tender radiance upon this lovely seclusion--was there upon the whole earth a more exquisite countenance then turned towards thee than hers?--Wrap thy white robe, dearest Kate, closer round thy fair bosom, lest the amorous night-breeze do thee hurt, for he groweth giddy with the sight of thy charms! Thy rich tresses, half-uncurled, are growing damp--- so it is time that thy blue eyes should seek repose. Hie thee, then, my love!--to yon antique couch, with its quaint carvings and satin draperies dimly visible in the dusky shade, inviting thee to sleep: and having first bent in cheerful reverence before thy Maker--to bed!--to bed!--sweet Kate, nothing disturbing thy serene slumbers, or agitating that beautiful bosom.--Hush! hush!--now she sleeps! It is well that thine eyes are closed in sleep; for BEHOLD--see!--the brightness without is disappearing; sadness and gloom are settling on the face of nature; the tranquil night is changing her aspect; clouds are gathering, winds are moaning; the moon is gone:--but sleep on, sweet Kate--sleep on, dreaming not of dark days before thee--Oh, that thou couldst sleep on till the brightness returned! * * * * * After having stood thus leaning against the window for nearly half an hour, Titmouse, heavily sighing, returned to bed--but there he tossed about in wretched restlessness till nearly four o'clock in the morning. If he now and then sank into forgetfulness for a while, it was only to be harassed by the dreadful image of Mrs. Squallop, shouting at him, tearing his hair, cuffing him, flinging a pot of porter in his face, opening his boxes, tossing his clothes about, taking out his invaluable ornaments; by Tag-rag kicking him out of the shop; and Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap dashing past him in a fine carriage, with six horses, and paying no attention to him as he ran shouting and breathless after him; Huckaback following, kicking and pinching him behind. These were the few little bits of different colored glass in a mental kaleidoscope, which, turned capriciously round, produced those innumerable fantastic combinations out of the simple and ordinary events of the day, which we call _dreams_--tricks of the wild sisters Fancy, when sober Reason has left her seat for a while. But this is fitter for the Royal Society than the bedroom of Tittlebat Titmouse; and I beg the reader's pardon.