a nice-looking middle-aged woman, in a white cap and apron, smiles a knowing smile and trips down to the kitchen.

"Knickerbocker's" picture represents an old man, a peasant, tottering under a huge faggot, and by his side walks a small child, alsó carrying wood. They are both returning home in the evening light. It is a charming picture, deliciously painted, and harmonious in colour and feeling.

"Brown canvas" now shows his production. A very black landscape, a leaden sky, details hard and too laboured; there is no atmo sphere, no sun in the picture; but "Brown canvas" is so pleased with himself and doings that he does not even condescend to listen to our opinion. He seldom sells a picture, but he does not care. His two friends lend him money, he shares their luck, and that suffices him.

A number of even wilder Bohemians now pour into the inn. The costumes are varied. One man has no shoes, another no coat, a third has on a large paper hat. But what matter? They are so jolly. "Vive la République !" they shout, and call out "Dinner."

A pretty dark girl, nicely dressed in a pink cotton dress, comes in, and says, "Messieurs, you are served."

"Vive la Rose!" (this is the girl's name) and we all rush downstairs into the garden, where the repast is served, under a big shed. There is a long green table, devoid of table-cloth; there are benches all round. On the walls of the shed are various caricatures, drawn cleverly in black chalk; some are portraits of the artists. Bismarck devouring a large Frog,' and the 'King of Prussia on his knees saying his Prayers,' are conspicuous figures. Mademoiselle Rose serves at table. She seems a general favourite with all the artists. She gives them all saucy looks and saucy answers. I hear that she is going to be married to an artist who is now in Italy studying. Everybody is frightfully hungry. The food quickly disappears-soupe, omelettes, fish, beef, melon, fruit, cheese. The wine, Bordeaux and ordinaire, circulates freely; healths are drunk, jokes are made, bad puns perpetrated-everybody is merry. Coffee and pipes are brought insongs are sung loud and cheerily. One man sits down to the piano, a horribly cracked old instrument, and we all dance and waltz. Everybody dances-even Madame Rousseau and her servant joins; every one is spinning round and round and up and down. The wooden clock strikes ten, and Monsieur Joulain says we must depart. A vehicle is ordered, the merry tribe bid us adieu, and we are soon whirling quickly through the dark and silent wood. The trees and rocks are veiled in mysterious gloom; for the moon is hidden behind clouds.

The next morning early I leave Ruisseau les Bois. I say good-bye to the Joulains; but not to the hospice. I hate the ceremony of adieux. So I rattle back to the station in the same old omnibus. There I find

VOL. XXXIX.

F

Mr. Harcourt and the Dwarf waiting to see me off. Mr. Harcourt looks after my luggage and the Dwarf presents me with an album :

"This is a souvenir of me and of the forest; it is a collection of good photographs of the best sites and trees of this forest. You will, I hope, sometimes think of me." I sincerely thank the little man, and promise never to forget him. Mr. Harcourt now returns and presents me with my luggage-ticket and a bunch of forget-me-nots; he looks pale, and tells me that he will be back in dear old England in a week or so, and that he will soon after call upon me.

The bell rings. I find myself seated in a railway carriage, waving my hand to my two friends; they wave their handkerchiefs, and the train moves on, and it is with a deep feeling of regret that I bid good-bye to dear delightful Ruisseau les Bois, and to the people who live there.

H. C.

[67]

Brantridge.

I.

BALMY breeze, born on the blue bounding main,
Come o'er the Sussex hills, come o'er the plain;
Pass o'er the cornfields and ripple the lakes,
Stir the green rushes and bend the brown brakes.

II.

Merrily turn the white sails of the mills,
Chase the swift cloud shadows over the hills;
Bring, breeze, thy bonniest breath from the sea;
Brantridge is waiting a wooing from thee.

III.

Banish diseases, dejection bid fly,

Swiftly as broken clouds over the sky;
Health, wealth, and peace as a benison bear,
Fresh from the southern seas' ocean-born air.

IV.

Kiss the young children, O health-bearing breeze!
Sing them sweet lullabies through the larch trees.
Tenderly sway the long reeds at the pool,
Come through the oaken groves, calmly and cool.

V.

Whisper a sigh for the dead as you pass

Through the dark church yews and over the grass; Tenderly bow the white wind-flower's head

Tenderly over the graves of the dead.

VI.

Speed the swift swallows aloft on the wing,
Home to their nests 'neath the eaves in the spring;
Turn the gilt vanes on the tall Sussex towers,
Sway the bright blooms of the fair Sussex flowers.

VII.

Odours of thymy hills bring from the East,
Nightingale notes when the sunlight hath ceased;
Chase away clouds from the merry May moon;
Come to thy bonny bride! Haste thee! Come soon!

VIII.

Leave the proud ships to stand still on the main,
Leave the white wind-sails unturned on the plain ;
The green breast of Brantridge is panting for thee;
Come to her tenderly, breeze from the sea!

F. COLLINS WILSON.

Madame de Maintenon, and the last Years of
Louis the Fourteenth.

BY THE AUTHOR OF MIRABEAU,' &c.

MARMONTEL's remark, that—throughout his life Louis the Fourteenth was always governed, either by his ministers or his mistresses, is profoundly true. Probably no important act of that long reign emanated from the unbiassed judgment of the monarch-the most absolute that ever reigned over France. The influence of Fouquet, of Colbert, and of Louvois was great, but that of la Vallière, of Montespan, of Maintenon, so moulded the inward and the outward life of their royal master that the reign of each of these sultanas made a distinct epoch in his. That of the first was idyllic; its home was the sunlit glades, the umbrageous groves, the bosky dells of the woods of Versailles, as yet untrammelled by the gardener's art or denaturalised by the vast palace that now rises amongst them. What else could be the gentle reign of sweet Louise de la Vallière? The second was gorgeous, magnificent, oriental, a glittering of jewels, a clashing of cymbals, a braying of trumpets, and a pæan of victory, such as befitted the puissance of the haughty Duchess de Montespan. The third and last, sombre, fanatic, a penitential psalm, broken by the hollow moans of a famishing, persecuted people, by the death cries of the wounded and the hurried tramp of flying soldiers; then the death dirge-the funeral pall descends, and all is over. Thus the history of his mistresses is the history of Louis the Fourteenth and his reign.

To the name of Madame de Maintenon, however, the epithet 'mistress' must be applied in a broader and more honourable sense than to the names of her predecessors; in her case we should rather use the term 'wife,' as there can be little doubt that such was the relation she held towards the king. Perhaps there is no more extraordinary history upon record than that of this woman, who, after being born in a prison, and passing through so many strange phases of life, rose from the depths of positive destitution to be the queen, in all but name, of one of the proudest monarchs who ever wielded sceptre.

Françoise d'Aubigné was descended from an ancient and honourable family of Anjou. Her grandfather was Théodore Agrippa d'Aubigné, an inflexible Huguenot, and the friend and companion of the great Henry. Her father, Constant d'Aubigné, was a black sheep, who, after acquiring wealth and consideration at Court for betraying his