be signally efficacious in restoring the general
tone of the system. "Would Monsieur step this
way? And exceedingly grateful is the sight
that greets the dilapidated voyageur "this
way." Upon a snowy tablecloth are set forth
steaming coffee and hot rolls, cotelettes and
omelette, with delicate Strasburg pie and
other such delectable accompaniments; not
forgetting the tall flask of Chablis alone in
the centre, in all the dignity of age and
hoary dust.

As these comestibles fade away before
me, like the "baseless fabric of a vision," I
begin to take a less desponding view of affairs
in general. "After all," I thought, as I filled
out the last glass of Chablis, "after all, if
travelling has its little inconveniences, we
must not complain. What else is life itself
but a weary journey in a coupé? Occasionally
we are allowed to get out, and stretch
our limbs and enjoy ourselves for a short
while." I was in an admirable mood at that
moment for such sound philosophy. But
alack-a-day! I soon heard a jingling
at the window, and sundry sounds of
struggling and restiveness which were but
too familiar to me. My prison-house was
ready at the door, yawning for its prey.
Four fresh Normandies, in delightful spirits,
are performing all manner of gymnastics in
their impatience to be off. Once more I am
hoisted by strong arms into the coupé. Our
driver standing at the door, drinks gracefully
to all round in a farewell petite verre; then
drawing himself slowly to his box. Furious
plunging of the Normandies as he gathers up
the reins. Prodigious cracking of the long
whip. Fra-ra-ra! from behind. "Messieurs,
stand aside, I pray of you! There! Tra-ra!
Tra-ra! En avant! Bon voyage!"

That day of travel rolled on wearily. It
would be idle to relate with what dull monotony
the hours succeeded one another, or by
what stages I was brought to the conclusion
that life had become a burden to me. No longer
did I take interest in the eccentric habits of
our driver, nor in the playful vagaries of the
Normandies. Even the pleasing excitement
of a perilous mountain descent failed to rouse
me—I had grown blasé. The fine Chablis
philosophy has evaporated, being utterly
jolted away. In this dismal mood I drag on
life, till night has once more set in.

We have stopped at last. There is a great
iron gate beside us, with a dull oil lamp
swinging overhead. There is a great white
post rising from the ground, on which a broad
sign-board is lazily flapping to and fro. Some
one is pulling vigorously at a bell with a very
mournful note; and, through the twisted
ironwork of the gate, we see lanterns moving
this way. I am invited to descend.

"Where are we? What place is this?"

"Why this is the Cor d'Argent, where
Monsieur can dine and make himself
comfortable—for one hour, and no longer—Nom
du Pape!"

It was a curious and most mysterious
looking old mansion, this Silver Horn. It
had not the persuasive and seductive aspect
of a well-favoured inn; but was a dark,
heavy-browed and even menacing pile of
building. It loomed on us through the darkness,
a black, shadowy mass, and, on the
whole, gave small promise of decent
entertainment. From a large shield over the
door, now worn away and defaced, I conjectured
that, in better days, it had belonged to
some noble seigneur. The host stood under
the shelter of his porch, waiting to receive
us—a grim descendant of some old Huguenot
of the days of the great Louis—so grim and
grizzled indeed, that as he stood there shading
the light with his hand, I almost fancied I
was looking at the effigies of Messire de
Beze, or that of Maître Jean Calvin.

Adopting the fashion of the stage, I shall
allow the scene to close in here, and let
the curtain in the next act rise upon "A
chamber in the inn of the Cor d'Argent"
—a lofty oaken room whereof the oak that
figured in its panels, in its smooth floor and
furniture, had grown into a mourning ebon
tint. Dinner, and the vestiges of dinner,
have passed away, and a flask—not of Chablis
this time, but of sound Burgundy—has just
been set on. There is a roaring wood fire—a
conflagration of riven blocks—raised upon
the backs of queer blinking monsters; the
high-backed arm-chair has been drawn in
closer. In short, all has been made snug and
taut for the night, as the sailors say. My
diligence is, by this time, many miles on its
road; and, at this moment, may be reeling
and tottering on some perilous hill-side. The
fact was, I had grown so contented with the
caravanserai that I had suffered the huge
machine to go its way without me.

"Not for a principality would I stir now,"
I said, complacently, as I looked at the
comforting fire before me, and filled out another
glass of the Burgundy,—"positively not for a
principality!"

"A very mysterious old place this," I
continued, after a short pause, as my eye
wandered down to the other end of the room,
which was all in darkness. The light of the
lamp did not reach very far; so a great
black cloud, the opening as it were of some
dark abyss, seemed to hover at the far
extremity. The great curtains, hanging in stiff
massive folds with breadths of shadow playing
over them, were awe-inspiring enough
too. I bethought me of one of Mr.
Fitzball's productions, a drama of thrilling
interest, entitled The Innkeeper of Abbeville,
which I remember having seen played at one
of the transpontine theatres. What the
exact plot was I did not very well recollect;
but I recalled perfectly the lonely roadside
inn, and the startling melange of horrors
which were enacted there one dark night.
The wearied traveller sleeps—soft music—the