Our hero had brought home with him a thorough
contempt for his own country. Ignorant himself
of literature, and the first rudiments of the fine arts,
still he fancied that having been abroad, he must of
necessity be highly accomplished both in one and
the other. He had never read any thing but the
lowest periodicals in foreign literature: such as
Blackwood's Magazine, and La Belle Assemblee,
and from these had learned all the self-sufficient
arrogance for which they are so peculiarly distinguished.
Without knowing what his countrymen
had done, or being able to judge of what they
were capable of doing, he adopted the slang of
those who knew as little as himself. He pronounced
them destitute of genius, devoid of taste,
and ignorant of all the refinements of civilization.
It is a common foible with my countrymen abroad,

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basely to surrender their country to the scoffs of
witlings, and to imagine they exempt themselves
from the general condemnation, by joining in the
sneer or the laugh.

Our country affords but few resources for idle
men. They are not yet sufficiently numerous and
rich to form a separate caste, and afford themselves
the resources of a perpetual succession of
amusements. Sopus was soon at a loss what to
do with himself, for he could not be always playing
the fiddle, or devoting himself to the married
ladies. He sometimes found them actually busy;
sometimes not fit to be seen; and sometimes,
though of course very rarely, he found them out.
What, however, most annoyed him, was their condign
ignorance of fashionable life abroad, in supposing
that his visits were either to their husbands
or their daughters. One of them in particular,
came nigh to causing his utter annihilation. He
had paid her most obsequious homage at all places
where he happened to meet her, and from the
smiles and simperings with which it was received,
had already began to cherish hopes that his person
and accomplishments would prove irresistible.

One delicious morning in the month of June,
when the purity of the air, and the luxurious
blandness of the weather reminded him of Italy,
he called upon the lady, at an hour when he knew
the husband was absent. He found her in the
graceful undress of a matron, sitting on a rich

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ottoman of pale yellow silk. The curtains of the
windows were of a pink colour, and as the sun
shone upon them, threw a rich tint, and delicious
glow upon the face, the arms, and the neck of the
beautiful wife. Sopus mistook it for a blush, and
at that moment determined to make his declaration.
The lady had been mending a silk stocking.
He took it up, and it afforded him a theme for
some very pretty little sly hints and innuendoes,
which a truly modest woman never understands.
Our hero's experience had made him estimate all
women by the same standard. I must speak plainer,
thought he, and allow her at least the honour of
a summons before she surrenders.

He dropped on his knee, and exclaimed—

“Madam, I am the most miserable of men!”

“I am sorry for it, Mr. Sopus,” replied the lady,
taking up a stitch.

“You pity me then, angel of a woman?”

“If you are miserable, I certainly do.”

“And pity is akin to love.”

“So they say,” replied the lady, quietly.

“But will you not permit me to love—to hope—
to be happy?”

“Ask my daughter.”

Zounds! thought Sopus, what a barbarous
country, where the mothers ask the consent of
the daughters, instead of the daughters the mothers.

“Your daughter, madam?”

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“Yes; I never mean to give my daughter away
without her own consent. I'll send her to you,”
and the good matron took the silk stocking, and
quietly walked out of the room.

Friend Sopus was in a dilemma. The daughter
was a fine, intelligent, well-bred girl, much admired
by Heartwell; but her father was a hale,
hearty, middle aged man, and though rich, might
not die in half a century. “These fellows,” quoth
our hero, “nine times in ten, outlive their heirs—
but mum.” The young lady entered, curtsied, I
mean bowed, and sat down on the sofa, with as
little emotion as if the room had been empty.
These American women have no more sensibility
and warmth than a cucumber, quoth our hero.
At length the young lady broke silence.

“My mother mentioned you had something
particular to communicate, Mr. Sopus,” said
she, while a little shade of a smile passed over
her face, and settled in the corner of her eye,
as she pronounced his name. Ah! that cursed
name, thought he, I shall never prosper under it;
and now the fortune is gone, I wish the name
were gone with it.

“Madam,” said he, and though he had finished
his education abroad, he actually felt a little awkward,
“do you mean to go to the fancy ball to-night?”

The young lady laughed. “I believe I shall.”

“Well then—hem—ha—may I have the

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superlative pleasure of dancing the first cotillion with
you?”

“Certainly, Mr. Sopus,” and again that wicked
laugh lurked in the corner of her eye.

Sopus made a profound bow, and so did the
lady, not being able to curtesy, on account of the
Cantelos—and thus they parted.

What a barbarous country! thought our hero,
where a married woman don't know whether you
are making love to herself or her daughter.

“Well, Julia,” said the mother, “are you engaged?”

“To dance the first cotillion,” said Julia; and
she threw herself on the sofa, and laughed till she
got a great pain in her side.

Coming out of the house, he encountered Heartwell,
who was passing up the street.

“So,” said he, “you've been paying your morning
devoirs to Miss Wingate, a fine girl.”

“Delightful,” answered the other, and fell to
praising her to the skies.

Heartwell paused, and looked a little serious;
but suddenly resuming his wonted free and spirited
manner, he proposed to take Sopus to the
Academy of Arts, to see a collection of original
paintings, by the most celebrated masters of the
Italian and Flemish schools, exhibiting there.

“An Academy of Arts!” quoth Sopus, “Pooh,
what can you have worth seeing there? But
come, any thing to kill time.”

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“Ah!” cried he, as they entered the exhibition
room, and saw the very worst collection ever imposed
upon the good people of the city, labelled
with the names of Michael Angelo, Raphael, Domenichino,
Salvator and the Carracci. “Ah!
really now, this is something like; I declare this
really does honour to the country. It reminds me
of the gallery at Florence. Why the names are
the very same.” Whereupon he out with his glass
after the manner of travelled men, and fixing himself
opposite to an immeasurable daub, full of
green lions and brown trees, labelled Sal. Rosa,
began to be quite enthusiastic. “What expression
in the trees! What grace in the very rocks!
What dignity in the lions! Any body could tell
they were the kings of the beasts! There is nobody
after all equal to Sally Rosa, for persuasive
grace of attitude, softness of expression, and felicity
of groping,” as he was pleased to call it—“I
knew her in Florence. She was a most elegant
woman.”

Heartwell stuffed the whole catalogue into his
mouth, and walked away at a quick step. He
however returned in a few moments.

“You are right,” said he, “Miss Sally was particularly
remarkable for all these characteristics.
I see you are a connoiseur.

“A piece of a one,” answered he, pulling up
his stock, and adjusting his striped gingham

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collar. “But my dear Heartwell, never again call
a foreign lady Miss or Mistress. It is Madame or
Signora Sally Rosa.”

“I shall bear it in mind,” said the other.

After spending some time in pointing out the
various excellencies of this rare collection of originals,
by the great Italian and Flemish masters,
in which Sopus displayed equal taste and accuracy,
he was carried into the apartment where the
statuary and busts are deposited.

“What in the name of all that is monstrous and
vulgar, have we got here?” cried he, stopping
opposite the Laocoon.”

“'Tis the famous Laocoon,” said Heartwell.

“La—La—ocoon,” said Sopus, “who is it by?”

“The name of the artist is somewhat doubtful.
It is supposed to be a work of great antiquity.”

“Yes any body can see it must have been done
in the infancy of the arts. The artist did well to
keep his name secret. But who is this tall, long-spliced,
sprawling fellow, standing on one leg?”

“That is the Apollo Belvidere. You must have
seen it before.”

“O, aye—I think I do recollect something of a
wooden statue, stuck up at the Belvidere House,
where my uncle's club used to meet. I suppose
they call it the Apollo Belvidere on that account.
Can you tell me who carved it?”

“No, I regret to say that I have forgot it,” replied

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Heartwell, again having recourse to the system of
gagging.

“No matter,” said the other; “It is not worth
remembering. Let us go back, I want to take
another look at the Sally—or as these vulgarians
call her, Sal.”

Coming out of the Academy through the park,
Heartwell said something about the City Hall,
which set Sopus retailing the cant he had learned
from the foreign periodicals.

“I've seen a handsomer stable than that, in
England,” said he. “Do you remember Lord
Darlington's stables?”

“No,” said Heartwell, “I confess I did not pay
any particular attention to stables.”

“No!” said the other in astonishment. “Were
you never at Tattersall's?”

“Never.”

“Why what the d—l did you travel for?”

“To see the world,” replied Heartwell.

“And where could you see it better than at Tattersall's?”

“Why, as far as grooms, jockies, black legs,
and sporting heroes go to the formation of a world.
I don't know a better place. But I had no ambition
to figure in such society.”

“No!” answered the other, with a look of wonder.
“But did you ever see Carlton House?”

“I did, and thought it a disgrace to the nation
and its king.”

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