intercourse, whether speaking or silent, is one of intense acquiescence and delight. A gentleman comes up, and gallantly addresses some smiling remark to the lady: the lover, if he is not quite sure of her mind, begins to be jealous. The gentleman moves off, and a remark at his expense prostrates the lover's soul with gratitude. The lady leaves the room to put a child to bed, or speak to a sister, or look after the supper, and darkness falls upon the place. She returns; and her footsteps, her face, her frock, her sweet countenance is thrice blessed, and brings happiness back again. She resumes her chair, with a soft. “thank ye,” as he elaborately, and for no need whatsoever, puts it in its best position for being resumed; and never, he thinks, did soul, breath, and bosom go so sweetly together as in the utterance of that simple phrase. For her part, she has, secretly, hardly any bounds to her gratitude; and it is lucky that they are both excellent good people, otherwise the very virtues of one or other of them might be their destruction. (Ah! they will think of this in aftertimes, and not look with severe countenances on the victims of the less honorable.) At length they sit looking over some pictures together, or a book which they are as far from reading as if they did not see it. They turn over the leaves, however, with a charming hypocrisy, and even carry their eyes along the lines; their cheeks touch; his hand meets hers, by favor of the tablecloth or the handkerchief; its pressure is returned; you might hear their hearts beat, if you could listen.

Oh! welcome, war; welcome, sorrow; welcome, folly, mistake, perverseness, disease, death, disap

pointment, all the ills of life, and the astonishments of man's soul! Those moments, nay, the recollections of them, are worth the whole payment. Our children will love as we have loved, and so cannot be wholly miserable. To love, even if not beloved, is to have the sweetest of faiths, and riches fineless, which nothing can take from us but our own unworthiness. And once to have loved truly is to know how to continue to love every thing which unlovingness has not had a hand in altering,— all beauties of nature and of mind; all truth of heart; all trees, flowers, skies, hopes, and good beliefs; all dear decays of person, fading towards a twofold grave; all trusts in heaven; all faiths in the capabilities of loving man. Love is a perpetual proof that something good and earnest and eternal is meant us, such a bribe and foretaste of bliss being given us to keep us in the lists of time and progression; and, when the world has realized what love urges it to obtain, perhaps death will cease; and all the souls which love has created, crowd back at its summons to inhabit their perfected world.

Truly we have finished our Sunday evening with a rapt and organ-like note. Let the reader fancy he has heard an organ indeed. Its voice is not unapt for the production of such thoughts in those who can rightly listen to its consummate majesty and warbling modulations.

[Something yet remains to be said of "Sunday in the Suburbs."]

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SUNDAY IN THE SUBURBS.

Being more Last Words on

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Sunday in London ;" with a Digression on the Name of Smith.

N writing our articles on this subject, we have

been so taken up, first with the dull look of

the Sunday streets, and afterwards with the lovers who make their walls lively on the hidden side, that we fairly overlooked a feature in our metropolitan sabbath, eminently sabbatical; to wit, the suburbs and their holiday-makers. What a thing to forget! What a thing to forget, even if it concerned only Smith in his new hat and boots! Why, he has been thinking of them all the week; and how could we, who sympathize with all the Smith-ism and boots in existence, forget them? The hatter did not bring home his hat till last night; the boot-maker, his boots till this morning. How did not Smith (and he is a shrewd fellow too, and reads us) pounce upon the hatbox, undo its clinging pasteboard lid, whisk off the silver paper, delicately develop the dear beaver, and put it on before the glass! The truth must be owned: he sat in it half supper-time. Never was such a neat fit. All Aldersgate, and the City Road, and the New Road, and Camden and Kentish towns, glided already before him as he went along in it,— hatted in

thought. He could have gone to sleep in it, if it would not have spoiled his nap, and its own.

Then his boots! Look at him. There he goes up Somerstown. Who would suspect, from the ease and superiority of his countenance, that he had not had his boots above two hours; that he had been a good fourth part of the time laboring and fetching the blood up in his face with pulling them on with his boot-hooks; and that, at this moment, they horribly pinch him? But he has a small foot- has Jack Smith; and he would squeeze, jam, and damn it into a thimble, rather than acknowledge it to be a bit larger than it seems.

Do not think ill of him, especially you that are pinched a little less. Jack has sympathies; and, as long as the admiration of the community runs towards little feet and well-polished boots, he cannot dispense, in those quarters, with the esteem of his fellow-men. As the sympathies enlarge, Jack's boots will grow wider; and we venture to prophesy, that at forty he will care little for little feet, and much for his corns and the public good. We are the more bold in this anticipation, from certain reminiscences we have of boots of our own. We shall not enter into details, for fear of compromising the dignity of literature; but the good-natured may think of them what they please. Non ignara mali (said Dido), miseris succurrere disco; that is, having known what it was to wear shoes too small herself, she should never measure, for her part, the capabilities of a woman's head by the pettiness of her slippers.

Napoleon was proud of a little foot; and Cæsar, in

his youth, was a dandy. So go on, Smith, and bear your tortures like a man; especially towards one o'clock, when it will be hot and dusty.

Smith does not carry a cane with a twist at the top of it for a handle. That is for an inferior grade of holiday-maker, who pokes about the suburbs, gaping at the new buildings, or treats his fellow-servant to a trip to White Conduit-house, and an orange by the way, always too sour. Smith has a stick or a whanghee; or, if he rides, a switch. He is not a good rider: and we must say it is his own fault; for he rides only on Sundays, and will not scrape acquaintance with the ostler on other days of the week. You may know him on horseback by the brisk forlornness of his steed, the inclined plane of his body, the extreme outwardness or inwardness of his toes, and an expression of face betwixt ardor, fear, and indifference. He is the most without a footman of any man in the world; that is to say, he has the most excessive desire to be taken for a man who ought to have one; and therefore the space of road behind him pursues him, as it were, with the reproach of its emptiness.

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A word, by the way, as to our use of the generic name Smith." A correspondent wrote to us the other day, intimating that it would be a good-natured thing if we refrained in future from designating classes of men by the name of "Tomkins." We know not whether he was a Tomkins himself, or whether he only felt for some friend of that name, or for the whole body of the Tomkinses: all we know is, that he has taken the word out of our mouth for ever. How many paragraphs he may have ruined by it, we