always adoring. What a lovely country Italy
is! Perhaps, rather too many brigands. You
have never been assassinated? The sensation
must be far from pleasant. You are as silent
as a parrot in the sulks. Ah, Poetry! daughter
of heaven, exiled on earth, without coat, coals,
or candles. I should like to found a caravanserai
for all those travellers in the land of
dreams. Poets should be lodged and boarded
in it, with the monthly supply of a golden lyre
and a pair of boots. Confess, now, that you
consider me a wonder, and say, 'Here's a
perfectly senseless woman!' No such thing;
only I don't like to talk of the same thing three
minutes together. What makes revolutions?
Ennui. Lamartine says so. Come and dine
on Tuesday; and try and be a little brighter
than you are to-night. And now I have a
secret to tell you. It is half-past ten o'clock.
Good-by. If you see Madame Desfontaines,
don't ask how her husband is. She takes no
interest in his health, considering that he died
a twelvemonth ago. Good night. Stop. I
have one thing more to say to you. Prices
have risen enormously; and it is a great
misfortune to be plagued with servants."

Undoubtedly, Madame de S. can talk; but it
is not so self-evident that she can reason.

While rendering all justice to French politeness
in general, there is one item on the roll of
good manners in which I hold we have the
superiority; namely, the habit they indulge in
of interlarding questions with their daily talk.
Amongst our vulgar, the inquiry "How old
are you?" is sometimes uncivilly responded to
by "As old as my tongue, and a little older
than my teeth." Too inquisitive children are
in like manner rebuked with, "If you ask
no questions, you will hear no stories." Even
kingly talk may be fuller of questions than
is pleasant. We once had a king, George the
Third, whose interrogating propensities laid
him open to many a hard satirical hit. An
irreverent rhymester, Peter Pindar by
pseudonym, was incessantly holding up the royal
questioner to public ridicule. At the visit to
Wilton House, in the statue gallery, the monarch
asked,

"Who's this? Who's that? Who's this fine fellow
here?"

"Sesostris," bowing low, replied the Peer.

"Sir Sostris, hey! Sir Sostris? 'pon my word!
Knight or a Baronet, my lord?
One of my making?"

At the famous inspection of Whitbread's
brewery,

             his curious Majesty did stoop
To count the nails on ev'ry hoop;
And lo! no single thing came in his way,
That, full of deep research, he did not say,
"What's this? Hey, hey? What's that? What's
this? What's that?"

Then boasting Whitbread serious did declare,
To make the Majesty of England stare,
That he had butts enough, he knew,
Placed side by side, to reach along to Kew:

On which, the King with wonder swiftly cried,
"What, if they reach to Kew then, side by side,
What would they do? What, what? placed end to end?"

To whom, with knitted calculating brow,
The Man of Beer most solemnly did vow,
Almost to Windsor that they would extend.

A French actress, whose youth and beauty
appeared inexhaustible—on the boards—never
would tell her age. Of course, the more she
wouldn't tell it, the more curious people were to
know it. A woman can't keep a secret! She
kept that.

By good luck—as the multitude thought—
she was summoned as a witness on a trial. The
gossips rubbed their hands and chuckled.
"Aha! we shall know it now. She must tell,
or go to prison for contempt of court. She
won't go to prison; she will, therefore, tell."

The court was crowded with open-eared
listeners. In French courts of justice, the witness
does not stand in a box to give evidence, but
sits on a stool, in the middle of the floor of
the court, in front of the president's desk, and
with no barrier or separation between it and
himself.

The lady was ushered in, raised her right hand
to heaven, took the oath to speak the truth, and
then seated herself on-the witness-stool.

"Your name?" asked the president.

"Angélique Toujoursfleurie."

"Your profession?"

"Artiste dramatique."

"Your age?"

You might have heard a pin drop, or the hair
grow on the bystanders heads. Every eye was
bent on the lady. She was driven into a corner
at last!

Foolish Parisian public to think so!
Angélique simply rose from her seat, walked
straight up to the president's desk, and
whispered the secret in his ear. He nodded, made
the entry in his private notes, and smiling,
continued the rest of his interrogatory as soon
as she had resumed her place on the sellette.

The public retired with feelings of mingled
disgust and admiration. The trial had lost all
further interest; and the president was known
to be a man of honour and gallantry, who would
never let a pretty woman's cat escape from his
presidential bag.

            NEW WORK BY MR. DICKENS,
In Monthly Parts, uniform with the Original Editions of
              "Pickwick," "Copperfleld,"&c.
       Now publishing, PART XII., price 1s., of
                   OUR MUTUAL FRIEND.
                  BY CHARLES DICKENS.
           IN TWENTY MONTHLY PARTS.
     With Illustrations by MARCUS STONE.
London: CHAPMAN and HALL, 193, Piccadilly.

   Next week will be commenced a new Serial Novel,
                                 entitled
              HALF A MILLION OF MONEY,
              By AMELIA B. EDWARDS,
          Author of "BARBARA'S HISTORY."