He consulted in this manner with himself for a long time: half the belles of the county were ready to pull caps for him, but he “prattled with fifty fair maids, and changed them as oft.” At last, in a fit of courage, he flung himself at the feet of his chosen one, talked some rhapsodies, sighed some sighs, and awaited his sentence. The lady was sorry, very sorry--and she was flattered, highly flattered--and she was sure, quite sure--it would only be attributed to her own want of discernment, that she declined the favour, the honour, the distinction, the---- He heard no more; he hesitated! Should he leave the room? Yes!--no!--yes! And he escaped as well as he could. He has continued to this day a bachelor. In spite of all intrigue, all solicitation, all persecution, he has remained, in this one instance, obstinate. In all others he is a real Weathercock. He builds cottages, apparently with no object but pulling them down; and pulls them down, apparently with no object but that of building them up: he is a Tory one hour and a Whig the next, and takes in the _Chronicle_ and _Courier_ alternately; he seldom reads more than half a number of a periodical work, and never wears the same coat above a month. In his conversation he pursues the same plan--or rather want of plan-- Modo reges atque tetrarchas, Omnia magna, loquens; modo “sit mihi mensa tripes, et Concha salis puri, et toga, quæ defendere frigus, Quamvis crassa, queat ----.” In short--in manner, in language, in business, and in pleasure, he sets an admirable example of mutability, which we shall always make it our study to imitate--especially when we take up our pens.