hour—what young lady would plead guilty to an appetite? Then comes that hour of anxious happiness—that given to the political economy of the toilette. I rather pique myself on my eloquence; but 'language, oh, how faint and weak!' to give an idea of the contending claims of tulle, crape, &c. &c. We will imagine its deliberations ended in decision. Your hair falls in curls like a sudden shower of sunshine, or your dark tresses are gathered up with pearls. You emerge, like a lady lily, delicate in white—or the youngest of the roses has lent its colour to your crape; your satin slipper rivals the silver-footed Thetis of old; and in a few minutes you are among the other gay creatures 'of the element' born of Collinet's music; and among the many claimants for your hand one is the fortunate youth. Midnight passes—and I leave you to your pillow,
'Gentle dreams, and slumbers light.'
"So much for your past—now for your future. The season is nearly at an end—the captured coronet has crowned your campaign—parchments are taking the place of pasteboard; you
