But now the world is in confusion. War in the north--war in the south--war gathering in the east of Europe. Russia, with 120,000 men, marching on Poland, to be followed by 300,000 more. France, with half a million of men in arms, waiting but the blast of the revolutionary trumpet to pour down on Italy. Can these things be by accident? Universal convulsion after a tranquillity of thirty years! And are these but the beginning of sorrows? THE INCA AND HIS BRIDE.--A MEDLEY. CHAPTER I. ASTLEY'S. "Most votes carry the point, as a matter of course," said the Doctor, carefully distilling the last few drops of an incomparable Badmington into his glass. "I must say I am strongly in favour of the Surrey Zoo. They have got up Rome there in a style that is absolutely perfect; and the whole thing puts one remarkably in mind of Tacitus." "Very likely," replied our friend the Spaniard; "but it so happens that my classical reminiscences are the reverse of agreeable. I don't believe there was a single oak in the whole grove of Dodona; at least my instinctive impression is towards the fact, that in the days of Agricola the world was a wilderness of birch. No; I declare for the opera. Pauline Viardot----" "Bah!" said the Doctor. "These are no times to encourage foreigners. What say you, Fred?" "I pronounce decidedly against the opera. In the first place, I am for the encouragement of native talent, especially in these revolutionary days; and in the second, I am remarkably hard up for cash. I agree with the Spaniard that Rome is rot. Suppose we go down to Astley's, and indulge ourselves with the death of Shaw?" "I rather think that Shaw is used up," replied the Doctor. "Gomersal was the last of his race. However, Widdicomb survives, and there is still a chance of fun. So Astley's be it."