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the journey from Brussels to Calais is performed in one day, and in a fortnight from this time, such will be the case from Calais to Brussels. Arrangements have been made to start a coach from the former place so as to arrive at Ostend in time for the train to Brussels, instead of, as at present, obliging the Calais passengers to remain a night at Dunkirk. Thus a person leaving London on one day, will be at Brussels on the next.

A FRENCH COURIER. Here is another sui generis mortal of the nondescript order. He must be seen to be within the comprehension of an Englishman's mind, forasmuch as his powers of imagination would never half reach him. I will, however, endeavour to convey something like an idea of a French courier.

In the first place his horse. No butcher in England is ever seen on so miserable a looking animal, and, whether formed by nature for it or not (and to do it as it should be done, and with ease to himself or rider, nature must be consulted, inasmuch as with straight hind-legged horses, the canter is an outrage on their physical powers), the canter must be his pace, to enable his rider, who would not be seen rising in his stirrups to his trot on any consideration whatever, to endure a long journey. Then a huge collar of bells round his neck, responding to the up-and-down, jarring action of the unhappy nag, with a saddle of at least thirty pounds weight, and a bridle of equally ancient date, complete this part of the picture. But the rider! can I hit him off so closely? I fear not, but I will try.

On his head-on the very top of it, I should have said, and looking as if a puff of old Boreas would dislodge it—is stuck a cap, à la militaire, encircled with a handsome gilt band. On the upper part of his body is a tight-fitting blue jacket, embroidered down the back'd la militaire, whilst the nether parts of the same are cased in very thick, very tight, yellow or green leather-breeches, and, of course, jack-boots, with

spurs of some inches of neck. Then away he goes, sitting back in his saddle, flourishing his whip over his head with no small degree of skill, the smacking of which, together with the jingling of the bells, produces a musical medley of no common order. But there is one peculiarity in his dress, not yet noticed, and the most remarkable of all. From under his jack-boots, and drawn, for about a quarter of a yard upwards, over his leathers, appear a pair of coarse worsted stockings! Now what is the object here? I am unable to say further than that it may be either to save irritation from the hard jack-boot, and still harder saddle, or by the rough surface of the stockings to obtain a closer seat. Unsightly as is the appearance of this description of persons to an English eye, and unprepared as they appear to be to withstand the effects of bad weather, their endurance of fatigue in their journeys is far beyond what might be expected ; in numerous cases, indeed, surprising. For example; it has been no unusual occurrrence for one of Mr. Rothschild's couriers to came from Paris to Calais, and return to Paris almost immediately on his arrived at the former place, and generally performing the distance, 170 miles, in from eighteen to twenty hours. There are couriers now in Calais who have frequently ridden to Rome, Naples, Madrid, and places equally distant.

(To be continued.)

TELLING ONE'S TROUBLES.

BY LAMAN BLANCHARD, ESQ.

All very

No man can hope to enjoy that annual happy new year, which his friends are so apt to "wish he may get” in a tone implying their conviction that he will get no such thing, unless he have done what in him lies to leave the troubles of the old year behind, and to start fair, free from encumbrances. What applies to years applies to months. The new account will never go lightly on if clogged with a heavy balance brought forward. As time moves on with wallet at his back, let sorrows be the “ alms” that he puts into it " for oblivion.”

well, cries the world, but this is sooner said than done! The world, though a year older than it was a twelvemonth ago, is still wrong. In most cases it is no sooner said than done. Tell your trouble, and it is half over; continue talking about it, and it is not felt at all. He who keeps his sorrows to himself, does keep them. While they are secrets they are stingers. Silence is the twin-sister of grief, and acts as nurse to her, but Gabble is her sworn enemy. While the tongue runs, it is twelve chances out of a dozen that the tears will not.

That man understands neither misery nor friendship, who does not communicate to his friends the woes that agitate him. He does not deserve to be wretched-to be human. He is, in fact, little better than a pillar of salt and a suit of clothes. We once heard an insipid but solemn personage whimsically compared to a “basin of gruel in a black cloak.He is even as incongruous as this. How different from him who, as often as a new trouble turns up,

takes out a list of his intimate relatives and acquaintances, and of each in succession makes a sole and especial confidant! whispering his affliction to every one of them as to the only friend he ever had in the wide world, and thus striking from the rock of at least threescore bosoms those streams of sympathy that take their rise from a point singularly near to the fountain of self-love; for if we can persuade ourselves that we are the one honest and generous being picked out to be confided in, the flattery of the preference generally reconciles us to the intrusion, and extracts something pleasant from ihe dolefulness of the duty imposed. And how is this adoption of the social-system, in opposition to a selfish monopoly, rewarded! Why, by the time the communicative sufferer has confided in all his friends, and exhausted the entire list, he finds that he has exhausted his griefs too, having fairly written and talked himself into a comfortable independence of consolation,

It sometimes happens though, that to meditate these grievous communications is easier than to effect them. When we recommend the miserable to tell their troubles, we should perhaps advise them to catch their friends first. It is as well when ou mean to take a man by the button, to be cautious how he gets hold of yours instead. There are mourners about town, whose hearts are so continually bursting with a sense of innumerable grievances—who have been so monstrously illused, and so undeservedly afflicted from their cradles, that they will

allow nobody to relate a heart-rending story but themselves—theirs must be all the misery or none—there's no slipping in a sigh edgewise with them. It is desirable, with sufferers of this class, to dash at once into your agonizing narrative-wave the ordinary salutations of acquaintanceship and the compliments of the season, and begin at once“My heart's broken,” &c., before they can sob out a syllable, or depend upon it they will get the start—and whosoever starts first in these cases, has the stage to himself throughout the tragedy.

Let it not be supposed, however, that there is no advantage in the attempt to transfer your sorrow to some sympathetic bosom, even though the attempt should be thus frustrated. Your lamentations may be stified in their birth—you may be converted into a listener, a mere mute; but though stopped at the second word of your story—checked most abruptly-discouraged most unceremoniously, is it no advantage, no relief to a racked and wounded bosom to find that the affectionate friends whom you came to consult and confide in, have sorrows to divulge of a depth and a keenness to which yours have no pretensions -troubles to which yours are trifles, affairs of broken toys-distresses incalculably less remediable--woes that have taken each bewailing voice three hours to recount, as you perceive by your own stop-watch, for by that you have been three hours a listener. So that in either case there is an advantage“ each way makes your gain.” If uninterrupted in your recital of affliction, you lighten your grief by depositing it in the tender breasts of numerous friends ; if cut short in your story, and obliged to listen, you equally lighten your grief by discovering that the tender breasts of numerous friends are torn and convulsed more curelessly than your own.

The fact of troubles being oftentimes completely talked away, and of people becoming suddenly light-hearted by simply unbosoming themselves, as it is called, is too well established to be further insisted upon ; the practice is too generally adopted to require recommendation. But the efficacy of listening, as a remedy, is not quite so apparent. The principle of it, it will be perceived, is simply the principle of the homeopathic system carried out to its opposite extent-curing grief by taking unlimited doses of it. As a large quantity of the sympathetic medicine in the one case would be avowedly destructive, so a small quantity in the instance of the moral disease would be worse than useless. You must go the whole round of your intimate friends and visiting acquaintances-you must find a decided majority of them plunged in profound affliction, and relief must, in some particular cases of extreme intimacy and regard, be hopeless, before the heaviness of spirit with which you heard the opening of the sad series of disclosures has a chance of being finally dissipated. You must go the whole dog, eat the entire animal that bit you, or there is no cure in store for you.

But all this will be better shown and explained by a short recital of some adventures that occurred the other day; a case in which our deeply-attached friend (Ego is his name), Mr. Ego, figures as the patient. Melancholy had, that morning, marked him for her own. The most angelic nature will sour. Nobody's perfect. A saint may be allowed once in his life to “indulge" (as the phrase is) in those specimens of the English tongue which are better expressed on paper by a

of a certain measurement, or an explanatory half-dozen of

To make a plain confession, he was, in what is domestically called a sweet temper. The cause in these cases is of the least possible consequence. In general the morose fit is all the sweeter for being wholly destitute of a cause.

But

suppose it to be an unlucky day, the Bad Friday of the whole year. The provocation begins, perhaps, as soon as you are up, with a slip of the razor on the tender side of the chin; or when dressing in a hurry, a shirt-button comes off, or the boothook breaks

-we put it to any patient reasonable gentleman whether he knows of any thing much more provoking, or better calculated to justify a towering passion, No matter then for the grievance; enough that it was a genuine one while it lasted. With a determined and irritable consciousness of the

“One fatal remembrance, one sorrow that throws

Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes,” Ego strolled Strandward to Somerset House, where his Pylades regularly arrives every day at eleven o'clock, and into that gentle, indulgent, deeply-compassionating breast he designed to pour his sorrows.

Pylades was punctual, and if he were ordered for execution he would be punctual-he wouldn't keep a sheriff waiting one minute in the cold. But something, notwithstanding, had caused a slight deviation from his usual habits; for though, as during the first official hour of every morning in the winter months, he was seated with his feet on the fender, with papers unexamined, and a letter or two unopened on his table, the well-dried morning newspaper was not in his hand. The omission was ominous. He couldn't “ relish his murders."

“Ah! my dear friend,” he said as Ego entered, “ I didn't expect to see you to-day-very glad you've looked in—" and he sighed heavily; o do sit down. How are you?"

“ Oh! don't ask me—I don't know when I've been so annoyed,” was the reply, accompanied by a cordial pressure of the extended hand. “ The fact is, I came down here on purpose to tell you, well knowing how distressed you will be on my account. And what a relief that is to one's feelings! An infernal circumstance has occurred that really gives me more trouble-" Trouble! my

dear Ego, don't mention it. I'm sure I can feel for you. If I didn't, I don't know who should. Nobody can sympathize so well as those who suffer, eh ? and I'm sure just now I'm suffering enough, quite enough. Now was ever any thing so provoking, so unlucky! You haven't heard ? No, of course you haven't; how should you! I've only just heard it myself—just now, since I came in. My dear friend, you'll be very sorry to learn that by an arrangement which took place yesterday, I've lost, finally lost, at least three hundred and seventy pounds a year! Three hundred and seventy or seventy-five pounds per annum, gone with a dash of the pen. Irrecoverable! My dear fellow, I knew I should shock and hurt you excessively, and therefore I'm so glad you happened to drop in thus early. I meant to hunt you up in the evening of course, to let you know, for it is friendship's happy privilege to share all troubles with a friend, and you—"

“But what d'ye mean? How have you lost a sum which—"

“Which you justly consider to be no trifle! True; three hundred and seventy, or I may say seventy-five-for life, mind-irrecoverably

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gone. I was sure it would grieve you, careless and happy as you seemed when you

entered.” “Careless and happy. Well—but never mind my troubles just now -tell me how you have lost this little estate for life ?-you who never beyond sixpenny points !" “Oh! how? That I dare say you'll learn by the morning paper,

there; no doubt there's a paragraph, I haven't looked. The vacancy here, you know! old Simon Percontra died a month ago. That was a rise for me, a certain rise; it seemed mine, and it was mine-yet here I am in my old office, and here I am likely to remain. There was little or nothing to do in Simon's department, mere nominal duties, and so they have determined that the office is not wanted-utterly regardless of the very serious loss to me—just giving me perhaps a hundred and twentyfive pounds extra a year-by way, I suppose, of making the disappointment bitterer-just to remind me every quarter of my loss. Ah! my dear friend, it's a comfort to me, amidst all my disasters, that you are exempt, absolutely exempt, from the plagues and cares of this life. I never knew so happy a fellow; but though you have no troubles, you can feel for one who has."

“Troubles! Why I tell you nothing but trouble brought me here, and I believe I'm the most miserable—”

“Ah! well you mustn't give way to a sympathy too generous, too acute—don't distress yourself on my account; forget it, as I mean to do as soon as I can; though let me tell you that three hundred and seventy or seventy-five pounds---cut off-per annum-finally lost-for life, mind!”

Long before the new chapter of lamentations was concluded, Ego was driven forth in quest of a listener, for not one drop of his flood of sorrow could he succeed in pouring into the preoccupied bosom of the agonized official.

What Pylades will not hear, Pythias may; and to Pythias, located westward, repaired Mr. Ego. The friend now sought is much younger than the first; grief at his years is less selfish and egotistical ; besides he has no grief, and abundance of idleness; if your story were “ The Broken Heart, in 2 vols.,” his long ears would drink every syllable of it, and the narrative would proceed to an unmusical accompaniment of stifled sobs.

No sooner was Ego admitted into his friend's apartment, than, resolved not to throw away a chance, he commenced his sad narration; but then on the other hand, no sooner had he mentioned the words trouble, distress of mind, true friendship, &c., than looking up, he saw by the sorrowful face, the suffused eyes of his Pythias, that he was indeed in the house of mourning. He had taken the precaution to be sudden this time—to wave all prefatory hints and exclamations—to be beforehand with his friend; and in his anxiety to effect his purpose by an actual commencement, he had not observed the ready-made aftliction (if such a term may without levity be employed) of the bosom which he had come to agitate.

The sympathetic Pythias had evidently been weeping bitterly, ere a syllable was uttered; like those zealous critics, who, predetermined against the new farce, began to hiss furiously before the curtain drew up. Ego's look of surprise was instantly answered by a glance which

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