lime to the ridiculous." Now the feelings of pride and love with which a man looks upon his native country, are very proper and natural; and though, in the eye of cold-blooded philosophy, a person is neither any thing the better nor the worse for the spot of earth which he may chance to have been born upon, yet men generally never have been, nor ever will be of that opinion. The laws and institutions of a country, the fame of its literature and science, and the long train of glorious deeds that have been accumulating for ages, descend to a man as a species of national property, and there is no one but who values himself so much the more for his share in it, and looks upon himself as braver and wiser on account of the brave and wise men his native land has bred. There is something noble in this feeling in the aggregate; but when it comes to be frittered away upon small matters-to be divided and subdivided into counties, towns, and villages, it is simply ridiculous. Some persons carry their local feelings to an extraordinary extent not only is their own country the greatest in the world, but their city, for some reason or other, is the best in the country; the street in which they reside the best in the city, the house they occupy the best in the street, their room the best in the house, and themselves, by all odds, the best in the

room. Nay, some do not even stop here. There are people who form little local attachments about their own persons, and fall in love with an eye, a nose, a cheek, a chin, or a finger-nail. One of the first vocalists on the British stage, is known absolutely to doat on the construction of his leg; he thinks, that since legs were made, nature never constructed such a pair as he is the possessor of, and he accordingly takes every opportunity of obtruding them upon the observation of the audience. The earnestness with which he details their circumference, in various parts, to his friends and acquaintance, and the complacency with which he regards them when only covered with thin black silk stockings, would be a fine subject for any clergyman who wished to preach a sermon on the vanities of this world. Unfortunately the costume of English opera but seldom affords an opportunity for the display of the pedestals on which the musical hero's body is erected, and those of Mr. were too often doomed

to be secluded in long wide trowsers, from the admiration of the public. But the fates were not always averse, and times would occur when thin black silk stockings were not at variance with the stage regulations. Alexander the Great was a proud and happy man when he crossed the Granicus; Henry the Fifth when the battle of Agincourt

brought the French nobles, who had been playing at dice for him, captives at his feet; Apelles when his rival mistook his curtain picture for reality, and Brigadier General the tailor, when surrounded by the best dressed staff in the militia, arrayed in coats of superfine cloth of his own making; but none of them were so proud and happy as this vocalist when he at last obtained an opportunity of submitting his unexceptionable pair of legs to the public view. He would rush upon the stage and pour forth his excited feelings in song, and there were few who could entrance an audience with the melody of sound like him-they would hang with breathless attention upon every accent, and he never failed to make his exit amid the most deafening applause. This he was far from attributing altogether to his vocal powers. "Ah!" he would say, as he reached the side wing, at the same time slapping the objects of his admiration with affectionate familiarity"Ah! it is some time since they have seen such a leg as that!"

This is a long episode, but as it is a fact, and at the same time shows the length to which men will carry their local partialities, it may perhaps be excused. I was greatly amused last week on board a steam-boat, by listening attentively to a disputatious conversation between a Bostonian, a New

Yorker, and a Philadelphian, setting forth the several excellencies of their several cities. The Bostonian was the most learned and pedantic, the NewYork man the most loquacious and grandiloquent, and the Philadelphian the most sensitive and uncompromising. The first discoursed in a lofty strain of the classic charms of antiquity, and the advanced state of literature and the fine arts in the regions round about Cape Cod. "The unequalled state of our literary and scientific institutions," said he, "and the extreme beauty of many of our public buildings must be admitted".

"Public buildings," interrupted the Philadelphian, cutting short the thread of the man of Boston's discourse, "if you want to see a public building, look at our market, look at our bank, look at our"

"And if you talk of architectural beauty," said the New-Yorker, "look at our City-hall and St. Paul's church, and the Park theatre; and as for the fine arts," continued he with solemnity, "I regard them as introducing luxury and corruptionas fitted only for the tainted atmosphere of Europe -as inconsistent with the genius of our political institutions, and, I thank heaven, the charge of encouraging them cannot be laid to New-York. No!" quoth he, gathering strength as he went along, like a stone rolling down a hill,-"give me the useful

arts. When I contemplate the immense sums our custom-house yearly pays into the national treasury -when I behold our docks crowded with shipping -when I survey our spacious bay, studded with islands, and our waters covered with"

"Your waters!" interrupted the Philadelphian, unable any longer to withstand this torrent of eulogium, "your waters! why there isn't a drop of water fit to drink in your whole town. If you want water, go to Philadelphia; or if you want milk, or peaches, or shad, or straight streets, or fresh butter, or fresh air, or"

"Fresh air!" interrupted York, in a supercilious tone, and with an ironical though somewhat agitated expression of countenance, "why, you have no air worth speaking of in Philadelphia; look at our fresh air-our fresh sea breezes daily wafted from the vast Atlantic through our streets."

"Through your streets!" reiterated the descendant of William Penn in a fury; "through your streets! Let me tell you, sir, your sea-breezes may be good enough, but your streets are so cursedly crooked that the breezes cannot find their way through them-let me tell you that, sir."

The blood of the man of York was up; but he endeavored to keep down his rising wrath, and then in a voice of affected calmness, though trem