Gentle reader, (for thou must be gentle to have travelled with me so far without wincing, and yet have heard so little,) can you tell me how it is that when a man is in love, however rambling and roving his disposition may have been before, as soon as he is fairly caught, he becomes from that moment confined to one solitary route. Let me explain myself,--for I have been carefully noticing our friend Tim. He and little Molly lived in the same town, but at a considerable distance apart, and yet to whatever part of the town Tim was called, he was as certain to pass by little Molly's house as he was to pass out of his own door. For instance, he would go to the post office, and from the frequency of his visits, you would have supposed he had more correspondents than all the merchants of the place put together, and while the post office was up town, little Molly's was down town, and yet he invariably went down town by little Molly's to get up town to the post office. One might suppose that Tim expected to see little Molly at the windows, but she was not one of your starers, who employ themselves in gazing at the comers and goers, and I'll venture to say, that in six months, Tim never saw her once, and yet go in what direction he might ultimately intend, go down town in the first place he must,--and he experienced more pleasure in passing that house than in eating his breakfast or his dinner.--This is a species of hydrophobia that I will leave you to think on and cure. These incidents had occurred--these symptoms had been made manifest.--In the mean time two years rolled onwards.--Tim was in his twenty-second year, and little Molly in her eighteenth. One day as Tim stood ready with his hat in his hand to take his leave after an interview,--it had been a long and hopeless one,--looking wistfully at her, he said energetically and in a voice deep toned--"It is the _last_ time I will ask. If you are in earnest, I go forever!" I listened, but could not hear the reply. There was a pause. Perhaps, nothing was said. I thought I heard a kiss. I may be mistaken, but certain I am, that instead of hearing Tim leave the house, I heard him walk rapidly to the table, and throw down his hat. When I again saw him,--the pensive, musing, meditative Tim was the merriest fellow that ever cracked a bottle. When a man has had his hat in his hand, and with a wo-begone countenance has risen to make a final adieu, under the impression that he is utterly discarded and despised, and suddenly resumes his seat with such evidences of change of purpose; we generally presume he has obtained the liberty of hanging his hat up, which is tantamount to obtaining the liberty of the domicil, and is what I should call the gentleman's setting his hat, in contradistinction to the lady's setting her cap.