sketching purposes. I have my sketch-book in my hand, but I fear that there will not be much opportunity for work. The forest is in all its glory. The grand old trees, some of them a thousand years old and bearing the names of kings; and they are worthy of the name, for they themselves are monarchs of the foresttall, upright, proud looking; with such magnificent branches, like big, powerful arms, spreading themselves over their domains. The foliage is just getting tinted with rich golden hues; on all sides we perceive large massive rocks, wonderful for size, gigantic blocks of stone, all shapes and sizes; how they ever got there is a mystery. The char-àbancs drive swiftly through the woods; the perfume of the pine is intoxicating; the colouring as we get into the forest is gorgeous; the deep grey blue of the rocks, the rich purple heather, the soft velvety green moss and turf, the delicate ferns, the blue-bells, and a luxuriance of beautiful wild flowers. There is a great harmony, and still a wonderful variety of tint. Little squirrels rush swiftly by, and some deer gracefully scamper away at the sound of our wheels. The dry leaves emit a delicious scent, and often we hear a rustle as a long viper or snake warily glides by. LA GORGE AUX FÉES. WE alight in a lovely spot, a large expanse of soft green turf, bordered with sweet-smelling heather, a pine wood behind us emitting delicious fragrance; rocks, boulders, on all sides. We choose this site for the picnic; the cloth is to be laid at the foot of an antique oak, one of the glories of this forest, twelve hundred years old. The trunk is enveloped in a garment of green velvety moss; at the fine old roots, a multitude of delicate flowers, grasses, and ivy creep lovingly about, like pretty grandchildren and great-grandchildren around the knees of some venerable hoary-headed grandfather. Madame Byse begs us to stroll about till the cloth is laid; we shall be of no use, on the contrary, we shall be in the way; she, her husband, and the bonnes will get everything ready. So we all set forth on an exploring expedition. Arthur Harcourt (the name of my artist companion) and I separate from the noisy band; we have discovered a pretty bit that will do so well for a characteristic sketch-the trunk of a fine old tree lying helplessly down; it is a rugged corpse, but still grand looking in its downfall. Its pillow is a massive rock; round it are plenty of mosses, heather and ferns. In the background more rocks, and beyond an ocean of trees, and above all a splendid blue sky. We seat ourselves on a sweet-smelling bank and proceed to sketch; then the water-colour boxes are opened and despair seizes me. Impossible to get rapidly that wealth and depth of varied tints, transparent shadows, and patches of golden light. Mr. Harcourt's sketch is getting most effective, for he has had great practice, though only an amateur. I am ready to cry over mine, but Mr. Harcourt encourages me, gives me hints. We work on steadily, and my sketch is getting decent, when lo! I look at my watch, and to my horror find that it wants only a quarter to five o'clock. "What will they say?" I exclaim. "Dinner was to have been at three o'clock! They will be anxious, and think that we have lost our way in this forest, like the Babes in the Wood." "I am afraid that there will be nothing left for us to eat," he answers calmly," and you must be quite faint with hunger. I know I am; but in the excitement and delight of painting I always forget time. It slips by unconsciously. We artists ought to have longer lives than other mortals; art is so long, and by the time we are getting initiated into its subtleties and mysteries we have to depart this life." As we approach La Gorge aux Fées we hear our names called out loudly; the echoes repeat the sound, and the splendid old forest vibrates with our names. We meet detachments of the Byses on all sides, on the look-out for the wanderers. As we make our appearance we are vociferously cheered, and treated in the same fashion as the Prodigal Son was treated. Madame Byse makes us sit down in the place of honour; everybody has had a feed, but everybody makes renewed attacks upon all the good things provided. We get very much chaffed and teased, especially by Rosalie and Mr. O'Gorman. "Well, I declare, these are pretty doings! An elopement! Where has the ceremony been performed? Shame not to have had me for best man. I call it quite mean dastardly conduct on the part of this young Lochinvar." Mr. Harcourt looks red and uncomfortable, and makes ever so many apologies to Monsieur Byse, who is rather shocked with Paddy for making jokes and attracting attention to our so-called "sentimental journey." Now Rosalie comes up and anxiously enquires if Harcourt has proposed; when is the wedding to be? won't she be bridesmaid? and so on. But the chaffing at last ceases, and we are too hungry to talk much; we have a good repast, cold beef, salads, pûtés de lievre, de foie gras, de Penthievre-melons, grapes, peaches, tarts, and good burgundy and champagne. Jacques is the only one who is not merry; he sits gloomily in a corner, glaring now and then at Jeanne, and smiling a sickly smile of derision at the newly-arrived Englishman. Songs are now proposed. Monsieur le Lieutenant Vasalle, one of the ex-admirers, commences. This mighty warrior, who has been at Gravelotte and Sédan, has a weak voice and weaker execution; but he is proud of his weakness, and out of his military body in military accoutrements issues a thin wiry voice. He sings 'Pauvre Jacques'; and Mr. Harcourt, who has brought a small violin, accompanies him. Jacques looks more gloomy and angry; he thinks, perhaps, that it is an allusion, so he saunters away and disappears beyond the huge boulders. Now Rosalie is called out. She at first refuses; she cannot sing without her music, and so on-but she is overruled. So, perching herself on a rock, she sings airs out of 'Il Barbiere' and 'Fra Diavolo.' Her voice is a fine contralto, and she concludes amidst a burst of applause. Then Jeanne is ordered to perform. She looks very pretty and fascinating; her cheeks are flushed, her bright masses of auburn hair are in charming disorder, and her coquettish Dolly Varden hat a little on one side. She also perches herself on a rock covered with moss. She is fond of sentimental music-it suits her style; so she puts herself in a becoming attitude, throws a fleecy white shawl over her shoulders, that looks like a cloud, and sings a number of Marguerite's songs out of Gounod's Faust.' We see Jacques creeping warily back, but as he does not come forward she cannot see him. The scene is now very picturesque; the gentlemen of the party are lying on their backs, smoking-the ladies are grouped about in pretty nonchalant attitudes; the children are sleeping; Ralph, the fine old shepherd's dog, is lying down, but is vigilant; the remains of the feast are scattered about; the bonnes, in their white caps and aprons, are packing up the crockery, knives, forks and glasses. The sun is quite set; darkness is creeping over the old forest; the birds are roosting; the insects quietly humming; and the silence of the night is creeping on. Everybody feels subdued; and Jeanne's sweet melancholy voice resounds faintly through the woods. "There will be a beautiful clair de lune to-night," exclaims Monsieur Byse; "who will walk back through the forest, and who will ride? Show up hands." Jeanne, Rosalie, and I, and our respective gentlemen escorts, decide upon walking. The remainder prefer riding. So the char-à-bancs are loaded and the lazy ones enter in. Madame Byse throws out a number of shawls and cloaks, and Monsieur gives a great many directions as to what turnings we are to take. Tea is to be on the table at half-past nine, and we promise to be punctual. Gustave Byse good-naturedly offers to lead the way. He has on a white costume, most conspicuous, and, like Henri the Fourth's panache blanc, we are to follow it, for it will lead us homeward. Rosalie has a train of admirers; but I fear there is not one serious one; she is too fond of laughing and talking, and joking and teasing. Jeanne and Mr. Courtenay are talking earnestly together; Jacques has disappeared, so she is more at her ease; her eyes are flashing soft looks, and as she trips through the forest she makes one think of a wood nymph. Mr. Harcourt and I are a little behind this interesting couple. He says little; evidently he is quite overcome by the great beauty of this wonderful night in the forest. "It is a perfect Midsummer Night's Dream.' I expect every moment to see Titania and Puck, fairies, imps, and elves, dancing mischievously in the moonlight. What music is there to compare to that wonderful silence of Nature, broken only by the faint rustling of the wind through the trees? It is to me more impressive than the grandest music played in an old cathedral. It is certainly a wonderfully exquisite evening. There is a great serene yellow moon, diffusing a brilliant, and at the same time a soft light, bathing the trees in liquid silver, and what is not illuminated is in deep violet shadows. There are streams of light through the forest, like rivers of silver, shimmering, rippling, trinkling in a fairy land. The rocks look like old giants, grim, strong, powerful; their odd shapes look weird in the moonlight. We wend our way through dark caverns; at times we have to go on all fours, and squeeze ourselves to get through narrow apertures hollowed out in the body of those antediluvian rocks. We walk through long grasses, into soft mosses; the perfume is delicious, the very earth is fragrant. We hear shrieks of laughter; Rosalie and her train have reached a point in the forest where there are two swings, so she and her friends are swinging merrily up and down, and their voices and laughter are like notes of discord in a symphony. We see Jeanne and her admirer; they are standing on a massive boulder; she has taken off her hat, and the moon is shedding a brilliant light over head, like a halo; her soft blue eyes are turned up into Mr. Courtenay's face, and he certainly looks desperately in love. It is not possible to hear what they are saying, but they make a charming tableau vivante; and I think of poor Jacques wandering disconsolately home, jealousy and despair in his heart. I feel vexed with Jeanne; and still why should she be blamed if she really prefers this handsome attractive young Englishman to Jacques, who is the son of a French avocat, and has no fortune and is not handsome? We walk on; we climb up hillocks; we descend into caverns. Mr. Harcourt is a charming companion; not talking too much, and when he does it is worth hearing; his voice is low and musical, and he recites to me bits of poetry from his favourite authors-Shakespeare, Shelley, Keats, Byron, Tennyson, and Browning. I ought to be very tired, for it is a very long walk; and so I am quite done up; my feet are sore, my knees are knocking under me-still I go on. Not far from Bellevue, we meet Jeanne and her swain; they both look smiling and happy, so I guess that something has happened. We leave the gentlemen together, and sure enough she confides to me, "as a very great secret," not to be divulged under any circumstances, that George Courtenay proposed for her, on the rock, and that she has accepted him! "And poor Jacques!" I exclaim. "He will shoot himself!" "Pauvre garçon!" she answers; "tant pis pour lui. I have refused him three times, but he will persist. I cannot make myself care for him; and besides which, for the last year, he is so morose, jealous, capricious, and so rude, that I care for him less now than ever. Well," I answer, "I wish you all joy and happiness, and trust that this proposal by moonlight will not turn out to be moonshine. You know what Juliet says: 'O swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, You have known Mr. Courtenay only for a few days." "Ah, but that is quite enough," she answers. "He pleases me, he is charming; his position is good, and I know that my father and mother will quite approve of him; and though I am not desperately in love, I like him very much, and in France that is enough. But silence!-nothing to be said till I give you leave." I promise. We reach Bellevue, all tired out. It is ten o'clook, and tea and supper are laid out in the cosy library. Everybody is there except Jacques. Madame Byse, who is fond of Jacques, is very anxious. He has lost his way, and perhaps will be eaten by the wolves. Jeanne looks quite unconcerned. Mr. Courtenay is not by her side. I suppose this is a bit of diplomacy; he sits by Madame Byse, and makes himself useful, carving a fowl, and answering everybody à tort et à travers. The Reverend Augustus Hare bleats forth his impressions of the day into Rosalie's ears, who at last is seated by his side. Henri and the widow seem to get on very well, but she is evidently less smitten than he is. He has no worldly possessions, and she has. Everybody is eating, drinking, talking; the hum is not disagreeable. The moonlight walk, the splendid forest, Mr. Harcourt, Jeanne and Mr. Courtenay, are visions passing confusedly in my sleepy brain. I feel myself nodding over my tea; so taking my courage in both my hands, I bid good-night, and literally crawl back to my rooms. Madame Leronne is in bed; she opens the door, equipped in her nocturnal garments, and begins to chat; but as I am very weary she quickly retires, and I am left alone, and soon after that I am in the land of Nod. The next few days I spend entirely with Madame Joulain. The |