"I have no doubt of it," replied Walstein, with a slight bow.

"If we could but find out the cause!" continued Caroline. "I venture to believe that, after all, it will turn out an affair of the heart. Come, be frank with your physician. Tell me, have you left it captive with a fair Greek of the Isles, or a dark-eyed maiden of the Nile. Is our heroine a captive behind a Spanish jalousie, or in an Italian convent?"

"Women ever believe that all moods and tempers of man are consequences of their influence," replied Walstein," and in general they are right."

"But in your case?"

"Very wrong."

"I am determined to find it out," said Madame de Schulembourg.

"I wish to heaven you could," said Monsieur de Walstein.

"I think a wandering life has spoiled you," said Caroline. "I think it must be civilisation that you find wearisome."

"That would be very sublime," replied Walstein. "But I assure you, if there be one thing that disgusts me more than another, it is the anticipation of renewed travel! I have seen all that I wish, and more than I ever expected. All that I could experience now would be exertion without excitement, a dreadful doom. If I am not to experience pleasure, let me at least have the refuge of repose. The magic of change of scene is with me exhausted. If I am to live, I do not think that I could be tempted to quit this city; sometimes I think, scarcely even my house."

"I see how it is," exclaimed Madame de Schulem

F

bourg, shaking her head very knowingly, "you must marry."

"The last resource of feminine fancy!" exclaimed Walstein, almost laughing. "You would lessen my melancholy, I suppose, on the principle of the division of gloom. I can assure you, my dear Madame de Schulembourg," he continued, in a very serious tone, "that, with my present sensations, I should consider it highly dishonourable to implicate any woman in my destiny."

"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Madame; "I can assure you, my dear Mr. Walstein, that I have a great many very pretty friends who will run the risk. 'Tis the best cure for melancholy, believe me. I was serious myself at times before I married, but you see I have got over my gloom."

"You have indeed," said Walstein; "and perhaps, were I Dr. de Schulembourg, I might be as gay."

"Another compliment! However, I accept it, because it is founded on truth. The fact is, I think you are too much alone."

"I have lived in a desert, and now I live in what is called the world," replied Walstein. "Yet in Arabia I was fairly content, and now I am-what I shall not describe, because it will only procure me your ridicule."

"Nay! not ridicule, Mr. Walstein. Do not think that I do not sympathise with your affliction, because I wish you to be as cheerful as myself. If you were fairly content in Arabia I shall begin to consider it an affair of climate."

"No," said Walstein, still very serious, “not an affair of climate--certainly not. The truth is, travel is a preparation, and we bear with its yoke as we do with all that is initiatory-with the solace of expectation. But my

preparation can lead to nothing, and there appear to be no mysteries in which I am to be initiated."

"Then, after all, you want something to do?

"No doubt."

"What shall it be?" inquired Madame de Schulembourg, with a thoughtful air.

"Ah! what shall it be?" echoed Walstein, in accents of despondence; "or rather what can it be? What can be more tame, more uninteresting, more unpromising, than all around? Where is there a career?"

"A career!" exclaimed Caroline. "What you want to set the world in a blaze! I thought you were a poetic dreamer, a listless, superfine speculator of an exhausted world. And all the time you are very ambitious!"

"I know not what I am," replied Walstein; " but I feel that my present lot is an intolerable burthen."

"But what can you desire! You have wealth, youth, and station, all the accidents of fortune which nature can bestow, and all for which men struggle. Believe me, you are born to enjoy yourself, nor do I see that you require any other career than the duties of your position. Believe me, my dear Mr. Walstein, life is a great business, and quite enough to employ any man's faculties."

"My youth is fast fading, which I don't regret,” replied Walstein, "for I am not an admirer of youth. As for station, I attribute no magic to it, and wealth I only value because knowing from experience its capacity of producing pleasure; were I a beggar to-morrow, I should be haunted by no uneasy sensations. Pardon me, Madame de Schulembourg; your philosophy does

not appear to be that of my friend the Doctor. We were told this afternoon that, to produce happiness, the nature of a being and his career must coincide. Now, what can wealth and station produce of happiness to me, if I have the mind of a bandit, or perhaps even of a mechanic."

"You must settle all this with Augustus," replied Madame de Schulembourg; "I am glad, however, to hear you abuse youth. I always tell Sidonia that he makes his heroes too young, which enrages him beyond description. Do you know him?"

"Only by fame."

"He would suit you. He is melancholy too, but only by fits. Would you like to make his acquaintance?"

"Authors are best known by their writings," replied Walstein; "I admire his, because, amid much wildness, he is a great reader of the human heart, and I find many echoes in his pages of what I dare only to think and to utter in solitude."

"I shall introduce you to him. He is exceedingly vain, and likes to make the acquaintance of an admirer."

"I entreat you not," replied Walstein, really alarmed. "It is precisely because I admire him very much that I never wish to see him. What can the conversation of Sidonia be compared with his writings. His appearance and his manner will only destroy the ideal, in which it is always interesting to indulge."

"Well, be not alarmed! He is not now in Dresden. He has been leading a wild life for some time in our Saxon Switzerland, in a state of despair. I am the unhappy nymph who occasions his present desperation," continued Madame de Schulembourg, with a smile.

"Do not think me heartless; all his passion is imagination. Change of scene ever cures him; he has written to me every week-his letters are each time more reasonable. I have no doubt he has by this time relieved his mind in some mad work which will amuse us all very much, and will return again to Dresden quite cool. I delight in Sidonia-he is my especial favourite."

After some little time the companions re-entered the carriage. The public drive was now full of sparkling equipages. Madame de Schulembourg gaily bowed as she passed along to many a beautiful friend.

"Dear girls, come home with us this eve," she exclaimed, as she curbed her ponies by the side of an open carriage, and addressed two young ladies who were seated within it with their mother. "Let me introduce Mr. Walstein to you-Madame de Manheim, the Misses de Manheim, otherwise Augusta and Amelia. Ask any of our friends whom you pass. There is Emilius-How do you do? Count Voyna, come home with us, and bring your Bavarian friend."

"How is Sidonia, Madame de Schulembourg," inquired Augusta.

"Oh, quite mad. He will not be sane this week. There is his last letter; read it, and return it to me when we meet. Adieu, Madame de Manheim; adieu, dear girls; do not stay long: adieu, adieu." So they drove

away.

IMPROMPTU.

THOUGH Old Thrift be grown richer, he's grown ne'er the wiser;

For wealth has no power to add brains to the head.

Of his brains the poor devil need not be a miser,

Since no gold can be found where there's nothing but lead.

C.