added. It was the fear which had crouched and whispered in those dead languages on the tomb of the lost one-the fear of Death. To this terror he yielded himself with a species of involuntary readiness. He spoke of it, he read of it, he surrounded himself with all that might remind him of it, and yet it would throw him into paroxysms like those which shake the frame of the victim to hydrophobia when the plash of water is heard, or its surging seen. It was the fear of the death itself, and not of what might be beyond, that tortured him. He would sit for hours, reciting passages with which his religious avocation had stored his memory, and in which the tomb is spoken of as a prison-house, as a pit, as a place of darkness and forgetfulness. And these he would vary with verses, sung in a moaning key, and culled from all those grim hymns with which unauthorized expounders have, through years, terrified young and sensitive minds, by a cruel mingling of the material and the spiritual; those lyrics, too coarse for the Greek mythology, too grovelling for the worshipper of Odin, but accepted as Christian interpretations of the most refined and most exalted mysteries. These Eustace Trevelyan would mutter and moan over for hours. But he was not content with mere words; he would eagerly select pictures and other representations of mortality, and with these he would adorn his apartment, to the very curtains of his bed, making gentle reproach if any one sought to remove them; and the relics of mortality itself had even a greater attraction for the diseased brain. At first it was thought well to oppose this morbid taste, but the extreme suffering into which the poor creature was thrown by any such demonstrations, and the abject weakness with which he petitioned to have back his ghastly toys, prevented any prohibition being continued.

Do you remember the skeleton which sat in Aspen Court? Not that Eustace Trevelyan sank into imbecility. When, for the time, he was relieved from the death-terror, he was calm and mild in his manner, neither isolating himself from those with whom he dwelt, nor abiding silently among them, as is the manner with many who are similarly afflicted. The original character of his intellect seemed to be preserved in its ruins. Eustace still shunned all opposition, and in compliance with the wish of others would remain with them, converse with them, and even bear his part with a semblance of cheerfulness, which sometimes deceived a casual observer. But it was sorrowful to note that all that he did seemed prompted, not by his own will, but by an instinctive desire to avoid offending, and even more sorrowful to watch the furtive glance which he would direct towards the face of any of his companions, if he imagined that he had done anything to cross their wishes. When he passed into the charge of Lilian, under circumstances which will be explained by and bye, it became a study and a duty with her to observe these eager, timid glances, and to meet them with a ready and reassuring smile, until at length poor Eustace acquired a child-like habit of looking to Lilian for approbation of his acts and words, a habit hardly less piteous than his previous apprehensions. Mr. Heywood also

treated him with exceeding consideration, but then the feminine tenderness and the vigilant watch were wanting, and at times the intellectual man forgot the need of his helpless brother, and the full, proud eye fell coldly on Trevelyan, who would quiver under its gaze. But never was an unhappy and bereaved man more kindly cared for than Eustace under the guardianship in which we found him.

One feature more in his insanity was connected with his terror of death, and that was his clinging to what seemed to hold most promise of life. To the young, and especially to children, Eustace attached himself, as if in their society were some charm against what he dreaded so deeply. His gentle manners easily won the youngest to his side, and if permitted he would sit for hours in such companionship, soothed in being allowed to hold some little hand in his, and almost happy if a joyous child would nestle by him, or make a pillow of his knee. And it was chiefly to children of that nature that his affections swayed-those whose life was most a sport, and in whose veins the healthful blood ran merriest. For-and more than one pang was caused by the strange antipathy-he would withdraw from the caress of a child whose pallor or pensiveness seemed to give note that its days might not be long with us. And slight as was the manifestation, and timidly as Eustace would edge away, his gesture, which might have something of prophecy in it, would set a mother's heart throbbing wildly, and send her from his presence in a passion of

tears.

His history has been sketched. In himself a man of no mark, Eustace might, under ordinary circumstances, have plodded his undistinguished way through life, neither honoured nor happy, but with perhaps something more and something less, of suffering, than falls to those at once less sensitive and less forgetful. But his being, alternately agitated and stagnant, was once stirred to its depths, and its vitality, suddenly put fully forth, vindicated itself for that once, and then ceased for ever. In some old book of seatravel, there is a story which may parallel the case of Eustace Trevelyan. Becalmed at evening in one of those western seas, and beguiling the weary time as they might, the sailors brought on their deck a vessel of the phosphoric water in which they were floating. The luminous appearance ceased on the withdrawing the water from the deep, and the vessel stood dark among them. But there was a chemist on board, who fetched from his chest a phial of some potent acid, and poured it into the black water. In an instant, and roused into an intolerable agony by that deadly liquid, the chaos of sea-insects in the vessel, put forth their myriad lights, united in one intense and lustrous sparkle-and were dark. No chemist's charm could ever wake them again.

LOITERING AMONG THE BAVARIAN AND TYROLEAN LAKES, IN THE YEARS 1851 AND 1852.

"I WAS awakened last night-were not you?-by the firing of a gun—we are now! heaven preserve us! in a land under military rule."

Thus spoke, with a sigh, a gentleman (who appeared to me to have seen half a century), one of those chance companions whom one picks up somewhere, and sets down somewhere in travelling, with about as little concern as one contracts, or as one shakes off the dust on one's cloak; yet we had been on terms of intense intimacy for some days. He was one of those men who seem to have begun a journey with a store of regrets for the land they are, of their own free will, calmly quitting, and to keep adding to their collection of prejudices at the end of every day's pilgrimage.

This voluntary exile addressed himself to a party of somewhat timorous ladies, seated round a breakfast-table in the Crown Prince, at Ulm, who had slept there last night, unconsciously happy to have reached, after a long journey, the dominions of the King of Bavaria.

Some of these ladies had also heard the report of a gun. The waiter, who entered just then with an innocent dish of eggs in his hand, was appealed to.

"Only a convict escaped from gaol," he calmly informed us. "Sir!" said the grave man; "only! ladies; this is, indeed, a land of despotism."

"Caught in the leg, sir," added the waiter, with an unruffled brow, and a cold, blue-eyed, German gaze, and then left us to digest the fact.

Such was our first night in Bavaria, where we found, for two years, a tranquil residence, and discovered that, in spite of military discipline, a mild beneficent sway prevailed.

We ran hastily over the exquisite Protestant cathedral of Ulm, lingered awhile over the curious monument of the Besseref family, and were punished for our dilatoriness by being late in setting out for Augsburg. For we had an object in going to Munich. We were travellers in search of a home-wherefore, matters not to any one but ill health and education, the two great causes for change, had much to do with it.

"Farewell," said our grave friend, as he handed us into a huge travelling vehicle, at the door of the Crown Prince; "I don't expect you will like Munich. I should not wonder if you were coming back soon this way, not that I shall see you, for I am sick of travelling already. You'll not be able to dine on the road, and you'll not reach Augsburg till ten," he added, with an awful smile; "for me, I shall linger a little while."

"Among the tombs, I dare say," cried one of the liveliest of

VOL. XXXIV.

our party, as the carriage drove off, and the last sentence was lost amid that conglomeration of sounds which attends a departure. "And long may he stay there," added another.

We did, however, dine on the road; but not here shall I remark upon the extent of our appetites, nor the smallness of the cost; and we reached Augsburg in time for a good night's rest. were not, as our mournful compagnon de voyage had predicted, too fatigued to see that antique town, with its fountains and its fuggerei, its old churches, and its somewhat stately streets; not too much exhausted to feel all the liveliness of first impressions of those diversified costumes with which we became afterwards so familiar: the round fur caps, the square bodices, decked with small coins, the huge sleeves, and ample aprons of stuff or silk, or, for the better classes, the silver-wrought head-dresses, fastened on by pins of delicate filigree for those a little higher in their sphere; and then, around the throat, we observed a collar, composed of innumerable silver chains, fastened by a large clasp; again, as if in stern contrast to all this bravery, comes a group of females in head-dresses of black ribbon and lace, fastened over a high comb, and falling in long ends over the neck and shoulders.

The next day was Sunday, and the mournful plain which one crosses between Augsburg and Munich, was dotted over with these peasant women; and their accompanying cavaliers who rejoiced in hats, garnished with small gold tassels, and whose long coats almost touched their ankles. And the Dult Platz, at Munich, through which we drove after quitting the railway, was also scattered over with peasantry, who had come into the city for their holiday.

I do not know whether people feel as I do on entering the Hôtel de Bavière, at Munich, that they have bid adieu to rest, and begun an apprenticeship to mounting stairs; never, surely, was an hotel so adapted to wear down one's physical force by the aid of incessant climbing to one's aerial salon, as this handsome and well-arranged hotel, built under the express superintendence of the exking, the benevolent Ludwig of Bavaria.

Russians and Americans are sure to monopolize the best rooms everywhere, and, after groaning for some days, and in vain endeavouring to ascertain when a Russian princess, who had taken one side of the hotel, was to return to her native snows, or a party of Americans, who filled all the best bed-rooms, were to move on to Vienna, we sent for our host, and begged him to recommend us some furnished lodgings, as we meant to remain in Munich.

I thought the good little man (who has now left that establishment) would have fainted at the easy way in which we expected to step into handsomely furnished apartments at once. "No," he told us, mournfully, "you must take an unfurnished house, you must hire, or buy furniture."

It was for us to faint then. To hire! how degrading!-to buy! how expensive! but the sad truth came out at last. There dwells in Munich a character whose name I shall not here specify, but who supplies veteran furniture at a cost suitable to his ideas, and

not to travellers in search of a home. Poor souls! his heart is as hard as his sofas! One word about this distinguished personage. He it was who fitted up for Lola Montes the beautiful house given her by King Ludwig. For three rooms in it, exquisitely gilded, painted and furnished, he charged the enormous sum, for Munich, of twelve thousand gilders, or a thousand pounds English. The king, indignant at this exorbitant demand, refused to pay the bill, and Lola, with her wonted energy, accompanied her remonstrance by throwing something heavy at the upholsterer's head. "Very well, madam," said the offended tradesman, "these rooms will cost you more than a thousand gilders." The fearful crisis of 1848 was at hand. Our hero augmented every discontent by circulating reports of Lola's rapacity and the king's lavish imprudence on her account. Too late the demand of the upholsterer was paid; but Lola had sown the seeds of revolt, and, as she sowed, so did she reap. I will not vouch for the truth of this anecdote; but certain is it that the revolution in Bavaria originated with the shopkeepers of Munich, many of whom owed their prosperity to King Ludwig.

Not attracted by the idea either of hiring or buying, we asked our host where we could find a house for the summer. He told us of lakes and baths of which we had scarcely heard; spoke gloriously of Togern-see, as of "a little Paris;" more calmly of Sternberg, which he described as "ernst," that is, I presume, triste, but the waters of the Wurm See, on which the village of Sternberg stands, were, he added, famous for their softness and purity.

And here, en passant, I must remark that, as in this instance, so in all others in Germany, we, as inexperienced travellers, found a degree of courtesy, good faith, and even zeal, among hotel keepers in that nation, which we shall always recall with gratitude. I remember few things with more pleasure than the exploit of getting away, at that time, from Munich; a city to which we became, as all persons who remain in it long eventually do, extremely attached. It was during Whitsun-week that we left it, and, after driving through a straight road, fenced on each side by poplars, we found ourselves again in something like the country. For the plain between Augsburg and Bavaria, flat, ill-drained, even boggy, and partially cultivated, affords no features of an agreeable landscape, if we except, indeed, the grandest of all features, those perpetual glimpses of a distant range of snowy mountains, which attracts your eye at every moment, and seem temptingly accessible to a nearer approach. So clear are they, so close seem they, that you almost fancy that the breeze borrows its sharpness from the icy ravines between those frozen heights: never shall I forget the pleasure with which I first gazed upon them, nor the reluctance with which I bade them what well must prove, I fear, a final adieu.

As we drove along, the extreme beauty, and lavish abundance of the gentian, throwing up beneath the blue sky its deep azure flowers, even amid the brownest looking blades of withered grass that I ever saw, called forth expressions of pleasure. I have never