I've laughed at toils and troubles, as a British Volun

teer;

But the thought of that night's misery still makes me pale with fear.

Sweet the repose which cometh as the due reward of toil; Sweet to the sea-worn traveller the French or British

soil;

But a railway-carriage full of men, who smoke and drink and spit,

Who disgust you by their manners, and oppress you with their wit;

A carriage garlic-scented, full of uproar and of heat,
To a sleepy, jaded Briton is decidedly not sweet.
Then welcome, welcome Paris, peerless city of delights!
Welcome, Boulevards, fields Elysian, brilliant days and
magic nights!

"Vive la gloire, et vive Napoléon! vive l'Empire (c'est la paix)

"Vive la France, the land of beauty! vive the Rue St. Honoré !"

Wildly shouting thus in triumph, I arrived at my HotelThe exterior was 'palatial,' and the dinner pretty well: O'er the rest, ye muses draw a veil! 'Twas the Ex

hibition year

And every thing was nasty, and consequently dearWhy should ye sing how much I paid for one poor pint of claret

The horrors of my bedroom in a flea-frequented garret― Its non-Sabæan odours-Liliputian devices

For washing in a tea-cup-all at "Exhibition prices?" To the mountains, to the mountains, to their snowy peaks I fly!

For their pure primeval freshness, for their solitude

I sigh!

Past old Dijon and its "Buffet," past fair Macon and its wine,

Thro' the lime-stone cliffs of Jura, past Mont Cenis' wondrous line,

Till at 10A.M., "Lake Leman woos me with its crystal

face."

And I take outside the diligence for Chamouni my place. Still my fond imagination views, in mem'ries mirror clear,

Purple rock, and snowy mountain, pine wood black and glassy mere:

Foaming torrents, hoarsely raving; tinkling cow-bells in the glade;

Meadows green, and maidens moving in the pleasant twilight shade:

The crimson crown of sun-set on Mont Blanc's majestic

head,

And each lesser peak beneath him, pale and ghastly as the dead:

Eagle-nest-like mountain chalets, where the tourist for

some sous

Can imbibe milk by the bucket, and on Nature's grandeur muse :

Mont Anvert, the "Pas" called "mauvais," which I thought was "pas mauvais,"

Where, in spite of all my boasting, I encountered some

delay;

For, much to my amazement, at the steepest part I met A matron who weighed twenty stones, and I think must be there yet:

The stupendous "Col du Géant," with its Chaos of

seracs;

The procession into Cormayeur, with lantern, rope, and

axe:

The sweet girl with golden ringlets-her dear name was Mary Ann—

Whom I helped to climb the Jardin, and who cut me at Lausanne :

On these, the charms of Chamouni, sweeter far than words can tell,

At the witching hour of twilight doth my memory love to dwell.

Ye, who ne'er have known the rapture, the unutterable bliss

Of Savoy's sequestered valleys, and the mountains of 'La Suisse ;'

The mosquitos of Martigny; the confusion of Sierre; The dirt of Visp or Münster, and the odours everywhere: Ye, who ne'er from Monte Rosa have surveyed Italia's plain,

Till you wonder if you ever will get safely down again; Ye, who ne'er have stood on tip-toe on a ‘knife-like snow-arête',

Nor have started avalanches by the pressure of your

weight;

Ye, who ne'er have "packed" your weary limbs in "sleeping bags" at night,

Some few inches from a precipice, 'neath the pale moon's freezing light.

Who have ne'er stood on the snow-fields, when the sun in glory rose,

Nor returned again at sun-set with parched lips and

skinless nose;

Ye who love not masked crevasses, falling stones and blistered feet,

Sudden changes from Siberia's cold to equatorial heat; Ye, who love not the extortions of Padrone, Driver,

Guide,

Ye who love not o'er the Gemmi on a kicking mule to

ride;

You miserable creatures, who will never know true

bliss;

You're not the men for Chamouni, avoid, avoid La

Suisse!

ARCULUS.

A STUDY FROM MORTE D'ARTHUR.

OST people, I imagine, are aware that besides the fragment which forms one of the most admired poems of the Laureate, there exists another Morte D'Arthur; that the latter is the production of one Sir Thomas Malory, and was among the first books ever printed in England. I fear, however, that there are many whose knowledge ends here, and who, trusting to 'impressions which they would find it difficult to trace to any substantial origin, mentally class the book with the antiquated tomes that swelled the libraries of our grandfathers, assigning it perhaps to the same mental bookshelf as The Whole Duty of Man, The Mysteries of Udolpho, or Sir Charles Grandison. What will such people say when I inform them that they ought in that case to condemn Spenser's Fairy Queen to the same companionship? I can see their look of incredulous pity. And yet the merits of the one are also the merits of the other; and their faults are only the same. It is true that they are faults of a very unpardonable character in the eyes of the present generation; for they are liable to the charges of antiquity and prolixity combined. But if it is a virtue to depict human nature with a truth that comes home to every human heart in every age; if it is a merit to be master at once of that exquisite minor key which men call pathos and of that soul-stirring diapason which interprets and exalts heroic story to the dullest ear; in a word, if simplicity and force, truth and power, enhance the value of a book, I contend that the Morte D'Arthur is far from the vapid

VOL. VI.

R

and maundering imbecility which is the character associated by too many with its name.

The Morte D'Arthur is to all intents and purposes a great and nobly conceived Epic. And here I might dwell upon the grandeur of the theme which runs in an unbroken thread through all the intricacies of the narrative. I might eulogize the splendour of the design and the unity and completeness of the plot, whose denouement might justly challenge a comparison with the noblest efforts of the Tragic muse. But I am tempted rather to take for illustration one or two of the episodes which to me form the greatest charm of this story of King Arthur and his chivalry. And here I might have found myself embarrassed by the wealth which lies ready to my hand, had not Mr. Tennyson travelled the same road before me and left his footprints in the track, footprints which I shall take for my guide, with the confidence that I shall not follow in vain the unerring instinct of my great pioneer.

Of those Idylls which are the most finished productions of the Laureate's genius, Elaine is to me the most touching because the most simple. But among those who read-and to read is to admire that pathetic poem, I believe that few are aware how much of the groundwork of the story is due to Sir Thomas Malory and how little to Mr. Tennyson. I have understated the fact. It is not enough to say that the main incidents of the plot are absolutely identical in both; or even to add that many of the delicately marked traits in the characters of the latter are immediately supplied, or at least indirectly suggested, by the narrative of the former: the very words of the romancer are in many cases adopted by the poet; and where deviation either in the plot or in the language is apparent, it is not always clear that an improvement is effected.

The subjects supplied by prose narrative to form the basis of poetic story are of two kinds, which may be best described, the first as complete portions