“So they are,” rejoined the younger sister—“truly spoilt. How few of them you find return really improved! They are spoilt, though not from excess of fastidious refinement, but from absurd airs. Of all things, I dread hearing, ‘When I was abroad.’ I am always sure some absurd impertinence is coming. Then the fine acquaintances they all have; when, depend upon it, they know nobody who is anybody. There’s Mrs. Ashland, who wont let you admire even a beauty she don’t happen to fancy; but she’ll tell you, ‘It is such an American taste;’ or, ‘In this country you don’t understand this, that and the other.’ Ah! that ‘In this country,’ is the worst of all. Just as if ‘_this_ country’ was not their country! And then, if they have only been in Paris a fortnight, they are omnipotent on fashions for the rest of their days.” “But, surely,” resumed the elder sister, “there must be a great deal that is improving and delightful in foreign travel.” “I have no doubt,” replied the other, “that there is a great deal to be enjoyed, as Miss Falconer says; and a great deal to be suffered, too,” she added, laughing, “if the whole truth were known. Much to be learnt, too. Intelligent, well-educated people, find pleasure everywhere—a great deal, no doubt, abroad—and, as Miss Falconer says, more in getting home. One thing, I am sure of, however. I never found anybody who _had improved abroad, who was spoilt for home_.” * * * * * THE STATUE IN THE SNOW. BY J. BAYARD TAYLOR. Numb and chill the Savoyard wandered By the banks of frozen Seine, Oft, to cheer his sinking spirit, Singing low some mountain strain. But, beside the wintry river, Rose the songs of green Savoy, Sadder than ’mid Alpine valleys, Sung by many a shepherd boy! From the bleak and distant Vosges Swept the snowy whirlwind down, Flinging wide its shifting mantle Over slope and meadow brown. Like a corpse, the silent landscape Lay all stark and icy there, And a chill and ghostly terror Seemed to load the leaden air. Still that shivering boy went forward, Though his heart within him died, When the dreary night was closing Dull around the desert wide. Sobbing wild in lonely sorrow, On his numb cheek froze the tear; And his footstep, faint and weary, Heeded not the gathering fear! Through the desolate northern twilight, To his home-sick pining, rose Visions of the flashing glaciers, Lifted in sublime repose. Horns of Alp-herds rang in welcome, And his mother kissed her boy!— Back his bounding heart was hurried From the vales of dear Savoy! For, amid the sinking darkness, Colder, chillier, blew the snows, Till but faint and moaning whispers From his stiffening lips arose.