What little bit of neck he had was decorated by a white tie, and his pudgy chest was cased in vesture of black satin. His daughter was evidently his own child. No one who looked at her could entertain even a

passing doubt on that point.

There are many interesting young persons who think they look well by moonlight. The fair Julia Withermay was of this number; and as it was just about the time when the red round harvest-moon came rolling up out of the sea, casting a long track of light across the waves, which trembled beneath, that this young lady began to take frequent walks along the esplanade in front of the Bedford Hotel, accompanied by her worthy parent.

It was in the course of one of these pleasant rambles that she encountered Mr. Selwyn Bowlby, whom she had not seen for nearly a fortnight. "Beautiful evening, madam," the lawyer said, as he politely accosted the ladies.

"Is it not lovely? how fair the waters look beneath the moon," replied the spinster, turning pensively towards the sea.

The lawyer rubbed his hands, and looked by turns at Miss Withermay and the moon, but he said nothing, for he had nothing to say.

The experienced matron came to his relief.

"We are making up a little party for the Races next week, Mr. Bowlby, and if you would join us we should be delighted," she said.

The little lawyer expressed his grateful sense of the honour thus offered, but replied with a smile, that he thought he was getting rather too old for such amusements.

"I leave them to my juniors now, madam," he said, as he bade the ladies good night.

Next morning, Mr. Selwyn Bowlby received the prettiest little" billet" that was ever seen. The envelope had pink edges, and upon the seal

there was engraven a Cupid rampant.

Here is a copy :—

"MY DEAR SIR,

"My father hopes you will give us the pleasure of your company upon Thursday next to go to the Races. We shall have an agreeable party. Captain Jenkinson takes us in his drag, and I have kept an inside seat for you. "Very truly yours,

"AMELIA PYBUS."

Thrice happy Mr. Selwyn Bowlby; but what a dilemma,-he wished he had not met the Withermays, or if he had, that they had not invited him. He did not like to refuse, but he felt the difficulty under such circumstances of accepting, so he sate down and wrote a note, expressing his profound regret that he was engaged.

The day of the Goodwood Races arrived in due course, and a lovelier morning never shone. The scene was splendid; but even if I could I would not describe it. There was Miss Pybus-arrayed like Solomon in all his glory—in a new silk dress, and a killing bonnet fresh from London. There, too, was Miss Withermay, with a select party of elderly spinsters and antiquated beaux; and there, too, my pen trembles as I record the fact-there, in a dark green britzka, drawn by grey horses, a coachman in a cauliflower wig on the box, and two Jeameses in plush holding on behind,-heavens and earth!-there was Mr. Selwyn Bowlby by the side of the amiable Miss Podder.

In such a place it was next to impossible the parties should not meet; meet they did-greetings were interchanged. and explanations followed, as a matter of course. Mr. Bowlby had been prevailed upon by his friends, &c., to come and see the Race.

Until this moment neither of our two friends had the least idea of the other's proceedings-each of them thought she had the prize entirely in her own hands; and here, almost in the moment of victory, it was apparently snatched from their grasp by an interloper-a tawdry, overdressed nouveau riche. What a galling humiliation!

"Artful creature, Julia Withermay; she's as deep as a well," Miss Pybus said to the dragoon by her side.

"Yeth, very," replied Captain Jenkenson.

"His nose is certainly red; and he is decidedly elderly," said Miss Withermay, with a pensive sigh.

It was about the commencement of the following November term, that the "Morning Post" contained an announcement, in the usual terms, of Mr. Selwyn Bowlby's marriage to the daughter of Absalom Podder, Esq., of Sussex Square; and although ever since that period I have carefully examined the Brighton papers, I have seen no case of suicide recorded in their columns; but the very last time I visited that watering-place, I saw an angelic creature opposite the Bedford looking at the moon-perhaps it was Miss Withermay-she may be there still.

RAMBLES AND SCRAMBLES IN NORTH AND SOUTH AMERICA.*

"I had a strong prejudice against the American people, acquired by meeting very bad specimens on the Continent; but I have convinced myself it was unfounded; and I do not hesitate to say, that I met as agreeable women and as gentlemanly men in America as the world can produce."-AUTHOR'S PREFACE.

REPUBLICAN Institutions have been regarded generally as conducive to a lower tone of taste and ideas than is to be found under a Monarchy: it is, therefore, with some pleasure that we note the agreement between the later English travellers, respecting the high standard of morals and manners in America. Amongst the most intelligent of recent travellers in that country was Alexander Mackay, whose death, whilst engaged in India for the Manchester Chamber of Commerce, the country lately had reason to deplore. In his work on America, under the title of "The Western World"-a book which has taken its stand as the best authority on the subject-Mr. Mackay unceasingly addresses himself to remove the prejudices common in this country against our Anglo-Saxon brethren. Lady Stuart Wortley followed in the same train, and her lively book, though a sketchy volume, and not pretending to the importance of Mr. Mackay's, was another blow at these prejudices.

* By Edward Sullivan.

We have now a third work on the subject, full of information popu larly conveyed, and written in a lively, rattling, vigorous style. The quotation at the head of this paper will show that Mr. Sullivan agrees with Mr. Mackay and Lady Wortley in his estimate of American tastes and habits.

Mr. Sullivan set sail for America in an emigrant vessel, in which, unfortunately, were crowded five hundred Irish.

The Americans would appear to be as rapid consumers of meals as when they were described by Basil Hall. Here we have Mr. Sullivan speaking:

“But still the 'go-ahead' principle is so inherent a point of the Yankee character that it is often visible even at the table d'hôte at New York and Boston, where, during the summer months, the diners are chiefly men travelling from place to place in search of amusement; and at a time when one would imagine that any desperate hurry in swallowing one's dinner, especially such excellent ones as are usually provided, would be a cause of great discomfort, you see dozens of men eating as if their very lives depended on consuming a certain amount in a given time, as Dickens has naïvely observed, snapping up whole blocks of meat like young ravens.""

This great haste is of course opposed to anything like conversation, and the company carefully eschew the most common-place observations. This may account for the absence of English rotundity and accompanying joviality; for, though the doctors assure us that a good digestion should always wait on appetite, the Americans seem to "bolt" their food too much to allow of this-a circumstance which not improbably may cause the thinness of their persons, and the hungry, eager look of the majority. The American capital is much better provided with water than London, New York being supplied with water from the Croton River, and all the modern houses having bath-rooms, with hot and cold water laid on.

We have heard a great deal about female society in America. Our author, though somewhat flippant on the subject, is, however, interesting; and as he has always the courage to think for himself, and does not belong to the echo school, we will transcribe his description of the Boston and New York ladies.

The Boston ladies are excessively pretty and fascinating, and rather more embonpoint than their New York rivals, and you often meet with a complexion so transparent as to be quite startling. From the intense cold of the winter they very seldom leave their houses (which are heated with stoves) for months together; and to this circumstance I imagine a good deal of their delicate interesting appearance is to be attributed. There is a great difference between the Boston and New York ladies. The former are inclined to be blue-attend anatomical lectures and dissections-prefer a new theory of geology or religion to a new fashion of dress or crochet-work. The New York ladies, on the contrary, have no tendency to bluestockingism, and quite dread the character, wishing to be supposed capable of no more serious thought than that involved in the last new polka or the last wedding, and professing that there is nothing worth living for but balls and operas! The fair denizens of both cities, however, agree to dress in very good taste and style, and make the most of that fleeting beauty which is so fascinating for a time, but which so soon passes away. They adopt the French fashions completely, but they Americanize them rather too much, sometimes giving them the appearance of being overdressed-a mistake a French woman never makes-and the habit of wearing short sleeves (or rather no sleeves at all, but only a shoulder-strap,) at an early dinner, at two o'clock, is very unbecoming.

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"Directly a young lady leaves school at fourteen or fifteen, she comes out,' and is then a responsible agent, giving and accepting invitations to balls, &c. entirely on her own hook, without consulting mamma, who is only employed to find the

ready. It is considered quite correct for a nice young man to call and take a young lady out for a walk, or to the theatre, or to a ball, without any chaperone. The young ladies marry very young, often at fifteen or sixteen, and fade almost before they bloom; at three-and-twenty they look three-and-thirty, and get very spare. A lady, however handsome, once married, loses her place in society; very little attention is paid her; all is immediately transferred to the unmarried 'angels; however, it is not so much the case as it used to be. One charming old lady of about sixty told me that I was the only young man who had honoured her with ten minutes' conversation for the last ten years."

Mr. Sullivan's travels in the Far West brought him in contact with many a rough, vulgar specimen amongst the Americans; and the adventures he went through amongst the Indians, are told in his lively, graphic manner, interspersed with anecdotes and conversations, and enlivened by descriptions of scenery, manners, and customs. Cooper's unrivalled accounts of the Red Indians derived no small portion of their interest from their being obviously drawn from nature. All travellers are agreed on the prominent and many admirable characteristics of these gentlemanly savages. The following extract is worthy of the attention of the House of Commons, and most certainly of the American House of Assembly.

"An Indian's delivery, when speaking, is deliberate, slow, and monotonous, almost as if thinking aloud, and their punctuations are very strongly marked, and very long; their action is very fine, and they use a great deal of it. They display a favourable contrast to European orators, in never interrupting one another by word or look, even though the speaker may be uttering sentiments quite opposed to those of his audience, or even things they all know to be untrue, and could refute; still he is always listened to with apparent respect and attention, and when he has sat down, although perhaps there may be a dozen who are burning to contradict, or agree with him, they sit a few minutes, as if meditating on what had been said, and then rise with the greatest deliberation, always giving way to the eldest. Certainly a council of Indian chiefs is generally conducted with more decorum and self-respect, than most public meetings in more civilized countries." Here is an Indian Calendar :

"January, month of storms; February, month when racoons travel; March, month 'mal aux yeux ;' April, the month that the game begins to arrive; May, when trees are in leaf; June (in lower country), strawberry month, (in upper country) the month when the buffalo run; July, month of ripe cherries; August, corn month; September, month when flowers on the Prairie blossom; October, month when they grillé the rice; November, deer month; December, month of I forget

what.'"

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The journey over the Prairie is graphically told. It was accomplished through snow and sleet, and under an intense cold, relieved only by a fire composed of buffalo-dung. Mr. Sullivan had to live upon the hardest buffalo-meat, and unwholesome snow-water, relieved on one occasion by a few tit-bits of wolves." Once, our author, after feasting better than usual, fell asleep with his party by the side of a blazing fire of wood. On awaking after sunrise they found that the prairie had been on fire, and had burnt up to within a quarter of a mile of their encampment: a miraculous escape, owing to the sudden change of wind. The whole of the Prairie chapters are full of incident, unpretendingly and simply set forth.

The following mode of procedure would be thought indecent in Westminster Hall.

"The Chief Justice of Minnesota was holding his sessions at St. Paul's. The bar of the hotel was the court-house. The judge was sitting with his feet on the stove, on a level with his head, a cigar between his lips, a chew as big as an orange in his mouth, and a glass of some liquor by his side. The jury were in nearly the same

elegant position, in different parts of the room; and a lawyer, sitting across a chair, leaning his chin on the back of it, was addressing them. The prisoner was sitting, drinking and smoking, with his back turned to the judge, and looked the most respectable and least concerned of the whole party. Altogether it struck me that there might be a great deal of justice, but very little dignity, in the application of the law in Minnesota."

We agree with Mr. Sullivan in thinking that the annual change of judges does not increase the dignity of the office, nor render it probable that justice is better done. In so far as the appointment is political the independence of the judge is assailed.

The passage over the bridge of ice, at the junction of the Rivière des Moines, was somewhat of a hairbreadth escape. Our author and his party had to traverse a narrow slip of ice, about twenty yards broad and a hundred yards long, and the ice hardly an inch and a half thick. The story is best told in Mr. Sullivan's own words.

"The river at this point was about a mile and a half broad, and running between almost inaccessible cliffs of two or three hundred feet high, which rendered any idea of making a circuit by land impossible. When we came to this bridge of ice, therefore, we were in a considerable 'fix.' Going back was out of the question, as it was late in the afternoon, and we were in sight of the log-hut where we intended resting for the night, and our sleeping quarters of the night before were some forty miles in our rear, so, the only question was, whether to camp there, and wait till morning, or to risk it; we held a long council of war, but contrary to the usual habit in such cases, we, in this instance, prompted as much by the pleasant prospect of a good shelter and warm fire for the night, on one side, as by the unpleasant certainty of a cold camp, with no shelter and no food on the other, determined to advance.

"The Canadian, who was a spirited fellow, and knew the nature of ice thoroughly, advanced first with his axe to reconnoitre. We watched him advancing cautiously like a cat, the bridge bending with him at every step, and as I fully expected to see it give way with his weight, we thought how little chance there was of our sleigh and horses getting over in safety. Before every step he took he tapped the ice with the axe, to see that it was sound, and every blow descending only with the weight of the axe itself penetrated right through, and the water came spouting up. When the guide had reached the other side he turned round and came back, saying that it was not safe, but still that we might try if we chose; in fact, unless we made up our minds to camp out in the cold, without food, we had no choice."

The Duke of Wellington, who, like all great men, has run the gauntlet of abuse, would have smiled at finding himself called in one of the American papers that "Gigantic Fog' of history, who did not lose the battle of Waterloo." The abuse of this country, with which the worst American papers abound, is calculated more than anything else in the world to disturb the peace of the two countries. We gladly recognize the good feeling of all enlightened Americans towards this country; but, as the wise in all countries form the minority, and are rarely able to control the many, we think that the violent and acrimonious tone adopted by the American democratic press, can scarcely fail some day to bear very sad fruits.

There has been great talk about the cheap literature of America. Let us hear Mr. Sullivan.

"The vaunted cheapness of books is one of the clap-traps of America; the only books that are sold cheap are pirated reprints (very bad ones generally) of European authors. All books where the copyright is bought, in their country, are very expensive. Prescott's History of Mexico,' for instance, I could not buy under thirty shillings, Macaulay' for two shillings and sixpence! However, as ninety-nine books out of a hundred that are worth reading are European, the convenience is great: but even the reprints of our English books are not cheaper, nor so good, as our