ings; they create a world—we exaggerate the influences of the one in which we live. Whether in painting or in poetry, we are egotists—we like what we can bring home to ourselves. Byron is our poet of passion—because it is passion we have felt, or fancied we have felt or could feel. Wordsworth is our poet of philosophy—because we all think we have practised, or could practise, his philosophy. The groundwork of the imagination of the Italians is fancy—that of the English is sentiment."
"It is curious to observe," said Mr. Brande, "the varieties of national character. The laws of the universe"
"Nay," exclaimed Lady Mandeville, "pray keep a discussion on the laws of the universe till we are in England—it will accord with the reigning whim. While reforming and settling as we are now doing, to arrange for the whole world will be a small matter. But such a weighty business is too much for this land of sunshine and rose—I move we do adjourn the meeting."
"It is an old privilege of mine," said Lorraine, "to bring my adventures to your feet. I have really been sufficiently romantic lately for recital. May I find audience 'meet, though
