pointment, all the ills of life, and the astonishments of man's soul! Those moments, nay, the recollections of them, are worth the whole payment. Our children will love as we have loved, and so cannot be wholly miserable. To love, even if not beloved, is to have the sweetest of faiths, and riches fineless, which nothing can take from us but our own unworthiness. And once to have loved truly is to know how to continue to love every thing which unlovingness has not had a hand in altering, — all beauties of nature and of mind ; all truth of heart; all trees, flowers, skies, hopes, and good beliefs; all dear decays of person, fading towards a twofold grave; all trusts in heaven; all faiths in the capabilities of loving man. Love is a perpetual proof that something good and earnest and eternal is meant us, such a bribe and foretaste of bliss being given us to keep us in the lists of time and progression; and, when the world has realized what love urges it to obtain, perhaps death will cease; and all the souls which love has created, crowd back at its summons to inhabit their perfected world. Truly we have finished our Sunday evening with a rapt and organ-like note. Let the reader fancy he has heard an organ indeed. Its voice is not unapt for the production of such thoughts in those who can rightly listen to its consummate majesty and warbling modulations. [Something yet remains to be said of "Sunday in the Suburbs."] 319 SUNDAY IN THE SUBURBS. Being more Last Words on "Sunday in London ;" with a Digression on the Name of Smith. ¡N writing our articles on this subject, we have been so taken up, first with the dull look of the Sunday streets, and afterwards with the lovers who make their walls lively on the hidden side, that we fairly overlooked a feature in our metropolitan sabbath, eminently sabbatical; to wit, the suburbs and their holiday-makers. What a thing to forget! What a thing to forget, even if it concerned only Smith in his new hat and boots! Why, he has been thinking of them all the week; and how could we, who sympathize with all the Smith-ism and boots in existence, forget them? The hatter did not bring home his hat till last night; the boot-maker, his boots till this morning. How did not Smith (and he is a shrewd fellow too, and reads us) pounce upon the hatbox, undo its clinging pasteboard lid, whisk off the silver paper, delicately develop the dear beaver, and put it on before the glass! The truth must be owned: he sat in it half supper-time. Never was such a neat fit. All Aldersgate, and the City Road, and the New Road, and Camden and Kentish towns, glided already before him as he went along in it, — hatted in thought. He could have gone to sleep in it, if it would not have spoiled his nap, and its own. Then his boots! Look at him. There he goes up Somerstown. Who would suspect, from the ease and superiority of his countenance, that he had not had his boots above two hours; that he had been a good fourth part of the time laboring and fetching the blood up in his face with pulling them on with his boot-hooks; and that, at this moment, they horribly pinch him? But he has a small foot- has Jack Smith; and he would squeeze, jam, and damn it into a thimble, rather than acknowledge it to be a bit larger than it seems. Do not think ill of him, especially you that are pinched a little less. Jack has sympathies; and, as long as the admiration of the community runs towards little feet and well-polished boots, he cannot dispense, in those quarters, with the esteem of his fellow-men. As the sympathies enlarge, Jack's boots will grow wider; and we venture to prophesy, that at forty he will care little for little feet, and much for his corns and the public good. We are the more bold in this anticipation, from certain reminiscences we have of boots of our own. We shall not enter into details, for fear of compromising the dignity of literature; but the good-natured may think of them what they please. Non ignara mali (said Dido), miseris succurrere disco; that is, having known what it was to wear shoes too small herself, she should never measure, for her part, the capabilities of a woman's head by the pettiness of her slippers. Napoleon was proud of a little foot; and Cæsar, in his youth, was a dandy. So go on, Smith, and bear your tortures like a man; especially towards one o'clock, when it will be hot and dusty. Smith does not carry a cane with a twist at the top of it for a handle. That is for an inferior grade of holiday-maker, who pokes about the suburbs, gaping at the new buildings, or treats his fellow-servant to a trip to White Conduit-house, and an orange by the way, always too sour. Smith has a stick or a whanghee; or, if he rides, a switch. He is not a good rider: and we must say it is his own fault; for he rides only on Sundays, and will not scrape acquaintance with the ostler on other days of the week. You may know him on horseback by the brisk forlornness of his steed, the inclined plane of his body, the extreme outwardness or inwardness of his toes, and an expression of face betwixt ardor, fear, and indifference. He is the most without a footman of any man in the world; that is to say, he has the most excessive desire to be taken for a man who ought to have one; and therefore the space of road behind him pursues him, as it were, with the reproach of its emptiness. A word, by the way, as to our use of the generic name "Smith." A correspondent wrote to us the other day, intimating that it would be a good-natured thing if we refrained in future from designating classes of men by the name of "Tomkins." We know not whether he was a Tomkins himself, or whether he only felt for some friend of that name, or for the whole body of the Tomkinses: all we know is, that he has taken the word out of our mouth for ever. How many paragraphs he may have ruined by it, we cannot say; but the truth is, he has us on our weak side. We can resist no appeal to our good-nature made by a good-natured man. Besides, we like him for the seriousness and good faith with which he took the matter to heart, and for the niceness of his sympathy. Adieu, then, name of Tomkins! Jenkins also, for a like respectful reason, we shall abstain from in future. But let nobody interfere in behalf of Smith ; for Smith does not want it. Smith is too universal. Even a John Smith could not regard the use of his name as personal; for John Smith, as far as his name is concerned, has no personality. He is a class, a huge body: he has a good bit of the Directory to himself. You may see, for pages together (if our memory does not deceive us), John Smith, John Smith, John Smith; or, rather, — Smith, John, Smith, John, Smith, John, Smith, John, Smith, John, Smith, John; and so on, with everlasting Smith-Johnism, like a set of palisades or iron rails; almost as if you could make them clink as you go, with drawing something along them. The repetition is dazzling. The monotony bristles with sameness. It is a chevaux-deSmith. John Smith, in short, is so public and multitudinous a personage, that we do not hesitate to say we know an excellent individual of that name, whose regard we venture thus openly to boast of, without fearing to run any danger of offending his modesty; for nobody will know whom we mean. An Italian poet says he hates his name of John; because, if any |