Wagstaff, so splendid with his dinners and so generous on himself, is not so generous at home. He pays the bills with only a few oaths; but somehow he leaves his wife without money. He will give it to any body rather than to her: a fact of which he himself is, very likely, unaware at this minute, or of the timidity of his wife in asking for it. In order to avoid this asking, the poor girl goes through unheard of economies, and performs the most curious tricks of avarice. She dresses herself for nothing, and she dresses her children out of her own frocks. Certain dimities, caps, pinafores, and other fallals have gone through the family; and Arabella, though she sees ever such a pretty thing in a shopwindow, will pass on with a sigh; whereas her Lancelot is a perfect devourer of waistcoats, and never sets his eyes on a flaring velvet that strikes his fancy, but you will be sure to behold him the next week swaggering about in the garment in Pall Mall. Women are ever practising these petty denials, about which the Lords of the Creation never think.

I will tell you what I once saw Arabella doing. She is a woman of very high breeding, and no inconsiderable share of family pride: well, one day on going to Wagstaff's house, who had invited a party of us to Blackwall, about a bet he had lost, I was, in the master's absence, ushered into the drawing-room, which is furnished very fine, and there sat the lady of the house at her work-table, with her child prattling at her knee.

I could not understand what made Mrs. Wagstaff blush so-look so entirely guilty of something or other-fidget, answer à travers, and receive an old friend in this strange and inhospitable way.

She, the descendant of the Smiths of Smithfield, of the Browns of Brown Hall, the proud daughter of the aristocracy, was making a pair of trousers for her eldest son. She huddled them away hastily under a pillow-but bah! we have keen eyes-and from under that pillow the buttons peeped out, and with those buttons the secret-they were white ducks-Wagstaff's white ducks-his wife was making them into white ducklings for little Fred.

The sight affected me. I should like to have cried, only it is unmanly; and to cry about a pair of little breeches !—I should like to have seized hold of Mrs. Wagstaff and hugged her to my heart: but she would have screamed, and rung for John to show me down stairs; so I disguised my feelings by treading on the tail of her spaniel dog, whose squealing caused a diversion.

But I shall never forget those breeches. What! Wagstaff is flaunting in a coat of Nugee's, and his son has that sweet, humble tailor. Wagstaff is preparing for Blackwall, and here is his wife plying her gentle needle. Wagstaff feasts off plate and frothing wine; and Arabella sits down to cold mutton in the nursery, with her little ones ranged about her. Wagstaff enjoys, Arabella suffers. He flings about his gold; and she tries to stave off evil days by little savings of meek pence. Wagstaff sins and she forgives-and trusts, and loves, and hopes on in spite of carelessness, and coldness, and neglect, and extravagance, and— and Parties Fines.

This is the moral of the last story. O, ye Wagstaffs of this world profit by it. O, ye gentle, meek angels of Arabellas, be meek and gentle still. If an angel can't reclaim a man, who can? And I live in hopes of hearing that by the means of that charming mediation, the odious Lancelot has become a reformed character. TITMARSH.

ONE MORE SAVOY RAMBLE.

BY MRS. TROLLOPE.

Once more unto the heights, dear friends,
Once more.

THERE is but one way, as I think, by which the traveller who loves to spin long yarns concerning the fondly-remembered journeys he has taken there is but one way by which he can repay the debt of gratitude he lies under to those who are so obliging as to listen to him, and that is, by making the said long yarns serve as a clew to lead safely up hill, and down dale, the steps of all such kind listeners as may be tempted by his tale to arouse themselves, gird up their loins, and follow his wanderings through the scenes he has described. It would be scarcely fair, however, to expect that the conscientious traveller should keep his grateful project of remuneration so steadily in view as never to pause for a moment, as he spins his clew, in order to indulge in a little gossip, not quite essential perhaps to the well doing of those who take him as a guide. In good truth, the temptation is too strong to be resisted; and it should be remembered that this very lingering over the scenes described, is so strong an indication of the pleasure which the mere recollection of them produces, that it may be safely received in evidence of their being worth the visiting. Bear with me then, patiently, gentle listener, although it is again of Savoy, beautiful, wild, historic, strong-featured Savoy, that I am about to talk, and to exercise your patience. I can assure you that I intend to be very useful in my gossip, not only pointing out to you sundry things that you would do well to see, but cautioning you against some others that you would do well to avoid, or if not exactly to avoid, at any rate to approach with caution. But before I come to these very useful particulars, let me utter a few more admonitory words of neral remonstrance, to the multitude of travellers who leave home with the idée fixe of Rome in their heads, to a degree that seems to preclude the possibility of their receiving any other. Truly, dear countrymen and countrywomen, it is a lamentable thing that you should suffer yourselves to be borne along over such a country as this of Savoy, without pausing for a month, a week, or even a day, to see what nature has done for it. It is no excuse for you that you have the eternal city in view, for as reasonably when you get there might you shut your eyes as you go over the bridge of St. Angelo, because you set off from your hotel for the purpose of seeing St. Peters. Think better of it next time. There will be a next time-for how few are there who, having once taken courage to cross the stern barrier which divides the rest of the earth from its museum, its garden, its most venerable library, the tomb of its heroes, and the shrine of its saints-how few of them wend their homeward way without promising to their hearts that they will come again? Next time, therefore, use more wisdom, look more deliberately about you, and take care to remember all I am now going to say to you.

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Of course we did not leave Annecy without making the beautifully

situated Château de Daing, or Daingt, an excuse for passing another delicious hour or two on its lake, the best manner of reaching it from Annecy being by a boat; but the château, save for its singularly beautifully position, is no longer so interesting to travellers as formerly. A few years ago its beautiful apartments were let singly, if required, together with all the other accommodations of a regular pension, to any one whose taste, leading them to such a resting place in this charming country for a few days, prefered the quiet retirement of such an abode to the certain noise and doubtful comforts of an hotel. But this is no

longer the case. The mansion and grounds have become the property of a gentleman who resides there with his family. I mention this in order to fulfil my promise of being useful, as it may save from disappointment those who, reading in the guide-books that the beautiful Chateau de Daing has been opened as a pension, might arrange their plans accordingly. Annecy-le-vieux may be deemed worth climbing to by those who have time to spare, and who wish to look out upon the country from a tolerably elevated point of view; but it is to professed antiquaries only that I should point out this excursion as indispensable. From Annecy we proceeded in our pleasant, queer little carriage to Faverges, and after one of those particularly clean and comfortable coffeeand-milk breakfasts, which now and then occur on exploring expeditions, we walked up to its finely-placed castle. Horace Walpole warned me long ago, even in the days of my youth, against what he terms the "issimo" style of description, and questionless, the warning was a wholesome one; nevertheless, there are some things that it would be difficult to describe, save by the use of the superlative, and the view from the hill upon which the castle of Faverges stands is among them. As for the castle itself, it has greatly changed its character since it was the. scene of knightly deeds and knightly splendour, having so greatly sunk in glory, and risen in utility, as to be converted from a warlike stronghold, into a manufactory of silks and satins.

I had been reading the evening before some pages of Monsieur Ménabréa's interesting volumes entitled "Les Alpes Historiques"—(we do, now and then, get sight of a new book, as well as of our beloved old legends), and had been much amused by his historic sketch of the gradual declension of feudal greatness and chivalric glory, and of the symptoms of both, which the dwellings of nobles built, or repaired, during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, (castles though they were, "avec tours, fossés, pont-levis, créneaux, et machicoulis, vains simulaires d'une grandeur déchue") displayed. A step further towards our actual condition was made evident enough by inscriptions like the following, being conspicuously placed on the mansion which Réné Favre built at Proméry, near Annecy.

And again,

Pain, Paix, Peu.

Il n'y a autre noblesse,
Que celle que vertu laisse.

Both these, as well as various others in the same spirit, were from the pen of Claude Mermet, whose volume of "poesies" was published at Lyons in 1583. Another specimen is cited from the same hand, still more modern in its feeling.

Tu prétends estre gentil-homme
Par la faveur du parchemin :

Qu'un sot se trouve en ton chemin
Tu seras puis simplement homme.

This certainly shows an advanced "march of mind" for remote Savoy in the sixteenth century; and the old baronial castle of Faverges converted into a receptical for silk-looms, looks as if the march had gone steadily on. Shall we live to see the stout old walls of Caernarvon, Chepstow, Ragland, or Goodrich, converted to similar purposes? The effect of this metamorphosis on the mind is very striking. We had been told that we must not fail to mount to the castle of Faverges, for the purpose of looking at the magnificent view it commands, and we set off accordingly, despite a burning sun, to climb the steep height on which this nobly placed edifice stands. These mountain strongholds are so constantly placed on elevations difficult of access, that we have become perfectly well broken in to the toil of mounting to them; and however varied we may find, on examination, such portions of the old fabrics as remain standing, the process of looking for, and finding, the principal features of all such structures has become as familiar to us as the preliminary act of climbing. And so strongly marked do we always discover the enduring features of strength and power to be in all of them, and so forcibly does every object on such spots set the imagination upon recalling the deeds of daring and of dread that have been enacted thereon, that it is almost impossible not to fall again and again into waking dreams of feudal tyranny and chivalric valour, peopling the scene with warlike and picturesque figures of all sorts, and becoming every moment further and further removed in spirit from the very literally "workingday-world" propensities of the time present. Such being the habitual state of mind of castle-ruin hunters, it is not very difficult to imagine the sort of contrast produced upon their senses by beholding, as they at length master the last steep turning of the ascent on which the castle of Faverges is situated, a tame quadrangle of white-washed walls, perforated with abundance of little square windows, with looms visible through the open casements, and busy figures flitting to and fro, bearing about them every imaginable mark of the manufacturing activity of the nineteenth century.

"Can this be the castle of Faverges?" said I, somewhat wearied by the long ascent, and at least half-angry at finding that it had only brought me to a dirty-looking workshop.

"Yes, truly," replied my companion, "it must be the old castle, though strangely metamorphosed." And, on looking about a little, it was easy enough to trace some of the outworks, though not in a condition to redeem, in any degree, the undignified aspect of the umwhile fortress. Having finished this very unsatisfactory survey, I was preparing to follow the example of that king of France, who

Marched up the hill, and then marched down again;

but my companion suggested that it might be as well to advance a few steps farther, as it was probable, from the form of the hill we had mounted, that we should by doing so command an extensive view. And these few steps farther did indeed give us such a landscape to look down June.-VOL. LXXI. NO. CCLXXXII.

N

upon, as speedily made me forget the want of "the quarry of old stones," amongst which I had expected to amuse myself; wherefore I strongly advise all those who afford themselves, in travelling, sufficient time to look at what is worth seeing, to indulge in just such an hour of idleness as we enjoyed within the space of half-a-mile beyond the cidevant castle of Faverges.

It surely is a merciful dispensation of Providence which causes the difference between one human being and another, in the sensations produced by the sight of new and beautiful scenery. What a horde of wanderers would all the nations of the earth become, did every body love the sight of new hills and valleys as I do! As to inns, hotels, caravansaries, and all such convenient inventions, they would become as much beyond the hope of the majority of ordinary mortals, as turtle soup and venison haunches surpass that of the guests of the table (pas d'hôte) of a union workhouse.

Inns and hotels! I doubt greatly if we should all find room enough to pitch our little canvass tents without finding ourselves occasionally such very near neighbours as to produce mutual inconvenience, by making the out-pourings of our respective picturesque raptures overheard by each other. Providentially, however, as I said before, Nature, with her usual characteristic benignity, has taken care that no such inconvenient crowding upon her favourite spots shall take place. The diversity between man and man respecting their susceptibility to harmony of sound, the enjoyment where it is, and the suffering where it is not, is not more strongly marked than the inequality, both of pleasure and pain, produced by what is lovely, or otherwise, in objects which influence us solely through the medium of the eye.

I remember hearing a very clever man, and one whose keenly observant philosophy, when employed upon the moral phenomena of the world, has made a most justly popular writer-I well remember his saying to me, that few things occasioned him a sharper annoyance than the being called upon to sympathize with the lovers of fine scenery.

"In passing either up or down any of the famous rivers," said he (and he was a great traveller), "which are the favourite resort of steamboats and hunters for the picturesque, I invariably insconce myself in the cabin, and by devoting myself immoveably either to reading or writing, continue to escape the horrible persecution of being asked every other minute 'Is it not beautiful?'"

Yet this person was as far the reverse of dull as Hyperion to a satyr. Let no one therefore-and trust me, all ye who kindle at a landscape, the advice is good-let no one, upon feeling his heart swell, and his spirit expand itself into an increased capability of happiness, at the sight of fine scenery, imagine that it is the result of superior intellectual organization. It is the result of no such thing, but simply and solely of that sort of justness of vision which detects harmony, or the want of it, both in the form and colour of every thing it looks upon. And this species of perfection in the sense has no more claim to intellectual superiority than has the gift inherent in some mortals, greatly over "other some," of discerning the quality of whatever is submitted to the sense of taste. It may often, moreover, be remarked-at least my own observation leads me to think so that where the organization of one sense is