enthusiasm. But it must not be inferred that the whole two volumes are kept up to the height of the Wandernde Vogel eloquence; there are practical passages also, and some very useful accounts of the scenes traversed, and of the character and modes of the inhabitants.

We have availed ourselves of Mr. Hurton's book as a sort of paper balloon, before we loosen from its moorings the real ballaon on our table, in the shape of a book by Hans Christian Andersen.* The reader must now consider himself wheeled into Sweden; and we can promise him that he will find the change of climate an improvement.

Imagine "pictures" by Hans Christian-and, above all, pictures of his own Sweden. If they were pictures of the moon (which he has given us as nobody else could), we should know beforehand how charming they would be; but how much more charming must be his pictures of his own fields and country houses, pictures of his own cities and pastures, of Stockholm, and the great wierd woods afar-off in unknown places, of beggar-boys and puppet-showmen, of festivals and prisons, and the life in its open marts and remote solitudes of a people with whose character he is intimate, and with whose wants and destinies he sympathises profoundly! We have a right to expect that this book upon a theme crowded with matter so suggestive, and of such earnest interest to the writer, should be the best of all his books, with the most of his own nature in it, and bearing upon it, more than all his previous productions, the stamp of his brain and heart. We have read it thoughtfully, as it deserves to be read, and we think we may say that it is the best of his books in this individual, and if we say so, autobiographical sense.

As usual, he opens with birds, and flowers, and mysterious songs, and having once got fairly upon his high theme, he bursts out into an exulting apostrophe to Sweden. We will not stop to hear his ecstasy, but leaving him in the midst of his exordium, we will run our arm-chair up into the high-roads, and have a peep at a couple of beggar-boys, painted after Hans' own heart, with a little northern sunshine upon them.

"By the canal road between the Venera and Vigen, on the bare, dry, rocky plain, there stood, like beauty's thistles in that poor landscape, a couple of beggar-boys, ragged, tattered, picturesquely dirty. The younger of the two had something round him that had certainly once been the jacket of a very corpulent man, for it almost reached to the boy's ankles; the whole hung fast by a piece of the sleeve and a single brace, made from the seam of what was now the rest of the lining. It was very difficult to see the transition from jacket to trousers, the rags glided so into one another. The whole clothing was arranged so as to give him an air-bath; there were draught holes on all sides and ends; a yellow linen clout fastened to the nethermost regions, seemed as if it were to signify a shirt. A very large straw hat, that had certainly been driven over several times, was stuck sideways on his head, and allowed the boy's wiry, flaxen hair to grow freely through the opening where the crown should have been: the naked brown shoulder and upper part

Pictures of Sweden. By Hans Christian Andersen. Author of "The Improvisatore." R. Bentley.

of the arm, which was just as brown, were the prettiest of the whole. The other boy had only a pair of trowsers on. They were also ragged, but the rags were bound fast into the pockets with packthread; one string round the ankles, one under the knee, and another round about the waist. He, however, kept together what he had, and that is always respectable. Be off!' shouted the captain, from the vessel, and the boy with the tied up rags turned round, and we -yes, we saw nothing but pack-thread, in bows, genteel bows. The front part of the boy only was covered; he had only the foreparts of trowsers the rest was packthread, the bare, naked pack-thread."

In this significant way, graphic and wise, and pregnant with meaning, as it is full of colour, this exquisite book depicts the wild, savage, kindly land of Sweden; a sort of strange north, with the warm heart of the south let into it, we know not how, unless it be by the gentle ministry of Hans Christian himself. Go to the book, reader! by all means; and gather pictures out of it to hang up in the chamber of your thoughts; sweet and beautiful pictures which you never can look upon or remember without feelings of pleasure and spiritual elevation!

From Sweden to Spain is a transition that might be alarming under any other circumstances than those in which we are placed; but our locomotive is ignorant of difficulties. We never saw a book with a more felicitous title than this, the last of our catalogue: "Notes of an Attaché in Spain."*

The contents respond to the title with a miraculous propriety. If you have got the true idéal of a young attaché into your head, and can thoroughly comprehend the kind of life he would be likely to lead in Spain, the sort of adventures and enjoyments he would seek after, or be cast into, and the class of objects that would in all human probability chiefly attract his attention as an observer, or looker on, or idler, and if you will throw all these into the shape of such a narrative as a free and lively youth of that particular class would be best qualified to write rapid, daring, without a grain of gravity in it, but as dashing and pleasant as animal spirits could render it, you will have formed a very just and accurate estimate of the exact nature of this book, and may spare us the necessity of describing its contents to you. The attaché is in love with Spain, and with

all the beautiful senhoritas, one after another, he saw there; and if he had nothing more to write about, it would be worth while to spend an entire evening listening to his raptures on these inexhaustible topics. We know of no book in which Spanish beauty is more gaily discussed, or in which the art of smoking a cigar is more perfectly delineated. The Spain of the attaché may not be the Spain of the diplomatist, but a very lively and tempting and agreeable Spain it is for all that, and not the less faithful to reality because it is seen through a youthful medium.

*Notes of an Attaché in Spain in 1850. R. Bentley.

SOMETHING ABOUT EARTHQUAKES.

66 BY THE AUTHOR OF

PADDIANA."

THE intelligent reader will, of course, quite understand me when I say that I took my first earthquake at Amaxaki. He will not require to be told the whereabout of that capital city, but put his finger at once upon the northern end of the great lumpish island of Santa Maura, a mass of heavy round mountains and hard rock, enclosing pleasant little orange-covered nooks about as little known to the rest of Europe as the banks of the late Ischad, and of which the inhabitants are about equally and happily ignorant.

Perhaps it may be as well to say how I got to Amaxaki. It was by an Ionian steamer, one of the two vessels comprising the whole navy of the seven islands, and commanded by the renowned Captain Gavazzo, pre-eminently the commodore of that respectable force. Your readers may, perhaps, like a sketch of a Greek captain? Here it is.

Gavazzo, in person, was something like a frog; being of a square form, having scarcely any perceptible neck, a broad flat nose, and his ample mouth somehow tilted up till it seemed the highest feature in his face. Scarcely in a summer trip would you meet with a man more fond of fun or good eating-more generally répandu, convivial or entertaining. In early life he had served in the French army-his satirical friends averred as a drummer. Whatever it might have been, he had therein acquired a competent knowledge of French, a vast collection of comic songs in that language, and, in all probability, an increase of bonhomie with a love of good cheer.

On a sultry morning, the scenery absolutely blazing in light, and the blue sea as tranquil as a mirror, we embarked in the pride of Gavazzo's navy: but anything less like a man-of-war no imagination could conceive. She was choke full of passengers of all grades from counts and countesses in the last Parisian modes, to small proprietors, tradesmen and peasantry in the loose baggy breeches, short jackets and skull-caps, appertaining to the national costume. Such a kissing people at leave-taking I never saw. The huge greasy tobacconist about to return to his native island of Zante, taking leave of his no less fat and greasy friend the sausage seller, lays his arms athwart the other's shoulders, while the man of saveloys clasps his neck. Bringing their large hog-like cheeks together, they snivel audibly, their mouths meet in an unctuous kiss; they burst into a bellow; tear themselves away from each other's arms, shout a thousand adieus as they recede, and when the voice no longer suffices, toil through a mutual pantomime of regrets enough to soften the hardest heart.

Seated about the quarter deck was a brilliant party of the élite of Corfu going down to attend a wedding in Santa Maura-fashionable, elegant persons, dressed in the latest mode in clothes actually made in Paris; for a Greek, even after a five years' failure of his olive crop, will add still another weight to his already too heavy load of debts, that he may show the very latest style of Paris tailoring, More entire abandon I never saw in any society. Reserve is a word

if not unknown, is a thing wholly unpractised. Guitars are unpacked and most artistically handled, ladies and gentlemen sing, and sing well, duets, trios-till the music of the new opera is well nigh exhausted.

Nor is our gallant captain at all behind hand in such matters. Pitching his mouth to an angle of 45 deg., he gives the most touching airs of the tenore; he is the "bodily presentment" of all that is tender in love, or moving in sentiment; he even accompanies himself, feeling that no other hand can sweep the chords in unison with his feelings. Then suddenly he changes his hand and gives us the grinder, with every intonation attendant upon sharpening a knife, and when his ready tact perceives that some change is required in the entertainment, he orders up a small table, at which taking his seat with pencil and paper, proceeds seriously to caricature the passengers, picking out the possessors of exaggerated features, who are called upon for favourable attitudes, and appear as thoroughly pleased with the performance as any of the laughers round them. Then the captain finishes by drawing his own likeness, if possible more hideous than the good-humoured reality; and so intensely pleased is he with this, that he carries it triumphantly all round the ship, taking care to note by the way any prominent nose, or singular configuration of chin which may present themselves.

And Captain Gavazzo's dinner is by no means to be despised— his own boast being that he eats for four, which seemed to me rather within the mark.

I am of opinion that this sunny land of Greece, in the sensual pleasure of its climate, almost makes amends for its want of other comforts, if one could take a villa at Parga, or a farm at Kateito, without the probability of a cut-throat.

We arrived early in the afternoon abreast of the old Venetian fort at Santa Maura, separated about a mile from Anaxaki by a marsh or lagoon of unwholesome celebrity, traversed by a causeway and the remains of an aqueduct.

As the wedding was to be celebrated with much pomp and circumstance, with abundant good cheer and conviviality, it was not at all improbable that our captain would have something the matter with his machinery. What it was I forget-some screw was loose, a something blew up or went wrong; Gavazzo was very sorry, but it could not be put in order, he feared, till early in the morning. Perhaps a walk or ride into the country would not be disagreeable, he suggested. We took him at his word and started for the Cyclopean ruins.

I never could look at remains of this character without a conviction that in those days there really were giants; for it is difficult to account for the gratuitous labour incurred under any condition at all analogous to present flesh and blood. Without the modern appliances of mechanics how could they contrive to pile into walls stones of the size of a shop counter, and even larger, unless, indeed, they were built in defiance of earthquakes.

If this were the object, it is curious to note the extraordinary change of opinion in such matters; for it is impossible to conceive anything more entirely different in architecture than that of the modern city of Amaxaki as compared to the walls of their remote edecessors outside the present town. The modern Amaxakiote

has, it is clear, a most profound conviction of the levity of our mother earth; long experience of her trials has shaken his confidence altogether; he won't trust her so far as a foundation, or confide in her to the extent of a cellar-nay, he so entirely repudiates all connection, as not even to drive a pile in her bosom. His house is literally, a box; clamped well together, and made up as it were, for any dance he may be led. He is with the earth, not of it, and might write over his door "No connection with this rickety old island, who is not to be trusted."

The consequence is. that the earth may heave, or pitch, or sink, or tremble, with but little bad effect upon him. His box may certainly cut strange capers, and the streets require some little dressing by the municipal drill serjeant when all is over, but he can scarcely be much hurt. A curious change, too, may come over the aspect of the place during a single night. A person may go to sleep in a square, and wake in a narrow lane; your opposite neighbour may be twisted round, and looking the other way; Belle Vue may lose its look-out altogether, and the Marine Parade be rubbing its nose against the face of the hill.

It struck me that they were only wanting in one improvementthat of caulking their ground floor, and so becoming independent of water as well as earth. With a mast and sails every man would be at ease in an overflow. The cry of " All hands on deck, make sail!" would send every maid to her post, and the cook to the foresheet. His worship, the mayor, would naturally take command of the floating city, and hoist his broad pendant on the Town Hall.

Returning from our little tour to the Cyclopean remains about sunset, we perceived the merry countenance of our captain just raised above the railings of a balcony, where, surrounded by other vinous Greeks, he was musically invoking the "Casta Diva." We, therefore, felt perfectly safe as to remaining the night where we were. Hotels in Amaxaki there are none, though wine shops, and meatfrying and fish-frying shops abound. The stranger, therefore, who would multiply the courses of his dinner must do so peripatetically. After eating his fish at one shop he must walk to another to have the pleasure of a glass of wine with his friend; go on to a third for the more solid part of the entertainment, and back again to finish his wine, calling for a dessert by the way.

With much abortive talk on our parts, and great expenditure of hissing jabber on the part of the Greeks to whom we applied (for in this island Greek is the rule in conversation and Italian the rare exception), we succeeded in obtaining admission to a highly-respectable two-storied box, whose proprietor was willing to receive us for the night, and to clench the bargain, he laid before us an excellent bottle of Zante Verdea vine, by no means an unacceptable offering after a broiling walk amongst the hills. No females appeared upon the premises, nor, indeed, had we seen any, save some very old and decrepit ones, since our arrival in the place; so long do the old oriental manners cling to this out-of-the world corner.

The night set in inexpressibly sultry; the Siroc wind came with a steaming dampness which took away one's breath, and imparted a clammy unctuous feel to the person as well as the furniture. Tyros that we were, we opened wide the doors and windows, and took in gasping draughts of the black night, in spite of the remonstrances of