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SHE WAS A THING OF MORN, &c. 27 to enquire of my health this morning, -whereof I trust shortly to send you news. Being your Ladyship's obliged, faithful friend, MARY GRANDISON.

My papa and mamma present their respects.

FROM LADY HELENA ****TO THE HON. MISS****

OUR ball at the D. House last night, dearest Selina, was a veritable feerie! —any thing so enchanting could scarcely have been imagined by a mortal fancy. Thanks to the severities of Lent, Paris has at length spared us an orchestra worthy to give utterance to the melodies of Guillaume Tell, and movement to our sweet selves; we have now seen the Mazurka in the full perfection of exquisite music, united with Danischiold's inimitable grace; and the result was indeed delightful. In its first blush of novelty at Berlin and Dresden, I used to think the Galoppe — if not exactly “the poetry of motion,” at least a very amusing piece of doggrel;— -but the Mazurka is a delicious barbaresque lyric; like one of Lockhart's Moorish, or Bowring's Hungarian ballads.

But I must not deal in generalities. You, dearest, you are so unseasonably detained in Yorkshire by le cher Papa's fit of the gout, or fit of political pouts, will require me to be more particular; -to tell you how chacun s'arrange avec chacune this season; who flirts who sulks— who marries who dies. In the first place, you must be well aware, that sentiment before Easter would be rather premature; while we continue to dance with closed doors and closed windows, a mamma or any other Argus affords an inevitable inspection; folly has no field to fly to; and nothing but authorized attachments are admissible. Au reste society has been recently sobered by a severe shock; and our delightful new Ambassador complains sadly of the respectable domestic severity of our fashionable belles.

En fait de modes, I have seen nothing very commendable; and have detected sundry berets, hats, ball dresses, and chiffons of last season, rajeunis a neuf, at more than one of our fetes. Now this is sacrilege. A splendid, or a very varied toilet may be dispensed with where people's bills are longer than their purses; but frippery has no right to insult one with an annual re appearance. The evergreens in our gardens are alone privileged to remain “deuil de l'ete, parure de l'hiver! “Our sleeves soit dit en passant have widened into jupons; I have a pair a la Marino Faliero which would make excellent frocks for my two little girls. At D. House, Lady Lyster, Sophy De Vere, and several of our set wore the new colour, called Rose du Parnasse, -I conclude that it has been named in honour of Mrs. Norton.

I do not think there is a particularly good set of young men visible at present; some are still at Melton, and some detained at Paris; but it struck me last night that but for the foreigners, Castlereagh, Clanwilliam, and one or two other distingues, the Foresters, and the Hardys, many of our loveliest and most agreeable friends, would have been ill off for partners. By the way, I heard an amiable trait yesterday of Lord Ashley, which would enchant you, with whom he is so great a favourite. It was told me en confiance, and you will therefore hear it on arriving in town.

There are “no new scenery and decorations“ this year at D. House, mais il n'en manque pas; -for, excepting Lord Hertford's scagliola ballroom in the Regent's Park, nothing can exceed the brilliancy of the Duke's. He has certainly excellent taste; and more the habits of a Signeur de la vieille cour than any one I know. Adieu, dearest Selina, I am expecting Marnington every moment to demand a bouquet which I promised him last night; but he is so nonchalant, that perhaps he has already forgotten his own claims and my folly, Au revoir!

From Constable's Edinburgh Magazine. A SKETCH. I.

SHE was a thing of morn with the soft calm Of summer evening in her pensive air; Her smile came o'er the gazer's heart like balm, To soothe away all sorrow save despair; Her radiant brow scarce wore a tint of care; Of Hope and Memory all that's bright and fair; Where no rude breath of Passion came to chase, Like winds from summer waves, its heaven from that sweet face.

II.

As one who looks on landscapes beautiful, Will feel their spirits all his soul pervade, Even as the heart grows stiller by the lull Of falling waters when the winds are laid; So he who gazed upon that heavenly maid. Imbibed a sweetness never felt before; Oh! when with her through autumn fields I've stray'd, A brighter hue the lingering wild flowers wore, And sweeter was the song the small bird warbled o'er.

III.

Then came Consumption with her languid moods Her soothing whispers, and her dreams that seek To nurse themselves in silent solitudes; She came with hectic glow, and wasted cheek, And still the maiden pined more wan and weak, Till her declining loveliness each day Paled like the second bow; yet would she speak The words of Hope, even while she passed away Amid the closing clouds, and faded ray by ray!

IV.

She died i' the bud of being, in the spring, The time of flowers, and songs, and balmy air 'Mid opening blossoms she was withering; But thus 'twas ever with the good and fair, The lov'd of Heaven; ere yet the hand of Care Upon the snowy brow hath set his seal, Or time's hoar frost come down to blanch the hair, They fade away, and 'scape what others feel, The pangs that pass not by the wounds that never heal!

V.

They laid her in the robes that wrap the dead, So beautiful in rest ye scarce might dream From form so fair the gentle spirit fled, But only lulled in some Elysian dream; And still the glory of a vanished beam; The lingering halo of a parted ray, Shed o'er her lovely sleep its latest gleam, Like evening's rose light, when the summer day Hath fled o'er sea and shore, and faded far away!

J. M.