lineal descendants of the Chaldees who had devoted themselves to it, and it alone; and therefore may deduce from it some great and useful results. It is not necessary that our artizans, lawyers, poets, clergymen, and agriculturists, should have the motions of even the primary planets revolving in and addling their head-pieces. And as for the sweeteners of our life and tea; the makers of our pies and the mothers of our children; it is not fitting that they trouble themselves about the relative distances of the fixed stars. Let them rather go on as they have done; inventing fashions, quoting Byron, working lace, multiplying albums, and fulfilling their destinies.

THE RIVALS;

A TALE OF LOVE AND MARRIAGE.

BY WILLIAM COX.

It was on a Sunday afternoon, in the middle of March, 18—, when a young man, of diminutive dimensions, planted himself at the corner of one of the principal streets in the busy and populous city of Under all the circumstances of the case, this seemed a most singular proceeding. A fine May morning, as is common in March, had given place to a December afternoon; and a keen, raw, northeast wind, admirably calculated to perform the part of a rough razor, blustered and bellowed along the melancholy street, sweeping it of every vestige of humanity gifted with sense enough to know that a warm fireside was comfortable, and pence enough to procure one. An old applewoman, seated by the borders of the swollen kennel, and a hungry dog gnawing at a bone, were the only substances endowed with vitality perceptible, except the young man who had located himself in

such an apparently unnatural situation. His appearance was pitiable in the extreme. Seduced by the flattering appearance of the morning, when the sun. shone and the southern breeze blew, he had thoughtlessly arrayed his limbs in the gay garniture of spring, and the consequence was, that there he stood, exposed to all the assaults of a raw, chill, unfeeling northeaster, in a new pea-green coat, nankeen trowsers, and pale-complexioned waistcoat with a delicate sprig, lemon-colored gloves, and white silk stockings. His face, as a natural consequence of such a costume, in such a situation, in such weather, exhibited a sample of the varied hues of the rainbow, though it can scarcely be added "blent into beauty." "Pale, pale was his cheek," or rather pipeclay-colored; blue were his lips; while his nose, which was of a fiery red at the base, deepened, through all the intermediate shades, into concentrated purple at the extremity. His hair and whiskers, which were of a bright scarlet, formed a striking fringe or border to his unhappy-looking countenance. He wore his hat on one side of his head, at about an angle of seventy-five degrees, which, in warmer weather, and under more favorable auspices, might impart a sprightly air to the wearer; just now, however, it was most incongruous when coupled with the utter misery and desolation of the sum total of his personal appearance. There is little more to be added, except that he was within a fraction of four feet ten inches in height, that he

kept a shop for the retail of tobacco and fancy snuffs, and that his name was Thomas Maximilian Potts.

But wherefore stood he there? "That is the question." The sympathetic hearts of the ladies will readily anticipate the answer-he was in love. Yes, fondly, passionately, and, we may say for a man of his size, overwhelmingly in love. That little body, slight and trivial as it appeared, contained a heart-to correspond; and that heart had long been in the possession (figuratively) of Miss Julia Smith, only daughter and sole heiress of Mr. Smith, the eminent biscuit-baker, who resided in the second house round the identical corner at which Potts had stationed himself.

The case stood thus. He had been invited by the fair Julia to tea, and, as he fondly hoped, to a tête-à-tête, that afternoon. He had hastened (in the expressive phraseology usual on such occasions) on the wings of love to keep the appointment, when lo! just as he arrived at the door, his eyes were blasted (figuratively also) by the sight of his hated rival, James Fish, chemist and druggist, entering his bower of bliss. He shrunk back as if a creditor had crossed his path; but trusting it might only be a casual call, waited patiently in his deplorable situation for the reissuing and final exit of the abhorred Fish. But the shades of evening fell deeper and deeper, the drizzling rain came down thicker and thicker, the wind blew keener and keener-"Poor Tom was a-cold!" The component parts of his body shook and trembled like the

autumnal leaves in the November blast-his eyes distilled drops of liquid crystal, and, in the copious language of Wordsworth, his teeth, like those of Master Harry Gill,

"Evermore went chatter, chatter,

Chatter, chatter, chatter still."

But there is a limit to human endurance. He could not stand it any longer-so he went and rapped at the door, and was forthwith ushered into the parlor.

"Bless me! how late you are, Mr. Potts," exclaimed Julia; "but do take a seat near the fire," added she, in a sympathizing tone, as she took cognizance of the frigid, rigid condition of her unhappy suitor.

The scene which presented itself to the eyes of Potts was (with one exception) extremely revivifying. Every thing spoke of warmth and comfort. The apartment was small, snug, and double-carpeted; the curtains were drawn close, the dull, dreary twilight excluded; and brightly and cheerfully burnt the fire in the grate, before which, halfburied in the wool of the hearth-rug, reclined the fattest of poodles. At one side of the fire sat the contented and oleaginous biscuit-baker, Mr. Smith, in his accustomed state of semi-somnolency; at the other, Frank Lumley, a good-looking, good-tempered, rattle-pated coz of Julia's; while in the centre was placed the vile Fish. The fair Julia herself was busied in preparing the steaming beverage which cheers" but not intoxicates ;" and while it is