instead of a purely commercial president may
be well worth consideration. The legal element
would perhaps be an essential ingredient
in such a Court. Our complaint is, that it
at present overrides and swamps every other
good element. Sagacity in seizing the corns
of evidence and separating it in an instant
from the husk; skill in combining scattered
points of testimony; acuteness in detecting
discrepancies, and in harmonising varieties
of evidence seemingly discordant but really
in unison, are only to be found in a "legal
mind."

BUCHAREST.

THE name of Bucharest has of late become
familiar in our mouths, and meets our eye in
the corner of every newspaper. Political
writers, and geographers call it a capital,
and it certainly is the chief place, the seat of
Government of the province of Wallachia.
But it does not rise to our notions of a
capital; being in reality nothing but a huge
village scattered upon a plain on both sides
the Dimbowitza at about thirty-seven miles
of direct distance from the confluence of that
river with the Danube; and two hundred and
eighty miles west-north-west of Constantinople.
The space it covers is enormous;
and, when seen from a distance, it suggests
ideas of prosperity— even of splendour. This
is the case with most Oriental cities. They
dazzle from afar; but, as you approach, their
beauty vanishes; just as, in the mirage,
imaginary forests, lakes, and islands dwindle,
on near inspection, into tufts of sunburnt
grass.

If you wish to have the pleasure of contrast,
you must approach Bucharest from the
north, and come suddenly to the edge of
the eminence where stands the principal
church, sometimes called the Cathedral. The
whole extent of the city is visible from this
vantage ground, and three hundred and sixty-five
steeples, seeming architectural in the
distance, shoot up and flash above the houses
and gardens. Let the time be the bright
beginning of spring. The sky overhead has
not a speck; except that here and there may
be seen, slowly soaring, some hundreds of
those huge vultures which serve as the
scavengers of Eastern cities. The scene is
one of exquisite beauty. The houses cluster
far down on the banks of the river, nowhere
unaccompanied by trees, and then scatter
away on either hand, seemingly without
lines; for where they appear to end, and the
forest to begin, there may always be discovered
other roofs and other white walls
gleaming amidst the foliage. On the plain to
the right several intensely green oval expanses
are sharply defined. These are marshes on
the edges of which the Zigans or gipsies
dig in search of tortoises, which they bring
to the market to sell. To the east, the
country is covered as far as the eye can reach
with vast forests of larch, pine, and oak trees.
Beyond the city the yellow fields of maize set
sharply off from verdant pasturages, or are
intersected by streaks of ground covered with
reeds and patches of brushwood. Altogether
the impression is produced, especially on one
who has just traversed the rugged defiles of
the Krappack Mountains, that this is an
opulent city— a city of merchants and monks,
such as one has read or dreamed of.

Enter. Its grandeur is not overwhelming.
You come up to a hedge of prickly artichokes,
which some German topographists
— fresh from descriptions of Choczin— have
called the lines of Bucharest; and a single
great beam is, or was (for this refers to
ante-Russian times) drawn up by a pulley
to admit you. Beyond, you find a semi-circular
little place bordered by huts, with
a few trees scattered here and there. A
vague idea suggests itself to the European
traveller that this is the spot where the
maidens of the neighbourhood come out to
dance when daily work is done. But he is
soon undeceived; for his waggon at once
sinks axle-deep into black mud, and his horses
or oxen begin to splash and struggle ineffectually.
What may be the social reasons why
every entrance of Bucharest is stopped up by
a bog we do not exactly know. Some say it
is for the convenience of the custom-house
officers; who, if they happen to be asleep,
are certain that no travellers can go
stealthily in or out. After a nap they are
sure to find half-a-dozen waggons sticking
fast in the mud, from which they cannot be
extricated except by several additional beasts
brought for that purpose. It is true that
in the hot season this mud is changed into
grey dust, and is consequently more easy to
cross; but there is no travelling at that time
of year. We must observe that both the
custom-house officers and the police, who invariably
accompany them, at Bucharest, although
inquisitive, are generally polite, and
when they commit extortion, do it in a
gentlemanly manner, that proves them to
have received the influence of French civilisation.

Nothing can be more trivial than the prevailing
style of architecture in Bucharest. A
native will tell you that it is not worth while
to build fine houses, because earthquakes
would probably shake them down; otherwise,
he adds, London and Paris would be left far
behind. There is a great deal of good humoured
provincial pride in these excellent
Wallachians. The houses are all, or nearly
all, of one story, generally standing separate
and are surrounded sometimes by gardens;
sometimes by expanses of rough ground.
The materials are bricks and wood roughly
whitewashed, which has an unpleasant effect
in summer. The glare they occasion accounts
for the fact that the people always go about
with their eyes puckered up as if they had
just laid aside spectacles. Here and there rise