the vol-au-vent; envy and injustice I can bear, but treachery stabs me to the heart." When these threshers of men were tired, the lady satisfied, and Bedos half dead, they suffered the unhappy valet to withdraw; the mistress of the hotel giving him a note, which she desired, with great civility, that he would transmit to me on my return. This, I found, inclosed my bill, and informed me that my month being out on the morrow, she was unwilling to continue me any longer, and begged I would, therefore, have the bonté to choose another apartment. "Carry my luggage forthwith," said I, "to the Hôtel de Mirabeau ;" and that very evening I changed my abode. I am happy in the opportunity this incident affords me of especially recommending the Hôtel de Mirabeau, Rue de la Paix, to any of my countrymen who are really gentlemen, and will not disgrace my recommendation. It is certainly the best caravansera in the English quartier. I was engaged that day to a literary dinner at the Marques D'Al; and as I knew I should meet Vincent, I felt some pleasure in repairing to my entertainer's hotel. They were just going to dinner as I entered. A good many English were of the party. The good natured (in all senses of the word) Lady who always affected to pet me, cried aloud, "Pelham, mon joli petit mignon, I have not seen you for an age-do give me your arm." Madame D'Anville was just before me, and, as I looked at her, I saw that her eyes were full of tears; my heart smote me for my late inattention, and going up to her, I only nodded to Lady and said, in reply to her invitation, "Non, perfide, it is my turn to be cruel now. Remember your flirtation with Mr. Howard de Howard." "Pooh!" said Lady -, taking Lord Vin cent's arm, "your jealousy does indeed rest upon "Do you forgive me?" whispered I to Madame D'Anville, as I handed her to the salon. "Does not love forgive every thing?" was her answer. At least, thought I, it never talks in those pretty phrases. The conversation soon turned upon books. As for me, I never at that time took a share in those discussions; indeed, I have long laid it down as a rule, that a man never gains by talking to more than one person at a time. If you don't shine, you are a fool-if you do, you are a bore. You must become either ridiculous or unpopular-either hurt your own self-love by stupidity, or that of others by wit. I therefore sat in silence, looking exceedingly edified, and now and then muttering "good!" "true!" Thank heaven, however, the suspension of one faculty only increases the vivacity of the others; my eyes and ears always watch like sentinels over the repose of my lips. Careless and indifferent as I seem to all things, nothing ever escapes me the minutest erreur in a dish or a domestic, the most trifling peculiarity in a criticism or a coat, my glance detects in an instant, and transmits for ever to my recollection. "You have seen Jouy's 'Hermite de la Chaussée D'Antin'?" said our host to Lord Vincent. "I have, and think meanly of it. There is a perpetual aim at something pointed, which as perpetually merges into something dull. He is like a bad swimmer, strikes out with great force, makes a confounded splash, and never gets a yard the further for it. It is a great effort not to sink. Indeed, Monsieur D'A- - your literature is at a very reduced ebb; bombastic in the dramashallow in philosophy-mawkish in poetry, your writers of the present day seem to think, with Boileau "Souvent de tous nos maux la raison est le pire.' " Surely," cried Madame D'Anville, "you will allow De la Martine's poetry to be beautiful ?" "I allow it," said he, "to be among the best you have; and I know very few lines in your language equal to the two first stanzas in his Medita tion on Napoleon,' or to those exquisite verses called 'Le Lac ;' but you will allow also that he wants originality and nerve. His thoughts are pathetic, but not deep; he whines, but sheds no tears. He has, in his imitation of Lord Byron, reversed the great miracle: instead of turning water into wine, he has turned wine into water. Besides, he is so unpardonably obscure. He thinks, with Bacchus -(you remember, D'A the line in Euripides, which I will not quote), that there is something august in the shades;' but he has applied this thought wrongly-in his obscurity there is nothing sublime—it is the back ground of a Dutch picture. It is only a red herring, or an old hat, which he has invested with such pomposity of shadow and darkness." "But his verses are so smooth," said Lady "Ah!" answered Vincent. "Quand la rime enfin se trouve au bout des vers, "Hélas!" said the Viscount D'A -t, an |