as much of us as we profess to know of ourselves.  Abroad, we wonder we are not at once recognized as Carolinians; at home, we let the vulgar world know who we are.  Indeed, we regard the outside world-of these States we mean-very much in that light which the Greeks of old were wont to view the Romans in.  Did we but stop here, the weakness might be pardonable.  But we lay claim to Grecian refinement of manners, while pluming all our mob-politicians Roman orators.  There is a profanity about this we confess not to like; not that danger can befall it, but because it hath about it that which reminds us of the oyster found in the shell of gold.  Condescending, then, to believe there exists outside of our State a few persons silly enough to read books, we will take it for granted, reader, that you are one of them, straightway proceeding with you to the St. Cecilia.

You have been a fashionable traveller in Europe?  You say-yes! rummaged all the feudal castles of England, sought out the resting places of her kings, heard some one say “that is poet’s corner,” as we passed into Westminster Abbey, thought they couldn’t be much to have such a corner,—­“went to look” where Byron was buried, moistened the marble with a tear ere we were conscious of it, and saw open to us the gulf of death as we contemplated how greedy graveyard worms were banqueting on his greatness.  A world of strange fancies came over us as we mused on England’s poets.  And we dined with several Dukes and a great many more Earls, declining no end of invitations of commoners.  Very well! we reply, adding a sigh.  And on your return to your home, that you may not be behind the fashion, you compare disparagingly everything that meets your eye.  Nothing comes up to what you saw in Europe.  A servant doesn’t know how to be a servant here; and were we to see the opera at Covent Garden, we would be sure to stare our eyes out.  It is become habitual to introduce your conversation with, “when I was in Europe.”  And you know you never write a letter that you don’t in some way bring in the distinguished persons you met abroad.  There is something (no matter what it is) that forcibly reminds you of what occurred at the table of my Lady Clarendon, with whom you twice had the pleasure and rare honor of dining.  And by implication, you always give us a sort of lavender-water description of the very excellent persons you met there, and what they were kind enough to say of America, and how they complimented you, and made you the centre and all-absorbing object of attraction-in a word, a truly wonderful person.  And you will not fail, now that it is become fashionable, to extol with fulsome breath the greatness of every European despot it hath been your good fortune to get a bow from.  And you are just vain enough to forever keep this before your up-country cousins.  You say, too, that you have looked in at Almacks.  Almacks! alas! departed greatness.  With the rise of the Casino hath it lain its aristocratic head in the dust.