the stars should be against him. He learned their name, and by and by discovered their residence, and the stoop that was so happy as to afford them evening refreshment. He put on his best looks-and they were very good, as his portrait indicates-and his best manners. He passed and repassed, as if in search of some one, and then, with a very honestlooking apology for interrupting their pleasant conversation, inquired for Dr Somebody. The ladies had never heard of him. "Well, but he must be thereabout;" and so he pursued his search, and presently returning, told them that it had been to no purpose. When, an evening or two after, he was passing, he could not do less than salute the fair group; and so he continued, till he was invited to mount the steps; and thus, the Rubicon being surmounted, the rest went on as it were of course, and ended " as merry as a marriage bell.” Their descendants tell the tale with as much pleasure as a hero relates his battles, or a traveller his adventures.

These evening frolics of the stoop having become out of date, something like a substitute for them has arisen. In winter, ladies who have been all day in their walking dresses, will about tea-time polish themselves a little, not knowing who may step in; but as evening is the leisure time of the young gentlemen, the belles are sure of seeing some one. About eight o'clock one and another drops in, and the sparks of lively and gleeful repartee which are instantly kindled in the company, partake still a

little of the humours of the stoop. One was glad to see the young men escaping from their desks and from the dreariness of their boarding-houses to mingle for an hour among fireside harmonies, which might remind them how it was with them before they quitted the old roof-tree of home, or lead them to hope how it may be again with them when prosperous circumstances permit them, in turn, to become family men.

No stronger or more painful evidence exists of the migratory habits of the natives, and of the multitude of homeless emigrants, than is daily witnessed in the dead-letter room of the General Post-Office at Washington.

Weekly, columns of the newspapers in every city contain lists of unclaimed letters, and thus they are not sacrificed without exertion to bring owners and their letters together. When that fails, they are finally congregated at the centre of government, and consigned to that chamber from which, as from a condemned cell, they only come forth to suffer the extreme sentence of the law. It was a sad sight, that spacious hall full of letters. The surrounding tables, behind which sat the busy gentlemen whose irksome task it is to open them, were covered with letters so were the desks and shelves by the walls -so was the floor, where they were heaped up like a little hayrick, their secrets all torn open and thrown down like common things. On one side is suspended on a machine a large sack, the receiver of

these opened papers, which, when it is stuffed hard and fast till it can contain no more, is succeeded by another and another, and then having sacks enough to load a cart, they are sent off to the common to be consumed. The idea of the manner in which such things are managed in my own city arises in painful contrast to the mind. There a misdirected order to a tradesman, or inquiry about a servant, or any trifling paper, comes back to the writer reverently sealed and enveloped with a printed "ON HER MAJESTY'S SERVICE," and a "Not found," or "Removed," or "Dead," marked on it. The hasty inquiry, "Why is not this done in the United States?" rises to the lips. But it need not be uttered- -a minute's reflection brings the answer. The country is vast. The States are many. Favourite names are repeated on many cities, towns, and villages, till you may find ten places known by the same name. If the letter-writer omits to add the name of the State also, there are nine chances against the letter finding its owner. Then the multitude of blundering, of illegible, of nonsensical addresses is incalculable. What can they do? If they cannot convey them, as they gladly would, the next best thing is, after a competent time, to destroy them.

The heap was a sad one. Sheets overflowing infine delicate writing. How much beautiful sentiment might be there! Sheets, out of which had been plucked pretty little stockings, boots, gloves, muffatees, collars, purses, all such small love-gages as you

could imagine, wrought by kind grandmothers, and loving aunts and sisters, meant for a far different destination than a transient rest on the letter-openers' shelves. In one case there was a large envelope filled with loam. What could it be? Was it the specimen of the soil of a field to be purchased? Was it sacred earth to plant Was it from Jerusalem? dear." None could tell. extracted and consigned to the ever-gathering heap.

some cherished flower in? "Her very dust to them is The informing paper was

"But should he write and I not get it,
'Twere but a paper lost."

True, but a paper that might relieve some homesick heart- a paper that might reveal the truth which has for months been longed for- -a paper fraught with weighty messages of joy or woe to somebody. It was not, however, the beautifully written and well-filled sheets that one felt most disposed to be sentimental over. The active pen which wrote these will write more. The next will perhaps be more fortunate. But the rough uncourtly paper; the awkward, unaccustomed penmanship; the sheet bought for one penny after a month's thinking about it; the letter written with pains and much trouble, and then carefully posted in a far-off land, which was once his home, to tell "Sandy," or Patrick," that his parents still live, and think of him, or that "Janet," or " Kathleen" would still be in the mind to come out and redeem her long

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plighted troth, as soon as he can remit the dollars; the "yours till death;" -is it lost to him that allimportant document? Is it to perish on the common at that auto da fé?

Is there no means to avoid these sad inflictions? Will they not cease until all the emigrants have gone over, and all the restless dwellers in the States have settled down, and all the correspondents have learned to write legibly? Who can tell? but probably the melancholy heap would be reduced to onehalf its present size if it were more the custom for people to live in their own houses, so that they might have homes, instead of flitting about as they do from one boarding-house to another.

The children born and brought up in boardinghouses will never look back on the domestic hearth and the lively nursery as they do who are born at home. Regret is the deeper, when one thinks of a people so essentially Saxon, and so full of fireside charities as the Americans are, thus imperceptibly dropping into Gallican manners; kindling many an alluring ignis fatuus, and quenching or neglecting the very light of life.

When our good ship, after many days' digging and snorting her way through cross winds and a stormy ocean, reached smoother water, and caught the first glimpse of the Neversinks, it was delightful to observe mutual gratulations, and talk about expectant relatives who will be listening for the gunfire, or for the news-boys; and which will wait at home, and