Selections from the Papers of an Idler.

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whole mind becomes perverted and incapable of serious action and manly exertions of sober thought.

A class analogous to these last, consists of those whose conversation is made up altogether of anecdotes, and who are commonly esteemed very pleasant men, and, as such, are in great demand at all dinnerparties. My objection to these talkers, is, that they make that the staple of conversation, which should only be an ornament and an appendage; for where a man has that peculiar gift, the power of relating anecdotes and telling stories well, he is apt to employ it exclusively. There is a want of continuity in a conversation made up of isolated narratives, which is unsatisfactory to the mind. There is something disagreeable in hearing constantly, "talking of guns reminds me of a story I used to hear my grandfather tell;" or, "when I was in Europe I heard Lord A. (story-tellers are apt to be vain,) relate at his table;" or, "my old friend Mr. B. used to tell a story." One goes away from such a conversation, as if he had been at a feast of scraps, and had come away hungry. The mind craves some more substantial food. We want to have principles discussed, positions attacked and defended by sound arguments, and the very web and woof of the mind displayed. No one ever recollects, long, a conversation made up wholly of detached narratives; a thread of connection is necessary to have a vivid impression long survive the sound of the words. All this is upon the supposition that the stories are new, good, and well told; but, unfortunately, most new stories are not good, and most good ones are not new, and it is very easy to spoil one that is both good and new, by the manner of narrating it.

There is another class of persons, with whom it is somewhat annoying to me to be present, and these are (to coin a word for myself) the Exaggerators. These are they who are always ready to die, to faint, to expire at the common occurrences of life; who are in the heights of rapture and the depths of despair; who are ready to give the worldall they are worth, for what might be purchased at a very cheap rate. I cannot go along with these people. I am a plain man, and have neither magnifying nor beautifying glasses for my "mind's eye." To me a whale is a fish, and a cloud is neither an elephant nor a weasel. I can eat a fig with none the less relish because I know that with a solar microscope I could see turtles and crabs crawling over its surface. In the presence of such magnificent talkers I am like a dwarf, standing by the side of a giant-an owl, endeavoring to follow an eagle in his flight. There is, too, a singular improvidence in such conversation. A man ought to be as chary of his superlatives as of his Sunday suit; they are too precious to be worn every day. For, suppose something should occur, which really calls for very strong language; what is to be done? We can say no more than we have already said a dozen times a day. We have used uncommon language on common occasions, and it has no peculiar significance now that the occasion is an

uncommon one.

Another class of disagreeables are the Inquisitors, as they may be termed; indeed, they have as little mercy as if they really belonged to the holy office. These are the men who pass their lives in asking questions. They have a penetrating aspect, and their countenances acquire a peering, sharp expression, as if they were in the habit of

peeping through key-holes into closets and drawers. They have a ravenous curiosity about trifles-an itch to be acquainted with minute details and insignificant particulars. They are indifferent as to the mental qualities of a distinguished man; but they are anxious to know how tall he is; whether he is handsome or not; whether he chews tobacco or not; how many children he has, &c. They are scrupulous in exacting geographical, chronological, and historical illustrations. They cannot enjoy an anecdote without knowing its exact date, the place where it happened, and what became of the parties after all was over. They have not the power to enjoy a good thing without any ifs or buts; they cannot open their mouths and shut their eyes with the unsuspecting good faith of childhood; they cannot relish the kernel, without knowing on what tree the nut grew. These are the bloodsuckers of society; they fasten themselves to you, but unfortunately there is no such thing as gorging them they generally have short memories, and have consequently a never-failing resource in asking the same questions over and over again. To have the full enjoyment of one of them, it is necessary to travel with him in a stage-coach. There you have no retreat, and your enemy has no mercy. You have an incessant battery opened upon you. "Do you know who lives in that house?" "How far is it to the next tavern?" "Who do you think will be our next President?" "How do cattle sell down your way ?" "Who writes Major Downing's letters?" "Is business pretty brisk your way?" Is there much doing in the shoe line?" &c. &c. It is like a continual dropping of water, and will wear away the patience of Job, or a henpecked husband. The wretch will take no hints-you may growl at him, like a bear-you may breathe hard, as if you were asleep-it all avails nothing-your doom is sealed, and you may as well make up your mind to submit to it, without a struggle and with Christian resignation.

The last class of social sinners I shall mention is the most numerous one. These are the Gossipers, whose whole talk is about personstattlers, meddling busy bodies, anxious to know what their neighbors have for dinner, and how much they paid for it. They pass their lives in watching and speculating upon the conduct of others. They are perpetually wondering why Squire B. painted his house green-what Mrs. A. gave for her new Leghorn bonnet-whether Miss C. refused Mr. D. whether the widow E. means to marry Mr. F., a man ten years younger than she is, &c. In all subjects pertaining to love and marriage, they take a peculiar interest. If a young man is seen walking twice with the same young woman, especially if he offer her his arm-whew, what a consternation is produced! what shaking of heads, what uplifting of the eyes and hands, what hints, surmises, and inuendos. There is no more peace for either of the aforesaid young persons. They must run into the danger to avoid the apprehension," and become actually engaged to escape the groundless imputation of being so. Two or three of these bustling busy-bodies are enough to keep a whole village in hot water, and to draw as effectual a line of separation between the young people of different sexes, as if they lived in different hemispheres.

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I have a perfect antipathy to these persons. They are frequently as venomous as vipers, and thrive only on the carcasses of slain reputa

tions. At any rate, the habit of constant personal talk, indicates an incurable emptiness of mind, and I know of no infliction more intolerable than that of a mind which is at once restless and vapid, which deluges you with "one weak, washy, everlasting flood" of gossip, scandal, petty details, and stale anecdotes. Better to live under the leaden, poppy-wreathed sceptre of Lethean dullness. Wordsworth has written four fine sonnets on "Personal talk," which I recommend to every body to read-if, for nothing else, as a proof, how sensibly a great genius can write. H.

SCENES AT HOME-OR, NOTHING STRANGE.

CHAPTER I.

"Hamlet alone."

We like the old-fashioned way of introducing the hero at once upon the stage, and either taking him to pieces and entering upon a minute examination of his structure and adaptation, or else, of putting him upon his word of honor to tell us his qualifications, experiences, and expectations. Much doubt is in this way avoided, vain surmises discouraged, and we carry our reader along with us, quietly and sociably, knowing precisely what to expect, and prepared with all the proper emotions for the catastrophe. We would, therefore, candidly tell him, that one winter evening, not many years ago, in a private parlor of a hotel in one of our large cities, stretched at full length on a sofa drawn on one side of the fire, his left arm supporting his head, his legs crossed, and his right hand engaged in swinging his watch forward and back by its black ribbon, lay Henry Pembroke-a handsome man, about two-and-twenty-talented, cultivated, tasteful-rich as a patriot -and lately arrived from the country-seat of his family at L. where, till within a few months, his life had been spent.

of

His watch by degrees swung slower and slower; its vibrations became shorter and shorter, and it would evidently have peaceably come to rest, had not its thoughtful owner carefully let it drop on the Persian rug. Deep consideration seemed to occupy his mind, for his eye continued fixed on the glowing fire, and his position insinuated selfforgetfulness rather than ease or comfort. The clock struck twelve, and he started-not for midnight murder, gentle reader, nor did he remember himself engaged at that hour to the dark task of the resurrectionist-he started-to soliloquize.

"Yes," said he, as he drew his fingers through his chestnut hair, which did not curl,-" yes, it is singular that I should have lived so long in ignorance of the fairest portion of creation-that I should have so little thought of, so entirely slighted, God's last and best gift to man -lovely creatures they are! So pure, so delicate, so refined from the grossness that soils the best man's brightest virtues. Kind visitants on earth, mild beings of another sphere, how are you here misplaced! What in heaven can be more beautiful than the delicacy of woman's feelings, contrasted with the jarring passions of the more violent spirits

among whom her lot seems fixed? What more strong than woman's love? What more unmoveable than woman's pride? The days of poetry were indeed the age of truth. Woman should be the object of man's study, adoration, and love. How he might refine himself by her intercourse, exalt himself by sympathy with her! But in these days of present interest and general utility, we depreciate the prize as an excuse for not entering into the pursuit. Man's indolence, in the first place, and then his pride, have robbed woman of her rightful incense, and polluted her altar by sacrifices to self-esteem. But if I do not prove myself an exception to the general rule," and here our hero began to pull off his boots,-" if I do not make myself better acquainted with the feelings, interests, sympathies of the lovely creatures, may-(damn that boot; how tight it is,)—may Emily Percival talk nonsense. What an interesting creature she is-how beautifully she converses-how bewitchingly her cornelian cheek dimpled this evening, as she spoke of our not-not being so much affected by what we read as by what we ourselves suffer. Oh, how these things lose by repetition. However, I have seen her but once-I will know more of her, and begin my study of female character with her. I suppose I must go to Mrs. Winslow's to-morrow night-yes, to cultivate a social spirit."

CHAPTER II.

"And we mean well in going to this mask;
But 't is no wit to go."

There he found a large party

PEMBROKE did go to Mrs. Winslow's. -a riot of muslins and broadcloths-a specimen show of the dressmakers and tailors. The rooms were large, and the crowd provided was consequently immense. Belles, without number were there, and beaux of every age and standing,-young ladies, who affected ease, and maidens more advanced, who tried to be shy, boys who engrossed the dashing young widows, and bachelors of two-score-and-ten, who flirted with the graces of fifteen. Italian mustachios, military stocks, and gentlemen "just returned from Europe," respectively made every exertion to enjoy themselves, and make their enjoyment conspicuous.

The lady of the house was, most especially, delighted with each of her guests; and every individual of these seemed, in the most disinterested manner, happy that the rest of her friends were receiving so much pleasure-and all hurried forward to look upon the gay scene. But it would require an Epic of Metaphysics to describe the various adventures and the changing passions that exercised the heroes and wandering damsels of that fête. Napoleon might have gained Waterloo, had he witnessed the manœuvres, and Talleyrand might have taken many a lesson in diplomacy. But as such scenes are "nothing strange," we forbear to relate the successes and failures in getting partners and receiving bows, the forgiving smiles and internal rage of the ladies, when their dresses were encroached upon, and the curses of the gentlemen, and their sweetest apologies, when they crowded less vigorous competitors from the dance. Nor can we delay to describe the waltz in which the effeminate constitutions of the gentlemen evidently suffered most interestingly under the weight of sentimental belles; at which amusement, it was observed, that the ladies, if old,

showed a wild and romping disposition, while the younger looked on with apparent horror and seemingly offended delicacy; but we must pass over these and many similar topics; for "scenes at home," though always interesting, are not often the most pleasant for repetition.

Amid the throng, Pembroke sought and found the interesting Emily Percival. "Thank Heaven," thought he, as he walked towards her, "she is not dancing. A girl of such a mind as hers must be above that."

"Ah, here is a partner," thought she; and she looked in another direction.

And he spoke, and bent, and buttoned the left pocket of his pantaloons; and she sank, and dimpled her cheek, and tightened her glove on two fingers, but sighed, when he, in a very serious tone, inquired after her emotions when looking on a crowd. And he grew interested as he thought of the sad sensibility of so young and beautiful a crea

ture.

"I feel tired very often," she said, " and sometimes I feel frightened; it depends entirely upon our state of mind, I think, Mr. Pembroke. But when we reflect that they, who surround us, are thinking and moving existences like ourselves, it seems to me that our feelings take the indescribable character, and are very interesting; do n't you think so, too? I am sure you do."

"I agree with you perfectly," replied he, quite affected by her appeal to his feelings; "though I do not remember that the subject was ever before presented to me in that light. You think that there is fatigue even in sympathy, and that deep interest involves apprehension; and you say your feelings overpower your reason, and that the heart is affected in a way that the head, in its cooler moments, vainly endeavors to account for. 'T is singular I never thought of that view of the subject."

"I don't think there is any thing new in the world; do you? Only think of the countless myriads of moral and intellectual agents who have gone before us; they must have used every thing up long ago; do n't you believe they have? And then are you not surprised when you think of our own minds? oh, I think it is one of the strangest things how they can act so."

Pembroke began to fear that the lady's ideas were not altogether so clear as she imagined; and, half doubting whether he had not mistaken her in supposing originality her charm, and blaming himself for having introduced any subject, on which she should feel herself obliged to converse, though with less ease than she was accustomed to enjoy in her speculations, he thought to change the subject. Looking, therefore, at a very beautiful girl, who stood near them, conversing in a very animated manner with some gentlemen, while her face beamed with the loveliest and brightest smile that ever purity was decked in, he observed, "I presume you are as much of an admirer of Miss Fleming as the rest of the beauty-admiring world."

"I cannot say," she replied, her fan resting on her under lip; "I am not sure that my feelings on the subject of beauty will quite agree with yours. Do n't you think our minds are led, by admiration of personal beauty, away from those higher ornaments, which belong to