facility of intercourse seems in a fair more liberal scale than heretofore.

way of being carried out on a much

Such was the thought that passed through the mind of the Vicomte de Pigarreau, as he sat at breakfast in the little room which he called his "study"-the same that was formerly used by Mr. Poppyhead for his "oratory." He had been reading the morning papers, and saw there an account of the proposed courtesies between the omnibus drivers of London and their brethren of the whip in Paris, when the latter come over in state on a visit to this country; and it struck him that he could scarcely hit upon a better plan for making the Cosmopolite Club well known, than by issuing cards of invitation to a select number of the beau monde.

The Vicomte accordingly summoned a meeting of the Committee, and having laid before them his views on the subject, it was unanimously resolved that his proposition should be adopted; and the Reverend Arthur Wadbrook, whose "Red-book" experience was so considerable, was instructed to prepare a list of guests, and make the necessary communications. The form of invitation, when pruned of its amplifications, in which the reverend secretary was apt to indulge, was simple enough, and ran as follows:

"Poppyhead House, Belgravia, April 14.

"The President and Members of the Cosmopolite Club, established for the season of 1851, under the most distinguished auspices, request the honour of your company to dinner on Wednesday, the 30th of April, at 8 o'clock.

"The favour of an answer will oblige."

"Gentlemanlike and to the purpose," said the Vicomte de Pigarreau, when he gave it out in the above shape. "I think it will take."

He was right: it did take, and fourteen out of the twenty gentlemen invited, replied in the affirmative.

As we have given an outline of the hosts, it may not be out of place to mention who were their guests on this occasion. We shall not take them in the regular order of precedence, but just as their names happen to turn up.

Lord Phaeton comes first; a remarkable man in every point of view, moral or physical. An eager politician, an eloquent orator, a popular lawyer, a scholar, a philosopher, and a man of science; vehement in debate, versatile in opinion, of restless activity in mind and body; at one moment reforming abuses, at another resisting all progress; serious, sportive, argumentative, oracular; sometimes right, often wrong; constantly troublesome, never tame. There is nothing so various that he has not attempted; few pursuits so opposite in which he has not been successful. One day he may be heard winding his horn before a pack of beagles, in the midst of vineyards and olive groves; on the next he will be five hundred miles off, gravely delivering a discourse on light in a foreign language, to a body of learned Academicians. At sunrise you may find him in his study, buried in the abstrusest depths of a question to determine some theory in optics; at sunset you will see him heading a fray to settle the right of poaching at the expense of the optics of his opponents. A voluminous writer-nothing comes amiss to him; a perpetual talker-no subject is too discursive. He has written a novel which nobody reads, and set a fashion in pantaloons which nobody wears;

but, on the other hand, he has given his name to a carriage which everybody has adopted. The men abuse and like him; the women shudder and adore. He is the life and soul of the Beefsteak Club, the terror of the House of Lords, and the delight of the drawing-room and boudoir. He has climbed very high, and-like his classical namesake-has had a severe tumble, but nothing can destroy his elasticity; the oftener you knock him down the more vigorous he rises to renew the attack. He is deeply attached to science, and immoderately fond of pleasure-especially if there is anything eccentric in its indulgence. It was for the latter reason, most likely, that he went to dine with the Cosmopolites.

Sir Hercules Barrytone is the next on our list, the leader of opinion in all that relates to the Fine Arts. A perfect musician, a clever painter, a skilful architect, a thorough linguist, an admirable raconteur, an accomplished man of the world, and, above all, an exquisite critic. In all matters of taste his judgment is law, whether in the studio or before the curtain. The first glance that a débutante turns to learn her probable fate is directed to "his side of the house;" the place where Sir Hercules sits being the cynosure of every eye. Like Laura's Count, "his ‘brava’ is decisive"-"the deep damnation of his 'bah'" settles the matter at once. But no one ever "wishes him five fathoms under the Rialto," for the generosity of his nature tempers the severity of his criticism, and the frown of dissatisfaction is much seldomer seen on his brow than the smile of approbation which lights up his good-natured, manly features. His rank, the position which he holds in the world, and his high mental qualifications, would have led him to the goal through whatever avenue he chose the path to fame, but he has dedicated himself to the cause of Art, and, unswayed by personal ambition, remains faithful to his trust. reste, Sir Hercules has no objection to amusement, wherever it presents itself in the form to which gentlemen are accustomed, and, as far as appearances went, there was nothing in Poppyhead House to turn his horses' heads away from.

Au

argu

Colonel Sidrophel follows, reminding everybody at first sight of King Charles the First, till, on a closer examination, they find it is King Charles-without his head. As a member of the House of Commons, he is known more by the frequency of his voice than the force of his ments. "Nullum quod non tetigit" might safely be said of him, but the comparison with the variously endowed poet goes no further. He is the great champion of everything that the rest of the world thinks not worth defending,the great antagonist of those evils which people must go out of their way to discover. He has distinguished himself as a friend of the Hamadryads of Hyde Park, the sooty nymphs whom no metamorphosis can disfigure; his latest exploit was a crusade against barrel-organs, because they made more noise than himself,-and his highest aim in legislation a bill of pains and penalties against those who play on them. He detests the Whigs, finds fault with the Tories, divides the House on every question that he introduces himself, and is always in a minority of One. Apart from his political eccentricities, which are exceedingly harmless, he is generally considered a very good fellow.

Mr. Belial Fitz-Isaac-who succeeds-is a politician of a different calibre, an orator of a different stamp. His party hate him for his talent, envy him for his eloquence, and fear him for his wit-of which he enjoys the monopoly; his opponents applaud him, because he saves them the trouble of putting his followers on a wrong scent. He is a novelist, too, of no

mean celebrity, and has preserved many a fly in amber, but since he became a statesman he has eschewed authorship,

(6 Scorning the degrees By which he did ascend."

Many people think he would, after all, find literature a better trade than politics.

But we must leave off describing, or the dinner will get cold, and sum up the rest of the company in a single paragraph.

Besides those whom we have mentioned, there were- -Lord Dolphin and his inseparable friend Sir George Woodcock, who did not altogether live upon suction, though appearances favoured that hypothesis; Mr. Meadows Reynard; Lord Spritsail; the Earl of Handicap; Captain Sweepstakes; the Marquis of Neverdie; Mr. Augustus Shamrock; "The O'Daisy;" and that celebrated individual Mr. Jolly Green.

A man's morality may be doubtful-or rather, there may be no doubt at all about it-and yet his manners may be very agreeable; perhaps, the more agreeable he is, the greater the chance of his having nothing of the saint in his composition, just as it sometimes happens that the prettiest women we meet have the worst reputation. The Vicomte de Pigarreau belonged to this category. He had begun life as a gentleman-spendthrift; he carried it on as a gentleman-swindler. The kernel of the nut

had long since disappeared, but the husk remained, and he was able to do the honours of the Club with as much ease as if the decoration which he wore on his breast had actually been bestowed upon him by his sovereign for his public services or high moral worth. We have seen a pincushion made to look so like the Legion of Honour as to deceive even the best judges at a distance. As Emerson says, "It is natural to believe in great men."

Not that any of the personages who favoured the Cosmopolites with their society (save one) imagined for a moment that the present inmates of Mr. Poppyhead's house had hired his principles with the chairs and tables. A dinner is always a dinner, and when there is a mystery for the dessert, it is so much the more worth eating.

This dinner was faultless. Messrs. Calipash and Sweetbread, the great Belgravian purveyors, were close at hand, and it would have been saying little for the diplomatic skill of the Committee, if the very best that their cuisine and cellar could furnish had not been added to the manifold resources of the Club. When you happen to have a house in Belgravia and will pay the rent before it is due, that London tradesman must be a rara avis who, having heard of the fact, refuses to overwhelm you with everything he has to dispose of. Suppose even that he never gets paid, when the break-up takes place it serves the victim for an advertisement, which seems to be all that people live for in these days of publicity.

Perhaps it may be thought that the rank and file of the Club might not pass muster so easily as their accomplished chief, notwithstanding their high-sounding titles and the crachats which they wore; but he must be an inexorable philosopher, who, with a "rouget en papillote," a "caneton braisé aux petits pois," or a dish of "cailles à l'ecarlate" before him, can turn aside from the delicacy and coolly ask his neighbour if he is indeed a scoundrel and a blackleg!

The distinguished guests made no such mistake. They ate the goods the gods provided them, and never questioned the source of the supply.

Whoever sent the meat, it was plain that the devil had nothing to do with the dressing, unless the Mohammedan belief be true, that Eblis himself was the inventor of the art of cookery. The wine, too, was equally unexceptionable; and if the Cosmopolites did not imbibe so freely as their visitors, the fact must be ascribed to their continental habits, or to some other cause no less cogent. There were exceptions, of course. Colonel Blazer and Mynheer van Schobbejak both got drunk before the cloth was off the table; but as the wine made the silent Dutchman talk, and tied the tongue of the noisy Irishman, the general tone of the conversation was greatly improved thereby. It was, to a certain extent, kept down by the Vicomte de Pigarreau, whose tact enabled him at once to perceive how far it was desirable to go with the present company, if the Club were desirous of making a favourable impression. He took the lead, therefore, and being really a person of information-though his knowledge had occasionally been acquired in situations somewhat scabreuses-discoursed in such an off-hand style, that, coupled with his genuine hospitality and good-humour, he was unanimously voted a very pleasant, agreeable fellow.

The

The Vicomte's aide-de-camps had their instructions also, and performed their parts tolerably well, only suffering just so much of the cloven foot to peep out as gave them the air of men of the world. Had only one language been spoken, and that in its purity, the task of seeming to be what they were not would have been one of some difficulty; but here was a Babel of tongues, in the midst of which, with faulty pronunciation on one side, and imperfect comprehension on the other, a chance of escape was offered when the conversation took a hazardous turn. Cosmopolites carefully kept to themselves the extent of their acquaintance with the English language; it imposed a reserve upon what they said, and encouraged their guests to speak more freely. They knew this fact, that a man who speaks his native dialect, discloses much more of his real character than he who is hampered by foreign turns of expression. We have, most of us, seen this when a Frenchman, for instance, addresses us in bad English. His mutilations and mistakes exalt us so much in our own opinions, that while we laugh at them—which we always do-we are half inclined to take pity on the poor fellow's ridiculous simplicity. But try him on the other tack: give him an inkling that you can speak French, and he is off at score, dragging you after him in utter bewilderment, and thoroughly convinced that in every maze of intrigue and ingenuity the Frenchman walks at ease, while you-in spite of your good opinion of yourself-are only a stupid blockhead.

Neither Captain Sweepstakes nor the Earl of Handicap entertained this belief of themselves under any circumstances, and they were not in a position to try the alternative of embarking in "any d--d foreign lingo," as they graphically observed. So they laid it on in English, and perfectly astonished "the Hedgehog "-as they facetiously called Der Herzog von Donnerblitz-by the quantity of turf slang with which they overwhelmed him, making him, as they said, look "very small" indeed. He bore their triumph very patiently, having a private opinion of his own that there was a remedy in the house for taking the conceit out of them. But to see this remedy applied, it is necessary that the party--and the reader-should walk up-stairs.

MARIA ERNACH'S FIRST AND LAST PILGRIMAGE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "SEVEN YEARS IN THE WEDDED LIFE OF A ROMAN CATHOLIC."

IN one of the lower rooms of a house situated in the outskirts of Vienna, was assembled, one fine summer's evening, a group of persons, talking eagerly. The windows stood open, facing the road, and the setting sun streamed full upon the speakers-that sun which on the morrow would rise on the annual pilgrimage to Mariazell, the Austrian government having fixed that event to take place, the year we are writing of, on the 26th of July.

The Widow Ernach, mistress of the house, sat near one of the windows. She was a comely dame in feature, but her figure was remarkably stout. Her fingers plied busily their employment-a work which was not unlike what the English call knitting. At a convenient distance from her, so that the whisperings of her two lovers-if the reader shall find they have a claim to that title-might not reach the maternal ear, sat Maria Ernach, as lovely a daughter as ever woman was troubled with, possessing all the wilfulness of an only child, and a very considerable share of that vanity which is commonly supposed to attend youth and beauty. She was pursuing no occupation, having enough to do in flirting with her admirers alternately, and to keep them both in good humour.

Jacopo Romelli, whose name bespoke his Italian origin, could not be less than six-and-thirty years of age. He was a well-made, symmetrical man, towering an inch or two above six feet in height, with a countenance dark and warm as his own land, and supereminently beautiful, though to a keen observer its expression would have been disagreeable. He had come to Vienna a stranger. It was not known who or what he was, but, as his means appeared to be ample, he was universally looked upon as a man of fortune, and treated with consideration. The evening

frequently saw him a guest at Madame Ernach's, attracted thither, it was shrewdly suspected, by the charms of Maria, and he now sat apart, lowering and angry, at some real or fancied preference he had observed ac

corded to his rival.

Francis Clairfait, a Viennese by birth, looked ten or twelve years the junior of Romelli. He was sitting on a table at Maria's elbow, snipping a piece of paper into little bits with her scissors. He was a frank-hearted, pleasing-looking young man, with regular features and auburn hair. As to the beauty which distinguished Romelli he had it not; but the same physiognomist who doubted the face of the Italian would have trusted that of Clairfait at the first glance. It has been said he was a distant relative of the celebrated general whose name he bore; but whether that was the fact or not cannot matter to this narrative. There could be little doubt that he contemplated making Maria Ernach his wife. Some of his kindred gave themselves airs, and said she was beneath him, for, independently of his gentle birth, he had a large fortune; whilst Maria, though brought up in all the attributes of a gentle