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BY MRS. JANE C. CAMPBELL.

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A SKETCH OF A LITERARY SOIREE.

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BY FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

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Somebody once said of our fair hostess, that she reminded him of a cathedral with a simple, unpretending portal, which gives you no idea of the rare revelations within, and through which you pass to wonders that you did not dream of before. Once within, you are overwhelmed with the grandeur, the beauty, the mystery, the majesty around you—the lofty and magnificent arches, the dim, far-reaching aisles, the clustered columns, the vaulted roof, lost to the eye from its wondrous height—the glorious pictures by the master-hand—the iris-colored light from the painted windows poured softly over all—the silence, the religious calm pervading the place—all combine to awe and elevate the stranger, who has perhaps rashly and unthinkingly entered that sanctuary of the soul.

He was an enthusiast, a noble one, who said this, and I cannot tell if it be true. I only know that she exerts over my individual self a magnetic attraction and influence, which I do not care to analyze or to resist, because it soothes and satisfies me whenever I am with her, however restless and unhappy I may have been the moment before.

A pleasant party were assembled in her drawing-room. There was the statuesque Georgine?—

A creature of faultless harmony and grace; but whose perfect repose of manner, attitude, look and language, exquisite as it is, almost frightens you away from her at first. So still, so fair, so pure—like a snow-cloud moving serenely through the silent air. There she sits; with her graceful Greek head bent slightly forward, its luxuriant, light brown hair wound carelessly and wavily around it; her chiseled features serenely beautiful, and her hands, white as Pentelican marble, resting half-clasped upon her knee.

If I mistake not, beneath that snowy crest, there are flowers of fancy and fountains of feeling—all the lovelier and purer for being so guarded, by the vestal, from the world.

Oh! that all women could thus proudly wear the veil! It is a protection we need so much—that mantle of snow! But there are those (and they most want it) in whose hearts the waves of feeling never rest long enough for the winter crust to form—who never stop to think, to look back, lo reflect, to prepare; but dash on to the ocean “over bank, brake and scaur,” giving back only half-formed or broken images of the beautiful visions that beam above their way—the bird—the cloud—the flower—the star—now humming a careless carol to the breeze, now murmuring a plaintive chant, now thundering in torrent tones, as they madly leap adown the rocks that would oppose them, and now dancing out of sight into the dim, untrodden forest-depths, where none will dare to follow.

We have seen the statuesque—there were not wanting the “grotesque and arabesque,” as well to our literary soirÉe.

There was one unique, whom I hardly dare attempt to describe. In speaking he deals principally in antithesis, and he himself is an antithesis personified. The wildest conceits—the sharpest satire—the bitterest, maddest vituperation—the most exquisite taste—the most subtil appreciation of the delicate and beautiful in his subject—the most radiant wit—the most dainty and Ariel-like fancy—with a manner and a mien the most quaint, abrupt and uncouth imaginable—it is like nothing in nature, or rather it is so exceedingly natural that it seems almost supernatural. His discourse is all thunder and lightning—every play of his impish eye-brows is an epigram, every smile a jeu d’esprit. At one time affectionate, confiding, careless, buoyant, almost boyish in his mood; at another, irritable, ferocious, seemingly ready for a tiger-spring upon any foe, and again calm, cold, haughty, and uncomeatable as an Indian of the olden time. Here is a stranger original than any his favorite author ever drew. He is the ideal Yankee of the nineteenth century.

There, too, nestled demurely in a corner of the sofa was that little “will-o’-the-wisp,” V—, whom nobody knows what to make of—wild, wayward, capricious as an April day—changeable as the light spring-cloud, and restless as the wave—the spoiled child of Fancy,

To those who care for her, all trust and truth, and poetry and sportive fondness, and deep impassioned feeling—to all the rest of the world proud, still, reserved, dull, apathetic, reckless of opinion and of consequences: a tame Canary-bird to kindness, a lioness to injustice and oppression. Nature, with her sympathetic ink, has drawn pictures in her soul, which seem to the cold and careless only pale, frost-work, wintry views; but which, in the warmth of affection, change to glowing summer scenes, with flowers and foliage, and gleaming springs, shifting clouds, and singing birds and butterflies, all of which were always there, and needed only the summer of sympathy and love to draw them out.

By her side sat the man of exhaustless and most whimsical wit, whom she calls the “laughing philosopher,” and whom I strongly suspect of having found, and selfishly concealed the “philosopher’s stone.” He is the most refreshing, contented, and sunshiny-looking mortal that ever smiled in this cold world of ours. Ever ready and brilliant, he whispers his irresistable bon-mots and his charming jeux d’esprit, as if he were ashamed of them, and calls it a breach of confidence if they are repeated aloud.

Next to him sat the stately, intellectual, and warm-hearted Mrs. ——, who, according to her witty neighbour, always looks “up to an epic.” I suppose he will call this a betrayal of confidence; but when these pages meet his eyes, I shall fortunately be far beyond the reach of his cutlass-irony; so spare yourself, till I come back, “most potent, grave, and reverend seignor,” and don’t “waste your satire on the desert air.”

In earnest conversation with the lovely and loveable Mrs. S——, was young ——. His rare and pure intellect; his “Doric delicacy” of taste; his gentle and winning manners; his sensitive, generous, and trustful nature, are best appreciated by those who know him best.

Well—first we played the game of “What is my thought like.” Smile not, sagacious reader—Canning did the same. Several good answers were elicited in the course of the game, among which were the following:?—

“Why is a dew-drop like Miss R’s sash?”

“Because it trembles on a flower.”

“Why is fame like a clasp?”

“Because it is all a catch.”

“Why is Mrs. —— like an omnibus?”

“Because we are all carried away by her.”

“Why is my heart like a mirror?”

“Because you can see yourself in it.”

When the game was over, one of the gentlemen took from his pocket a volume of poems, by that Proteus author, “Anon,” of which he happened to have the only copy in the country, and read aloud the following verses, in a voice tremulous with the weight of its own melody and feeling:?—

TO ——.