This work of the middle ages, translated from an Arabic manuscript belonging to Cardinal Mazarin, is curious, but extremely rare. Nouvelle Relation d'un Voyage en Egypte. Par Wansleb. 1672-73. Paris, 1678. 12mo. Wansleb was a German, sent into Egypt and Ethiopia by the Duke of Saxe Gotha, to examine the religious rites and ceremonies of the Christians there.

The Marquis was beating time with one finger, and within the room, to an impromptu accompaniment invented by Juliette, Barebone was singing: C'est le Hasard, Qui, tot ou tard, Ici-bas nous seconde; Car, D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. He broke off with a laugh in which Juliette's low voice joined.

But what an agonising truth was now contained for him in those lines of Alfred de Vigny's Journal d'un Poete which he had previously read without emotion: "When one feels oneself smitten by love for a woman, one ought to say to oneself, 'What are 'her surroundings? What has been her life? All one's future happiness lies in the answer."

Cette nuit dans l'erreur d'un songe, Au rang des rois j'etais monte, Je vous aimais alors, et j'osais vous le dire, Les dieux a mon reveil ne m'ont pas tout ote, Je n'ai perdu que mon empire." "Insolent!" cried the king, and his scornful glance wandered away to Voltaire, who was seated near the queen engaged in lively conversation.

In the "Lettres d'un Voyageur," however, she gives us to understand that constancy is not her forte, and a sigh escapes with this confession, "Prie pour moi, ô Marguerite Le Conte!" George Sand was now launched, with brilliant success, in the world of letters, unheeding the conventional restraints of domestic life. The choicest spirits of the day gathered round her.

I had read 'L'Apres-midi d'un Faune' without extracting a glimmer of meaning. Yet Mallarme of course was a Master. How was I to know that Soames wasn't another? There was a sort of music in his prose, not indeed arresting, but perhaps, I thought, haunting, and laden perhaps with meanings as deep as Mallarme's own. I awaited his poems with an open mind.

Between the hole, and the outside of the leaf of the table, there were forty grains of the wood." The teredo, so destructive to shipping, has been carried by the vessels whose wooden walls it mines to almost every part of the globe. See Quatrefaces, Souvenirs d'un naturaliste, ii., pp. 400, 542, 543. The white ant has lately appeared at St.

Seeing the music of Duprato's "Il etait nuit deja," I proposed singing that, and he sat down at the pedal-less piano to accompany me. When I arrived at the phrase, "Un souffle d'air leger apportait jusqu'a nous l'odeur d'un oranger," he interrupted me. "Repeat that!" he cried. "Il faut qu'on sente le souffle d'air et l'odeur de l'oranger."

Where is she now, that flower of northern snow, once seen for a season in Paris? Has she returned to her native northern solitudes, great gulfs of sea water, mountain rock, and pine? Balzac's genius is in his titles as heaven is in its stars: "Melmoth Reconcilié," "Jesus-Christ en Flandres," "Le Revers d'un Grand Homme," "La Cousine Bette."

Perhaps I cannot better bring this account of our long voyage from Valparaiso to a conclusion than by a quotation from a charming book, given to me at Rio, which I have lately been reading Baron de Hubner's 'Promenade autour du Monde: 'Les jours se suivent et se ressemblent. Sauf le court épisode du mauvais temps, ces trois semaines me font l'effet d'un charmant rêve, d'un conte de fée, d'une promenade imaginaire