Although in the course of my western peregrinations I had frequently met with attractive-looking damsels, there was always some blemish on their personal beauty, which though perhaps slight in many cases, made their charms fall short of that exalted standard desirable in the fairer part of mankind. Being unusually fastidious in my taste it is not to be wondered at, that previous to last Wednesday night, I had never been in love.

Save an occasional fit of cholera-morbus, I had never experienced anything even remotely approaching the tender passion. But on the evening of the eventful Wednesday, Sandie Goatie invited me to go with him and see his sister.

Now my friend Sandie is not a scholarly person, and has never received that questionable blessing, a college education. He always says "cod-fish" instead of "bon fide," and calls "tempus fugit" "pork and beans;" the only "Jupiter" he knows is a sable gentleman, and his only idea of "Venus," is a colored washerwoman, who in early life got up his hebdomadal linen.

But his sister is eminently classic; she stoops fashionably, with the "Grecian bend"—has a Roman nose, and her name is Calanthe Maria.

I went to see that sister—I saw that sister—I surrendered.

That seraphic sister—to attempt a description of her beauty, would be insanity itself. I will only mention her hair, and when I have said that this was sublime and divine, I wish it distinctly understood that I use these feeble terms, because the poverty of our language does not afford adjectives of adequate force.

The instant I saw her, my presence of mind deserted me. I felt bashful—I was conscious that I looked like a fool in the face, and my apparel, (on which I had prided myself), seemed as unworthy to be seen in her presence, as if it had been bought second-hand in Chatham street. Beneath the glance of her brilliant eyes, my feet seemed to grow too short, and my legs too long—my coat too big, and my collar limpsy, and I discovered a grease spot on my vest. Never had I been so shamefaced in the feminine presence before, and my bashfulness only temporarily deserted me, when, after much tribulation, I achieved a seat on a clumsy looking foot-stool, which I understood was called an "Ottoman." Whether or not it had any connection with Turks, turkeys, and Thanksgiving, I failed to discover.

Left alone a short time, I had leisure to recover myself, and to note the individual charms of my fair enslaver. A partial inventory of her visible apparel is ineffaceably stamped upon my mind.

A silk dress, of a pattern which seemed to have been designed for a gigantic checker-board, made with a train to do scavenger duty, and short sleeves, with lace curtains underneath—her neck and shoulders hidden from view by a thin veil of transparent lace, of a pattern designedly made to attract attention—but particulars are omitted.

Suffice it to say, that she was dressed as the prevailing fashion seems to demand.

I essayed to speak to her, but my timidity returned upon me with double force. Mustered courage at length and asked her to sing, and stepped on her toes while turning over her music—praised everything in the wrong place—when she sung a false note, I exclaimed "delicious." She made a two-handed discord, which I pronounced "enchanting," and when at last, from excess of agitation, she broke flat down, I enthusiastically declared that I was "never more delighted in the whole course of my life."

Asked her to play a waltz, and handed her a choir-book—opened at "Corinth" and "Silver street"—found I was wrong, and turned over the leaf to "Sinners turn, why will ye die?"—discovered that all was not right yet, and then requested her to play some sacred music, and in my anxiety to get the right notes this time, placed before her the "Jenny Lind Polka," which she at once began to play—I attempting to sing the words of "Old Hundred," which didn't seem to jibe.

We tried to dance, but my confusion still continued. I "chassezÉd" myself across a table, and into a music rack—"promenaded" my partner over the stove—"balanced" her into a side-board, and eventually attempted to seat her in a mirror, where I saw a sofa.

Then I essayed conversation, and I am confident I talked the most absurd nonsense for the rest of my call—distinctly remember speaking of Noah Webster's beautiful play of "Evangeline"—eulogising Shakspeare's "Robinson Crusoe"—Thackeray's generalship at Waterloo—attempting to explain the difficulties which attended Henry Ward Beecher's attempts to get his Opera of "Bohemian Girl" before the public—telling who had the blackest eye when President Pierce and Joan of Arc fought their celebrated prize fight in the Crystal Palace in New York in 1793—and at last, breaking down in trying to explain why Admiral Elihu Burritt, and his right hand man Xerxes the Great, did not succeed in taking Sebastopol in a month, according to contract.

When I bid her "good night," she took my hand and set me crazy by the touch of her fairy, taper fingers.

I dreamed all night about Calanthe—got up in the morning, called the waiter "Calanthe," and said "my darling" to him as he handed me my coffee—gave my tailor an order for a new coat and two pairs of pantaloons, and told him to charge them to "Calanthe"—got a box of cigars and a demijohn of Scotch whiskey, and signed the drayman's receipt "Calanthe"—all the signs read "Calanthe"—every street was "Calanthe" street—all the stages belonged to the "Calanthe" line, and were going to "Calanthe" ferry—the ship "Calanthe" had arrived, the steamboat "Calanthe" had burst her boiler, and the brig "Calanthe" been seen bottom upward with her rudder gone. I saw, heard, read, dreamed, thought, and talked nothing but "Calanthe," and cannibal that I am, I verily believe I ate nothing but "Calanthe" for a month.

The day after I saw her first I felt so exceedingly amiable that I bought something of every pedler who came into the store—laid in a stock of matches, pencils, shoe-brushes, suspenders, bootjacks, and blacking, which will last me a short lifetime—bought so much candy that the office-boy had the colic every afternoon for a week—called the applewoman "my own sweet love," and said "thank you, darling," when she gave me pewter dimes in change.

Wrote spasmodic poetry about Calanthe's hair—lines to her raven tresses—stanzas to her locks of jet—odes to her ebon ringlets—verses to her sable curls—rhymes to her coal-black hair, and commenced a poem in 17 cantos, to her ebony-topped head, but on reflection I was led to doubt the propriety of the comparison.

Called to see her every evening—substantial victuals didn't agree with me—a kind word from her was a good breakfast—a tender glance has served me for a dinner many a time, and once when she pressed my hand I couldn't eat anything for a fortnight but oranges, cream-candy, and vanilla-beans.

We went to the theatre, endured the negro minstrels, and braved the horrors of a second-rate Italian Opera Company—in fact, everywhere, where there was anything to be seen or heard, there were Calanthe Maria, and her devoted Philander.

For a month I forgot my debts, neglected business, ignored entirely this mundane sphere, and lived in a rainbow-colored aerial castle, of the most elegant finish—surrounded by roses, attended by cupids, and just big enough for Calanthe Maria and the subscriber.

In that happy place there were no duns, no tailors' bills, no trouble, no debts, no getting up early cold mornings, no tight boots, no bad cigars: nothing but love, luxury, and Calanthe Maria.

Came down occasionally out of my airy mansion, to speak a few words of compassion to my companions in the office, who hadn't got any Calanthe, but I went right back again as quick as I could to that rose-colored dream-land where love and Calanthe were "boss and all hands."

At last, one fatal evening I was undeceived.

We were waltzing, and through some clumsiness on my part, her hair caught in a gas-fixture—some mysterious string broke, and those glossy ringlets, the object of my adoration, came off, leaving her head bald as a brickbat. Relating this scrape of the locks to a friend, he informed me that the rest of her charms would not bear minute inspection, for she wore false teeth, and bought her complexion at Phalon's; that her graceful form was the result of a skilful combination of cotton and whalebone.

This was too much. While I thought Calanthe a woman, I loved her, but the discovery of the fishy element excited a prejudice—as a female, she had my affection, and I contemplated matrimony—as a land mermaid, I had no desire to swindle Barnum and become her proprietor.

Coming as I did, from a section of the country where they have human women, and where they don't attempt to deceive masculine mankind with French millinery strategy, I was unprepared for counterfeits, and had been easily deluded by a spurious article. But I find that in New York, perambulating bundles of dry goods not unfrequently pass current as women—and the milliners now put their eccentric inventions upon these locomotive shams, to the great neglect of those revolving waxen ladies who used to perform their perpetual gyrations in the show-windows.

As an advertising medium, they possess facilities for publicity beyond any of the newspapers, having a city circulation, which is unattainable by anything dumb and unpetticoated.

The great staple of the south has not only "made" some of our first men, but has been discovered to enter largely into the composition of many of our first ladies.

My madness was now over—the intoxication of love was dissipated, and I was once more able to get about my business without having a feminine name constantly present to my eyes. The stages, the dry-goods' boxes, the streets and signs, were once more lettered in sensible characters. I was guilty of no more poetry, went to no more operas—in short, exhibited no longer any of the signs of insanity, but relapsed at once into my former unpoetical condition—the spell was broken—the blind fiend was exorcised—reason got back to her old bunk, and "Richard was himself again."

The difference in my mental condition occasioned my landlady considerable alarm; while I had lived on love, and paid five dollars a week for the privilege of sitting down at table only, she had considered me a profitable boarder; but the disappearance of beef and substantials generally, consequent upon my returning appetite, sensibly diminish her esteem for me. I fancy I can perceive a change in her treatment, for she sets the bread and butter as far away from me as possible.

P. S.—She has raised my board to eight dollars a week, and with a consciousness that I deserve it, I submit.