morrow" [this was not strictly true though,
for I had not yet taken all the notes I wanted
at Montoise] "and I shall be very happy to
take you with me in the character of a friend
who wishes to join me in a short excursion."

"But the General—Jerome, as you call him?
I wonder if I know him. Is he there too?"

"If he is not now, I have no doubt he
will be there, by the time of our arrival."

I cut all further conversation as short
as possible. It was agreed that General
Delacroix should meet me at the railway
station the following morning, at seven
o'clock. M. Regnier excused himself from
joining us, on the ground of the exigencies
of his paper, and his publishing business.
Strangely enough, the General never inquired
whither I was going to take him. He
seemed to be indulging in some visionary
imaginations, from which he feared to be
awakened by the least collision with fact.
He kept the appointment with military
exactness. I took both our tickets. He made
no remark as to the length of our journey.
He had never travelled by that line of railway,
and it was only towards the close of our
trip, that he was startled to observe towns
whose public buildings were familiar to him.

We alighted. He took my arm, and I led
him through lanes and across meadows, over
whose features more than fifty years had
thrown their veil. I opened a gate leading
into a shrubbery of evergreens. A shady
path led us to the garden-door of a mansion.
I entered without knocking, and we soon
stood in a spacious saloon, wherein were
sitting a matron in company with a fine
young man, her son, with his neat smiling
wife, and two little children. Before they
could recover their surprise at our entrance
(my presence was too habitual to startle
them) the General looked hard at the elder
personage. I felt him tremble; he let go my
arm, and advancing to my good friend
Madame Fossette, embraced her long and
lovingly, with no other uttered expressions
than, "My sister!"

And this is how I happen to be visiting
at the comfortable Château de Beaupré this
snowy twenty-seventh of December, eighteen
hundred and fifty-three.

THE PRISONER.

Row gently this way down the stream,
Where o'er the bank the lilacs bend,
And through the budding hawthorns gleam
Those yellow lights the cowslips lend:
To eyes so long in prison penn'd,
That blue above, this wave below,
Those clouds that past the hills descend,
Are heaven itself; but half their glow
Those spring flower-scented gales bestow.

Fear'st thou that we too far may float?
Thou need'st not dread yon sentinel;
He knows our shallow, shattered boat
Could not endure the middle swell.
And thou art known and trusted well;
They chose thee, for thy woman's arm
Could nought through yonder surge impel;
They knew thee quick to catch alarm—
Ah! knew they woman's heart how warm?

But, in such guise, 'twere vain to flee,
A captive, loosed some half-hour's space,
His limbs to lave, his breath to free;
And thou, young girl, thy fitter place
The village dance, than such a chase.
Well, as thou wilt, the oar resign.
"Now, pinnace, speed another pace!
Was ne'er more need to dash the brine,
If life be precious—hers or mine."

Strong arm, stout heart, thou rower brave!
Though, midway o'er the Danaw's past;
For comes the challenge cross the wave,
And answering to the bugle's blast,
The steel-clad guard are gathering fast
On yon grey walls. "An arrow." "Strain
One moment yet; not this the last
Will fly as far." They fall like rain,
And falls the fairer of those twain.

It was his native land he reach'd,
And wealth, and power, and friends were near;
But, could he fly and leave her, stretch'd
On that worn plank—her bloody bier?
Forgot were flight, and foes, and fear;
They seized him, as he vainly tried
To stay a life one hour made dear.
He scarcely heard the dull bolts glide,
When closed the dungeon where he died.

HOLLAND HOUSE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE FIRST.

HOLLAND HOUSE is the only important
mansion, venerable for age and appearance,
now to be found in the neighbourhood of
London. There has been talk more than
once of pulling it down; but every feeling
of memory seems to start up at the threat,
and cry, No, No! The cry is not only one
of the utmost parliamentary propriety: the
weight of the whole voice of the metropolis
may be said to be in it; nay, of the nation
itself; and even of the civilised world; for
what court or diplomatist that knows of the
"Whigs," knows not of "Holland House"?
It is not handsome; it is not ancient; but it
is of an age sufficient to make up for want of
beauty; it shows us how our ancestors built
before Shakspeare died; a crowd of the
reigning wits and beauties of that and every
succeeding generation passes through it to the
"mind's eye," brilliant with life and colour;
and there it stands yet, on its old rising
ground, with its proper accompaniment of
sward and trees, to gratify everybody who
can appreciate it, and shame anyone who
would do it wrong.

The upper apartments of Holland House are
on a level with the stone gallery of the dome
of St. Paul's. Their front windows command
a fine view of the Surrey hills; as those at
the back do of Harrow, Hampstead, and
Highgate. The aged look of the exterior