One seemingly indispensable instructor brought up the rear of the host of lecturers, and this was a professor of mnemonics: that is, a gentleman who gave lessons in memory, pledging himself to furnish the minds of his pupils with a regular set of springs, which as soon as touched would instantly unlock the treasures of knowledge that were laid up in "the storehouse of the brain:" the springs being acted upon by certain sheets of engraved and coloured hieroglyphics, some of which were numerical figures, others represented trees and houses, and cats and dogs, much in the style of what children call primer pictures. Some of our readers may, perhaps, recollect this professor, who made the circuit of the Union a few years since. There seemed but two objections to this system, one being that the hieroglyphics and their key were harder to remember than the things they were to remind you of: the other, that they were frequently to be understood by contraries, like the Hetman in Count Benyowsky, whose characteristic phraseology is--"When I say the garret, I mean the cellar--when I tell you to go up, I mean you to come down." The professor of mnemonics was very unpopular with the ladies, who asserted, that he had done the gentlemen more harm than good, by so puzzling their already overcharged heads, that he, in many instances, destroyed what little memory they had once possessed. This was particularly the case with regard to Mr. Slowman, who having, at length, proposed in form to Miss Tremor, and the lady, in her agitation, being unable at the moment to give him an intelligible answer, he had never remembered to press his suit any further. One thing was certain, that since the gentlemen had been taking lessons in memory, they seemed totally to have forgotten the annual ball. Yet, as the time drew near, there could be no doubt of its frequently entering their minds, from their steadily avoiding all reference to the subject. There was evidently a tacit understanding among them, that it was inexpedient to mention the ball. But the ice was at last broken by Gordon Fitzsimmons, as they were all standing round the fire, and adjusting their cloaks and surtouts, at the close of one of their society meetings. "Is it not time," said he, "that we should begin to prepare for the Christmas ball?" There was a silence--at last, one of the young gentlemen spoke, and replied--"that he had long since come to a conclusion that dancing was a very foolish thing, and that there was something extremely ridiculous in seeing a room-full of men and women jumping about to the sound of a fiddle. In short, he regarded it as an amusement derogatory to the dignity of human nature." He was interrupted in the midst of his philippic by Fitzsimmons, who advised him to "consider it not so deeply." Now, Fitzsimmons was himself an excellent dancer, very popular as a partner, conscious of looking well in a ball-room, and therefore a warm advocate for "the poetry of motion."