The Loves of Mary Jones.
By J. M. Legaré.
Corydon and Thyrsis no longer pipe to Phyllis, and Phyllis goes no more about with a wreath on her crook. This we all know—and those among us who are poets, with the down of youth upon our cheeks, remember with a sigh—and look to find in our summer rambles in the country, not shepherdesses to whom we may pay sentimental court, and with whom breathe air redolent of thyme and goat's-milk, but pensionnaires from Madame Mére de Treubleu's famous school, and scented rather too lavishly, as country belles are apt to be, with the last fashionable perfume of Mons. Lubin's laboratory. Unless one travel quite beyond the circle of the city's influence, into the purely rustic regions, where two-pronged forks at table, and sun-bonnets still hold their own, but where Corydon and Phyllis, alas! are not more recognized, it is vain to imagine the gauds and vanities of the metropolis left behind. Haughty Georgiana of last winter's balls, who, forgetting her pedigree—old MeKrell having begun life a fishmonger—suffered you to lead her to the floor by the tips of her white kids, as any other queen might a subject, finds a parallel, for example, in the persons of the two Misses Snack, co-heiresses of the little fortune accumulated by the country-practice of the late Dr. Snack, their papa; both tall, both dressy, and perfectly conscious of their superior attainments and momentary position. They differ, it is true, on most points, but are united in this-that their country admirers, the most constant of whom are Jenkins, who wears such preposterous collars, and is a clerk down the street, and
