happy affectation of the passion-is a wonderful weapon in a skilful hand. Therefore, when walking with the poor man declare that he looks at every woman he meets, and sulk accordingly. Sometimes, however, vary the accusation, and declare that every woman he meets looks at him. From this assumed fact, you can make any deductions, and endeavour in a torrent of words to declare how very, very miserable you ought to be. The man, of course, must think himself dear to you, or wherefore such fantastic jealousy? He must feel, though with a feeling of wretchedness, that you love him; or wherefore show the love with so much misery to him? Does not puss love the live yet wounded mouse she bites and scratches.

Again, as to temper, never let it be certain. Husbands-I know them-presume upon evenness of temper. No, let your husband feel that he is never safe. He will accordingly be gentle, watchful, in his manner. Hence, be at times in the most exuberant spirits; and then, with a thought-at some unconscious look of your husband, some playful word-have a mute tongue, and brows of threatening thunder. In your very gayest moments, let your helpmate feel as if he is called upon to admire some curious gun-very beautiful, but to be most carefully handled, lest it go off, and destroy him.

If your husband wishes for music, declare you have a sudden headache, and add this, he ought to have seen as much, and not have asked you. If, on the contrary, he has a book, or would doze by the fire, immediately play the "Battle of Prague,” with all the cannon accompaniments.

If he wish you to go out with him, say he always asks you when he knows you can't go; and then, on the contrary, desire that he shall take you to the opera or play, when you are well aware that he has some previous engagement.

On this point, too, be particularly obdurate. When your husband goes out with a likelihood of returning home late, insist upon sitting up for him. He may urge, that he can take the key; that, in fact, it will annoy him to keep anybody from their bed. Meet all this with a cold, decisive assurance, that you will sit up for him. If he come home late, what a delicious triumph for you! There you are, my love-I always was-in your nightcap and wrapped in three shawls, making up yourself for the picture of a very much wronged woman. The culprit at length returns; you catch his eye, and lead it to dwell upon the reproachful candle guttering in the socket-that candle, which in very weariness of heart and for nothing else, you have every five minutes mangled with the snuffers, as though unconsciously to make the case all the stronger against your offending mate.

Sometimes, on such occasions, say nothing, but cold as a statue walk up-stairs. Sometimes, too, it will add considerably to the pain of the criminal, if you carefully draw a sigh, and “wish you were in your grave."

As for your husband's friends, give them always a chilling welcome. If now and then they insist upon staying, as you think, late, declare that they have had wine enough, and they ought to know it.

My dear mother had an admirable way. Two or three times— for my father never tempted her oftener-she sat up guarding the fire-place. No coal did she suffer to approach it. The fire went out; it was piercing winter; and then in a triumph only known to such a wife, did she retire to her room, comforting herself that "They'd soon be starved out, and must go."

I have herein, my love, thrown down only a few hints; but I can add a great many more to them, if I find you worthy of my teaching.

In the mean time, I remain your affectionate friend,
TABITHA TALONS.

LETTER XXXVI.

THE YOUNG LADY'S ANSWER.

MADAM,-At present, I have no wish that my husband should leave me; when I have, I shall lose no time in availing myself of your instructions, feeling quite convinced that they could not but very soon lead to such a conclusion.

I remain, yours, &c.,

CLARIBEL SMITH.

LETTER XXXVII.

FROM A YOUNG GENTLEMAN, SOLICITING HIS FATHER TO

PAY HIS DEBTS.

MY DEAR FATHER,-How often have you told me that I should see my folly! Indeed, sir, you are a true prophet. I never thought it possible that I could look upon the world as now, in very truth, I find it—a deceitful, hollow, seductive place, in which there is nothing worthy of the mind of man, save those inestimable comforts which, had I but followed your wise and

excellent counsel, I should by this time have been in the enjoyment of. Ah, sir! there are many young men who, in their worst misfortunes—and can there be worse than debt?— are nevertheless spared the remorse which at this moment preys upon your wretched son. They-poor fellows!—may have been launched upon the sea of life—as you have often pertinently called this vale of tears-without rudder or compass; with nothing, sir, to direct or counsel them. It is no wonder when such men suffer shipwreck, or are stripped by pirates. But, sir, I vainly seek a single comforting excuse. 1 have had the best of

men and kindest of fathers, who has bestowed upon me advice of greater value than pearls-more precious than gold. And yet how headstrong, wild, and vicious—yes, sir, I blush to write it— vicious I have been, reckless of those inestimable precepts which of themselves ought to have enriched me with a treasure more lasting than wealth. But, sir, at length I am convinced. Yes, sir, my eyes are opened, and I now behold the precipice on which I stand. Another step or two and I had been lost for ever. But there is yet time to draw back-yes, sir, aided by your parental hand-there is, I fondly hope, yet time for me to regain all that I have lost: except, indeed, the precious hours that, as you once beautifully expressed it, I have cast away like water in the sea.

I write, sir, as you will perceive, from a prison. Ha! my honoured father, it is—I humbly believe—impossible even for you to imagine the change that prison walls have worked in me. They have softened my heart-they have made me take an inside look into myself-they have shown me, written with a terrible hand, the long, long list of all my vices, all my follies: they have -but I cannot pursue the theme. The very recollection of the pain I have caused you almost makes me drop the pen abashed; nevertheless, I will struggle with my feelings, and, if only for penance, try to proceed.

With all my sufferings, I nevertheless try to feel grateful to my creditors who have placed me here. There are, I am sorry to write it, young men in this prison upon whom the moral of the place (as I call it) seems entirely lost. They give themselves up to the most reckless enjoyments; they drink-for, somehow, drink is smuggled—they game, they play at racket ;—in fact, they sink from bad to worse, and when they return to the world, they will, I fear, visit it more like pests, than as reformed, rational creatures. Again and again have I been tempted by some of these brawlers to join in what they madly call their pleasures. But no, sir; I trust I am not wholly lost. Hitherto, I have lived as much as possible apart from all—I have read, sir, read

the one Book, which it was your best advice to me always to read. There are lost young men in this place who say a father governor" is their slang expression-is a person made by Providence only to pay his son's bills: I hope, sir, that I have a truer, a nobler notion of the uses of a parent. I fervently trust that in entreating of you for this, the third and last time, to pay my debts, you will believe me when I assure you that I do this with the greatest reverence for your parental character-with (whether you grant or refuse my prayer) abounding gratitude for all that you have accomplished for a hitherto unworthy son.

I assure you, dear sir, this time my penitence is profound. From my present feelings, I know I can withstand all future temptations. "Ha, ha!" cried one of the spendthrifts here, "you'll soon get tired of this moping, miserable life; you'll soon be a jolly, roaring, drinking dog like one of us." But no, sir! although this prison should be my grave, it shall at least be the tomb of a penitent.

With many burning blushes I enclose you a list of all my debts--really all; pay them, my dearest father, and be assured of the gratitude and obedience of

Your erring, but affectionate son,
CHARLES BUTTER.

P.S.-I have been urged to liberate myself as a bankrupt; but feel like your son-can still respect the I'll die first.

I trust, sir, I can still honour of the family.

LETTER XXXVIII.

THE FATHER'S ANSWER.

SIR,-You have seen your folly so often that, it is evident, by this time you are quite accustomed to it. All your long letter may be boiled down like spinach, into three words, "Pay my debts." All the rest is mere flourish-mere palaver. No, sir; you may break my heart, but you shall not break my fortune. I'll not pay a single sixpence.

I am, your affectionate Father,

JOHN BUTTER.

P.S.-You may become a bankrupt as soon as you please. Thank heaven! the honour of the family is too secure to be injured by such an unprincipled spendthrift. Not a sixpence, sir-not a single sixpence.

LETTER XXXIX.

FROM THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN'S MOTHER.

MY BELOVED Boy,-I hav'n't slept a wink since you've been in that horrid place. I hadn't yet dared to speak to your father, but I saved your letter, which, in a dreadful rage, he threw upon the fire. Ha! my dear boy, that letter made me almost happy. With the abilities you have to write such a letter, what might you not do in this world! If you would only be your own friend, what could stand in your way?

But I please myself in the belief that your repentance is sincere. I am heartily glad that you have nothing to do with the riotous and sinful set about you: most glad to find that you neither drink, nor game, nor do anything but read that one Book. Continue to do so, my dear boy, and depend upon it your father sha'n't have a minute's rest in his own house until you are again among us. God bless you!

Your affectionate Mother,

MARTHA BUTTER.

P.S.-I send you 107. I hope this time that your list of debts is quite correct: that you have put all down: for you know how you deceived your poor father twice before.

LETTER XL.

FROM A GENTLEMAN TO HIS FRIEND, SOLICITING HIS SERVICES IN A DUEL.

MY DEAR BROWN,-Let me see you immediately. A matter upon which depends the good name, the honour, the all that makes this world tolerable, requires that I should instantly consult you. I will, however, in as few words as possible, inform you of my present position. When you know it, I feel assured that I shall have your immediate sympathy-your promptest

assistance.

This evening, taking a quiet stroll by the Serpentine, accompanied by faithful Ponto, the dog suddenly jumped into the stream, and swimming into the middle, remained there, swimming

M