many friends surrounded the dying couch in mournful silence. The funeral
was attended by all that is distinguished for rank and fortune at Paris;
a clergyman of the Protestant church read the service for the dead, and
a funeral sermon. A number of young females whom she had formed for
succouring the poor, were ranged round the bier, dressed in white, and
followed to the Cemetery of Père la Chaise, where M. Salvandy, one of
her friends, undertook to deliver the final eulogy, which it is usual in
France to pronounce on departed worth.--_Monthly Magazine_.--_Letter
from Paris_.

* * * * *


HOW TO LOSE TIME.


Few men need complain of the want of time, if they are not conscious of
a want of power, or of desire to ennoble and enjoy it. Perhaps you are a
man of genius yourself, gentle reader, and though not absolutely, like
Sir Walter, a witch, warlock, or wizard, still a poet--a maker--a
creator. Think, then, how many hours on hours you have lost, lying
asleep so profoundly,

"That the cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more could rouse you from your lazy bed."

How many more have you, not absolutely lost, but to a certain extent
abused, at breakfast--sip, sipping away at unnecessary cups of sirupy
tea, or gob, gobbling away at jam-buttered rolls, for which nature never
called--or "to party giving up what was meant for mankind"--forgetting