remind me that the music was waiting to
claim my admiration next.

''Excuse their excessive sensibility," he
said, "I have done my best to harden them
and make them worldly; but it is not of the
slightest use. Will you come to the piano?"
Miss Elizabeth began to sing immediately,
with the attendant sylphs, Jane and Emily,
on either side of her, to turn over the music.
It was a ballad composition— music and
words by the lovely singer herself. A lady
was dreaming in an ancient castle, a dog was
howling in a ruined courtyard, an owl was
hooting in a neighbouring forest, a tyrant
was striding in an echoing hall, and a page
was singing among moonlit flowers. First
five verses. Tune, so like the Mistletoe
Bough, that the composer of the same ought
really to have been ashamed of himself.
Sixth verse, the lady wakes with a scream.
Seventh, the tyrant loads his arquebus.
Eighth, the faithful page, hearing the scream
among the moonlit flowers, advances to the
castle. Ninth, the dog gives a warning
bark, and the tyrant fires a chance shot in
the darkness. Tenth, the page weltering in
his blood, the lady dead of a broken heart,
Miss Jane so affected by the catastrophe that
Miss Emily is obliged to lead her from the
room, and Miss Elizabeth so anxious about
them both as to be forced to shut up the
piano, and hasten after them with a
smelling-bottle in her hand. Such gentlemen, were
the interesting circumstances under which I
was first introduced to the six sentimental
Spinsters now on view in these pages.

Yes, my fortunate young bachelor friends,
incredible as it must appear to you, after the
brief introductory narrative which you have
just perused, these six angels of sensibility
are really single angels still. Tell yourselves
off to the corresponding number of half-a-dozen,
with your offers ready on your tongues,
and your hearts thrown open to tender
investigation, while favourable circumstances
yet give you a chance. First bachelor, do you
want pictorial genius, hair in plain bands, and
sweet sorrowful dignity in every movement?
— pursue Miss Harriet and be happy.
Second bachelor: Do you want music, poetry,
ringlets, and a snaky gracefulness about the
region of the waist?— keep your eye on Miss
Elizabeth. Third and fourth bachelors: Do
you want sensitive appreciation of pictorial
genius, and hair a l'Imperatrice? Fifth and
sixth bachelors: Do you want equally sensitive
appreciation of musical and poetical
genius, and three glossy curls on either side
of a gentle cheek?— kneel before Emily and
Jane; fly to Maria and Kitty! Finally (for
I must end, after all, for the sake of brevity,
by speaking of the six sentimental Spinsters
in the aggregate), do you, young gentlemen,
want pale cheeks, limpid eyes, swan-like
necks, low waists, tall forms, and no money?
You do— I know you do. Go then, enviable
youths!— go tenderly— go immediately— go
all six, and try your luck with the Miss
Bettifers!

Let me now appeal to other, and possibly
to fewer tastes, by trying a sample of a new
kind. It shall be something neither soft,
yielding, nor hysterical this time. You who
agree with the poet that

Discourse may want an animated No,
To brush the surface and to make it flow—

you who like girls to have opinions of their
own, and to play their parts spiritedly in the
give and take of conversation, do me the
favour to approach, and permit me to introduce
you to the three Miss Cruttwells. At
the same time, gentlemen, I must inform you,
with my usual candour, that this lot is short,
sharp, and, on occasion, shrill. If you have
not a talent for arguing, and a knack at
instantaneous definition, you will find the
Miss Cruttwells too much for you, and had
better wait for my next sample. And yet
for a certain peculiar class of customer, these
are really very choice spinsters. For instance,
any young legal gentleman, who would like
to have his wits kept sharp for his profession,
by constant disputation, could not do better
than address himself (as logically as possible)
to one of the Miss Cruttwells. Perhaps the
young legal gentleman will be so obliging as
to accompany me on a morning call.

It is a fine spring day, with a light air and
plenty of round white clouds flying over the
blue sky, when we go to pay our visit. We
are admitted, and find the three young ladies
in their morning room. Miss Martha Cruttwell
is fond of statistical subjects, and is
annotating a pamphlet. Miss Barbara Cruttwell
likes geology, and is filling a cabinet
with ticketted bits of stone. Miss Charlotte
Cruttwell has a manly taste for dogs, and is
nursing two fat puppies on her lap. All three
have florid complexions, which they set off
impressively by wearing dingy dresses. All
three have a winning habit of winking both
eyes incessantly, and a delightfully
characteristic way of wearing their hair very,
tight, and very far off their faces. All
three acknowledge my young, legal friend's
bow in— what may seem to him— a very
short, sharp manner; and modestly refrain
from helping him by saying a word to
begin the conversation. He is, perhaps,
unreasonably disconcerted, by this, and therefore
starts the talk weakly and conventionally,
by saying that it is a fine day.

"Fine!" exclaims Miss Martha, with a
look of amazement at her sister. "Fine!"
with a stare of perplexity at my young legal
friend. "Dear me! what do you mean, now,
by a fine day?"

"We were just saying how cold it was,"
says Miss Barbara.

"And how very like rain," says Miss
Charlotte, with a look at the white clouds
outside, which happen to be obscuring the
sun for a few minutes.