has heard himself personally insulted five or
six times. Once, his obdurate nature gives
way, even at the third appeal. He has just
stopped with me on his back to amuse
himself, at a dangerous part of the road, with a
little hard thinking in a steeply slanting
position; and it becomes therefore urgently
necessary to abuse him into proceeding
forthwith. First, the muleteer calls him a
Serpent—he never stirs an inch. Secondly, the
muleteer calls him a Frog—he goes on
imperturbably with his meditation. Thirdly,
the muleteer roars out indignantly, Ah sacré
nom d'un Butor! (which, interpreted by the
help of an Anglo-French dictionary, means
apparently, Ah, sacred name of a Muddle-
head!); and at this extraordinary adjuration
the beast instantly jerks up his nose,
shakes his ears, and goes on his way
indignantly.

Mule-riding, under these circumstances, is
certainly an adventurous and amusing method
of travelling, and well worth trying for once
in a way; but I am not at all sure that I
should thoroughly enjoy a second experience
of it, and I have my doubts on this account
—to say nothing of my dread of a second
jolting journey in a Char—about the
propriety of undertaking another trip to Switzerland
during the present sultry season. It
will be wisest, perhaps, to try the effect of a
new scene from the past, representing some
former visit to some other locality, before I
venture on arriving at a final decision. I
have rejected Austrian Italy and German
Switzerland, and I am doubtful about
Switzerland Proper. Suppose I do my duty as a
patriot, and give the attractions of my own
country a fair chance of appealing to any
past influences of the agreeable kind, which
they may have exercised over me! Black
Mirror! when I was last a tourist at home,
how did I travel about from place to place?

The cloud on the magic surface rises
slowly and grandly, like the lifting of a fog
at sea, and discloses a tiny drawing-room,
with a skylight window, and a rose-coloured
curtain drawn over it to keep out the sun.
A bright book-shelf runs all round this little
fairy chamber, just below the ceiling, where
the cornice would be in larger rooms. Sofas
extend along the wall on either side, and
mahogany cupboards full of good things
ensconce themselves snugly in the four
corners. The table is brightened with nose-
gays, the mantel-shelf has a smart railing
all round it, and the looking-glass above is
just large enough to reflect becomingly the
lace and shoulders of any lady who will
give herself the trouble of looking into it.
The present inhabitants of the room are
three gentlemen with novels and newspapers
in their hands, taking their ease in blouses,
dressing-gowns, and slippers. They are
reposing on the sofas with fruit and wine
within easy reach of their hands, and one of
them looks to me very much like the enviable
possessor of the Black Mirror. They exhibit
a spectacle of luxury which would make an
ancient Spartan shudder with disgust; and,
in an adjoining apartment, their band is
attending on them, in the shape of a musical
box which is just now playing the last scene
in Lucia di Lammermoor. Hark! what
sounds are those mingling with the notes of
Donizetti's lovely music—now rising over it
sublimely, now dying away under it, gently
and more gently still? Our sweet opera air
shall come to its close, our music shall play
for its short destined time and then be silent
again; but those more glorious sounds shall
go on with us day and night, shall still swell
and sink inexhaustibly, long after we and all
who know and love and remember us have
passed from this earth for ever. It is the
wash of the waves that now travels along
with us grandly wherever we go. We are at
sea in the fastest fairest schooner yacht
afloat, and are taking our pleasure all along
the southern shores of the English coast.

Yes, this to every man who can be
certain of his own stomach, this is the true
luxury of travelling, the true secret for
thoroughly enjoying all the attractions of
moving about from place to place. Where-
ever we now go we carry our elegant and
comfortable home along with us. We can stop
where we like, see what we like, and always
come back to our favourite corner on the
sofa, always carry on our favourite occupations
and amusements, and still be travelling,
still be getting forward to new scenes all the
time. Here is no hurrying to accommodate
yourself to other people's hours for starting,
no scrambling for places, no wearisome
watchfulness over baggage. Here are no
anxieties about strange beds,—for have we
not each of us our own sweet little cabin to
nestle in at night?—no agitating dependence
at the dinner hour upon the vagaries of
strange cooks for have we not our own
sumptuous larder always to return to, our
own accomplished and faithful culinary artist
always waiting to minister to our special
tastes? We can walk and sleep, stand up or
lie down just as we please, in our floating
travelling-carriage. We can make our own
road, and trespass nowhere. The bores we
dread, the letters we don't want to answer,
cannot follow and annoy us. We are the
freest travellers under Heaven; and we find
something to interest and attract us through
every hour of the day. The ships we meet,
the trimming of our sails, the varying of the
weather, the everlasting innumerable changes
of the ocean, afford constant occupation for
eye and ear. Sick, indeed, must that libellous
traveller have been who first called the
sea monotonous—sick to death, and perhaps,
born brother also to that other traveller of
evil renown, the first man who journeyed
from Dan to Beersheba, and found all
barren.

Rest then awhile unemployed, my faithful