uncertainty which for two months pervaded them, namely, whether to fling the windows open, or order fire to be put into the grate ; and the last slight lingering tinge of morning or evening chill has vanished away. Phæbus, for half the day now glares fiercely and intensely upon Broadway, and the hot flag-stones, retaining and reflecting his beams, burn the soles and crack the upper-leathers of the many boots and shoes that pass over them. The tide of emigration has set strongly in from the south, and sultry-looking planters are obliged to walk in the vicinity of dandy negroes, which by no means tends to cool their tempers. As the year rolls on, things good and bad come mingled together— fruit and flowers and drouth and dustcloudless days and sleepless nights—scorching suns and southern breezes-musquitoes and Clara Fisher. A given quantity of prose and poetry, setting forth the good and bad qualities of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, is as periodical as the seasons. Spring seems to be the favorite of the poets, who themselves, for the most part, live upon hopes and promises, rather than substantialities, and have therefore a very natural sympathy with this very promising season. There certainly is something delightful in the general awakening of nature from the long dead sleep of winter ; and the first blossoming of the flowers, the first warbling of the birds, and the genial warmth and freshness of the first spring days bear an inexpressible charm along with them; but to a worldly and unromantic disposition, partial to palpable realities, the taste of fruit is more acceptable than the scent of flowers, and a promise of a good thing not so good as the good thing itself. In so far summer is better than spring; but, in truth, despite of a calm temper and a thin jacket, the weather is horribly, I may say, awfully hot. Ladies are seen gliding down Broadway clad in garments of “woven winds," and gentlemen go perspiring and glistening along in white jean. Now are thick tufts of hair

the cheeks found to be a serious inconvenience, and lo, the whiskerless rejoice! Now is the mercury in the sun at a fearful altitude, and the corporation are above fever-heat in the shade. Now are the citizens bent upon imparting useful information, and, as they meet, each “ shakes his fellow by the hand," and says unto him-"this is hot weather," to which the other responds—“it is so !" and they pass on their way. Now do people, contrary to all custom, wish for "cold comfort," desiring, like King John, to be “comforted with cold.” Now do the engine-men on board of steam-boats think lightly of the feats of Monsieur Chabert, the fire-king, wistfully do they gaze upon the river; and if a hissing, fizzing, wbizzing sound is heard in the water, the captain cries out, “a man overboard !" Now do stout gentlemen, after a hearty dinner, look as if they were going through the process of distillation,


larding the lean earth as they walk along." And now three impertinent questions in succession from any man is a legitimate excuse for assassination. Now are all kinds of fiery, passionate writing in disrepute, and Captain Parry's “ Narrative of an Expedition to the North Pole” meets with a ready sale ; and now do worthy editors unfeelingly request their correspondents to put pen to paper and draw forth the fevered thoughts of their fermenting brains. Now may all people, who persist in drinking unmixed brandy or Irish whiskey, be given up by the “Temperance Society.” Now are those who talk wrathful politics kicked out of society, and tragedy is eschewed as tending to heat the blood. Now do people prefer broiling at the springs to broiling in the city, and travel post-haste to keep themselves cool and comfortable, though, at the same time, an account in the newspapers

of a man having voluntarily run a mile in ten minutes would be regarded as apocryphal. Now do editors cease to threaten to horsewhip each other, and a sedate drowsiness pervades their columns.

And now

young ladies who are obliged to behave decorously, and mind their p's and q's in the presence of old withered maiden aunts on whom heat makes no more impression than on an Arab of the desert, are in a very uncomfortable situation. Now are long stories unlistened to and cayenne pepper disused. Now do cooks blaspheme, and dealers in fish and other perishable commodities are troubled in spirit. And now, in short, do nearly all the ills that heat can engender, afflict the perspiring inhabitants of this republic. My advice to them is be patient and winter will come; or, what is equally to the purpose, though better expressed by some great moralist or other—“be virtuous, and you will be happy!”

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The qualms or raptures of your blood
Rise in proportion to your food;
And if you would improve your thought,
You must be fed as well as taught.---Prior.

It was on the evening of a dull, damp, dreary, weary, melancholy, miserable day, towards the latter end of November, when Titus Dodds, esq., of Cornhill, merchant, closed his counting-house door, and proceeded homeward to his residence, No. 42 Brooke-street, High Holborn, in quest of palatable nutriment. The prospect before him was any thing but alluring. All surrounding substances, animate and inanimate, wore a most wretched and wo-begone aspect. The streets were greasy and slippery, the half-washed houses looked lonely and cheerless, while the Bank, the Mansion House, the Exchange, and other awkward and well-smoked

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