the ripple which a little steamer makes as she comes puffing out of the hazy distance on the lake -now dashing through the shadow of some near shore, and then sauntering through the sunshine of a bay; quivering and plashing as she comes nearer, leaving a long trail of sparkles in her wake, turning out bright furrows of blue-dashing and splashing on-now in a line with the white chateau where Byron lived and wrote "Chillon," and now over against the old home of Madame de Staël, and now, while we look and listen, drawing toward the town-the quay-where her paddles stop, where she drifts nearer and nearer, backs, splutters, turns up an acre of foam, and rests. Shall we sail upon her to-morrow? Shall we take char-à-banc, and drive down to Chamouni? Shall we idle through the fields toward Lausanne? Or shall we linger here at our window, watching the people come and go, watching the water, watching the clouds that now shroud the mountains, or -what? Don't you wish you could ask yourselves? Suppose we step into the coffee-room below and have a look at the "last files." A table by the window, a dish of tea, and—to begin with-yesterday's Galignani. And what a contemptible, interesting paper Galignani always is! Such a gossip-such a robber of good things-such a contumacious, impertinent snapper-up of trifles-such a toady of the Britishsuch a toady of the Emperor-such a toady of every thing that represents power-such a careful ignorance of all worthiness that is weak, and of all badness which is secret! How should any body not like to sip Galignani with his tea? How we all despise gossips, and how we all listen to them! And first we find somewhat again about the Spiritualist Hume, who, it appears, is again in Paris, astonishing all who have the rare fortune to see his performances. His hotel is represented as besieged by applicants, noble and vulgar, who entreat his presence at their soirées. The other day he was at Fontainebleau, making diablerie representations before the imperial circle, and again we hear of him in Paris, in the salon of a Polish Count, where his feats seemed to such an extent supernatural that a large number of the lady guests fainted through terror. We do not learn that the secret of his power has yet engaged the attention of the Academists. The photograph of the eminent sorcerer is upon sale along all the Boulevard. "There is," says our gossip, "in the physiognomy inspiration and aspiration toward a better world. The looks, directed without affectation to heaven, are at once firm and gentle. One feels that they reach further than those of most men, but always upward." On the faith of this photograph, those good souls who would have exorcised him as a demon may rest assured that his alliances, if they reach beyond the world, are with good spirits, and not with bad. There is nothing of the charlatan in the countenance, and far less of the demon than of the angelic. Yet his power is unequal, and fluctuates like the funds at the Bourse. To-day he fails utterly in producing his miracles, and to-morrow he shall startle into movement every object upon which he fixes his magnetic regard. Here, again, we have chat about Ristori. She is to remain in Paris these three winters to come. Fiorentini now boldly claims her as the first living tragedian, to the great discomfort of poor Rachel; and the British thunderer has declared her equal, if not superior, to Mrs. Siddons. She has purchased a house in Paris for a million of francs, and the Count Montanelli has crowned his late literary honors by writing for her a new tragedy. Then the company of the Bouffés-Parisiens has gone to London, played in London; and the Duke d'Aumale, who has a delightful country-house down by Twickenham, which he calls Orleans House (metamorphosed from an old school-building-the view thereabout being ravishing)—the Duke, we say, heard of the presence of the BouffesParisiens in London, and his old mother, the Queen of Louis Philippe, being wth him upon a visit, he conceived the idea of surprising her with a Paris play again. So it was all quietly arranged: a little company, an improvised orchestra, a grass plat for parquette, and a refrain to the final chorus of "Vive la France!" All this, with the French uniform of the line, overwhelmed the old lady so, that the issue came near making true again Madame Girardin's story of "La joie fait peur." Next we have that sad, strange tale of Miss Glasgow Smith—not in Galignani only, but on the lips of English and Scotch people around us. Did she kill her lover? The feeling is-she did. And what sad, weary, never-ceasing punishment will rest upon her! "Not proven," indeed, but felt. And now, let us see what Lord Ellenborough will be saying about the new tide of affairs in India. The old gentleman should be competent to speak to such a point, for he has been in India-has held command there; he is grave, instructed, cool. We think we see him rising to his feet in that august assembly of England's patricians, and seem to listen to an old man who has himself felt the heats of Delhi: "Milords," ," he says, after he has deplored the action of particular officers in India and recited certain details of the mutiny-" milords, it devolves upon me now to ask where was the Commander-inChief all this time-why was not he in the midst of his troops? He knew the difficulties that were growing up-he knew of the danger that threatened; for on the 9th of April he assembled the troops at Umballah, and addressed them in very sensible terms, endeavoring to undeceive them as to the intentions of the government, and to bring them to a right state of feeling; but having done so, it appears he went away to the hills, leaving behind him the dangers that threatened in the plain. (Hear, hear.) That, my lords, I venture to say, is not the conduct that ought to be pursued. I should say, from all that I have read, that the measures taken by the government of India from the time that the danger became apparent-from the time they knew of the retreat upon and the occupation of Delhi by the mutineers, have been judicious and proper; but, my lords, I do question their conduct in being blind to that which was obvious to all, and in omitting to take any precautions until this dreadful calamity actually took place. (Hear, hear.) But what is the position of General Anson? He has at his disposal two European regiments of infantry, two regiments of European cavalry, and an ample force of artillery. He has also two regiments of Ghoorkas, who may be depended upon, and he has, I hope, still faithful two regiments of native troops. My lords, with such a force, independent of other native troops, if he had met the mutineers in the field, he might without difficulty have beat them or double So we wander from Twickenham to India, from Miss Smith to Ferozepore, and back again to our tea and toast by our window of the Hotel des Bergues. Shall we stroll by the lake, now that the sun is setting? An English girl, in broad, brown flat, and with light rod of Alfred's make, is throwing a fly upon the water; she makes a deft cast, the action showing a lithe figure and firm, in most happy attitudes. Think of a New York girl, in the eye of the loiterers from a great hotel, indulging in such amusement! Think of one (if you can) capable of such vigorous casts as she is making yonder! Some duenna-it may be a mamma, it may be an elder sister-is seated upon the parapet near by, catching the last sun's rays for a new consultation of her "Murray." A tall man, thoroughly British, in blue-spotted cravat, with red cheeks and yellow gaiters, is sauntering near by, with two chattering little girls, who are entreating a sail upon the lake. An elegant Miss Simpkins, in blue, red, and yellow silk, of the latest Parisian cut (we fear she may be American), is exhibiting the art of her modiste, and exclaiming, in pretty, romantic commonplace, upon the beauty and the quiet of the scene. The resonance of a vesper-bell from a gray tower beyond the Rhone is floating and dying on the water. The sun has slipped away from all the west windows, where just now it blazed-has slipped from the house-roofs, and from the towers, and all the nearer hills; and, as we look, has faded from the Savoy mountains, leaving them gray and cold, and has fastened upon the peaks of snow beyond Chamouni-sixty miles away as the crow flies-tinging them with rosy red. their force. But, my lords, he is opposed by two | present moment we can not with safety rely on enemies far more powerful than the mutineers- the fidelity of any of the regular regiments of the the climate at this season of the year, and the Bengal army." almost absolute want of carriage. It is almost impossible for General Anson to move his troops down from their cantonments without means of carriage transport, and carriages are, I believe, unobtainable; his only resource is to press men from the hills. In this way he may possibly bring down 2000 or 3000 men to carry burdens, but to obtain the necessary carriages and animals for moving an army a distance of 80 or 100 miles I believe to be impossible. Then there is the season, which, as I have said, is the most severe of the whole year. This is just the conclusion of the hot weather. During the prevalence of the hot winds we know that Europeans can not venture abroad in the sun. No European soldier is able to do his ordinary duties in the sun. Your lordships will recollect that on one occasion when the late Sir C. Napier was compelled to go into the field during the hot season, 45 Europeans were struck down in one day, and of the whole 45 he was the only one that survived the stroke. This is the most serious danger we have to meet. But, my lords, I will assume that General Anson is able to bring his troops in front of Delhi-and if he can do so, he ought by this time to be in possession of that place -he ought to be in possession of it, not in consequence of any attack by his artillery, but by the most simple of all means-namely, by changing the course of the canal by which Delhi is furnished with water, and turning it so as to deprive the inhabitants of their supply. Toward the conclusion of the dry season there is but very little water in that canal, and the population of Delhi, 160,000 or 170,000 in number, are annually subjected to great inconvenience and difficulty from that cause. They are then compelled to go a considerable distance to the Jumna for their water. To obviate that difficulty in some degree, when I was in India I established in connection with the palace an immense tank, which contained sufficient for supplying the whole of the inhabitants with water for three weeks; but I regret to say, with that spirit which has marked the government ever since I left to obliterate as far as possible every thing I ever did or attempted to do for the benefit of that country, that tank has been allowed to fall into ruin, and at this time the inhabitants of that place can not obtain water without having recourse to the canal. When I left India I left police battalions, which were formed to enable the government, in case of emergency, to move all the troops out of their cantonments upon any particular spot. By this means, when the invasion of the Sikhs took place, General Hardinge was enabled at once to move on three battalions from their cantonments to the scene of action, which he could not else have moved without leaving the places from which they were drawn unprotected. But General Anson had no such police battalions to fall back upon. He must either leave an imposing force to protect the extensive cantonments at Meerut, Umballah, and other places, or, as the force moves away from Umballah, their cantonments will be burned down behind them. And we know that no European troops can stand in the full blaze of an Indian sun without shelter. It is not only at Meerut and Delhi, but in the Punjaub, at Ferozepore, and in every part of Bengal, that this disposition to mutiny exists. I regret to say that I fear at the Shall we stray thither to-morrow? 'Tis a sudden fancy, and by the time the young English girl has withdrawn her tackle and disjointed her rod, it has grown into determination. We will go straightway and book ourselves for Chamouni. A half coach half diligence traverses the road and leaves at six; we secure an outside place, and stroll back to our inn, where once more, by candle-light, we resume our outlook through the journals upon the gay and perplexed life of Paris. What do we see now? A magnificent procession; soldiers by tens of thousands; martial bands waking echoes of a dirge between the houses. Onlookers sad and earnest, and grouping in fearful multitudes. Five hundred thousand are upon the walks, the balconies, the roofs. Women we see, with black scarfs, black vails-any token to show grief. In the front of the cortège, upon which all eyes are turned, we see a company of the Sergents de Ville, the police of Paris; after these a squadron of the mounted guard; then two dark, plain carriages, within which we catch glimpse of surplice and of crucifix; another company of the police of the city; and after these a funeral car-heavy, dark, simple-with black plumes and white, waving with every motion. Above the heads of those who follow-a stricken little group of family mournerswe see the great plumes waving still; and over the heads of city dignitaries in their robes, who follow, still we see the great plumes nodding; a brilliant aid-de-camp of the Emperor, with gold epaulets and jingling sword-chains, does not shut off, or terpolate here a little song of the dead master, by make us cease to watch, the mournfully-nodding a translation which is little known, about plumes of black and white which wave over the bier. And now we have a carriage of the imperial stables-four horses with funereal deckings-but the windows are closed; no one is there. If it were a king going to the grave, still none would ride after in the imperial carriage. Nearly every shop is shut where the procession trails by. And whose body is lying under the plumes which wave yonder, far now by the column of the Bastile ? Only a poet's! Only a songster's! Yet what a poet and what a singer was Béranger! "As to my funeral obsequies" (he wrote latterly thus to his friend and publisher, M. Perrotin), "if you can avoid all public demonstration, do it, I beg you, my dear Perrotin. When I lose friends, I have a horror of public clamor and of discourses at their tomb." And of this dying wish the Emperor has become self-appointed executor. There were only a few friends, indeed, admitted within the grave-yard inclosure, and no speech there; but in all else, what a magnificent lie! Loving friends, who dare not come near; loving voices, that dare not speak; and all that army of Paris, which the dead poet loved as men and scorned as soldiers, appearing only in musket mockery-a kind of machine pomp-with no word, no look of the silent and tender sympathy that bound their hearts to the songs of the dead man! Was there ever such a painting of a corpse! and painting it in colors most odious to the poet when alive! It is hard for a man not a Frenchman to understand the regard in which Béranger was held every where in Paris and in France. The poor, struggling, ambitious, honest Scotchmen, who toss off an annual bumper to Burns, know something of it. But the Béranger feeling is the Burns feeling intensified. It is a Burns's Yule-log, always burning. How is this? Not alone because his songs penetrated the humblest hearts, and kindled love and joy there always; not alone because he assumed their sufferings, and became the expression of their fondest as well as their faintest hopes; not alone because he caught and reflected all the blaze of their endeavor; not altogether because he gave so quick and biting a tongue to their griefs, and such passionate, fearful distinctness to their curses against a damning tyranny, but because every act of his life was true to his every word! He told no grief he did not feel. He pictured no humility he did not act-no poverty whose pinch he did not know-no despotism at which his great heart had not rebelled, in deed as in word. The whole flow of his verse was a translucent river of feeling and thought, whose soul-bed every man knew and saw. He covered no vice to which he had fallen victim; he affected no purity he had not reached. How he sung "Lisette, ma Lisette, Tu m'as trompé toujours; Mais vive la grisette, Je bois à nos amours!" Oh, no, no, no, My Lisette, you are no more! When in cabin cold and wet, My Lisette, you are no more! Oh, no, no, no. Paying dear for leave to fret! Oh, no, no, no, My Lisette, you are no more! If that love divine be true, 'Tis when fair and free are met; As for you, Madame, adieuLet the haughty Duchess fret! For oh, no, no, no, Surely she is not Lisette! Oh, no, no, no, My Lisette, she is no more! How strange! This plaintive Lisette-lover has five hundred thousand mourners crowding to his tomb! It was not the artist they honored-not the lover-not the democrat even-but the true-hearted man! Swift upon this mention (the date of the journal is but a trifle later) comes the story of Eugene Sue's 'Twas a great, fond, honest heart he had, and a death. And what contrast! Yet the Paris world quick brain for interpreter. was never more eager for a new song-book of BéShall we weary our reader (surely not) if we in-ranger's than it had been for the Wandering Jew. But it was for a splendid spectacle those people crowded-of passion, indeed-poverty, may belife, always and every where. But the man sunk below the artist; he never lived up to the level of his thought. Sue's self-indulgence overcame him; he put all his feeling on paper; his sympathies taxed his imagination only. It was Lisette in satin. Plumes there may be waving in his funeral cortège, but no heart-sighs fan them. And now to bed. One last look upon the night. The stars are out, and dance and play in the wa ter. But the mountains are dim banks, which might be clouds-dim banks, where, in our dreams, we see white glories crowding! Crick-crack, crick-crack, crick-crack (over the paving-stones), rumble, rumble, rumble (over a smooth Macadam), and we go bowling down the road that leads to Chamouni; passport all right, knapsack repacked, and we eager for the mountains. There is an American beside us upon the top of the coach; he is chewing a quid; he is unshaven; he wears the air of an independent citizen. It is a grand air to wear, but does not involve impudence or conceit. There are too many who think it does. dread the thought of having this man's talk in our ear as we catch our first near view of Mont Blanc. There seems no hope of escape, however. "Do you live about here, Sir?" continues he. No, we do not; we half wish we did. "Well, now, I shouldn't; I should rather live on a praree" (he spits); "I'm from Ameriky, Sir." "Ah!" "P'raps you don't know what a praree is, Sir?" "A plain country," we venture. "Well, Sir, it's a plain, to be sure; but you don't have such plains in this country-about as large as all Switzerland, Sir; and the sile about so deep, Sir" (taking my Alpenstock and measuring about three feet upon the bottom, expectorating violently at the end of his observation). "Indeed!" A peasant, upon a hillside near by, is gathering up a little patch of hay; he collects it in a sheet, and bears it off upon his shoulders. Our quick-eyed countryman observes it. "Halloa! see there! a feller putting hay into a sheet! I should like to put that feller down plump into the middle of a praree, and just see him stare! Do you suppose now, Sir, that that's all his crop?" We think it possible. "And how many cows do you suppose he keeps?" Not many, we think. "No, Sir-ee!" "Perhaps goats." It is a new idea to our countryman. "They keep goats about here, do they, Sir ?" We have sometimes seen them. "And do goats pay, Sir, as things go?" Do you pity us? How, after this, shall we draw our thoughts into the right mood for Chamouni ? We have it! We will hum to ourselves (and you, reader) Coleridge's great Hymn: "Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star -"But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity!—" COUNTRYMAN. "How fur is the furthest you can see Mount Blank of a clear day?" EASY CHAIR. "Ninety miles." COLERIDGE. -"O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought; entranced in prayer I worshiped the Invisible alone!" COUNTRYMAN (renewing his quid). "That's an all-fired distance." EASY CHAIR (indignant) quotes Coleridge aloud: "Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!" Our countryman has chewed violently through this; but he is not to be put off the track-not he. "Do you know Saxe ?" says he. We have not that pleasure. "He's a fine poet." Coleridge again: 'Awake, my soul! not only passive praise My countryman is quieted, and we bowl along, under shade of wooded cliffs, over long reaches of level valley road, until at length, not far from noonday, upon a bridge that crosses by a single arch the turbid Arve, a great gap opens in the mountains before us; and in it-beyond it-filling it-topping it-topping every thing in the view-in your thought-in your anticipations-Mont Blanc! Propped by ridges of aiguilles, the great dome shines white in the sun. We gaze, half hoping our countryman does not "Thou, too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Our countryman is right. It is Mont Blanc we see; and at his feet we lay down our pen. THER Editor's Drawer. HE bar and the pulpit are fruitful sources of supply for the Drawer, and the following from the bench are admirable in their way: Judge Strong, our County Judge, was formerly -well, it was some years ago-given to imbibing more than was essential to the equilibrium of his mental or physical powers. But he was one of the politest men in the world, and never more so than when a little too deep in liquor. With his neighbor, Mr. Bates, a political opponent, he had had many a sharp conflict; but one day, when quite mellow, it suddenly struck him that he ought to "make up friends" with Bates; and stepping up to him in the street he said: "I say, Mr. Bates, you and I have said a great many hard things about one another, and I am getting old, and feel as if I ought to make an apology for all I have said, and have it settled up." "Yes, but I do mind. I say I have called you a thief, and a liar, and a scoundrel-and-andI'll be hanged if I don't think just so still!” Judge Doane was another of our County Judges, recently deceased, a very profane man himself, but very sensitive on the proprieties of the court-room. An Irishman, being called as a witness, used so much profanity that the Judge reproved him sharply, and threatened to fine him if he swore again. The Irishman knew the swearing habits of the Judge so well that he thought him only in jest, and soon broke out again. "Mr. Clerk," said the Judge, "enter a fine of ten dollars against the witness." Pat paid up, and, turning to the bench, said: "Ye are a Judge, are ye?" and advised him to jump out and run. He took my advice, as in duty bound, and by this time he is more than two miles off." LEAVING the bench and the bar, we have some reminiscences of a Georgia constable which are very refreshing : Houston County, Georgia, boasts of the politest man and the most efficient constable in the State. Captain Spikes, of the 1631st district, G. M., is well known, and so popular that it is not improbable he would have been made Governor, but his services in his present important office could not be readily dispensed with. It would be difficult to hold court if Captain Spikes was out of the place, and one of the Judges of the Circuit, on his arrival at Perry, always makes it a point to ask if Captain Spikes is on hand, for he says if he is not, he shall adjourn over. At the last Spring Term of the Court, a newly-admitted member of the bar made his appearance; and a striking appearance it was, as Nature had lavished upon his ungainly shoulders a head of flaming red hair, so brilliant and blazing as to shine instantly on the eyes of all around him. As he attempted to pass within the bar with the other lawyers, Captain Spikes presented his staff of office, and gently intimated that he could not come in, as the seats were reserved for the lawyers. "But I am a lawyer." "I should think not," said Captain Spikes; "the Court won't allow it, and I can not let you in, Sir." General Warren, a well-known member of the bar, hearing the conversation, interposed, and told the Captain that the young gentleman had been recently admitted, and was a real lawyer. "Well, 'taint possible-sartingly 'taint possible; but go in, Sir-go in, Sir-I give it up. You're the first red-headed lawyer I ever seed!" Such an officer as Captain Spikes comes, in time, to be an important branch of the government, and "I am, Sir," answered the Judge, quite pomp- assumes the place of Court and jury in certain ously. cases that seem too plain to require a more formal trial. "Well, ye look more like a creeminal, and so ye are; for the little I swair isn't to be thought on by Twenty years ago the County of Dooly, adjointhe side of the almightenest blasphaimies of yering Houston, had a hard population, not very scruhoner. Bad luck to yer honer!" The Judge would have been glad to fine him over again; but there was too much truth in this witness's testimony, and he let him off. pulous about the distinction in property, especially in the matter of pigs and chickens, which they would take wherever they could find them. Jerry Barns had been arrested for robbing a roost, and being brought up to Court, where the justice was too slow to suit the summary notions of the constable, Captain Spikes assumed the duty of laying down the law to the jury, telling them if they didn't find Jerry guilty, he should take him into his own hands. The jury left the matter with Spikes, who proceeded to sentence him forthwith: Judge Strong, of whom the first of these stories is told, is the very magistrate who made his mark, when quite a youthful lawyer, by the ingenious counsel which he gave a client, and cleared him entirely and very unexpectedly. He practiced in Jefferson County, and a prisoner being arraigned for theft, who had no counsel, the Court appointed young Strong to that service, directing him to confer with the prisoner, and give him the best advice he could under the circumstances. He retired with his client to an adjacent room for consulta- Jerry chose the latter; and, after going through tion, and when an officer was sent to inform them the course of sprouts, he said he wouldn't have that the Court was waiting, Strong was found minded it much if they had trimmed the hickories alone, and returned with the officer into the court-smooth, but the stubs had stuck in his back, and room. "Where is your client ?" demanded the Judge. "He has left the place," replied the lawyer. "Left the place!" cried the Judge. "What do you mean, Mr. Strong ?" "You done it, you know you did; and now you may have your choice to go to jail six months or take twenty-five lashes." he was afraid it would make it sore. But Captain Spikes warned him that the next time he was caught he should have the lashes and the six months to boot. "Why, your honor directed me to give him the WHILE we are in Georgia let us hear from Morbest advice I could under the circumstances. He gan County, in which John Sturgis lives, who is told me he was guilty, and so I opened the window | said by some to be even more polite than Captain |