In some respect the medieval minstrel and student life, though somewhat of a vagabond character, offered to the young and adventurous more charms, and even more advantages, than our present sedentary system. The time has been when the poet, furnished with a certificate or diploma from the Court of Arles setting forth his qualifications as an accredited master of the joyeuse science, could pass through Europe from castle to castle, unmolested even by marauding barons who allowed no such indemnity to the priesthood, and take his seat in every hall as a welcome and honoured guest. The time has been when the penniless but learned scholar was privileged to wander from University to University, and to claim from the corporation fund present support and the means of continuing his journey, by the simple process of affixing a thesis to the college gate, and defending his positions against the ingenuity of the practised wrangler. It was thus that poetry and learning "went gypsying a long time ago;" and the practice was really an admirable one, because, in an age when letters were not generally cultivated, it kept up a perpetual intercourse between learned bodies, informed them of their mutual state, and gave the enterprising scholar an opportunity of visiting other countries besides his own. Oxford, I believe, has still a remnant of this in her one or two travelling fellowships; and the craftsmen of Germany, through their guilds, are forwarded from town to town. But otherwise the power to travel depends upon the amplitude of the purse; and the unprovided student who, nowadays, should be rash enough to attempt the experiment, would inevitably find himself in the predicament of worthy George Primrose, without, perhaps, that gentle

man's last resource, a talent for scraping upon the violin.

There are, however, many ways of travelling. The millionaire, rolling from country to country in his wellpoised English carriage, under the auspices of a bearded courier who sows gold by the handful, in all probability sees less, and has not more enjoyment, than the humbler wayfaring man, who contents himself with the diligence for long routes, and explores the more interesting districts on foot. It is not necessary to put up at the Romischer Kaisar or Hôtel d'Angleterre, when you can be well and more cheaply accommodated at the Adler or Weisses Ross ; and good lodgings can be procured at a reasonable rate in almost every town on the Continent. For my own part, I travelled and sojourned as became my modest means; not as an idler, or as one bent on the pursuit of pleasure, but as a student of arts and letters. My custom was to pass the winter and spring in some capital city or renowned seat of learning; and during the finer portion of the year to resume my peregrinations. It may be thought that such a mode of life, pursued for a considerable period, might engender unsettled habits, and beget incapacity for strenuous exertion in the future. I believe that would be the result if the intellectual faculties were allowed to lie dormant, and no other ends proposed than the gratification of the senses and the enjoyment of refined society; but I made it an imperative rule always to be engaged in some absorbing branch of study.

To me the recollections of travel afford quite as keen an enjoyment, and perhaps a more refined one, than did the reality. I can draw in my chair to the fireside of a winter's evening, when the snow is falling

thickly but noiselessly without, only making its presence known by the hissing of the few flakes that find their way down the chimney, and in a minute's space transport myself to sunny Italy, or the tideless shores of the Mediterranean. I can see the olives of Attica glistering on the mount, or the gaily-painted barques that glide along the surface of the Golden Horn. And thus I can well understand the feeling of the weary voyagers when they reached the land of the Lotos, happy to dream on in peace, nor tempt new dangers of the

But I have no right to descant upon my years of pilgrimage. I intend to tell my story with as little interruption as possible; and therefore I shall omit all narrative of my travels, adventures, encounters, and studies, during four years in various parts of the Continent. Pass to the fifth summer, when the period I had originally fixed for my range of wandering had well-nigh expired, and I began to entertain serious thoughts of home, and what might await me there.

I am dwelling in a little cottage in Switzerland, in the very heart of the most beautiful district of that romantic region. I have not taken up my abode in a valley, for the deep shadows cast by the mountains oppress me. There the heat at noonday is stifling and intense; but when the sun passes over the top of the huge impending barrier, a piercingly cold wind, blowing from the wastes of rugged ice and untrodden snow, sweeps down the gorges, and in a few minutes effects a decided change in the tempera the air than we experience vel and less elevated country se of an

autumnal month. My cottage lies up in the hills, on the edge of an old pine-forest, through which the cattle stray, making its recesses musical with the sound of their tinkling bells. A little way below, through a ravine more than half screened with underwood, runs a mountain-torrent, not too hoarse or obstreperous, but rising beyond murmur in its sound, which, taking its origin from the clearest and most pellucid, though not largest of the Swiss glaciers, rolls confidently along, till, reaching the barrier of the valley, some three miles beyond my dwelling, it falls over in a cataract of foam. From the upper window you see the glacier itself, bright blue, frosted with silver; and beyond it a green Alp, and over the Alp a white cone, stretching upwards as though it would pierce into the heavens-so radiant and dazzling does it appear. And, from the same point of view, though further off, you descry three more stupendous horns, each of them worthy to be crowned with the glory of the Morning Star.

As for the cottage itself, it is, you see, light and picturesque, as Swiss cottages usually are, with wooden walls and a sloping roof, and rather more than the usual apology for a garden at the front. But my host, Hans Krauskopf, is not much of a horticulturist, nor indeed addicted to hard work of any kind; though, when a tempting offer presents itself, he has no objection to act in the capacity of a guide, and having once set his face to the road or mountain path, he will trudge along for twelve hours on a stretch with perfect goodhumour and cheerfulness, bearing on his back a burden that might fatigue a creditable mule. But as a general rule, he very much prefers remaining at home, where, in the intervals of fumigation (for he is a persevering smoker), he employs himself in the manufacture of wooden toys, chamois-hair cockades, alpenstocks, and suchlike gear, for all which there is a ready market. His pretty buxom wife, Babili, despite the maternal anxieties entailed by the possession of three chubby children, is the most active creature in the world, always on the move, busy as a bee, and ever singing at her work.

though she professes to be fond of flowers, has no time for gardening; so that the parterre, being left very much to itself, lacks that nicety and trimness of arrangement which is the pride of an English cottage. The ground-floor is occupied by the family: the upper story is, for the present, the habitation of my friend George Carlton and myself.

I must introduce the reader formally to George Carlton, for he is no ordinary character, and, if you once know him thoroughly, you cannot fail to like him. George is one of the fortunate few who have not only sufficient wealth but sufficient abilities to enable them to embark in any career with almost the certainty of success. With a considerable fortune, a fine person, an acute and comprehensive intellect, extraordinary powers of memory, and a ready eloquence, he might, if he so pleased, have entered Parliament at an early age, where he speedily would have won a high place in public estimation. Such, at least, was the opinion of those who knew him best at Oxford; but, to their amazement, George not only showed himself indifferent to such a prospect, but absolutely refused to entertain it. Yet he was neither indolent nor without ambition. His chief fault was a certain haughtiness and impatience of control, which, no doubt, would have disqualified him from acting as a devoted adherent of any party in the State; for Carlton was not one of those easy-minded persons who will retract their opinions, and vote that black is white at the bidding of a political leader. His regard for truth in all matters of public import was so stern and inflexible, that he could make no allowance even for that tacit acquiescence to which timid men resort when they find themselves called upon to make a sacrifice of principle. He held the doctrine that to act against one's own convictions was a positive crime; and, firm in that faith, he would not have hesitated to defy the world.

Carlton had a decided tendency towards literature, though, if he had published anything before I made his acquaintance, he did not think fit to reveal it; and he had even a stronger

passion for art. Indeed, he was a painter of no small accomplishment, and had zealously studied as a pupil under one of the first masters of Munich. It was there that I made his acquaintance, which ripened into an intimacy when we subsequently met at Florence; and on quitting the latter city, both of us intending shortly to return to England, we had agreed to spend a few months together in the wilds of Switzerland, and lighted upon comfortable quarters in the cottage of Hans Krauskopf.

With this explanation, reader, you may enter our apartment. There, at his easel, surrounded by the multifarious paraphernalia of a painter, sits George Carlton; whilst I, wearied with the perusal of a heavy German tome, am lounging on the settee, inhaling the delicious aromatic air which enters by the open casement. At my feet, and watching me with his clear, loving, intelligent eye, lies couched my constant companion Lion, a magnificent Newfoundland dog, the sole survivor from the wreck of an unfortunate ship, that two years before was cast away on the rocky shore of Palermo. I happened to be there when the storm took place; and on hearing of the catastrophe, though not until several hours after it had occurred, I went down to the beach, impelled by that strange curiosity which attracts every one towards the scene of recent misfortune. It was a melancholy sight. The vessel had gone to pieces on a reef of rocks which ran out a considerable distance from the shore, and scarce a vestige of her hull was visible amidst the white surges that came roaring and tumbling in. Spars, planks, and even bales, were cast up in large quantities, and the fishermen and country-folk, ever ready there as elsewhere to profit by the spoils of the sea, were eagerly engaged in dragging, beyond the reach of the waves, every article that came within their reach. It was rather a dangerous matter for a stranger to make particular inquiries from men so employed; more especially as each one carried in his girdle, after the pleasant Sicilian fashion, a knife of formidable dimensions; and I was

perfectly aware that the people no longer displayed that Arcadian gentleness and soft amenity which is pictured in the idylls of Theocritus. Without altogether denying the existence of an Acis among them, I must say that the demeanour and gestures of the islanders were such as to induce the belief that they were genuine descendants of Polyphemus. However, apart from the throng, I found a Galatea in the person of a pretty sunburnt Sicilian maiden, who from an eminence was watching the proceedings with much interest, her lover-it mattered not whether he most resembled the shepherd or the Cyclops being doubtless in the thickest of the plunder. From her I learned that no bodies had been cast ashore-a singular circumstance, as it appeared very unlikely that the crew would have betaken themselves to their boats in such a raging sea, before the vessel struck upon the reef. Avoiding the crowd, I walked on until I reached a little bay, into which an eddy had swept some fragments of the wreck. As I was musing on the piteous spectacle, which brought forcibly to my mind that splendid description by Jeremy Taylor, the first of our English divines, of a like scene of shipwreck, I was startled by a low whine and the touch of something cold upon my hand. I hastily turned round, and there, shivering and wet, and moaning as if he besought protection, was a young dog, evidently quite a pup, who looked up into my face with an expression so imploring, that language could not better have conveyed a meaning. It said, "Master! I am a poor thing that has been cast away -there is no one left to care for me or give me food-I am cold, wet, and hungry-do, dear master, take me with you, and I will love you all my life!" I was not proof against such

dumb eloquence; so I spoke kindly to the dog, who seemed to recognise my speech as that to which he had been accustomed, and fondled him; and he followed me back to Palermo, and ever since has been my devoted friend and servant. These may seem strong terms to use towards a dog; but I am one of those who thoroughly sympathise with the attachment of the Bedoueen Arab to his horse, and that of the Indian mohaut for his elephant. Your familiar friend of the human species may betray and desert youyour dog never will. His love for his master is unbounded; his fidelity beyond the reach of corruption. Brave Lion! how beautiful he is now in the very pride of his strength

how faithful, courageous, and true! Woe to the windpipe of the man who, in his presence, should venture to assault his master! He is a better auxiliary than a revolver.

Having thus introduced the reader to the group in our Swiss cottage, without saying more of our personnel than that George Carlton is one of the handsomest fellows, with a fine head of curly black hair and aquiline features, that ever you saw-that the humble autobiographer who pens these lines has changed so much in the course of years, that Bailie M'Chappie, or even Ned Mather, would be sore puzzled to recognise him-and that Lion is the noblest and best feathered of Newfoundlands -I shall close this chapter. I do so the more readily, because I have fallen into the literary snare of adopting the present tense, which leads into inextricable, difficulty; and I wish to recur to the more rational and natural style of narrative, which maintains the proper distinction between the present and the past. Pardon, therefore, this interpolated Photograph, and allow me to fall back on my memoranda.

"Carlton," said I, "if it were not for a certain remorse I feel in interrupting the task you ply so diligently, I would propose to you a stroll along the mountain-side. The day is delicious, and under so bright a sun I

am sure we shall see the slide of an avalanche."

"Two minutes more, and I am at your service," said Carlton, working away at the hair of a Saint Agnes.

I rose and looked over his shoulder.

"Beautiful indeed! It seems as if a sunbeam were entangled in the long flowing locks. But, Carlton, why do you always portray the same face, and in the same style? All your female heads have wonderful similarity-all are calm and pensive, with dovelike eyes, and an air of dreamy reverie. I have heard our Florentine friend Sostegno say that one can always learn something of the true character of a painter from his works; but such a picture as this does not seem to embody yours."

"Sostegno made a false criticism. An artist does not copy from himself -he portrays what he most admires in others. What you see is my faint attempt to shadow out my Idealthe Saxon type of beauty-sweetness, confidence, and truth."

"Your Ideal, then, is but an exalted image of the Real?"

"Exalted! My good friend, you are pleased to be very complimentary. Do you think it was within the compass of the powers even of a Raphael to exalt the Madonna? Believe it not. Ineffably celestial was the vision that passed before him, nor could he adequately have transferred it to canvass had he painted with the pencil of an angel. But as for my daubsbah! They are of the earth, earthy -cold, lifeless personifications, not one whit better than, nor perhaps so good as, nine-tenths of those things in gilded frames that cumber the walls of our exhibition-rooms."

"Now indeed you wrong yourself, Carlton. You may not have that practice and experience in art which constitutes the master; but genius, which is the main requisite, you possess in no common measure.'

"Do not, I beseech you, Sinclair, profane that noble word. Genius is the rarest gift of God, though every fool that can scribble a few verses, or disfigure a foot or two of canvass with his glaring colours, believes that it has been vouchsafed to him, and arrogantly boasts of its possession. I cannot tell you how often I have sickened to hear pert puny whipsters and slovenly egotistical rogues prate about their neglected genius, and the shameful indifference of the world in not instantly recognising their merits. My firm belief is, that, in the present

times, true genius, unless fearfully abused, must force its way; and I believe, moreover, that the few men, the very few who possess that incomparable gift, are themselves the last to be aware of it. But come. The avalanche will not wait for us, and we can talk more pleasantly under shadow of the pines."

So we three sallied forth-Carlton, myself, and Lion-the latter, according to custom, making a feigned assault upon Babili's favourite he-goat, who received him as a pikeman would a charge of cavalry. It was a standing joke, which seemed to lose none of its zest by daily repetition; for the two animals were in reality fast friends, and had many a romp and gambol when they thought that nobody was looking on.

Our path led us first through the pine forest, in the glades of which the cattle were browsing; then upwards over a sunny slope, to a plateau, right opposite the stupendous horn which I have described in the foregoing chapter, and separated from it only by a valley which, though it appeared narrow to the eye, was in reality of the breadth of several miles. In that valley, however, surveyed from our point of view, there were no cottages, or traces of cultivation such as one might expect to see in a country where arable land, for the most part to be found in the low places, is in the utmost request. As we read in the old fairy tale that no peasant dared to build his hut, or yoke his steer, or till the ground in the precincts of the district belonging to the capricious and malevolent giant, so the hardiest Switzer would not venture to locate himself at the foot of this weird monarch of the Alps. Sheer up from the valley, for some thousand feet, rose an impassable barrier of precipitous rocks, scarred, seamed, and crossed by fearful ledges, on which not even the foot of the chamois had ever rested. And from this precipice, without the intervention here of any green slope or pasture, arose the dazzling horn, tapering into the deep-blue sky.

I do not know how other men may feel, but to me the grand scenery of Switzerland has always conveyed an