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Rose—as something more. And she was charming, you have no idea! She was no regular beauty—far from it—-but how I despised regularity! Her little upturned nose was to me worth all the Roman and Grecian noses in the world, and her mouth and its pretty poutings or smiles must, I thought, influence the sun itself. When she talked, she was so lively, so amusing, that you could only listen, and wish she may go on for ever. And when she sang, sitting at her harp, oh! you never saw such a thing! And then she had such a way to turn to you and ask, "Was it not number five that you liked?" "Yes, ma'am!" And then she sang number five so that your heart burned and melted within you at the same time. And* then her dance! Her dance was so graceful, so airy, so enchanting, that one had difficulty to stand on one's- feet before her, and refrain from dropping down and adoring! Oh! it was dreadful, how charming she was. And I was most dreadfully in love. I wrote Bonnets to her, talked with the moon and the stars of her, and I remember once having stolen out of the stable my honest father's riding-horse, to ride thirty miles off, only to get a pot of moss roses, which I carried in my arms to my beloved one, riding all the night, and half dead with fatigue. But then she smiled at me, and she laughed and sighed too, and I saw my roses at her breast, and was called upon by her for a thousand little services, that I was but too happy to render. I had just decided that she and no other was to be the mistress of my life, when

lo! there comes a certain Mr. P , a kind

of city dandy, playing tolerably rfhe piano, singing, prating French, bragging and bowing, and to my utter astonishment, to my almost petrification, I see my enchantress turning to him, talking to him, listening to him only, singing to him some damned "number seven" that he "fancied," and treating him, in fact, as if he was everything, and me as nothing at all. I was a distracted man; I went out in the fields, looked black as Othello, did not see ditches or fences, meditated daggers and murders; all this during three days and three

nights, after which Mr. P chose to depart,

and Miss Rose suddenly chose to turn to me again, and treat me and call upon me as before. But too late! My eyes were opened, my dream of love gone, and shortly aftor Mr.

P 's departure, I took mine. And when my

excellent father somewhat maliciously said, "How comes it, Constantine, that you return so soon from Green Castle, when your intention was to stay there a long while?" "Yes," answered I coolly, biting into a large sandwich, "so I intended, but I have bethought myself otherwise!" And I was cured of passion, but felt a good while my heart smarting from the

wound it had received; and I promised myself that my head should never be turned by upturned noses and pretty smiles again.

Some time after that, and pretty well recovered from my anger and sorrow, I was introduced by one of my friends into a family of his acquaintance. Almost the very moment that I entered the saloon, my eye fixed upon a young lady standing at the end of the room by the tea-table, and occupied in pouring out that nectar of our earthly saloons. Certainly, the Olympian Hebe must have been more blooming, but she could hardly have had a more regular profile, especially not a nose more straight and perfectly formed, according to the classic Grecian type. I almost was in love with that profile, which also was in perfect accord with the whole appearance of my teatable goddess. She was tall and erect in figure, perhaps a little stiff, but well-formed; her dress was of the most perfect neatness and strictness. Her face was pale and placid, her eyes blue and clear, rather cold in expression, her manner simple and earnest. I was absorbed in contemplation and even in admiration of that masterpiece of regularity, when I saw her turn her head, and a voice of deep barytone, which should have graced the commander of an army, called out, "Lundstrom!" I felt stunned as by a bullet, and repelled.^ Then, there was no mistaking it, it was the very voice of my deity, and that she was calling to a livery-clad servant, who immediately came up to her. "Well," I began to soliloquiie, after the first surprise, "if nature has given her such a voice, is it not noble, is it not admirable in her not to disguise it, not to compromise or dissemble, but just let it go as nature will? and when she has to call on 'Lundstrom,'just to call out 'Lundstrom!' so that neither Lundstrom nor anybody else can make any mistake about it? Certainly! Oh, I love, such sincerity, such truthfulness of expression; every word in bold relief. With such a character one knows what one is about. Oh! she must be a noble creature! Her. heart and her understanding are as straight as her nose. Here's a mind in whom one might confide! I shall come again—I shall know more of her!"

I came again and again, and every time I grew more taken in by the regular profile and the regular character and manners of Miss Bridget Boltingbridge, which were in perfect opposition with the charms that had bewitched me in the lovely but false Miss Rose, of Green Castle. Miss Bridget spoke very little, confined herself chiefly to yes or no, and seemed much devoted to embroidery work and household duties. She appeared to me as the very incarnation of duty and truthfulness, and I determined to make her my compass, my guide, on the stormy way of life, provided she would consent to undertake such a task. And I felt very humble before that beautiful Alp of snow-clad womanhood. But I proposed bravely, and she bravely answered, "Yes!" And this time I thought that the barytone voice was delightful. We were formally betrothed, to be married within a year. I thought myself a very happy fellow, and it was some time before I allowed myself to allow to myself that I was not. In fact, I began soon after my engagement to feel very uncomfortable. My beautiful Alp was not only as erect as the Jungfrau of Berner Oberland, but she was almost as frigid and unconquerable.

She would never condescend to follow another advice Or another wish than her own. And when my thoughts were not exactly her thoughts, she made it a point to contradict me openly and unmercifully, and, as I thought, in her very loudest barytone. I tried to bear and better. But then I took my turn, wanting her in turn to bend a little; but that would not do. Twice or thrice I remonstrated seriously, and even tenderly with her, but was answered: "That is my way. This is my manner. I am 80. And I want not to appear otherwise than I am." With this I was but indifferently edified. By little and little, we came up to a state of almost continual warfare, which gave but little prospect for a happy and peaceful union. We had quarrel upon quarrel, and every day we became both more obstinate. One day, walking in the streets together, we came to a place where I wanted to turn ^o the left hand, she to turn to the right hand. I felt that we were coming to a parting point, and thought, "now or never!" I stopped, and asked her seriously, for once, "to concede to me, for the love of me!" But she said "she wanted to do as she wanted!" I said, "If you never will do as I want, you do not love me, and I cannot love you!" 8he answered, "If you cannot love me as I am, you had better leave me 1" "And so I shall!" said I, roused. "Adieu!" and I turned to the left hand. "Adieu I" she repeated coldly, and turned to the right hand; and so we marched off; and so we parted and never returned again; and with every step I felt my heart more easy, my step more elastic, than I had since the time that I began to feel dreadfully. I retired to solitude, glad that my chain was broken, but in anger with the whole female sex; which I thought was made up of deception. I resolved never to suffer myself to run in love any more, never to marry, but to devote myself to agriculture and reading, become a philosopher, and write epigrams on womankind.

So I lived solitary and sour for two or three

years, when I received a hearty invitation from a college friend to come and see him, his wife and family, and his new parsonage, situated in one of the beautiful valleys of Dulurna. I went, just to look about and refresh myself a little. But I did not return, so soon as I expected, to my books and my solitude. I found myself uncommonly comfortable in my friend's home; where a certain cheering, sunlit, sunwarm, fresh and gay influence was felt as an invisible atmosphere, which made the heart beat more gaily, the blood run lightly, and the time run away also, as a calm, full river. My friend had ten children; and I certainly never saw children less troublesome, nor a house more undisturbed. "How is that?" said L "It's all my wife'8 doing!" said my friend. "How came you to such a wife?" asked L Thus I had soon discovered that my friend was a most fortunate man iu marriage. "How came you to be such a fortunate man?" "Oh!" answered he, smiling, "that is owing to a peculiar trick I have employed!" "A trick? I should be very happy to know somewhat of such a trick. Pray, impart it to your college friend I" "It is," he answered, "that I, always since the days of my youth, have prayed to God for a good wife!" "Alas!" said I, "your trick will not do for me. I have never thought of such a prayer, nor can I think our Lord enough interested in my marriage, to ask him for a wife." My friend laughed good-humouredly, and said, "that though I was such an unbeliever, he thought there Btill was hope for me, and that I should be cared for if I chose to consider the subject properly." And he vouchsafed to give me a little sermon, extempore, about looking only on " carnal things," about being taken in by "upturnednoses," or " straight noses," and taking my bodily eyes instead of the spiritual ones for chief counsellors. He advised me not so much to look out in a wife for a charming mistress as for a companion in life, a society for both heart and head.

Though I rather dislike sermons, especially when they are intended for my own particular benefit, I could not but allow that my friend was perfectly in the right, and that I had hitherto, in all my love affairs, been ruled rather by the eyes of my senses, than by those of my understanding. And I accordingly began to look about me with the latter ones. And it happened so that I had not very far to look. The wife of my friend (that excellent wife), had a younger sister living in the house, and a help there with the household, with the children, in fact with everything. She was not very handsome, nor talented, nor showy in any way, and I had hitherto almost overlooked her. No danger for me to fall in love with her; but as I began to look more at her, I found that she was a very gentle, kind, and good-humoured young woman, sensible and earnest, loved by everybody in the house, and a counsel and friend to everybody. By and by I became strongly impressed with the conviction that just the was fit to be the true companion of my life. And as I was not at all under the slightest fascination of love, I did not fear to be much mistaken about it. And for the third time, I determined to make a proposal of my heart and hand. I said so to my friend, who rather discouraged my precipitation, saying that I had better wait a time, and observe, and continue my attentions, and so win the confidence of his sister-in-law, whom he, indeed, prized very high, and wished me to be able to obtain; "but she was rather prejudiced against me," said he, "as she had heard reports about my inconstancy in love, and that I was not a person to be trusted in such things," etc. I was very indignant that blame should fall on me for what was the fault solely of my lady-loves. My friend said it was so, but that there was some fault of mine also, and advised me to try some time the virtue of perseverance. I did so, and was in due time rewarded by the attainment of my wishes. I was very glad, but, shall I say it, as I was not in love, I found the time of courtship rather fatiguing, and the first time of my marriage rather indifferent. And I felt sorry to feel so. Then, thought I, if it is so at the outset of marriage, how shall it be at the end? I have always heard it said that love in marriage goes on decreasing, and that the feelings become cooler with the setting day

of life, and Well! after all, friendship

and potatoes might do for this sublunary life, and man has no right to ask for higher happiness. And friendship, respect, trust, every good feeling, I certainly can have for my wife! But I sighed; then I remembered my former love-days, and their rich feeling and glorious anticipations; and it seemed hard to be brought down to friendship and potatoes. Time went on with its flood and ebb of events. After a while I found myself surprised in a very agreeable manner. I found that my feelings for my wife did not cool or decrease, bat rather went the other way. But then it was her fault. My wife is—but I hate to praise my wife. I had ::s well praise myself; then we are one, you know. But you do not know how we have become so, nor to what degree! Nor do I well knnw it myself. What I know is, that by little nnd little, I found something growing up in me for her, that I never before had experienced. It was not love,—not at least, that Tovc which I had formerly felt,—I could feel that, even now, and for other women than my wife; what 1 felt for her was a feeling sweet and calm, yet intense, that warmed my heart in a delightful

way; it was not passion, though it made me to feel uncomfortable and incomplete when I was separated from her,—it was a feeling that we call tenderness, affection. At times I have thought that that feeling was even more powerful than love, or, maybe, just the highest love itself. Certainly it had, with me, power over all the smaller kind of loves. Then, of these I must say, that they have never left me entirely at peace. And though a married man, and certainly a happy one, I have all my days continued to be subject to certain of its intoxications, of shorter or longer duration. Yes, I have during my happy marriage, of now nearly twenty years, been at least a dozen times in love with some charming objects. But then I have taken to a certain trick by which I make the pink-coloured devils which would tifke hold of me, incapable to oreate any serious disturbance in my heart, or in my house. • Whenever I am in love, out of the family, I tell it to my wife! And she, bless her heart, tfever is dis■turbed by it, but takes up the part of my confidant in a most charming way. Yes, for that I must praise her. I am sure I should not make so wise a partner as she, if she took np my part in the play, and happened to fall in love with any other than me. But that is ont of the question. As to my wife's management of my love affairs, I cannot but admire it. Sometimes she will be very much charmed herself by my new charmer—almost in love with her. But then, somehow or other, she finds out, by the superior tact of woman I suppose, some fault or defect in the charmer, which she confides to pe, and which never fails to have its effect. Twice or thrice she (and I) have made a true friend of my momentary flame, and in these makings she glories a little; and well she may! Certain it is, that in all these things she is the chief gainer. And I sometimes tell her that I suspect she is deep in politics, or has some magical contrivances to make all things come about as she wants them. She laughs, and says that is nil natural magic, and that it is the great god who helps her to keep in order the little one.

You perceive that our companionship has grown pretty close by this time. And if that will keep on growing, as it has done hitherto, I think it probable that we will be desperately in love with one another before long, and that by that time the great god will have gained a final victory oVer the little one, and — the devils too!

"Our passions never wholly die; but in the last cantos of life's romantic epos, they rise up again and do battle, like some of Ariosto's heroes, who have already been quietly interred, and ought to be turned to dust."—Longfellow.

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Sylvester Graham tells you—and, notwithstanding the monstrous tom-foolery of the man, after he gets well a-going upon any subject, there is really a great deal to be thankful for, in gome of his most outrageous manifestations; and it may well be questioned whether, on the whole, he may not have done about half as much good, as mischief, in his warfare upon the diseased appetites of our race; and that, let me tell you, is saying a good deal for him—he says that the narcotic principle which constitutes the vital charm of tea, coffee, strong beer, wine, alcohol, obacco, laudanum, and opium, is never otherwise than hurtful to life and health and happiness; and that, although like other poisons, it may be employed allopathically or homosopathically—here by the handful, and there by the pinch—as a medicine, still, even as a medicine, it must, in the very nature of things, be hurtful in some degree, and ought never to be employed, but as the less of two evils; or, if Sylvester Graham does not say all this—and I am not quite sure he does—why, so much the worse for Sylvester Graham, that's all! He ought to have said it, years and years ago, as a becoming and suitable finish to his theory of dietetics.

"Your theory is beautiful," Baid some one to a French philosopher, academician, or something of the sort, perhaps to St. Pierre himself, when, forgetting his Paul and Virginia, and

the qualities that made that little story an imperishable wonder, he took it into his head to overreach himself, and grapple with Newton, blindfold, to supply his deficiencies; and to explain the mysteries of the Great Deep, the everlasting pulses of the Ocean, by the help of charts and maps, diagrams, log-books and voyages, and the daily melting of the polar ices,—" Yo*r theory is beautiful, my dear sir. but the facts are against you."

"Tant pis pour Us fait*.'" said the philosopher, and went on with his theory.

And so say I. My theory is, that tobacco in every shape, opium in every shape, f Icohol in every shape, all three but different names for one and the same thing, are always hurtful, always, even as a medicine; always a poison, however qualified or disguised, like arsenic, or ipecac, or hyosciamus, or belladonna, or prussic acid; and never to be used, except for the purpose of expelling a greater poison. And if the facts do not bear me out, all over the world, everywhere, and throughout all history, why then so much the worse for the facts, that's all.

But the facts do bear mt out; and if I had a folio to write, like Sir Walter Raleigh's History of the World, instead of a magazine-paper, hang me if I wouldn't undertake to prove it, against the whole College of Medicine, past, present, and to come.

But, speaking of Sir Walter Raleigh, what a pity it was for him, and for the world, that when, after his return from Virginia, his bodyservant found him ail afire, as he thought, and smoking at the mouth and nostrils, and dashed the pot of beer into his faoe; and Sir Walter kept his temper, and the servant stood staring at him—what a pity it was, the poor fellow didn't put Ai'nj out, for ever.

Only to think of the consequences! If Sir Walter Raleigh had been extinguished upon the spot, and never been mentioned again upon the face of the earth, all we should have lost would have been that History of the World, instead of the World itself; the memory of a few daring, though, rather foolish and most unprofitable achievements, a paragraph or so about the treachery and baseness of James; and that charming story of the plush cloak, flung into the mire at the feet of Elizabeth. But living on, he lived only to perish miserably upon the scaffold, to poison the whole earth as with a smoke from the bottomless pit, and to levy a perpetual tax upon the nations, greater at this hour, and continually increasing, greater by far than all that has been wasted upon battles and sieges, and fleets and armies, by land and by sea, for the last three hundred years.— There!

Less than three hundred years ago, potatoes and tobacco were introduced by this renowned warrior, adventurer, historian, philosopher, and side by side, into Europe. From that day to this, while but one of the two has become naturalized there, both have grown to be the food of nations, or something still more necessary than food; for the famishing, who have got familiar with tobacco, would seem to have a more abiding relish for it, in the ftidst of their suffering, than for the potato itself. Like opium-eaters, they loathe everything but that fearful drug, and turn away from their natural ancfwholesome food, after their stomachs get enfeebled, or pinched by famine.

And now that able and honest men are beginning to seriously question the wisdom of cultivating the potato as the principal food of a nation, what on earth will the most ingenious find to say in favour of its companion, that loathsome and wasting offal — the tobaccoplant 1 If, looking to the terrible consequences—a yearly famine—which appears to have settled upon that befooled, afflicted, and most wretched country, where the potato has been most encouraged, and most welcome, it may well be doubter! whether, on the whole, it was a blessing or a curse that Raleigh introduced in that form—what should the statesman, the lawgiver, the political-economist, the lover of his kind say, looking at the tremendous consequences, about the introduction of

| tobacco? If it be doubtful whether the potato is a blessing, can it be doubtful to any human j being in the possession of his faculties, that tobacco is a curse t •

Just consider the question. A filthy weed, so nauseous and so hateful, even in its prepared shape, as to produce unqualified loathing, and sometimes death, in those who tamper with it unwittingly, or for the first time; a deadly poison, for which there is no help, if the besotted fool who indulges in it, passes but ever solittle over a most uncertain boundary, always fluctuating with his health, strength, appetite, and resisting power; so treacherous withal, that the cigar-smoker, and the snuff-taker, and the tobacco-chcwer, like the opium-eater, go on, year after year, from bad to worse, notwithstanding all their self-plighted faith and most solemn resolutions, till they have no relish for natural and healthy food, but must live on highly-seasoned garbage, and highly-flavoured liquors—or die!

Think of the simple fact, that our own dear country exports, upon the average, more than (five millions of dollars' worth a year, of this abomination, this vegetaM. guano, this nastiness which, instead of fertilising, impoverishes the very soil it breeds and festers in; that she is only one of many tobacco-growing regions, and that this is the value of the raw material, before it has undergone the ten thousand cheating transmutations, qualifications, and adulterations, which help to conceal its filthiness, and make it endurable; think, too, of another fact,—that of our twenty millions of people, eight millions are spendthrift smokers and chewers and snuffers, at a cost, upon the average, perhaps, of two or three dollars a year to each person; making the national waste, the direct national waste, and overlooking the consequential waste, in time, health, and productive power, not less than from twenty, to twenty-four millions of dollars a year.

Just call to mind, that all the Powers of Europe derive large revenues from the consumption of this detestable weed—that almost everywhere it is a government monopoly—and that prodigious sums are lavished, and the severest penalties imposed, for the protection of this monopoly—that smugglers are to be found everywhere, willing to risk all they have on earth, even to their lives, in the business— and that the taxes actually paid upon it into the treasury of Great Britain, not long ago, amounted in one single year to three million five hundred thousand pounds, sterling—equal to about, seventeen millions of dollars! And these were the taxes only! What then must have been the market value, that year, of the tobacco consumed by the people of Great Britain!

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