way. In other spots, where the brushwood
has been cleared, the ground is covered with
violets and periwinkle,—to be succeeded in
turn by pale Solomon's-seals and spotted
orchises. Among these scattered tufts of
flowers and last year's dry leaves, that are
mingled with them, the viper and the sloe-worm
come out to bask after their winter's
sleep is ended. Just now, in these autumnal
days, rank grass, a few late flowers, and
abundant bunches of shining blackberries,
are the prevailing occupants of such open
clearings. As I pass on, my ears are
entertained by the croakings of that shabby thief
the carrion crow; my eyes are amused by the
graceful flittings of the pertest of magpies;
while the jay, darting off from the branch of
an ash, gives harsh warning of my approach
to all whom it may concern. The air is close;
not a breeze is astir; the view is limited; I
am covered in by a roof of verdure; and the
monotonous slight noises which alone disturb
the silence of the wood, give the impression
of being either in solitary imprisonment or
utter exile, until I can emerge again upon
the open down.

By one of those miraculous changes of
scene which are the result of coals, hot water,
and horizontal bars of iron, I find myself
walking in another forest which is utterly
dissimilar to my usual haunts. Hills there
are in every direction, covered throughout
with a woody plantation of a strangely
uniform character and height. The prevailing
colour of the foliage is a bright light green;
here, melting into yellow; there, tinged in
strong contrast with a deep blood-red; and
occasionally, down in the valley especially,
overcast with a shade of rusty brown. No
turf, or wild flowers, or underwood, are to be
seen on the ground, where visible , but all is
bare and naked as a stony desert, except the
wood which covers it. The only birds I see
are a few sad survivors of a covey of
partridges and thrushes, which conduct themselves
so strangely that the foresters assert
that they are tipsy. "As drunk as a thrush"
is a proverb here. The most remarkable point
is, that I can walk through this forest, which
reaches further than the eye can follow it,
with my head and shoulders above its summit.
I (no Colossus) can look down upon the wood,
and inhale the breeze, and feel the sunshine,
and behold the most distant objects of the
landscape, all the while I am sauntering
through its steep and narrow paths. I am
strolling on the borderland where Champagne
unites with Burgundy; and the interminable
forest which clothes the hills is no other than
the forest of Jean Raisin.

But who, then, is Jean Raisin? Jean is a
personage of ancient renown, of noble rank,
and distantly related to his humbler cousin,
our own respected John Barleycorn. It is
true they differ in several respects. John is
of a hardier constitution than Jean, and is
capable of making himself more generally
useful. John is content to live on sandy,
loamy plains, in northern latitudes and
ungenial climates, where summers are short and
winters long. Jean delights to bask on the
slopes of sunny hills, and prefers the warm
dry foot of the mountain to the damper,
though richer lap of the valley. To his credit
be it said, he is not nice about several
particulars. A hard bed, even a bed of rock,
makes him neither sulky nor sour. He laughs
at limestone. A month's drought, such as
would kill cousin John in his early youth,
only puts Jean into better spirits; while a
baking that would make many an ailing
John give up the ghost, merely renders his
natural good disposition milder and sweeter.
Jean and John have long been rivals; they
have now determined to become allies. A
worthy ambassador, one Oliveira, is doing
his best to negotiate the terms; and the
result may be that Jean and John will appear
side by side, as they ought, at all the
festive boards of England and France. For
though I love John very much indeed, that
is no reason why I should be compelled to
cut Jean dead; and though I am on very
intimate terms with Jean, (or rather,
Jean is intimate with me,) I experience
considerable difficulty in saying, "How do
you do?" to John now and then. The
grand object of diplomacy at present is to
enable Jean to send a sealed black bottle,
and to authorize John to introduce a foaming
pewter pot, into places where,
respectively, they never made their appearance
before.

John and Jean are good-looking fellows.
The ladies are decidedly fond of both of them.
But by a reversion of national characteristics,
John has a yellow complexion, and is
garnished with a fiercely bristling beard, whereas
Jean has nothing of the kind to show, and
can only boast of a delicate bloom on his
cheek. His hue is as various as that of the
human race itself. He is black like the
negro, fair like the Circassian, yellow like the
Chinaman, tawny like the Moor, red like the
American Indian, and I have even seen him
with a spotted skin. Jean is potent; yet,
Samson-like, he submits to be confined with
osier-withes, sometimes even with a bit of
rye-straw. He allows women to bind him to
a stake with such contemptible fetters as
those, to prevent his Raisinship from running
out of bounds.

Jean Raisin has lately been somewhat sick,
suffering from a malady to which John has
never been subject. Insular vigour has stood
firm, while continental delicacy has pined and
threatened to go into a consumption. But it
is unlucky to boast of one's self and one's
friends, and the last news of Jean is favourable
—as far, at least, as concerns his illness.
This sickness cannot be accounted for by any
peculiarly imprudent conduct on the part of
Jean. In respect to sobriety there is not a
pin to choose between them: for if John is