THE COMPANY.

Well: 'tis a motley assemblage this! The world is checkered here not
less than in the noisy and elegant capital; and man's peculiarities,
man's excellencies, and man's defects, follow him even into the heart of
these wild mountains, showing themselves in these smaller groups, not
less strongly than amid the crowded streets of Paris! How should it be
otherwise? Does not every one come hither to unbend, to throw off the
stiff mask of metropolitan society for the moment, and to become
themselves natural while they invoke the aid of nature's healthy
influence? The strict etiquette of the Faubourg St Germain may here be
safely laid aside awhile; and the inspirations of country life, the
happy the delightful inspirations of youth, may be once more resumed.
What a comfort to be able to get out of the buckram and taffetas of the
court, to put on one's _neglige_, or one's shooting-jacket, and to keep
company awhile with no less cheerful companions than the songsters and
the rangers of the forest! Why it does one's inmost soul good to fly
away from the din and turmoil, even of the pleasure-seeking Parisians,
and to revert to the simple, yet grand and expansive ideas which scenery
such as this of Mont Dor brings into the mind in an instant.

True: the mountains increase in magnitude and grandeur as you approach
them; once within their lofty and austere recesses, and their sublimity
makes itself felt. You are brought into immediate contact with some of
the mightiest works of the Creator, and the mind expands of itself,
unconsciously and irresistibly, till it becomes capable of imbibing, of
comprehending, and of enjoying the full magnificence of nature!

But does the courtier, does the citizen lay aside his pack of habits, as
well as his pack of cares, when he becomes a temporary denizen of the
country? Would that it were so! He is cast in a mould--his mind has been
warped: his body requires moistening with the freshest and the earliest
dews of many an "incense-breathing morn," ere it can resume the full
elasticity and joyous lightness of rustic activity; and his soul wants a
long oblivion of all conventional preoccupation, all trouble and all
intrigue, ere it can recover the tone and temper of younger days.

Now, I had been saying all this to myself, and should have gone on
moralising till the weary hour of noon, perhaps; but while I was
leaning over the balustrade of my window, looking down into the Grande
Place