he is the only guide deserving of the name—
as he and Pierre were descending, towards
evening, among those everlasting snows, to
the little village of La Croix, our bore observed
a mountain track turning off sharply to the
right. At first he was uncertain whether it
was a track at all, and in fact, he said to
Pierre,  " Qu'est que c'est donc, mon ami?—
What is that, my friend? " " Où, monsieur?"
said Pierre—  "Where, sir ? " " Là! — there !"
said our bore. " Monsieur, ce n'est rien de tout
— sir, it' s nothing at all," said Pierre.
" Allons! — Make haste. Il va neiger—it's
going to snow! "  But, our bore was not to
be done in that way, and he firmly replied,
" I wish to go in that direction— je veux y
aller. I am bent upon it— je suis déterminé.
En avant! — go ahead! " In consequence of
which firmness on our bore's part, they
proceeded, sir, during two hours of evening and
three of moonlight (they waited in a cavern
till the moon was up), along the slenderest
track, overhanging perpendicularly the most
awful gulfs, until they arrived, by a winding
descent, in a valley that possibly and he
may say probably, was never visited by any
stranger before. What a valley! Mountains
piled on mountains, avalanches stemmed by
pine forests; waterfalls, chalets, mountain-torrents,
wooden bridges, every conceivable
picture of Swiss scenery! The whole village
turned out to receive our bore. The peasant
girls kissed him, the men shook hands with
him, one old lady of benevolent appearance
wept upon his breast. He was conducted, in
a primitive triumph, to the little inn: where
he was taken ill next morning, and lay for
six weeks, attended by the amiable hostess
(the same benevolent old lady who had wept
over night) and her charming daughter,
Fanchette. It is nothing to say that they
were attentive to him; they doted on him.
They called him, in their simple way, l' Ange
Anglais—the English Angel. When our bore
left the valley, there was not a dry eye in the
place; some of the people attended him for
miles. He begs and entreats of you as a
personal favor, that if you ever go to Switzerland
again (you have mentioned that your
last visit was your twenty-third), you will go
to that valley, and see Swiss scenery for the
first time. And if you want really to know
the pastoral people of Switzerland, and to
understand them, mention, in that valley, our
bore's name!

Our bore has a crushing brother in the
East, who, somehow or other, was admitted to
smoke pipes with Mehemet Ali, and instantly
became an authority on the whole range of
Eastern matters, from Haroun Alraschid to
the present Sultan. He is in the habit of
expressing mysterious opinions on this wide
range of subjects, but on questions of foreign
policy more particularly, to our bore, in
letters; and our bore is continually sending
bits of these letters to the newspapers (which
they never insert), and carrying other bits
about in his pocket-book. It is even
whispered that he has been seen at the Foreign
Office, receiving great consideration from the
messengers, and having his card promptly
borne into the sanctuary of the temple. The
havoc committed in society by this Eastern
brother is beyond belief. Our bore is always
ready with him. We have known our bore
to fall upon an intelligent young sojourner in
the wilderness, in the first sentence of a
narrative, and beat all confidence out of him with
one blow of his brother. He became
omniscient, as to foreign policy, in the smoking of
those pipes with Mehemet Ali. The balance
of power in Europe, the machinations of the
Jesuits, the gentle and humanising influence
of Austria, the position and prospects of that
hero of the noble soul who is worshipped by
happy France, are all easy reading to our
bore's brother. And our bore is so provokingly
self-denying about him! " I don't pretend
to more than a very general knowledge
of these subjects myself," says he, after
enervating the intellects of several strong men,
" but these are my brother's opinions and I
believe he is known to be well-informed."

The commonest incidents and places would
appear to have been made special, expressly
for our bore. Ask him whether he ever
chanced to walk, between seven and eight in
the morning, down St. James's Street, London,
and he will tell you, never in his life but
once. But, it's curious that that once was in
eighteen thirty; and that as our bore was
walking down the street you have just
mentioned, at the hour you have just mentioned
— half-past seven—or twenty minutes to eight.
No! Let him be correct! — exactly a quarter
before eight by the Palace clock—he met a
fresh-coloured, grey-haired, good-humoured
looking gentleman, with a brown umbrella,
who, as he passed him, touched his hat and
said, "Fine morning, sir, fine morning!" —
William the Fourth!

Ask our bore whether he has seen Mr.
Barry's new Houses of Parliament, and he will
reply that he has not yet inspected them
minutely, but, that you remind him that it
was his singular fortune to be the last man to
see the old houses of Parliament before the
fire broke out. It happened in this way.
Poor John Spine, the celebrated novelist, had
taken him over to South Lambeth to read to
him the last few chapters of what was certainly
his best book—as our bore told him at
the time, adding, " Now, my dear John,
touch it, and you'll spoil it! " — and our bore
was going back to the club by way of Millbank
and Parliament Street, when he stopped
to think of Canning, and look at the houses of
Parliament. Now, you know far more of the
philosophy of Mind than our bore does, and
are much better able to explain to him than
he is to explain to you why or wherefore, at
that particular time, the thought of fire
should come into his head. But, it did. It
did. He thought, What a national calamity