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judicious explanations of these to me so difficult subjects have done me. I feel now, for the first time, that I shall get through the examination. You have saved me the expense of a private tutor, and most likely the great annoyance of a pluck; you must, therefore, allow me to repay you in some slight degree the favors you have conferred by permitting me to supply you with lights and fire, until the result of the examination makes you independent of all future care and anxiety on behalf of your relatives."

Tears started to the poor student's eyes as I concluded, and, pressing my hand, he replied, —

"I feel that what you have said has been said only out of kindness; and, though you really owe me nothing, to refuse your offer would be false delicacy on my part. I accept it, therefore, thankfully as a loan, and I trust that I shall be able in a very short time to repay you."

"Never think of repaying me," I said. "You are busy, and of course cannot spare time to come to my rooms; I must therefore come to you; and certainly, though tolerably hardy," and I laughed, "I cannot sit as you do without fire, when the thermometer is below zero." With this remark we parted for the night

No one who has not been present at the reading of the List — for by this term the declaration of the result of the examination, both for mathematical honors and the ordinary degrees used to be known — can form any idea of the poverty of the ceremony as it was conducted some few years ago. Instead, as may be imagined would be the case on such an important occasion, the vice-chancellor, preceded by the polar bearers, as the esquire bedels were irreverently nicknamed by the undergraduates, and accompanied by the doctors in their scarlet gowns, and the proctors, followed by their bulldogs, as the attendant satellites on these functionaries are called, bearing the university statutes bound in crimson vellum and brass, and carried by a chain, — instead of these distinguished officials, proceeding in solemn state to the Senate House, there to read out in loud, sonorous tones the result of the most important examination of the year, whilst the undergraduates stood around in breathless and respectful silence, — one examiner, and one only, about eight P. M., hurried, list in hand, to the Senate House, and there, by the light of a wretched candle, which only helped to make the gloom more apparent, and barely served to illuminate the building sufficiently to enable him to read correctly, gave forth those weighty decisions, big with the fate of many of the eager and clamorous youths who flocked around.

To be present at this meagre and undignified ceremonial, if it deserved such a name, a few weeks after my evening with Smith, I pushed my way through the crowd of undergraduates who were congregated in front of the Senate House, waiting, with noisy impatience, for the doors to be open, and the list to be read out. The one examiner had not yet made his appearance, his delay being doubtless caused by the difficulty of deciding the fate of some luckless wight, who had managed matters with such nicety as to leave it a subject of considerable doubt in the minds of his examiners whether he had satisfied them or not, and, consequently, whether he should be permitted at that time to pass from an undergraduate to a full-blown bachelor of arts; the final chance being only decided in his favor — so university gossip declared — by the tossing up of a halfpenny, found in the M. B. waistcoat of one of the moderators.

The excitement which had so long been simmering, with regard to the proud position of senior wrangler, now burst forth into full boil. Numberless were the reports in circulation relative to the event. Now it was that three men had been bracketed equal; now, that the merits of only two had been so evenly balanced as to render it impossible to decide in favor of either. Next, it was confidently asserted that the Trinity student was far ahead of all his competitors; again, a noisy Johnian declared that the candidate from his college, he knew for a fact, was the learned and fortunate individual. A don, with whom I had a slight acquaintance, and who recognized me amidst the crowd, told me confidentially that he had it from undoubted authority that a hitherto unknown and unexpected student, from a small college, had perfectly astonished the examiners by the excellence of his papers, which were far superior to any that had been sent in for some time, and that he, and he alone, whoever he might be, would be found the first man. My thoughts immediately reverted to my friend Smith; and, wondering whether it were possible that he might be the individual alluded to, I anxiously asked my friend in authority if he knew either the name or college of the talented youth he had been telling me about. He was ignorant of both; so I had to wait for some time in breathless impatience for the reader of the list to appear, having promised my friend to let him know immediately the result of the examination, as he was unable to leave his bed, his delicate frame having succumbed to the intense strain which had been put upon it by his unremitting application and his self-sacrificing privations. At last the welcome sight of a well-know^ and learned examiner greeted our expecting gaze, and pell-mell, helter-skelter, we followed the bearer of the list into the dirty, ill-lighted Senate House. Being a person of small stature, the reader of this important document was mounted on a chair, and after having requested silence, and fumbled for some time with his papers, for which I could have throttled him, so impatient and excited had I become, he commenced his task.

As the sonorous voice of the little man pronounced the name, " Smith, of St. Dunstan " as the first on the list of wranglers, a loud cheer broke forth from all the small college men. But I waited for no more; heedless of my own fate, or that of any of my friends, save my newly-made one, I left the Senate House, tore headlong into college, rushed up the steep, narrow, creaking stairs which led to the poor sizar's rooms, three steps at a time, burst open the door, and, breathless with excitement and the pace I had come, sank down on his bed, gasping out, "My dear fellow, senior wrangler,—senior wrangler!" Smith evidently at first could not imagine what I meant by my wild, disjointed, disconnected sentences, and thought I had taken leave of my senses; but at length, when the truth burst upon him that his labors had been rewarded by the proud position of senior wrangler, he swooned away, and it was with some difficulty, so inexperienced a hand as I was in such cases, I could bring him to himself again. At length, after having nearly drowned him, by pouring the contents of his wash-hand jug, full of icy-cold water, over him, bed and all, he revived, and his first words, on regaining his consciousness, were, " Thank God! for my poor mother."

Years rolled on: thanks to Smith's judicious instructions, I managed to obtain my degree; and then, having nothing but debts to retain me at Cambridge, I left that seat of learning, took orders, and had forgotten, amidst the cares of a small living (I mean small in a pecuniary sense) and a large family, all about senior wranglers, Smith, and university topics. Our venerable bishop had recently died, and a successor was appointed; but so little did the matter interest me, as I expected no promotion from his lordship, that, with the exception of his name being Smith, which must be allowed is not a very uncommon one, I was in the most utter ignorance of the antecedents of our new spiritual ruler. Our lately^appointed diocesan was to hold his first visitation in my immediate neighborhood, and, as in duty bound, I attended to pay my respects, and to hear what advice the head of the Church in the diocese of Churminstcr might have to impart. The church where the visitation was held was inconveniently crowded, which prevented my seeing the bishop on his entrance, or during the service; but the moment the charge commenced, I immediately recognized as familiar the sweet, clear tones of his gentle but dignified voice. By dint of changing my position a little, I managed, though with some considerable effort, to obtain a view of the speaker, and to my astonishment, though not less to my delight, I saw in the person of my diocesan the poor sizar, senior wrangler, my old friend and dinner companion, Smith. His face, though much changed for the better by freedom from the harassing cares of poverty and too intense study and application, still retained its sweet, gentle, and rather melancholy expression. Upon my name being called, after service was over, I saw the bishop start, look at the list of the clergy before him, and then whisper something to* his secretary, who stood by his side.

This official, after the business of the visitation was concluded, took me aside, and informed me that he had the bishop's orders, to present me to him. I was ushered into the room where his lordship of Churminster was sitting; but recognizing me at once, he immediately arose, and seizing me by both hands, whilst tears stood in his eyes, he exclaimed, "I am so delighted to see you! I have long wished to know what had become of you, for I wanted so much again to thank you for your thoughtful kindness to the poor sizar of St. Dunstan's, who," and he heaved a sigh, "but for y_our warm fire and daily glass of wine, would certainly have sunk under the fatigues and hardships he was compelled to endure." I was very shortly after invited to the palace, and spent some delightful days in the new bishop's society, my old friend constantly reverting, with evident delight, to the cold bath to which I treated him whilst recovering from the swoon he had fallen into on hearing the joyful news that he was senior wrangler.

It is needless to say that such a man as my friend was not one to be forgetful of past kindnesses, and it was not long before I was promoted to a good living in the bishop's gift, and all because I once dined in hall on a Christmas-day.


The first of the following poems, like all good ballads, belongs to that class of compositions which suggests far more than it narrates. We may assume that the lady whose fate it describes was married against her will to the enemy of her family (see fifth stanza), and that the stranger knight is her early love, whom she had been compelled to renounce. The mode in which her husband convicts her, by

successive questions, reminds us of a well-known Scotch song of a purely comic character, and it is curious to trace this analogy between two poems of different countries, of which the spirit is so totally different. I allude to the song, the author of which' is, I believe, not known, beginning with the following verse: —

"Our I

And Inn11, cam be:
And there he saw a saddle horse,

Where nae horse should be.
0, how came this horse here?

How can this be?
How came this horse here

Without the leave o' me?"

I ought to say, that I am by no means sure of the correctness of the reading in the original Spanish, nor of the translation of the two last lines of the fourth stanza. I know no authority for the words "El Moron," signifying " The Moor."

I am quite aware of the fact that the second ballad cannot be ranked among the highest productions of the class to which it belongs.

Edmund Head.

"Blaoca sols, seHora mia,
Mas que no cl rayo del sol," 4c.

Primavera de jRomoneet, Vol. n. p. K j
Duron, Vol. I. p. 13; Grimm, ;• 312.

"Thou art fair, thou art fair, O lady mine,

As the beam of morning bright:
May I rest unarmed in this bower of thine?

May I sleep without fear through the night? "Seven years, seven years, it hath been the same;

These limbs have their harness worn,
And are blackened as if by the furnace-flame,

All scathed by the toils they have borne." "Thou may'st sleep, Sir Knight, thou may'st sleep till day;

Unarmed, thou need'st not fear;
To the mountains of Leon the Count is away;

He is gone to chase the deer. "Pray God, that his hounds may in madness die,

And his hawks by eagles be slain,
And some Moorish chief to his stronghold nigh

May drag him off in his chain!"
Whilst thus they are talking, her lord is there,

And he calls in scorn and ire,
"Well, what art thou doing, my lady so fair,

Thou child of a traitor sire?" "I was combing my hair, sir, in sorrowful cheer:

I was combing it all alone,
Because to the mountains to chase the deer

My lord and master had gone."
"This story, fair lady, a man may doubt;

This story is naught but a lie. Say, whose is yon steed that is standing without,

And that neighed as I came by?" "That steed is my father's, Sir Count," she said:

"He hath sent it a gift to thee." "Whose arms are those in a heap thus laid

At thy chamber door I see?" "My brother, Sir Count, he hath sent to thee here

Those arms which lie on the floor — * "Ay, well! but the spear, — say, whose is the spear

That is leaning against the door?"
"Take thou that spear, — I reck not of life, —

And slay me where I stand:
'T will be but the meed that a perjured wife

Hath earned at her husband's hand."

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"Caballero de lejas tterru," fee.

Primavera de Romances, Vol. II. p. 88.

"Thou stranger knight from foreign lands, whom

passing by I see, Bein in thy steed and ground thy spear, and speak

one word to me. 0 tell me if perchance abroad my husband thou

hast seen?" "How should I know unless I learn thy husband's

guise and mien?" "My husband is the gentleman, full young and fair to

Well skilled in chess, and courtly games, and sports

of chivalry. A Marquis is he, and his arms graved on his swordhilt he bears: A surcoat too of rich brocade with crimson lined he

wears. There dangles from his lance's head, and glitters in

the sun, A pennon fair of Portugal, which in the lists he

won." "If so it be, O lady fair, I knew thy husband well: In a quarrel at Valencia, that lord was stabbed and

fell: He was struck at play by a Milanese; and many a

knight and dame Grieved for his death, and cherish still thy gallant

husband's name. Nay, more than that, men say one maid, the daughter of his host — Of Genoa fair by birth she is — weeps for her lover

lost But shouldst thou deign to love again—is there

no hope for me?" "No, no, Sir Knight, — urge no such suit, — a nun

I 'm doomed to be." "A nun! fair dame? Thou 'rt surely bound to

pause awhile," he cried; "For't is the husband of thy heart who stands th at

thy side!"



The inventions of science transform the modern world without noise, and almost imperceptibly. Let as suppose ourselves (says M. Theophile Gautier) in 1813, at the epoch of the flooding of the inner port of Cherbourg, excavated by order of Napoleon I., and desirous of being present at the ceremony. No railroad, no steamboats; the classical diligence, or, if you prefer it, the post-chaise, the only means of transport. Add to this all the carriages, carts, and wagons of every description, susceptible of movement, and of being dragged by any kind of quadruped, and calculate how many persons could be conveyed thither. In the present day, nothing is easier tun to transport in a single day, from the centre of France to one of its extremities, a hundred thousand sight-seers. It is a mere question of multiplying the trains and the number of carriages. Such a thing would have seemed to be utterly chimerical at the commencement of the present century.

We never could have dreamt that so many travelling-bags and portmanteaus were in existence. On the toy of departure and on the preceding days, they were accumulating in pyramids — nay, niountains — at the station of the "West," where cabs were arriving one after the other, as if for a ball.

What a crowd, what a tumult, what a bustle;

And yet every one of these packages had its ticket and its number, and they were being wheeled away with unhoard-of rapidity.

When the opening of the doors allowed the ocean of excursionists to pour into the station, the very first wave filled a train, which was itself of so great a length that it constituted a journey to go from one end to the other. There were human beings enough to people a town.

A second train was forthwith organized, in which our traveller, tourist, and feuilletonist obtained a seat. It was, he says, as long as that which had preceded it; and most assuredly the whole fleet of the Greeks starting for Troy conveyed fewer Acheans, with long hair and lustrous helmets, than that succession of boxes bore away of Parisians in Panama hats and summer paletots.

The population of Mantes were busy preparing a tent for the reception of the Emperor. It was of crimson velvet, relieved with golden embroidery and garlands of flowers. Around were trophies, not of arms, but of railway implements But the train went onwards. It was long since the sketches of Roberts, Prout, and Bonnington had made M. Gautier wish to see St. Peter's of Caen. He had been in Spain, in Africa, in Turkey, but he had never been to Caen. All England has, he says, been there, but it requires to be a stranger to appreciate a country.

At the station at Caen, M. Theophile Gautier was much struck with a lofty chimney attached to steam-works, and which he declares to contain the rudiments of that new architecture which is seeking so painfully and so laboriously its new forms. More lofty than the obelisk of Luxor, this chimney, constructed of white and red bricks, is surmounted by a kind of capital, which makes it resemble a column of an unknown order, which may be designated as the " Industrial." It is thus that a new style of architecture, he argues, will arise from the new demands of the day, and not from mingling, right or wrong, the styles of all epochs.

Inscriptions and transparencies, with scaffoldings and balconies to let, announced that the town was preparing to receive majesty. A triumphal arch was carried across the main street It was B felicitous mixture of the arches of Titus and of Septimus Severus. Why, asks M. Gautier, are not edifices about to be constructed tried first after this plan? Irreparable errors would not then remain to be regretted. But imagine the expenses of an experimental wooden National Gallery, and the discordancy of national criticism previous to its being constructed in brick or stone 1

Caen, according to our art-critic, presents nothing particular to contemplate: it is an old city with a new face, mediaeval structures are still to be met with, but not in sufficient numbers to give a tone to the place. The red cap — " tho Norman degeneration of the Phrygian cap, which on the head of Paris seduced Helena " — is, however, still to be seen.

A friend had retained a room at the Hotel d'Angleterre, and, notwithstanding various rumors that were current of there not being a fowl within a circuit of ten leagues, of the buffet at the station having been stormed and devastated, of an omelet protected by four scullions, and of four fusiliers mounting guard over a frit-andean, our traveller declares that he fared well.

If the stranger is desirous of seeing St. Peter's at Caen in all its beauty, he must place himself on the other side of the rivulet which bathes its outer walls. There is a stone there on which all "acquarellists" have by turns taken their seats. The rich Gothic, mingled with Renaissance of the cathedral, has an additional effect given to it by the mass of irregular, disorderly old houses, with projecting upper stories and broken outline of roofs, as also by the brook itself, the course of which is obstructed by stones, and its bed surmounted by a low, vaulted bridge. M. Gautier is one of those who would not remove the excrescences in stones which are so generally grouped around old Gothic monuments, just as gigantic toadstools fix themselves to the base of an old oak-tree. Convert that rivulet, he says, into a regular canal, tumble down these old houses, and erect new ones at a suitable distance, and St. Peter's of Caen will remain a fine specimen of mediaeval architecture, but no artist will ever afterwards raise his umbrella on the opposite bank. That which stands good of the Gothic does not obtain with regard to the Greek. The one affects the pointed, the other the horizontal form. The latter requires to be detached, — nay, more, it requires rock for a contrast, as at Athens and in Sicily, as we have ourselves before expounded. Saint Stephen's of Caen ia, according to our critic, notwithstanding its Anglo-Norman outline, cold, naked, and Protestantlooking, but the design is bold and pure. M. Gautier saw here, what lie says is no longer to be witnessed in Paris, where religion is not permitted to leave its sanctuary (what of the consecration of the Eagles ?), the Holy Sacrament borne in procession to a moribund. Nay, the procession, headed by the little choristers with their incense-vases, was protected by two soldiers with fixed bayonets.

Trains of exceeding length continued to transport whole populations, which did not prevent a crowd of disappointed applicants for seats being left behind at the station. Yet at every moment the telegraph sounded its little bell, proclaiming the advent of a train. Thanks to this electric courier, whose swiftness nothing surpasses, the formidable horses of steel and copper, fed with fire and boiling water, could be allowed to gallop away without any accident coming to cast a gluom over the fete. "Cantonnitres " in short petticoats and blue blotises, tightened with a leather waistband, head-dress of varnished leather, and a horn slung to their sides, acted as signalmen. Women, M. Gautier says, are well adapted for such employment; they do not get sleepy and intoxicated, and they sec and hear better than men. It is well to make a- convenience out of a necessity. The men being for the most part decorated with red nether-garments, the women have to be put into blouses and leather hats.

M. Gautier seems to have been determined upon trying if he could not be as long in getting to Cherbourg by train as if he had gone by diligence, so he got out again at Bayeux, the view of which place, as seen from the station, struck him forcibly. A magnificent cathedral, with two pointed steeples and a tower at the intersection of the transept and the nave, as at Burgos, rose superbly over the houses, fluttering with flags and banners. There was no possibility of resisting a cathedral, and the day was passed in exploring that of Bayeux. The clerical element is strong in this town. The cathedral overshadows the houses. The grass grew in the streets, although sanded for the/e/e. There were few shops, but many long garden walls. An ecclesiastical repose reigned even-where, and priests flitted about as at Rome. An almost solitary sign-board recorded that the tenant was one " Manuel, Coupeur de Sou

tanes." "Tossed about," says Theopbile, "like i straw in the Parisian whirlpool, we have often said that Time no longer existed, save in gilt bronze on old clocks. Time does exist; we found it at Bayeux in a very good state of preservation, conaderiig its age."

The cathedral, as usual, fronts a "petite place.' It has five porches, three of which alone are pierced for doorways. Two of these porches are richly decorated, especially with statues representing tie dramas of the Passion and of the Last Judgment. It was impossible to explore the interior satisfactorily; it was undergoing; repairs so urgent, that if delayed a little longer there was every possibility of the edifice sinking bodily. The choir is Gothic, bat the nave is Roman. Among the artistic cariosities which most struck our virtuoso was an ancient sculpture coarsely colored, representing the litanies of the Virgin in a manner which reminded him of the genealogical trees of Christ in Spanish churches. Tb« Eternal Father was represented at the top unfolding a banner, on which was inscribed Gloriosa dicta tunt de te. Around were Abraham, Elias, Isaiah, David, Solomon, and Achas. In the centre, the litania sculptured in relief, the rising sun, Jacob's ladder, the gates of heaven, the star of the sea, the fall moon, the tree of life, the root of Jesse, the row without thorns, the temple of Solomon, the tower of David, the well of water, the vase of incense, the fleece of Joshua, the fountain of graces, and tie celestial city. There were also medallions representing subjects taken from the bestiaries of tke Middle Ages, precisely similar to what are found on the casket of St. Louis, and belonging to tke eleventh or twelfth century. There were hunters conquering the lion, panthers chasing hydras, and other allegories of faith triumphing over infidelity. One subject was supposed to represent Moses, attacked, after the Oriental legends, by leprosy, elephantiasis, or some other Biblical infirmity, and miraculously cured. One of the arcades was surrounded by a string of heads, or rather masks, which by their extravagance and monstrous uglines appeared to have been copied from Mexican idols, or the Manitoos of the South-Sea Islanders.

The crypt was of the purest Roman style, and served as a mausoleum for the bishops of B»yew. In the chapter-room, a casket is preserved wbkh contains the cope of Saint Rcgnabert It is amirvellous piece of workmanship in ivory of Oriental carving, apparently brought over by the Crusader*, and upon it is an Arabic inscription: "In the name of Allah, the all-merciful, blessings and grace to «11"

Every one has heard of the Bayeux tapestry. According to M. Gautier, the so-called tapestryoj Queen Matilda is an embroidery of colored wool upon white linen or canvas. It is preserved in » glass case, and our traveller pertinently remarkwhat a strange thing it is, that whilst so many solid edifices have fallen to the ground, this frail pi**"' royal workmanship should have been handed Aon perfect amidst all kinds of vicissitudes and 1*TM* tions. A bit of canvas has lasted for eight hundred years!

No table-d"h6te, no buffet, could accommodatf ot crowd which were hurrying to the fetes of C"c£ bourg. At Carentan tents were erected for to}TM" ens, and spitted meats turned round improvise" fires, exhaling their appetizing odors, justM we re*1 in the Iliad of the fragrance of the victims «scen«" ing to heaven to delight the nostrils of tie go* Darkness had come on, and our traveller bw w

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wend his way, amid triumphal arches and masts with banners, in search of a bed. All the inns were full to overflowing; as to the hotel-keepers, who, it appears, can be as haughty to the Frenchman as in England to the Englishman, they turned him away with contempt. In the stables, quadrupeds had to

give up their places and their straw to bipeds. In pain, in Greece, or in Africa an open-air bed is a luxury, but on the shores of the Atlantic night had disguised itself like Scaramouche, and not a star displayed the end of its nose. Feeling his way, he at length came to an " auberge," where they did not deem it ridiculous that he should be desirous of supper and a bed. He was feasted on ham, cider, wine, and coffee, and then conducted to an uninhabited house at the extremity of the town, and, the door being with difficulty opened, he was left in a room with a bed, a chair, and a rickety table, as also a candle-end. There was a beautiful garden, he was told, in which he might walk if so inclined, which, considering the time of night, he deemed to be a very superfluous intimation.

The legends of Carenton, which are not all in honor of hotel-keepers, have preserved the memory of a famous breakfast of Junot, Duke of Abrantes, for which he was charged twelve hundred francs. Astonished at the demand, the gallant hero requested some details, in which a choice duck of Rouen, fattened on finest flour, figured for five louis. After a fair night's rest, in which no spectre came to put out his light with bony fingers, and no bandit with pointed hat and cock's feather came to take his purse, M. Gautier paid less for his breakfast than the Duke of Abrantes; but then, he says, there was no duck. It was impossible to obtain a place hence to Cherbourg, so he had fain to be satisfied with a seat among the baggage, the angles of which, he says, manifested a persevering hostility to his person. Crossing the vast "Marais," renowned for its waterfowl, the Fort of Roule, perched on a lofty eminence, whose precipitous acclivities displayed the naked rock, and the British flag towering over a tent, announced the approach to Cherbourg.

The crowd tumbled out of the carriages, and our accomplished critic from off the hostile baggage, and where does the reader fancy they were received? The paternal character of a despotism is nowhere so much shown as in the arrangements made in France for the accommodation of the masses. In a camp! Yes, government had provided streets of tents, all bearing the names of distinguished persons or events, effectively palisaded, and having only one entrance, which was carefully guarded. Each tent contained three beds, and tickets were delivered to successive applicants, — No. 1 bed, tent No. 103, Wagram Street. There was also a tent for information, a post-office, a marquee for a reading-room, and others for refreshments, with taUcs-tfltote provided by Potel and Chabot. When was anything of the kind provided for the public in this land of ferocious egotism? Three gentlemen consigned to the same tent, in this country, must have an introduction; three roughs would fight it out before the morning.

M. Gautier, accustomed as he was to French supervision and ingenuity, was struck with the exceeding forethought of such an arrangement, where the ordinary resources of the town were utterly unequal to the demands put upon them. It struck him that a camp thus improvised would become one of the institutions of the country. Any great event may, in railroad times, attract a hundred thousand spectators or more to one spot, every town ought,

therefore, he argues, to be provided with its " camp for strangers," or "guests," if you prefer it, a caravanserai that can be improvised in a moment for the accommodation of the multitude. A limited liability company might organize something of the kind for the heaths of Newmarket, Doncaster, Ascot, and Epsom, or for Brighton Downs on the occasion of a review.

In the future, as M. The'ophile Gautier observes, all will be able to visit places which have been hitherto accessible only to the few, and we cannot begin too soon to accustom ourselves to the gigantic developments of life. Seven hundred and twenty persons, he tells us, breakfasted and dined in the immense shed of the extemporized camp at Cherbourg. Nothing could more effectually mark the differences between the present time and the past.

Imagine a colossal gallery divided into two compartments, each with its tables. The kitchen at one of the extremities. As in all things that are too great, man was out of proportion with his surroundings. It would have required a railway with a little wagon to transport the dishes from the point of departure to the extremities. Relays of garfons were, however, employed in transmitting the viands, plates, and knives and forks. Notwithstanding the precautions taken of placing the buffets at intervals, and of mustering the consumers in squadrons, the unfortunate attendants had traversed leagues by the end of every repast.

"Restaurants on a gigantic scale will be the feature of the future. London will come in a body to dine at Paris, and Paris will go bodily to London. Machines will carve; tenders laden with bottles will be conveyed along the tables on silver rails; the turtle-soup and the potage h la Reine will be pumped out of the tureens; toasts will be given with speaking trumpets, and acoustic tubes will transmit messages from guests seated half a mile from one another. What would the Greeks have said, with their elegant precept as to a dinner,' Not fewer than the Graces, not more than the Muses'?

"This monstrously gigantic life of future generations occupied our thoughts all this journey, when we saw it first rudely sketched before us. Young forms are beginning everywhere to destroy the old moulds, and the old world, the world in which we have lived, is falling to pieces; although scarcely beyond the middle age, we are no longer contemporaneous with our epoch. None of the habits of our early youth remain, and no one thinks in the present day of what were our early passions. We must begin again like little children. We were acquainted with the metre of stanzas, the forms of sonnets, the music of rhythms; — a pretty thing indeed 1 We must study railwav economy, permanent ways, locomotive powers, rolling stock, telegraphic signs, ironclads, and screw-steamers. If we make a mistake in the use of a word, the very boys laugh at us. We do not complain: we are at a climacteric epoch of humanity. This age will take a prominent place in the annals of the world, and it is now more than ever that the wise man's saying,' I live by curiosity," has a real meaning. Man valiantly petrifies his planet, and who lives shall see — great things."

And of Cherbourg. "No spectacle," we are told, "gives a more legitimate satisfaction to human pride than that of a port, and especially such a port as Cherbourg. When we think that a poor little animalcule, acarus of a planet, a point lost in space, executes such gigantic works with a few iron utensils, a few handfuls of black powder to which

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