admitted the twentieth on the list. There were ad- | Coup d'État of the 2d December, 1851. We took mitted twenty pupils that year. I still see him as he was then; he was thin, with an elegant shape, a face sparkling with biting fun, and eyes full of fire. We judged each other quickly at school, and with that implacable severity of youth still unlearned in the dissimulations of thought and the attenuations of language. We called each other "fool" and "idiot" with astonishing facility; and, on the other hand, we called each other great man to our face, without cracking a smile. Happy, happy days! 66 the greatest interest in politics, and carried into them the passions one feels in one's twentieth year. We held for the most part very advanced opinions. If the reader will remember France was then scarcely free from the troubles of 1848, he will understand that our minds and tongues were in a high state of excitement. In 1851 Prévost Paradol was head of the section for the third year, which, according to the laws of the school, gave him the right to speak in the name of the whole school. He went straight to the HeadMaster of the school, followed by all the other heads of sections, to make a declaration to him. An hour afterwards the street in which the High Normal School was situated was filled with soldiers, and the whole school ordered to stay in doors. Then began painful days for everybody in university circles. Prévost Paradol, disgusted with the new order of things which reigned in the High Normal School, asked for leave of absence. It was granted with delight. The Minister of Public Instruction, in granting it, carried his kindness so far as to inform him the years he had spent at the school were effaced from the book of his life, and would not be reckoned in counting his years of service. One thinks seriously of retiring pensions in one's twentieth year! Prévost Paradol was instantly recognized and saluted as a master among us. We noticed even then in his school tasks that ample and polished style to which he was subsequently to give so much grace and lightness. I still remember the first composition of his we read. It was a comparison between Xenophon's Economics and Cato's Rustic Things. He charmed us by that voluminous style whose movement was, nevertheless, thoroughly French; and I exclaimed, in a solemn tone which threw everybody into good humor at my expense, Pay your best attention; here comes a great writer!" Prévost Paradol, spurred by success, undertook with incredible ardor to repair the defects of his early education. He determined to be the first in every class, and he was the first in every class. He made Latin verse; he delved Greek themes; he en- Prévost Paradol buried himself in the humble tered at the foot of the class, and by especial favor; cottage where his father lived on his narrow halfhe was the head of the class the following year. At pay. The prize awarded by the French Academy the same time he read a great deal. The High could not last long. It became necessary to find Normal School possesses one of the best selected some lucrative employment. He began to have aclibraries to be found in any public establishment in quaintances. He had entered into relations with Paris. This library was opened to us liberally. Pré- Mons. Mignet, who took a very great deal of intervost Paradol loved Jean Jacques Rousseau, and stud-est in him. He saw Mons. Thiers occasionally. It ied him incessantly. His too long commerce with this writer, whose ideas are often false, and with this declamatory style, would perhaps have spoiled him; but he lived among men who adored Voltaire, and who loved short phrases and accurate words. We all breathed an atmosphere of simple style at the High Normal School. During the vacation between the second and third years of his life at the High Normal School he saw the list of subjects of essays, for the best of which the French Academy proposed to give prizes. One of these subjects was a Eulogy on Bernardin de St. Pierre. He fired up at once. Bernardin de St. Pierre was the disciple of his friend Jean Jacques Rousseau. He was, consequently, very familiar with his works. He wrote the eulogy in a few days, and, with the superb confidence of youth, sent it to the French Academy, where he had nobody to recommend him. This boldness proved successful. The eulogy was a work of mediocrity, a school-boy's essay, taken as a whole; but some pages, written in a very delicate and feeling style about Paul and Virginia, struck Mons. Villemain, an excellent judge in these matters. These pages may be found in Les Essais de Politique et de Littérature, where the author has preserved them, condemning all the rest to oblivion. Mons. Villemain proposed this composition for the first prize. Mons. Victor Cousin insisted the first prize should be given to Caro, his disciple and old pupil in the High Normal School. Mons. Villemain carried the day. This prize did not find Prévost Paradol at the High Normal School. He quitted it before the usual time, in consequence of the political events which then changed the destinies of France, the was one of our professors who extricated him from his embarrassment, - poor Mons. Gerusez, whom we had the misfortune to lose some six months ago. This excellent man had a heart as warm as his mind was amiable. No one could know him a little without loving him a great deal. He exerted himself for his old pupil, and introduced him to Mons. Hachette. The celebrated editor received the young man with great kindness. Did he discover in that pleasing physiognomy a future writer? Did he merely desire to do a good deed? I know not. It is certain he saved from poverty and its temptations the unknown young man introduced to him. Mons. Hachette was then publishing a series of histories for young ladies. An universal review of history was the cap-stone of the edifice. He gave it to Prévost Paradol to write, paid him $600 for doing it, paying him $50 a month until the whole amount of money agreed on had been paid. Prévost Paradol found, at the same time, employment at Halevy's house, and very agreeable employment, which was well paid. All he had to do was to come two hours a week, and talk of letters and history with two extremely well-bred young men. The Halevy's were old friends of his family, and the illustrious composer of La Juive had been his guardian. These were happy days for him. He was free from want, confident in the future, and working with might and main. The book Mons. Hachette desired was written within the year, and appeared under this title, - Revue de l'Histoire Universelle. It passed almost unperceived then; its high price ($2), and the special distinction which seemed to be attributed to it by the title of its collection (his tories for young ladies), repelled the majority of readers. It is nevertheless an excellent work, better suited for teaching thinking men, than virtuous little girls. nently, and end his life there. It is a singular truth, Mons. Hachette has since separated it from the publication in which it was buried, and published it apart, and its success has been considerable. I think men in society would find it very useful. It pre-letter to the Rector of the Faculty from Mons. Migsents, in brief, a picture of the universe, and of time past, painted by a very firm and very brilliant hand. net. The Rector consequently received him with open arms, and treated him with a kindness which the young professor greatly needed. For the MinA year passed in the company of the great his- ister of Public Instruction had, while appointing him torians turned all of Prévost Paradol's thoughts to- to this chair, retained prejudices against his ideas, wards history. Mons. Mignet urged him to advance or rather against his tendencies, which Prévost Pain this path. He proposed him an excellent sub-radol's future career proved to be well founded. ject: The Conversion of Henry IV., in which arose this curious question, Was it absolutely necessary for Henry IV. to embrace Catholicism, to ascend the throne? Would it not have been better for France for him to have remained a Protestant, and to have converted it by his example to the religion of free examination ? Prévost Paradol set to work to study the letters of Duperron and d'Ossat, and ended by making the subject a thesis for the Sorbonne. He aimed to become a professor, and the first step towards this was to obtain the degree of Doctor of Letters. He pitched his tent in a suburb of Aix. The house was charming. It looked on a large garden, in which he cultivated flowers. He saw his children grow around him. He had, to crown all, something which consoles one for all teasing and annoyance, and gives more relish to all domestic happiness, great success in his new profession. To comprehend the universal favor he won at Aix, one must know what are our small provincial towns. There is probably no place in the world where one feels greater fatigue. There is little to do. There are few ideas to move. Mons. Edmond According to usage, it was necessary for him to About said, with witty maliciousness, in his novel add a Latin with his French thesis. He selected Madelon: "Death in those towns seemed to be nothfor the subject of his Latin thesis Swift's works, ing but a mere slackening of life." Men have occuwith which he had been familiar from his infancy. pations which engross their time and occupy their One of the masters of the Sorbonne, one of our pro- thoughts. Nothing can give an idea of the frightfessors of whom all of us have retained the kindest ful vacuity of women's lives. They have nothrecollections, Mons. Berger, was good enough to cor-ing to fill the long hours of the afternoon, and the rect the rather bold Latin of the young student of the Humanities. The grave faculty were delighted by this easy and picturesque speaker; it opened wide the doors of Doctor of Letters, and warmly recommended him to the Minister of Public Instruction. The Minister of Public Instruction was then looking everywhere for new men. He instantly appointed to the chair of French Literature in the College of Aix the same young man whom he had rebuffed so harshly when he was unknown, but who now seemed destined to run a brilliant career. Prévost Paradol accepted without hesitation. Nothing kept him at Paris. He had lost his father. Although in the mean time he had married, and had two little daughters, he was able to set out from Paris without leaving one cent of debt behind him. One of the peculiar traits of Prévost Paradol's character is, that nobody has ever known how to arrange life in a more honorable manner than he has done. He loves comfort, and does not detest luxury; but he has a horror for everything like dissipation. He has never known, except by distant hearsay, those doubtful regions of make-shift in which so many people have perished, and which almost all of us have traversed. still longer hours of the evening, except insipid gossip and the futile, monotonous incidents of housekeeping's daily routine. When amid the idle life the great news suddenly spreads, "A new professor is coming!" what agitation there is in all those unoccupied minds! He is a young man! Everybody is roused. In the provinces women are admitted to college lectures as they are in Paris to the lectures at the College de France. Mothers get their dresses ready. Some of them inquire the subject of the new professor's lectures. Can one carry one's daughters to them? The daughters of course die to go. It is two hours a week rescued from the monotony of provincial life. It is a good subject of conversation for dinners, balls, and visits. It is too - let me whisper thisa pleasure to look at a handsome man's face as long as one pleases, without hanging down one's eyelids, or confessing to the priest. Prévost Paradol's face was charming. His eyes possessed extraordinary vivacity, his physiognomy was singularly changing, and animated with all the fire of intellect; his smile was haughty and at the same time amiable; he had the manners of the best society, with a certain petulance of countenance which betrayed his intellectual activity. He lived humbly when he had little, giving a He spoke, and everybody was delighted. He segreat deal to a certain dignity of outward show, lected for the subject of his lectures the French mor which he likes, and which suits well with him, stint-alists, Montaigne, Larochefoucault, Vauvenargues. ing himself in everything else. Even now he leads What a harvest of delicate and acute remarks! a life which belongs to the middle class in some re- What an inexhaustible text for oratorical developspects and to the aristocracy in others, but which ments! has not the least shadow of relation with that un- Prévost Paradol carried into his lectures that classed existence which some people stupidly attrib-marvellous facility, that sustained eloquence, and, ute to literary men. He set out with his family for Aix, delighted to inhabit a country which, he was told, was admirable, and fondly imagining to establish himself perma above all, that fulness of forms, admired in his written style. The lectures of provincial colleges which are addressed especially to young men and women cannot do without oratorical amplification. No one He was, nevertheless, a little giddied by the golden tile which fell so suddenly on his head. He has told me how he came to a decision. He said: indulged in this oratorical amplification with more | which he read assiduously. He kept himself familabundance, and at the same time with more grace, iar with French newspapers, and doubtless many than Prévost Paradol. The old commonplace of times said to himself, This is what I would reply, morals or philosophy was rejuvenated in his hands. were I there. It flowed from his lips with an inexhaustible fluidity of speech which recalled Cicero to lettered men. His thoughts are not always very original or very profound; they delight in the region of middle ideas, which has always been most accessible to the crowd. They seem to swim in it, as in some boundless sea, with incomparable ease and lightness. Most of these lectures have since reappeared in articles published occasionally in the Journal des Débats. One no longer finds in them the fire of a young and enthusiastic speaker. Age, which ripens everything, has touched these effervescences of the twentieth year, and, nevertheless, they still attract one by the elegance of style and by the perfect tone of good company which are the fortunate gifts of this rich nature. It seems as if antiquity and Louis XIV.'s age had just fallen from his hands; and yet one feels, too, by some allusions, the man of the nineteenth century who never forgets the things of his day. Speech sufficed him in those days. He did not write and did not think of writing. He had never then contributed articles except to a small professional periodical published by Messrs. Hachette, the Revue de l'Instruction Publique. He received from it a dollar a column. It required miles of prose to earn twenty dollars. He received at the same time invitations from the Revue Contemporaine, which was then in the opposition to which it has again been thrown by the loss of the government subsidy. But the climate, indolences, social pleasures, the delights of oratory, and a certain dread of compromising himself, kept him from entertaining these engagements. The Revue Contemporaine changed its line, without changing its editor, and went over arms and baggage to the government. Its editor pressed Mons. Prévost Paradol more earnestly than ever to become one of his contributors. These invitations, when they came through the Rector, assumed a quasi-official character. The young professor was in no wise disturbed, and gave a decided refusal. The Rector said to him: "Why, my dear child, you are condemning yourself never to return to Paris. You will remain with us all the days of your life." แ Very well," replied Prévost Paradol, "I am happy here, and regret nothing." "I drew out my watch and gave myself half an hour to reflect. I walked around my garden three times, weighing as well as I could both sides of the question, a prey to a terrible agitation of mind. At last I came to a decision, and I wrote Rigault I accepted the offer. The die was cast. I quitted the professor's gown and became a newspaper writer." Prévost Paradol came well armed to the combat. His whole early education seemed to have prepared him for it. He had taken in the school of English writers a taste for free discussion, a turn of cold and haughty irony. History, which he had sedulously cultivated, by giving him the key to past events, opened wider perspectives on the future. A profound study of Voltaire and Rousseau had taught him to correct the sparkling vivacity of the first by the ample and sonorous phrase of the latter. He did not yet know the tactics of newspapers, but he was about to place himself under the orders of Mons. Silvestre de Sacy, a passed master in this warfare. Mons. de Sacy was the old gladiator who was to say to his young successor : "Strike here, your blows will be surer; there are the galled withers; abandon all others and fasten yourself to this spot. Neglect that return-blow; it has not come home; you are untouched. This question has not yet attracted public attention; wait for the right moment." Had Prévost Paradol matured opinions at that early day? Unquestionably not, if by this phrase be meant that he had formed clear and distinct opinions. But he had instincts and tastes which, in a mind as decided as his own, would soon become convictions. Everybody is familiar with the brilliant campaigns he made in the Journal des Débats and the Courrier du Dimanche. He wrote more for these than for any other newspaper. He made but a halt in La Presse. One word about his connection with this newspaper. The public were under the impression his departure from the Journal des Débats was caused solely by pecuniary questions. It is certain money was the pretext of a rupture which had become inevitable. But a few bank-notes of a thousand francs His resolution was firmly taken, when a letter are not a serious matter under all circumstances, came from Hippolyte Rigault. I knew the latter and the pecuniary questions would doubtless have when he was professor at Charlemagne College, but been arranged to the satisfaction of both parties, Prévost Paradol entered into relations with him only had there not been at the bottom of the whole after he quit the High Normal School. He made question a graver difference. The Journal des his acquaintance at Mons. Thiers's house. Rigault Débats was of opinion allowance should be made wrote his young friend that Mons. John Lemoine, for the necessities of the times in which one lived; obliged to abandon the Journal des Débats, left a it softened sometimes and at other times neglected vacancy in it; the proprietors at first intended to some of his articles which seemed incompatible with fill it with Mons. Forcade, who had refused it or the then state of public opinion. Prévost Paradol had not pleased; a successor was hunted every-pressed his opinions forward plainly and obstinately. where, and he had been thought of; he had been recommended to the chief owner and editor by Messrs. Thiers, Villemain, Mignet, and St. Marc Girardin. This most attractive offer did not take Prévost Paradol unprepared. He had continued to pay passionate attention to politics in his provincial exile. The only luxury in which he indulged with his wretched salary was a subscription to the Times, This produced secret wrangling, inward discontent which burst forth one day about a trifle. Prévost Paradol quitted the Journal des Debats and became chief editor of La Presse. He soon discovered he was not addressing the same public. His extenuations of language, delicacies of expression, dashes, silence, were not so well understood nor tasted by a circle of readers less refined than that possessed by the Journal des Débats. It happened by chance he was even still less free in La Presse than he had been in the newspaper which he quitted from sheer impatience of the yoke. Everybody knows La Presse then belonged to Mons. Solar. It was next to impossible for the extraordinarily precarious situation of this banker to avoid influencing the direction of the newspaper he owned. La Presse had gone from excessive audacity to a very natural timidity. Prévost Paradol felt ill at ease there; he did not dare, he could not give utterance to the truths which tormented him. Thereupon he published his famous pamphlet upon The Old Parties. The prosecution instituted against the author of this pamphlet was used by the proprietor of La Presse to make him feel that his presence among the writers of that newspaper was not without danger to it. He resolved to ascertain exactly his position, and sent in for publication a very hostile article. It was rejected. He instantly sent in his resignation, voluntarily abandoning all the pecuniary advantages which his contract with the newspaper guaranteed to him, in the event of his being obliged to break connection with it. The day he informed Mons. Solar of his withdrawal from La Presse he met one of his old associates at the Journal des Débats, Mons. Cuvillier Fleury, who was charged by the proprietors of the Journal des Débats to make overtures to him. Prévost Paradol accepted them with pleasure, and returned, amid the applause of the public, to the theatre of his old success. He seemed to devote himself entirely to literature. He wrote literary critical articles; but, although they seemed to be purely literary at first, they soon became a pretext to return indirectly to politics. The truth is, Prévost Paradol is not mereÎy a literary man, he is a public man, a neophyte statesman. His invincible tendency carries him towards political and social subjects, and Mons. Guizot justly said, at the reception of the French Academy the other day, while speaking of him, "he was one of the first of a generation in which France hopes." and the lively, light pleasantry which is so familiar to French writers. He is a mixture of Swift and Voltaire. Prévost Paradol received from nature the fortunate gift of this sharp irony, and he has perfected it by an excellent education, and by daily exercise. I lay particular stress on this feature of his talents, because it is characteristic, and distinguishes him from other newspaper writers. Others have as ample a form, as clear a style, and as much ease in handling the average ideas of common sense; nobody pos sesses in the same high degree as himself this talent of cold and haughty raillery. Prévost Paradol's best articles have been collected in three series, entitled, Essais de Politique et de Morale. Another volume contains the series of letters he sent to the Courrier du Dimanche, where he continues to write as a skirmisher, and to venture on a great many malicious expressions, which the prudent gravity of the Journal des Débats would not allow. We must add to these volumes another volume which appeared last year, Les Moralistes Français. These were titles to the attention of the Academy. Prévost Paradol had others in the attitude of opposition to the French Emperor, which he had assumed, in the relations he had formed, and in the traditions of that learned company. He was elected without having solicited a seat, and almost without having time to desire to be elected. He was travelling in Egypt, whither he had gone for the sake of his health, and perhaps, too, because he wished to study the Oriental Question on the spot, when he was informed that he had been proposed as a mem ber of the Academy. He returned at once; and, as Mons. Guizot wittily said, he was an Academician almost as soon as he was a candidate. Prévost Paradol is the youngest Academician. He was born on the 8th of August, 1829. He is consequently only thirty-six years old. A RIDE ON SKINS DOWN, THE RAVI. THE river Ravi, or Ravee, is one of the five streams which water the Punjab, one of the minor divisions of British India. It is on this river that Lahore, the capital of the province, is situated. Near Lahore the scenery is dull enough: the river flows through ceaseless sand-banks and level wastes of alluvial soil. Its current is slow, its water turbid, and so shallow as to be almost useless for boats to At the last elections he appeared as a candidate. Mons. Gueroult, the chief editor of L'Opinion Nationale, was his competitor. He had little chance of election, and he felt it himself. He had warm partisans only in a very well educated portion of the higher middle class, and in the young men of the public schools. They did not form the majority. Prévost Paradol did not belong to a news-ply upon. But where it emerges from its parent paper which has a very decided influence on the democratic portion of the voters. Besides, he has not those qualities-call them defects if you please - which are best adapted to please the multitude. He seemed to be cold when he appeared in the electoral meetings. His aristocratic and haughty manners, his accurate, delicate language, his amiable and proud oratory, produced no effect upon men who could easily have been carried away by more popular eloquence. Prévost Paradol is an aristocrat in opinions, tastes, and talents. Had he lived in the days of the first French revolution, he would have sat by the side of the Girondins, but a little nearer the right than they sat. People may differ in political opinion from him; but there can be no difference of opinion about his talents as a writer. He is now one of our first polemical writers. He has learned to write with unexampled grace the sharp, biting irony of the English hills it is deep and clear, a roaring, ice-cold torrent, rushing past bold rocky banks, adorned with foliage of every variety and color. Let the reader picture to himself the sanitarium of Dalhousie, perched on spurs of the Himalaya, from 6,500 to 8,000 feet above the sea. The northern slopes of the mountains on which it is built look towards the solemn peaks of perpetual snow, which strike the beholder, even at a distance of twenty miles, with an overpowering look of calm majesty. The southern face of the Dalhousie hills overlooks the plains below, where rice and sugar-cane grow under the shade of the banyan and the palm. From April to November every one who can escape from the fatigues of the counting-house, the court, and the parade, seeks the refreshing coolness of the hills, to roam over the green turf, through the pine-woods, which remind him of the loved scenes of his boyhood. The usual route to Dalhousie is by the winding road through the lower hills, either on horseback, or in a sedan-chair, or by palanquin carried on men's shoulders. But to descend from the cool breezes and English climate is an easier task for the body, though distasteful to the mind. It is by no means needful to traverse the weary windings of the road, and listen to the ceaseless grunt of the bearers for twenty-four hours, as they convey you away from leisure and refreshing coolness to duty and steaming heat. The hardy frame of the Briton, braced up by the sweet mountain air to something of his youthful vigor and rejoicing energy, craves for more than the dreary monotony of the road; and it is to describe another mode of travelling that we write. Leaving Dalhousie about 2 P. M., a precipitous and difficult mountain-path is entered on. It winds now over the brow of a jutting spur, now along the base of a grand old hill, now along a shady green, fringed with oaks, willows, and pines, and watered by a gently-running brook. Here are the clothes of the community spread out to dry; for this is the favored haunt of the washermen, where they carry on their homely occupation in scenes which the nymphs of Tempe might have coveted for their own. The missionary's little tent adorns the lonely spot; and, as we pass by, the excellent man himself strides forth, and goes with us on our way to bid us God-speed. We climb a hill covered only with gorse and cactus, and traverse a stony path along the crest of a ridge till we reach a gorge, and a fresh view bursts on our wondering gaze. A deep valley lies beneath us, at the bottom of which, we learn, is the Ravi. In front are the hills of Chumba, behind us the white houses of Dalhousie, relieved against the deep green of the ilex, cedar, and fir, which clothe the mountain sides. Look long at the scene. It reminds you of happy days when brothers, cousins, and friends met from distant stations, to share such pleasure as a land of exile can be made to yield. It tells of health restored to the nerveless body, and peace to the wearied brain. You remember how, six short weeks ago, you came up to those everlasting hills a poor invalid: now there seems no exertion or enterprise too great for your vigorous frame. Ah, well! the happy holiday is over now. Duty calls you back. You console yourself with the thought that the hot weather is nearly over too. is said to be heavier walking than the first. While sitting under our rock, let us gaze into that sweet valley below us. The rivulet glancing over its stony bed, the flat-roofed cottages covered with gorgeous orange-colored ears of Indian corn, spread out to dry for the winter's store, the wee black mountain cattle climbing about the brown and gray rocks, the light green fern and sombre ilex and rhododendron, all combine to make a view of marvellous richness and beauty. This for the foreground. In the near background is still Dalhousie, then range after range of rising hill and upland valley; and finally, shining out clearly against the blue sky, are the glorious snowy peaks, which now glitter in their intense whiteness, but, two hours hence, will seem like magic flames, ruby and violet-colored, in the light of the evening sun. The eye wearies with mere extent of view; you turn to nearer objects. The lengthening shadows and cooler air warn you that evening is approaching; and night must not be allowed to surprise us in these wild solitudes. Up! let us be going onwards. Now comes a long stone stair, which takes us down some six hundred feet, then over great boulders in the bed of a torrent now dwindled down to a purling brook, then through swampy malodorous rice-fields, till at last, after a descent of 4,500 feet in twelve miles, we reach a green plain with two or three grand solitary trees, under one of which is our little tent. This was sent on yesterday on mules, in charge of a servant, with a good store of provisions, which we are now fain to attack. It is not every one who can bear the rapid change of climate which so great a descent entails. The heat and heavy trudging has knocked up poor E, who comes to our picnic meal looking very queer. His only contribution towards the hilarity of the evening is in seeing us eat, and he soon retires even from a toothsome game pasty. We visit him presently, and find him stretched on a villager's rough bed, with two or three constables fanning the mosquitos off his face; for he is superintendent of police, and can command their service on a pinch like this. Over him is a thin awning, to protect him from the heavy dew which falls in this low valley, and he is lulled to sleep by the roar of the river close by, which our timorous servant says looks awful. We take a quiet stroll and watch the darkness deepening as the western mountains shut daylight out from us. All up and down the course of the river, at elevations varying from 2,000 to 8,000 feet, we see the twinkling lights from many a cottage door, and the watchfires kindled to drive away the bear from the juicy fields of Indian corn and sweet potato. The lights die out, but the fires are kept up, and ever and again the hooting of the watchman comes drifting down on the breeze, as he slings his stone against some ranging bear. We must turn in now, for the first blush of morn on the high hill-top will be our signal for movement. October will soon be here, and then there will be six months of cold weather, when the climate of the Punjab is certainly better than that of England. So, with many a hearty good wish, we grasp the honest hand of our friend the missionary, whose faithful preaching has taught us well-remembered lessons of hope and holiness during our six weeks' leave: he returns to his lonely tent at the Washermen's Green, and we continue our steady descent towards the river. A landslip has filled up our path; so we must clamber over the rocks, and firmly grasp the bamboo alpenstock which has supported as in many a steep and narrow way before. Mrs. P is carried in a queer conveyance, called a Long, then, before it is light in this deep valley, dandy; that is to say, a piece of drugget hung on we start from a sound sleep, hurry on our clothes, a pole, in which she sits with her back to the hill, and run down to the brink of a wild, seething torand facing the view, and is carried sideways by two rent, on which we are to embark. There is a demen, one at each end of the pole. This machine, licious scene of excitement, not unmixed with danthough uncouth in appearance, is a most comforta-ger, in the prospect of our strange ride. Our fleet ble affair, and the mountaineers who bear it never slip on the most rugged path. But now the afternoon sun beats against the western rocks, and shade and rest become most grateful. A pull at the wine-flask and a sandwich refresh us for the second half of our journey, which is soon ready. P and his wife, E—, and a native servant, each mount their conveyance and are pushed off into the dark flood. An odd conveyance it is, most uncouth to look at, most shaky to sit upon; no trim outrigger, nor even a family tub; not a canoe or a coracle, not made of iron or |