If, in your bright leaves, we would read the fate
Of men and empires,--'tis to be forgiven,
That, in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you."


The night came on with its crescent moon and its myriads of stars: just
such a night as might have been wished for such a fete. It was in the
month of April. April dews, in Britain's variable clime; are not the
most salubrious, and April's night air is too often keen and piercing;
but the season was an unusually mild one; and the ladies, with their
cloaks and their furs, promenaded the well-lighted walks, determined to
be pleased and happy.

The giver of the fete was an enterprising Italian. Winter's
amusements were over, or neglected--summer's delights were not
arrived; and Signor Pacini conceived, that during the dull and
monotonous interval, a speculation of his own might prove welcome to
the public and beneficial to himself. To do the little man justice, he
was indefatigable in his exertions. From door to door he wended his
smiling way,--here praising the mother's French, there the daughter's
Italian. He gained hosts of partisans. "Of course you patronise
Pacini!" was in every one's mouth. The Signor's prospectus stated,
that "through the kindness of the steward of an influential nobleman,
who was now on the continent, he was enabled to give his fete in the
grounds of the Earl of W----; where a full quadrille band would be in
attendance, a pavilion pitched on the smooth lawn facing the river,
and a comfortable ball room thrown open to a fashionable and
enlightened public. The performance would be most various, novel, and