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No. 3.



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LETTERS TO SUCH OF THE LOVI es Of nobody shall be thoug the better or worse of for speak- and modesty to be on his guard. One is the preten

KNOWLEDGE AS HAVE NOT HAD A ing in public, any more than he is now for talking in a sion of those who say that a man can have no idea of CLASSICAL EDUCATION.

room, or telling his friends of something which he thinks the ancient writers, without a deep intimacy with their LETTER I.

will please them. The example has been long set in language : the other, of those who affirm, with equal

political and other such public matters. It is desirable vehemence, that there is no necessity to know the lanWRITERS OF GREECE AND ROME, ETC.

that public matters should no longer be supposed ex- guage at all, and that translations do quite as well as DEAR FRIENDS,—It is related of an Italian lady, a

clusively to mean politics, or even parish matters (im- the originals for giving you all that you need be ac. poetess, who was addressed by a crowd of lovers, that portant as they are). They should comprise knowledge quainted with of the author's genius. her disposition was so good and charming, and inclined of all sorts, entertainment, the interchange of every The former of these pretenders is generally a shalthem all so much to resemble her, that they met one kind of advantage; and knowledge is fast making them lower mau than the other, though sometimes it is pure another in perfect barmony, and only contended who We look upon ourselves but as a bringer of some vanity and self-will that makes him talk as he does; should please her best. The case is extraordinary, and new means of enjoyment to that large party of friends, he bas an over-estimation of his advantages, simply will be thought not very possible. But there is one the fellow-creatures who do not happen to have quite as because they are bis. He is as proud of bis learnmistress who, in proportion as we love her heartily, is much of them as ourselves ; just as a man might bring ing as another pompous man might be of his park and So truly a mistress for our soul, and tends to exempt us

to his native village some curious presents, or new games, his mansion. Such is the case, when he really has $0 much from those infirmities of envy and jealousy from abroad : and fervent is our sincerity when we add, anything like an intimacy with his authors; but in both which beset the more animal passions, that all who pro- that as hundreds of the scholars now living could go far instances he would fain make out his possession to be fess themselves ber admirers, may unquestionably be deeper into the learning of the subjects we are about to unapproachable, by all who bave not bad the same golvery good friends, and love one another the better, the bandle than we sball go, so there are, of course, as den key. The common run of the class consists of men more they love herself. This Mistress is Knowledge; many readers among the average number of those to who really know nothing of their authors but the words, and this is the reason why we of the London Journal whom we address ourselves, who, if they had enjoyed and who unconsciously feel that, on that account, they venture to claim you all as friends; and to share with the same advantages as the others, would have been our must make the best of their knowledge, and pretend it you such helps as we possess, towards the enjoyment of masters in that respect as well as they ; perhaps, like is a wonderful matter. Such a man smiles when you

many of those others, could have done them more jus- speak of getting some insight into the character of For " to like the same things, and dislike the same tice on every point. We believe, however, that we Homer's genius, or Virgil's, by dint of some happy bit things, thut (says a Roman bistorian) is the friendship know enough to make our remarks welcome and useful ; of version, or some masterly criticism. He says, triafter all.”

and if love can supply the want of knowledge in this umphantly, that “even Pope" is acknowledged not to Namque, idem velle, atque idem nolle, ea demum firma

instance, as it does sometimes in others, assuredly give a right idea of him, much less Chapman, and amicitia est."--Sallust. there will be no lack of that.

those other “old quaint writers :" for "old," observe, you

a bit of Latin, that you may see the two We propose, then, in these letters, from time to time, is a term of contempt with him; though “ ancient,” he languages together, and perhaps chuse to compare the and with due intervals of other matter, to furnish those thinks, comprises every thing that is respectable. But words, and see where you can pick out a meaning. We who have not bad a classical education, and who have “old” means a man who lived only a few hundred years have heard an intelligent woman say, that when she met heart and sense enough to regret the want, with such back, and who did not write either in Latin or Greek ; with a passage in a book on a scientific or other sub. help towards the appreciation and enjoyment of the whereas “ancient" means a man who lived upwards of ject which she could not thoroughly comprehend, she great names of Greek, Roman, and other literature, as a thousand, and wrote perhaps a dull book in one of Devertheless made a point of reading it, because it translations in general do not supply, and some knowo those languages, which has contrived to come down piqued her understanding--made it curious to know ledge, united with the aforesaid love, in some degree may. to us, owing to some curious things it contains re

and she sometimes found that she got a bit of We shall begin with the most ancient — or those who lative to customs and manners, or to the influence of knowledge by the way. In the days of our boyhood, are nearest at hand, — as the case may happen ; and a succession of these sort of critics, and the long fashion and before we knew the Greek alphabet, we remember we shall help our helps with all the aids we can get they have kept up by dint of the connexion that has bow thankful we used to be to Smollett and Fielding, in from other men's criticism, and from translations that are hitherto subsisted between the power of receiving a their povels, for writing their Greek quotations in Eng really worth anything. To points of mere learning, and classical education and the advantages of wealth and lish Jetters, and how we used to sound the words, and such as men who bave learning and nothing else derote rank. When all the world come to share in that fancy them soinetling fine. They gave us a regard for themselves, we shall, of course, pay no attention ; not education, some singular questions will take place, both the language before we knew any thing about it; like a because they are without their value, but because, for- as to the genius of the ancient writers, and the moral youth who bears a girl with a sweet voice speak, before tunately, they are not necessary to our purpose, which benefits derivable from portions of them. If our friend, he has seen her; and is pleased with her tone and is to give the relish of the fruit, rather than the botany of the above class, is a man of consequence, he looks manner, though he does not even know what she says. of it. We only wish we could give this better, like that upon his learning as forming an additional barrier

We bare begun talking with you on other points, before of fruits eaten on the spot where they grow, or trans- between him and the uneducated. Be quotes Greek in we have stated the main object of our letter ; but they planted into the exquisite hot-houses that exist in the parliament, and takes it for an argument. Or he forgets are not unconnected with it; and we give you notice, cells of some brains that we know of. And yet, how both his Greek and Latin, but thinks he could recover that we shall probably take many of the like liberties of few readers are there even among the scholarly, who it when he pleases, and that is the same thing. If he is companionship, and endeavour in all respects to be as can pretend to thorough perceptions of that kind ? and a professed scholar, he is ignorant of every thing in much at our ease as possible, in order to persuade our

what multitudes are there that know no

of the world but scholarship, and therefore ignorant of that selves that we are as much at home with you as this them than the basket knows of its strawberries? We He is a pompous school-master, or a captious sort of private publicity will let us be, and that you re- will venture to say, that even with no better helps than verbal critic, or in bis most respectable capacity, a gard the writer of these letters in the only light in which it is in our power to afford, and because we judge of barmless and dreaming pedant,-a Dominie Sampson. his addressing himself to you in this way could be bear- the ancient poets as of the modern, and treat them as If England had existed before Greece, he would have able ; namely, as one who is heartily in earnest for the men and as geniuses, and creatures of perennial flesh been an idolater of Shakspeare and Milton, at the good and sociality of the world, and who would fain and blood, and of wonderful imaginations, and not as expense of Homer and Euripides; or he would have take any steps not calculated to baulk themselves, to things made up of nothing but schoolmasters, and college. known just as much of the former as he does of the promote them. To this end, it has struck him, that by caps, and a “gentlemanly reputation,” our reader shall latter! that is to say, nothing.

In short, you may finging bimself without reserve into the field, and set. know more of them, before we have done, than half the describe him as a man who knows that there is another ting an open example of the bringing into public inter- educated men in England. And we look for the special man living on the upper side of his town, of the name of course the same candour and simplicity that are prac- encouragement, to this end, of real scholars, and shall be Ancient; and a very wonderful gentleman he takes tised between friends in private, he does something grateful for any helps with which they may be moved Ancient to be, becanse he is rich, and has a large towards breaking down the barriers of many stiff and to enrich us.

library, and has given him access to it; but what sort of mistrustful conventionalities which serve to keep men There are two supposed (for they are not real) extremes a man Ancient really is, wbat is the solidity of bis asunder

, and therefore assists, however remotely, in of pretension, upon the strange question whether a know- understanding, the subtlety of his imagination, or the hastening the coming of that time, when all men shall ledge of the learned languages, is or is not of use, contents of the books in his library, except that they are say candidly and in friendliness, wbat they think, and against which it beloves an uneducated man of sense printed in certain kinds of type, of all that, our learned





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friend knows nothing, and therefore he concludes, that of nature's wealth to herself, the blossoming of the
nobody else can know.
fruit trees, the leafing of the trees in general, the retura
of the singing birds, and the re-appearance of the
butterflies. She is the elder and slenderer sister of
May, dressed in more virgin apparel, and her fingers
are dabbled with wet; but her colder cheek has still a
bloom on it, and she prepares the country for her buxom
sister with a world of good will.

Of the other extreme of pretenders, who dogmatize on this subject, that is to say, who pronounce peremptory judgments of Yes and No, and Possible and Impossible, without a due knowledge of the subject,-the best and most intelligent portion sometimes contains persons who know so much on other points, that they ought to know better on this but out of a resentment of the very want of the other's advantages, affect to despise them. For herein the exalters of a classical education, as the only thing needful, and the decriers of it as a thing altogether unnecessary, set out from precisely the same ground of self-sufficiency. The former unduly trumpet up the education, merely because they have had it, (or think they have), and the latter as rudely decry it, merely because they have not. These latter argue, that you may know all that is useful in ancient books, by means of translations; and that the poetry "and all that" may be got equally out of them, or is of no consequence. Their own poetry, meanwhile, such as it is, that is to say, their caprices, their imaginary advantages, and the colouring which their humour and passions give to every thing near them, is in full blossom.

To cut short this question, which we feel more loth to touch upon in the latter instance than in the former, (because more sympathy is due to the resentment of a want than to the arrogance of a possession), we may, perhaps, illustrate the point at once to the readers' satisfaction, by the help of no greater a passage than a jest out of "Joe Miller."

It is related of Archbishop Herring, that when he was at college, he fell one day into a gutter, and that a wag exclaimed as he got up, "Ah, Herring, you're in a pretty pickle!" Upon which a dull fellow went away, and said, "So and so has been bantering poor Herring. Herring fell into the gutter, and so, says Dick, says he, Ah, Herring, my boy, you're in a pretty situation."

Now the pedant, who is all for the original language, and is of opinion that no version of their writers or account of them can give you the least idea of their spirit, is bound to maintain, on the same principle, that it would be impossible to convey the smallest real taste of this joke out of English into Latin or Greek; while every real scholar knows that the thing is very possible. On the other side the bigotted no-scholar is bound to insist, that the stupid version of the joke is quite as good as the original, or at any rate supplies us with all that is really wanted of it,-that the word situation is as good as the word pickle, and that, therefore, no utility is lost sight of no real information. It is true, the whole joke is lost, the whole spirit of the thing, but that is no matter. As to confining the notion of utility to matters of information, useful in the ordinary sense of the word, however important; we will not waste our room, at this time of day, after all which has been said and understood to the contrary, with shewing you what you know already. The more we really know of any thing, languages included, the more, as it has been finely said, do we "discipline" our "humanity;" that is, teach our common nature to know what others have thought, felt, and known, before us, and so enable our modesty and information to keep pace with each other.

It will not be supposed by the reflecting reader that we mean to compare the sufficiency of a translation in the above instance with its being all that might be wanted in others, or that the spirit and peculiar fragrance (so to speak,) of such poetry as Shakspeare's, could be trans ferred through a Greek medium without losing any thing by the way; unless a Shakspeare himself were the operator, or even then. Undoubtedly the peculiarity of the medium itself, the vessel, will make a difference. All that we mean to say is, that some real taste of the essence of ancient genius, far better than what is afforded by the specimens generally on sale, can be given by means of great care and lovingness; and that those who are so insanely learned as to take the vessel itself for the whole merit of the contents, have no taste of it at all.

Of the three principal leaders of the spring and
summer birds, the swallow, the nightingale, and the
cuckoo, we spoke in our first number. The trees (if our
own leaves last long enough, and thicken into bowers for
the reader,—as we have reason to hope they will,) we
shall keep till June or July, when their shade will
be desirable; and brown and thick shall be a whole
wood of them, by the help of their human birds, the
poets. The present week, by the help of a book, of
which it is difficult to take leave, even for a time, we
devote to the song of birds in general, and shall proceed
to lay before our readers the following interesting
speculations on nature's intention in it, from the pages
of the writer to whom we are already so much obliged.
"The purpose (says Mr. Mudie) which the song of

birds answers in the economy of nature, is one of those
mysteries, which, like the differences of tint in their
plumage, human ingenuity has not yet been able to ex-
plain. It is not, however, a mere pairing cry, because

it is continued till the birds break the shell, and, in
some instances, till they are able to fly. We may be
sure, however, that it has its use; and, as we can ob-
serve that the females of all birds which have that cry,
whether it be what we call song or not, are excited
when it is uttered by the male, it may be that it pro-
duces in the female that heat which is necessary for
hatching the eggs. In ourselves there are many sounds
which make the heart beat, the blood dance, and the
whole body glow, we know not why; and thus we have
at least no ground for denying without proof, that the
Perhaps the more philosophical way of considering it
other animals may be affected in a similar manner.
is to suppose that it produces general excitement, and
a power of more energetic performance in all the labour
which the birds can undertake.


AFRIL is full of the beauteous evidences of Spring.
March has enough of them to make us grateful, but
April, with her profusion of white and green, of her
es, and her bright little wings, confirms the promise.
may be said to have four charming manifestations

"The connection between the song and the plumage,
and the silence and the moult, is also a curious matter,
and shows that the whole bird is subject to some gene-
ral law, which, though it lies deep beyond the power of
our divination, governs ever the minutest circumstance,
the production of a new spot or gloss on a feather,
of courage into birds naturally timid.
the reddening of a comb or a wattle, or the inspiration
The birds, in
fact, blossom in the spring as well as the plants; and when
the purpose of nature is accomplished, the bloom of one
is shed as well as that of the other. But if the purpose
of nature in continuing the race, is not accomplished,
the bloom lingers. If the east wind shrivel the anthers
of the peach blossoms, the petals do not come down
perfect in that powdery shower which is the sign of
a plentiful crop; they cleave to the tree, and languish
slowly there.
"Wo be to the wind of the black north-
east," says the cultivator; "it sheds no blooms ;" and
so also may the lover of birds lament, if the songs of
his favourites are continued through the summer. If
the bird continues its song, it at the same time continues
its plumage; and the moult, when it does, takes place,
partly because it is at a later and colder season, and
partly from that part of physiology which has not yet
become a science; the new plumage has less of the
peculiarity of the male, and more resembles that of the
female and the young, than if the bird had been mute
and had moulted, in due course.

sing in many moods, "but birds sing only when they are merry." Is there not some inconsistency between this assertion and the remarks above quoted? Does he not show us, that birds, as well as human beings, may be moved in their song by melancholy as well as mirthful excitement-not without pleasure, it is true-but still a mournful one, or something allied to it? They sing, he tells us (in this and other passages of his work) from "hope delayed," from want of their mates, and other uneasy circumstances; and he adds an affecting piece of information-worthy the regard of the thoughtful-that an experienced ear can discern a mingling of distress and irritation in the tones of their imprisoned song. Now, in what we cannot help in all this, there is no such pain and melancholy as we need contemplate with any misgivings of nature's good will; for birds generally realize their hopes and their mates, and we heartily agree with the opinion implied by the poet respecting the grounds and intentions of all her works, that

"In nature there is nothing melancholy." What is unalterable, we may conclude to be best for the

general energy of health and pleasure which it includes;

what is otherwise, man (and, for aught we know, other creatures too), but man evidently, is incited to alter. Let But as lovers and bereaved persons sing to their guitars us never lose sight of that manifest and important fact. and piano-fortes, not always a song of mirth, so nightingales and other birds may surely warble in the like shadow of a sweet thought, and feel the shade of it as well as the sweetness.

In another part of his book, where be speaks of the nightingale (respecting whose song we venture to think him on the unorthodox side), Mr. Mudie says, that men

We proceed to give two more extracts from Mr. Mudie's attractive work-the first on the subject of the birds more particularly called the Warblers, or those who return to us from warmer climates with songs unherald of the spring, the lark. known to our homesteads; the other, on that joyous


Though all the little birds are interesting, as associated with nature, with innocence, and with beauty, there is a peculiar interest about the warblers. The birds, which remain constantly with us and come around our dwellings in the inclement season, give that season sprightliness by their appearance, and hail with their songs any warm day that breaks out. But the constancy of their appearance takes off some of the interest which, if they were as novel as they are beautiful, they would more certainly command; and as their songs, breaking out as they do in the intervals of the storms, are no certain signs that the life of the year has begun, we do not listen to them with the same attention and satisfaction as to the migrant warblers.


"That song of sorrow (though to the bird it is rather
a song of hope delayed) has not the spirit of the natu-
ral song.
It is true, that by Midsummer, nature is
muffled by drooping leaves, and fallen 'blooms, and
downy anthers; and it waxes fat and rank, so that
though it may murmur, it will not "ring clear," (like
moistened flute,) as it does in the season of vernal song,
when all is fresh and full of sap; but we also can per-
ceive a falling off in the note itself; and we have a
corroboration in caged birds, which never give their
song with the full glee and power of that of the wood-
lands. Even in the most admired song that is warbled
from the prison-house of wire, an ear tuned and habitu-
ated to the free strains of nature, can recognize a blend-
ing of the cry of irritation and distress. Nor can it be
otherwise. The bird is the child of nature as much as
man is, and it loves liberty as well-better, for it will
not voluntarily exchange that to be a pampered slave
in a palace. It puts one in mind of that exquisitely
mournful delineation of the children of Israel, in painful
servitude and restraint, even on the palmy shores of the
wide-rolling Euphrates; and one cannot contemplate
the imprisoned bird, without thinking on the mossy
tree, the little nest, and the chirping brood, and feeling
the force of the unanswerable interrogatory-"Ah! how
can we sing the song of our God in the place of our
captivity?"- Feathered Tribes of the British Islands.
Vol. 1. p. 244.

"The song, or the other demonstrations of spring, given by the resident bird, tells us merely of the state of the season in our own country, of which we have other means of judging; but the summer, or rather the spring migrant brings us tidings from afar-intimates that the plains of Africa are burned up with drought, or that the season of growth is advancing in the south of Europe, and will speedily reach us. They are visitants from afar, but they are not strangers; they are our own native birds that retired during winter, leaving the groves, the fields, and the river banks to other races, driven from our own wilds, or from more inclement regions further to the north, so that in the season of penury there

might be plenty for those whose structure and powers did not adapt them for flights so far to the southward; and now, when the time of plenty is again coming round, and vegetation is approaching that state in which there is danger to it from those creatures on which birds feed, they return to resume those labours which are alike useful, and those songs which are alike cheering, to themselves and to us.

They come also to be our near associates, when those that we had with us in the winter are beginning to seek their way to the woods and the wilds. All the warblers love shade and shelter; but, with few exceptions, they seek these among the cultivated lands, or close on their margins. Some are in the grove, others in the coppice; some by the ridgy stream, or the reedy pool, and others in the brake; but they are not found on the wide waste, or in the upland forest; and, generally speaking, a man always partakes in the benefit of their labours, and may hear the melody of their notes. The spaces of which they extend vary, and so do the characters of those places which they most frequent; but it is a general rule, that where the air is most pure, and the soil most fertile, and in the highest state of cultivation, there the warblers are found, in the greatest variety of species, and the greatest number of individuals. Even their voices partake of the characters of their localities. The nightingale sings more sweetly over the gravel in Surrey, than over the clay in


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"There are considerable differences of appearance in the warblers, answering to the haunts in which they are found; but there seems a general likeness through all the genera. They are delicate in their outlines, in many other genera. Their plumage is delicate, and, without any of the full or abrupt curves that are found though there be some exceptions, their colours are sub


dved, and withont any very strong markings or con- one, nor in the finest taste ; but it appears to us, that their names, but if he wanted to speak to any of them, trasts. The featbers on the shoulders and the wing with allowance for the conceit, and keeping in mind the

used to cry “Hop!” Probably this was nothing more coverts are short, so that the wings are light. Their liquid sharpness of the French pronunciation, especially than the old cry of our gentry to their servants de

-"Hoh, ners, though gentle, are rather sprightly. They have in the last line, the "echo to the sense” is really not the honestest man in the world." not, indeed, any organs which can be regarded as offen- unhappily sounded. Here are the lines. Translation sive weapons; their bills are tender, suited only for the is out of the question : capture of insects and their larvæ, or for bruising

PAGANINI. berries, or other small pulpy fruits. They are not all

La gentil alouette, avec son tirelire,

Tirelire, a lire, et tireliran tire, song birds, but they comprise the finest of our song

Vers la vonte du ciel, pius son vol vers ce lieu sters, and their notes run more on the minor keys than

Vire et desire dire, adieu Dieu, adieu Dieu. those of any other birds.”—Vol. I. p. 313. “ The lark that tirra-lirra chaunts," says Shakspeare.

So play'd of late to every passing thought The warblers, besides the nightingale, include the

With finest change (might I but half as well sedge and reed songsters, the red-start

, the white-throat, spirit

, see the poems of Mr. Shelley. Spenser has a
For an ode to the sky-lark, full of the bird's own extatic So write!) the pale magician of the bow,

Who brought from Italy the tales, made true, the petty-chaps, citmouse, black-cap, &c. The thrush,

Of Grecian lyres; and on his sphery band, with its beautiful mellow wildness, sings to us nine charming image of Cupid bathing and dressing his wings,

Loading the air with dumb expectancy, under the eyes of a weeping beauty :months ont of the twelve. Now for the sky-lark, re

Suspended, ere it fell, a nation's breath."

The blinded archer-boy specting whose movements, during its song, Mr. Mudie

Like lark in show'r of rain,

He smote.—and clinging to the serious chords enters into some curious particolars.

Sate bathing of his wings;

With godlike ravishment, drew forth a breath, And glad the time did spend

So deep, so strong, so fervid thick with love, “Larks, from their vast numbers, flock much and fly

Under those crystal drops,

Blissful, yet laden as with twenty prayers, far in the winter, and flock more to the uplands in

Which fell from her fair eyes, the middle of England, where much rain usually falls in

And at their brightest beams

That Juno yearn'd with no diviner soul
Him proyned* in lovely wise.

To the first burthen of the lips of Jove.
the summer, than to the drier and warmer places near
the shores ; but so true are they to their time, that, be

The exceeding mystery of the loveliness it in the south, the centre, or the north, the lark is

Sadden'd delight; and with his mournful look, always ready on the first gleamy day of the year to OUR present week is rich in birth-days.

Dreary and gaunt, banging his pallid face mount to its watch tower in the upper sky, and proclaim

April 16, 1588. At Malmsbury, in Wiltshire, whence he Twixt his dark flowing locks, be almost seem'd, the coming of the vernal season. It is in fact more

is called the Philosopher of Malmsbury, Thomas Hobbes, To feeble or to melancholy eyes, joyant then in the sun, more inspirable by the life which who originated much of the philosophy that was after- One that had parted with bis soul for pride, the solar influence diffuses through the atmosphere, than

wards broached with more popularity by Locke and And in the sable secret liv'd forlorn. almost any other creature: not a spring air can sport, others, the supposed opinions of their master on ques

But true and earnest, all too happily not a breeze of morn can play, not an exhalation of tions of religion and government having kept his name

That skill dwelt in him, serious with its joy; freshness from opening bud or softening ciod can ascend, in the back-ground. Though fearless in intellect

For noble now he smote the exulting strings, without note of it being taken and proclaimed by this Hobbes was personally, a timid man, and very anxious to

And bade them march before his stately will; all-sentient index to the progress of nature. keep clear of church and state troubles. He was one

And now he lov'd them like a cheek, and laid " And the form and manner of the indication are as of the omaments of the tribe of smokers, being fond of

Endearment on them, and took pity sweet; delightful as the principle is true. The lark rises, not soothing his meditations with a pipe. His attempts at

And now he was all mirth, or all for sense like most birds, which climb the air upon one slope, by poetry form an extraordinary and ludicrous contrast

And reason, carving out his thoughts like prose a succession of leaps, as if a heavy body were raised by he took to poetry when he was too old; but the truth is, with his prose works. Dryden good-niaturedly says that

After his poetry; or else be laid a succession of efforts, or steps, with pauses between ;

His own soul prostrate at the feet of love, his philosophy was too material to make a poet of. He it twines upward like a vapour, borne lightly on the at

And with a full and trembling fervour deep, mosphere, and yielding to the motions of that as other wanted the fine elements of imagination and sentiment.

In kneeling and close-creeping urgency, vapours do. Its course is a spiral gradually enlarging; his translation of Homer, one of the most ridiculous The following (from memory,) is a specimen or two of

Implor’d some mistress with hot tears; which past, and, seen on the side, it is as if it were keeping the mistakes ever committed by a great man. Speaking of

And after patience had brought right of peace, boundary of a pillar of ascending smoke, always on the the sound of Apollo's arrows in his quiver, as the god

He drew, as if from thoughts finer than hope, surface of that logarithmic column, (or funnel rather,) moved along in his wrath, (which is a passage prodi.

Comfort around him in ear-soothing strains which is the only figure that, on a narrow base, and

And elegant composure; or he turn'd spreading as it ascends, satisfies the eyes with its stabi. giously noble and characteristic in the Greek,) he says

To heaven instead of earth, and rais'd a pray'r lity and self-balancing in the thin and invisible Huid.

His arrows chink as often as he jogs!

So eamest vebement, yet so lowly sad, Nor can it seem otherwise, for it is true to nature. and in another fine passage, one of the very finest of

Mighty with want and all poor human tears, In the case of smoke or vapour, it diffuses itself in the antiquity, where Jupiter with the knitting of his im

That never saint, wrestling with earthly love, exact proportion as the density, or power of support in mortal brows makes Olympus tremble-he says in his

And in mid-age unable to get free, the air diminisbes : and the lark widens the volutions of fantastic rhymes, —

Tore down from heav'n such pity. Or behold its spiral in the same proportion ; of course it does so only

In his despair, (for such, from what he spoke ben perfectly free from disturbance or alarm, because

Thewith his great black brow's he nodded

Of grief before it, or of love, 'twould seem) either of these is a new element in the cause, and as

Wherewith affrighted were the powers divine,
Olympus shook at shaking of his godhead,

Jump would be into some strange wail uncouth such must modify the effect. When equally undisturbed,

And Thetis, from it, jump'd into the brine !

Of witches' dance, ghastly with wbinings thin the descent is by a reversal of the same spiral; and when

And palsied nods-mirth wicked, sad, and weak. that is the case, the song is continued during the whole to wit, plunged into the ocean !

And then with sbow of skill mechanical, time that the bird is in the air.

April 17, about 497 before the Christian era, at a Marvellous as witchcraft, he would overthrow "The accordance of the song with the mode of the village near Athens, Socrates, the founder of the phi- That vision with a show'r of notes like hail, ascent and descent, is also worthy of notice. When the

losophy of good sense, who taught us what to do in Or sudden mixtures of all difficult things volutions of the spiral are narrow, and the bird changing hopes to which Nature herself, and a sense of the in

our houses and social intercourse, not forgetting the Never yet beard; flashing tbe sharp tones now, its attitude rapidly in proportion to the whole quantity visible world, incline the aspirations of men.

In downward leaps like swords; now rising fine of flight, the song is partially suppressed, and it swells

Into some almost tip of minute sound, as the spiral widens, and sinks as it contracts ; so that

To sage philosophy next lend thine ear,

From which he stepp'd into a higher and higher

From heav'n descended to the low-roofd house though the potes may be the same, it is only when the

On viewless points, till laugh took leave of him:

Of Socrates ; see there his tenement, lark sings poised at the same height, that it sings in a Whom, well inspired, the oracle pronounced

Or he would fly as if from all the world uniform key. It gives a swelling song as it ascends,

To be alone, and happy, and you should hear and a sinking one as it comes down ; and if even it take

Milton's Paradise Regained. His instrument become a tree far off,

For but one wheel in the air, as that wheel always includes

A nest of birds and sunbeams, sparkling both,

Not to know at large of things remote either an ascent or a descent, it varies the pitch of the

A cottage-bow'r: or be would condescend,

From use, obscure, and subtle, but to know song.

That which before us lies in daily life

In playful wisdom which knows no contempt, "The song of the lark, besides being a most accessible Is the prime wisdom.

To bring to laughing memory, plain as sight, and delightful subject for common observation, is a very

A farm-yard with its inmates, ox and lamb, curious one for the physiologist. Every one in the least April 18, 1483, at Urbino, in Italy, Raphael (Raf

The whistle and the whip, with feeding hens conversant with the structure of birds, must be aware faello Sanzio) the prince of painters ; so called, because

In household fidget muttering evermore, that, with them, the organs of intonation and modula- be possessed the greatest of requisites for the art of And rising as in scorn, crown'd Chanticleer, tion are imward, deriving little assistance from the tongue, painting in their highest characters, particularly that of

Ordaining silence with his sovereign crow. and none, or next to none, from the mandibles of the bill. expression, or the power of exhibiting the thoughts and

Then from one cbord of his amazing shell, The windpipe is the musical organ, and it is often very emotions of inen in the face and figures. And he could

Would he fetch out the voice of quires, and weight curiously formed. Birds require that organ less for do this alike in gentle subjects and in grand. Raphael Of the built organ; or some two-fold strain breathing than other animals having a windpipe and was as prosperous in fortune as in art, and appears to

Moving before him in sweet-going yoke, lungs, because of the air cells and breathing tubes with bave been beloved by every body ; but died young-at

Ride like an Eastern conqueror, round whose state which all parts of their bodies (even the bones,) are fur- the age of thirty-seven ; yet he produced' an astonish

Some light Morisco leaps with his guitar; nished. But those diffused breathing organs must act ing heap of works. But this it is to have a pursuit

And ever and anon o'er these he'd throw with least freedom when the bird is making the greatest which we perfectly love. “ And the more a man does,”

Jets of small notes like pearl, or like the pelt efforts in motion ; that is , when ascending or descending: says Mr. Hazlitt, the more he can do,” which is a

Of lovers' sweetmeats on Italian lutes and in proportion as these cease to act, the trachea is saying that looks like a contradiction, but, on a little From windows on a feast-day, or the leaps the more required for the purposes of breathing. The inspection, will be found to contain a very evident and

Of pebbled water, sprinkling in the sun, sky lark thus converts the atmosphere into a musical encouraging truth. Habit produces readiness

. An ex

One chord effecting all :- and when the ear instrument of many stops, and so produces an exceed- cellent idea of one of Raphael's finest productions, the Felt there was nothing present but himself ingly wild and varied song-a song which is, perhaps, death of Ananias, has been given in one of the energetic And silence, and the wonder drew deep sighs, not equal either in power or compass, in the single stave, wood-cuts of the Penny Magazine.

Then would bis bow lie down again in tears, to that of many of the warblers, but one which is more April 21, 1583, at Delft, in Holland, Hugo Grotius,

And speak to some one in a pray’r of love, varied in the whole succession. All birds that sing as- a statesman, theologian, and law writer, all (consider

Endless, and never from his beart to go: cending or descending, have similar power ; but the sky. ing the time be lived in) on the side of liberality and a

Or he would talk as of some secret bliss; lark has it in a degree superior to any other."-Vol. I. Christian benevolence.

And at the close of all the wonderment

During the struggles in his p. 6. country with a less generous system, he got into prison,

(Which himself shar'd) near and more near would come Mr. D'Israeli, in the second volume of his Curiosities and his wife delivered bim by an ingenious stratagem,

Înto the inmost ear, and whisper there

Breathings so soft, so low, so full of life, of Literature, lately republished, (p. 69,) has a quotation putting bim into a chest which used to go to and fro between him and his friends with books in it. Grotius

Toucb'd beyond sense, and only to be borne about the lark, from the fantastic, but not un poetical pages had a fine taste in poetry, and was of social and plea

By pauses which made each less bearable, of the old French poet, Du Bartas, in which he thinks the sant manners. A French writer, who ,often supped

That out of pure necessity for relief imitation of the bird's song not a bappy one.

The mode
with him, says that he never called his servants by

From that heap'd joy, and bliss that laugh'd for pain,

The thunder of th' uprolling house came down, of attempting to do justice to the song is not a bappy

And bow'd the breathing sorcerer into smiles.

* Pruned,

Wisest of men,

Paradise Lost.

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have required any such stimulus to his good-nature); to a notice so deeply kind, that it becomes us to be silent before it, in the classical pages of the Examiner; to a very particular one, calculated to be extremely useful, in the Spectator; to another, of singular gallantry and handsomeness on the part of the Age, which we are quick to acknowledge; to the Northampton Herald for a paragraph in which we recognize the friendly and graceful mind of a writer in another journal; to the Bucks Gazette for sending us its brotherly furtherance of the paragraph; to other papers, which we have heard of, but cannot with certainty specify; and last, not least, to our modest but valued friend the Ladies' Penny Gazette, whose verses on the occasion, for the sake of the genuine things they contain, we would extract into our Journal, if we had not retained some little modesty of our own,-to these, and all friends, we return our best thanks; and we return them, not only for our own sakes, however flattered and animated, but for the sake of that humanity at large which such evidences of good will tend to promote, and which, we hope and believe, will every day more and more be drawing the world together, to compare notes for its advancement. We have nothing to do with politics in this journal, in a certain seuse, directly or indirectly; but the fact is, that Politics, in their noblest and most universal sense, have to do, remotely or otherwise, with every fresh movement in society, small as well as great; and it is in the name of a large principle, and not of our own little pretensions, we speak, when we say, that even from so small a seed as we have attract

ed this sunshine of good-will to, some others may arise, which may be transplanted, from time to time, and from spot to spot, till they unite with the harvests of greater cultivators, and of awful toil, to clothe the world in glad.


Conclusion of last week's Extract from Mr. Bentham's unpublished Work.

Praise and Censure. In the conveying approbation to another for meritorious conduct, let the expressions be warm and cordial. Let the recompense be as much as the circumstances of the case justify. Sincerity and candour, indeed, are modifications of veracity; or rather veracity is a modification of sincerity; but veracity has its shapes more or less attractive; and when it has the matter of pleasure at its disposal, let its distribution be made as welcome as possible to the receiver. That a favour denied may be made, by the grace of its denial, almost as pleasurable as a benefit conferred, has almost passed into a proverb; and that the language of approval may lose all, or almost all its acceptableness by its forms of expression, or manner of utterance, is within the observation of every man's experience. Let your praise then, when given, be given with all the accompaniments which make praise most delightful. The exercise which conveys approbation is in itself most salutary. Let it be the expression of truth combined with warm-heartedness; one sentence so characterized, will be worth many in which such qualities are wanting.

And where extra-regarding prudence* requires that disapprobation should be conveyed to another, let only so much of pain be created as is necessary for the accomplishing the object you have in view. If you create too little pain, indeed, that which you do create is wasted; because the purpose for which it was created fails. But the common error is on the other side. Vindictiveness frequently mingles with the rewards of justice. The disposition of power to display itself, usually leads to the infliction of more suffering than prudence or benevolence warrant. And in ordinary cases, disapprobation is conveyed in that moment when passion has enfeebled the power of judging how much of pain is demanded. As a general rule, avoid the expression of disapprobation when you are angry. The violent expressions to which irritation gives birth, are those which will be least adapted to the end; for the blindness of anger prevents it from seeing and seizing the fit object for the accomplishment of its end.

Love of having the "last word."-Some men have a failing which is a source of great annoyance to others, and for which they pay the penalty by making the conversation less agreeable, and even at times making their conversation intolerable; it is the habit of stickling for the final word. Right or wrong in the controversy, subdued or victorious, there are persons who insist on exercising the petty and vexatious despotism of uttering the last sentence that is uttered. This disposition is the out-break of pride in a very offensive shape; it is the usurpation of dominion over the self-love of other men, on a ground where men are ordinarily most sensitive. It is, in fact, a determination to humiliate him with whom you have been holding intercourse to humiliate him, not by the success of an irresistible argument, but by the intrusion of a tyrannic power. Avoid then the act, lest the act should create the habit; and if the habit exist, extra-regarding prudence requires that it should be got rid of. Watch yourself, and inquire of any friend on whose sincerity you can rely— inquire, if you are quite sure that you will not be hurt by his reply, whether the infirmity is exhibited by, or has been observed in you; and if it be, correct the infirmity. Discovery of the valuable part of the minds of others.-Acts of benevolence cannot be better exercised on occasions where we are forced, as it were, into the company of others, than by the choice of pleasurable topics of conversation. A little attention will discover those topics. To detect what are the peculiar riches of another man's mind, or experience, or knowledge, is among the happiest of resources, Its exercise is alike complimentary to the other party. and instructive to ourselves.

We have to commence then our memorandums of the London week, with another congratulation on the increasing exchanges of good offices between England and foreign countries. The cause is no greater, this By"extra-regarding" prudence, the author means prudence time, than an acknowledgment on the part of the as regards others, and its re-action on ourselves. University of Tubingen, in Wirtemburgh, of the receipt Collection of Historical Documents," from the Speaker of the English House of Commons, "printed under the direction of the Record Commission." But even this is an addition to the stock of promises for the world, and for the growth of general intelligence and good will. How much better to see the official authorities of the globe corresponding with one another on the subject of books and useful presents, instead of requesting to know which means to insult the other first, and when they shall go to war, and play all sorts of absurd enormities!


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In our last week's article, under the present head, subjects. It is not our object to do this, though we may we entered too much into critical details on particular be occasionally tempted to it (as we were then) by a particular book or picture. The main objects of our Journal are explained by the general appearance of it, and by its resemblance in certain points to Chambers's Edinburgh Journal. In the articles under the head of London, which are an addition to the plan of that paper, we do not profess to give reviews, or to notice everything; but simply to catch the spirit of what is passing, sometimes as persons present, sometimes as mere recorders of the leading opinions of the town; though always with an attention and responsibility of our own. We write them chiefly for our friends in the country, and would have them be regarded as the letters of a London correspondent, who makes the subjects of them a portion of his ordinary communications by the post, having friends who like to know a little of what is going forward, on points interesting to the advancement of knowledge.

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Not only do we continue to receive from our correspondents the most animating expressions of kindness, but the press, of all parties, has honoured and delighted us with a singular unanimity of encouragement. We are aware how much of this honour is done us for our good intentions; and how natural it is for men of spirit and talent, to let their praises run over in full measure when they are pleased; but we are the more delighted with their approbation for those very reasons, because it shews what a fund of good will there is towards a good intention, in the bosoms of all men, especially the ablest; and how ready they are to confirm by their own actions (the most valuable of all proof), any genuine evidences of belief in the possibility of a more harmonious world.

To the Times for setting the powerful example of its good will; to the Morning Chronicle, which (we understand) followed it, (though our old brother book-worm, and able, and estimable friend, the Editor, would not

The opera season is improving by the addition of Mademoiselle Giulietta Grisi, and the return of our old acquaintances Rubini and Tamburini, the one with his rubies of notes, of which he is a little too lavish ; the other with a talent for almost anything, at once brilliant and solid. Mademoiselle Grisi (whom we have not heard) is highly praised by the newspapers.

*We understand (for we have not yet seen the articles) that to the list of our kind contemporaries and good wishers, we are to add the Weekly Despatch and the Literary Gazette, but that the latter objects to our entire abstracts of new novels, as doubting whether they are entirely fair. This, to be sure, is a consideration "to give us pause." We can only say, that we will enquire into it amongst the parties most concerned, and if we have made an erroneous judgment of their feelings on the point, make haste to alter it, and act accordingly.

A masquerade is occasionally got up at this theatre, but with little success. One has just taken place. Our beloved countrymen, in fact, as a body, are not yet lively and off-hand enough in the art of sociality, to make these exhibitions tell. They want a few more London Journals! together with some other things which graver journals will help to bring them. We never saw an English masquerade but once, and then its mirth was so melancholy, that it made us go away. Half of the people seemed "afraid of committing themselves," and the other half bent upon showing that they were simply not afraid. There was no genuine vivacity in any quarter. Even a real pantomime-clown who was there, gave but one somerset, and then stood still for the evening, with his hands in his pockets, as if petrified by the place.

They understand Mathews, however, the masterly exhibitions of the humourous and absurd in the person of one man, who has all the show to himself; and accordingly they are now flocking to a selection from his former best pieces, at the Adelphi Theatre; we need not say with what delight. You may go to see whole comedies in which all the persons concerned do nothing worth seeing. Matthews is a whole comedy in himself, of many persons; and all his characters have something good in them, mostly a great deal that is adFace, manner, mind, are all done to the


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WE see, in the news from Scotland, that at the interment of the venerable widow of Burns, ("bonnie Jeanie considerate wife,) the poet's body was for a short time Armour," who, we believe, made him a very kind and exposed to view, and his aspect found in singular preservation. An awful and affecting sight! We should have felt, if we had been among the bye-standers, as if we had found him in some bed in the night of time and space, and as if he might have said something! grave but kind words of course, befitting his spirit, and that of the wise placidity of death: for so the aspect of death looks. A corpse seems as if it suddenly knew everything, and was profoundly at peace in consequence.

THE' water-colour exhibition, in Bond-street, was meant as a kind of supplement to the one in Pall Mall east. There are few very few pictures in the room worth seeing; and those one would wish to see in some better place. V. Bartholomew has presented us with some of beautiful, lively colours. How lively those parrots! how beautifully intense that convolvulus! There are some landscapes by the same artist in the room; but in scenery, that liveliness of colour for which he is remarkable in his flowery pieces, is not to be perceived. Sidney Shepherd is fertile but more tasty than powerful. Barbank has furnished some very clever, highly-finished studies of animals. His larger picture is not so good. Two Studies of Pigs,'by J Thorpe, are admirable; we can only object to the background, which is a little too forward. Scene from Moore's Lalla Rookh,' of the dead Arab girl at the bottom of the sea, by Kearney, is exceedingly fanciful and pretty, with a nice feeling of colour. 'Absent, but not forgotten,' does great credit to the youth of the artist, Miss Fanny Corbeaux; though the perspective of the table is somewhat out of order. The lady in the picture is a little like the fair painter. 'Just Caught,' being captive fish, and a fruit-piece, by Spry, are near Bartholomew in brilliancy of colour. And last, for a bonne-bouche, Lance's Study of Fruit' is rich, brilliant, and fresh as nature.

Our limits restrict us to noticing the most striking pictures in the collection, or we should have mentioned a few others; while, on the other hand, we could wish that some of the attempts in the room had been left out altogether. They are surely not "weeds of glorious feature," but "weeds that have no business there.",

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We spoke in our last of cheap music. There is to be a grand Musical Festival. Sincerely do we hope that in addition to the other merits of its arrangement, we may have the pleasure of announcing that such a scale of prices has been determined on as will admit all classes to a participation. If so, it will be a most happy opportunity for those, whose only incapacity for music is an incapacity to enrich their taste by the payment of seven and sixpence, at the door of a Concert Room. The price for seats of the best kind, on each morning, is to be fixed, we understand, at one guinea. This may not be unreasonable, considering what is offered, and who are likely to be subscribers; but from this price downwards we trust we shall hear of various terms of admission, calculated to the means of all ranks of people. Why should there not be a shilling gallery? Though it were amongst the very rafters of the ceiling, who would not be glad to see it filled with happy faces?



the 20th? Yes, sir, to-day is the 19th of Septem-
'I never forget that
ber.' You are right, my dear.'
day, sir.' You are very good, Madame Moutonnet;
and you know I never forget Sainte Barbe; - dear
heart!' 'We are not talking at present of Sainte
Barbe, sir, but of Saint Eustache, which we shall keep
to-morrow.' You are right, my dear.' 'I have ar-
ranged a little pic-nic party for the Wood of Romian-
ville; does that suit you, sir?' How, my dear? suit
me! I am delighted! the Wood of Romainville,
you know, I was always fond of!


"That charming wood, the lover's good.'



PAUL DE KOCK is the novelist of Parisian middle life,
and with due allowance for the caricature to which
comic novelists are subject, is famous for the truth and
humour of his portraits, for the vivacity of his incidents
and dialogue, for a certain Voltairesque turn in his style,
an abundance of sense, of good nature, and now and
then no little pathos. Two of his best novels have
been made known to the English public by the excellent
translations, entitled Andrew the Savoyard, and the Mo-
dern Cymon. The novel of which we here give an ab-
stract is not one of his best; but it happened to be near
at hand, and the author writes nothing which does not
contain amusement and character; as the reader will
see by our sketch. Madame Moutonnet, who persuades
her husband she is "a fine woman," because she is
large, and who is jealous of him though she never loved
him the little old clerk who has been trained into
slavery without being reconciled to it, and who is
tricked out of his involuntary coach and dollar-and the
grand but mortified Monsieur Dupont, with his double
watch-chain and his eyes a-top of his head, who is so
astonished to find out that his wife loves him, and
breaks his neck to return to her, are all portraits after
general, as well as Parisian, life, though strongly and
amusingly marked with the characteristics of their own

'We are not talking of lovers, Monsieur Moutonnet;
you are always so foolish!' My dear, it is the fault
of Saint Eustache now.' Recollect yourself, sir;' and
a severe look made M. Montonnet comprehend that his
daughter sat next him, and could understand all he said
upon such forbidden subjects; and so the good man
was silent, and his wife continued:-'I have invited
a good deal of company for to-morrow, and I have en-
deavoured to make a good choice among our acquaint-
ance. I think you will be satisfied with my choice.'
'My dear, you know that I always am!' Let me
speak, M. Moutonnet; if you interrupt me so every in-
You are right, my
stant, we shall never have done.'
dear.' Let us see who will be there. First, there
will be we three, and Bidois: I shall not take Jean-
neton, because I do not wish to leave the house empty;
I should not be easy. M. Bidois will carry the bas-
kets; besides, you know, it amuses him.' 'Yes,
ma'am,' said the old clerk, forcing a smile to hide the
face he could not help making at the notion of carrying
I warn you, Monsieur Bidois, that they
will perhaps be a little heavy to-morrow, for we shall
be a great many, and, except bread and wine, which
we shall get at the guard-house, we shall take every
thing with us, -but, you are strong, you are active.'
And I shall be able to relieve you too, sometimes,'
said M. Moutonnet. 'Not at all, sir,' said Madame; 'I
do not intend that; I do not wish you to tire yourself
in the morning; by evening you would be good for no-
thing. You are right, my dear. Well, then, return to
our company we shall have M. Bernard, the toyman,
and his wife, their daughter Mimi, and their little clerk,
Estève. Monsieur Bernard is a very agreeable man,
full of wit and gaiety. When he is in company, he
sets every thing going, and that is what we shall want;
if we had no one but you, Monsieur Montonnet, to
amuse the company!' But, my dear, it appears to
Hush! I am going on: Madame Bernard is
far from having her husband's spirit, though she has
plenty of pretension, and is for ever putting in her
word.' *

the baskets. C





M. Eustache Moutonnet was a rich laceman of the
Rue Saint-Martin. He was a man much esteemed in

his business, for he had never let his bills be protested,
or failed in his engagements. For thirty years that he
had been in business, he had regularly attended to his
concern from eight o'clock in the morning till eight
o'clock at night. He kept the day-book and ledger him-
self; Madame Moutonnet carried on the correspondence
out of doors, and transacted business with the dealers;
the shop and till were confided to the care of Ma-
demoiselle Eugenie Moutonnet.

M. Moutonnet, notwithstanding the grandeur of his position, could not be said to command in his own house; his wife ruled, ordered, and disposed of every thing. When she was in a good humour (a rare occurrence) she would allow her husband to go and take his cup of coffee, provided that he went to the coffee-house at the corner of la Rue Mauconsill, because there they gave plenty of sugar with their coffee, and M. Moutonnet always brought home three lumps to his wife.

This regulated life did not prevent our portly laceman from finding himself the happiest of men; so true is it, that what is one man's meat, is another man's poison.' Moutonnet was a man of simple, peaceable tastes, and, like a child, it was necessary to his happiness to be led.

Madame Moutonnet was past forty; but she had
made up her mind to stop the encroachments of time at
thirty-six. Madame Moutonnet was never pretty, but,
being a large woman, she had persuaded Moutonnet
that he had a very fine woman for his wife. She was
no coquette, but she desired to bear the bell for wit and
beauty. She had never loved her husband; but would
have torn out his eyes had he ever dared to prove un-
faithful. Madame Moutonnet was very jealous of her
rights. In fact she herself was a very "dragon of
virtue." The fruit of this convenient union of domination
and docility, was one pretty, unaffected, sensible, and ten-
der-hearted girl, eighteen years of age at the commence.
ment of our story, fond of her father and afraid of her
A kindly, stout young woman, named Jean-
neton, and Bidois, an old clerk, completed the domestic

establishment of the Moutonnets.

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One day, at dinner, when Moutonnet was plying his knife and fork with vigor, that he might return presently to his ledger, Madame Moutonnet, "assuming an air almost amiable," said to her husband, Monsieur Moutonnet, to-morrow is the day of Saint Eustache.' No! really!' said the laceman, trying to seem astonished, though for eight days past he had kept a strict watch upon the barometer, to see if the weather promised to be fae on his name-day.


Are we so near In France it is the custom, instead of the day on which a person is born, to keep that of the saint whose name they bear,

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In addition to these, M. Gerard, a perfumer, his wife, his sister, and little boy came to the pic-nic; and M. Dupont and M. Adolphe Dalville, a clerk in a neighbouring linendraper's, are introduced, to enlarge the party beyond the fatal number of thirteen.

M. Dupont was a flourishing grocer, about forty years of age, living in the Rue aux Ours. He wore a queue and powder, because he thought it became him, and because his perruquier told him that it gave him an air of distinction. His sky-blue coat and yellow waistcoat gave him a sort of fantastical appearance that quite agreed with the astonished expression of his eyes at the top of his head. He caressed with complacency two watch-chains that hung at his waist-band, and every word he spoke was listened to attentively; he believed himself seducing and witty, having all the self-suffici ency of folly supported by riches; in fine, he was a batchelor of great importance to all who had daughters

to marry.

The day is fine, and the pic-nic prospers by favour of
the relaxed severity of Madame Moutonnet. The first
thing proposed upon entering the wood is a game at
hide-and-seek. Eugenie Moutonnet and Adolphe Dal-
ville have some time regarded each other with an eye of
inclination, though the vigilance and austerity of the
lady's mother have prevented any familiar intercourse.
The opportunities of hide-and-seek however enable
them to avow a mutual passion, and swear eternal con-
stancy. After dinner, during which Madame Mou-
tonnet is incensed against her husband for attempting to
carve a fowl, and quarrels with the toyman's wife who
assists him, the younger part of the company join a vil-
lage dance. The spirited toyman, something exalted
by drinking, provokes the villagers to thrash him. This
unpleasant circumstance draws upon him the displeasure
of Madame Moutonnet, already angered against his
wife, and she is at last enraged to that degree, that a
A storm
total breach takes place between the families.
separates the remaining company into two parties, and
the Moutonnet family with young Dalville seek shelter
at a coffee-house. Adolphe goes out to find a coach,
and Bidois is sent out soon after to assist in the

search; Dalville however, with great zeal, succeeds in
finding one first, and he and the Moutonnets leave the
inn, without waiting for Bidois, and, to the great cha-
grin of the coffee-house keeper, without taking anything;
for Madame Moutonnet thought it would be superfluous
to do so. Meantime Bidois returns unsuccessful, shel-
tered, as to his head, by one of the empty baskets. After
dinner he had manœuvred so skilfully as to achieve the
loss of the other with some bottles, part of the remains
of dinner. Some turkey, and other broken viands are in
his pockets, for Madame Moutonnet would have nothing
left behind 'if she knew it. Where are my friends?'
said he, replacing the basket under his arm. They went

away in a coach,' said the master o with a sneer. 'Gone-in a coach

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They called you. Is not your name if you please.' 'Bidois, Belloie,—it 'No Sir, it's a very different thing." they have gone without you, finding back.' Gone without me!-let me such weather, when I have broken my carrying their dinners!-Madame Ě in calling Madame Moutonnet a tyra have got far,' said the coffee-house keep I dare say you will catch them at the yellow coach.' 'Do you think so→→→ Bidois ran out of the coffee-house.

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"At length, having passed the bar sees a backney coach. I see it!" have some rest now; keep it up!' the redoubles his vigour. He jumps forw hazard among the brooks and marshe road-way turned, to the great detrim ings. He overtakes the coach; and i



Stop, stop!' cried Bidois, running by coach, in a voice choaked with ex coachman, thinking some one was mak paid no attention. Will you stop! again; you have got some people who me, and I will give you something t that's another thing if they are your said the coachman, stopping his hors master.' Bidois did not want this invi directly the coach stopped, he ran and A cry issued from within. Ah! my husband!' said a strange voice. • Her

a man; quick let us be off!' The opened, and the gentleman fled, leaving hat; while the lady saved herself at the shawl, her gloves, and her handkerchief dismayed upon the steps. • Hallo! mean, old fellow?' cried the coachman, his passengers off in such a hurry. responded Bidois, it means that bad every where.-I was mistaken, your p none of my friends.' 'Oh, very well! huinbug to play me such a game as this.' mean? humbug!-do you think I did it of it.' Indeed I do, my man. But, y pass in this way. You have frightened the carrying, so that they have taken to the can't do without my money. Its no use I took them up at the pavilion Françai is outside the barrier, they were to give so, now then, you must give me a do give you a dollar?' 'Yes, my fine fellow able tye. Nonsense! you are joking. pay the fare for people I know nothing are not talking about whys and wherefo made my passengers run away, and you my fare, or we shall see. The coachma Bidois would run away too, jumped from the old clerk had no strength left for r quietly suffered himself to be seized by the



pay us, and have done with it.' I will Bidois, with an air of decision; for low Very well! then let us go back to the barrier, and there we'll make you underst little man.' Saying this, the coachman bad and took Bidois before the clerk of the ba said Bidois, to the coachman, you can p they have left some things in the coach.' me for a pick-pocket? I shall go and gi the prefecture.' I'll undertake that no to reclaim them.' That's no business of right have you to put people out in this basket cap? I don't wonder you frightene must have taken you for the devil.'

"There was a general laugh at the piteo of Bidois when he heard himself conde In rummaging his pocket for his purse, remains of the turkey, which he had ta basket when he put it on his head. This gaiety of the bystanders. It seems the g not lose any thing when he dines at the said the clerk of the barrier, laughing. my affair,' said Bidois, peevishly, putting into his pocket, don't you go and make for this turkey's leg.' No, Sir, turke duty.' That's lucky. Come, coachmar hope at least I may ride,' That's all f were you taking that gentleman and lady to set them down at the Boulevard du Te well; you shall set me down at the Port


That will do, come along.' They leave th to the coach. It still rained, and Bidois s 'At least, if I do pay dear for it, I can stretch ease, and sleep to the Porte Saint-Martin dois! It was doubtless written in the boo he was not to reach Paris in a coach. had got to where the coach stood, four of than the old clerk, came up, opened the coach, and jumped in, exclaiming, At found one! this is not bad!' What th cried Bidois, running to the door, they ha have they? Very pretty, upon my honcu ment-Gentlemen, gentlemen,'-getting o this coach has been waiting here an hourhave no pence, old man,' said one of the c Bidois for the waterman; which was exc how the storm had deranged his dress. and he pushed him


wy roughly, shutt

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