him from one entanglement to another, till he was quite unable to proceed. A tall corpulent Frenchman, six foot by five, was leaning, (a great and weighty objection), just before him, utterly occupied in the vicissitudes of an écarté table, and unconscious of Vincent's repeated efforts, first on one side, and then on the other, to pass him.

At last, the perplexed wit, getting more irascible as he grew more bewildered, suddenly seized the vast incumbrance by the arm, and said to him, in a sharp querulous tone, "Pray, Monsieur, why are you like the loto tree in Mahomet's Seventh Heaven ?"

"Sir!" cried the astonished Frenchman.

"Because," (continued Vincent, answering his own enigma)," because, beyond you there is no passing!"

The Frenchman (one of that race who always forgive any thing for a bon-mot) smiled, bowed, and drew himself aside. Vincent steered by, and joining me, hiccuped out, "In rebus adversis opponite pectora fortia."

Meanwhile I had looked round the room for the objects of my pursuit ; to my great surprise I could not perceive them; they may be in the other room, thought I, and to the other room I went; the supper was laid out, and an old bonne was quietly helping herself to some sweetmeat. All other human beings (if, indeed, an old woman can be called a human being) were, however, invisible, and I remained perfectly bewildered as to the nonappearance of Warburton and his companion. I entered the Salle à Jouer once more- -I looked round in every corner-I examined every face; but in vain, and with a feeling of disappointment very disproportioned to my loss, I took Vincent's arm, and we withdrew.

The next morning I spent with Madame D'Anville-a French woman easily consoles herself for the loss of a lover-she converts him into a friend, and thinks herself (nor is she much deceived) benefited by the exchange. We talked of our grief in maxims, and bade each other adieu in antitheses. Ah! it is a pleasant thing to drink with

Alcidonis (in Marmontel's Tale) of the rosecoloured vial-to sport with the fancy, not to brood over the passion, of youth. There is a time when the heart, from very tenderness, runs over, and (so much do our virtues as well as vices flow from our passions) there is, perhaps, rather hope than anxiety for the future in that excess. Then, if Pleasure errs, it errs through heedlessness, not design; and Love, wandering over flowers, "proffers honey, but bears not a sting." Ah! happy time! in the lines of one who can so well translate feeling into words

"Fate has not darkened thee-Hope has not made
The blossoms expand it but opens to fade;

Nothing is known of those wearing fears
Which will shadow the light of our after years."

The Improvisatrice.

Pardon this digression-not much, it must be confessed, in my ordinary strain-but let me, dear reader, very seriously advise thee not to judge of me yet. When thou hast got to the end of my book, if thou dost condemn it or its hero-why

"I will let thee alone (as honest Dogberry advises) till thou art sober; and, if thou make me not, then, the better answer, thou art not the man I took thee for."

CHAPTER XXIX.

It must be confessed, that flattery comes mighty easily to one's mouth in the presence of royalty.

Letters of STEPHEN MONTAGUE.

'Tis he.-How came he thence-what doth he here?

LARA.

I HAD received for that evening (my last at Paris) an invitation from the Duchesse de B

I knew that the party was to be small, and that very few besides the royal family would compose it. I had owed the honour of this invitation to

my intimacy with thes, the great friends of the Duchesse, and I promised myself some pleasure in the engagement.

There were but eight or nine persons present when I entered the royal chamber. The most dis