In reading Margaret of Navarre's stories, it is impossible not to note how singular it is, that the conversation of virtuous people should have so much varied at different periods, before it assumed the garb of true delicacy and decency. Elegant conversation dates farther back than might be supposed, and polished society had its existence earlier than is generally imagined. Conversation, as we now understand it, however, and as it is understood in modern society, borrows much of its character and attraction from women being called upon to join in it, and during the most brilliant period of the middle ages, at certain courts of the South, in Normandy, in France, or in England, conversation must have assumed great charms, from the simple fact of women being permitted to be present, and to take part in it. In those castles of the South, where the troubadours made merry, and whence they sent us forth some of the sweetest and most touching ballads, and where such exquisite and fascinating stories were composed as that of "Aucassin et Nicolette, "there must have been all the grace and refinement in conversing which could be desired. But in taking a view of things as they appear in France at the end of the fifteenth century, we note a strange mixture, an obvious struggle between pedantry and licentiousness, between refinement and coarseness. For instance, the pretty little romance of "Jehan de Saintré," which commences by depicting the very ideal of all that is knightly and truly noble, and pretends to lay down a little code of politeness, courtesy and gallantry-in short, to show the finished education of a young knight of the time-this pretty novel, however, is full of absurd pedantry, of minute matters of ceremony, and, towards the end, the grossest and most sensual details. This vein of licentiousness and frivolity, which had never ceased to have play since its origin, and which was covered by a knightly disguise in elegant company, and in seasons of brilliancy, completely threw off its mask at the commencement of the sixteenth century, and seemed to borrow from the Renaissance of classical tastes a still more unbridled outlet. It was during this period that virtuous women actually told stories à la Roquelaure, and discussed them before everybody. Such is the state of society of which Margaret gives us a naive picture in her tales, the more naïve inasmuch as she has no improper object in view.

A whole century was required to reform this vicious taste. Madame Rambouillet and her daughter were compelled to read lectures to the Court on morality, and professors of politeness and good taste, such as the Chevalier de Méré and Mademoiselle de Scudery found it necessary to preach propriety for many years, and even then there were frequent relapses; and traces of coarseness could often be detected amidst refinement and precise manners. The happy moment is that, when, by a sudden change in the atmosphere of society, enlightenment and cultivated taste spread itself equally and richly over a generation of vigorous minds, and people were delighted to be natural, and to feel that they might be natural without necessity for restraint.

This fortunate state of things may be dated from the middle of

the seventeenth century, and we can hardly fancy anything much more charming than the conversation of the young members of the Condé family, of the Rochefoucaulds, the De Retz, of Saint Evremond, of Madame Sévigné, and of Turenne. What delicious hours those must have been when Madame de Lafayette conversed with Madame Henriette, who meanwhile reclined at ease! Thus we pass through the most brilliant era to Madame de Caylus, the joyous and laughter-loving niece of Madame de Maintenon, to that graceful state of perfection which does not rob intellect of its attraction, but which avoids all chance of giving offence.

There was only Madame Cornuel in the latter portion of the seventeenth century, who was forgiven for her coarse mode of expression, and this was on account of the wit and talent which she discovered, in spite of this disagreeable failing. At all periods virtuous women must frequently have heard many more things than they could repeat; but the fact especially worthy of notice is, when they themselves ceased to speak on these improper subjects, and to discuss them in such a way that they became matters of history, which they were once in the habit of doing without imagining they were infringing all rules of propriety and decency.

Queen Margaret, as a romance writer, does not seem to have had a notion of this refinement of taste; as a poet she is not remarkable for anything but for her facility in expressing her ideas; for she chiefly imitates and reproduces the different forms of poems which were in vogue at that period. It is said, that she frequently employed two secretaries at a time, one to write the French verses, which she composed impromptu, and the other to write letters. There are none of her verses which might not have been composed in this manner, and we must not look for that sparkling talent and passionate feeling, which are to be found in her young contemporary, Louise Labé, la Belle Cordière.

Margaret died at the Château d'Odos, in Bigorre, the 21st of December, 1549, in her fifty-eighth year. She was the mother of Jeanne d'Albret. This little sketch of her, in which no exaggeration is used, in which the traits of her character are simply set forth, will serve to prove that she merited the title of " gentil esprit," which was so universally bestowed upon her. She was a worthy sister of Francis the First, a worthy patroness of the Renaissance, and a worthy ancestor of Henry the Fourth, both from her clemency and joyous temperament.

HAPS AND MISHAPS OF A TOUR IN EUROPE

IN 1853.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

CHAPTER I.

THE VOYAGE OUT.-JENNY LIND.-CAPTAIN WEST. CUSTOM HOUSE.THE COUNTRY.-LIVERPOOL.-MR. MARTINEAU.-BIRMINGHAM. STURGE. — WARWICK CASTLE. - STRATFORD ON AVON. COVENTRY.-NOTTINGHAM.-LINCOLN.

LANDING.

-JOSEPH

Liverpool, June 10.

on

THE gallant steamer Atlantic, on which I came out passenger, sailed from New York on Saturday, the 29th of May, a sunny and quiet day. As Jenny Goldschmidt and her husband were board, an immense concourse of people were assembled at the landing, on the docks and vessels near by, to see them off. They stood on the wheel-house with Captain West, bowing, smiling, and waving their grateful farewell. As with a parting gun we bounded from the shore, the heart gave one last, wild, agonized throb for friends and home, then sank into depths of dread unknown before. Yet that thronged and beautiful city, that magnificent harbour, white with countless sails, ploughed and overswept with busy life, was a glorious sight, seen even through tears.

As we approached Sandy Hook, the atmosphere grew hazy, and before we were out at sea we were enveloped in a dense fog, and obliged to come to anchor, where we remained some fifteen hours. We passed this time very pleasantly, in exploring the ship, chatting, writing letters to send back by the pilot, eating and sleeping. I awoke late the next morning, and found we were at sea in earnest. I remember very little more of that morning, except it be the incident of my finding out, as by instinct, the use of a queer little utensil of painted tin, a sort of elongated spittoon, which stood by my washstand. I performed my toilet as speedily as circumstances would allow, and hurried on deck, where I soon found myself quite well. The day was delicious beyond what words may tell. The air was fresh, yet the sea tranquil, and the sunshine rich and warm. There seemed a sort of strife of beauty, a rivalship of brightness, between the heaven above and the waters below, and the soul of the gazer now went floating off on the green undulations of the waves, to where they seemed to break against the sky, or dreamed itself away into the fathomless blue, in a sort of quiet, worldly ecstasy

"the still luxury of delight." Then came on the night-our first night at sea. The wind had freshened, the sails were set, the ship shot through the gleaming waves, scattering the diamond spray from her prow, and the moon was over all. As it went up

the sky, its course was marked by a long reach of tremulous radiance on the deep. It seemed to me like the love of the dear ones I had left, stretching out towards me. But there came a yet higher thought-that such a path of brightness must have shone under the feet of Jesus when he "walked on the water" towards the perilled ship.

Two pleasant days and nights followed, during which many agreeable acquaintances were formed among the passengers. My seat at table was on the left of Captain West, and opposite the Goldschmidts. Otto Goldschmidt, husband of Jenny Lind, impressed me, not only as a man of genius, but of rare refinement and nobility of character. He is small, and delicately formed, but his head is a remarkably fine one, his face beautiful in the best sense of the term. He is fair, with hair of a dark, golden hue, soft brown eyes, thoughtful even to sadness. I have never seen a brow more pure and spiritual than his. Yet, for all its softness and youthfulness, Mr. Goldschmidt's face is by no means wanting in dignity and manliness of expression. There is a maturity of thought, a calm strength of character, a self-poise about him, which impress you more and more.

The pure and graceful Greek column makes no solid or defiant show of strength, like the unchiselled stone or the jagged rock, yet it may be as strong in its beauty and perfect proportions, and decidedly pleasanter to lean against. I believe that Jenny Lind in her marriage followed not alone the impulses of her woman's heart, but obeyed the higher instincts of her poetic and artistic

nature.

For the first few days of our voyage, she seemed singularly shy and reserved. I have seen her sit hour after hour by herself, in some unfrequented part of the vessel, looking out over the sea. I often wondered if her thoughts were then busy with the memories of her glorious career-if she were living over her past triumphs, the countless times when the cold quiet of the highest heaven of fashion broke into thunders of acclamation above her, and came down in a rain of flowers at her feet. Was it of those perishable wreaths, placed on her brow amid the glare and tumult of the great world, she mused-or of that later crowning of her womanhood, when softly and silently her brow received from God's own hand the chrism of a holy and enduring love? Was it the happy, loving wife, or the great, world-renowned artiste, who dreamed there alone, looking out over the sea?

On Wednesday, our last really bright day, I espied a spent butterfly fluttering its brilliant wings on one of the ship's spars. It had been blown all that distance, the captain said. I could hardly have been more surprised if the spar on which it had lit had blossomed before my eyes. This day and the one following, many gentlemen and some of the ladies amused themselves with the game of "shuffleboard." We had among the passengers three right reverend bishops, one of whom joined heartily in this play. I was amused by the style of address used towards

him occasionally. "Now, bishop, it's your turn! "Go a-head, bishop !"

I think it were scarcely possible for a ship to take out a finer set of passengers than we had. Intelligent, agreeable, kindly, all seemed striving for the general enjoyment; and had the elements continued propitious, the entire voyage would have seemed like a pleasant social party, "long drawn out."

On Thursday, woe's the day! we were off the banks of Newfoundland-the fogs became chill and heavy, and towards night the sea grew rough. The next morning I found it quite impossible for me to remain on deck, even with overshoes, blankets, and shawls. The wind from the region of snows cut to one's very bones. It brought to mind strange pictures of seals crawling from iceberg to iceberg, and of young polar bears diverting themselves by sliding down ice precipices three hundred feet high. I sought the saloon in despair, where, as wind and sea rose, and the ship lurched and rolled, I all too soon grew ready to admit our friend Horace Greeley to be the truest of sea prophets, the honestest of voyagers.

A strange thing is this physical sympathy with elemental disturbance-the tumult without answered by "that which is most within us"-the surge and heave oceanic-the surge and heave stomachic and responsive-" deep calling unto deep." But we will not dwell on it.

For three days and nights I was really a great sufferer, but I had plenty of companionship in my misery. Very few of the passengers escaped seasickness entirely, and many were very ill. Mr. Goldschmidt suffered severely; his wife was not affected in the ordinary way, but underwent much from nervousness, restlessness, and fear. Yet I saw the true loveliness of her nature more than ever before. She went from one to another of the sick with a kind word and a sweet sad smile; and, for my part, I felt that such words and such smiles were not too dearly bought, even by a fit of seasickness. What lover could say more?

My state-room was too far aft for comfort; I could not endure it after the rough weather came on, but, day and night, occupied a sofa in the saloon, where, with blankets, cushions, and pillows, I was made as comfortable as circumstances would allow. I could not have had in my own father's house kinder or more constant attention, and a father could not have cared for me better than did Captain West. He more thau answered my expectations-more than fulfilled the pledges and justified the praises of his friends. A plain, honest, generous-hearted sailor, yet every inch a gentleman. I trust he will pardon, as I am sure that many, very many, will echo, my simple, involuntary expression of gratitude and esteem.

On Tuesday morning, about ten o'clock, I was helped on deck to catch the first sight of land. The sea had "smoothed his wrinkled front," the wind had gone down somewhat, and the sun shone out fitfully. Everybody was on deck-all, even the invalids, in high and eager spirits. At last the welcome cry was heard,