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fellow of two or three and twenty, with a face and fortune that carries the beautiful Miss Such a Öne, right into his arms. It's well enough to be engaged, says that beautiful creature just bursting into womanhood, and who not a fortnight since softly faltered her affections to her impetuous lover. O, it's all well enough, says every one who happens to have passed the Rubicon-but what, what indeed shall we say, we the lords of the creation (so styled), we single gentlemen, who having been jilted twenty times, now can't get a kiss for the very life of us—ay, what shall we do in this sterile region of single blessedness?

But I'll tell you, Mr. Reader, what I am making a fuss for. I called last evening on a lovely friend of mine-lovely I call her because she is so, and friendly I call her because she has been with me to balls, parties, jams, &c. &c., for the last five years-I say I called upon this fair friend of mine, and found her seated cosily by a fine looking fellow whom I always hated, who very politely rose as I entered, and with the utmost nonchalance and self satisfied air in the world just tips me the end of his fingers and then passes me over to the lady and then passes himself off to a table hard by, and there sits down with such a confoundedly careless air as made me wish to kick him, and then commences turning over books and prints with all the unconcern of an emperor.

I says to him-" a very fine print that!"

"Eh-O-ye-yes" he stammered, and with such a start as if I had roused him up from some fine dream of Elysium.

Miss, the lady, looks at him-their eyes meet-they separateand then I heard as soft a sigh gently stirring the lady's bosom, as a zephyr's wing would make dallying with a bed of anemonies. "A very sweet evening this, Miss," I say.

"Not till next fall, pa says"-slowly answered the unconscious girl, and then another long sigh as if her fluttering heart could'nt wait so long.

I got up, reader, took my hat as I have told you, and slowly walked away, with a sort of hang-dog air, and a curse upon their happiness. Not because I meant to curse them exactly-for if they wished to be happy, surely I was not the one to interfere with it— but because I was myself, yes I confess it, envious and unhappy.

I went home and put my thoughts down on paper as I am apt to do, and here they are, reader, for your edification.

Engaged people are surely an interesting spectacle to any body, aye, even to a philosopher. He may see in their happy and satisfied air, much that will set him thinking, and if I mistake not, much that will make him better. There is something in the very idea of two hearts intertwining their sympathies, and locking themselves together in this hallowed communion-there is something in this beyond what is dreampt of in philosophy. They come together by no rules, guided by no principles, prepared by no apprenticeship. They do not learn to love as men learn a trade-by application.

No, nothing of this. They look upon each other, and by some subtle affinity which neither of them understands their hearts commingle, and all their thoughts, feelings and passions pouring into the same channel, they become one individual being. Whether there are some deeper and more abiding principles in our natures than have been yet divulged by the speculations of the foolish, it is not for me to determine; but that two hearts should seek and yearn for each other as they will when every thing seems setting against them, until at last they overcome these difficulties and like two streams flow down from the hills and go quietly on togetherthat there is some mystery here not easily got at by the wisest of us, is most certainly true.

That engaged people differ from other folks, is certain. O how abominably selfish they are! There's no talking with them-nothing pleases them unless they are together-their thoughts ramble all over the world. See how quietly that gentleman gazes at that lovely girl there trying to catch his attention-he's engaged. See how listlessly that lady gives her ear to the one sitting by her, in behalf of some Mr. Somebody of talent and family-she's engaged. How deucedly cold that fellow answers the smile of that sweet creature with him-see how her sweet lips open-they're absolutely pearls-how she hangs on him and shakes her flaxen ringlets in his eyes as he lazily picks up her handkerchief-he's engaged. How kindly, even invitingly, that lady receives the compliments of that great fellow there, nodding and bobbing to her like a duck in a horse-pond-hang her! she's engaged. O, I hate engaged people. I hate to see them so confoundedly happy. I hate to see that couple walk the streets, or come into the room so perfectly contented-I want to kick them out of the window.

But indeed I do think there's something in it after all; I believe there's something holy in this same affection. I have sat and watched them closely hour after hour, I have seen their kindly preference for each other's society, their sweet though unobtrusive solicitude for each other's happiness, and I confess there seems something holy in it. I can see nothing earthly in them-he will not suffer another to breathe her name in his presence, and when she refers to him it is always by inference. I never heard him breathe a word which bordered on impurity; while to her, the very thought of a dearer connection, will crimson her cheek like the blush of the morning. Surely, then, there is something holy in such affection.

And yet, I say, hang their happiness! What right have they to be pleased with each other! Why should their hearts burn for each other, even if the fire is as holy as that on the altar of Heaven! The rest of the world are not so-look at them-how they worry and kick and quarrel. Select any other two you choose-put them together-and ten to one they will cheat each other by sun-set. For myself I am a single man, no body loves me, I'm a mark for the world's jeers and gibes, its arrows continually prick me. The

girls begin to call me their elder brother, and the mothers no longer smile upon me when I meet them, to remind me there are seven daughters at home waiting to be married. The brother no longer goes and treats me to champagne and oyster suppers, and the father buttons up his coat when I pass him, and hems as if it was too cold to look at me. He used to stop and tell me how sick his daughter was. And yet, and yet, I say, there's something holy in this same affection. How straight-forward, single and direct it makes the character, and how it softens down and purifies all our human sympathies. Friends of mine, that a year since were as aimless as the sparks on the tail of a comet, are now bending all their energies to be men in the world, and those who were loose in their conversation and habits, and were accustomed to laugh at and ridicule domestic sympathy, and call that man weak who could love but one woman, now regard these same sympathies as the purest of all treasures and the safe-guards of society. They seem to feel the importance of individual exertion-they have learned that a man carves out his own fortune-they seem to feel the claims which the world has on every man-in short, they have become better and wiser. If this is so, and surely it is so, then as surely, there is something holy in this same affection.

And yet, I'm a bachelor-aye, and I choose to be one-aye, and if I must confess it, I certainly am an a-s-s.

Yale College.

TO A LITTLE BOY.

You are sad, my boy-you are sad, you say.
Well, 'tis a sad and a weary way;
Life, and its pleasures-there's much to make
The young spirit droop and the warm heart ache;
There is much that calls for our griefs and tears,
As we journey on through these weary years.

There is much to make you, my little one,
Pine and sick of the blessed sun;

There is much that will make the closing light
Welcome, that brings in the silent night,—

When you may turn away from these busy things,
And lose on your pillow the bad world's stings.

You think 'tis false, and it seems so now,
That a cloud should shadow that unsunn'd brow;
And when I look at that eye so free,

I think, there must be but life's smiles for thee;

And, yet, you wearied, my little one,

Not a moment since, and wished day were done.

I saw you gather but now, a flower,

And saw you drooping the self same hour;

Your head hung down, and your lips were apart,
And your hand as now, was press'd on your heart;
And your locks were laid where they linger yet,
On your mother's lap, and your eye was wet.

And, straightway, you tried the path again,
And, straightway, came back with some other pain;
And soft was your mother's kiss, and her words,
And then your shout was as clear as a bird's;
Yet, I find you here at the close of day,
And sad, my boy-you are sad, you say.

O, behold a picture of human life-
Behold it here in your mimic strife!
You have not tried yet the sterner path
Where men and their passions are up in wrath;
Yet here, on this little stage, my boy,
You see how life doth itself annoy.

There are larger children than you, sweet one,
Who pine and droop with the setting sun.

Like you, they try all these giddy things,

And as wisely they treasure the truth each brings;
And so they weary their lives away,

Children always-though their heads are gray.

ANTIQUARIAN RESEARCHES.

No. II.

As these papers are written according to no definite plan, the present number shall commence with the description of a gem with which all are somewhat familiar.

CUPIDO A PAPILIONIBUS VECTUS. (Incis. in Corneola.)

"Fabrettus, a distinguished antiquarian, remarks, that 'among the ancients the smallest devices were not without their meaning; but I hesitate to assent to this opinion, since many representations were doubtless merely fanciful, or the work of unskillful artists; though such were less common than at the present day. The gem now under consideration may be supposed to belong to this class, but on examination it will be found to emblematize many ancient dogmas. Amor holds in his right hand a torch; in his left, the reins which guide a pair of butterflies yoked to his chariot. Above him are a

star and crescent. To what mystic superstition can these symbols be referred? They are consistent with the Platonic ordinances. Formerly it was unlawful to reveal aught of the sacred mysteries; these were veiled in ambiguity. Apuleius and Fulgentius first divulged the fable of Cupid and Psyche, which the ancients caused to be represented on many of their monuments."

uz corresponds merely with Anima and Papilio ;* whence mythologists universally represent the soul by a butterfly, or a nymph with butterfly-wings, in reference either to its ethereal nature, or to its divinity and immortality. The double wings imply either a twofold natural instinct, elevating the soul to things above, or a twofold appetite-the one controlled, the other uncontrolled, by reason; which latter is the opinion of Zoroastres, the prince of ancient theologians. Amor guides the chariot of the spirits, according to Plato, who calls him Celestial Love-the leader and guide of the soul,' for which office the gods have given him a body as a vehicle. Under this idea, Joannes Picust has thus platonically interpreted the gem, illud scientiarum monstrum.' In a soul well cultivated the appetite is governed by a purer love, called intellectual, here represented under the figure of reins, for which the artist is evidently indebted to Plato. With respect to the star and crescent before mentioned, "God," says Plato, "assigns some souls a place in the moon, others in the remaining planets and in the stars, the measures of time. This divine philosopher has also described at length the ascent of souls to and their descent from the stars. By an upright elevated torch, the god Amor emblematizes the life of man, and his death by an inverted torch; and he is here represented as conveying spirits from heaven in his corporeal vehicle.'

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CUPIDO A CYCNIS VECTUS.-(In Cameo.)

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"Aside from poetical fables concerning the swan, I think that this most beautiful ancient Toreuma originated in that unbridled fondness for the Circensian games which possessed alike the Greeks and Romans. Juvenal says of the Roman people, ‘atque duas tantùm res anxius optat, Panen et Circenses.' What wonder then if they imagined, that among the delights of Elysium were the Circensian games, over which the genii of heroes preside, not conducted as at present among the living, but with winged chariots and tame beasts, as they are usually represented on medals. Perhaps also the swan is introduced as being most propitious to voyagers and travelers. When we have learned from natural history the characteristics of the swan, we cannot fail to wonder that the ancients should have so greatly extolled its singing; since it sings either not

* See Leverett's Lexicon; also Ovid.

+ Vide Hist. Philos. Soc.; tom. I. p. 390. Edit. Venit. 1731.

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