Europe at this season of the year. The road was most romantically recluse, and so serpentine as never to be visible beyond a hundred yards. The nightingales were singing in the adjoining woods. The road, moreover, was bordered on each side by lofty hedges, intermingled with fruit-trees, and even vines in full bearing. At every half-mile a crossroad, branching from the main one, led into the recesses of the country, or to some castle or villa on the high grounds which look to the river. At some of these bye-ways were very curious inscriptions, painted on narrow boards affixed to a tree. Such were, "The way to My Heart's Content' is half a league up this road, and then turn to the right, and keep on till you reach it." And another, "The way to 'Love's Hermitage' is up this lane, till you come to the cherry-tree by the side of a chalk-pit, where there is another direction." Mademoiselle Sillery informed me, that these kind of inscriptions were characteristic of the banks of the Loire.

"The inhabitants along the whole of the course of this river," said she," have the reputation, from time immemorial, of being all native poets; and the reputation, like some prophecies, has perhaps been the means of realizing itself. You do not perhaps know that the Loire is called in the provinces the River of Love: and doubtless its beautiful banks, its green meadows, and its woody recesses, have what the musicians would call a symphony of tone with that passion." I have translated this sentence verbally from my note-book, as it may give some idea of Mademoiselle Sillery. If ever a figure was formed to inspire the passion of which she spoke, it was this lady. Many days and years must pass over before I forget our walk on the green road from Oudon to Ancennis-one of the sweetest, softest scenes in France.

We entered the forest of Ancennis as the sun was setting. This forest is celebrated, in every ancient French ballad, as

being the haunt of fairies, and the scene of the ancient archery of the provinces of Bretagne and Anjou. The road through it was over a green turf, in which the marks of a wheel were scarcely visible. The forest on each side was very thick. At short intervals, narrow footpaths struck into the wood. Our carriage had been sent before to Ancennis, and we were walking merrily on, when the wellknown sound of the French horn arrested our steps and attention. Mademoiselle Sillery immediately guessed it to proceed from a company of archers; and in a few moments her conjecture was verified by the appearance of two ladies and a gentleman, who issued from one of the narrow paths. The ladies, who were merely running from the gentleman, were very tastily habited in the favorite French dress after the Dian of David; whilst the blue silk jacket and huntingcap of the gentleman gave him the appearance of a groom about to ride a race. Our appearance necessarily took their attention; and after an exchange of salutes, but in which no names were mentioned on either side, they invited us to accompany them to their party, who were refreshing themselves in an adjoining dell. "We have had a party at archery," said one of them, "and Madame St. Amande has won the silver bugle and bow. The party is now at supper, after which we go to the chateau to dance. Perhaps you will not suffer us to repent having met you, by refusing to accompany Mademoiselle Sillery was very eager to accept this invitation, and looked rather blank when Mrs. Young declined it, as she wished to proceed on her road as quickly as possible. "You will at least accompany us, merely to see the party." "By all means," said Mademoiselle Sillery. "I must really regret that I cannot," said Mrs. Young. "If it must be so," resumed the lady who was inviting us, "let us exchange tokens, and we may meet again." This proposal,

us."

so perfectly new to me, was accepted: the fair archers gave our ladies their pearl crescents, which had the appearance of being of considerable value. Madame Young returned something which I did not see: Mademoiselle Sillery gave a silver Cupid, which had served her for an essence-bottle. The gentleman then shaking hands with us, and the ladies embracing each other, we parted mutually satisfied. "Who are these ladies?" demanded I. "You know them as well as we do," replied Mademoiselle Sillery. "And is it thus," said I, "that you receive all strangers indiscriminately?" "Yes," replied she, "all strangers of a certain condition. Where they are evidently of our own rank, we know of no reserve. Indeed, why should we? It is to general advantage to be pleased, and to please each other." "But you embraced them as if you really felt an affection for them." "And I did feel that affection for them," said she, "as long as I was with them. I would have done them every service in my power, and would even have made sacrifices to serve them." "And yet if you were to see them again, you would perhaps not know them." "Very possibly," replied she. "But I can see no reason why every affection should be necessarily permanent. We never pretend to permanence. We are certainly transient, but not insincere."

In this conversation we reached Ancennis, a village on a green surrounded by forests. Some of the cottages, as we saw them by moonlight, seemed most delightfully situated; and the village had altogether that air of quietness and of rural retreat, which characterizes the scenery of the Loire. Our horses having preceded us by an hour or more, everything was prepared for us when we reached our inn. A turkey had been put down to roast, and I entered the kitchen in time to prevent its being spoilt by French cookery. Mademoiselle Sillery had the table provided in an instant

with silver forks and table-linen. Had a Parisian seen a table thus set out at Ancennis, without knowing that we had brought all these requisites with us, he would not have credited his senses. The inns in France along the banks of the Loire are less deficient in substantial comforts than in these ornamental appendages. Poultry is everywhere cheap, and in great plenty; but a French inn-keeper has no idea of a table-cloth, and still less of a clean one. He will give you food and a feather-bed, but you must provide yourselves with sheets and table-cloths.

A Bouse and Grounds.

FROM COWLEY, SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, LADY WINCHILSEA,

AND MACKENZIE.

"I've often wished that I had clear,
For life, six hundred pounds a-year,
A handsome house to lodge a friend,

A river at my garden's end,
A terrace walk, and half a rood

Of land set out to plant a wood."

FEW indeed are the persons that in the course of their lives have not entertained wishes of the like sort. Sometimes they have realized them; sometimes been disappointed by the realization itself. In the latter case, the fault is neither in the wish nor in the things wished for. The wish is good, if only as a pleasure of the imagination and an encouragement to the means for attaining its object; and the things are found to be very good indeed, by those whose temperaments and habits qualify them for the enjoyment. Stories of unhappy millionaires who retire only to find the country tedious, of tallowchandlers who yearn for their melting days, and even of poets discontented with their "groves," prove but the want of previous fitness, or of sufficient good health. The tallow-chandler should have cultivated something besides long-sixes, and the poet should not have sate reading about his groves till the state of his biliary vessels hindered his enjoyment when he got them. There is, however, a great deal of difference in those cases. That of the tallow-chandler, if he knows