eagerly seized this opportunity of testifying,"
&c. &c.

Peace be with these worthy fencibles! There
was some such civic guard once seen on duty
muffled in great-coats, and sheltering themselves
under umbrellas. A languid Neapolitan, sunning
himself on the shore of his own bright bay, has
been heard to excuse himself from fighting, with
this irresistible argument: " What would you
have ? Life is very sweet— we don't want to
die!" It is not difficult to read in the eyes of
these creatures, so diligent at their goose-step,
future decampment into the open country and
desertion of their general at the first shot.

As I lounge down the long Corso in the
cool afternoon, I hear slow steady tramping
behind, with spur music chinking in proper
time; and, looking back, I see a different quality
of fighting men. A patrol party of pontifical
men-at-arms coming their rounds, eight or
ten strong, and two abreast—strong
broad-chested men, of fine figure and proportions,
and stepping with a slow, ponderous dignity.
In dress they are the gendarmes of the stage,
who arrest Robert Macaire, with the familiar
white cord epaulettes, and cross-belts, and
cocked-hats. Walk up the street some hundred
feet higher, and there meets them another
party, just as strong, sauntering by in
solemn dead march. These are ticklish days: a
spark may at any moment fall upon the
republican tinder and blow all up. Towards midnight,
when you have passed the band of youths
arm-in-arm, fresh from the pit of the Opera, and
chanting the favourite tenor air in their own
tenor voices, you hear the measured tread of the
patrol draw near, and the company of shadowy
figures, now draped in long pyramidal cloaks that
sweep the ground, pass by sadly, and are gone
into the night. Very peaceful are Roman streets
at such hours. Even the sleeping dogs take
their rest in prodigious numbers, stretched on
the open pathway. It is almost comical to
see the long bodies of these laid out so boldly,
secure of not being disturbed; for a gentle
toleration for the four-footed is one of the redeeming
points in the Roman commonwealth. Of a
Sunday morning I have seen a whole congregation
stepping aside respectfully into the road
to avoid inconveniencing a great yellow hound
snoring in the sun on the pathway. Nothing
could be more tenderly gracious than the
manner in which this act of courtesy was
paid, or more delicious than the conscious
security with which the drowsy brute held his
place, blinking luxuriously.

As I look at Roman Pincher snoozing thus of
the Sunday morning, he brings to my mind a
legend—a dog legend—growing out of the
humours of the Roman fair. An Irish friend is
returning home cheerfully—when it is pretty far
gone in the small hours—from that famous ball
at the Princess Piccinino's, and, meeting on his
progress, many dogs of various sizes and breeds,
begins regaling them with bits of biscuit and
other delicacies. To his surprise, on turning
round a corner, he finds himself waited on by a
whole procession—a sort of dense company of
irregular light dogs, the spahis of the tribe. All
are expectant, and follow his motions wistfully;
reckoning on entertainment,. My Irish friend
bethinks him what to do with this miscellany, and
suddenly determines to get as much comedy out
of the situation as possible. He sets off again,
making for the house of a friend whom he loves
not too well, and the irregulars, now swelled by
numerous volunteers, follow closely. Knocking
loudly, he is presently admitted. " Signor is
asleep, just come from the ball." " No matter
—business of importance—news from England
—go and wake." Porter goes up. Irish friend
then enters, and flings biscuit up-stairs. Enters
loudly, and with savage contention, whole troop
of irregulars, hurrying pell-mell up-stairs. Comic
friend then shuts the door, and goes his way.

UNDER THE SNOW.

IN TWO PORTIONS. PORTION THE PIRST.

ALTHOUGH Switzerland is famous, all the
world over, for its lofty mountains, still, in
foreign countries, many lads of my age, and in
my station of life, may not exactly know that
the Jura is a chain of mountains formed by
several parallel chains which extend from Basle,
in Switzerland, quite up to France and a little
way into it, running in the direction from north-
east to south-west. The length of the Jura is
about one hundred and seventy miles, and its
breadth from thirty-five to forty miles. It
contains a great number of deep valleys, and several
mountains whose summits are very lofty.

I mention these dry details at the outset,
in order that you may better understand what
happened to me; for it is, in great measure, the
difference of the height of the mountains which
renders them more or less habitable. The
higher they are, the sharper is the cold there,
the shorter is the summer, the scantier is the
vegetation, and the earlier does the snow cover
it. Some of these mountains are even so lofty
that the snow on their tops is never entirely
and completely melted, but remains in patches
in the hollows. Nevertheless, all the mountains
of the Jura lose their upper garment of snow
every year; some sort of herbage springs on the
highest summits; at many points they are
clothed with magnificent woods of beech, oak,
and especially firs; whilst other parts afford
excellent pasture-ground, on which very fine
cattle are reared, and particularly oxen, cows,
and goats. Notwithstanding which, these
beautiful mountains are scarcely habitable more than
five months in the year, from May or June until
the beginning of October.

As soon as the snows are melted and the
summits are clothed again with green, our villages,
which are all built in the valleys or on the
lower slopes, send their herds up the mountain.
This departure is quite a holiday; and yet we
herdsmen have to spend the whole summer away
from our families, leading a hard-working life
with many privations. We live almost entirely