ssed so lightly and so elegantly, allowed to escape and then caught
again, that it was playing with it in all amity, instead of prolonging
its miseries and torturing it, previously to its ultimate destruction.

It is in reference to this peculiar character of the cat, that she is
made to use the fond diminutive appellation of titty mouse.

The moral contained in this last line hardly needs to be pointed out to
our intelligent readers. A cat goes to court, she enters the precincts
of a palace, at last she is in the presence of royalty, not as usual in
the kitchen, or the cellar, or the attics, or on the roofs, where cats
do most congregate, but actually stands in the presence of royalty; and
what does she do? Notwithstanding the awe which it may be naturally
supposed she is inspired with, notwithstanding the probable presence of
noble lords and ladies, forgetful of where she is, and in whose presence
she stands, seeing a mouse under the chair, she can no longer control
the powerful instincts of her nature; and forgetting that the object of
her journey was to behold royalty, she no longer thinks of any thing but
hunting the titty mouse under the chair. What a lesson is here taught
to the juvenile sexes that we should never attempt to force ourselves
above our proper situations in society, and that in so doing we soon
prove how much we are out of our place, and how our former habits and
pursuits will remain with us, and render us wholly unfit for a position
to which we ought never to have aspired.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

Lausanne.
After all, there is more sympathy in this world than we would suppose,
and it is something to find that, in the turmoil and angry war of
opinion and interest, nations as well as parties can lay down their
weapons for a time, and offer one general and sincere tribute to genius.
In these exciting times, we hear of revolutions in Spain and Portugal,
deaths of crowned men, with indifference, but a shock as astounding as
that of an earthquake in the city of Peru was felt throughout Europe
when the numerous periodicals spread the unexpected intelligence that
the gifted Malibran was no more, that in the fulness of her talent and
her beauty, just commencing the harvest ripe and abundant, produced by
years of unremitting labour, in which art had to perfect nature, she had
been called away to the silent tomb, and that voice which has
ele