The reader who has been kind enough to follow me thus far in the history of my youth, will recollect that I introduced him to a social circle at Mrs. Melville’s, one evening in the early part of summer. Mr. Martagon, the gentleman with the large shoulders, was seated in an arm-chair, admirably adapted to his proportions. Mr. Pratt was looking unutterable things at Miss Azile, who, on the present occasion, was exceedingly unmerciful on love-stricken swains. Miss Emily Melville was warbling a soft enchanting air, which she accompanied with the guitar; and Mr. Desmond was wrapt in pleasing thoughts, the consequence thereof. Mr. Martagon being an ancient admirer of Miss Virginia Melville, enlisted her attention by a very judicious discourse on the evils of matrimony; which, of course, induced me to be very busily engaged at nothing particular. When the music had ceased, the conversation gradually became general. Poetry was discussed—fiction voted a great evil—superstition allowed to be a universal failing—and Sir Walter Scott pronounced the king of ghost-makers; which latter allusion led to a very edifying description of the person and character of a certain ghost seen by each individual present. Mr. Martagon, who had seen an unusual and pleasing variety of ghosts, recollected an uncommonly peculiar one which appeared to him during a twilight ramble in the woods. This reminded Mr. Pratt of an extraordinary vision which he had once witnessed in the form of a hog; which prompted Mr. Desmond to relate an amusing anecdote of his experience in things supernatural. Various ghost-stories were related by the company, till, by one of those unaccountable changes which so frequently occur in a lively circle, the conversation turned to love and courtship. This was a subject upon which I was very sensitive. Miss Azile, the satirical young lady, was of opinion that all such things are highly ridiculous, and much to be regretted; in which opinion the fair portion of the company generally coincided. The reader who has read the anecdote of the Persian over whose head a sword was suspended by a thread, can imagine my anxiety to ascertain the opinion of the person in whom I was most interested. I did not long remain in suspense—“She considered it unnatural and improper for a young lady to love;” which assertion was accompanied by a very significant look at myself. The philosophy of indifference had ever been my most difficult study. I could not persuade myself that I was prepared for disappointment; and, in fact, my hopes were too sanguine to allow for many thoughts of a gloomy character. All was over now, however; and as I hurried away as miserable as Jacques, I thought there was a very pretty end to my day-dreams and night-visions. Byron’s reproach occurred to me with all its bitterness— “Once I beheld a splendid dream— A visionary scene of bliss; Truth, wherefore did thy hated beam Awake me to a world like this?”