Others but smile on those they would cajole,
   To cheat the simple with a show of feeling;
As fishermen attract a finny shoal,
   By torchlight o'er the teeming ocean stealing.

Brighter by far than brightest gems of earth,
   Smiles shed soft radiance on the brow of Beauty;
Decking our loved ones with a wreath of mirth,
   That cheers the heart amid the toils of duty!

A VISIT TO ROBINSON CRUSOE.

I AM not going to describe savage life, or
uninhabited islands: what I have to say
relates to most civilised society, and to no island
whatever. My object is simply to "request
the pleasure" of the reader's company in
a short excursion out of Paris: an arrangement
which secures to him the advantage of
visiting a place which is beneath the notice
of the guide-books, and to myself the society
of that most desirable of companions—one
who allows me to engross the entire
conversation.

Imagine, then, a party of Englishmen in
Paris, rising one morning with the general
desire to "do something to-day." Having
done nothing for several weeks except amuse
themselves— having been condemned to
continual festivity, the necessity for some
relaxation became imminent. We had been
to see everything that we cared to see, and
everybody who cared to see us, with a little
over in both cases. We had filled "avant
scène" boxes until the drama became a bore
and had reclined in cafés until their smoke
became a nuisance. We had scoured the
Boulevards by day, and the balls by night
"looked in" at the monuments with patronising
airs, and at the shops with purchasing
propensities. We had experienced dinner,
both princely and penurious; fathomed
mysterious cartes from end to end, and even
with unparalleled hardihood had ventured
into the regions of the prix-fixe. We had
almost exhausted every sort of game, active
and sedentary; at billiards, we had explode
every cannon, possible and impossible, and
reposed upon every "cushion," convenient and
inconvenient. One desperate youth had even
proposed that we should addict ourselves to
dominos; but, we were not far enough gone
for that: the suggestion was received on all
sides with that sensation of horror which
shipwrecked mariners manifest when one of
the party proposes to dine off the cabin-boy.
No: we must find materials of amusement
less suggestive of tombstones, that was clear,
even if we perished miserably without their
assistance.

The fact was, that under the influence of
the sunshine and flowers— the lustre and
languor of the most bewildering of capitals,
I was fast subsiding into a state of collapse.
I felt a dash of the infatuation of the lotus-
eater, in his

   "— land that seemed always afternoon."

In our case— for we were all alike— instead
of afternoon, we seemed to be in a perpetual
state of " the morning after." It was at
length agreed that we should enter the first
public conveyance we could find that was
leaving Paris.

The conveyance destined to receive us was,
in appearance, a cross between the English
omnibus of domestic life and the French
diligence, that has, alas! nearly disappeared;
a fat, heavy vehicle, drawn by a couple of strong
little hacks, with a driver who gave himselt
diligence airs, and cracked his whip, and
smoked his pipe most ostentatiously.

The first thing we learned on taking our
seats was, that we had better have gone by the
railway; that is to say, if we intended only
going as far as Sceaux, and were pressed for
time. We replied, that we were going
wherever the omnibus chose to take us, and
time was no object. These observations were
elicited by a good-humoured old man, with a
clear, hale, weather-beaten face, which he
had contrived to shave to a most miraculous
point of perfection, though it was as wrinkled
as the boots of any groom. His dress was
poor and threadbare in the extreme; and in
England he might have passed for a broken-
down carpenter; but he, nevertheless, wore
the cordon of the eternal Legion of Honour.

The omnibus, he said, went as far as
Longjumeau, a place which we were all anxious to
see, as being associated with a certain postilion,
with big boots, and a wonderful wig,
who sang a peculiar song with immense
rapidity, accompanied by jingling bells, a
crackling whip, and a perpetual post-horn.
To our great regret, however, we learned that
this distinguished individual was not likely to
be seen at Longjumeau, the natives of which
had probably never heard of his existence. It
was too bad, however, to allow the illusion as
to the existence of our old friend to be thus
dispelled; so we easily succeeded in
persuading ourselves that the popularity of the
postilion doubtless kept him continually on
the move, and that his native place was, after
all, the place where we should have
remembered it was least likely to find him.

We proceeded on our way in the most
approved style of French omnibuses— with a
great deal of clatter, a great deal of confusion,
and very little speed. The country,
anywhere within a mile or two of Paris, is not
very inviting— level wastes of barren ground,
with occasionally an oasis in the shape of a
brick-kiln, or something equally ornamental;
dusty roads, planted with rows of little trees,
and bounded by high walls, covered with
quack advertisements. The passenger gazes
out of window about once every ten minutes,
hoping for a little variety; but as far as the
waste, the trees, the walls, and the quack