may be in the other; with this amiable intention of rivalry she flits and smiles through a few more parties during the night, with exactly the same results, until, overcome with ennui, she seeks her pillow, delighted with the number of her invitations, meaning nothing.

The man of ton lives in nearly the same routine, slightly varied by unmeaning dinners, where he is invited to come as late as he can, to go away as soon as he can, that he may attend the Opera and a few slight engagements where he really must just show himself, which gives his tiger time to turn his cab round and take him up again, that he may show himself somewhere else.

In the most serious, as well as the most trifling things, does the society of ton commit extraordinary acts of folly, with the air of sincerity; for a kind of tacit understanding seems to exist, that they shall appear to receive all as real which they know to be false. A female tonnist, for instance, is expected to be fully conversant with all the tricks of card depositing and morning calls, invented for the sole purpose of getting rid of the surplus time of the fair unemployed. She accordingly ensconces herself in her carriage if she intends to make personal calls, and bowls round to the doors of her intimates, for it is not her intention to go farther, at an hour when they are not visible," or not at home," as the fashionable lie goes: here her show footman knocks insane knocks, which is the principal thing in his education, makes sweet inquiries, receives the expected answer, leaves a card, mounts his perch and passes on to another and another, where he goes through the same forms, during which his mistress reads quietly the last new novel, as if perfectly unconscious of what the man was about. This game at "cards complimentary is one of vital importance to the well-being of this kind of society; any lapse by any of its members, of the proper distribution at the proper time, would embroil them in some bitter feud, or, in some cases, the expulsion from the much envied ranks of ton.

When a death occurs in this high and delightful society, the distressed members, to flatter the dear defunct as long as he or she remains above ground, send most punctiliously their servants, carriages, and horses, to mourn with becoming decorum in the procession to the grave. Everybody sees that this is an empty compliment in every sense, yet it is done that this world may see what a many carriages the body knew.

Notwithstanding the emptiness of all this, we find the next grade in the scale," the little great people," waste their lives and sometimes their fortunes, in imitating it; the word "society " being constantly in their mouths, which means precisely all the foregoing. Not being so well defended from the approach of the mixed, they are dreadfully tenacious in their invitations, and indignant at a "one-horse person' claiming acquaintance with their "pair-horse" eminence: you must be out of business, or you are never in their lists, unless indeed you call yourself merchant, and no one ever saw your counting-house. They are troubled with a curious monomania, which makes them believe "that the middling class" is the one just below them. This number 2 ton apes in every way, much to the annoyance of number 1, its bowings and card leavings, ceremonious parties and coldnesses, and, in its struggles to reach the society

above, passes a life of continued heart-burnings and disappoint

ments.

The great mischief of all this ambition as to station in society falls most injuriously upon that class who, owning themselves the middling class,men of business, &c.,-still strive vainly to place, as it were, one foot upon the step above them, and in the struggle often meet with a total overthrow, ruining themselves by attempting too much, and when done deceiving nobody; looking at the same time with a smile of derision upon their neighbours, for doing the very same thing in which they themselves so signally fail.

How many do we see who sacrifice all their domestic comfort, and eventually their prospects, in the foolish pursuit of society, believing most fondly that they are making hosts of friends, and that all the shaking of hands and after-dinner speeches are beautiful and affecting traits of friendship, and that the crowds who come and eat their dinners, and dance their wax-lights to a snuff, are their staunch friends? No such thing; friendship is not made to music; dining opens the mouth, not the heart; after-dinner affection is only a voice from the cellar; the people who swear eternal friendship over the dinnertable must not be called upon the next day to fulfil their promises. As long as people give good dinners and grand soriées, so long will they find a host of diners and dancers, who will have a great esteem for their feeding and their music, but, as to any personal esteem, they have no more than the pastry-cook who brings the supper, or the man who plays on the cornopean.

"I weeded my friends," said an old eccentric friend, "by hanging a piece of stair carpet out of my first floor window, with a broker's announcement affixed. 'Gad! it had the desired effect. I soon saw who were my friends. It was like firing a gun near a pigeon-house; they all forsook the building at the first report, and I have not had occasion to use the extra flaps of my dining-table since."

The ambition to outvie runs just as high in this grade as it does in the higher, and endless ill-nature is produced by the constant collision of little petty rivalries. If the giver of a feast could only hear the remarks of the complimentary throng after they have left his roof, he would sell off his spoons, and never give another party; for, after all his struggles for effect, which have been highly satisfactory to himself, the snarling spirit of criticism will seize upon his dear friends, as they discuss the evening's entertainment, in which they tear to pieces the whole concern. One kind friend, whose eyes glisten under the influence of escorting three consecutive young ladies down to supper, and gallantly hobnobbing with the same, or anybody else whose eye he could catch, declares that "The thing was pretty well, but slow, very slow; and the champagne was decidedly not A 1: people should not give champagne without it was the best." He then, with exceeding drollery, descants upon the timidity of the servant when the corks flew out; but he excuses her, as he dares say she had never seen such a thing in the house before.

One old lady, who has been profuse in her thanks and her expressions of delight at the pleasantness of the evening, nods her head and shakes her flaxen false wig, as she whispers her convictions to another old tabby who goes shares with her in the fly for the evening, that "she saw spoons and forks with the Tomkins's initials, and

some with the Wilkins's, which fully accounted for the quantity of plate, which puzzled her sadly at first, until she looked about a bit, and convinced herself; and that, by the merest accident in the world, she happened to lift the table cloth, when she discovered that they were obliged to eke out the length of the table with two, and yet she was sure they gave themselves the airs of nobility."

Young ladies, who have no time to lose in society, and who Indiarubber their kid gloves from sheer necessity and continual parties, do their little spiteful things in the like amiable strain; wondering at the host pushing his daughter so forward, and making her sing such horrid Italian, scrambling over the keys as she does. These young ladies will be found to be clutching a roll of music untied, which had been deposited in the passage, and doomed never to make its appearance in the drawing-room! yet they smiled until the cabman shut the door, and, before they left, kissed the host's daughter twice in their enthusiasm.

In this grade we often meet with an individual, who, with the cunning of a fox, billets himself upon his friends, in all imaginable ways, during the preceding twelvemonths, and then asks all his victims to one unsupportable crush, where half his dear friends are in the passage or mixed up with the fiddlers, or crammed into a corner from which it would be folly to move, as twenty are watching for a chance to occupy it, even under the penalty of being stunned by its close approximation to a vigorous cornopean.

The fox squeezes himself blandly about amidst the throng, smiling with unmixed happiness, for he looks upon the half-stifled assemblage as so many good dinners, soirées, and quadrille parties, all to be settled, in the same unpleasant manner, in another twelvemonths, and the same people will be foolish enough to go through the precise thing again, and believe it is society.

There is a certain class of young gentlemen in society who are not unlike charwomen, who go out to help at parties, that is, they are invited without being personally known, by being included in the invitations of those who are. Thus a person who wishes to astonish everybody, by letting them see what a host of good society he is intimate with, and having more than he can accommodate, sends an invitation to a dancing friend, which is an individual supposed only to do that kind of work, and never invited to the more substantial dinner parties, but is perfectly content to come in smiling with the coffee and the muffins. At the bottom of the aforesaid note he writes -"Bring a quadrilling friend or two with you," which is accordingly done, who upon their entrance are introduced to their friend's friend, the host, who smiles, &c., &c., but without the slightest wish to become more intimately acquainted with them, and indeed he never remembers one from the other of those borrowed friends: this may perhaps be excuseable, as nothing is more difficult, as they are a most extraordinary stereotyped set,-all wear polished boots, white waistcoats, white handkerchiefs, and very oily hair, without anything to say about anything, and nothing without dancing. These kind of automata make, upon an average, about one-third of all evening parties; they are very easily detected by the initiated, for directly they are unmixed with a quadrille or a polka, they all run together in a lump like quicksilver, and are about as heavy.

Notwithstanding all these peculiarities, they have their little ambition, consisting of relations of how few nights they spend in bed during the dancing season, and their intimate knowledge of the best cornopeans in town; but if one can get a corroborated account of Jullien having actually spoken to him, he becomes paramount. They have also occasional glimpses of intellect, though of a perfectly personal nature, such as finding out who goes home their way, and if they have a fly, they take wine with them. If it should be a lady, old or ugly, they dance with her; this saves coach hire. To servants they seem known instinctively, for they never give any vails, therefore they treat them with neglect; this does not much affect them, as they never have more than a pair of goloshes, rolled up in a large worsted comforter, which they throw down in the passage anywhere, and a Highland cap in their pockets to keep the latch-key company even this is called going a great deal into society. This specimen, in its old age, must be exceedingly curious, for I have never yet found out what it turns into. Many people feel flattered if by any chance they are invited into society above them; their hearts flutter, and they talk loudly of their great friends, taking great care to blow the dust from the invitation card, which invariably floats like oil to the top of the less aristocratic ones in the card basket; they do indeed flatter themselves, for in nine cases out of ten they are invited because they are so efficient in a glee, or play quadrilles untiringly, or take a hand at cards on the shortest notice, and are victimised accordingly; they are put down in the family consultation with the musicians, waiters, and wax-lights, being in the same ratio necessary; in fact, like supernumeraries in a tableau at a theatre, they add to the crowd and effect.

Some poor victims, bitten, and labouring under the mania of party-giving and society-seeking, turn their houses, as it is not inappropriately called, out of doors: their little boxes being much too small for large parties, they have recourse to every contrivance to delude the people into the idea that the insides are mansions, although the outsides are only watch-boxes: this is done by marching the best bed-rooms into the garrets, and making the lumber-room into a little café. After the glorious evening is past, and their loving friends have departed, they have a week of decided uncomfortableness to get things into their legitimate situations; at the same time not having deluded one single individual of their many friends, who, with all their pretended blindness and admiration, knew that they were taking coffee and ices in the lumber-room beautified, and supping in the bed-rooms transmogrified. Then what avails all this selfdeception? do they get one friend more, or do they spend a pleasant evening? Quite the reverse, the trouble is much, and the pleasure is little; and how strange but true is it, that in after-life, when all these dancing days are over, we find so few around our hearths, that we have selected and who have selected us, who seek us for ourselves alone, and do not take their hearts with their hats when the fête is over. The first is only like the effervescence of the wine that evaporates, and leaves behind the noble spirit to cheer our hearts when we need it.

Society, or what is called so, is unreal. As with the old shepherd who found a magic reed upon one of his sheep-paths, and fashioned it

into a simple pipe, and who, upon playing it, found himself surrounded by the good people or fairies, who rushed hither and thither with delight as he drew forth his lively strains from the magic instrument, and greeted him with every show of love and affection: the simple shepherd flattered himself that his fortune was now made for certain, and that his little powerful acquaintance would continually throw the lucky penny in his path; so he made bold, and drew his pipe from his mouth to tell them his wants; but lo! the moment the instrument left his lips they all became invisible. He accordingly resumed his tune with fresh vigour, and instantly they were all dancing before him as if they had never left off: he endeavoured again and again, but unavailingly, to get in one word for himself, but the moment he did so, and ceased his exertions in their favour, they were no longer to be seen.

So it is with the world of great as well as little people in society, they vanish when you cease to play.

THE POOR MAN'S GRAVE.

IT is a lone, unnoticed spot,
The poor man's place of rest;
No stone records his humble lot,
Few tears the turf have bless'd.
The stunted heather rears its head
Beside the long-forgotten dead;
While fragrant flow'rs are taught to
bloom

Where Art hath wrought the gorgeous
tomb!

Around, the stately marble tells

How wealth hath pass'd away;
The herald's boast triumphant swells,
But awes not, stern Decay!
The noble slumbers with the hind;
The gifted and the witless mind
Pass hence;-one common lot for all,-
One yielding to the Spoiler's call!

Nor strange the sympathy that keeps
My watch beside that mound;
For, where the lowly peasant sleeps

To me is saintly ground!
More precious than the grandest dome
That hides Corruption's narrow home;
More touching than the plaint of woe
That mourns the mould'ring dust below!

Recal a life of gilded state

How valueless it were!
But virtues heirless to the great,

And suff'ring worth lie here.
Unbare the tomb,-reveal the pains
With which he earn'd his scanty gains;
To honest poverty allied,-

How hard he lived,-how calm he died!

The sun rose not in time for him
When forth to toil he went;
And twilight's close would waft his
hymn

Of praise, when homewards bent!
The crust his scanty wallet spared
The faithful dog hath often shared ;
And yet his eyes could tranquil close,
For angels shielded their repose!

Poor lab'rer! little couldst thou deem
What ministers of grace
Were near, when sweetly thou wouldst
dream

Of some familiar face!
Of wand'ring where the sinless are,
In regions sorrowless and fair;
And list ning-ah! no mortal sound
Could hallow thus thy trance profound!

Poor lab'rer! little couldst thou know,
Recording ones on high
Were noting all thy cause for woe,
And ev'ry heartfelt sigh!
Forsaken? Ay, the world forgot
Thy hard and solitary lot;
But thou wert richer, sad and lone,
Than monarch on his gilded throne!

The poor man's grave! Why call it
poor,

That nameless, moss-clad heap? Scorner, away! their lov'd watch o'er Heav'n's messengers do keep! This is no place for thee to rest, Beside that pure and stricken breast; Hence to the tombs apart from this, Nor longer mock a soul in bliss!