twenty coursers of the day in chains light as that slender native of Malta round your neck. I'll just review a day for you: Your slumber, haunted by some last night's whisper 'fairy sound,' is broken by the chiming of the little French clock, which, by waking you to the music of some favourite waltz, adds the midnight pleasures of memory to the morning pleasures of hope. The imprisoned ringlets are emancipated; 'fresh as the oread from the forest fountain,' you descend—you breathe the incense of the chocolate—not more I hope—and grow conversational and confidential over the green tea, which, with a fragrance beyond all the violets of April, rises to your lip, 'giving and taking odours.' A thousand little interesting discussions arise—the colour of the Comte de S.'s moustache—the captivation of Colonel F's curls: there are partners to be compared—friends to be pitied—flirtations to be noted—perhaps some most silvery speech of peculiar import to be analysed.
"After breakfast, there are the golden plumes of your canary to be smoothed—the purple opening of your hyacinths to be watched—that sweet new waltz to be tried on the harp
