relish a little quiet gossip. I hope you will go home with me and partake my family fare.

R. I meant to dine in a Coffeehouse but when I am popt upon by these accidental and extempore invitations, which the laws of ceremony permit, nay, persuade me, to decline, I am generally such an outlaw as to accept them. I will accompany you with pleasure, and hope, by doing so, to reimburse myself, in part, for the tax which I have lately paid, by attending several superb and formal banquets.

C. It is strange that these should be so frequent, since most people dislike them; and that society, when tasking its invention to turn the hours of pleasure to the best account, should have missed its object so egregiously. R. It has certainly contrived to blend with its gratification so many desagréments (pardon me-I can think of no equivalent English word), as to shew that its advisers are woefully ignorant of the human mind, and of the associations by which its feelings are influenced. What think you, for example, of having a written obligation hanging, for weeks, over your head, to do what you know may be impossible? You promise and engage, on this day month, to present your self át Mr A. B's, in good health, good spirits, good appetite, and good talk, without all of which, what is expected of you cannot be performed; nay, you undertake to controul the course of Providence; for should an accident, in the meantime, occur to disquiet you, and impair your power of giving and receiving pleasure, your pledge is not redeemed.

C. True: and as we naturally shrink from granting promissorynotes, unless for value received, I believe the first thought that occurs to many men, on receiving an invitation, is how it may be most civilly declined.

R. But let us suppose it accepted, and the day arrived, and see whether any thing then tends to diminish our constraint. The very labours of the toilette are a bad preparation. They remind us that we must dress our minds, as well as our persons; that, with our best coat, we must put on our best conversation;

and that we must encounter critics, who will measure the size of our understanding as well as of our trowsers, and the sharpness of our wit, as well as of our swallow-tails. We are, in short, like one accoutering himself for a grand review, at which, not the limbs only, but the thoughts, words, and feelings, must be cased in the buckram uniform of the corps he is to join, and must execute the stated manoeuvres of the day, according to the last regulations in the orderly-book of fashion.

C. All this I have felt. But after the laborious process of external and internal stiffening, let us take a peep at the drawing-room, the awful porch (or purgatory, if you will) by which we pass to the temple, and what may be most emphatically termed the solemnity of the festival.

R. The opening scene, indeed, is universally allowed to be the gloomiest in the whole piece. The most unkindly portion of the day is that when we are appetized for dinner, but made to wait for it, without any interim occupation to divert our impatience. A craving stomach frets the temper at all times, and certainly not least, when the expression of our feelings is checked, by the greater evils of forcing smiles and fishing for conversation. In this frame, we enter a company of strangers, where extreme reserve is requisite, at least till we have sounded and buoyed our track. Even in our common places we are circumscribed, for the news of the day is interdicted, lest it offend some party feeling; and, when the few on which we venture are exhausted, we look with envy on the insignificant cyphers, who, by more practice, have learned the art of speaking much, yet saying nothing.

C. There must really be something ludicrous in the scene; for I have often been tempted to smile at the total change of manner produced by the dressing and drawing-rooms. I have, at four, been amusing myself with a few young friends, all of whom were cordial and communicative, and full of "quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles;" and, an hour after, 1 have met with the same group attired for their parts in the tragicomedy, with their natures as starched as their neckcloths, and their

hearts locked up as close as the breast which contains them, the whalebone of their boddice, like the iron of Sterne's captive, appearing to have "entered their souls." But the miseries of the drawing-room require no other proof, than the relief which every one feels on the summons to quit it. Perhaps, however, you will allow that, in sitting down to table, there is pleasure of a less negative kind than what consists in the mere removal of pain.

R. There can be no doubt, that when the folding-doors are thrown open, the blaze of lights, the glittering of plate, the train of showy attendants, and the alluring steam of well-dressed dainties, are circumstances which act agreeably on the nerves. To the corporeal epicure, they give all the delight of which his narrow power of enjoyment is susceptible; but the mental epicure, after a momentary elevation of spirits, soon recollects himself, and foresees that, amidst this physical superfluity, his better part may starve. The luxuries he longs for are an accelerated interchange of thought and of kindness-a scene to give gentle exercise to the activity of his faculties, and the benevolence of his feelings. For these the materiel of a splendid dinner is certainly favourable, if the morale be equally so. Nine times in ten, however, this is not the case. The mind never acts with pleasure, either to itself or others, unless its possessor have ample elbow room for conversation, and be what is called well set. It is so sensitive in mixed companies, as to shrink, like the mimosa, from the slightest cause; and even when unable to retrace the train of thought, or specify to itself the circumstance by which it was effected. A side-glance from a stranger, or the presence of a person whose physiognomy is discouraging, or of one whose taciturnity gives him the air of keen and critical observation, is enough to benumb the vivacity, and slacken the current of your ideas. You feel the spell, before you can explain it, producing a sudden abridgment of your topics, and a sort of instinctive resolution to check all the gambols of fancy, and every aberration, from the dull routine of dinner tactics, till the stated hour of dismissing the parade.

VOL. IX.

C. By the way, that stated hour is another deduction from the freedom which is requisite for enjoyment. Whether you are amused or not, civility obliges you to appear so; and however impatient you may be for the time of dismission, you are hermetically sealed till it arrive. The same sort of civility to your entertainers tempts you to give proofs, very pernicious to yourself, that their labour for your gratification has not been vain. They would be uneasy, by suspecting that you did not relish what they had so carefully provided; and to prevent this, you taste a greater variety, and also a greater quantity, both of their viands and of their liquors, than suits your ordinary habits. It is false to say that you are free to do as you please; for the compulsion of courteous and kindly feelings is perhaps the strongest of any. A good man will load his stomach, rather than his conscience; and a good-natured man will give pain to himself, rather than to another; but it is hard that benevolence, by the absurdity of custom, should be rewarded with a night of fever, and a morning of crudity.

R. Certainly. But though we have agreed that these elaborate dinners are a grievance to the receiver as well as the giver, yet, like most of the other evils of life, they have their uses. They are useful to some, for example, by enabling them to specify and claim the station in society to which they think themselves entitled. The fashion, originating with the upper class, is followed by the next, and propagated downwards; and he who refuses to adopt it, and occasionally to shew a dinner, as he would shew a certificate of gentility, must content himself with the want of that consideration, for which he will not pay the regulated fee. Rank, when not strictly defined by a title, is equivocal and arbitrary; and it is, therefore, no small convenience that, instead of producing periodical testimony of the birth, wealth, or wisdom on which you rest your claim, you can both commence and repeat it, by merely submitting to the cost and ennui of a formal entertainment; and that, like a Templar, you can eat your way into one of the higher castes of your countryman. land like this, where different kinds

Tt

In a

of respectability may bring the duke and the tradesman to the same board, it is desireable to possess, not only a right to this privilege, but also an easy method of asserting it. At a German court, where the noblesse are separated from the rest by a much sharper line than can be drawn by mere optional dinner-giving, you would have to exhibit sixteen quarters of heraldry, for a franchise, which you can establish here by the judicious exhibition to different parties of sixteen quarters of lamb, with their usual adjuncts. This is in accordance with our national character and constitution; and as few deny the dullness of grand dinners, I really believe that they are given chiefly from the motive which I am stating. C. I have little doubt of it. But how do you account for the folly of the uppermost class of all, who, having it in their power to introduce what customs they please, impose a penance upon themselves by introducing one so irksome?

R. Because its uses to them are more numerous than to others. A man of rank is under the necessity of entertaining many persons with whom he has little intimacy; and in a small company of these, the stiffness and reserve would be still greater than in a large one; because the members of the latter contribute, in some degree, to each others amusement. Besides, a person of this description is much more anxious for the preservation of his dignity, than for social enjoyment; and would far rather submit to hours of insipidity, than to the familiarity which easy and companionable pleasantry seems to imply. Among the multitudes, too, whom he must see, there will very frequently be some blunderer, who mistakes general courtesy for personal preference, and who, under the shelter of this idea, pushes into closer contact with his host than "the nose of nice nobility" can brook. To daunt such forwardness, and deter any one from daring to be wittier or wiser than himself, he finds the pomp of the banquet, and the largeness of the assembly, most effective auxiliaries.

C. And thus what he does wisely for his own personal accommodation and defence, others preposterously are

at much expence to incommode and annoy themselves, by imitating.

R. Yes; just as we saw, that when an exalted personage found it convenient, for causes affecting himself alone, to wear, at one time a high collar, and at another Turkish trowsers, the fashion was instantly adopted by many to whose form they were unsuitable. The frame of polished society, and especially of a monarchy like ours, will always produce similar effects. All will copy what they can in the condition of their superiors, and vanity will plume itself even on imitating their discomforts.

Our discourse was interrupted here by meeting Frederick Vanstricht, a German gentleman, who had lived many years in England, and with whom Carter was on a footing of intimacy. "I see, Vanstricht," said the latter, "by your indecided and pococurante air, that you have no engagement. So come along and dine with me.' Vanstricht agreed, and we soon reached the place of our destination, which is in the vicinity of Bedford Square. Carter's house and establishment present a scene of perfect congruity, and both are adjusted to his income with that taste and judgment in which he excels. The rooms are elegantly neat, but of a size so moderate, as to make the service of a single footman suggest no idea of wasteness and discomfort. Want of suitableness and reciprocity in domestic arrangements is always unpleasant; and this the mind instantly detects in a spacious dwelling, with which the attendance, the furniture, and every other concomitant, including the manners and appearance of the owners, do not exactly harmonise. We perceive in it a man aiming at something in which he fails. We see him struggling to rise into a higher rank, by adopting its style of living; but unable, through want of means, or want of skill, to advance the whole of his domestic array equally and simultaneously. Doing it by detachments, he loses his object. The effect of what is done is destroyed by what is undone, since the latter, like a canvas shirt with lace ruffles, tells the secret of his original humility as plainly as if no part had been altered. This error my friend avoids. He knows that

the charm of consistency and connec tion is not less in the plan of a family than in that of a drama; and that ---- alterius sic

Altera poscit opem res et conjurat amice. In his drawing-room we found every article necessary for comfort and modest decoration, and those so arranged as to shew at once, that the eye of its mistress is quick in the perception, and pained by the absence of symmetry and grace. This morality of the senses, (if I may call it so,) or an instinctive and unstudied taste for the beautiful arrangement of objects, which are constantly in view, it is gratifying to find in the sex of which beauty is the characteristic, and a person of ordinary tact will detect the want of it, in the position of a single chair or picture, or the corruption of it by fashion, in crowding a small apartment with tables and ottomans of motely pat

terns.

(To be continued.)

MARY SCOTT OF EDENKNOW.

A Fragment.

[In his early years, the author has often heard the outline of the following Tale recited by an old woman, who had an inexhaustible fund of traditionary and superstitious lore. According to the relation of this hoary chronicler, the appearance of Mary's mother after death was a contrivance of the Abbot, assisted by his Monks, for the purpose of promoting his views in the seduction of the daughter.]

Despair, that solitary stands,
And wrings a halter in his hands.

Hamilton of Bangour.

WHY is that spot so brown and bare, And this beside so fair and green? Why blooms there here the wild rose fair,

And there a barren waste is seen? Here waves a birch, both green and gay; And there a naked wither'd thorn; That wantons in the winds of May,

This mocks the softest dews of morn!

Why does the linnet love to sing

Upon the birch's slender spray; But o'er the thorn, with fluttering wing, Affrighted flies, and hastes away? Why waves the gentle primrose pale,

The earliest of the infant year? Beneath the bleak and stormy gale The purple violet blossoms here!

Whence comes that dim and shadowy sprite,

Oft seen to glide at twilight hour, Like maiden robed in spotless white,

With bended head, like drooping flower?

And swains have seen a spectre thereA wandering shade in sable weed, That wrings its hands in sad despair,

As if it rued some reckless deed;

And on that spot, with wild flowers dress'd,

With bended knees is seen to creep, And rend its hair, and beat its breast, And wailing loud is heard to weep. But should the white-robed spectre risc, It utters deep and hollow groans; And then, with wild unearthly cries,

It sinks among these moss-clad stones While there a blue and baleful flame

Gleams horrible to human sight; And shrieks that thrill the morial frame, Are mingling with the winds of night. Such are the tales by shepherds told;

And this what they have heard and

seen

When they have watch'd their evening fold,

And darkness dimm'd the daisied green.

"Long hast thou trode this earthly stage;

Thy natal spot the neighbouring vale; Thou canst unroll time's by-gone page, Explain to me this wond'rous tale!"

"Twas thus a youthful stranger spoke

To one with snowy honours crown'd, Who careful watch'd his little flock, Which, wand'ring, browz'd and bleated round.

The shepherd shook his hoary head, And meekly bow'd in humble guise; A hectic o'er his pale cheek fled,

And brighter beam'd his faded eyes. "Stranger," he said, "the sun is low,

And should I now your wish fulfil, Before I close, his parting glow

Would fade upon the distant hill.

"Yet on this mossy bank we'll lean,

If you can rest, and spare the time; And, shaded by these birches green,

I'll tell the tale in artless rhyme. "You see yon hoary turrets rise

In ruin'd, but majestic form;
And lift their grey heads to the skies,
Defying winter's wildest storm.

"Religion claim'd them for her own,

The sacred fane for praise and prayer; But priestly Pride had fix'd her throne,

And Monks and Friars fatten'd there.

"They had their herds in every stall, Their lambs in every fold around; Earth gave her treasures at their call, Their brows with rosy chaplets bound.

"Though Hymen had no worship there, Nor known the chaste connubial chain, For love, and wine, and women fair,

They seldom knew to sigh in vain;

"But mass was said, and anthems sung, And orisons at early morn, And vesper bells were nightly rung,

And cowls and humble vestments worn.

"And many a matron they confess'd, And sooth'd the mourning widow's sigh; Shed balm in many a maiden's breast,

And wip'd the tear from beauty's eye.

"To soothe a jealous husband's ire,

They bore a never-failing spell; For they could doom to future fire, And curse with candle, book, and bell! "And magic keys, hung at their belt,

Could every bolt below remove; And they for gold their passports dealt, That open'd all the gates above.

"Thus wealth and power were in their hands;

All trembl'd if they sternly spoke; Ev'n monarchs bow'd at their commands, And bent beneath their priestly yoke. "And there an Abbot once bore sway,

(Tradition has not told his name,) Whose life was like a day in May,

He knew no care, and fear'd no shame.

"Laid on the lap of sensual bliss,

High season'd food and sparkling wine; The blooming cheek, and wanton kiss,

Were deem'd by him delights divine.

"Nature had been benignly kind,

And he improv'd her gifts by art; With manly form, capacious mind,

But cold and selfish coward heart.

"Erect and tall on earth he trode,

On all around look'd proudly down; With fate impending in his nod,

As he might deign to smile or frown. "He deem'd the loveliest female flower

But as the blossom of the morn, To breathe its sweets one little hour, At eve lie withering and forlorn. "And many a bud his breath had stain'd,

Blanch'd many a cheek in early bloom; And seen them fade without a friend, Or sink neglected in the tomb. "Around the venerable pile

The sons of toil and trade had place; And modest beauty's winning smile Was seen on many a maiden's face.

"But not a nymph who trod the green Could such transcendent beauty shew, Or launch the shafts of love so keen,

As Mary Scott of Edenknow! "The evening sun, whose parting beam

Resplendent shone on Dickmount Law, Or softly-dimpl'd Brotheck's stream, A fairer maiden never saw.

"The stars that gem the azure sky, Shed brilliant lustre o'er the night; But brighter far was Mary's eye,

And lovelier shone its gentle light.

"Who has not seen the morning break?

And, joyous, hail'd the orient glow; Such was the blush that warm'd the cheek Of Mary Scott of Edenknow. "There was a sweetly witching smile, Which play'd around her dewy mouth, That spoke a heart devoid of guile,

The seat of innocence and truth. "Sweet is the breeze at evening hour,

Which o'er a bank of violets blows; And sweet at morn the breathing flow'r,

When zephyrs kiss the dewy rose; "But ne'er did love such nectar sip,

From ought that breathes perfume be

low,

Like that which linger'd on the lip

Of Mary Scott of Edenknow. "The circling arch above her eye,

Adorn'd her forehead full and white; The rainbow, when it spans the sky,

Seems not more perfect to the sight. "In graceful ringlets, careless twin'd, Light flow'd her glossy, auburn hair; Or sported in the gentle wind,

That took delight to wanton there; "And wave it round her slender neck, So fair, it mock'd the mountain snow; For ev'ry grace combin'd to deck

The beauteous flower of Edenknow.

"Her bosom, shaded from the sight,

So softly heav'd-so gently fell, That Fancy gaz'd with fond delight,

Where love and beauty seem'd to dwell. "And soft as coos the turtle dove,

Or strains by airy minstrels sung; Sweet as the whisper'd vows of love, The accents of her gentle tongue. "Her slender hand was soft and fair, And smoothly round her polish'd arm; There was a grace in every air;

Each motion had a secret charm.

"Was there a face by all admir'd, That lighted up love's raptur'd glow, Or envy's secret pangs inspir'd, 'Twas Mary Scott's of Edenknow.