'I have it,' thought I; what a dunce I was, not to have surmised it before. There is a ladies' seminary in this city. She asked if her things had been brought down from the school.' She is some dear little creature, who resides within a day's ride of the city, going to visit her parents. Her father has not been able to leave his business to come for her, and her brothers are all off at college; and as the stage passes the door of her paternal home, it has been thought safe for her to make the journey alone. Poor little dear! — it is too bad to make her leave her soft pillow and sweet dreams, to ride alone with strangers on such a night as this! But I will be a protector to thee, sweet flower. I will be to thee even as a father and a brother. The storm that rages without shall not chill thy young blood-the wind which howls around us shall not visit too roughly' thy tender frame; and if thy strength waxes faint, and fatigue or drowsiness overcome thee, thou shalt close thine eyes and rest thy head on a bosom that will support thee as tenderly and faithfully as that on which thy infancy reposed.'

These were thoughts that flitted through my mind, while my fair companion was arranging her seat, as comfortably as circumstances. permitted, by my side. In a few moments the coach was again in motion.

⚫ I fear, Miss,' I remarked, as we reached the outskirts of the city, 'you will have an uncomfortable night of it.'

O, no,' she replied, I am fully prepared for the ride, and I think I shall get through with it very well.'

A long pause ensued. The school in Troy is very full now, I understand?' again I essayed.

'Yes, Sir, we have now one hundred and thirty-five pupils, and others are arriving daily.'

Another pause succeeded, during which I congratulated myself on finding my surmises correct. 'Are you traveler enough,' I asked, 'to know that your comfort during the night will depend very much on keeping your feet warm?' And I bent down and gathered the straw from the bottom of the coach, and placed it over them.

She thanked me for my attention, and we rode on in silence. At length I began to grow drowsy, and at the same time observing the head of my companion begin to nod, I suggested to her that if she would lean against me, she would ride with greater ease. In a few moments her head fell upon my shoulder, and she seemed to sleep. Sleep on, sweet girl,' thought I; thy trusting confidence in a stranger is not misplaced. He appreciates thy unsuspecting innocence; he understands the unsophisticated purity of thy nature, and would sooner lay down his life than startle thee by word or deed from the full security thy guileless heart secures to thee. An hour passed, and I stirred not, lest I should disturb the sleep of the gentle girl. My heart melted toward her; and as the moments hastened on, I grew yet more sleepy and loving. Occasionally I gave vent to my feelings in low, broken, whining inquiries of how she felt?- was she fatigued?-did she sleep well?-was her position easy? were her feet warm? etc., etc. I have never been able to satisfy myself whether I was dreaming a part of the time, or whether I was awake; but it appears to me that I never loved any human being with half the tenderness I felt for my sleeping companion. So strong indeed was my devotion, that I felt that I would have taken her, without farther know

ledge, for the wife of my bosom, and have given her for life the place she then occupied by my side.

Another hour at length glided by. My drowsiness got the better of my love. Wearied with sitting in one position, I sank against the cushion on one side of the coach. My companion sank with me. My arm was around her; and thus encircling all that I then considered most desirable in life, I fell asleep.

The morning sun shone brightly in my face, and I awoke. A bonnet was bobbing in my face with every motion of the coach. My arm was around a cloak which seemed to cover a human figure. In a moment the recollection of my companion flashed across my mind. As I raised myself up, and attempted to look under the bonnet, a young Frenchman on the front seat, whom I an instant previously had observed with his features strangely distorted, gave a short dry laugh, and put his head out of the coach. I availed myself of the opportunity to look under the bonnet. Do not laugh, reader, but pity me. There was a little lean woman sleeping on my breast, with a dark beard on her upper lip, longer and more plentiful than that which disfigures the young exquisites of the day. Her chin and cheeks were covered with a substance lighter indeed in color, but quite as unequivocal in character. Farther of her personal appearance I cannot speak, for I did not extend my observations. What I have already described, was sufficient to satisfy my curiosity. I awoke her, told her it was daylight, and sat her upright in the coach; but the next jolt brought her back again upon my shoulder, fast asleep. I again aroused her, but with the same result. I began to grow nervous. Cold chills ran over me. I besought the lady to awake told her I was tired of holding her and begged that she would sit upright. She said she would, but she did so for a moment only, and then fell back to her former position. This was more than I could bear; and I was debating in my mind whether I should jump out of the coach, or only on to the front seat, when the vehicle stopped at the hotel, which was the end of the route.

I HAVE just been thinking what a privilege it is to be poor and unknown, and what a blessing it is to be without a character. Nine-tenths of my enjoyments are such as are not attainable by the wealthy or great. They are such as are not permitted to those who have character, and reputation, and station to sustain. The great pass through life on a high horse. They sit erect. Their heads are elevated, and they move proudly on to their graves, without knowing or feeling a thousandth part of the beauties of the world in which they have lived. I, on the other hand, with my characterless, poverty-stricken brethren, make the journey of life on foot. We hasten not on our way; we take it easy; we cull the flowers which grow along our path; we avoid the briars and thorns which obstruct it; and when we come to a sunny or a pleasant spot, we sit down and enjoy its beauties, and take the refreshment and rest that our necessities may require.

These are my 'general remarks.' I most usually make it a practice to preface what I have to say with some of them. Somebody, in giving advice to magazine writers, advises them to commence any where in their subject that is most convenient, and even at once to jump in

medias res. Now I do not approve of this mode of doing things. It is like the abominable habit some of our tale writers have, of commencing in the middle of their story and telling it out both ways to a begining and end. No, I like system; and for that reason I hold to the good old custom of prefacing particular observations with a few general remarks. But to leave them, and go into detail.

Oftentimes when I have taken my station in front of Colman's window, with my elbows resting on the iron bar that projects before it, for the purpose of examining at my leisure the various specimens of the arts which he daily displays for the gratification of the public oftentimes, I say, when I have been so stationed, have I seen the man of consequence, as he wended his way slowly down to his office in Wall or Pearl-street, turn his eyes wistfully toward the splendid display with which I was gratifying my senses, look cautiously around to see if any of his acquaintances were near, stop for a moment, and before he had half gratified his curiosity, start suddenly and guiltily away, and pass on. 'Pass on,' I have said to myself, thou slave of custom-thou victim of pride-pass on, and leave the pearls that are scattered in thy path to those who have the good sense to appreciate them.' And then, after such a mental address, I have crowded into my place among the motley and ragged group of amateurs, and with them I have admired the taper legs of the sylphlike Taglioni, the graceful ringlets of Mrs. Wood, have expressed my astonishment at the sublime conceptions of Martin, and pointed out to my less informed neighbors the faults in his Belshazzar's Feast' have laughed at the comic power of Cruikshank, examined the gorgeous binding of the books, the wonderful chess-men, the racing scenes, and the views of the North River. After a critical dispute with some hatless cognoscenti about the merits of a favorite artist, I move slowly and leisurely along, finding at every step food for my eyes and ears, and not unfrequently, through the kindness of the apple women, food for my stomach.

If at the next corner I discover a fight, I join the ring, and take upon myself the duties of master of ceremonies. I hold the hats and coats of the combatants, (for I am sorry to say that some of my fellow citizens are not to be trusted with such articles, they having the unworthy habit of abstracting from them handkerchiefs and pocket-books, and sometimes even disappearing with the articles themselves,) keep the circle wide and roomy, pull a man off when he has got his adversary down, see that there is no gouging or biting, and in a general way conduct the affair in such a manner that each party has fair play.

I am always on hand when a man is run over, or falls from a building, help carry him to the nearest apothecary's shop, and am always one of those who are inside when the door is closed. By these means, I have an opportunity of seeing where the man is hurt, and what are his prospects of recovery, what remedies are applied, how he bears his misfortunes, and thus gain a great deal of useful information.

I attend the parades of the Light Guards,' and the Tompkins Blues,' see them go through with their manœuvres and drills, and thus pick up a little knowledge of the art of war, to place at the service of my country, in time of need. When the Brass Band' comes out with either of the above mentioned companies, I am not too proud to march along with the boys on the side-walk, and keep step with the music.

It does me good. It excites my martial spirit; it arouses my 'American feelings; it causes me to think of the revolution; it calls to mind 'the times that tried men's souls;' in short, it makes me a more patriotic citizen, and a greater lover of my country.

I attend all the fires-am a great admirer of Engine No. 14, and Mr. Gulick. I am an honorary member of the company No. 14, and am in favor of retaining Mr. Gulick in his office of chief engineer. I only work at the engine when there is a lack of hands, my general occupation at fires being of a superintending character. I help females and small children to escape from the flames, take care of valuable packages that are thrown into the street, pick up pieces of china and lookingglasses that are cast down for preservation from the upper stories, and see how a stop is finally put to the flames.

I go very frequently to funerals particularly if there are carriages in attendance. When I see an invitation in the newspapers closing thus, Carriages in front of St. Paul's at precisely 4 P. M.,' I am punctual to the minute, select a good hack, and oftentimes mourn as sincerely for a man I never saw, as those whom he loved when living, and remembered when dying. There is nothing improbable in this avowal. I mourn for each and every one who dies, for I am sorry that they are obliged to leave this pleasant world of ours, the pursuits which engrossed them, the pleasures which occupied them, and all the thousand endearing ties which draw upon the hearts even of the most lonely and desolate.

I take great interest in the improvement and increase of the city. No citizen, public or private, has been more solicitous than I about the green posts and chains in the Park, or more anxious concerning the introduction of pure and wholesome water.' For the last two years, I have been a supernumerary superintendent of the erection of Astor's Hotel. Every morning I would go and contemplate the progress of the preceding day. I made the acquaintance of the master-builder, and obtained a great deal of information from him relative to the detail of the edifice. The little square windows on the Vesey-street side have alone baffled my inquiries. I cannot imagine for what purpose they are there, and the builder is exceedingly close-mouthed on the subject. I used frequently to go down to the new custom-house, but I am out of patience with the slow progress the builders make, and now seldom inspect it oftener than once a week. The only other uneasiness I have, connected with public buildings, is the great window in the University. It has been boarded up for more than a year; and I am fearful there are not funds sufficient left to pay for its glazing.

These are a few of my occupations and amusements; and they are such as the man of character or the proud man knows not. They are engrossed with themselves, and see not and care not, what the world is doing, farther than it effects their immediate interests. Their natural tastes are curbed, their impulses are restrained, and their real feelings concealed. Their whole life is a mask. They are 'star'-actors on the world's stage, while we poor, unwashed, unvaccinated gentlemen are the supernumeraries.' They have an arduous and difficult character to sustain, while we have only to hear their ranting, and sing a chorus to their songs. They are obliged continually to look and act their parts, while we can crack a joke with the pit, ogle the side boxes, and ever have a little fun among ourselves.

of the kind that Willis would per

I HAVE a great taste for music haps denominate unwritten music-not that spoken of by Cox, in his article in the Mirror, published a few weeks since, made by the wind's blowing on an oak tree, or the summer breeze whistling over a meadow. I tired of that when I was a boy, and lived in the country. What I call unwritten music, is such as has never been marked and dotted out on five straight lines such as cannot be bought at Atwill's such as is never thumbed by the young miss who yawns at her piano. Reader, if you want to hear unwritten music, go down to the docks, find a ship from New-Orleans with a negro crew, sit down on a cotton bag, and you will hear, while she is unloading, airs that will haunt you for weeks afterward. You will see half a dozen stout fellows, with lungs like a boss chimney sweep, and wind like a bellows, pulling at the rope which raises the cargo from the hold, keeping time to the air which is sung by their ship-mate who coils away, and at the end of every half minute join in the chorus with a heartiness and power that is most edifying to hear and behold. Unwritten music is to be heard every where. The shoe-maker keeps time to it, as he pulls out his long waxed-ends; the porter walks to it; it regulates the strokes of the blacksmith, when the heated iron sparkles upon his anvil; the black cook hums it, as she turns the spit, and it is ever falling from the lips of the young, the lovely, the innocent and the gay.

Music of all kinds, written or unwritten, is to be had in this city in great quantities, and at various prices. It costs a dollar to hear Mrs. Wood sing at the Park Theatre; seventy-five cents to hear Mr. Rice execute Jim Crow' at the Bowery; and for fifty cents we can hear Sittin' on a Rail' done by the great composer himself, at the Franklin. But the cheapest music that I know of, is to be heard before Peale's Museum :

'O'tis my delight, of a shiny night,

In a season of the year'

like this, when the warm south breeze comes lazily up the bay, comforting the poor fellows who have been shivering through the late long winter, insinuating itself through the rents in their pantaloons, and the holes in their coats, and making their naked limbs to rejoice with its genial influence; the south breeze is no coy dame, whose kiss is reserved for her lord alone; no dainty maiden, whose breath is only felt upon the cheek of her lover. Its influence is experienced alike by allthe rich, the poor, the high, the lowly. It wanders over the lips of the young and the lovely, and it breathes upon the ghostly and the decrepid; it kisses the soft and glowing cheek of beauty, and the pale face of the sick and dying; in wanton playfulness, it scatters the golden tresses of the youthful and favored of fortune, and it passes on to lift the gray and matted locks of the old and desolate, and poor and needy,

But as I was saying, it is my delight at this particular season of the year to take my seat on the stone foundation of the park fence, opposite Peale's Museum, and listen to the music which is there nightly discoursed. Our audience is large, and not what perhaps would be called select. But we are all amateurs, really and unaffectedly fond of music. We assemble not to show ourselves, to see and be seen,' but to hear. Any little difficulties that it might naturally be supposed would arise about seats, are avoided by the high-toned and conciliating spirit of