I must not longer gossip as these gay gossips do, these fanciful _feuilletonistes_, nor seek more deeply to draw the outline of these rainbow bubbles upon the stream of the time, whether it flow turbid or transparent. One cannot live upon sugar and nutmeg, or even upon allspice. But our friends are a literary phenomenon not to be omitted, and if you love the Muses, you will not omit to snuff the azure incense offered weekly by the _feuilletonistes_. Jules Janin shall show us out of this article as he ushered us in. The Great Mogul of the _Feuilleton_ had purchased a carriage whose luxury, and taste of appointment, and perfection of footman, was unsurpassed in the Champs Elysée. But the gods are jealous and the _feuilletonistes_ have thus the highest authority for jealousy. So, on one evening when the exquisite equipage awaited its master at the grand opera, a crowd of lesser critical luminaries gathered around it, and both reviled and envied the fortunate owner. While they were thus engaged, the great critic came out of the opera house and saw his contemporaries engaged in longing and envious remark. Now tact is the sublimest secret of success--and smilingly Jules Janin advanced cheerily, greeted his friends cordially, and piled into the carriage all of them who lived in his neighborhood. They naturally reserved the seat of honor for the owner, but this great General seizing the most inimical of all the party who lived in a quarter of the city farthest from his own home, pushed him into the vacant seat, ordered his coachman to set him down first, and then humming the finale of the opera, lighted a cigar and sauntered leisurely down the street. It was like Jules Janin to make his own marriage the subject of a _Feuilleton_. In his case the man and the _feuilletoniste_ are the same. ODE XX. OF ANACREON. TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF MADAME DACIER FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE, BY MARY E. HEWITT. Niobé, maddened by her woes, of yore. The gods in pity turned to marble fair; And wretched Progné, doomed for evermore, Changed to a swallow wings the upper air. But ah! would Love, whom I, enslaved, obey, By his sweet power transform me, I would be The mirror in thy hand, if thus, alway, Thy gentle eyes would fondly turn on me. Or, I would be the perfume that reveals Its fragrance 'mid the tresses of thy hair; Or, that soft veil which o'er thy bosom steals, And jealous, hides the ivory treasure there. Or I would be the robe that round thee flows, The zone that circles thee with fond caress; The rivulet that with thy beauty glows, And to its breast enclasps thy loveliness. Or I were blest those envied pearls to be That closely thus thy swan-white neck entwine; Or e'en to be the sandal, pressed by thee, Were, for thy lover, destiny divine. SWEDISH LANDSCAPES: BY HERR ANDERSEN.