of the old masters, when they painted the wood-nymphs sporting in the depths of the forests. I am compelled to acknowledge, however, that before I left this part of the country it was my misfortune to see a few old women whose transcendant ugliness somewhat lowered my enthusiasm about the poetry of the Breton corn-fields. Accomplishing a journey of fourteen leagues in six hours and a half, I alighted at the door of the Hôtel de France in St. Malo, just at the moment when the noisiest and most bountiful table d'hôtes was about to develop its hospitality. The fact was announced by the riot and confusion which prevailed within and without; and, above all, by the significant looks of the people that rushed past us into the hall. You could see the dinner in their eyes, and in the haste with which they flew to hang up their hats and caps, and put aside their sticks, swords, and cloaks. The Hôtel de France is the best in the town,-an old, scrambling place, with sentinels at the gate, guarding the adjoining house of a general, a dirty yard with a melancholy brown statue in the middle of it of Apollo playing the flute, a merry set of servants scampering about like demons released for a holiday,-and a landlord with a rose-coloured neckcloth, an English wife, and a volubility of tongue which could not be surpassed even in Brittany, renowned for feasting and roaring. This landlord was a character, and being perfectly aware of the fact, he made the most of it. With the dashing, negligent air of a wit and a bon vivant, he managed to pay the strictest attention to business, pulling out his pleasant swagger and topping spirits as part of his stock in trade. I was not ten minutes in the house before I was in possession of his whole history, and his wife's history, and the names of her relations in England, and how it was she came to marry an innkeeper, and what it was they intended to do by-and-by by way of vindicating their gentility. Our host had taken the hotel about the time of the Revolution of 1830, had made a fortune in the interval, and being resolved to retire into private life, or more correctly, to make a splash and enjoy himself, had now advertised the establishment for sale. He was very particular in impressing this upon us. He wished us clearly to understand, not only that he was about to become an independent gentleman, but that he had conducted his house all throughout upon gentlemanly principles. Some credit was certainly due to him for the reforms he had introduced, since he had found, like most original reformers, that the work of improvement was a service of danger. Before his time, the hotel admitted everybody indiscriminately; there was no respect of persons, and men in check-frocks, with cigars in their mouths and bearskin caps on their heads, were as acceptable at the table d'hôte as the politest of guests. Our vivacious reformer set himself at once against this indelicate custom; but in shutting his doors upon the mob of miscellaneous customers, he provoked the bitterest hostility amongst the townspeople. The revolution in the hotel was followed by a revolution in the streets. The house was besieged by insurgents,-visitors were scared from its doors, and the innkeeper and his family were assailed with fierce threats of vengeance. But he was not a man to be turned from his purpose, and he fought his opponents bravely for two years, sleeping every night with pistols under his pillows, to protect himself against the violence of the crowds that used to gather under his windows, shrieking and yelling with as much fury as if they were seeking for satisfaction upon some great political malefactors. At last he wore them out, and succeeded in obtaining quiet and exclusive monopoly of the travelling and local respectability of the town. Having given us a circumstantial narrative of these transactions, he concluded by informing us, in a confidential chuckle, that he had made over all the tag-rag and bobtail to his vulgar neighbour, the Hôtel du Pays. St. Malo is the gustiest spot on the whole coast. An eternal squall whistles day and night over the bleak rocks that deform the surface of the sea under its walls. The visitor who attempts a promenade on the ramparts may readily fancy himself on the roof of the Temple of the Winds. You may be blown round them (walking is out of the question) with ease in ten minutes, provided you relieve yourself of all anxiety about your hat by leaving it behind you, or pitching it into the sea. Of the dismal rocks that are scattered about in the water, several are strongly fortified and garrisoned, and have their own proper names and histories, which you can easily ascertain from the gazetteer, if you have any curiosity on the subject. But who can be expected to have any curiosity about the history of these black precipices, the very sight of which is a sort of ghastly remembrancer of storms and shipwrecks? The town, or the stony heap on which it stands, is an island, approachable on foot only on one side, where a sort of pier connects it with the main land. It was once, like the other rocks in its vicinity, covered, or nearly covered, with water; and by way of leaving a pious memorial to posterity of its deliverance from the flood, the monks have turned the first house that was built upon it into a chapel. So completely is this little iron-cage of a town shut up in foam and brine, that even the faubourg of St. Servan cannot be reached except by a ferry, unless you make a circuitous expedition over the pier. St. Servan is the English quarter of St. Malo, and it might have been expected that the St. Malonians would have found it worth their while to cultivate the good-will of that moneyspending population by building a bridge to facilitate their intercourse with the town. The only difficulty in the way of such a project is the violence of the sea, which rushes in here with great force. During the winter season, especially in the spring-tides, the water rises to such a height, that a considerable part of the adjacent country, including extensive farms, orchards, and tobacco-grounds are submerged, so that it would not be an easy undertaking to build a bridge at this spot, where the sea finds an entrance to the land. But, remembering what engineering skill has accomplished elsewhere, in such erections, for instance, as the bridge in the Gorge of Gondo on the Simplon, which is literally built in the spray of the torrent, such obstacles appear comparatively insignificant. When I was at St. Malo, a basin was in course of construction within the pier to restraiu the flood, and it was intended to build a bridge as soon as the basin was finished,-a prospect which seemed to me of indefinite remoteness. In lieu of a bridge, the only means of communication between the town and its suburb was a ferry, which ferry was only a mockery and a snare; for if the day happened to be gusty (and it would give me infinite satisfaction to receive an authentic account of a day that was not gusty at St. Malo) nobody would venture to cross. Chateaubriand was born here; and the people were so proud of him, that while he was yet alive they anticipated his burial by building a tomb for him on one of the rocks. The proceeding was conducted on the most approved French principles. His compatriots being desirous that he should have a foretaste of his posthumous glory, first obtained his promise that he would consent to be buried at St. Malo, and then submitted to him a plan of his tomb, of which he was pleased to express his entire approbation. The correspondence which passed between the poet and the authorities on this occasion is carefully preserved in the archives, and exhibits a curious commentary on the vain-gloriousness and foppery which sometimes hurl distinguished Frenchmen into their graves. If the scrap of local scandal which winds up the popular version of the story may be credited, the tomb was no sooner finished, than the bill was forwarded for payment to the illustrious gentleman for whose accommodation it was built! (A Sketch of the 11th of February, 1659,) from the Danish of Andersen. VOL. XXIV. Med Iis ligger lille og store Belt ; Men Danmark stoler paa Herren." o. s. w. His white tent Winter spreads around, - By Copenhagen camps the Swede,- The Faubourg all in ashes lies; From God's own house fierce flames arise ;- The Danish king from rampart calls ;- Now holds the foe the Isle, and all,— All fight-what boots their place—who can,— Shrouds, shrouds, the Swede now puts him on, But Denmark trusts in the Lord! The living Snow-man comes like Death, So Denmark trusts in the Lord! On storms the Swede with shout and cry, ; Soon in the snows a corpse to lie W. U U THE LUNATIC LOVER. Ir is now thirty years since, in the course of my official duties, I was charged with the mission of inspecting the prisons and hospitals in several of the departments of France. For this purpose I visited, amongst many others, the city of —, and commenced an inspection of the Lunatic Asylum there. I had already passed through that portion of the building appropriated to the male patients. The superintendant and the physician had accompanied me from cell to cell, exhibiting, with all the indifference of habit, the sights of misery they presented. We went into the women's apartments. I was first taken into a large room where several Sisters of Charity were acting as nurses to the sick patients. After having addressed a few words to the superior, we were leaving the room to continue the tour of inspection, when I saw one of the sisters approach the physician, and ask him, in a voice trembling with emotion, "How is he to-day?" I looked at her with more attention: she was young, and I thought her beautiful, but the expression of her countenance was that of the deepest sadness. The physician answered, "What do you hope for? there can be no change." Then, turning towards me, " She inquires," he said, "for a lunatic in whom she is much interested." I asked the cause of this interest. "It is a very sad story," answered the physician. The fair young sister had moved away, anguish marked on every feature of her lovely face, and the superior, observing what had passed, thus addressed me :-" If you should wish to know the terrible affliction which decided the location of my sister Margaret, I can give you the account that she herself has written. When she became one of us, the poor girl had not the power of telling me her sad story; she therefore wrote it, and placed it in my hands." I hastened to end my visit; my imagination was deeply impressed with what I had seen, with what I had heard. The mournful beauty of the sister Margaret was ever before my eyes. I felt no more interest or emotion at the sight of the other patients. I finished mechanically my duties of inspection. When I was leaving the establishment, the superior gave me the promised manuscript. I hurried home and read as follows: "I am the only daughter of an eminent physician in the province of He bore the deserved reputation of wisdom, skill, and probity. He had particularly devoted himself to the study of mental maladies. After the death of my mother, he even established a lunatic asylum, and devoted his time to its occupants, influenced as much by feelings of benevolence and charity, as by the love of his art. This establishment was on a very large scale; the house contained numerous apartments, and the garden was very extensive. The patients were not numerous, so that each individual could be cared for with particular attention. As for me, I lived with my father in a cottage at some distance. He would not allow me to run the risk of witnessing any of the horrors of the asylum. I never approached the body of the building where the lunatics, who required the strictest treatment, were confined. However, their cries sometimes reached my ears, never without filling me with horror and affright. "Those patients who were calm and gentle, or whose convalescence was assured, were allowed to walk in the garden belonging to the establishment. They were almost entirely at liberty; frequently they even approached our cottage, and could easily have opened the trellised gate which separated from the garden the small enclosure appropriated to us. This, however, was not permitted; but the keepers were not always there, and, besides, my father wished his poor patients to be always treated with extreme consideration. "One day when I approached a grassy bank, where I was accustomed to sit at my work, or reading, I found a stranger there; I drew back hastily, with a sort of terror. Ah, lady!' he exclaimed, 'how bitter is the feeling of inspiring so much disgust that pity is forgotten.' These words pained me. The idea of having excited an emotion which might either increase or renew the stranger's malady, instantly presented itself to my mind. I had heard my father say that even a slight annoyance might bring back former crises of alienation, and renew mental disease. 'Sir,' I said, 'do you wish to speak to my father?' He understood that I affected to suppose that he had come from a distance. I belong to this establishment,' he hastily answered; 'I am one of those wretches whom your father seeks to benefit, and you know it well. I frighten you, but fear not; I do no harm; they even say that I have become much more rational latterly; as a proof, I am going away; I ought not to be here. It is forbidden, is it not?' He rose as he spoke, and moved slowly away, leaving me deeply agitated. "I spoke to my father of what had happened. He is very gentle,' he remarked, in answer to my recital. His mind never appeared to me much diseased; I have even hesitated about receiving him into the establishment. To any one but me, he would indeed have appeared as completely in his right senses as most of the people one meets with in the world; but I am so experienced in the symptoms of this melancholy disease, that I feel sure, in his case, of its ultimate increase. I have therefore subjected him to a salutary regimen, and have especially taken care to guard against those circumstances that agitate him.' Father,' I asked with much curiosity, can you tell me the turn his madness takes?' 'It will seem to you very strange, and yet it is far from being singular: he believes himself mad; he has a deeply rooted belief that his reason is hopelessly gone. He examines his own mind, he proves to himself that he is mad, and is filled with anguish at the conviction. Nothing can dissuade him, nothing can console him. No labour, no study serves to divert his mind from the one fatal thought. He cannot keep his attention fixed on any book, and he affects not to understand it, not to be able to follow the connexion of ideas, and sometimes this is really the case. It was he himself who came and asked to be admitted amongst my patients. It is there I ought to be,' said he, it is my proper place. I am no longer fit to live amongst people of sound mind.' He then asked to see the rooms; he chose his own, had his furniture carried there, made all necessary arrangements himself, and took up his abode here on the day fixed upon, about three weeks ago. He is better since he came; the regularity |