EVENING, CHÂTEAU D'OEX, CANDLE-LIGHT.

I have had the most delightful journey. What would I not give to procure you such a day! But then you must first become two youths and be able to climb actively, and drink milk when the opportunity offered, and treat with contempt the intense heat, the many rocks in the way, the innumerable holes in the path and the still larger holes in your boots,—and I fear you are rather too dainty for this; but it was most lovely! I shall never forget my journey with Pauline: she is one of the nicest girls I ever met,- so pretty and healthy-looking, and naturally intelligent; she told me anecdotes about her village, and I in return told her about Italy: but I know who was the most amused.

The previous Sunday, all the young people of distinction in her village had gone to a place far across the mountain, to dance there in the afternoon. They set off shortly after midnight, arrived while it was still dark, lighted a large fire, and made coffee. Towards morning the men had running and wrestling matches before the ladies (we passed a broken hedge testifying to the truth of this); then they danced, and were at home again. by Sunday evening, and early on Monday morning they all resumed their labors in the vineyards. By Heavens! I felt a strong inclination to become a Vaudois peasant while I was listening to Pauline, when from above she pointed out to me the villages where they dance when the cherries are ripe, and others where they dance when the cows go to pasture in the meadows and give milk. To-morrow they are to dance in St. Gingolph; they row across the lake, and any one who can play takes his instrument with him: but Pauline is not to be of the party, because her mother will not allow it, from dread of the wide lake; and many other girls also do not go for the same reason, as they all cling together.

She then asked my leave to say good-day to a cousin of hers, and ran down to a neat cottage in the meadow; soon the two girls came out together and sat on a bench and chattered; on the Col de Jaman above, I saw her relations busily mowing, and herding the cows.

What cries and shouts ensued! Then those above began to jodel, on which they all laughed. I did not understand one syllable of their patois, except the beginning, which was "Adieu, Pierrot!" All these sounds were taken up by a merry mad echo, that shouted and laughed and jodeled too. Towards noon we

arrived at Allière. When I had rested for a time, I once more shouldered my knapsack, for a fat old man provoked me by offering to carry it for me; then Pauline and I shook hands and we took leave of each other. I descended into the meadows: and if you do not care about Pauline, or if I have bored you with her, it is not my fault, but that of the mode in which I have described her; nothing could be more pleasant in reality, and so was my further journey. I came to a cherry orchard, where the people were gathering the fruit; so I lay down on the grass and ate cherries for a time along with them.

midday rest at Latine in a clean wooden house. The carpenter who built it gave me his company to some roast lamb, and pointed out to me with pride every table and press and chair.

At length I arrived here, at night, through dazzling green meadows, interspersed with houses, surrounded by fir-trees and rivulets; the church here stands on a velvet-green eminence; more houses in the distance, and still further away, huts and rocks; and in a ravine, patches of snow still lying on the plain. It is one of those idyllic spots such as we have seen together in Wattwyl, but the village smaller and the mountains more green and lofty. I must conclude, however, to-day by a high eulogy on the Canton de Vaud. Of all the countries I know, this is the most beautiful, and it is the spot where I should most like to live when I become really old: the people are so contented and look so well, and the country also. Coming from Italy, it is quite touching to see the honesty that still exists in the world,- happy faces, a total absence of beggars or saucy officials: in short, there is the most complete contrast between the two nations. I thank God for having created so much that is beautiful; and may it be his gracious will to permit us all, whether in Berlin, England, or in the Château d'Oex, to enjoy a happy evening and a tranquil night!

A CRITICISM

From a Letter to his Sister, of September 2d, 1831

་

ELL me, Fanny, do you know Auber's Parisienne'? I consider it the very worst thing he has ever produced; perhaps because the subject was really sublime, and for other reaAuber alone could have been guilty of composing for a great nation, in the most violent state of excitement, a cold,

sons also.

insignificant piece, quite commonplace and trivial. The refrain revolts me every time I think of it: it is as if children were playing with a drum, and singing to it-only more objectionable. The words also are worthless: little antitheses and points are quite out of place here. Then the emptiness of the music! a march for acrobats, and at the end a mere miserable imitation of the Marseillaise.' Woe to us if it be indeed what suits this epoch, if a mere copy of the Marseillaise Hymn' be all that is required. What in the latter is full of fire and spirit and impetus, is in the former ostentatious, cold, calculated, and artificial. The Marseillaise' is as superior to the 'Parisienne' as everything produced by genuine enthusiasm must be to what is made for a purpose, even if it be with a view to promote enthusiasm: it will never reach the heart, because it does not come from the heart.

By the way, I never saw such a striking identity between a poet and a musician as between Auber and Clauren. Auber faithfully renders note for note what the other writes word for word,- braggadocio, degrading sensuality, pedantry, epicurism, and parodies of foreign nationality. But why should Clauren be effaced from the literature of the day? Is it prejudicial to any one that he should remain where he is? and do you read what is really good with less interest? Any young poet must indeed be degenerate, if he does not cordially hate and despise such trash: but it is only too true that the people like him; so it is all very well—it is only the people's loss. Write me your opinion of the 'Parisienne.' I sometimes sing it to myself as I go along: it makes a man walk like a chorister in a procession.

CATULLE MENDÈS

(1843-)

HE writings of Catulle Mendès are representative of the cameo-art in literature. His little stories and sketches are

of a dainty and polished workmanship, and of minute, complex design. The French faculty of attaining perfection in miniature. is his to a high degree. He was born in Bordeaux in 1843, and in 1860 he began writing for the reviews. His short tales are written with exquisite nonchalance of style; but underneath their graceful lightness there are not wanting signs of a deep insight into human nature, and into life's little ironies. The pretty stories, so delicately constructed, hint of a more serious intention in their framing than merely to amuse. The Mirror' might be read to nursery children and to an audience of sages with equal pertinence. The Man of Letters' condenses the experience of a thousand weary writers into a few paragraphs. In the pastoral of vagabond Philip and the little white goat with gilded horns, there is all the fragrance of the country and of a wandering outdoor life. 'Charity Rewarded' embodies the unique CATULLE MENDES quality of Mendès in its perfection. He is able to put a world of meaning into a phrase, as when he writes that the pretty lasses and handsome lads did not see the beggar at the roadside because they were occupied "with singing and with love." Sometimes he puts a landscape into a sentence, as when Philip in the country hears "noon rung out from a slender steeple."

Mendès is a poet as well as a writer of stories. It should be said, however, that much that he has written of late years has not represented his higher gifts.

B

THE FOOLISH WISH

From the Contes du Rouet'

AREFOOT, his hair blowing in the wind, a vagabond was passing along the way before the King's palace. Very young, he was very handsome, with his golden curls, his great black eyes, and his mouth fresh as a rose after rain. As if the sun had taken pleasure in looking at him, there was more joy and light on his rags than on the satins, velvets, and brocades of the gentlemen and noble ladies grouped in the court of honor. "Oh, how pretty she is!" he exclaimed, suddenly stopping. He had discovered the princess Rosalind, who was taking the fresh air at her window; and indeed it would be impossible to see anything on earth as pretty as she. Motionless, with arms. lifted toward the casement as toward an opening in the sky which revealed Paradise, he would have stayed there until evening if a guard had not driven him off with a blow of his partisan, with hard words.

He went away hanging his head. It seemed to him now that everything was dark before him, around him,-the horizon, the road, the blossoming trees. Now that he no longer saw Rosalind he thought the sun was dead. He sat down under an oak on the edge of the wood, and began to weep.

"Well, my child, why are you sorrowing thus?" asked an old woman who came out of the wood, her back bowed under a heap of withered boughs.

"What good would it do me to tell you? You can't do anything for me, good woman."

"In that you are mistaken," said the old woman.

At the same time she drew herself up, throwing away her bundle. She was no longer an old forester, but a fairy beautiful as the day, clad in a silver robe, her hair garlanded with flowers of precious stones. As to the withered boughs, they had taken flight, covering themselves with green leaves; and returned to the trees from which they had fallen, shaken with the song of birds.

"O Madame Fairy!" said the vagabond, throwing himself on his knees, "have pity on my misfortune. Since seeing the King's daughter, who was taking the fresh air at her window, my heart. is no longer my own. I feel that I shall never love any other woman but her."