitol at Washington, are in their way, more perfect specimens, approaching nearer to the most perfect remains of Greece, than any buildings erected in England or on the continent of Europe within the same period."

Heartwell, who all this time had been looking at the City Hall, turned to see what effect his harangue had produced upon the roué, and found him busily employed in jerking pebbles at a tree, a little way off. "I'll bet you ten, I hit it three times out of five," quoth he.

CHAPTER VII. THE ADVENTURES OF THE ROUÉ.

Our hero soon after his return from abroad, had made some inquiries about his relatives in the Bowery and Pump-street; but he did not find their society worthy cultivating. They had little money, and plenty of heirs; so he cut their acquaintance. It was in one of these pious pilgrimages to the land of his forefathers, that he caught sight of a very pretty woman, who was standing in the doorway of a neat, two story brick house, with a brass knocker of most intolerable lustre. There was an air of sprightly vivacity about her, and something of a coquettish cast of the eye, that attracted his attention. He looked at her, and she looked at him; he smiled, and so did she. Our hero was going to walk up the steps, when she ran in and shut the door in his face. He however saw her looking out at the window at him as he passed down the street. On making inquiry, he found the lady was the wife of a rich butcher; that she was reckoned a very gay lady, and delighted in walking up and down Broadway. Sopus was a handsome man, at least in his own opinion. He had a short neck, spindle legs, and one shoulder was a little higher than the other. But a high, stiff cravat, wide pantaloons, and a little of the tailor's handy work, disguised these trifling defects. It was a blessed thing the invention of loose trowsers for a ball dress. Before that, a man could only disguise his legs in an undress; now it is no matter whether he has any legs at all. But his whiskers were what he prided himself upon most especially.

The lady with the mischievous laughing eye, ran strangely in the head of our hero. The next day, the next, and the next, he promenaded Pump-street, and never failed to find her at the window, where, it was his firm opinion, she stationed herself on purpose to see him. He determined to exhibit a touch of the roué. He pondered on the best way of making his approaches, whether by letter or in person, and decided upon the former, remembering how the worthy Mrs. Wingate had mistaken his declaration on a former occasion. Accordingly he wrote her a letter, of which I regret there is no copy extant, the butcher's lady having used it to curl her hair, after showing it to her husband. The slayer of oxen was at first exceedingly wroth, and talked about using his cleaver; but being rather a good natured man for a butcher, he passed it off with a laugh, and agreed that they would have a little sport with our roué.

The letter was accordingly answered in a style sufficiently encouraging, and was replied to by another, in which our hero ardently solicited an interview. After a proper delay, an answer was received, saying that if he would walk out to Corlaer's Hook, at about one in the morning, and stand under a certain tree, she would meet him without fail, as her husband was going into the country to buy cattle. Our hero thought this rather a curious place for the month of December, but considering that a faint heart never won a fair lady, he determined not to fail. Accordingly, when the appointed time arrived, Sopus put on two flannel waistcoats, two pair of drawers, two pair of stockings, and a pair of India rubber shoes and departed from his lodgings about twelve o'clock. It was a bitter cold night, as well as dark and gloomy; no lights twinkled from the shops in Chatham Row, save here and there the gorgeous emanations from an apothecary's window. The gas was out, and the good people snug in bed. Encumbered as he was with clothes, his progress was rather slow, and the distant church clock struck one just as he arrived at the great elm tree, which whilome waved its broad branches in Cannon' garden.

Gradually the night became dark as pitch, and a profound silence reigned far and near, interrupted only by the barking of curs, those pestilent disturbers of the night, who seem to envy the slumbers of their betters, and do all they can to mar them. The keen north-easter, cut its way into his very marrow, and made his teeth chatter, and his knees knock against each other. He shrunk close to the lee side of the tree, and devoutly wished himself under six blankets at home. After waiting about half an hour, during which he was gradually turning to stone, he heard distant footsteps of horses approaching, and the sound of carriage wheels. "Thank fortune!" thought he, "she is coming in a carriage." The carriage approached, and either from accident, the darkness, or some other cause, halted directly opposite to where he stood. Sopus started forward, and was proceeding to open the door, when he was arrested by a violent scream from within. "Thieves! robbers! murder!" cried a shrill female voice. "Hush!—its me—its me," whispered Sopus. "Thieves! robbers! murder!" shouted the voice louder than ever, while the coachman, being I suppose actually congealed with frost and fear, never thought of lashing his horses forward. A watchman at a distance, waked out of a deep sleep, and knocked three times with his cudgel on the curb stone. Our hero knew the meaning of that awful sound from sad experience, and at length perceiving there must be some mistake in the business, gathered himself together, and ran away as fast as his multiplicity of clothes would permit. The watchmen came up, and finding him gone, followed the sound of his retreating footsteps over the frozen pavement, and coming up with our hero knocked him down, ordering him at the same time to stand still. Luckily, he was so well fortified with clothing, that the blow did him little harm. Our hero was taken from hence to the watch-house, and from thence to the police, where he was examined, and behaved like a man of the strictest honour. He determined not to betray his mistress, and accordingly his story was so lame, and ill put together, that the justice was on the point of committing him, previous to which he ordered a search of his person. Finding no weapons of offence, and seeing how he was dressed, his worship sagely concluded that no man in his senses would go out to rob on the highway without weapons, and in such a multiplicity of garments; he ordered his discharge, and contented himself with a caution against stopping coaches after midnight. The next day a facetious reporter to a newspaper, published the whole matter, with the usual exaggerations; but being a discreet man, he did not mention names. He only gave the initials, and described our hero so accurately that every body knew who was meant. He underwent the usual ordeal of quizzing; but kept his secret like a true man, only giving certain shrewd hints which nobody could misunderstand.

The next day he received a note, left by the butcher's boy as he stopt at his lodgings to deliver some beef, in which the lady deeply lamented the disappointment she had been under the necessity of inflicting upon him. Her husband had been taken ill, and was now confined to his bed. Now therefore was the opportunity for them to meet nearer at home. The note then proceeded to state that, precisely at nine in the evening, she would be in the summer house at the back of her garden, where she would expect him. She then proceeded to give particular directions about climbing the wall, opening the door, and finding his way in the dark. The writer concluded, by exacting the pledge of his honour that he would behave discreetly and like a gentleman. Our hero that evening dressed himself in his best; curled his hair, perfumed his whiskers, and sprinkled his handkerchief with otto of roses. At the appointed hour he stood at the garden wall—luckily there were no stars to tell tales, and the babbling moon was shining on some other stealing lover, in some other hemisphere.

The hour struck nine. Our hero climbed the wall, descended safely, and proceeded towards the summer house, the door of which being ajar, he cautiously entered. It was dark as pitch. He advanced a few steps when his foot slipt and he fell sprawling on the floor, which seemed wet and slippery. "Where are you my beloved," whispered he as he rose. "Here," replied a voice in tones sweeter than the zephyr. Sopus imagined he saw the shadowy figure of his mistress approaching, and precipitated himself towards it with all the ardour of high wrought expectation. He did not clasp a shadow. At that blissful moment, a hundred lights seemed to blaze spontaneously on all sides, and the astonished roué, discovered to his utter dismay that he was embracing the dead body—not of his mistress, but of an illustrious porker, which had that very day gained a premium for being the fattest in the market. Ten butcher's boys with the butcher at their head, were now standing about him with candles in their hands, and the butcher's dog held fast to the skirts of his coat. Sopus recoiled with horror from the embraces of the amorous swine, and had a genuine roué ever been ashamed of himself, our hero had been the man.

After enjoying his disastrous plight for some time, the butcher called off his dog, and addressed our hero as follows: "Young man, I had intended to make these lads give thee a hearty flogging, but you cut such a pretty figure, and have been so well punished already, that I will let you off this time. But take care how you write any more letters—my wife has shown me all as she received them, and she herself planned this scheme. It is lucky she did, for had I found it out myself, I would have broken every bone in your body. Go now about your business."

Our hero went home disconsolate, and when he saw himself in his mirror, came near to running stark mad. He had been inveigled into a slaughter house, the floor of which was purposely flooded with the blood of bulls and sheep. His whole figure was bloody—his hands reeking with gore, and his face having come in contact with the snout of the prize piggy, was most gloriously incardined. He threw off his clothes and went to bed in despair. The next morning the chamber maid fell into fits at the sight of his clothes, and it is clear that if Captain Morgan had been missing at that time, Sopus would certainly have been taken up for a free mason.

CHAPTER VIII. THE FANCY BALL AT THE CITY ASSEMBLY ROOM.

The butcher and his wife, not belonging as yet to good society, not having removed to a fashionable part of the town, the story of the Pump-street amour, did not come to the ears of the beau monde. The laugh was confined to the inglorious regions of the Bowery, and Sopus soon forgot his bloody disasters. He continued, as before, a star in the milky-way of fashion, and though his five thousand francs had long since melted into thin air, he did not want money for his necessary occasions. A man who has finished his education abroad, in the proper schools, knows how to economize, as well as to spend. Our hero hhred lodgings in a cheap little cross street, where he boiled his own kettle of a morning, spunged for an invitation to dinner, and failing of that, resorted to a cheap ordinary, and took his tea with the ladies. To save his friends trouble, he had his cards left at a fashionable hotel, by arrangement with the bar keeper, where he was never at home by any accident. As to keeping himself in spending money, a man who had lost a couple of hundred thousands to such clever fellows as the count and the baron, could hardly fail of winning, now and then, at cards and dice. He had paid enough in all conscience for his experience. I do not say that he played foully; but he had studied chances, runs of luck, runs of the cards, and above all, he had studied character and faces, till he had reduced it almost to a certainty that he could, in the end, make something out of other people's inexperience. By choosing his company, and playing his cards well, he accordingly managed to secure to himself an honourable independence from day to day.

In the mean time the whole town was talking about the fancy ball to be given at the Assembly Room, and the young ladies studying costumes, till one or two of them actually lost their wits in the perplexity of choosing a character. It was reported that one lady changed her mind twentyfour times in one day, but the number was probably exaggerated.

"For my part," said Miss Macfaddle to Miss Maccubbin, "I mean to go as a milkmaid."

"Charming!" cried Miss Maccubbin, "your skin is as white as milk, and you'll look beautiful."

"But what do you mean to go in?" asked Miss Macfaddle

"Why, I am balancing between a Mary queen of Scots, and a Virgin of the Sun. Mamma is for the queen, but I prefer the virgin, if papa will only give me a real gold sun; I'm determined not to be put off with a gilt one. O, here comes Miss Fitzpoisson, to talk us to death of what she can't and what she can afford. She always looks like a dowdy, in that everlasting pink gauze. But, poor thing, I suppose she can't afford any better."

Miss Fitzpoisson now entered with Heartwell, and the conversation received a fresh impulse.

"Pray how are you going, Miss Fitzpoisson?" asked Miss Macfaddle.

"Why, at first, I thought of going as a Spanish lady, but my mamma thought the hat and feathers would cost too much. Then I thought of going as a sultana, but papa insisted on my appearing in the character of a Christian woman. Then I thought of wearing my grandmother's wedding dress, but brother George, told me there was no occasion to make myself look uglier than I was. Then I thought of a Gipsy, but brother Tom said I looked too much like a Gipsy already. Then I thought of a Swiss girl, but brother Frank told me the less of my ancles I showed the better. And then, and then, I determined not to go at all."

Bravo, thought Heartwell, a member of congress could not have made a better speech about nothing, or come to a more logical conclusion.

"But have you heard," said Miss Fitzpoisson—

"What? what?" asked the ladies all at once.

"Why, they say Mrs. widow Elevenstone is going as Zephyr, and her everlasting beau, Mr. Crickback, as Cupid. It will be capital, for you know she is so fat she can hardly walk, and he so lean he can scarcely stand."

"They had better personate Pharaoh's dream," said Heartwell. "She seven years of plenty, he seven years of famine."

"Lord," said Miss Macfaddle, "how you talk. How could they dress like ears of corn."

"Why in green silk, and satin hair, and a sheaf of corn under each arm."

"Well, I declare, that would be very pretty," said Miss Maccubbin, "but what character do you mean to go in?"

"O, I mean to go as Mount ætna."

"Mount ætna!" exclaimed the ladies all at once, "how will you manage about the smoke?"

"You shall see."

"I can tell you something better than that," cried Miss Macfaddle, "little Mr. Shorter is going as puss in boots. He has got a catskin robe and whiskers, and is learning to purr."

"Well, I declare," said Miss Maccubbin, "it will be quite allegorical."

"Categorical, you mean," said Heartwell.

"I don't mean any such thing," said the lady, pouting.

"But who is to play my Lord Marquis of Carabas?"

"O, young Middlings; you know his father was a miller."

"Does he mean to play the drowning scene?"

The lady gave Heartwell a great blow with her glove, and the party separated to go and talk of the fancy ball elsewhere.

CHAPTER IX. MORE OF THE GRAND FANCY BALL.

Our hero studied six days and seven nights, for an idea of a dress to open the ball with Julia Wingate, and at length fixed upon that of a Spanish cavalier, which he calculated on borrowing from a theatrical friend.

And now the day had come, and the night was approaching which was for ever to be remembered in the annals of the queen of the west, as the night of the great fancy ball at the City Assembly Room. Not the feast of the Centaurs, nor the hunting of the Calydonian boar, the two great frolics of antiquity, were ever half so renowned as we intend this ball shall be, in future mirrors of fashion. None but the ignoble vulgar slept that night or the night before. Young gentlemen packed up their whiskers, and came all the way from Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Boston; and several young ladies had their heels frost bitten in travelling from the uttermost ends of the earth in prunelle shoes. Bandboxes, the size of bathing tubs, were seen parading through the streets with little milliners under them; the young gentlemen of the fancy stores had scarcely time to put their hair in papers, and poor Monsieur Manuel died a few days after, of the vast exertions he made in reducing the rebellious curls of young ladies in a state of nature, to obedience.

It being impossible to convey to the unhappy reader who was not present at the ball, any idea of its collective splendours, I shall follow the example of Homer, and attempt it through the agency of particular characters and incidents. If I cannot describe the accumulative horrors of the fight, I shall relate what damsels conquered, and what dandies fell on this melancholy occasion.

First, Forcible Feeble, though cased in the invulnerable armour of indifference, was cured of an obstinate fit of silence, by the magic influence of a wedding dress of his grandmother. Next, Peter Popinjay, who had long declared his determination not to commit matrimony for love or money, yielded to the charms of a little Tyrolese, in short petticoats. There too, fell Nimrod Sparrow, whose heart had never throbbed before, save at the sight of a covey of partridges, a horse that could trot sixteen miles an hour, or a dog at a dead point. On this occasion, Cupid bent his bow made of the arching eyebrow of Miss Looqueer, stringing it with a hair of her silken eye lashes, and shot a ray from her sparkling eye, that melted the stony heart of the mighty hunter, and three weeks after turned him into a hunter of ladies. There, too, was Colonel Jiggleton, a gallant son of Mars, translated into a votary of Venus, by the bad French of a little Parisian milliner; and there, though last not least, was the Honourable Garrulous Guzzleton, who spoke more speeches, and ate more canvass backs than any single member of the lower house, west of the Blue Ridge, struck dumb by the incessant chatter of a beautiful lady, dressed as the Goddess of Silence, with finger on her lip. But I will proceed no farther with this bill of mortality, lest it should make the reader melancholy.

Heartwell had taken with him to the ball, a young Italian count, whom he had known in Italy. Count G— was somewhat literary, a great adthrer of the ladies, and zealously musical. He was a man well read in books, and having seen all that was worth seeing in the old, had come to the new world, in search of something new. The count requested Heartwell to play the Diable Boiteaux for that night, and take him under his special protection. Accordingly they strolled about without joining in the dances, conversing and criticising as the case might be.

"Who is that lady?" asked the count, "I mean that rather pretty lady, eating a sandwich with such approbation?"

"That? O that's a Mrs. Smith."

"And the one on her left, who is making the most of her time by discussing an ice cream, while the opposite couple is going through the figure?"

"That is another Mrs. Smith."

"And the tall, fine looking woman on the left of the other, eating a jelly? Upon my word, the ladies cannot be accused of wasting their time!"

"O, that's another of the Mrs. Smiths."

"Why, good heavens! how many wives has that Mr. Smith?"

"They are the wives of different Mr. Smiths. Yonder is another."

"Good," cried the count, taking snuff, "I believe in my soul, your people have all one name, like the parrots."

The attention of the count was next attracted by a young lady of a singularly delicate person, and an air of fashion about her quite taking. "Come, Monsieur Diable, do your duty, and tell me who she is, and what she is thinking about?"

"That young lady," said Heartwell, "belongs to an old and somewhat decayed family, which is still proud of what it once was. But for all that, she will marry the son of her grandfather's cobbler, who is very rich. The young man wants blood, the young lady money; both parties will be suited. She has just settled the matter in her own mind."

Here the soul of Heartwell flashed into his eyes, on seeing our old friend Sopus, who dressed in a superb Spanish suit, he had borrowed from his theatrical friend, was dancing with Julia Wingate with all his might, and to give him his due, exceedingly well. The young lady seemed delighted with her partner, and performed her part with infinite grace and vivacity, listening between whiles to the compliments of our roué, with great appearance of condescension. The truth is, she was a little piqued at the neglect of Heartwell, who had been in the room at least twenty minutes, without speaking to her. Now when young ladies are piqued, ten to one, they do exactly what they ought not to do. Julia flirted with Sopus, whom she despised, only to mortify the man she adadthred and respected beyond all others. Heartwell saw all this, and though he believed in his heart that Julia must in her heart despise the roué, yet he grew at once violently jealous. Such is man when he is in love, and his vanity and affections are unnaturally overheated. The count twitched his elbow, "You play Monsieur de Diable badly. Who is that lady with her mouthful, talking to the gentleman in blue whiskers?"

"That? O that is Mrs. Copper Smith, who does the honours of the city to all strangers of distinction, very much to the credit of good society." Heartwell was every moment getting more ill natured, as he looked at Sopus and Julia.

"Her husband," continued he, "is a plain, honest old man, such as no sensible person would dare to laugh at, except when he is playing the fish out of water, at a fancy ball, or giving a dinner to a foreign minister. He received a liberal education, that is at the expense of other people, and got rich by getting and saving. If you go to make a bargain with him, he will cavil for the ninth part of a hair, and then if you are a great man, he'll give you a dinner that costs a hundred pounds. In short, though he gets his money like a negro, he spends it like a gentleman. The family," continued Heartwell, looking like a savage at Sopus, "the family put themselves forward on all occasions; call on all strangers of note; impose themselves as the best company of the city; stuff them with good eating, and tire them to death with caricatures of fashionable frivolity. The consequence is that the really well bred people, who might feel inclined to be civil to strangers, shrink from them while beset by these obtrusive vulgarians, and thus strangers go away with an impression that there is no more refined and intelligent society in the city."

"Only a little spice of liberty and equality," said the count.

"I understand you," replied the other, "but there is no equality in manners; political privileges have nothing to do with drawing rooms. The end of social intercourse is pleasure and improvement. Now there can be neither one nor the other, where one half of a company is composed of ignorant vulgar, the other of refined and well educated persons. The first will feel too ill at ease to improve; the other will only become more vain by comparison."

"Heavens!" cried the count, "what a mouthful," as the pretty Mrs. Copper Smith discussed a huge pickled oyster. "But now I think of it, I am sure I've seen the lady eat before. I have it. They invited me last summer to what they called a French breakfast in the country, and nearly killed me with a fricassee of Guinea hens."

Heartwell laughed a very little at this; for just then Julia gave Sopus a tap with her fan. It was in fact a most equivocal laugh.

"But you say true," continued the count, "such people are highly useful and respectable in their proper sphere; but when they thrust themselves forward in fashionable society, and when they do they are almost always the most noisy and obtrusive, they throw ridicule on the whole city. You should serve them as we do in Italy. Treat them with such profound respect, and insuperable gravity, that they feel uncomfortable, and never come again. But come, show me now a specimen of what you call really well bred."

"Look round," said Heartwell, "make use of your free masonry."

The count looked round, and at length fixed on a young lady apparently quite plainly dressed, and who was quietly conversing with her brother.

"She does honour to your sagacity. Observe her. She is one of the best bred, accomplished young women about town. Neither spoiled nor likely to be. She is rich in her own right; she dances with a delightful and chastened grace; sings in the first style of expression; possesses a mind highly cultivated; reads better than any body I ever heard; is endowed with the best principles, tastes, and habits; and yet nobody knows all this except her immediate family circle."

"But how? how comes it she is not surrounded by a hundred adthrers?"

"She is modest and retiring," answered Heartwell, with a bitter sneer; for Julia was still flirting with that "puppy, Sopus."

"Upon my word," said the other, "you do the young gentlemen of your city great n inveigI should suppose they would at least have found out the money."

"They are apt to have an instinct for that," observed Heartwell.

A lady now swept along dressed in a load of discordant and atrocious finery, the vulgar characteristic of the day, and was accosted by Heartwell with—

"My dear Mrs. Smith." "Another Mrs. Smith!" ejaculated the count, with uplifted hands.

"My dear Mrs. Smith, what a beautiful dress you have got!"

"Do you think so," answered she, her very feathers quivering with delight. "Do you know there are but two such in the world, this and another the Dutchess de B— wore at court last Christmas. It cost me—"

"Hush!" said Heartwell, solemnly.

"Why, what is the matter?" asked the alarmed lady.

"Your bish—what do you call it, is hind part before," whispered he.

"Ah!" screamed Mrs. Smith, and ran into the attiring room to examine into the matter.

"What did you frighten the lady for?" asked the count.

"O, I did'nt want to hear the history of that intolerable dress. I have heard it forty times, at least; and yet never the true one, for I'll swear 'tis an old dress the Dutchess de B— gave to one of her maids of hoinve; who gave it to one of her waiting maids, who sold it to a little milliner who was making up a cargo of second-hand finery for our market."

In strolling about the room, Heartwell chanced upon a young married lady, who had been brought up in the country, whom he found in tears, by the side of her husband. She was dressed as Euphrosyne.

"My dear Mrs. Gocarty," said Heartwell, "I hope you've heard no bad news from the country? What is the matter?"

"I want to go home to ma," cried the lady, again bursting into a torrent of tears.

There was no comforting a lady who came to a fancy ball to weep, and so they passed on.

"Your ladies must be very fond of home," observed the Italian.

"Very," answered Heartwell, just at the moment Julia gave her hand to Sopus for a third dance. "Very—one half of their time is spent at home in dressing, the other in showing off abroad."

"What more can be reasonably requhred," said the other.

"La!" cried Miss Macfaddle to Miss Maccubbin, "If here is'nt Fanny Fitzpoisson, dressed after all as fine as a fiddle—hem—I wonder where the money is to come from."

"A very considerate person," said the count, who had overheard her, "what is the name of this lady who looks so far into futurity?"

"One is called Miss Maccubbin, the other Miss Macfaddle, and she of the blue satin and feathers, Miss Fitzpoisson."

"What horrid names!" cried the count, "How can you expect any thing like genteel society with such names? If you could only add lord and lady, or honourable, it would be something. But Miss Macfaddle, and Mrs. Jenks, and Mrs. Hobbs,— ah! it wont do. You must ennoble these people or you will never arrive at high life, depend upon it. Now what do you think my title which at once elevates me into ton, comes from?"

"From a bridge, I should imagine."

"You are right; there is a very ancient and good for nothing bridge, in the Dutchy of Tuscany, which whoever owns is called Count of —, and I—I am Count of the Mouldering Bridge, at your service. But in truth," resumed he of the mouldering bridge, "it is inconceivable how much depends upon this. I have lately read a number of English novels, in the shape of tours, travels, recollections, memoirs, adventures, &c., all professing to give a picture of high life, as if high life was not every where and at all times nothing more than the association of well bred, well educated people, such as are to be found in all civilized countries. Be assured my friend, for I solemnly swear to it—that these books have no more of high life in them, than the Newgate Chronicle. Yet you honest republicans, who so hate aristocracy, relish these Grub-street delineations, and believe them all genuine, merely because the actors and actresses are dubbed with titles by the authors. My lord and my lady may be as vulgar as they please, and though you ought to know better, you adore their high breeding. But," and a droll idea seemed to come across him—"But, suppose now we at one blow make all these Mrs. Smiths, and Mrs Jenks, and Misses Macfaddles and Fitzpoissons high ton? Hey!"

"As how," asked Heartwell.

"By ennobling every soul of them at a single dash, as the wise king of Spain did a whole province where they were cutting each others throats about nobility."

"With all my heart," said the other, "you may consider me as the fountain of honour on this occasion. Come, here now is the Ri