"Add to these, my lady," replied the traveller, laughing, "the privilege of telling my own stories after dinner uncontradicted."

"I thank you," said Lorraine, "for reinforcing my favourite theory, which maintains that a love of talking is the great feature of the present time. Steam is not half so much its characteristic as speechifying."

"Our monopoly of talking," observed Lady Mandeville," is being transferred to you gentlemen. I saw some English newspapers the other day, and I must say, London just now seems visited with the plague of tongues. Why, there is our friend Mr. Delawarr, every evening-poor unhappy Wednesday not now excepted-gets up and speaks at the rate of ten miles an hour, or, I should rather say, ten hours a mile, to judge by the little progress he makes. When did When did any of us ever say a quarter

so much?"

"The supply," replied Lord Mandeville, "in this case, does not create the demand. What woman could ever find listeners willing to go such lengths?"

"There, now!" exclaimed Mde. de Ligne, "that speech is just your belle alliance of persiflage and politeness: half of what vos autres

Anglais call witty speeches, are only rude. Who but an Englishman would have thought of telling a woman she would not be listened to?"

"Ah, you see you are forced to seek a likeness to yourself among barbarians," returned the lady.

"Do you regret or rejoice at the prospect of returning to England?" asked Lorraine of Emily. "I count the days. I have been surprised— delighted with a great deal that I have seen; but I quite pine to behold the old hall, and be at home again."

"Ah, Emily!" exclaimed Lady Mandeville, "you are intensely English. I believe, in your heart, you think the ruins so called of Sir John Arundel's chapel, which said ruins consist of a broken wall and some scattered bricks, are more picturesque than all the mouldering temples, half marble and half acanthus, to be found in Italy; and I am persuaded one great reason why you want to be at home again, is to see if your myrtle-tree is grown taller than yourself."

"I, for one," said Edward, "sympathise in Miss Arundel's reminiscences. I do not go quite the length of the modern philosopher,

time!

who asserts that our nature is not wholly sophisticated so long as we retain our juvenile predilection in favour of apple-dumpling; but I do think that the affection which clings to the home of our childhood-the early love which lingers round the flowers we have sown, the shrubs we have planted - is, though a simple, a sweet and purifying influence on the character. I cannot help thinking, that the drooping bough, the fairy-like rose, lend something of their own grace to one who has loved them and made them her companions.

"Now," ejaculated Lady Mandeville, “I expect to hear, as a finish, that you have fallen in love with some mountain nymph, who has found your heart weak and large enough to contain herself, crook, flock, simplicity, and all."

I plead guilty," said Edward, " to no such pastoral taste."

"A gentleman's idea of simplicity always amuses me," returned Lady Mandeville. "I have nothing to say against Nature—and I have no doubt a lady made by her would be a very charming person; but where is unsophisticated nature to be found? where is the beauty, however rustic or rural she may be, without some

touch of art? And if nature is to be modelled, let it be by refinement, grace, and education. Again I say, I laugh at your idea of simplicity. It always puts me in mind of the heroines in novels, from Sir Walter Scott's Di Vernon downwards. In order to give an idea of beauty unspoiled by art, the heroine's hat falls off, and her hair falls down, while she looks lovely in dishevelled ringlets. Now, they quite forget two things: first, that though the hat may come off, it is by no means a necessary consequence that the hair should come down too; and secondly, if it did, the damsel would only look an untidy fright. And your notions of simplicity in real life are just as consistent."

"Do you not think," asked Mde. de Ligne, "that there are some faces which a simple style suits?"

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Agreed," replied Lady Mandeville; " but

I hope you call such style only

'The carelessness yet the most studied to kill.""

"How beautiful," said Mr. Brande," is the simplicity of the ancient statues!"

"Yet they would have been,” retorted Lady Mandeville, "just as natural in an uneasy or an ungraceful attitude; but the sculptor had the

good taste to select the attitude most pleasing, the folds of drapery the most harmonious."

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Lady Mandeville only contends," said Edward, "that Nature should make, not a sacrifice, but an offering to the Graces."

"Few things have struck me more since my arrival in Italy," said Mr. Brande, "than the little real love my countrymen have for the fine arts; they may affect a taste,' but they have it not.' I should have wondered still more at this want, had I not felt it in myself. I have seen others hurrying, and I have hurried, from collection to collection, from gallery to gallery, with nothing but the fear of the future before my eyes-that future which, when we return home, makes it an imperative necessity to say we have seen such things. We rise up early in the morning, and late take rest—we crowd time and memory, for the sake of one pleasant remark, 'Well, I do declare it is quite wonderful that you could manage to see so much in so short a time!""

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"Our English taste for the fine arts,” said Lord Mandeville, may be classed under two heads ostentatious and domestic. Our nobility and gentry buy fine pictures and statues, as they do fine furniture, to put in fine rooms.