Hourrah! Hep, hep, hep!
Vive Ventre-Tambour!
III. Nothing is Certain to Happen but that which is Unforeseen.
We have gone a few miles on our road, still through the streets of the fashionable quarter, to-day as democratic as the Faubourg St. Antoine, and crowded with other Derbyites, before we speak much to each other. Reserve characteristic of the oldest and proudest aristocracy on earth.
At length Lord Ouiggins whispers me—
“I knew I had forgotten something. I’ve left my purse on the piano!”
For the moment I wished that I had done the same.
Suspicion dishonouring and ignoble!
IV. Si Jeunesse Savait.
Fog, obscurity, cold—yes, you will find them all in the climate of Great Britain; in England, in Scotland, in Ireland, and in the mountains of Wales, the cradle of Lord Ouilliam! It is true, but it is not the only verity. Great Britain also has her moments of fine weather. There are no such trees in the world as the tall poplars of my own, my beautiful France—none planted in such mathematical, such symmetrical order, so methodical, logical, and straight. Nevertheless, Nature is infinite. Even the chestnuts, hawthorns, lilacs, and laburnums of the Surrey lanes are not absolutely offensive to the eye. To-day, also, Phœbus pierces. Lux!