my miseries. I succeeded, by my own prudence and economy, to the utmost of my wishes. There was scarce a lady in London who did not buy her souchong at No. 30, Bishopsgate-street Within; my shop was always the first to open and the first to fill: it was never empty. Elated with success, I began to relax my ancient parsimony, and when my customers came I wrapped the change, though it were only a farthing, in whity-brown paper: this extravagance, however, would not have utterly ruined me, had not love," that tyrant love," caught my susceptible heart in his cayenne clutches. On the opposite side of the street lived a Tallow-chandler, a prudent man like myself, but who unfortunately had a daughter, whose black eyes soon turned my small beer to vinegar. The shop was no longer attended to; the civil, engaging Jeremy Gubbins was no longer constantly behind the counter. The whole business was now left to the charge of the shopman ;-he, alas ! poor man, had none of that engaging civility for which I was always so admired. I used to be watching at my window from day to day, in hopes of obtaining a favouring smile from my sugar plum; so great constancy could not be long unrewarded. I paid my addresses; Miss Whilhelmina Maggs blushed, smiled, and at last, simpering told me, that, provided her papa had no objection, she could not possibly object to a man of my fascinating qualities. It is useless to describe the rest of the courtship; the marriage was put in the papers, and I hired a neat little villa at Hampstead, in order that we might pass the honeymoon as rurally and agreeably as possible. I remember reading in a good book, which my father gave me while a boy, that mortals are shortsighted; I found it now to be true. Miss Whilhelmina Maggs, or rather, Mrs. Whilhelmina Gubbins, had scarce been my adorable wife a fortnight, before I discovered to my prime cost, that her soul was of a quality far too refined for the low and contracted scale in which I had been accustomed

to weigh my happiness. For three whole weeks she bothered me night and day to make me give up my shop; for three whole weeks I stoutly resisted; but, alas! what could my untutored eloquence do against her irresistible torrent of boarding-school rhetoric! My argument could avail nothing against her well-moulded tongue; so, finding that I had got a bad article, I thought it best quietly to submit to be treated as if I were not worth an ounce of nutmeg; comforting myself with the thoughts, that though my double-refined wife might be inclined for wholesale, I, at least, might enjoy the quiet of a retail life. To be short:-I gave up the shop, and bought the villa. The next article to be bought was a carriage, for my dear carraway comfit declared that she must and vould ride in her coach; a carriage could not be kept without horses, nor horses without a coachman. My dear then found out that it was impossible to be agreeable and fashionable without giving frequent parties; at these, I, miserable man, was forced to preside, and be stuck at the head of the table at dinner. In consequence I always lost my dinner, for I had to carve for every body, and Mrs. Gubbins gave me to understand that nothing was so opposite to good manners as to keep the company waiting while I was finishing my dinner. Not long since I got scolded for saving a nice piece of the brown for myself, which Mrs. Such-a-one had particularly desired to have; and the same day was unfortunately detected in the act of wiping my mouth with my coat sleeve. Not a day passed without my getting into disgrace. I am now obliged (unheard-of extravagance!) to take sugar and cream to my coffee, though every mouthful sticks in my throat. I have been so little accustomed to this, that when I was, for the first time, asked by a lady whether I would take cream, I very innocently replied, "No, thank you, Ma'am, I'll take tea." I am now never allowed to dine till seven o'clock, and have been threatened to be never forgiven if I am ever seen

eating with my knife. But, worse than all, I am compelled to forsake my dear apron, which, having been bequeathed to me by my dear father, (peace be to his soul!) has accompanied me through all the vicissitudes of life. I think your Majesty will allow that I am very much to be pitied, having been so long accustomed to stand behind the counter, that I now can never stand in a room without slinking behind a chair or sofa, which never fails highly to amuse my customers; (I beg their pardon, my company.) Your Majesty must perceive, by this time, that I am very much adulterated in my present situation. What am I to do? Am I to continue in this miserable line, and serve as a butt to all my acquaintance, or am I boldly to assert my rights, as husband, and return to my snug little shop at No. 30, Bishopsgate-street Within? I await your Majesty's decision with the most anxious. expectation, humbly craving that you will not overlook me, for I am convinced that my bodily faculties cannot long withstand this unnatural usage. With your Majesty's permission, I subscribe myself,

Your Majesty's most devoted and

most loyal subject,

JEREMY GUBBINS.

P.S. I forgot to mention that I am at this moment in disgrace for having preferred onions to olives, with my wine. By-the-by, wine comes heavy, and Mrs. Gubbins drinks nothing under Hermitage,

REFLECTIONS ON WINTER.

"Is Winter hideous in a garb like this?"-Cowper.

THE Winter is approaching: our eyes are no longer dazzled by the penetrating rays of the sun, nor delighted by the variegated colours of a Summer prospect; the earth, shrouded in white after the slow silent fall of the flakes of snow, presents to us on every side the same desolate scene; every thing from the hut to the castle, from the oak to the tuft of grass, wears an appearance of uniformity. Thus Winter seems contrasted with Summer, as the silence and the equality of the tomb is contrasted with the noisy bustle and continual variety of life. Yet I will say with the Poet,

"O! Winter, ruler of th' inverted year,

I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st,
And dreaded as thou art."

Indeed, to one of a melancholy though not discontented turn of mind, there is something not disagreeable, nay more, there is something pleasing, in the departure of Summer, and the approach of the more rugged season: the former, indeed, it must be acknowledged, excites our spirits to the highest pitch of buoyancy and mirth; but the latter awakes all those melancholy yet pleasing emotions inherent in a contemplative mind. The glow of the Summer's day, and the vivid colours of nature, fill us with a momentary burst of cheerfulness; the sporting of the cattle, the song of the birds, and the apparent enjoyment of the whole creation, from man to the butterfly, commu

nicate to us a sympathetic pleasure, arising from the feeling that every thing around us is happy and contented. Yet there is something in the dry chill of the wintry atmosphere, in the hollow melancholy sound of a December storm, which rouses in our minds the sweet sensations of pity and of charity, suggested, perhaps, by the recollection that there are some, who, less fortunate than ourselves, are exposed to wander, without a home, during the inclemencies of the season. We are more pleased with the confidence reposed in us by the unfortunate wanderer of the feathered tribe, whom the frost has deprived of his food, and who, trusting to our hospitality, plaintively demands relief at our window, than by his more lively song during the happier season of Summer. We feel more pleasure at hearing the harsh chirp of the sparrow, when we have made him happy by scattering before him the crumbs which have perhaps saved him from starvation, than we derive from the most melodious song of the nightingale. I would freely exchange the glowing tint and the warm air of a Summer's evening, and the emotions of love and pleasure which it excites, for the lonely silence of the Winter night, when the clear sky appears to exhibit the whole immensity of the creation, and fills the mind with ideas of religion and eternity. It is at this time that the wisdom and the beneficence of the Deity, the greatness of his power, the beauty of his works, are most conspicuous: we feel an internal satisfaction at being ourselves a part, however insignificant, of that immense system which then presents itself to our view in all its splendor and magnificence. It is when this most beautiful of prospects is before our eyes, that the mind is most turned towards contemplation and to thoughts of a more serious nature. It seems then, indeed, that