ing the past winter I had not been idle-attending parties, balls and operas without number, but without success. This summer I made up my mind to be tranquil and to let e

ve a lounging-place near by, where the roots of an old tree make a comfortable nest just above a steep precipice, and the place is hidden from intr

d soon tired. The sisters were examples of opposite schools of art. Mrs. Stunner, dark, hard and sharp-faced, was a widow with all her daughters "well settled" in life-i.e., married to wealthy husbands-and was considered "fortunate" among the matrons. Mrs. Fluffy was soft and florid,

for people walking to the summit, I lay snug and waited. Presently the wido

really must say you do not seem to manage well at all. You may be playing a very deep gam

you only knew the trouble of hav

t know!" snuff

a conciliatory tone. "But you s

, and the difficulty it required to seem! Do you think I was so

t, "I know you have a talent for such things, a

replied her sister, tapping th

uld speak like that, Jane?" as

minous silence that was quite thril

lief, "she is walking with Mr. Hardcas

nce with, not to walk w

ister! what's t

' Are you a child? Why, just the dif

t on seeing it. I suppose she did not succeed, as her sister continued, emphasizing each wor

rove of him?" asked Mrs. Fluffy, with a fee

h-looking, so much the better. Mr. Hardcash is just the size to waltz well with Eva-he shows her off to advantage-but he is not a man to encourage afterward. She should not be seen

the gentlemen are worth

ther to discover it," re

t h

rom; you can easily get acquainted with some o

d ask abo

ntleman will then give you his whole history. Another time you may say, 'What a pleasant young man that Mr. B. is! but rather inclined to be wild, eh?' If he is you will soon know it. You can also cross-question the man himself. Speak of a little girl he has at home: if he blushes he is netted already, and lures a

me if I did interfere in her a

mfortable house for you to live in. You have brought up Eva badly, Sarah, and there is one

many beaux," in

ad to marry her. She may be his chief confidante; he will talk of his lady-love to her, and she may end by being first bridesmaid at his wedding, but nothin

aid Mrs. Fluffy, trying to turn the conve

r. Men are either afraid of them or detest them: gentlemen don't like to puzzle their brains over a witticism, nor do they admire chaffing that is beyond their comprehension. Courtship should be made easy. My Jane was clever, and vexed me a great deal in consequence, daughters of that k

tion, "you are so clever I wonder you ever were marr

my word for it, superior people as a class are never

not succeed in hiding it as you do." Mrs. F. was

n Mrs. Stunner, scattering my thoughts

ng to recollect, "there is Mr. Ric

than

t it was only day

e, but to a girl properly brought up once is a chance-it is a good start." (Mrs. S.'s late husband was fond of racing.) "It rests entirely

you surprise me! I thought th

. Let girls be agreeable, sweet and charming, but without especial effort to a

!" was t

lves at the head of every marriageable gentleman the

that they don't think of

d the widow in a t

a very poor opinio

em: you admit that, don't you?

a feeble voice. "There is Miss Fu

t is inconceivable to me how women, after thinking about it all their lives, blunder into it in the end,

," reiterated Mrs. Fluffy, gaining

rds," continued Mrs. Stunner solemnly: "Miss Furnaval has some outlandish un-society principles, and practically they will not work. Why, she is quite as well contented talking to a poor man as to a rich one, and she is always encouraging worthless, amusing, handsome fellows-talented men, instead of men whose position dispenses with the necessity

t kind of gentlemen, I don't see w

f his own, he won't know how to take care of it. If, on the other hand, she don't give it to him, he will think she does not care for him-will get jealous, likely take to drink: your clever man always does. They will quarrel; then her c

I pity her," si

n example will serve to make other girls more sensi

rs. Fluffy was considering, she said patheticall

pt and decided reply. "It is her second summe

ng. What do you

p her being with such ge

roaned Mrs. Fluffy, "I fear

ons-that you can't afford another-that she must make up her mind now. Then think

" asked the other timidly. "

and Eva could show them which in any other position would look like courting them. Then there would be no danger of competition. Indeed, if a pretty girl has a gentleman all to herself for a week or two at a roma

, glad of a chance to attack her superior sister. "You know I have no

are expense when you have a good investment in view. You can limit the invitations to two or three gentlemen who are especially eligible: make these some little compliment, such as 'You will come of course-our little party would not be complete without you.' C

nough," said poor

sister, "but if we manage well we sha'n't hav

u will h

f the family," said the Stunner in an heroic tone

am so much obliged!" replie

explain my plans further: I s

should invite, Jane dear

of him: I know he has twenty thous

t like him," Mrs. Flu

h nonsense as liking and disliking; I won't have it," retorted Mrs. S.

tleman just as wealthy, might ther

and a year: I wonder if he would suit t

ank to be invited," observed pink

mentioned, not forgetful of the adage that listeners hear

When so many are after him I suppose no single one can have a fair chance. Yes, we will invite him, but I hope Eva will not think of falling in love with him unless he should propose. Indeed, I think a modest girl ought never to fall in love. It seems to me indecorous, at least be

n't appreciate it. Little Eva has more sense-would like me to visit her: of course the poor child is in love with me. I wish I could tease that ridiculous old lady in some way. I

ittle consequence who they are. Only one thing: I won't have that

on Ned," thoug

't be able to manage

to perform I go through with it

sufficiently rested, a

silk and a crunching of

gs than men are. Everything is against us. I suppose women think they deceive us for our good, but they should continue to do so after marriage. 'Pon honor! I have seen the sweetest, most amiable girl turn as sour as could be a few months after the ceremony. The dressiest ones often get dowdy, the most musical can't abide mus

re. I will tease them a bit, any way: I'll pay a deuced lot of attention to Eva, and

iked that simile, it was so new. There was another couplet about her name-Blanche and snow and cold: when she read it she laughed and said, "Though my name means white, it does not mean cold. You know there are some white things that are very warm, Mr. Highrank-my ermine muff, for instance." But I made a clever answer. I said, "The muff looks cold, and so does Miss Blanche, but if I could be so fortunate as to to

r, and talked to him with as much deference as if he had been a prince, when she ought not have spoken to him at all, you know; and in that gibberish, too, that no one can understand. One evening, after entertaining him for about an hour, she walked with him the whole length of the room, not noticing any one, though every eye was upon her. He sat down at the piano which stood in a corner, struck a few chords, and then, with no coaxing whatever, she sang; and such a song! Her gray eyes grew dark, and her voice quivered, deepened, expanded into a melody that made you think the heavens had suddenly opened. Every other sound ceased; the doors and windows were filled wi

NIOL

E CON

WITHIN THE GA

nations. There all the world is at home. It is the second best pl

ire population of the United States, we citizens of the great republic have every right to feel proud of the comparison. Yet, with all our genuine respect and admiration for the Prussians, there are but few American tourists who take kindly to that people or their country. The lack of the external polish, the graceful manners and winning ways of the Parisians is severely felt by the chance tarrier within the gates of Berlin. We accord our fullest meed of honor to the great conquering nation of Europe, to its wonderful system of education, its admirable military discipline, and its sturdy opposition to superstition and ignorance in their most aggressive form. And yet we do not like Prussia or the Prussians. We scoff at Berlin, planted on a sandy plain and new with the thriving, aggressive newness of some of our own cities. We long

of palace and arcade and museum and church, the plash of sunlit fountains, the rustle and the shimmer of resplendent foliage, the grace of statue, the grandeur of monument, the far-stretching splendor of brilliant boulevard and bustling street,-all these make up a picture whose lines are e

hout the expenditure of a single sou. And for the persons who, prolonging their stay, wish in some sort to take up their permanent residence in Paris, things are smoothed and ironed and the knots picked out in the most wonderful way. Your board is dainty and your bed soft. Velvet-footed and fairy-handed beings minister to your wants. You are clothed as if by magic in garments of marvelous beauty. The very rustle of your letter of credit is as an open sesame to treasure-chambers to which Ali Baba's cavern was but a shabby cellar. And if, on the contrary, your means are limited and your wants but few, the science of living has been so exactly conned and is

son, have each been carefully gauged as to the usual dimensions of an ordinary appetite. Nothing is squandered and nothing is wasted. When one recalls the aspect of our hotel tables at home-the bread-plates left with their piles of cold, uneatable corn-bread, and heavy, chilled muffins and sodden toast uneaten, uncared-for and wasted; the huge steak, with its scrap of tenderloin carefully scolloped out, and the rest left to be thrown away; the broiled chicken-the legs scorned in favor of the more toothsome breast; the half-emptied plates of o

and a small minority among the most expensive suites of private apartments, have gas introduced into all the rooms, but as a general thing it is confined to the public rooms, and the unfortunate wight who longs to see beyond the end of his nose is forced to wrestle with dripping candles and unclean lamps, known only by tradition in our native land. The gaslight, which is a common necessary in the simplest private d

raw and insidious, and creeps under wraps with a treacherous persistency that nothing can shut out. The ill-fitting windows, opening in the old door-like fashion, let in every breath of the chill outer air. A fire is a handful of sticks or half a dozen lumps of coal. The calorifère, a poor substitute for ou

e-pitchers, water-coolers and refrigerators are unknown quantities in the sum-total of Parisian luxuries. The "cup of cold water," which the traveler in our country finds gratuitously supplied in every waiting-room and railway-station, every steamboat, every car and every hotel, is here som

else, by ordering it and waiting for it and paying for it; but the free use of water and its gratuitous supply in hotels, so entirely a matter of course with us, is here unheard of. As with ice-water, the bath is an American necessity, a Parisian luxury. However, the latest erected dwelling-houses here have had water-pipe

As for fruits, the smaller varieties are far more abundant and much finer here than they are with us. Strawberries, cherries, raspberries, gooseberries, apricots-all of great size and exquisite flavor-tempt and enchant the palate. But our rich profusion of tropical fruits, such as bananas and pineapples, is wholly unknown. Peaches are poor in flavor and exorbitant in price. As for meats, poultry is dearer in Paris than at home, a small chicken for fricasseeing costing six francs ($1.20 in gold), and a large one for roasting ten francs ($2). Beef and mutton are at about the same pric

ike the neat separate abodes look to one who has been journeying round amid a series of "floors," each so like the others. To the casual visitor there is a despairing amount of sameness in the fitting-up of all French furnished apartments. The scarlet coverings on the furniture, the red curtains, the light moquette carpet with white ground and gay flowers, the white and gold of the woodwork, the gilt bronze clock and candelabra, the tables and cabinets in marquetry and buhl, are all precisely alike in each, and all wear the same hotel-like look and lack of individuality. Nobody here seems to care any

s himself liable to an action for defamation of character. The person, therefore, who engages servants from their character-book has no real guarantee as to their worth. It is a well-known fact also that the intelligence offices in Paris are far more anxious to obtain places for bad servants than for good ones, because the former class return to them more frequently, and are consequently the better customers. As to the percentage exacted from grocers and provision-dealers by cooks and stewards-a percentage which of course comes indirectly out of the pocket of the master-the evil has become a crying one, but it is

"therefore we will stare her out of countenance, we will mutter impudent speeches in her ear, we will elbow her off the sidewalk, we will thrust her aside if we want to enter a public conveyance. Politeness is a thing of hat-lifting, of bowing and scraping, of 'Pardon!' and 'Merci!' It is an article to be worn, like a dress-coat and a white tie, in a drawing-room and among our acquaintances. We have the right article for that occasion-very sweet, very refined, very graceful, very charming indeed. But as for ever

h of their courtesy since the Commune. I have seen a French workingman thrust a lady violently aside on a crowded sidewalk, with a scowl and a muttered curse that lent significance to

he work I wanted. It proved to be of somewhat ponderous dimensions, and higher than I could conveniently reach, so I stood on tiptoe and tugged vainly at it for a moment. My friend of the feet saw my dilemma, and down went his book, and he sprang to my assistance in an instant, "Allow me," he said; and in a moment the heavy tome was brought down, dusted by a few turns of his pocket-handkerchief and laid on the table for my accommodation. If he

thrust aside by a strong-armed Frenchman they will remorsefully remember the seats accorded to them in crowded cars, and accepted thanklessly and as a matter of course. And when the lounger on the boulevards dogs their steps or whispers his insu

H. HO

NTHLY

USIC IN

s ways, have taken root in our infant minds along with those of ghosts and goblins, robbers and Indians. There are, it is true, romantic associations connected with them, and we try to fancy a Meg Merrilies in the swarthy old woman who examines the lines of our hand and tells us the past, present and future-sometimes with a startling consistency and probability. But few of us would have supposed that this race of vagabonds and outcasts had ever risen much above their traditional occupation of tinkering, far less that any portion of it had displayed original artistic genius. We have, however, from Robert Franz the composer a most interesting account of the wonderful music of the Hungari

k of careless nobility about them, an air of melancholy, and eyes which burned with slumbering passion. Old women were cowering about the fires, surrounded by children whose meagre limbs were frankly displayed to view. Tall girls, with Oriental eyes, firm and polished cheeks, and vigorous forms, stood facing the horizon, and were distinctly defined against the blue of the sky. Some wore scarlet gowns, bodices covered with metallic ornaments, embroidered chemisettes and a profusion of glass trinkets. In the centre was one, taller by a head than her companions, h

gayety burst forth; then again the principal phrase, detaching itself like a flower from its stem, among myriads of winged notes, clusters of vaporous sounds, long spirals of transparent fioritures. Still the violins grew bolder and more impetuous. Franz rose from his seat while watching these men standing with their violins pressed against their breasts, as if they were pouring their life's blood into them: he felt oppressed with anguish, when, by an ing

thinks he hears false notes, but the law of their harmonies is to have no law. Their abundance is incalculable, and the solemn and intoxicating effects resulting from the rapid and beautiful transitions cannot be imagined. As for the grace-notes, they give to the ear a pleasure like that which Moorish architecture gives to the eye: the architects of the Alhambra painted on each of their bricks a graceful little poem; the gypsies adorn each note with m

he latter on the morning after the first evening concert (the fete seems to have lasted some days) was announced to M. Franz by a great noise, a banging of doors and windows and moving of furniture in the room next his own. It at length ceased, and he was just ge

ur name and your fervor that you hav

"it is to ask you to dress y

d that his master wished to practice, beginning ear

nd your master!" natura

end him to the devil?-him, the great violi

master

violinist who possesses the aut

refore I will get up an

nd actually the master of the house and his guests were all defiling through the garden-gate, havin

he knew Victor Hugo. He had afterward performed with brilliant success in London, Hamburg, etc., and his renown, after his return to Hungary, went on increasing. He traveled about the country in every direction, astonishing nobles and pe

n, full of his own praises, and always speaking himself in th

certo of Ba

ace. He had all the qualities demanded by science, together with those of imagination. It was the passionate inspiration of genius. After his performance was over,

e went he received a perfect ovation. At one place he ordered a pair of boots, which were sent home, paid for by the municipa

plars before the door look like exclamation-marks, and he thinks they are planted there to serve as such. There are heaps of rare and precious objects of every

emory of the people. What has been preserved of genuine old Hungarian music (some melodies of Timody Stephens) has no charm save its antiquity. These and other facts-but, above all, the impression produced on him by the music itself-have convinced M. Franz that the gypsy faculty is one not only of execution, but creation. Gypsy art proceeds from the sentiment, the genius, of the Tzi

C.

ORNO DE

tinent of Europe are not aware that the day is observed in all Southern countries with a degree of devotion which the greater part of the communities in question are not in the habit of according to any other of the or

thing might be said, but which are not similarly observed. The real cause of the phenomenon I take to be that this population is-as it was of old, and as it always has been through all outward changes-pagan. I put it crudely for the sake of putting it shortly, for this is not the place to trouble the readers of a few paragraphs of "Gossip" with a dissertation in support of the assertion. The innate paganism of these people, born of the beauty of the climate and of all external Nature, and of the sensuous proclivity to live and breathe and have their being in the present and the visible which results therefrom, first forcibly shaped their early Christianity into moulds which assimilated it to pagan observances and modes of thought, and still remains ready to resume more and more of its old empire as the authority of Church beliefs waxes feeble. The very striking and s

ters, is first entered from the gates which open on the road. But this has been but little used as yet. Beyond it, to the right, is the vast space occupied by the graves of the multitude. Let the reader picture to himself a huge flat space extending as far as the eye can see, thickly planted with little black wooden crosses, with inscriptions on them in white letters. The sameness of all these fragile memorials produces a strange and depressing effect. The undistinguished thousands of them make all the space seem black spotted with white. They are ugly; and the poverty of these bits of painted stick, incapable of resisting the effects of the weather, seems sordid in the extreme. In the graves of this part of the cemetery all are in truth equal. To the left of the vast cloister-surrounded square which has been mentioned the scene is a very different one. There, immediately behind the eastern end of the basilica, the soil rises in a very steep bank to a height greater than that of the church. To the space on the top of this bank a handsome and garden-decorated flight of step leads; and there the "Upper Ten" take their dignified rest, and their dust is perfectly safe from all danger of being mingled with that of less distinguished mortality. This higher ground is called the Pincetto-as who should say the "Little Pi

id not make the scene by any means less strange and weird-looking. The greater number of visitors, especially in the poor quarter of the dead city, were women. Such is always the case, whether it be that the female mind is more generally accessible to gentle thoughts of and yearnings ov

the cemetery on the evening in question who have not recently lost any relative or friend, going thither merely as performing an act of devotion or of amusement, or, as is usually the case with all devotion in this country, of both combined. But the greater number of the pilgrims is composed of those who have buried their dead within the preceding year. Yet, as I have said, there was observable in the bearing of the crowd not only no reverential feeling, but not even that amount of quietude which the most careless body of people of our race would have deemed it but decent to assume on such an occasion. Laughter might have been heard, though not perhaps very much. But the noise was astonishing-noise of incessant chatter in tones which bespoke anything but the tone of mind which might have been expected. The truth is, that he who expects to find in the people of this race the sentiment of awe or reverence under any circumstances whatever does not know them. It is not in them. The capacity for it is not in them. It is not a question of more or less education, or of this or that condition of life. The higher and the lower cla

l be seen mysteriously, as it seemed, moving over the closely-ranged graves like corpse-candles, as the old superstition termed the phosphoric lights which may in certain states of the atmosphere be seen in crowded graveyards. In the foreground, where the figures could be distinguished, many were seen on their knees in the damp and malarious evening air at the graves of their lost relatives. But not even in the bearing these could anything of real earnestness be traced. Th

over their rosaries for their children on splendid cushions borne in due state by attendant plush-clothed ministers, were contrasted in these realms of the universal Leveler somewhat too strongly with the scene one had just left in the (physically and socially) lower regions of the cemetery. Of course hearts that beat beneath silken bodices may be wrung as bitterly as those that serge covers. I am speaking only of those outward manifestations which contributed to complete the strangeness of the general spectacle which

the evening of the "Giorno dei Morti" is a singular and curious one, as will be

A.

LL'S M

to her, by her very philosophic son. These questions, and others connected with them, I might answer at length. However, the few facts I shall here state will perhaps be no less welcome than a long detail. The wife of James Mill, and mother of John Mill, was a Miss Burrows, daughter of a Dr. Burrows who superintended an asylum for the insane at Islington. She died in London about twenty years ago, having outlived her husband not quite that period. Her children were nine in number, of whom four daughters are still living-two in England and two in France. She was not what would be reckoned a conspicuously intellectual woman, and yet she by no means deserved the heartless slight which was put on her memory by her son. Indeed, such a slight could have its justification in little short of utter worthlessness; and Mrs. James Mill wa

TE

zabeth Peacock is the name of this relic of the past. For many years she itinerated as a preacher, and at the great age of one hundred and three her health is still vigorous. Modern priestesses, however, not unlike the prophets of antiquity, are subject to be scanted of due honor, or, at all events, of what is more essential than this as contributing to keep soul and body from parting company prematurely. The fact of her being in a state of destitution was notified not long ago to the magistrate of the Lambeth police-court, and that unappreciative functionary, while consenting to subscribe, with others, for her relief, openly expressed his conviction that she would be best off in the workhouse. Altogether, the old creature is a bit of a curiosity. She has had t

ng his contemporaries and friends were the present poet-laureate and Mr. Spedding, the editor of Bacon. The London Catalogue names three works as by Mr. FitzGerald. These, as we find from inspection of the works themselves, are as follows: 1. Euphranor, a Dialogue on Youth, 1851 (it reached a second edition, increased by an Appendix, in 1855); 2. Polonius: A Collection of Wise Saws and Modern Instances, 1852; 3. Six Dramas of Calderon, 1853. These dramas are translations, in prose and verse, of The Painter of his Own Dishonor, Keep your Own Secret, Gil Perez the Gallician, Three Judgments at a Blow, The Mayor of Zalamea, and Beware of Smooth Water. In none of these volumes, however, except the last is there any indication of its authorship but there Mr. FitzGerald's name is given in full.

URE OF

from the Twelfth to t

er Besa

Roberts

ike La Fontaine," and "no chansonnier like Béranger." Now, it is evident that this is a comparison not of French and English humorists, but of certain classes of writers in the two languages in reference to their manifestation of humor. We have no fabulist like La Fontaine, no song-writer equal to Béranger; but then we do not think of citing our fables and songs as the highest examples of English humor. It would be easy to array a list of names as a set-off against that of Mr. Besant. But this is needless. Humor, in the sense in which the word is commonly understood, may almost be said to be a distinctive quality of English literature, which is pervaded by it in a far greater degree than that of any other people. It is a leading trait in all the great English novelists, from Fielding to Thackeray and George Eliot, without excepting Richardson, in whom it is least conspicuous; it is the chie

etter Christian than Montaigne in all his century." It appears, therefore, that the sixteenth century, instead of being, as we had supposed, one in which the Reformation had brought with it a revival of religious earnestness and a reaction against religious formalism, and in which on the battle-field, in the dungeon and at the stake, as well as through voluntary exile and the relinquishment of property, thousands in every country testified to the fervor and sincerity of their religious convictions, was in truth, like the eighteen

renchman of the period." Mr. Besant, it will be seen, concedes that evils are evils while they last, that war and pestilence are not pleasant things to the victims, and that the comfortable and cheery life of the fourteenth century suffered some interruptions from these causes. But then it was still, he insists, an agreeable life "on the whole," since "the recurring seasons" healed the wounds and the grief, and left the survivors to enjoy existence "in the usual way." This, it must be owned, is a very comfortable and cheery philosophy-for those who preach it. We do not see that they need ever complain of "bad times," since they can always be sure that the recurring seasons will bring alleviation to the survivors. It may also be admitted that, as there is no age in which the recurring seasons do not bring relief, so there has been none when war and pestilence and similar evils did not interrupt the usual course of life. There is, however, this difference, that in some ages

," declaring that "no writer who ever lived has inflicted such lasting injury on his country," and that "it would have been better for France if his book, tied to a millstone, had been hurled into the sea." These opinions are contradictory of each other, since it is impossible that a writer who so perverted men's minds should also have been, in any proper sense of the term, a great moral teacher; they are inconsistent with Mr. Besant's account of the "unbroken lines of writers," of whom

metimes degenerates into mere fume, adds on the whole to the liveliness of his writing. His translations in verse are remarkable for their ease and finish. The book may be read with pleasure, but not, we fear, with equal profit. The chapters that deal with

a Tour made in Sc

thy Wor

J.C. Sha

G.P. Put

hat many of the spots described were about to become famous with and through Scott-a meeting with whom formed the fitting close to the tour,-these are circumstances that of course invest the journal with a deeper interest and have called wider attention to its unobtrusive beauty. But its chief attractiveness lies in the Doric simplicity not only of the style but of the matter. An outlandish Irish car was the conveyance; the appearance of the party was not such as to attract notice unless by the quaintness of their garb or their awkward management of the horse, "now gibbing and backing over a bank, now reduced to a walk, with one of the poets leading him by the head;" and they themselves were in search of nothing more notable than such wayside objects as might serve to feed contemplation. On one occasion, having turned aside to visit the duke of Hamilton's picture-gallery, they were told by the porter, after he had scanned them over, that they ought not to have come to the front door, and were directed to an obscure entrance at the co

Rece

s of Pr

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m the Paris ed

ace by Ho

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ternational Sabbath Sc

England

: Henr

England a

athaniel

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G.P. Put

Orange; or, The Ki

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: Henr

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n P. Y

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t. "Physical Effects o

eparate article, have proved that the vaso-motor centre, as well as the respiratory centre, is situated in the