thought I had seen the face somewhere. I
had, but a moment before, while looking upon that of the elder lady.
They were the same face--using a figure of speech--the type transmitted
from mother to daughter: the same high front and facial angle, the same
outline of the nose, straight as a ray of light, with the delicate
spiral-like curve of the nostril which meets you in the Greek medallion.
Their hair, too, was alike in colour, golden; though, in that of the
mother, the gold showed an enamel of silver.

I will desist and spare details, which to you may be of little interest.
In return, do me the favour to believe, that the being who impressed me
then and for ever was beautiful, was lovely.

"Ah! it wod be ver moch kindness if madame and ma'm'selle wod play la
Marseillaise, la grande Marseillaise. What say mein liebe fraulein!"

"Zoe, Zoe! take thy bandolin. Yes, doctor, we will play it for you with
pleasure. You like the music. So do we. Come, Zoe!"

The young girl, who, up to this time, had been watching intently the
labours of the naturalist, glided to a remote corner of the room, and
taking up an instrument resembling the guitar, returned and seated
herself by her mother. The bandolin was soon placed in concert with the
harp, and the strings of both vibrated to the thrilling notes of the
Marseillaise.

There was something exceedingly graceful in the performance. The
instrumentation, as I thought, was perfect; and the voices of the
players accompanied it in a sweet and spirited harmony. As I gazed upon
the girl Zoe, her features animated by the thrilling thoughts of the
anthem, her whole countenance radiant with light, she seemed some
immortal being--a young goddess of liberty calling her children "to
arms!"

The botanist had desisted from his labours, and stood listening with
delighted attention. At each return of the thrilling invocation, "Aux
armes, citoyens!" the old man snapped his fingers, and beat the floor
with his feet, marking the time of the music. He was filled with the
same spirit which at that time, over all Europe, was gathering to its
crisis.

"Where am I? French faces, French music, French voices, and the
conversation in French!" for the botanist addressed the females in that
language, though with a strong Rhenish patois, that confirmed my first
impressions of his nationality. "Where am I?"

My eye ran around the room in search of an answer. I could recognise
the furniture: the