t comings?" And some day
when a more favored one of nature draws near with his homage, why
should the old lover listen in amaze to cold words and colder
sentiments? Trust me, if men would only apply to this subject of our
consideration one iota of the coolness and calmness of unprejudiced
thought which distinguishes many of their other musings, they might
some day come to a just conclusion.

But enough of this; I have given a _preface_--and I know a case in
point--more satisfactory than all _my_ arguments I think it will
prove; and I imagine it will clear me from all suspicion, or charge,
if you should prefer it against me, of entertaining wrong opinions on
this important subject.

From a far longer time since than I can well remember, till within two
years past, the Cleveland family were our next door neighbors.
Florence, the eldest daughter, was a very dear friend of mine, and I
would not make her the heroine of this story to-day, were it not for
the following fact. Two years ago the whole family emigrated to
Wisconsin; and now that they are gone so very far "out of the world,"
I think no blame should be attached to me for giving her "experience"
to the good public. Sure am I, that buried as she is in the backwoods,
she will never know that _I_ have seized upon her as a "subject"
whereabout to expatiate. But if you should chance to meet Florence in
your wanderings, reader, do not, I pray you, wound her feelings, by
touching on this topic.

Every body said Flory was a coquette--and adopting as a settled point
the sentiment that "what every body says _must_ be true," I suppose
she was; that is, she was "a gay, airy girl, who was fond of
admiration;" and I will not deny that she may have exerted herself the
least bit in the world to obtain it. But I do repel most indignantly
the idea that _she_ was artful and designing, or that she ever
regularly _set a trap_ to ensnare any human heart.

Florence, when she parted from us, was of middle height, very fair,
and her cheeks wore the bloom of early roses; her hair was of a light,
glossy brown--and, oh, those beautiful ringlets! I can vouch for the
truth of it, _they_ never emerged from curl-papers--(and by the way,
how refreshing and pleasant now-a-days it is to see any thing
_natural_, even a paltry curl!) Then her eyes, "deeply, divinely
blue," sometimes filled with a sober, tranquil, _holy_ light, and
again dancing, beaming, and running over with joy and happiness.