The sun was just setting on the last day of August, when the ponderous eilwagen, in which I had journeyed from Frankfort, rounded the foot of the Holy Mountain into the Valley of the Neckar, and Heidelberg—the brave, romantic, beautiful old electoral city—was stretched out before me on the opposite side of the river. Far above it rose the wooded Kaiserstuhl, midway down whose side hung the granite bastions, terraces and roofless halls of the famed Castle. Heavy masses of ivy hung from its arches, and overran the quaint sculpture of its walls, while the foliage of its gardens was visible behind, deep in the shadow of the mountain. A faint yellow glow trembled over the pines and birches on the top of the Kaiserstuhl, and kept the clear blue on the distant hills up the Neckar. Down the steep paths of the Holy Mountain, on my left, came the peasant-girls, with baskets on their heads, laden with the purple clusters of the Muscatel, and talking to each other gayly over garden-walls, and under arbors, which made a “green twilight” even at noon. Careless students, pipe in hand, sauntered along the river bank, listening to the sweet evening chimes, rung first in the towers of the Hauptkirche, and taken up like an echo, from village to village, among the hills.

Looking forward to Heidelberg as a place for rest and quiet study, there was something peculiarly grateful and tranquilizing in the scene. To my eyes the scenery presented a mingling of the wild with the cultivated—of the pastoral with the grand—a combination so inspiring that I found it difficult to keep my enthusiasm within reasonable bounds. From the river bank, above the bridge, cannon began firing a closing salute for the Grand Duke’s birth-day, and my heart never kept more bounding time to the minute-guns on a Fourth of July at home. The German passengers in the eilwagen were highly gratified by my delight, for all Germans are proud of Heidelberg.

By a piece of good fortune the friends who had left me at Mayence and arrived the day before, happened to be passing up the main street when the vehicle stopped, and I was spared the risk of searching for them, which, to one ignorant of the language, was no slight task.

In a day or two, by the help of a valet de place, who spoke half a dozen words of English, we obtained rooms in a large house overhanging the Neckar. From one side we looked upon the Heiligenberg, so near that we could hear the girls singing among the vines every morning, and all day long the rapid river below us was noisy with raftsmen, guiding the pines they had felled among the Suabian hills down to the Rhine. On the other side the Kaiserstuhl stood between us and the eastern sky, and we always saw the sunrise first on the opposite mountains. In the cool, cloudless autumn mornings, the air was full of church-chimes and merry voices, which came echoed back from the hills, so that our first waking sensation was one of pleasure, and every day brought us some new form of enjoyment.

The valley of the Neckar is narrow, and only the little slopes which here and there lie between the feet of its wooded mountains are capable of cultivation. Higher up, there are glens and meadows of luxuriant grass, to which the peasants drive their cattle, further still, it is barren and rocky, and upon the summits dwells a solitude as complete as upon the unsettled prairies of the far West. An hour’s walk takes one from the busy streets of the little city to this beautiful and lonely region, and the stranger may explore the paths he finds leading far away among the hills, for weeks together, without exhausting their store of new scenes and influences. The calm impressiveness of these mountain landscapes disposes the mind to quiet thought, and one who has felt them till their spirit grew familiar, is at no loss to comprehend the inspiration from which Schiller, Uhland and Hauff have sung.

It is a favorite habit with the Heidelbergers, and one into which the traveler willingly falls, to spend the last hour or two of daylight in a walk by the Neckar, in the gardens of the castle, or off in the forests. At spots of especial beauty rustic inns have been erected, where, at tables in the shade, the visiter is furnished with beer, cool from its underground vaults, and thick curds, to which a relish is given by sugar and powdered cinnamon. The most noted of these places is the Wolfsbrunnen, about a mile and a half from the city, in a lonely glen, high up on the mountain. A large stone basin, two centuries old, stands there, pouring out a stream of the coldest and purest water, dammed up below to form a small pool, in which hundreds of trout breed and grow fat from the benevolence of visiters. A wooden inn, two stories high, with balconies on all sides, is nestled among the trees, and farther down the stream a little mill does its steady work from year to year.

A party was once formed by our German friends, and we spent a whole Saturday afternoon in this delicious retreat. Frau Dr. S——, who was always ready for any piece of social merriment, had the management of the excursion, and directed us with the skill of a general. FrÄulein Marie, her niece, a blooming maiden of eighteen, and Madame Louise ——, a sprightly little widow from Mannheim, with Dr. S——, one or two students, and we Americans, were her subjects. Every thing was arranged with precision before we started. The books, the cards, the music (including a most patient guitar) were distributed among those best able to carry them, and we finally started, without any particular order of march. German etiquette forbids a lady to take the arm of a male friend, unless she is betrothed to him; talking is allowed, fortunately.

As we climbed to the terraces of the castle, we could see the thread of the Rhine, in the distance, sparkling through the haze. The light air which came down the Neckar was fragrant with pine and the first falling leaves of summer trees. The vineyards below us were beginning to look crisp and brown, but hanging from stake to stake the vines were bent down by blue clusters, with the bloom still upon them. Troops of light-hearted students, children, blue-eyed and blond-haired, and contented citizens, were taking the same path, and like them, we forgot every thing but the sense of present happiness.

We had a table spread upon the upper balcony of the inn, after our scattered forces returned from many a long ramble up the glen and out on the meadows. Frau Dr. S—— ordered a repast, and the “landlady’s daughter”—not the sweet maid of Uhland’s song, but a stout-armed and stout-waisted damsel—brought us a jar of curds, dripping with the cool water in which it had stood. A loaf of brown bread next made its appearance, followed by a stone jug of foaming beer, and two or three dishes of those prune-tarts peculiar to Germany, completed the fare. On the porch below us, two or three musicians played waltzes, and the tables around the fountain were filled with students, laughing, clinking their beer-glasses, or trolling some burschen chorus. Our own table did not lack the heartiest spirit of mirth; this could not be otherwise so long as Frau Dr. S—— sat at the head of it. The students were gay and full of life, and even Dr. S——, the most earnest and studious of the party, was so far influenced by the spirit of the time, that he sang the “King of Thule” with more warmth than I had thought possible.

The afternoon sped away like a thought, and Heidelberg was forgotten until the faint sound of its evening chimes came up the valley. We returned in time to see a glowing sky fade over the mountains of Alsatia, and then first, as the twilight gathered, came the remembrance of home—a remembrance which did not chide the happiness of the day.

One of these excursions was accompanied by a different and less agreeable finale. A small party had been arranged to visit the ruins of St. Michael’s Chapel, on the summit of the Holy Mountain. I had ascended it previously, after an hour’s climbing, directly up the side, but as ladies were to accompany us, it was necessary to take a winding road, two or three miles in length, to reach the chapel. We mounted, by flights of steps through the terraced vineyards, to the Philosopher’s Walk, followed it to a retired glen called the Angels’ Meadow, and then entered a forest-road. The wind roared loudly among the trees, and the sky grew darker as we ascended, but we took little heed of these signs. Finally, however, on reaching a rocky point whence we could look down on the Rhine-plain, we were somewhat alarmed to see a heavy rain-cloud approaching from the west. The chapel was still half a mile distant, and its open walls and dismantled towers could afford us no protection, so there was nothing left but to turn about and descend with all speed.

The rain had just crossed the Rhine, and would probably be half an hour in reaching us, and as we could trace its misty advance on the sheet of landscape below us, we hoped to time our rate of walking so as to reach some shelter before it struck the mountain. Vain hope!—before we reached the Angels’ Meadow the wind fairly howled among the trees, and swept over us, laden with dust and showers of leaves. The rain followed, and as our path led over the exposed ridge of the mountain, the arrows of the storm smote pitilessly in our faces. The ladies shrieked, the men groaned, and, like Norval’s barbarians, we “rushed like a torrent,”—and with a torrent—“upon the vale.” When we arrived at the village of Neuenheim the shower was nearly over, but it might have continued all day, without more effect upon us.

The village of Ziegelhausen, up the Neckar, with its grim old convent, gardens and cascades, and the delightful arbors of vine, reaching down to the very brink of the river, is another favorite place of resort. The pastor of its church, who was familiar with our German friends, would frequently join us in an afternoon walk, followed by a cup of tea in the garden of the inn, and frequently by a share in the games of the village children. The pastor was a most jovial, genial character; he sang very finely—indeed, he was brother to the primo tenore in the Opera at Brunswick—and his wit was inexhaustible. His religion was as genuine as his cheerfulness; it was no gloomy ascetism, which looked on mirth as sin, but a joyous, affectionate and abounding spirit, bright as God’s sunshine and as unconscious of its blessing. How happily passed those September afternoons, warmed by such true social feeling, and refreshed by all the kindly influences of nature! If a return like this to the simple joys of the child’s heart be but obtained by the mature age of a nation, I could almost wish this country might grow old speedily. The restless energy of Youth is still upon us. The nation overflows with active impulses, which fear nothing, and yield to nothing. We have not yet felt the need of Rest.

I have said nothing of my struggles with the perverse German language—my daily sieges, advancing from trench to trench, till the strong fortress was stormed and all its priceless stores in my possession. I have not spoken of my blunders arising from ignorance and inexperience, nor the novelty of customs and life so different from ours. These would be tedious, nor are they necessary to give some impression of Heidelberg in its most delightful season. The most romantic and picturesque of all German cities, and therefore most thronged by romance-hunting tourists, its good old social character is still happily preserved. The last Revolution has fortunately spared it, and in spite of railroads beside its mountains, and steamboats on the Neckar, it will be for many years to come one of the pleasantest spots in Europe.

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BY CAROLINE MAY.

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BY MRS. MARY G. HORSFORD.

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BY MISS AUGUSTA C. TWIGGS.

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This seems a little word, while we repeat it less than one second of time is consumed, yet in its signification it is a great word—a word of vast and unmeasured import:

By it we understand a just appreciation of the good, the beautiful, the pleasant, the worthy and the useful:

Still it is not alike to all: Tastes differ with characters, and characters with men. By an all wise Creator was this so ordained, and in every thing we see the wisdom and the beauty of His system.

Suppose, for instance, we pass in fancy around this vast globe, as we progress onward, countries, climates, men and characters undergo every conceivable grade of change. Gradually we pass from regions inhabited by enlightened men—men of learning and deep research, men to whom Science seems to have lent her very self, until we come to a race of beings between whom and the brute creation there is scarcely a demarcation: Yet each and every one of these thousands upon thousands of countless beings has his own peculiar sphere of action, and his own especial tastes, adapted to his position and circumstances.

Taste may, however, be improved or debased, elevated to the highest appreciations, the noblest conceptions, or lowered to the most sordid views, the most groveling level, and this is left to man himself—to rise or fall, to sink or soar, is left to his own choice, and is within his own power.

Of course this remark is not unqualified, it is not intended that the natives of Central Africa, or of the inhabited regions around the Poles, can improve their moral condition, and rise to the same high standard as may the enlightened nations of Europe or of our own loved country. To assert such a thing would be preposterous, to expect it ridiculous. Our resources are not their resources, our advantages not theirs, but there is implanted in the breast of every man a frame-work and basis, with which, and upon which, he may build something that shall make him better than he now is. And the greater his advantages, the vaster the amount of material furnished him wherewith to work, the more will be expected of him, and higher and higher will the eyes of men rise, seeking for the pinnacles of that temple of the mind which they of a right expect him to rear.

To ensure without fail the meeting of their views, (perchance to surpass them,) it is not sufficient to seize indiscriminately and pile block upon block, and stone upon stone. It is not sufficient to heap up a vast mountain of brick and mortar, jumbled together without taste or elegance, and then write upon it—This is Parian marble—these are classic proportions. This will not do, the cheat will be found out, and Ridicule will mingle her laughter with the shouts and jeers of the multitude as they mock and scan the shallow attempt at imposition.

What then is to be done?

This—let us seek Taste, let us acquaint ourselves with her, coax her, court her, make her our own, and we are safe. But we must be sure it is no impostor, no false being who assumes the name, for there are such, and they are to be shunned. We must “be sure we are right, then” onward, right onward.

True taste will teach us to select the choice blocks, the finely grained and unflawed marble, she will bid us to reject the huge, coarse, glittering rocks with which some will strive to dazzle our eyes and mislead our judgment, and cause us to turn aside from those brittle and perishing kinds which will scarce bear handling.

Having chosen our materials, now let us build. Up go the blocks one after another, and high the temple grows. Day by day it increases in height, but why is it men stand and gaze with mortified and disappointed looks upon the structure? Why do no sounds of encouragement, no acclamations and shouts of admiration reach the ear? Hear the reason—we sought Taste—we courted her, we bid her aid us seek our materials, and teach us how to judge of them. She did so—that done we scorned her aid, we forgot her, and trusting in ourselves we reared a vast work of folly.

But “nil desperandum,” there is yet time. Tear down the monument of heedlessness and call Taste to teach us once again. Faithful she returns at our bidding. Now hark to the sound of the mallet and chisel as they ring against the stone, chip by chip of superfluous material is worked away, piece by piece which is unneeded is broken off and thrown aside until some other work shall call them into use.

Now seems to become exhumed, as from a grave of stone and rubbish, the massive pedestal, the firm base, the graceful column, the sculptured capital and the rich cornice. Day by day, and hour by hour, these multiply in true and classic beauty, and higher and higher skyward soars the now elegant structure, until, amid the shouts and admiration of the world, the voice of Reason proclaims that Taste has fashioned it.

This, then, is an edifice, a work worthy of the mind, formed from materials the choicest within man’s reach, wrought out and builded by the hand of Taste; it is worthy to be gazed upon, to be admired and copied by all.

Age after age will go by, but still it will stand firm, and beautiful, and admired as when the artist gave the last stroke, and proclaimed it to the world as finished.

Are proofs required, among the names of the ancients may be found those time-honored and long worshiped ones of Lysippus, Polycletus, Praxiteles, Timanthes, Appelles, Zeuxis, Parrhasius, Plato, Aristotle, Pliny, Ovid, Pollio, Catullus, Demosthenes, Thucydides, Xenophon, Aristophanes, Orpheus, Archilocus and Timotheus, together with many, many of their cotemporaries, for whose names I have no space, but whose memories are still, and still are to be, revered.

Following in the path which these have hewn through the thickets of prejudice and ignorance comes a long bright train. Amidst the stars of this latter day firmament gleam conspicuous the names of Banks, Young, Cole, West, White, Vandyck, Tasso, Titian, Rittenhouse, Mozart, Milton, Crabbe, Gallileo and Godfry, and ever and anon new and brilliant planets flash forth and shed their glad effulgence around.

Could this be without Taste?

It could not. Glorious and rich and varied as are the works of those whose efforts and the productions of whose minds have tended to elevate and improve our condition, they never could have been without Taste to suggest—Taste to aid, and Taste to accomplish the mighty, the stupendous, the gigantic works they have wrought.

What was it, let us inquire, that induced the ancient Egyptians to build the city of Thebes in such glorious magnificence that even its ruins produced effects upon historians to cause them to be immortalized? Homer tells of her hundred gates, from each of which two hundred chariots and ten thousand warriors could issue at a time. To her palaces painting and sculpture had lent all their art, combining to render this city one of the glories of the world. Was not this Taste?

What, too, induced them to erect those monuments of the strength of man and tyranny of kings—the Obelisks and Pyramids, to erect them in such huge size and vast strength that still they stand, as through long ages they have stood, firm and immovable as the “everlasting hills?”

Taste.

Need we ask Astronomy, that grand and elevating science, the contemplation of which forces upon us our own insignificance, and raises us from “Nature up to Nature’s God”—that science which teaches us to admire and wonder, to gaze and fear, to glorify and adore the Great Being who formed “Arcturus, Orion and the Pleiades.” Need we ask to what considerations upon the part of man we are indebted for the important and immense researches which all lie open to us, which teach us to trace out the constellations, and “call the stars by their names”—which drew Phytheas from his home and caused him to wander unsatisfied with the observations he was able to make in his own country, from the Pillars of Hercules to the mouth of the Tanais—which made Egypt, Rome, Spain, France, Germany and Denmark the cradles of the then infant science?

Is it necessary to reply it is Taste?

Turn we then to Philosophy, and in the deep researches of Thales, the moral reasoning of Socrates, the eloquence of Plato, and the disinterestedness of Zenocrates read of Taste.

Chemistry, with all its brilliant discoveries, and Rhetoric, in its elegance, speak of it.

Music, Oratory, History, Geography, Grammar and Physic are each and all of them proofs of Taste in its truth and purity; and Poetry shouts forth with glad and eager pride Eureka! we have found it.

The beauty, delicacy and usefulness of Botany, the rich and varied hue of the flowers, those “gems of earth,” whisper softly to us of Taste; and the importance of Anatomy proves it.

Metaphysics and Geometry demonstrate its truth; while the wild bird’s carol hymns forth its notes of praise and gladness to the Creator of it and of that element of man’s happiness, Taste.

It is here, it is there, it is everywhere, one grand, pervading principle, one first element, one chief ingredient of all things.

It was implanted in the mind by Him who formed us, and it is as much the duty of man to cultivate and improve his taste, as it is his duty to improve and cultivate any other talent lent him to keep; and he will be considered no more excusable for wrapping this precious deposit in a napkin and hiding it away than was the servant of old, who buried the talent until the coming of his lord. Let us then cultivate Taste, each according to the kind and portion given us.

It has been said that “every man is born to excel in something, and the only reason so many fail is they mistake their calling.” Be this as it may, it sounds marvelously like sense, and it would be well for every one to examine strictly, that he may discover wherein it is intended he shall excel, and what the peculiar Taste or Tastes may be which, to himself, to society at large, and to a higher power than either, it is his duty to cultivate.

Yet although Taste has been given us, and we are required to improve and use it to the best advantage, it is not intended there are no other gifts bestowed on man which can equal it. That would be to assume for it more than could well be proven. It is intended that Taste shall act as a means of enjoyment and happiness, as a means whereby we can investigate causes, and admire and apply effects—a means whereby we can dive into the very depths of science and open the sealed treasure-house of knowledge—a means of searching out the beauties and glories of creation, and comprehending, as far as the mind of man is capable of comprehending, the wonderful omnipotence of the Deity.

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BY T. S. ARTHUR.

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At nineteen, Silas Loring left college and went into a store to be educated for a merchant. At the same time, a school-companion, named Alfred Benedict, with whom he had been intimate, was placed by his parents in the counting-room of a large shipper. The two young men had enjoyed equal advantages, so far as education was concerned; but they had improved these advantages differently. The father of Loring early impressed upon his mind the idea that wealth gave a man all power and influence in the world; that it was the greatest good that could be sought; while the father of Benedict urged his son to gain knowledge as the highest and best possession. The two young men had been influenced, as well by their natural tastes and feelings as by the opinions and advice of their parents. On leaving college, Loring left behind him all affection for literature or scientific pursuits, and took with him only an ardent desire to become wealthy, accompanied by a confident assurance that he possessed the ability required to attain the summit of his wishes. Benedict, on the contrary, entered the world with his love of knowledge as active as ever, and his desire for its attainment more ardent than when he passed at first over the threshold of Wisdom’s temple.

Equal as to external advantages, the two young men started in the world. Neither of their parents were rich, though both were able to give their children a good education, that surest guaranty of success. But difference of purpose in a few years made a great difference in their relative positions. When Loring was twenty-five years of age he was a partner in the house where he had served his apprenticeship, and the most active and really intelligent business man in the firm; while Benedict was merely a book-keeper, receiving a salary of twelve hundred dollars a year. All the energies of the active mind of Loring, inspired by his love of money, were given to business; while the no less active mind of Benedict was as deeply absorbed in literary pursuits and scientific investigations. As a book-keeper, the latter was faithful, attentive and accurate, and valued by his employers; but beyond his journal and ledger his thoughts never penetrated the arcana of trade. He had no affection for it. His mind loved rather to explore the arcana of knowledge, and gather in from fields that were ever opening before him, rich harvests of intelligence.

In the manners and appearance of the two young men there was also a noticeable change. Loring had an air of self-importance, and an off-hand, dashing sort of manner, that bespoke a mind well satisfied with itself, and conscious of having done something. But Benedict had become more quiet and unobtrusive. He looked like a man who did not entertain a very high opinion of himself, as being of consequence in the community.

As men appear in society, so are they usually estimated by the mass. Loring was bowed to across the street a dozen times in every square; was met in company by a hearty shake of the hand, and treated wherever he went as an individual of some importance. And such he really felt himself to be. Benedict, on the contrary, might walk a dozen squares without receiving a nod, or mingle in society and be almost unnoticed and alone. But he did not feel this. In fact he was hardly conscious of it; for he rarely, if ever, thought any thing about the estimation in which others held him. His mind was in a higher and purer region.

The intimate friendship that had existed between Loring and Benedict, did not continue very long after they left college, although they remained friends and acquaintances, and were interested in each other for some years. But, after Loring had changed from a clerk to a merchant, he began to feel that he was no longer on a level with a mere book-keeper, who was likely to remain a book-keeper for life. Merchants were now his associates. Men who used to bow to him with distant formality, now took him cordially by the hand, and were as familiar with him as he had been with mere clerks before. He likewise received invitations to the houses of these merchants, and was introduced into a new and higher circle. In this circle he never met his old friend Benedict. Is it any wonder that he looked down upon him as an inferior? None. We see by means of the atmosphere by which we are surrounded, whether naturally or spiritually. The atmosphere in which the mind of Loring breathed and saw, was so different from the one that gave life and vision to the mind of Benedict, that he was unable to see by it the true quality and character of his friend. He could see in his own atmosphere, but that which surrounded the humble book-keeper was darkness to his eyes.

Thus the years went by, Loring accumulating gold, and Benedict treasures of knowledge, that neither moth nor rust could corrupt, nor thieves break through and steal. As these treasures increased, he began to feel a desire to impart something of what he possessed to others. This desire prompted him to write out his reflections, experiences, and the new views that were constantly pressing in upon his mind, and send them to the various literary and scientific journals for publication. It was not long before this brought him into honorable notice, and made his name familiar to men of intelligence throughout the country, with many of whom he gradually came into correspondence.

“What has become of Benedict?” asked Mr. Loring, one day of the merchant whose book-keeper he had been for many years. “I have missed him from your store for some time.”

“He left me several months ago,” was the reply.

“How came that? But I suppose his mind got so lost in his literary pursuits that he was no longer good for any thing as a clerk.”

“He was faithful and correct to the last,” promptly answered the individual to whom this remark was made. “I never had and never expect to have a more valuable clerk than Benedict. But he has obtained a better place, and one more suited to his tastes and abilities.”

“Ah, where has he gone?”

“To Bowdoin College. The Professorship of —— was offered to him, and he accepted it.”

“I didn’t know that he had any friends away off there. Isn’t it rather singular that he should be appointed to such a chair? Do you think him capable of filling it?”

“I presume those who appointed him knew his ability.”

“Did he apply for it?”

“No. He knew nothing of the vacancy until he was notified of his appointment.”

“That is a little singular,” remarked Loring, wondering for the moment how a man of so little importance, and no very distinguished ability, should be voluntarily tendered a high professorship in Bowdoin College. But the wonder did not occupy his mind very long. It passed away with the thought of his old school-friend.

Great activity and energy in a business already firmly established, in which was ample capital, made Loring the possessor, in a few years, of quite a handsome property. Ambitious of a more rapid increase of fortune, and believing that he ought to have the entire benefit of his activity, energy, and capacity for trade, he withdrew from the house in which he was a partner, and commenced business alone. He did not err in his calculations. The results was as favorable as he had expected. Money came in more rapidly, and with its accumulation rose his ideas of his own importance, until he looked down upon every man whose coffers were not quite as full as his own, at the same time that he felt himself to be as good as any millionaire in the land.

It is a little singular how the mere possession of money raises a man’s ideas of his own importance, and causes him to think meanly of all who are not favored with any considerable portion of this world’s goods. Upon what a slender basis of real worth do men sometimes build a towering structure of self-conceit! Wealth is very rarely the correspondent of solid virtue and sterling merit in those who possess it; not that men of wealth are less virtuous or meritorious as a class, but wealth, upon which most persons value themselves, is not the true standard for estimating the man. It never gives quality to the heart, principles to the mind, nor to the understanding rational intelligence.

As Mr. Loring continued to grow richer, his ideas of his own importance continued to rise, until he felt himself quite an “exclusive” in society. At the age of forty, he determined to take a trip across the Atlantic, and see the world abroad. He must spend some time in London, Paris and Italy. In order to be prepared for this journey, he brushed up his French, and spent his leisure time in reading about the places he proposed to visit. So far as his knowledge of matters and things in his own country, out of the mercantile sphere, was concerned, it was very limited. Even in politics he was not very well posted up. As to what was doing in literature and science, he was altogether ignorant. He was a successful merchant, and that was about all that could be said of him.

All things ready, Mr. Loring took passage in a steamer for Liverpool. The ship had cast off her moorings, and was gliding swiftly along the smooth waters of the bay, when the merchant, in turning his eyes from the diminishing city to the nearer and more palpable objects on board the vessel that was bearing him on to the ocean, noticed a familiar face. At first he was at a loss where to place its owner. But soon his memory was clear upon that subject. His old friend, Benedict, was a fellow-passenger! The eyes of the latter were upon him, and his countenance about expressing a pleasurable recognition, when Loring turned away and glanced back again upon the dim and distant city. He did not wish to renew the acquaintance. When he next looked around upon his companions for the voyage, Benedict was not to be seen.

There were one hundred passengers on board, and among them several men of high reputation in the United States. A former Governor of Massachusetts, whose name and fame were familiar to every one, was among the number; also two men from the South, who had distinguished themselves during many years in the national legislature. One of them had held the office of Secretary of State. Besides these, there were many men of standing and character both from the mercantile class and the learned professions. In looking over the list of passengers, Mr. Loring was well satisfied to find himself in such good company. The only drawback was the presence of so obscure an individual as Mr. Benedict, with whom he had once been acquainted, but toward whom he must now, in justice to his own character and position, conduct himself as a stranger.

Such were the reflections of Mr. Loring, as he turned from the vessel’s side and went below, late in the afternoon of the day on which they had sailed. On entering the cabin, the first objects that met his eyes were the ex-governor of Massachusetts and Mr. Benedict engaged in conversation. This surprised him at first, but on reflection, he explained the circumstance by supposing that Benedict had intruded himself upon the individual with whom he was conversing, and that the latter submitted to the intrusion from mere politeness. He sat down at some distance from them, expecting to see their interview quickly terminated. But he was disappointed in this, for the parties grew more and more interested. Whenever Benedict spoke, he observed that the other listened with deep attention, and that his manner toward him was always respectful, and sometimes even deferential. The conversation was prolonged until tea-time, and then the two men separated.

There was something in this that the man of wealth could not understand.

On the next day Mr. Loring sought an opportunity to make the formal acquaintance of Mr. ——, from the Bay State, through the introduction of a friend on board, who presented him as “one of our first merchants,” going out to visit Europe. Mr. —— was very polite, and made some commonplace remarks to the merchant, who replied with a self-importance in his manner that did not make the impression he designed. The ex-governor knew just how much money was worth as a standard by which to estimate the man. The words, “one of our first merchants,” made no impression upon him whatever. In fact, he scarcely noticed it. After talking a short time with Mr. Loring, with a polite bow he moved away and joined Mr. Benedict, who was standing on the opposite side of the vessel. He was soon again in close conversation with this obscure individual.

Loring was not only surprised at this, but chafed. It puzzled as well as annoyed him. He could not but remark that Mr. Benedict was perfectly at his ease with the distinguished individual who had just left him, and that there was nothing in the manner of Mr. —— approaching to condescension. Not many minutes elapsed before they were joined by a third person, to whom Mr. —— presented Loring’s old friend in a formal introduction. This individual was from the South. He had formerly held the office of Secretary of State at Washington. At the mention of Mr. Benedict’s name he shook him warmly by the hand, and treated him with marked attention. The three men then went below, where Loring saw them, about an hour afterward, in the centre of a group of five or six, all men of standing and character in the United States. Benedict was speaking, and all were listening to him with deep attention.

“Can it be possible that his fortunes have changed—that he has become wealthy?” the merchant said to himself; and a feeling of respect for his old acquaintance arose in his mind.

Day after day went by, and still Mr. Benedict continued to be on terms of intimacy with these men, while they treated Mr. Loring, who was introduced to them by a friend, with reserved and distant politeness.

“Who is that man?” asked the merchant, affecting not to know Benedict. The question was put to a fellow-passenger.

“That’s Professor Benedict,” replied the person addressed, manifesting surprise at the question. “Are you not acquainted with him?”

Loring shook his head.

“You have heard of him, of course?”

“I can’t say that I have.”

“Not heard of Professor Benedict!” The passenger looked into the face of Loring with a broad stare. “Why he is known from one end of our country to the other as a distinguished scholar and man of science. His articles in the Quarterly Review, and his essays on Political and Social Economy, ‘Wealth and Labor,’ ‘The Times,’ etc., have won for him an enviable reputation. There are few abler men in our country than Professor Benedict.”

Mr. Loring asked no further questions. He felt rebuked and mortified. Rich as he was, and highly as he valued himself, he felt that the man of intellect was ranked higher than the man of money. In the small compass of that steam-vessel were clustered together men of wealth, eminence, and political distinction. There were few on board whom even Mr. Loring would think beneath him; and yet he was treated by them with no particular deference. When he spoke, he was listened to with the politeness that always accompanies good-breeding; but that was all. None gathered around him; none sought his company; none treated him as a man distinguished from the rest. Wealth! that was a common possession; but strong intellect was the god-like gift of the few; and men bowed before it and yielded freely their homage.

The proud man was deeply humbled during the brief period occupied in sweeping across the broad Atlantic, and he felt relieved and breathed more freely the moment he set his foot on shore at Liverpool. Shame had kept him from renewing his acquaintance with Benedict, who continued to be an object of interest to almost every one during the voyage.

In the great world of London, Mr. Loring quickly recovered his balance of mind. He took letters of introduction to eminent merchants and bankers there, by whom he was received and treated with the greatest attention. He was again conscious of the fact, that wealth was power, and that the possessor of wealth ranked highest of any.

In Paris he did not feel quite so much at ease. He brought letters to the American Minister, the Hon. Mr. ——, who had represented our country at the palace of St. Cloud for some five years with honor to himself and the nation; and was received with the courtesy and attention which always marked that gentleman’s conduct toward his countrymen. Mr. Loring had only been in Paris a couple of days when the American Minister said to him,

“A distinguished countryman of ours is now in Paris. He is to dine with me day after tomorrow, in company with about fifty of the most celebrated scientific and literary men in the city. Your arrival is quite opportune, Mr. Loring, I shall, of course, have the pleasure of your company.”

Mr. Loring bowed in acquiescence, and then inquired who the distinguished American was.

“Professor Benedict,” replied the minister. “He is an honor to our country, and I feel proud of the opportunity I shall have of presenting him to men of a like spirit with himself, to whom his name has long been familiar.”

Mr. Loring was confounded.

“He has been for some years a member of the Philosophical Society here,” continued the minister, “and his communications, published in their annual report of proceedings, are among the finest papers that emanate from that body. They cause honorable notice of our countryman to be made in all the scientific journals of Europe. I need not ask you in what estimation he is held at home, as I see by Silliman’s Journal, the North American Review, and the transactions of the various learned societies there, that his worth is fully known and appreciated. Have you ever had the pleasure of meeting him?”

“Oh, yes,” was the reply. “He is an old college-mate of mine.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes. We were quite intimate as young men; but our pursuits in life were so different that, in the very nature of things, this intimate acquaintance could not continue. But I had the pleasure of meeting him again in crossing the Atlantic. We came over in the same steamer.”

“Did you? That must have been a very pleasant voyage. Fair weather the whole time, and the company of so many men eminent for their talents. Mr. Benedict says that the two weeks he spent upon the ocean he shall number as the most agreeable of his whole life.”

Mr. Loring now felt himself to be in a very awkward position indeed. How to act he did not know. He had accepted the American Minister’s invitation to dine with him, and at his table he would meet the man whom he had for years considered beneath him, and whose very acquaintance he had dropped as discreditable to one in his position. And this man was to be the honored guest! Mr. Loring retired to his hotel with his mind bewildered and his feelings at a lower range in the thermometer of his self-esteem than they had been for a very long time. If it had not happened that Benedict came over in the same steamer with him, and that he had cut his acquaintance before he knew that he had become an individual of some note, the way would have been plain enough before him. He could have gone to the dinner and renewed his old friendship, and felt honored in being his countryman. But this he felt to be out of the question now. Benedict might refuse to know him, or might treat him in such a manner as to wound and mortify him severely, and expose him to the just contempt of men whose good opinion he was the very man to value.

The exceeding smallness of the foundation upon which he had built a towering structure of self-importance, was brought, by the circumstances in which he was placed, with painful clearness to his mind. He saw and felt, almost for the first time in his life, that money was not every thing, and that it would not make a man worshiped every where, and by all classes of men.

For a long time the mind of Mr. Loring was in debate as to the best course to be pursued. At one time he resolved to send a note to the American Minister, on the day the dinner was to take place, regretting his inability to make one of his guests, on account of indisposition. But this intention was after a while abandoned, and he determined to leave Paris for Italy on the next day. Like the first resolution, this was also given up, and his mind was all in confusion again. At length he decided, though with much reluctance, that he would call upon Mr. Benedict, and formally renew his acquaintance. There was something, he felt, humiliating in this; but it was a step greatly to be preferred to any that he had yet thought of taking. He did not wish to lie direct to the American Minister, by saying that he was indisposed; nor did he wish to leave Paris for at least a month.

By little and by little, since the day the steamer left New York, the man of money had felt increasing respect for the man of mind. He saw that he was honored by those who were themselves honorable; that he was known and highly esteemed by distinguished men in Paris and throughout Europe, while his name had scarcely been heard of beyond his own city. There was no mistake about this. It was all plain as daylight. The humble book-keeper was a greater man than the purse-proud merchant.

The severest conflict between pride and necessity that ever took place in Mr. Loring’s mind, was that which ended in a determination to call upon Mr. Benedict. What his reception would be he knew not, nor could he fix upon any mode of address, on meeting him, that was satisfactory.

At length, after hours of hesitation and debate, and a re-consideration of the whole matter, the merchant left his hotel and proceeded to that of the old friend whom he had cast off years before as beneath him in social rank and real worth. Gradually his respect for him had been rising, until now he rather looked up than down upon him, as the possessor of something far more intrinsically excellent than any thing of which he could boast. Known throughout all Europe! The honored guest of the American Minister! Courted by men of learning and distinction in Paris! His very name a passport into the first circles, and an introduction to the most eminent men of the day! What had he been thinking about? Where were his eyes, that he had not before seen this rising star, now suddenly revealed to him, shining in beauty and splendor? Respect was easily changed into a feeling of deference. As distinctly as he could, Mr. Loring endeavored to recall to his mind the appearance and manner of Mr. Benedict, during the voyage across the Atlantic. This he could not do very distinctly, as he had kept out of his way as much as possible. Still he could recollect that there was ease, self-possession, dignity of manner, and the consciousness of power. These were the visible marks of a great man about him—not so much perceived at the time at recognized, now that they were remembered.

This was the state of mind, and such were the thoughts that oppressed Mr. Loring, as he started on his humiliating errand. He, of course, expected to be received with coldness and dignity, if received at all. It might be that Mr. Benedict would decline renewing the acquaintance that he had almost rudely dropped, which, under the circumstances, would be mortifying in the extreme, and compel him to decline the invitation to dine with the American Minister.

His card sent up, the merchant awaited the return of the porter with serious misgivings at heart. When that functionary returned, and signified that Mr. Benedict would be happy to receive him, he proceeded toward his apartments in a state of mind such as he had never before experienced, and certainly never wished to experience again. A door was thrown open by the porter, and a man, in the prime of life, stood near the centre of the room. His quiet, thoughtful face, and calm, steady eye, so well remembered, and so little changed by time, was lit up instantly by a warm, frank smile, so natural and familiar, that it seemed the smile of years before, when they met as intimate friends. He stepped forward quickly, and grasped Mr. Loring’s extended hand.

The merchant was subdued and humbled. He could hardly utter the words that rose to his tongue. He stood in the presence of one who was superior to himself, and who yet assumed no consequence. The beauty and true nobility of this he clearly saw, because it affected himself. He felt that Benedict possessed a generous, manly spirit and a true heart, of the real worth of which he had never before had any conception.

In the interview that followed this meeting, no allusion was made to the voyage across the Atlantic by either party. The conversation mostly referred to former years and events.

When they separated, Mr. Loring was in some doubt as to the real greatness of his old friend. He saw nothing in him that he had not seen before. Not a brilliant sentence was uttered; nothing out of the common order was apparent in his conversation. He even permitted the query to arise in his mind whether or no he had not been overrated? Whether distance had not lent enchantment to the view? This was his state of mind when he met him again at the American Minister’s, surrounded by some of the most celebrated men of learning in Paris; but it changed after Benedict had been toasted, and he replied in an address of great beauty, force, and originality, that enchained the attention of every one. Loring was lost in astonishment and admiration; nor was he less surprised at the apparent unconsciousness of being more than an ordinary man manifested by his every act and word during the five hours that he observed him in the midst of these eminent men, with the best of whom he could not but acknowledge him, from what he then saw, to be equal.

The man of money did not again come in contact with the man of mind during his tour in Europe; nor has he met him since his return home. But now, and he cannot but wonder why it was not so before, he hears the name of Professor Benedict frequently mentioned, and often meets with it in the public journals. Whenever he does so, the feeling of purse-proud superiority that has grown with his growth, and strengthened with his strength, has a leaf withered, a flower blighted, or a branch riven from the stem. But the roots of that feeling are vigorous, and strike deeply into a rich soil. Although its very luxuriant growth is at times checked, yet we cannot hope to see the plant destroyed. It is too well matured, and its aliment too abundant.

———

BY S. D. ANDERSON.

———

———

BY EDGAR A. POE.

———

1.

It is observable that, while among all nations the omni-color, white, has been received as an emblem of the Pure, the no-color, black, has by no means been generally admitted as sufficiently typical of Impurity. There are blue devils as well as black; and when we think very ill of a woman, and wish to blacken her character, we merely call her “a blue-stocking” and advise her to read, in Rabelais’ “Gargantua,” the chapter “de ce qui est signifiÉ par les couleurs blanc et bleu.” There is far more difference between these “couleurs,” in fact, than that which exists between simple black and white. Your “blue,” when we come to talk of stockings, is black in issimo—“nigrum nigrius nigro”—like the matter from which Raymond Lully first manufactured his alcohol.

2.

Mr. ——, I perceive, has been appointed Librarian to the new —— AthenÆum. To him, the appointment is advantageous in many respects. Especially:—“Mon cousin, voici une belle occasion pour apprendre À lire!”

3.

As far as I can understand the “loving our enemies,” it implies the hating our friends.

4.

In commencing our dinners with gravy soup, no doubt we have taken a hint from Horace.

5.

Of much of our cottage architecture we may safely say, I think, (admitting the good intention,) that it would have been Gothic if it had not felt it its duty to be Dutch.

6.

James’s multitudinous novels seem to be written upon the plan of “the songs of the Bard of Schiraz,” in which, we are assured by Fadladeen, “the same beautiful thought occurs again and again in every possible variety of phrase.”

7.

Some of our foreign lions resemble the human brain in one very striking particular. They are without any sense themselves and yet are the centres of sensation.

8.

Mirabeau, I fancy, acquired his wonderful tact at foreseeing and meeting contingencies, during his residence in the stronghold of If.

9.

Cottle’s “Reminiscences of Coleridge” is just such a book as damns its perpetrator forever in the opinion of every gentleman who reads it. More and more every day do we moderns pavoneggiarsi about our Christianity; yet, so far as the spirit of Christianity is concerned, we are immeasurably behind the ancients. Mottoes and proverbs are the indices of national character; and the Anglo-Saxons are disgraced in having no proverbial equivalent to the “De mortuis nil nisi bonum.” Moreover—where, in all statutory Christendom, shall we find a law so Christian as the “Defuncti injuri ne afficiantur” of the Twelve Tables?

The simple negative injunction of the Latin law and proverb—the injunction not to do ill to the dead—seems at a first glance, scarcely susceptible of improvement in the delicate respect of its terms. I cannot help thinking, however, that the sentiment, if not the idea intended, is more forcibly conveyed in an apophthegm by one of the old English moralists, James Puckle. By an ingenious figure of speech he contrives to imbue the negation of the Roman command with a spirit of active and positive beneficence. “When speaking of the dead,” he says, in his “Grey Cap for a Green Head,” “so fold up your discourse that their virtues may be outwardly shown, while their vices are wrapped up in silence.”

10.

I have no doubt that the Fourierites honestly fancy “a nasty poet fit for nothing” to be the true translation of “poeta nascitur non fit.”

11.

There surely cannot be “more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of” (oh, Andrew Jackson Davis!) “in your philosophy.”

12.

“It is only as the Bird of Paradise quits us in taking wing,” observes, or should observe, some poet, “that we obtain a full view of the beauty of its plumage;” and it is only as the politician is about being “turned out” that—like the snake of the Irish Chronicle when touched by St. Patrick—he “awakens to a sense of his situation.”

13.

Newspaper editors seem to have constitutions closely similar to those of the Deities in “Walhalla,” who cut each other to pieces every day, and yet got up perfectly sound and fresh every morning.

14.

As far as I can comprehend the modern cant in favor of “unadulterated Saxon,” it is fast leading us to the language of that region where, as Addison has it, “they sell the best fish and speak the plainest English.”

15.

The frightfully long money-pouches—“like the Cucumber called the Gigantic”—which have come in vogue among our belles—are not of Parisian origin, as many suppose, but are strictly indigenous here. The fact is, such a fashion would be quite out of place in Paris, where it is money only that women keep in a purse. The purse of an American lady, however, must be large enough to carry both her money and the soul of its owner.

16.

I can see no objection to gentlemen “standing for Congress”—provided they stand on one side—nor to their “running for Congress”—if they are in a very great hurry to get there—but it would be a blessing if some of them could be persuaded into sitting still, for Congress, after they arrive.

17.

If Envy, as Cyprian has it, be “the moth of the soul,” whether shall we regard Content as its Scotch snuff or its camphor?

18.

M——, having been “used up” in the —— Review, goes about town lauding his critic—as an epicure lauds the best London mustard—with the tears in his eyes.

19.

“Con tal que las costumbres de un autor sean puras y castas,” says the Catholic Don Tomas de las Torres, in the Preface to his “Amatory Poems,” “importo muy poco qui no sean igualmente severas sus obras:” meaning, in plain English, that, provided the personal morals of an author are pure, it matters little what those of his books are.

For so unprincipled an idea, Don Tomas, no doubt, is still having a hard time of it in Purgatory; and, by way of most pointedly manifesting their disgust at his philosophy on the topic in question, many modern theologians and divines are now busily squaring their conduct by his proposition exactly conversed.

20.

Children are never too tender to be whipped:—like tough beefsteaks, the more you beat them the more tender they become.

21.

Lucian, in describing the statue “with its surface of Parian marble and its interior filled with rags,” must have been looking with a prophetic eye at some of our great “moneyed institutions.”

22.

That poets (using the word comprehensively, as including artists in general) are a genus irritabile, is well understood; but the why, seems not to be commonly seen. An artist is an artist only by dint of his exquisite sense of Beauty—a sense affording him rapturous enjoyment, but at the same time implying, or involving, an equally exquisite sense of Deformity of disproportion. Thus a wrong—an injustice—done a poet who is really a poet, excites him to a degree which, to ordinary apprehension, appears disproportionate with the wrong. Poets see injustice—never where it does not exist—but very often where the unpoetical see no injustice whatever. Thus the poetical irritability has no reference to “temper” in the vulgar sense, but merely to a more than usual clear-sightedness in respect to Wrong:—this clear-sightedness being nothing more than a corollary from the vivid perception of Right—of justice—of proportion—in a word, of t? ?a???. But one thing is clear—that the man who is not “irritable,” (to the ordinary apprehension,) is no poet.

23.

Let a man succeed ever so evidently—ever so demonstrably—in many different displays of genius, the envy of criticism will agree with the popular voice in denying him more than talent in any. Thus a poet who has achieved a great (by which I mean an effective) poem, should be cautious not to distinguish himself in any other walk of Letters. In especial—let him make no effort in Science—unless anonymously, or with the view of waiting patiently the judgment of posterity. Because universal or even versatile geniuses have rarely or never been known, therefore, thinks the world, none such can ever be. A “therefore” of this kind is, with the world, conclusive. But what is the fact, as taught us by analysis of mental power? Simply, that the highest genius—that the genius which all men instantaneously acknowledge as such—which acts upon individuals, as well as upon the mass, by a species of magnetism incomprehensible but irresistible and never resisted—that this genius which demonstrates itself in the simplest gesture—or even by the absence of all—this genius which speaks without a voice and flashes from the unopened eye—is but the result of generally large mental power existing in a state of absolute proportion—so that no one faculty has undue predominance. That factitious “genius”—that “genius” in the popular sense—which is but the manifestation of the abnormal predominance of some one faculty over all the others—and, of course, at the expense and to the detriment, of all the others—is a result of mental disease or rather, of organic malformation of mind:—it is this and nothing more. Not only will such “genius” fail, if turned aside from the path indicated by its predominant faculty; but, even when pursuing this path—when producing those works in which, certainly, it is best calculated to succeed—will give unmistakeable indications of unsoundness, in respect to general intellect. Hence, indeed, arises the just idea that

I say “just idea;” for by “great wit,” in this case, the poet intends precisely the pseudo-genius to which I refer. The true genius, on the other hand, is necessarily, if not universal in its manifestations, at least capable of universality; and if, attempting all things, it succeeds in one rather better than in another, this is merely on account of a certain bias by which Taste leads it with more earnestness in the one direction than in the other. With equal zeal, it would succeed equally in all.

To sum up our results in respect to this very simple, but much vexata questio:—

What the world calls “genius” is the state of mental disease arising from the undue predominance of some one of the faculties. The works of such genius are never sound in themselves and, in especial, always betray the general mental insanity.

The proportion of the mental faculties, in a case where the general mental power is not inordinate, gives that result which we distinguish as talent:—and the talent is greater or less, first, as the general mental power is greater or less; and, secondly, as the proportion of the faculties is more or less absolute.

The proportion of the faculties, in a case where the mental power is inordinately great, gives that result which is the true genius (but which, on account of the proportion and seeming simplicity of its works, is seldom acknowledged to be so;) and the genius is greater or less, first, as the general mental power is more or less inordinately great; and, secondly, as the proportion of the faculties is more or less absolute.

An objection will be made:—that the greatest excess of mental power, however proportionate, does not seem to satisfy our idea of genius, unless we have, in addition, sensibility, passion, energy. The reply is, that the “absolute proportion” spoken of, when applied to inordinate mental power, gives, as a result, the appreciation of Beauty and horror of Deformity which we call sensibility, together with that intense vitality, which is implied when we speak of “Energy” or “Passion.”

24.

“And Beauty draws us by a single hair.”—Capillary attraction, of course.

25.

It is by no means clear, as regards the present revolutionary spirit of Europe, that it is a spirit which “moveth altogether if it move at all.” In Great Britain it may be kept quiet for half a century yet, by placing at the head of affairs an experienced medical man. He should keep his forefinger constantly on the pulse of the patient, and exhibit panem in gentle doses, with as much circenses as the stomach can be made to retain.

[Conclusion in our next.

DURING THE EIGHTEENTH AND THE BEGINNING OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

———

BY FAYETTE ROBINSON.

———

(Concluded from page 266.)

When Parisian society had passed the dread ordeal which bears the name of the Reign of Terror, through continual scenes of blood and tears, it seemed by a strange and almost unaccountable impulse to be impelled to mirth and festivity. On the day after the disappearance of the guillotine French frivolity resumed its sway with a thousand whims and vagaries, to which the stern muse of history would pay no attention, but to which, in this sketch of the follies of humanity, we may aptly attend. One of the whimsicalities peculiar to the day is that in memory of the sad toilette of the guillotine, when the hair was cropped by the shears of the executioner, a similar coiffure was the mode. Women laid aside their luxuriant locks for a coiffure À la victime, and wore a band of blood-red velvet around the neck, as if in derision of the fall of the axe. This fashion, emanating in France, where recklessness had been produced by the constant presence of danger, went the round of the world, and the coiffure À la victime was worn by both sexes in quiet neighborhoods, which had learned only by report of the fearful atrocities committed in the capital of civilization. Balls À la victime also became the vogue, and none were at first admitted to them except those who had lost relations on the scaffold. To some of these balls it was requisite not to have lost collaterals only, but a parent, or brother, sister, husband or wife. There were exclusives even there, and a new nobility of the scaffold was created. This was the era of corsets À la justice and bonnets À la humanitÉ.

Away with care! Bring in the violin and minstrels! was the cry. A mania for the dance pervaded all society. High and low, aristocrats and people, antiques and moderns all danced. The chapel of the old Carmelite convent became a ballroom, and the Jesuits’ college a place of festivity, as did also the convents of Saint-Sulpice of the Filles de Saint-Marie. In the guinguettes and in the most elegant society all danced. “If the traces of crime and degradation were seen every where else,” says a writer of that age, “a man of taste had at least the consolation to find in these brilliant assemblages society not unlike that which made Paris once the wonder of the world. The winter-balls are the asylum of good taste, elegance and propriety. In them a young man may purify himself by the spectacle of triumphant Virtue.” Yet the only requisite to admission to these balls was a subscription of 96 francs, (about $19.20.) A cotemporary thus describes one of the most celebrated of these reunions, that at the Hotel Richelieu, in a manner to make us skeptical about the virtue. “It is,” says he, “an arch of transparent robes of lace, head-dresses of gold and diamonds. A subscription is required, and the visiter is ushered into the society of perfumed goddesses, crowned with flowers, who float about in Athenian robes, and receive the lisping flattery of the incroyables, who prate of their parole d’honneur.” It need not be said this is a mere phase of Parisian society, fortunately not reflected by the rest of the world.

The ball of the Opera was revived, and to it we must look for the most striking specimens of costume. The plain black domino exclusively worn at such places during the monarchy had disappeared, and was replaced by a similar garment of the most striking colors. Turks, Chinese and the old traditional characters were exiled to the places of popular amusement, and the great room of the Opera was filled with Caius Marius, Dentatus, Cicero, Mutius ScÆvola, Pericles, Lycurgus, Cymon and Herodotus. The charm, however, was gone; the new society had no traditions; the people composing it were almost ignorant of each other, and the playful badinage of which the old balls had been the scene was lost forever. The Jeunesse DorÉe, as the courtiers of the Directory and Consulate were called, frequented these balls most faithfully, but the old prestige was destroyed, and families were not seen as they had been in the days of old.

It is strange with what rapidity from the epoch of the Directory a taste for luxury and pleasure sprung up in the minds of the people. Music again resumed its sway, and a hundred places of public amusement were opened. One of the most significant evidences that the late or present French Revolution is not yet over, is the fact that as yet public amusements do not thrive, and that the people look elsewhere for excitement than to the stage and concert. The most curious of all spectacles is the stormy deliberation of the Assembly, and the artistes of the Executive power the most attractive of all performers.

Gradually a disposition to make a figure inoculated society. As the Revolution became distant luxury increased. Yet it was not the faste of old monarchy, but a new splendor, which the persons left on the surface of society by the bouleversement of all orders threw around them. The women in the lowness of the bosoms of their dresses descended below even the modesty required by the Regency, and the incroyables became more fantastic than the marquis. The following was the costume they adopted, and a more tasteless one can scarcely be conceived: