seemingly occupied with the action, she steals a look under her long lashes—and such a look, so bewitchingly tender and shy, so full of sweet enchantment and a sense of drollery, that when you move away from the spot, all the smiles of real, actual, living beauty, seem poor, tame, and soulless in comparison. Now, I not only aver that the Prince who owns this incomparable Houri, not only never gazed on her with such rapture as I have, but I am ready to declare that she never yet bestowed upon him such a glance of beaming tenderness as she has let fall upon me. The rich Scythian owns her image, but

her heart is mine!

These are the things which constitute the wealth of the poor man, and of which no fall in the Funds, no smash in securities, can rob him. It is in the exercise of these gifts of "enjoyability"-passe moi le mot-that he not only redresses the balance of his destiny, but that he cultivates that faculty of fruition which makes him feel a positive ecstasy in whatever is his own.

It is not, then, in my ignorance that I declare that my clove-pink, or my gooseberry-wine, or my wheelbarrow, are incomparably the best in Europe. I who say this have seen men and cities. I am much travelled, and in the many-sided ways of men considerably versed. I have seen ducal swans at Blen

heim, and imperial swans at Versailles, and I come home to recognise in my own swan-the bird that some envious traducer has called a goose-a creature infinitely more beautiful and more stately.

Mind—it is all-important to mind—that there is no intolerance in all this. I seek not to mould you to my opinion; I want no converts. Fill your heart choke-full, if you like, of convictions of my folly and stupidity. Believe me a fool or a fanatic. I only stipulate that you do not wound me unnecessarily by telling me so. Go your way with the lowest opinion of my intelligence, but leave me my faith— my faith in myself.

The perfect ecstasy of possession is, I repeat, only known to the poor man. To him the cherished object is the rampart against the storm. It is the little nook where he nestles during the tempest; and just as the shipwrecked sailor attaches a fonder love to the plank he clings to than ever captain felt for the proudest three-decker, so is it that poverty invests some humble thing with a higher, dearer, holier interest than affluence ever threw around a priceless possession.

If it were not for this, humble fortune would be a worse thing than it is; but the glorious alchemy of that little pronoun "Mine" can work wonders. Through its magic my little field becomes a bound

less prairie, and the scrubby trees that shelter me from the highroad are a grove. As for my swan, though Mrs O'Dowd nearly made my blood run cold by something she said about Michaelmas, my swan is the greatest of swans, and might claim descent from one of Jove's own.

Is

And oh, my friends! let none laugh you out of this wise philosophy, nor by a sarcasm rob you of your faith. Delusion! Why, what is all around us but delusion? Is not Court favour a delusion? not fame a delusion? Are not the Whigs a delusion? together with cod-liver oil, Mechi's razors, and the Sydenham trousers? Some people even think the French Empire a delusion.

Be not ashamed, therefore, for a sneer, nor affrighted by a sarcasm. Go back and sit down beside your pond; and when your swan sails forth in all his graceful dignity, enjoy your quiet laugh over the creatures that only see him as a goose.

O'DOWD'S EXPERIENCES

"EN VOYAGE."-ACT I.

THE ordinary channels of information-as the late Sir Robert Peel, by a neat but unnecessary periphrase, designated the newspapers-have just informed me that "Cornelius O'Dowd passed through Paris" on a certain day "en route to his seat on the Lago Maggiore."

I read the paragraph with a pleased vanity. It seemed, first of all, to imply that the fact had a certain importance and interest for the world at large, who, knowing who Cornelius O'Dowd was, would gladly learn something of his whereabouts; and secondly, there was in the mention of his "seat on the Lago Maggiore" what, to the uninitiated at least, smacked of worldly goods and material guarantees, very captivating to one who is often obliged, as Sheridan phrased it, "to call upon his imagination for his facts."

The paragraph in question would have left nothing to be desired had it added, "Mr O'Dowd in crossing the Alps waved his grateful adieux to his friends north of them.-No cards sent.”

I borrow the latter formula from those people who announce to the public that, having just got married, they are too much engrossed by the honeymoon to select objects for their gratitude, and yet desire to include in one wide swoop all their well-wishers and admirers and so say I, once more, "No cards sent.' Indeed, I know of no amount of pasteboard that could convey even a tithe of my gratitude. What have I not had of flattery, attentions, and civilities—of fine compliments and fish dinners—of dry champagne and dulcet courtesies—of all, in fact, that can gratify, nourish, and captivate! I have attained to that pinnacle to which aldermen and poets alike aspire as the summit of human wishes. I have been flattered and I have been fed.

Some six weeks ago I issued forth from the solitude of my rocks and wild olives to see a little of that great and busy world of whose doings for years I have had only cognisance at second-hand; and second-hand opinions, like second-hand clothes, have the same disadvantage, that they reach one with the gloss off, and no small share, besides, of patching and reparation. It was, therefore, no slight matter