Mr. Gutheridge had long been the chief man of Tamerton; and his widow now reigned in his stead, alone in her glory, and occupant of the broadest, the longest, and the tallest white frame domicile in the village. She was originally from the city, and of a very genteel family: her grandfather, having made his fortune, had quitted bricklaying, and turned gentleman, long before he was superannuated. Her father had not contaminated his hands by putting them to any trade whatever; having, after he left college, attended to no other business than the care of preserving his life, by studying to guard himself from all possible maladies and accidents. Therefore he died, of no particular disease, at the age of thirty-four.

Mrs. Gutheridge was a large woman, with a majestic figure. She had an aquiline nose, immense black eyes, and a prominent mouth, with very good teeth. After she became a widow, she preferred remaining at Tamerton, to removing to the city; for, like Cæsar, she thought it better to be first in a village, than second at Rome. She had, however, a sovereign contempt for every man, woman, and child in the neighbourhood, with the exception of the clergyman and his wife, whom she tolerated, because she heard that, in England, the aristocracy make a point of upholding the church; and she professed to be aristocratic in all her ways.

With the assistance of her maid, she spent an hour every day in attiring herself for her solitary dinner; and she sat down alone to her sumptuous table, "all dressed up in ricn array." This she called self-respect. Her abigail reported that Mrs. Gutheridge had a set of night curls for sleeping in; and that her nightcaps were far superior to any daycaps that had ever appeared in Tamerton.

Mrs. Gutheridge rarely walked beyond her own grounds; but she rode out in her carriage every afternoon. She was seldom seen at full length, except on Sunday morning, when she proceeded up the middle aisle of the church, swinging a magnificent reticule, and followed by her black man, carrying two magnificent books. Her pew was richly lined and carpeted; and it was surrounded by curtains through which she could peep, without being exposed to the gaze of the vulgar; for of that class she considered the whole congregation. She reminded Mr. Milstead of the sovereign of one of the Asiatic islands, who always kept his own name a profound secret, lest it should be profaned by the utterance of his subjects.

Mrs. Gutheridge, being unquestionably at the head, (or rather over the head,) of Tamerton society, the next position was occupied by the families of two lawyers, and the third circle consisted of three physicians; for, except in Philadelphia, lawyers are generally supposed to take rank of doctors; but, in the city of brotherly love, that point is still contested. With regard to the medical fraternity of Tamerton, it might be said in the words of Shelty, that every man shook his own hand; " for they never met in amity, and were seldom on speaking terms. Dr. Drainblood referred every disease to the head; Dr. Famishem deduced "all the ills that flesh is heir to," from the state of the stomach; and Dr. Juste Milieu, (who was a Frenchman,) maintained a strict neutrality; keeping half way between the two theories, doing neither good nor harm to his patients, and incurring the contempt and reprobation of both his fellow-practitioners. He was, however, in high favour with the young ladies and the mothers: the grandmothers did not like him quite so well.

In the fourth circle, were the store-keepers; and they found it convenient to be tolerably friendly. Next came the tavern-keepers, who were rivals and foemen. The mechanics all took precedence of each other; there being no reason why a carpenter should vail his bonnet to a wheelwright, why a shoemaker should do reverence to a tailor, or why a butcher should succumb to a baker. As to the clerks, milliners, and mantua-makers, they got in where they could. The teachers got in nowhere; except one lady, who, under the signature of Polyhymnia, supplied the weekly newspaper with odes, "after the manner of Pindar," (not Peter,) and was therefore generally invited to meet strangers, and to show them that the town of Tamerton possessed a live author.

Let it, however, be understood that the integrity of the circles was chiefly preserved by the ladies. The gentlemen, when their wives were not by, frequently gave way to their natural dislike of restraint, and talked to each other familiarly enough, particularly on politics; for when that subject is started, no American can possibly keep silent.

Such was the state of society in the village of Tamerton, when Mr. and Mrs. Milstead first removed thither. They soon discovered the position of affairs by visiting round among the congregation; and when the pastor and his lady invited company to their own house, they always perceived that they had given some dissatisfaction by not assorting the guests according to rank.

Mrs. Gutheridge kept herself entirely aloof, and showed no other civility to Mr. and Mrs. Milstead, than that of coming in her carriage to leave at their door two cards printed in gold.

Mr. Milstead took occasion, in one of his sermons, to deprecate the sin of pride and arrogance, which he justly represented as being especially absurd and inconvenient in a small community, every member of which was a citizen of a republic. His discourse was eloquent and impressive; and it was heard with due attention. Yet the only effect it produced, was, that none of the congregation took his admonitions to themselves, but all hoped that their neighbours would.

[This beautiful example of pensive "repose," passes from the "subdued" form of “pure tone,” in the utterance of tranquillity and pathos, which prevail through the first stanza, to that of solemnity and awe, at the close of the last stanza. In the second and third stanzas, the "orotund" tone of joy is delicately blended with the pensive expression of regret, in that peculiar suavity of voice which belongs to those moods of memory which are "pleasant but mournful to the soul." Such passages require a nice attention to the full yet gentle effect of the melodious utterance appropriate to poetry, -the prolonged and lingering swell, slowly vanishing on the ear, and imparting to metre and cadence something of the effect of a closing strain of distant music.]

THERE is an evening twilight of the heart,

When its wild passion waves are lulled to rest,
And the eye sees life's fairy scenes depart,
As fades the day-beam in the rosy west.

'Tis with a nameless feeling of regret
We gaze upon them as they melt away,
And fondly would we bid them linger yet;
But hope is round us with her angel lay,
Hailing afar some happier moonlight hour:
Dear are her whispers still, though lost their early power.

In youth, the cheek was crimsoned with her glow;
Her smile was loveliest then, her matin song
Was heaven's own music; and the note of woe
Was all unheard her sunny bowers among.
Life's litle world of bliss was newly born:

We knew not, cared not, it was born to die.
Flushed with the cool breeze and the dews of morn,
With dancing heart we gazed on the pure sky,
And mocked the passing clouds that dimmed its blue,
Like our own sorrows then, as fleeting and as few.

--

And manhood felt her sway too :—on the eye,
Half realized, her early dreams burst bright;
Her promised bower of happiness seemed nigh,
Its days of joy, its vigils of delight;

And though, at times, might lower the thunder-storm,
And the red lightnings threaten, still the air
Was balmy with her breath; and her loved form,
The rainbow of the heart, was hovering there.

'Tis in life's noontide she is nearest seen,

Her wreath the summer flower, her robe of summer green

But though less dazzling in her twilight dress,

There's more of heaven's pure beam about her now:

That angel smile of tranquil loveliness,

Which the heart worships, glowing on her brow,

That smile shall brighten the dim evening star
That points our destined tomb, nor e'er depart

Till the faint light of life is fled afar,

And hushed the last deep beating of the heart;
The meteor-bearer of our parting breath,—
A moonbeam in the midnight cloud of death.

EXERCISE LVII.

THE SPECTATOR'S RETURN TO TOWN. Steele.

[The greater part of the following piece is in the style of animated conversation. In the narrative and descriptive parts, the tone is "lively,” — in the language of the captain, it becomes "gay" and "humorous," — in that of the Quaker, it is "serious," but bland and

good-humoured. The "quality" of voice, throughout, is "pure tone,” modified according to the above technical designations, as explained in the preliminary rules. Natural case, and vivacity of expression,

simplicity, without feebleness, should be the prevailing style in the reading of such pieces: insipidity and affectation are the extremes to be avoided.]

HAVING notified to my good friend Sir Roger, that I should set out for London the next day, his horses were ready at the appointed hour in the evening; and, attended by one of his grooms, I arrived at the county town at twilight, in order to be ready for the stage-coach the day following.

As soon as we arrived at the inn, the servant who waited upon me, inquired of the chamberlain, in my hearing, what company he had for the coach? The fellow answered, " Mrs. Betty Arable, the great fortune, and the widow her mother; a recruiting officer, (who took a place because they were to go;) young Squire Quickset, her cousin, (that her mother wished her to be married to ;) Ephraim, the Quaker, her guardian; and a gentleman that had studied himself dumb, from Sir Roger de Coverly's."

I observed, by what he said of myself, that, according to his office, he dealt much in intelligence, and doubted not but there was some foundation for his reports of the rest of the company, as well as for the whimsical account he gave of me.

The next morning, at daybreak, we were all called; and I, who know my own natural shyness, and endeavour to be as little liable to be disputed with as possible, dressed immediately, that I might make no one wait. The first preparation for our setting out, was, that the captain's half pike was placed near the coachman, and a drum behind the coach. In the meantime, the drummer, the captain's equipage, was very loud, "that none of the captain's things should be placed so as to be spoiled;" upon which his cloak-bag was fixed in the seat of the coach; and the captain himself, according to a frequent though invidious behaviour of military men, ordered his man to look sharp, that none but one of the ladies should have the place he had taken fronting to the coach-box.

We were, in some little time, fixed in our seats, and sat with that dislike which people, not too good-natured, usually conceive of each other, at first sight. The coach jumbled us insensibly into some sort of familiarity; and we had not moved above two miles, when the widow asked the captain