ther, I am utterly unable to conjecture. But so it is, and they pride themselves upon it, as if it were one of the cardinal virtues, and like charity, covered a multitude of sins.

My prejudices against this habit were greatly augmented by the shock my feelings received from witnessing it carried into effect on a highly improper occasion. I was, a summer or two ago, invited to a wedding, a few miles in the country, having an off-hand acquaintance with both bride and bridegroom. The former was very pretty and agreeable, the latter very pedantic and disagreeable. Many people thought him a genius, and he himself inclined to that opinion. He was busy with an epic poem, was an inflexible early riser, and invariably ate dyspepsia crackers at breakfast. His conversation always turned upon one subject, which was himself. This subject he divided into two parts, one of which was an unsparing narrative of his literary labors, and the other, a particular account of the state of his stomach. How he had contrived to steer between these two divisions, and carry on “his whole course of wooing," I cannot comprehend. Be that as it might, a set of joyous spirits were congregated together at the wedding party. The wine circled gaily, and the song and jest passed merrily round. At a reasonable hour the ladies and junior and senior gentlemen retired, leaving about a dozen of us too well contented with things as they were to think of leaving them so soon. Time flew unheeded by, and the bright sun and four o'clock in the morning found us singing in full chorus,

“Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour!"

when happening to cast my eye into the garden, judge of my surprise at beholding our friend the “gay bridegroom," perambulating the gravel walk a little way from the house. Struck with astonishment, I spoke not a word, but rushed from the room and made towards him, filled with fearful forebodings of some dire mishap. On my anxiously inquiring what was the matter, he seemed surprised at the question, and civilly stated that nothing was the matter-that four o'clock was his usual time for getting up—that he found it conducive to health-that he had eaten three quarters of an ounce too much at supper-that the rising sun was a glorious spectacle, and that nothing aided the digestive powers so much as an early walk.” As he proceeded I looked in the reptile's inanimate face-there was not a spark of fire in his dull gray eye, his turned-up conceited-looking nose was tipped with blue, and I thought of the truth of what

the scripture says, "we are but clay." I remonstrated with him on the brutality and cruelty of his conduct; but he seemed to have no notion of endangering his health for the satisfaction of any created being; and I left the animal, or rather vegetable, sticking among the cabbages, admiring the beauties of nature, while I betook myself to my alas ! solitary pillow.

In the course of time two events occurred, one of which did not surprise me—the other did. My friend, the bridegroom's wife, insisted on a separate maintenance, and my friend, the bridegroom, published a volume of poems, which, upon opening, to my utter amazement, I found were almost all on amatory subjects. He discoursed of " love and dove,” and “kiss and bliss," and strolls by moonlight, (he always went to bed at ten,) and ardent hopes and fiery passions, in a way that would have outdone Catullus and Thomas Moore, only that his were merely words without ideas, which certainly improved the innocence of the poems, however it might destroy their effect. There were also two or three bacchanalian songs, concerning “circling cups" and “rosy wine,” (he always drank cinnamon cordial diluted with water,) &c. &c. At the time of receiving this, I was busy with “an essay attempting to form a judgment of the characters of authors from their works.” I read half a dozen of my friend's poems, after which I folded up my manuscript, laid it on the fire, and said nothing more about the matter.

Ever since that time I have entertained a decided abhorrence of early rising in every shape, and never contract an intimacy with any man who gets up before six in summer and seven in winter.


The sultry summer days are come, the hottest of the year,
Of lemonade, and iced cream, and spruce and ginger beers
Heaped in the wooden tea-gardens* the thirsty cits they drink,
Then from their pockets draw their hands and slowly pay their chink.
The cooling evening breeze comes not when the scorching sun has

set, And fat men wipe their face and cry—“the warmest day as yet!"

It was clearly shown by Hone, on his trial for parodying St. Athanasius's creed, that parodying any thing did not necessarily infer disrespect towards the thing parodied, and it is upon this ground that I take the above liberty with the beautiful lines of one of America's sweetest bards. Well, after a long, dull, hot and cold, equivocal spring--summer, fervid summer, has come in earnest. The minds of the citizens are at length relieved from the

* The term “ wooden tea-gardens" may not be understood by some, but there are several such places in this city. The garden is composed of a number of small wooden boxes, in which all kinds of beverages are drunk excepting tea.

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