Two days after our first arrival in this little capital of the Basses Pyrenees, we strolled down into a valley below the town, and loitered along by the banks of the river, seeing several groups pass us, knowing no one, and known of none, and perhaps not wishing a little to place ourselves in the midst of some of them, and have our share of the conversation of Pau as well as the rest. At length, however, a party came near, and I began to have a strange undefined remembrance of the form of one of the persons composing it. I was not wrong, I had known her just before she left school; there was all the change from an interesting girl to a lovely young woman; but it was the same person, and she had not forgotten me either. We were kindly greeted, and quickly became no longer strange even with the rest of the party. To know them was to have the highest regard for them all. We were glad to seek their acquaintance, and acquaintance soon ripened into friendship. Within their little circle we found all that could be desired--talents, and grace, and cheerfulness, and nature, and in their society we had some of the happiest hours we met with on the continent. Whether my companion had told tales of my rhyming propensities, or whether I had been my own accuser, I forget: but I was soon called upon for verses, and drawings. I agreed to contribute if others would do so too; and we once more drew a magic circle round us in which the spirit of poetry and romance rose up and whiled away many an hour at our bidding. Some of the pieces which I myself contributed I know were bad enough, I was sorry that I had written them; but I now only remember one or two--the rest of the tales and anecdotes were given by others. The first thing of the kind which I shall transcribe was occasioned by a lady accusing me of having composed nothing for her--I asked for a subject, but she replied that I must choose one myself, she would give me "nothing." --------------- NOTHING. 'O quantum est in rebus inane!' 'Tis nothing all--our hopes our fears, Our pleasure's smiles, our sorrow's tears, Our dreams of pride, our thoughts of care, Are lighter, emptier than air. 'Tis nothing all--the splendid earth, The boons of art's, or Nature's birth, With all that memory recalls, From nothing rose--to nothing falls. The emmet Man toils on in vain To monument his hours of pain, While giant Time pursues his way, And marks his footsteps with decay; Tracing on all that he destroys The epitaph of man's short joys, The sentence of the great and small, The certainty--'tis nothing all. 'Tis nothing all--the mighty man Who conquer'd realms and world's o'erran; What is he now? Himself? his fame? A heap of dust--an empty name.