THE printer, in his folio, heraldeth the world. Now come tidings of weddings, maskings, mummeries, entertainments, jubilees, wars, fires, inundations, thefts, murders. massacres, meteors, comets, spectrums, prodigies, shipwrecks, piracies, sea-fights, law-suits, pleas, proclamations, embassies, trophies, triumphs. revels, sports, plays; then again, as in a new-shifted scene, treasons, cheating-tricks, robberies, enormous villanies in all kinds, funerals, burials, new discoveries, expeditions; now comical then tragical matters. To-day we hear of new offices created, to-morrow of great men deposed, and then again of fresh honors conferred; one is let loose, another prisoned; one purchaseth, another breaketh: he thrives, his neighbor turneth bankrupt; now plenty, then again dearth and famine; one runs, ancther rides, wrangles, laughs, weeps, and so forth. Thus do we daily hear such like, both public and private news.' OLD BORION.

He stood there alone at that shadowy hour,
By the swinging lamp dimly burning:
All silent within, save the ticking type,

All without, save the night-watch turning;
And heavily echoed the solemn sound,

As slowly he paced o'er the frozen ground.

And dark were the mansions so lately that shone,
With the joy of festivity gleaming,
And hearts that were beating in sympathy then,
Were now living it o'er in their dreaming;

Yet the PRINTER still worked at his lonely post,
As slowly. he gathered his mighty host.

And there lay the merchant all pillowed in down,
And building bright hopes for the morrow,
Nor dreamed he that Fate was then waving a wand
That would bring to him fear and sorrow;

Yet the PRINTER was there in his shadowy room,
And he set in his frame-work that rich man's doom!

The young wife was sleeping, whom lately had bound
The ties that death only can sever;

And dreaming she started, yet woke with a smile,
For she thought they were parted for ever!

But the PRINTER was clicking the types that would tell
On the morrow the truth of that midnight spell!

And there lay the statesman, whose feverish brow
And restless, the pillow was pressing,

For he felt through the shadowy mist of his dream
His loftiest hopes now possessing;

Yet the PRINTER worked on, mid silence and gloom,
And dug for Ambition its lowliest tomb.

And slowly that workman went gathering up
His budget of grief and of gladness;

A wreath for the noble, a grave for the low,
For the happy, a full cup of sadness;

Strange stories of wonder, to enchant the ear,
And dark ones of terror, to curdle with fear.

Full strange are the tales which that dark host shall bear
To palace and cot on the morrow;

Oh welcome, thrice welcome, to many a heart!
To many a bearer of sorrow;

It shall go like the wild and wandering air,
For life and its changes are impressed there.

Boston, August, 1843.

CA ET LÀ.

BY THE FLANEUR.

WHAT was Mr. Liner's plan? We will give it shortly, and hurry to a conclusion. He packed up his daughter and despatched her to Boston by Harnden's Express, in the month of September, carefully directed to a maternal uncle who resided there. With her went a letter explaining his peculiar situation. How Mrs. Liner and himself were afraid that their daughter, although now a 'dame charmante de vingt six ans moins un mois,' might become a middle-aged, ay, a very middle-aged single lady; how all her friends had married about her, even to Frederica Frizzle, who, like the Colossus of Rhodes, was very tall and very brazen; how Shuffleshanks had loved and died, leaving no sign; how the young man from Tobolsk had offered himself and been refused, and how the sparks no longer flew up when she appeared. That, in short, he despaired of settling her at home, although she was rich; as the New-Yorkers have an invincible aversion to any thing that has been long on hand; and Catharine, though certainly not passée was as certainly passante. He therefore requested the uncle to introduce her in Boston as a widow; the relict of a rich planter who died in New-Orleans of the yellow fever, leaving his wife the fee simple of all his slaves and half-breeds. To which the uncle willingly consented, as he was promised a handsome percentage if he succeeded; and Catharine herself was nothing loth, for she yearned to get married; and deceit, as we will prove one of these days, is the ground-work of the female character.

So Miss Liner was shipped; as old fashioned goods often are, in newer boxes. The bill of lading was marked thus:

1 PACKAGE.

L

DEMOISELLE À MARIER.

Mr. Liner was confident that she would arrive safe, as her case was the very antipodes of the vinous accident alluded to in scrip

ture.

Here ends the authentic history of Miss Liner. All else is either fabulous or deeply tinged with mythology. But it is at least certain that her widowhood allowed her to be so much more lively and fascinating, and explained so satisfactorily why she was single at her age; and her fortune came in so strongly and opportunely to urge on admirers, that in less than a month she was engaged, and

in less than two, married. Our uncle pocketed his commission and kept his secret.

After Catharine Julia had left New-York on her marital journey, a small closely-written sheet of paper was found in her room, which was evidently intended for publication. She said in a short preface that she took the idea from Shuffleshanks, and that after his death, in her pensive moments, when

'oft at even as she sat

In a little summer-house in the garden without a hat,'

her experience of society shaped itself into the following rules, which she resolved to leave as a legacy to the beau sexe of the beau monde, among whom she had so long been conspicuous:

RULES FOR BECOMING A PERFECT ZAZA.

The accomplished belle, flowered, flounced, fanning, figuring, flirting, flinging herself in all directions with the timidity of the gazelle, and its endurance, approaches to the grand ideal of belles; the peerless Zaza.

'Zazas are like Pachas of one, two, or three tails; (no double entendre meant.) A Zaza of one tail has one or two regular beaux; one of two tails has five or six; one of three tails has as many as she pleases. This is the summit of Zazaism. A demoiselle with no beaux is a nobody; (nobeaudy;) a poor creature; something quite despicable.

The

'RULE I. When about to seat yourself, pull your dress strongly on both sides to prevent its wrinkling; then subside. Consequently, upon rising, the dress must be raised again with the left hand, and three or four slaps given on each side, to complete the circle. gesture of smoothing the front hair with the flat of the hand may be tolerated in the darkest closet of a house with stone walls, or in the centre of the great desert of Sahara when no caravan is in sight.

The

'RULE II. You should always endeavor to be sportive. lambkin and the very young cat style take well, and are quite Zaza. A frisk just tinged with the soupçon of a tremble is a very beautiful display.

'RULE III. If you perceive a friend arriving, and go to meet her across a large room, always proceed with three skips on the points of your toes, then two quick steps, then three more skips, and so on alternately. Take care that your face does not express more anxiety for the success of your pas seul than joy at greeting your friend. When you attain your très cherè, groan Zaza, seize her hand and kiss her twice. This is a simple and effective meeting. The coup

d'ail is excellent when both young ladies are of the Zaza school. The three-skip gait is admirably adapted to entering a room unexpectedly; where there is a gentleman, or in leaving one at home tolerably full of company, when called out by a servant. uable at pic-nics.

It is inval

RULE IV.

Walk into a drawing-room behind your mamma.

You appear timid and retiring, and she acts as a standard-bearer, announces your arrival, and people are better prepared to stare.

' RULE V. Encourage only beaux who can add to your power by making you a great Zaza; such as great waltzers, singers; men who are rich, and who seem to be attentive 'pour le bon motif,' must of course be fed upon faint hopes.

' RULE VI. When sitting in a drawing-room, always cross your arms about your waist; each hand covering the small ribs on the opposite side, as if, like the gallant old soldier in Pelham, you wanted your hands to guard your heart. It is no objection to this style that it is always adopted by awkward cantatrices on the stage-and off. RULE VII. It is well for a Zaza, if she lives in a fashionable street, to read or embroider in a conspicuous window, which she may call her beau-window.

RULE VIII. In talking, do not make your lips and head go faster than your tongue. The Zaza is languid and shakes her head slowly, looking all the while intently and impressively at the person whom she is entertaining with if he be a foreigner, a fortune, or a

Coryphæus.

RULE IX. In drinking tea, coffee, or lemonade, hold the cup with the thumb and the fore and middle fingers, and allow the others to point rigidly into the air, at as great a distance as possible from the three first enumerated.

'RULE X. In playing or singing, timidity and tremors are quite out of date. The Zaza glides up to the instrument as if she had graduated at the Conservatoire, and sung three years at the Académie Royale. The only expression of face allowable is the smile of conscious power; such a smile as Jupiter's phiz might wear when contemplating the feeble struggles of sublunarians. On earth this smile may be often seen in female rope-dancers.

RULE XI. If a person asks to be presented, the Zaza 'really don't know;' she has so many acquaintances;' languidissimo.

RULE XII. If a Zaza of three tails, always dance at the head of a cotillon and lead off the waltz.

'RULE XIII. When a bad or an uncertain waltzer requests the honor, the Zaza is always engaged; but she may hint to a Shuffleshanks to beg for a turn, or even ask him outright. This has often been successfully practised by Zazas of two tails.

you

'RULE XIV. If have received a bouquet from an anonymous admirer, or from your father, thank the most fashionable man, or the Great Catch, or both; and loud enough to be overheard. You believe not one word of their protestations, of course, and set it down to modesty.

'RULE XV. When two Zazas, accompanied by their respective cavaliers, meet in the ball-room, they should always stop for a

moment, interchange a few dulcet words, tell each other 'how sweetly pretty you look to-night,' and present for a moment a lovely picture of child-like simplicity and utter guilelessness-to the respective cavaliers and observers in general.'