Taking it for granted that by translating the preceding pieces, the pupils have acquired great facility in turning English into French, I now offer a new set of extracts without notes.

87. THE WEALTH AND POWER OF FRANCE.

Indeed, when I consider the face of the kingdom of France*; the multitude and opulence of her cities; the useful magnificence of her spacious high-roads and bridges; the opportunity of her artificial canals and navigations opening the conveniences of maritime communications through a solid continent of so immense an extent; when I turn my eyes to the stupendous works of her ports and harbours, and to her whole naval apparatus, whether for war or trade; when I bring before my view the number of her fortifications, constructed with so bold and masterly a skill, and made and maintained at so prodigious a charge, presenting an armed front and impenetrable barrier to her enemies upon every side; when I recollect how very small a part of that extensive region is without cultivation, and to what complete perfection the culture of many of the best productions of the earth has been brought in France; when I reflect on the excellence of her manufactures and fabrics, second to none but ours, and in some particulars not second; when I contemplate the grand foundations of charity, public and private; when I survey the state of all

the arts that beautify and polish life; when I reckon the men she has bred for extending her fame in war, her able statesmen, the multitude of her profound lawyers and theologians, her philosophers, her critics, her historians. and antiquaries, her poets and her orators, sacred and profane; I behold in all this something which awes and commands the imagination, which checks the mind on the brink of precipitate and indiscriminate censure, and which demands that we should very seriously examine what and how great are the latent vices that could authorise us at once to level so spacious a fabric with the ground. -EDMUND BURKE, Reflections on the French Revolution.

88. THE SPELL OF WEALTH.

What a dignity it gives an old lady, that balance at the banker's! How tenderly we look at her faults, if she is a relative (and may every reader have a score of such); what a kind, good-natured old creature we find her! How the junior partner of Hobbs and Dobbs leads her, smiling, to the carriage with the lozenge upon it, and the fat wheezy coachman! How, when she comes to pay us a visit, we generally find an opportunity to let our friends know her station in the world! we say (and with perfect truth), I wish I had Miss MacWhirter's signature to a cheque for five thousand pounds. She wouldn't miss it, says your wife. She is my aunt, say you, in an easy careless way, when your friend asks if Miss MacWhirter is any relative? Your wife is perpetually sending her little testimonies of affection; your little girls work end

less worsted baskets, cushions, and foot-stools for her. What a good fire there is in her room when she comes to pay you a visit! The house during her stay assumes a festive, neat, warm, jovial, snug appearance not visible at other seasons. You yourself, dear sir, forget to go to sleep after dinner, and find yourself all of a sudden (though you invariably lose) very fond of a rubber. What good dinners you have-game every day, Malmsey, Madeira, and no end of fish from London. Even the servants in the kitchen share in the general prosperity; and, somehow, during the stay of Miss MacWhirter's fat coachman, the beer is grown much stronger, and the consumption of tea and sugar in the nursery (where her maid takes her meals) is not regarded in the least. Is it so, or is it not so? I appeal to the middle classes. gracious power! I wish you would send me an old aunt -a maiden aunt- -an aunt with a lozenge on her carriage, and a front of light coffee-coloured hair (pl.)—how my children should work work-bags for her, and my Julia and I would make her comfortable! Sweet-sweet vision! Foolish-foolish dream!-THACKERAY'S Vanity Fair.

Ah,

89. A FRENCH PEASANT'S SUPPER.

The family consisted of an old gray-headed man and his wife, with five or six sons and sons-in-law and their several wives, and a joyous genealogy out of them. They were all sitting down together to their lentil soup; a large wheaten loaf was in the middle of the table; and a flagon of wine at each end of it promised joy through the stages

of the repast; 'twas a feast of love. The old man rose up to meet me, and with a respectful cordiality would have me sit down at the table; my heart was set down the moment I entered the room, so I sat down at once like a son of the family; and to invest myself in the character as speedily as I could, I instantly borrowed the old man's knife, and taking up the loaf, cut myself a hearty luncheon; and as I did it I saw a testimony in every eye, not only of an honest welcome, but of a welcome mixed with thanks that I had not seemed to doubt it. Was it this, or tell me, Nature, what else it was, that made this morsel so sweet; and to what magic I owe it that the draught I took of their flagon was so delicious with it, that they remain upon my palate to this hour? If the supper was to my taste, the grace which followed it was much more so.

When supper was over, the old man gave a knock upon the table with the haft of his knife, to bid them prepare for the dance. The moment the signal was given, the women and girls ran all together into a back apartment to tie up their hair, and the young men to the door to wash their faces and change their sabots; and in three minutes every soul was ready, upon a little esplanade before the house, to begin. The old man and his wife came out last, and placing me betwixt them, sat down upon a sofa of turf by the door. The old man had, some fifty years ago, been no mean performer upon the vielle* (f.); and at the age he was then of, touched it well enough for the purpose. His wife sang now and then a little to the tune, then intermitted, and joined her old man again as their children and grandchildren danced before them.-STERNE, Sentimental Journey.

90. CAPTAIN TOBY AND CORPORAL TRIM.

“When Tom, an' please your honour, got to the shop, there was nobody in it but a poor negro girl, with a bunch of white feathers slightly tied to the end of a long cane, flapping away flies—not killing them.”

"'Tis a pretty picture!" said my uncle Toby; "she had suffered persecution, Trim, and had learnt mercy."

"She was good, an' please your honour, from nature, as well as from hardships; and there are circumstances in the story of that poor friendless slut that would melt a heart of stone," said Trim; "and some dismal winter's evening, when your honour is in the humour, they shall be told you with the rest of Tom's story, which makes a part of it."

"Then do not forget, Trim," said my uncle Toby.

'A negro has a soul? an' please your honour," said the corporal doubtingly.

"I am not much versed, corporal," quoth my uncle Toby, "in things of that kind; but I suppose God would not leave him without one, any more than thee or me." "It would be putting one sadly over the head of another," quoth the corporal.

"It would so," said my uncle Toby.

"Why then, an' please your honour, is a black wench to be used worse than a white one?"

"I can give no reason," said my uncle Toby.

"Only," cried the corporal, shaking his head, "because she has no one to stand up for her."

""Tis that very thing, Trim," quoth my uncle Toby, "which recommends her to protection, and her brethren with her; 'tis the fortune of war which has put the whip