ABSTRACT
It was November; soon after election time, when a considerable por tion of the political world are apt to be despondent, and external things appear to do their utmost to keep them so. November, the sea son of dejection, when pride itself loses its imperious port; when am bition gives place to melancholy; when beauty hardly takes the trouble to look in the glass; and when existence doffs its rainbow hues, and wears an aspect of such dull, commonplace reality, that hope leaves the world for a temporary excursion, and those who cannot do with out her inspiring presence, borrow the aid of pistols, cords, and chemi cals, and send themselves on a longer journey, expecting to find her by the way:— a season, when the hair will not stay in curl; when the walls weep dewy drops, to the great detriment of paper-hangings, and of every species of colouring with which they are adorned; when the ban isters distil liquids, any thing but beneficial to white gloves; when na ture fills the ponds, and when window-washing is the only species of amusement at all popular among housekeepers.
