"Gentlemen, where do you alight?' "Understand it is the postillion who speaks -I reply: : "At M. Listz's.' "Where does the gentleman lodge?' "That is precisely the question I was going to ask you?' "What is he? what does he do?' "He is an artist.' 666 Veterinary?' "Are you ailing, donkey?' (animal.) "He is a violin-seller,' said a passer-by. will show you where he lives.' TOULMIN." 'We have expected you: you are not punctual: follow us! We have set out. 'ARABELLA.' 'P. S.-See the Major, and come with him to find us.' "Who is the Major?' "What does it signify?' said my friend the legitimiste. "We have no time to lose. Waiter, go and find the Major.' "The Major arrived. With the figure of Mephistopheles, he dressed like a custom-house officer. He looked at me from head to foot, and then inquired who I was. 666 "A traveller, in a sad plight, as you perceive, who wants to reach Arabella.' "Ah! ah! I will go seek a passport." "Not at all. To-morrow we set out for Mont Blanc.' "Behold us now at Chamouni; the rain falling and night coming on. I get out by chance at The Union, which the country-people proInounce Oignon, and this time I take care not to inquire for the European artist by his name. I conformed myself to the notions of the enlightened people I had the honour to be among, and "They made us climb a steep street, and the landlady of the house declared that Listz was in England.' The woman raves!' said another stranger. 'M. Listz is a musician, belonging to the theatre. You had better inquire of the manager.' 66 6 Why not?" said the legitimiste; and he went to seek the manager. He declared that Listz was in Paris. "No doubt,' I cried angrily, he is gone to engage himself as flageolet player in Musard's orchestra-is it not so?' "Why not?' said the manager. "There is the door of the house,' exclaimed some one else all the young ladies who take music lessons know M. Listz.' "I should like to speak to her who is now coming out with a portfolio under her arm,' said my companion. 666 And why not?-all the more because she is pretty.' The young "The legitimiste made three bows after the French fashion, and inquired the address of Listz in the most polite manner. girl blushed, lowered her eyes, and with a suppressed sigh replied that M. Listz was in Italy. "Let him be au diable! I will go and sleep in the first shelter I can find, and he may seek me in his turn.' "At the inn they soon brought me the following letter from his sister; * Choosing almost at random from a volume whose pages are never poor, we have translated a few paragraphs from one of Madame Dudevant's most characteristic and thoughtful works. Even her poet's eye and poet's speech cannot give much freshness, though they do some, to descriptions of scenery so well known as that of Venice or Switzerland; therefore have we selected another sort of gossip that in which the book abounds-world-wisdom, now deeply rooted and stedfast as an oak, though the flowers of playful speech may gather round it; and at other of suffering and the sweat of heart and brain. The times wrung like ore from a mine by the schooling account of the meeting of the friends has an interest beyond the pleasant manner of the telling, in the celebrity of the individuals concerned; and the lively satire on the national characteristics of travellers is worth a second thought. The reflections on the Poet's mission and destiny go yet deeper into the heart of humanity, and appear even in the original as if the thoughts enshrined weighed down the powers of expression. described the personage I sought in the following manner:- -Wearing a scanty blouse; hair of an immoderate length and quantity; a straw hat beaten in; a cravat dragged into a string; limping a little, and humming habitually the dies ire of some pleasant air.' 666 Certainly, sir,' replied the innkeeper; they have just arrived the lady is much fatigued, but the young lady is very lively. If you go up-stairs, you will find them at No. 13.'' "It cannot be them,' thought I;' but never mind;' and I hurried into No. 13, determined to throw myself on the neck of the first moody English person who should come to hand. I was bespattered in such a manner, that this would be a charming joke for the travelling clerk. "The first object which I nearly fell over, was what the innkeeper had called a young lady. This was Puzzi, astride on a carpet-bag, and so changed, so stout, his head loaded with long brown hair, his figure encased in so feminine a blouse, that by my faith I felt lost, and no longer recollecting little Hermann, I took off my hat, and said, 'My pretty page, tell me where is Lara?' 66 From the depths of an English riding-hood peeped forth, at these words, the fair head of Arabella. Whilst I threw myself towards her, Franz fell on my neck; Puzzi uttered a cry of surprise; and we formed a group entangled in our embracings. Meanwhile the chambermaid of the inn, stupefied at seeing a splashed and shabby boy, whom until then she had taken for a jockey, throwing his arms round a fine lady like Arabella, let fall her candle, and spread the report through the house that No. 13 was invaded by a troop of mysterious, incomprehensible people, whose heads looked as wild as savages, and among whom it was not possible to tell the men from the women, or the masters from the servants! They are actors!' said the chief cook gravely, and with an air of contempt, and behold us marked for such, pointed at, and looked on with horror. The English ladies whom we met in the corridors drew their veils over their modest faces, and their stately husbands concerted among themselves to ask us to give them a representation of what we could do during supper; they making a collection for us. And this is the place to communicate to you the most scientific remark I have ever made in my life. "These islanders carry about with them a particular fluid, which I shall call the Britannic Fluid, in the midst of which they travel, as little accessible to the influences of the countries they traverse as the mouse in the air pump. It is not only to the thousand precautions by which they surround themselves that they are indebted for their impassibility. It is not that they will wear three sets of garments one over another, so that they may arrive perfectly dry and neat, notwithstanding the rain and the wind; neither is it that they have woollen head-dresses to keep their stiff metallic curls free from damp. It is not that they load themselves with enough soap and pomatum, and brushes to adonize a whole regiment of Bas-Breton conscripts, that they may always command a neat beard and stainless nails. It is because the external air has no effect on them; it is because they eat, drink, walk, and sleep in their fluid, as in a glass case twenty feet thick, through which they look with pity on horsemen whose hair the wind disorders, and pedestrians whose boots the snow has damaged. I ask myself, on looking at the craniums and countenances and attitudes of fifty English of both sexes, who are to be found round every table d'hote in Switzerland, what can be the purpose of their distant pilgrimages so difficult and perilous; and I believe I have at last discovered it, thanks to the Major, whom I particularly consulted on the subject. It is this: for an Englishwoman the true aim of life is to travel through the most mountainous and stormy regions, without having one hair disordered; for an Englishman it is to return to his own country after having made the grand tour, without having soiled his gloves or worn a hole in his boots. It is on this account that in meeting one another in the evening, at the inns, after their laborious expeditions, men and women put themselves as it were under arms, and show themselves, with a proud and self-satisfied air, in all the impermeable dignity of their tourist character. It is not themselves but their wardrobes which travel, and the man is only the appurtenance of his portmanteau, and the block for his clothes. I should not be surprised to hear of there being published in London books of travels thus entitled, The Walks of a Hat in the Pontine Marshes,' Recollections of Switzerland by the Collar of a Coat,' 'Expedition round the World by a Macintosh Cloak.' "The Italians fall into the opposite fault: accustomed to a soft and equal climate, they despise the simplest precautions; and the variations of temperature in one climate affect them so severely that they are very soon attacked by nostalgia. They travel with a proud disdain; and carrying with them everywhere a yearning for their own beautiful land, they constantly and aloud compare everything they behold with it. They have just such a manner as might be expected if Italy were a property to be disposed of by lottery, and they were seeking purchasers for the tickets. If anything could take away one's desire to cross the Alps, it would be the sort of outcry to which one must submit about every town and village, the mere names of which will raise the tone of an Italian's voice, and make his heart beat quicker when he pronounces them. "The best travellers, and they who make the least stir, are the Germans; they are excellent pedestrians, indefatigable smokers, and all something of musicians or botanists. They examine things slowly and carefully, and find consolation for the weariness of an hotel, in a cigar, a flute, or their herbal. As serious as the English, they are less ostentatious, and do not show themselves off any more than they speak: they pass unperceived, and without making victims to their pleasures or their idleness. wisest men. The human, earthly, element is found in the abuses, the prejudices, the vices of each generation; and from the time-if it ever existed-of the golden age which the poet claims for the stem of his genealogy, each generation has submitted much more to the power of evil than that of good. The codes which are not acknowledged are stronger than that inscribed as our duty. Punishments have hindered nothing which custom has established in defiance of the law. This is why societies, constantly seeking the welfare of their institutions, have been always encroached on by evil. The legislator teaches and dictates the law, which humanity accepts but does not observe. Each man invokes it for his interest, but forgets it for his pleasure. "As for us French it must be acknowledged, tion they govern. They are the work of the that we understand travelling less than any people in Europe. We are devoured by impatience and carried away by our admiration; our faculties are keen and ready, but we are depressed and disgusted at the least check. Although our home has generally but few comforts, it exercises over us a power which pursues us all over the world, renders us froward and awkward in supporting privation and fatigue, and inspires us with the most childish and useless regrets. As improvident as the Italians, we have not their physical strength to support the consequences of our folly. We are in travelling what we are in war-eager at the commencement, but demoralized helter skelter. Whoever has seen a French party set out on the steep roads of Switzerland must have laughed at their impetuous joy, their mad running across the ravines, their ridiculous haste, their pains lost, and their strength wasted at the commencement of their journey, and their attention and enthusiasm given to the first objects which present themselves. The spectator may be quite sure that at the end of an hour the party will have taken every possible means to weary themselves in mind and body, and that towards night they will be scattered, dull and tired, dragging themselves with difficulty to a resting-place, and without having given to objects deserving their admiration more than a wearied and distracted glance. "Now all this is not so unworthy observation as you may think. A journey, as has often been said, is an abridgment of human life; the manner of travelling is then a criterion by which we may know nations and individuals, and the art of travelling is almost the science of life!" "That Being at once so scorned, and yet so highly privileged, whom we call a Poet, moves among his fellow men with feelings of deep sorrow. As soon as his eyes open to the light of the sun, he seeks objects to admire; he sees that nature is eternally young and beautiful, and he is seized with an ecstacy that is divine, ravishing, and new; but soon inanimate creation ceases to satisfy him. The true poet loves God passionately, and the works of God; but it is in himself, and in his fellow-men, that he sees the eternal flame shine most completely and distinctly. He would wish to find it pure, and to adore God in man, as a sacred fire upon a stainless altar. His soul aspires, his arms stretch forth; in his need of love he would willingly cleave his breast, so that there would enter there all the objects of his vast desires, of his chaste sympathies. But hideous human defects, the work of ages of corruption, cannot escape his clear eye-his searching gaze. It penetrates through every covering, it sees deformed souls "Yes, the Poet is unhappy, profoundly un-in splendid forms, and hearts of clay in statues happy, in social life. It is not, as the scoffers pretend, that he wishes to arrange society expressly according to his own tastes; but he would have it reformed for its own good, and to carry out the designs of the Deity. The poet loves virtue; and he has a faculty beyond that of common men-the sense of the beautiful. When this development of the powers of seeing, of understanding, and of admiring, is only applied to exterior objects, he is but an artist; it is when his mind reaches beyond the sense of the picturesque, when his soul has eyes as well as his body, and penetrates into the boundless regions of the ideal world, that the union of these two faculties makes the poet. The true poet is then at once an artist and a philosopher! This is a magnificent combination of qualities to attain, a contemplative and solitary happiness!-for such is the inevitable condition of an endless evil. of gold and of marble. Then he suffers, he is exasperated, he complains and reproves. Heaven, which has endowed him with a sight so piercing, has also given him for complaint and for thanksgiving, for prayer and for threat, a full and sonorous voice, which imprudently betrays all his anguish. The abuses of the world draw from him cries of distress; the spectacle of hypocrisy burns his eyes as with a heated iron; the sufferings of the oppressed kindle his courage; and the most daring emotions agitate his breast. The poet raises his voice, and tells men the truths which anger them. Then all of that unclean race, who put themselves under the shelter of a pretended respect for the laws, to satisfy their vices in private, take up pebbles from the high road to stone the truthful man. The Scribes and Pharisees-that race eternally pow erful-prepare the whips, the crown of thorns, and the reed, the derisive sceptre which the bloody hand of Christ has bequeathed to the *Of course the laws here meant are those lasting ones which affect public morals; not those which are made and unmade every day in the Chambers, ac cording to some petty and material interests, victims of persecution. The blind and stupid immolate their martyrs for the sole pleasure of contemplating suffering. Jesus on the Cross is to them nothing but the exciting spectacle of a man encountering a terrible agony. "It is true that from the depths of this abyss of degradation come forth some just men, who dare approach the gibbet, and wash the wounds of the sufferer with their tears. There are also weak but sincere men, often overwhelmed by the corruption of the age, but often raised from it by a pious faith, which brings them to spread on his feet the expiating ointment. These afford consolation to the victim; the first prepare his recompense." THE PORTRAIT. A fair girl stood in a painter's room, A rich perfume; and clear and bright, In golden beam, giving a hue More lovely to her eye of blue; And those sweet eyes of softest blue, And then her cheek waxed deeper red- "Thou art like the first sweet day of Spring, When the buds in the glow of their ripeness break; Thou art like the lark on its quivering wing, Bidding the earth from its trance awake; "Thou art like the wreath on the mountain side, When the root that bound it to earth is riven. "Thou art like the glow of the fading eve, When the sun has sunk 'neath the crimson billow; Thou art like the essence that blossoms leave, When twilight has nursed them on her pillow; Thou art like the whisper of fairies, heard When the midnight air with their wings is stirred. "Thou art like the silver crescent moon, In the dark blue sky of summer sailing; Thou art like the plaintive bird of noon, From the depth of the forest fastness wailing; Thou art like a swan on a crystal lake, When the zephyrs its snow-white plumage wake. "Thou art like the sound of a distant lute, That comes o'er the heart in its hour of sadness; Thou art like the hush, when the storm is mute, And flowers have sent up their sighs of gladness; Thou art like the fairy-eyed gazelle, When it bounds at morn from its mossy dell. ERRORS OF JUDGMENT. BY M. A. Y. "If to her share some female errors fall, "Well, Charles dear, what is it?" said a placid-looking elderly lady, laying down her book, and removing her spectacles, as a fine young man impetuously entered the room in which she was sitting, and came up to her side. "They have returned at last, mother! and I have seen her—she is even more lovely than my heart pictured her! you will not know her again. I have brought you a pressing invitation to dine there to-morrow. You must go, mother, and make up your mind to like her, if only for my sake; not that any one can help it, she is so lovely and so gifted. Certainly she is the only woman I ever did or could love!" "Hum! Let me see if I can remember how many desperate flirtations I have witnessedhow many heart-quakes, how many fits of despair, when some fair one has proved fickle, or some mere mortal failed to demonstrate all the angelic attributes with which the imagination of a certain gentleman had gifted her." respondence is begun, in which you thus far participate; you are often referred to for advice, thanked for your opinions, invited to criticize poetical effusions, direct the lady's studies, &c.; in short, the letters are written to Susan, but intended for your perusal; and the answers, though in Susan's writing, are known to be dictated by you. Beyond this you do not know her." "Nor have I need, mother: do not those letters afford a simple and eloquent picture of her heart and mind? I do not believe that she dreamed of my perusing them, or"-a slight flush crossed his handsome face as he paused" or many things would have been left unsaid." The mother marked this; she knew what eulogiums had been lavished on him in several of those epistles, but she was too wise to let him see her observation, or to utter her opinions, at least yet awhile. "I may be prejudiced," she thought; at any rate I will see further before I speak." 66 66 "Now, mother, how can you talk such nonsense! All boys fancy themselves in love a "I may write in your name, and accept the dozen times before they are old enough to un-invitation?" observed Charles, seating himself derstand their own hearts." : "Possibly and yet I repeat, what do you know of her? While conducting that periodical for your friend Müller, you received a pretty poem and a lady-like note from an unknown: the poem meets with an accident; you write to the authoress to apologize, and request a fresh copy; she recognizes your name as a playmate of her childhood, and the relative of a schoolfellow of hers. She sends another copy of the poem, with a few civil lines, and encloses a note to your cousin Susan, recalling to mind their old girlish friendship, which had died the natural death of those things. Susan replies: a cor before an open desk. "Well, I declare if all these accounts are not made up-I had quite forgotten them, and another post would have been lost. Decidedly you are my good genius, Sucy." This was addressed to a girl who at that mo ment entered the room, and who smiled an acknowledgment of the remark as she passed on to his mother, and in a whisper communicated something to her, of which Charles only caught the word Hackney; but that was enough to send the blood mantling to his very brow, for he remembered it was there that the poor woman lived whom he had knocked down on the previous day while driving his mother and cousin. He had fully intended to have gone to see about her this day, but somehow the day was gone, and he had only been to see Julia Montgomery, and escorted her and her sister to the bazaar and to an exhibition; he had not even been to the bank. It was with a feeling very nearly akin to self-contempt that Charles remembered how he had neglected every duty; that the sealed-up and dispatched accounts prepared by his cousin were some for which a fellow-creature was axiously watching, as on them depended matters of great importance; and as he heard what it had been necessary to have done for the |