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THE TWINS.

"How provoking," said Alison, peevishly, as she slowly entered the room, striving to peep under the curiously fastened edges of a neatly folded, triangular little note, "how provoking and ridiculous that young ladies should wrap up their silly messages and nothings in such impenetrable mystery as this precious cocka-doodle-doo! And some people, who pretend to be men of sense, will feel a pride in opening such a baby-thing, and will put it in their pockets with an air of complacency and conceit truly intolerable and disgusting. For my part, I wonder how any young lady can subject her innocent notes to the construction that evil-minded people might put upon them, when folded in such imperious fashion as this cocked-hat of a thing! Well, I shall certainly be tempted to open it, if it be only to learn how to mortify prying people who would wish to peep into any of my epistolary secrets. Mercury! what a seal! did any body ever see such a piece of affectation and impudence as pretending to secure so elaborately folded a paper with such an imperceptible tantalizing piece of wax? It must have been dropped through the eye of a needle! Take altogether it is certainly one of those kind of things well calculated to excite a natural curiosity to know, you know, as Paul Pry says; and all of you seem laudably on the qui vive about it, save and excepting incurious me and apathetic William there, at the window every thing to the contrary notwithstanding, nevertheless."

"But who is it for?" resounded through

the room.

"Oh! for papa, to be sure Mr. Hallingham.' What a pity it is he has just gone out! But you'll open it, mamma?" "Not I indeed," replied my mother, shaking her head.

"Well," continued Alison, "when I am married, as I hope one of these days to be, if such a thing were to come to my husband, I'd open it, if I died for it; and so I will this too; for, after all, I can stick on a larger seal, you know."

"Alison, Alison !" exclaimed my mother," how dare you even speak of such a thing? Put it on your father's table this instant, he never opens any of your letters.

"Letter! mamma! Do you call this a letter? Here, William, that's a dear, do you open it; and if papa should say any thing about it, you can say, you know, that you are as much Mr. Hallingham' as he is, and that being addressed in a young lady's hand, and from its appearance altogether, it was much more probably for you than for him."

"Bless me, William!" exclaimed my mother, seeing that I had indeed opened the note thrown to me by my sister, and was reading it with a smile of satisfaction, "how can you be so heedless, when you know how great a breach of propriety you are committing?"

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Why, my dearest mother, the note is for me, and Alison knew that it was all the while. But I flatter myself," continued I, refolding the paper, and putting it into my waistcoat-pocket, "that my patience is as amiable and exemplary as some people's want of curiosity."

"And so I have had all my trouble for nothing," said Alison pouting, and seating herself on a sofa with an air of disappointment; "and am not to learn how the thing is folded, after all! Well, certainly, William, you are the very pink of patience, and nothing can possibly exceed the specimen you have just given us of gentlemanly apathy. Deceit! thy name is man! as the poet says, or should have said. I hope, however, that the contents have amply repaid you for the pain you must have endured in so inimitably repressing your impatience. Some commonplace return of thanks from Thanetoun House for the loan of a book, or some such thing, I suppose, and you would fain flatter yourself that we think it a billet-doux, forsooth, from one of the young ladies!"

"I would not have any one think so for the world!" exclaimed I, with assumed indignation, taking the note from my pocket, and throwing it into her lap; "and I equally despise," added I, in the same strain, "those who are malicious enough so to misconstrue an innocent act of good breeding, and those whose despicable vanity would lead them in any manner to favour such a construetion."

"Bravo!" said Alison, taking up the note, "Burke is wrong, after all, and the age of chivalry has not passed away

for ever. aloud?"

But am I really to read it-and

"Do with it what you will," answered I, laughing.

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Hem!" cried she, clearing her throat; and untwisting the intricate folds of the paper, read out as follows:

"The Misses Thanetoun would be unfeeling indeed, were they to hesitate, for a moment, in taking by the hand two such fair and delicately-formed orphans as those Mr. Hallingham has so kiudly committed to their charge. They receive them with pleasure, and return Mr. Hallingham their sincere thanks for the compliment he has paid them, which was as unmerited as unlooked for."'

"Thanetoun House, Tuesday.'"

"What can it possibly mean?" inquired Alison, glancing round the room, and looking at the note again and again, and turning it round and round, and over and over. "A real downright secret, and

a mystery, I declare."

"I hope the contents have amply repaid you for the pain you must have endured in so inimitably repressing your curiosity," remarked I, bowing.

"Orphans! fair and delicately formed!" repeated Alison. Why, what, in the name of wonder, can they be you have sent to Thanetoun House? And why should Janet have underlined fair and delicately formed'?"

"Because they are sable, and rather embonpoint, I suppose," answered I. "But what are they?"

"A brace of black pups, perhaps," said

one.

"Or kittens," cried another.

And bear-cubs, monkeys, owls, tortoises, and the whole vocabulary of the animal kingdom was gone through in vain.

"What think you," said I, after they had completely exhausted their ingenuity, "what think you of twin negresses?" "Twin negresses!" exclaimed the whole party.

"Twin negresses!" cried my mother again, throwing herself back in her seat, overcome with surprise and astonishment.

"Twin negresses!" repeated Alison. "Do you pretend to say, that you have actually sent two negro girls to Thanetoun House ?"

"Why what else could I do with them?" returned I with a shrug. " Our family is large enough already, and we have no interest, that I am aware of, in the Orphan Asylum, and the Thanetoun's have, I believe."

"Good heavens, William Hallingham!" said my mother, looking seriously at me, "Do you mean to say, that you have really sent two orphan negro-children to the Thanetoun's!"

"You have heard the note read, mother," replied I.

"And how, of all conscience, came you to have any thing to do with such a charge?"

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Why, my dearest mother, if any poo negress here in Edinburgh were to findour that I had been much in the West Indies, and on her death-bed were to take it into her head to leave me her helpless children, could I refuse the legacy?"

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Legacy!" exclaimed the astonished "The Lord group, crowding round me. preserve us all from such legacies !" "And have those amiable girls really relieved you of these unfortunate children?" tenderly exclaimed my mother, taking off and rubbing her spectacles, which had become clouded by her tears. "Heaven bless them for it!'

"Amen!" responded the whole party. "I'll run round to them this instant," cried Alison, dashing the tear-drops from her cheeks, and darting out of the room.

"Stop her, William," exclaimed my mother. "Why, Alison, do you forget that we have company, and that the Thanetouns are engaged out to day? We will both of us call upon them early tomorrow, and insist in participating in their kind, their bountiful intentions."

"My dear William," said Alison, putting her hand on my shoulder, “if I had known of this, indeed, indeed, I would not have so tormented you about the note."

"You had not known its purport else,” returned I, smiling.

"But are they so very young and helpless?"

"Why, you know I am no guesser of ages; but they might possibly be of some little use to the Misses Thanetoun, if they will do me the honour of taking them into their service," answered I, bowing, and leaving the room.

(To be concluded in our next.)

AMERICAN

THE Yankees have their "system," it seems, as well as ourselves. One would almost think, from the following, that our old friend of the Gazette had been drilling the American editors, and they understood the plan of reviewing as well as Jerdan himself. The paper is taken from an amusing work just published in New York, entitled Dreams and Reveries of a Quiet Man, by one of the editors of the New York Mirror.

FROM THE DIARY OF AN EDITOR.

"What a medley lies on my table this morning! Here's a work in sheets-London edition- the only copy that ever crossed the Atlantic. It will be republished here soon."

"You have read it?" "No."

"Then you know not how it will go, Mr. Editor?"

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"Just as well as if it had appeared last year, Mr. R. The author is here himself, has dined with the critics, the reviews are all written, it is to be ushered into existence with a flourish of trumpets in the -, which is to be re-echoed in the Mr. A. has pledged himself, Mr. B. is the writer's boon companion, Mr. C. will praise it because he hates the author of the, which is to be published at the same time; and Mr. D. puffs every thing in the lump, and gets the books for his trouble."

"But the public, Mr. Editor, the pub

lic-"

"The fiddlestick, Mr. R., the fiddlestick. That modest thin octavo yonder is the new satirical poem, damp from the press; it lies by the side of the Christian Expositor. These engravings are from

What scratching! The man there looks like a monkey. Mem. -three creditable engravings-meet the encouragement they deserve. Notes, too—a season ticket to the dancing bear; a prospectus of a new journal; the first number of a periodical, just established in Louisiana; new music, new magazine, specimen of improved type, and--but here comes Peter from the post-office with letters and papers."

Why what a mass of information you must receive from that immense heap!" "You forget, R., you forget. We gain

VOL. IV.

LITERATURE.

from them news of a freshet, or a blow; but these are streams, not fountains. They bear from the large cities, the enormous reservoirs, the floods of news with which they irrigate the distant country. For one moment look over those lying by your elbow. Open at the first page. Now read."

"Mr. Ingham's letter-the cabinet."
"Now the next."

“The cabinet—Mr. Ingham's letter." "And the next."

"Heavy fall of rain. Mr. Berrian. Mr. Ingham's letter."

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Peep into that little blue seven by nine. What says its worship?"

"Mr. Ingham's letter. Mr. Calhoun. Ah! here are some critical observations.

"Mr. Calhoun's letter is now before the public. It is pervaded throughout by a remarkable tone of candour and manly vigour. The sentiments of this invaluable document should be widely circulated through the nation!'

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"Well, well, that will do. Now unfold that brown fellow in large type. The Independent United States Champion. "Read the motto."

"To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,

"Mr. Calhoun. The infamous epistle of this traitor to his country is now before the public. We have given the concluding portion a place in our columns of to-day. The reader will observe the tone of grovelling pusillanimity and hypocritical cunning which pervades the whole of this monstrous confession of apostacy and wickedness. The abandoned and licentious character of the writer can only be equalled by the-""

"Well, a truce to politics. You see how the world wags, dear reader; and may conceive the labour of a poor editor in endeavouring to pick the grain of truth out of all this chaff. But yet who cares? These are but the weeds of a luxuriant soil; let them sprout up; among them much good is accomplished. Here's the Invincible Patriot-an arrant, time-serving creature as ever breathed; and the Greenburgh Messenger-that growls and grumbles like a bear; and so on through the end of the chapter. Though, to change the figure, many a one shines through thǝ crowd with the native light of intelligence

X

and honesty, and sheds its beams of wit and wisdom upon the local subjects of the town or village where it has chosen its orbit.

"There is one thing which provokes a smile upon the visage of a person accustomed to the large scale on which matters are transacted in a populous city: viz., the exaggerated importance which occurrences receive from the country prints and country places; for instance, a fire. Who cares for a fire in New York? When the bells peal through the wide silence of the night, the sleepy citizen, perchance, raises himself on his couch, and gazes a moment at the glare reflected upon the heavens, then turns again to sleep; and if a house or two, or a few blocks are burned down, how carelessly the eye glances over the paragraph in the corner of the next day's paper, and passes from "twelve new buildings in the Bowery," &c., to the marriages, theatre, auction sales, &c. &c. Look into a country village on such an occasion, or read the next Saturday's gazette, and you learn, "That the inhabitants of the peaceful village of, while wrapt in the mantle of unconscious slumber, were startled at the dead of night by the awful and appalling cry of fire! The hideous conflagration first laid hold of Mr. Jenkins's barn, then burned on to the building used as a store by Mr. Jackson, which, dreadful to relate, was totally consumed," &c.

"This peculiarity is yet more visible in case of death. Neither nature nor art has a sound so utterly and inexpressibly mournful as the toll of a funeral bell in the country. It is the very voice of the universal tyrant whispering to your ear, and sinking thrillingly to the innermost core of your heart. A perfect shadow broods over all things. The gloom hushes every dwelling, and is reflected from every face. You cannot shake off the impression. It weighs on your soul like lead; and when the simple crowd come forth, and the coffin, heavy with that which a few hours before was a breathing, thinking, perchance, hoping being like yourself, meets your eye; how the chilling influence curdles the blood in your veins, and makes it creep around your shoulders! Yet what is death in a city? What an empty mockery is a funeral to all but the stricken bosoms which are bleeding and writhing with the cruel bolt. With what apathy, peradventure mirth, the shuffling crowds glance on the ominous train! The clattering hoofs of

the beau's steed strike fire as he dashes recklessly along, the clerk hurries onward with his bundle, the stage-driver's whip echoes as he hastens his jaded team; the rapid notes of the piano may be heard through the damask curtain that shades the apartment of fashion; and the sweet belle floats by gracefully with the never-ebbing tide, and dreams not that she herself, maugre those sunny eyes and that placid bosom, may, even before the flower on her brow has faded, be thus borne on, and thus disregarded."

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'Hey-day, sir, here's a digressionfrom an editor's table to a grave yard.” "A digression, R., suffer me to hint, neither unnatural nor uncommon."

"But I set out with you in hopes of being amused, and you have wheedled me into a sermon. I thought you would fling off your suit of sables, and laugh with me, not preach."

"True, true, my kind and merry companion; pardon the transgression, but remember that the mind is restless as the magnet, and sadness is written on so many points of the moral compass, that the thought, in its thousand vibrations cannot always point to pleasure.

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Hush, sir editor, what have you to do with sadness? Your health is good, your conscience is unseared, your journal is popular, you count on your list of patrons names that make the heart leap, and your avocations lead you through the most enchanting scenes. What other men seek as amusement you enjoy from the necessity of business; and instead of wasting life in some pursuit which requires neither literature nor reflection, you are continually called upon to study the one, and to develop and cultivate the other. Your existence is like that of bees and birds. You are for ever fluttering around fruit and flowers. You feed upon all the elegant essences of fashion, pleasure, and science. Nearly all other professions lead man aside from these paths into something grovelling and tedious, which he pursues only from considerations of business, as the sailor imprisons himself in a floating dungeon, and consents to toss for months on the deep, at the peril of the wind and waves; or as the miner digs into the bowels of the earth for the hidden metal. When such as these find themselves in the light and pure regions which you inhabit, well may they look upon you with envy.'

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Talkest thou thus to me, dear reader?

Then do I know thee for one with a bright fancy, but an inexperienced mind. Art thou yet so fresh in the pilgrimage as not to have learned that the most delicious food the soonest palls upon the palate? That honey may become loathsome; that you may weary even of the warble of a bird? There are times when the eye aches with the glitter of splendour. It is decreed that nothing, literally nothing, in this system of imperfect perfection, called physical and moral nature, can stand the test of close familiarity. The most polished marble betrays its coarseness when exposed to the microscope. There is no music but you will at length turn away from it with sated ear, or detect in it some jarring association; no face but some unlucky angle or repulsive expression may flash upon you from an unexpected position, or in an accidental glare of light; no character but at some of these dull cold moods, which occasionally float damply and darkly along the atmosphere of all minds, you shall stumble upon a weakness or a vice, a perception blunted to delicacy, a blindness to what you deem a truism, a stirring in the heart that refuses to vibrate when you touch it affectionately, a something indefinite, as a chill in the air of a summer day, which after all may be in yourself. This is the craving of unlimited expectation for more than nature has created-the fineness of keen love, whose exquisite edge can only live in the fancy, and is turned by the touch of any thing human. I remember I once had occasion to travel over a country scarcely settled, upon a journey of many weeks' duration. My way lay directly through oak forests, across the sources of large rivers, and by the most romantic spots that ever travelling painter treasured in his sketch-book. I had cherished the love of forest scenery like a passion. Its magnificent clumps of giant trees, its calm air of primeval silence and grandeur, the vast variety of branches, which sometimes bent superbly over my head like an arch, and sometimes extended to the ground like the walls of a fairy palace, faintly reflecting its green light around, and fringing the sides of the scarce trodden road. For the first week or I was two these perfectly enamoured me. utterly alone, with a steed that might have borne Richard the Lion-hearted through the proudest tournament of England; and

as I mused on the broken bridge, or watched the squirrel leaping from tree to tree, or descended into the Eden depths of the luxuriant valley, or mounted to the summit of the hill, and caught a panoramic view of the wide woods and shining rivers below, I almost vowed, in my soul, to abandon the trickery of artificial society, and fly here, where nature's gifts might be enjoyed on her own bosom.'

"Pray, Mr. Editor, that is all very fine, but what has it to do with your profession ?"

"Patience, dear R., patience; youth is so impetuous. Even as thy fancy has painted the charms of an editor's life, so was this journey to me. In three weeks I was so tired of the eternal recurrence of similar images, beautiful as they actually were, that I pined for an open field or paved street, and the hum and bustle of the town. I was fairly sick of leaves, branches, hills, valleys, and the trunks of trees. When I went to bed and closed my eyes, the everlasting boughs were waving around me, the squirrels were leaping across the ceiling, the wind was rushing over the foliage, I could not exclude them from my imagination, and when I galloped into a town of some fashion, and entered the ample hall of a large hotel, I felt as if I had been saved from drowning. Thus may the seeming fair things of earth become valueless and unwelcome if forced upon the enjoyment. Even Rasselas was wretched in the happy valley."

"And pray, Mr. Editor, of what may these indefinite disadvantages thou speak 'st of be composed?”

"One of them, my respected R., is the impossibility of chatting long in the morning with an agreeable friend like thyself. Business must be attended to. I have already staid with thee too long. Come in some other time, good friend, then, I will confess all. Had I but time,

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