mankind must have grown all valiant, and that this distaste of mine for "shuffling off my mortal coil," arises simply from some idiosyncracy—some constitutional peculiarity which I am unable to account for. Be that as it may; at all times and in all seasons-the blithesome Spring, the blooming Summer, or temperate Autumn, I have always some reason or other for not wishing to die just then; but in Winter, the gloomy tyrant is my peculiar aversion. Oh, who can look at the dirty, dull, dreary, dismal church-yard, with its melancholy ranks of monumental stones, and fancy, as Sir Lucius O'Trigger says, that there will be "snug lying" in its precincts! I imagine a hole dug by the side of the dull, blank wall, through that dank, cold soil, saturated four feet down by the dissolving snow. Really, Mr. Bryant, it is asking too much to require any person to think of approaching such a receptacle,

"Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

Around him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."

Such a thing is not to be thought of, Then imagine yourself left sticking in the mud, the gloomy night gathering in, and the driving sleet pattering on your "winter-quarters;" while all your friends, who stood shivering and crying (with cold) round your grave, are off to their warm, cheerful hearths, in order to enjoy a few additional comforts to compensate for their past sufferings. "Poor fellow!" exclaims your chief mourner, as he lights his cigar,

any question

places his feet upon the fender, and lolls back in his easy chair-" poor fellow! (puff) I wonder if he was much in debt?" Can there be which of the two has the best of it? True, your dealer in truisms gravely asserts that it makes no sort of difference; that you will sleep just as soundly and comfortably there as if imbedded among roseleaves or eider down. Most true, says reason; but I trust my imaginative faculties are of too respectable an order to give credence to such a story. I cannot divest myself of the idea of sensation. No-give me Summer, when earth is warm, and the kindly sun sheds a chastened cheerfulness on your last abiding place.

But to leave these doleful themes. Winter has its comforts. It is the most sociable of seasons. Man is more gregarious at this period than any other. Cut off from nearly all communion with nature, even the most unsociable of the species combine to eat and drink more in bodies. Now is the time for fun and frolic, and song and sentiment, and hot punch and foolish speeches, and "proudest moments of your life." Now is the time for the small quiet room, brisk fire, and favorite author. Now does the keen bracing north wind blow, and the glowing skater skims gracefully over the smooth black ice. Now tinkle the merry sleigh-bells over hill and dale, and shines the clear cold moon, as lads drive lasses in the unceremonious country, or beaux drive belles in the outskirts of the polished city

"O'er the pure virgin snows,

themselves as pure,"

or otherwise, just as it may happen. And now, O Winter! comes the especial season of feasting, of harmless relaxation, and joyous revelry-now comes merry Christmas and jolly New Year. These, Winter, are thine own. Oh, there is much to be enjoyed and be thankful for on this slandered earth of ours-at all times and at all seasonsSpring, Summer, Autumn, and Winter-by the possessors of warm hearts, good tempers, sociable dispositions, clear consciences, and undebased animal functions. Health and happiness to all such! May they see many a bright revolving year, and e'en let the gloomy grumble and the ascetic sneer, to the end of the chapter, as best pleaseth them.

LITTLE FLORENCE GRAY.

BY N. P. WILLIS.

I WAS in Greece. It was the hour of noon,
And the Egean wind had dropp'd asleep
Upon Hymettus, and the thymy isles
Of Salamis and Egina lay hung

Like clouds upon the bright and breathless sea.
I had climb'd up th' Acropolis at morn,
And hours had filed as time will in a dream

Amid its deathless ruins-for the air

Is full of spirits in these mighty fanes,

And they walk with you! As it sultrier grew,
I laid me down within a shadow deep

Of a tall column of the Parthenon,
And in an absent idleness of thought
I scrawl'd upon the smooth and marble base.
Tell me, O memory, what wrote I there?
The name of a sweet child I knew at Rome!

I was in Asia. 'Twas a peerless night
Upon the plains of Sardis, and the moon,
Touching my eyelids through the wind-stirr'd tent,
Had witch'd me from my slumber. I arose
And silently stole forth, and by the brink

Of golden "Pactolus," where bathe his waters
The bases of Cybele's columns fair,

I paced away the hours. In wakeful mood

I mused upon the storied past awhile,

Watching the moon, that with the same mild eye
Had look'd upon the mighty Lybian kings
Sleeping around me-Croesus, who had heap'd
Within that mould'ring portico his gold,
And Gyges, buried with his viewless ring
Beneath yon swelling tumulus-and then
I loiter'd up the valley to a small
And humbler ruin, where the undefiled*
Of the Apocalypse their garments kept
Spotless; and crossing with a conscious awe
The broken threshold, to my spirit's eye
It seem'd as if, amid the moonlight, stood
"The angel of the church of Sardis" still!
And I again pass'd onward, and as dawn
Paled the bright morning star, I lay me down
Weary and sad beside the river's brink,
And 'twixt the moonlight and the rosy morn,
Wrote with my finger in the golden "sands."
Tell me,
O memory! what wrote I there?
The name of the sweet child I knew at Rome!

The dust is old upon my "sandal-shoon,"
And still I am a pilgrim; I have roved
From wild America to spicy Ind,
And worshipp'd at innumerable shrines
Of beauty, and the painter's art, to me,
And sculpture, speak as with a living tongue,
And of dead kingdoms, I recall the soul,
Sitting amid their ruins. I have stored

My memory with thoughts that can allay
Fever and sadness; and when life gets dim,
And I am overladen in my years,

* "Thou hast a few names even in Sardis which have not defiled their garments; and they shall walk with me in white; for they are worthy," Revelation iii. 4.