John! how little you know of foreigners!
—- how little you know of yourself!

Some seventy years ago —- a year or two is
of no consequence —- in one of those islands I
have spoken of, a family party was assembled
which it would have been impossible for the
most morose and parochial-minded of
Englishmen to behold without delight. It
was in a vineyard, or an enclosed space of
ground rejoicing in that name, but no longer
deserving it by any of the fruits it contained;
for the terraces, on which, in ancient days
when it had been a dependency of a convent
of Cordeliers, the vines were planted, step
above step and hid the face of the steep
escarped rock which formed the northern
limit of the domain, had been turned to more
ignoble use. They were planted with
vegetables tables of a humble order; and over all the
surface of the cliff were innumerable wild
flowers of every shape and hue. The level
expanse of the ground was laid out in
close-cut grass, intersected with long, straight
walks, while the trees and hedges
formed the boundaries were cut in fantastic
shapes; great peacocks expanded their crests
in yew; and an immense beech-dromedary
showed by its double hump that Buffon had
not been studied in vain. All was delightfully
artificial as gardens and pleasure-grounds
always ought to be. If you want
unassisted nature, go where she is left alone,
—- if you want an imitation of nature or
fictitious wildernesses, prepared irregularities,
carefully planned negligences, you are quite
welcome to your fancy, but I trust you will
fill your dessert-dishes with wax-peaches and
drink gooseberry-champagne. Everything in
the little territory I describe bore evidence
of the hand of man; there was gravel on the
walks, there were steps to the declivities; the
alleys were as much the work of the gardener
as the bower, where the family sat, was
of the carpenter. And the family was
artificial, too. Tailors had made their clothes
—- milliners had made their dresses. And
their bonnets —- but they wore no bonnets.
The mother and her three fair daughters
trusted equally to the profusion of their
long-flowing, dark-coloured locks; only on the
head of the matron somebody had placed
wreath of white roses, which she wore as if
it had been a coronet of gold, and with a look
and a smile rewarded her husband for his
attention, and rewarded him still more by
the increase it gave to her beauty. The pair
sat in the arbour above alluded to, and
watched with delighted eyes the
gambols of the merry boys and girls who
formed themselves in graceful groups, or
represented the statues they were acquainted
with on the level green.

"Lina has the finest figure," said the husband

" But Paola the most flexible face and
exquisite attitude," said the mother. Then
she added, addressing the young people,
"Geronymo of my heart, where is your
brother Giuseppe?"

"O mamma! " said the boy addressed, and
standing still in the position of the Apollo
watching the fated arrow's deathful flight,
"he is not in good humour today. Mucius
Scævola got wrathful, and has wounded his
head."

"Mucius Scævola has always his hand in
the fire, my angel," said the husband, frowning
"He brings nothing but discomfort
hither when he comes home."

"Giuseppe was wrong, depend on it,"
replied the wife. "Come hither, Giuseppe,"
she continued, as another boy, taller and
stouter than the rest, entered the garden,
and strolled up towards the green. "How is
this, my son? Mucius has been fierce, they
tell me. Tell me how he hurt you, my
child."

The boy was silent for awhile. A
fine-featured, good-natured looking boy he was,
though at the present moment a cloud of
ill-humour darkened his brow,
"What had you done, Giuseppe? You
know that Mucius loves you better than all
his brothers. You must have offended him,
I fear."

"Really, madame," interposed the father,
"you will excuse me for suggesting that this
is scarcely the tone in which to speak of a
furious, ill-tempered ——- "

"Carlo, my beloved! " replied the mother,
putting her beautiful hand upon her
husband's mouth. "You know how dear they
all are to me. I shall scold poor Scævola if
he is to blame: but let us hear."

"Mamma," said the boy, "I knew not that
I was trespassing, when to-day at
matin-chime, I passed in the outer field that leads
from this to the abbot's farm; but Mucius,
when I stepped over a little ditch —- which,
indeed, I scarcely saw in the ground —- called
me several disagreeable names —- in French,
too —- and threw stones at me for trenching on
his glacis. One struck me just above the
ear, and he told me to hang out a flag. I
luckily had a white handkerchief about my
neck; but; before I could unwind it, a storm
of stones came pouring on my body, and a
big one hit me on the right cheek. You see
how large the lumps are still."

"But you shouldn't have gone near his
glacis."

"Really, madame," again interposed the
father, "you will forgive me for saying, that
whatever Mucius Scævola —- I hate the affected
name —- may do, you instantly take his part.
I am ——"

"O my father ! " cried Giuseppe, alarmed
at the anger shown by the gentleman;
"think not of it on my account. My brother
must have his way. I dare say I was to
blame, but now I am quite recovered. Ho!
Paolina dearest! Come, let us do the Sybil
and the Priest. The moon is delightful
now."