The Kelpie roar'd, "Come, mortal, come thou too."

Ere he'd done speaking, Jeannie was no more;

She'd dash'd into the waves, and left no clue,

More than a steamer leaves just left the Nore,

By which you might discover where she lay,

And drag her upwards to the realms of day.

SUGAR AND WATER CRITICISM.

In one of the critiques on the last Monthly Magazine, some verses by Mrs. Hemans are said to be "elegant and lady-like."

THE SKETCH BOOK

A DAY AT ST. CLOUD.

September 24, 1826.

I walked up gravely to the window in my dusty black coat, and looking through the glass, saw all the world in yellow, blue, and green, running at the ring of pleasure.—STERNE.

St. Cloud is the Richmond of France; or rather, it is to Paris what Richmond, in the days of its regal splendour, was to London—the summer palace of the court. In this comparison, allowance must be made for the opposite building taste of each nation; especially as Richmond has an appearance of substantial comfort in its massive brick mansions and rusticated cottage groups. The French Sheen is, on the contrary, gayer; the exterior of the residences being whitened, or what is still more artificial, coloured and decorated in tawdry French taste. Such, at least, is the character of the auberges, or inns, and restaurateurs, with which St. Cloud is even better supplied than our Richmond. In situation, however, they strongly assimilate; the former being placed on an acclivity overlooking the Seine, as the latter is on the banks of the Thames.

St. Cloud, as I have already said, is the usual summer residence of the French court; and with a royal liberality which might be less politic elsewhere, the park is granted for three fairs—September 7, and the three following Sundays, on the last of which I resolved to visit the fête of St. Cloud. It was a glowing September day. The sun shone with more than mellow warmth through the groves of the Tuilleries, and on the little southern terrace, which was unusually crowded with groups of rosy children, with here and there a valetudinarian, who seemed to have emerged from his chamber to enjoy the parting glories of the season. Crowds of elegantly-dressed company were promenading the mall, or principal walk, and some few were not incuriously lingering about the enclosed parterres of the garden, whose beauties would soon be transported to a milder atmosphere. There was a general stir in the neighbouring streets; it did not resemble the bustle of business, but had more of the gaiety of a holiday scene. The Pont Royal was thronged with passengers, and just beneath it, were several hundreds, many of whom were embarking in the steam-boat for St. Cloud. But the Seine is at all times less inviting for such an excursion than our Thames; and in the summer months many insulated spots may be seen in the centre of the French river. At the next bridge (Louis XVI.) there was a general muster of carriages, each adapted for six or eight passengers, and drawn by one or two horses. Here was a loud clamour of "St. Cloud" and "Versailles" among the drivers, some of whom were even more officious than the Jehus of Greenwich, or the wights of Charing Cross or Piccadilly. I resisted all their importunities, and passed on through the Champs Elysées, or a dusty road through a grove, intersected with ill-formed paths, with a few gaudy cafés bearing pompous inscriptions—for Voltaire has made the French too fond of nomenclature to say with our Shakspeare, "what's in a name?" The road presented a strange specimen of the insubordination of French driving, notwithstanding police superintendants affected much concern in the matter. Diligences, fiacres, and carriages resembling large, covered cabriolets, might be seen loaded with gaily-dressed women and children, with a due proportion of young Parisians, all just in the hey-day of mirth, drawn by dust-provoking Flanders horses, their drivers slashing almost indiscriminately, and, with their clamour and confusion, far exceeding the Epsom road on a raceday.

At length, escaping from the dust and din of the French Elysium, I halted to enjoy the distant view of the city of Paris, from the gate of the barrier. It was indeed an interesting scene. Through the avenue, whose area presented a living stream of traffic, might be seen the terraces and groves of the Tuilleries, and the spacious and irregular palace, with its cupola tops; the tarnished dome of the Invalides; the cupola of St. Genevieve; the gray towers of Nôtre Dame; then the winding Seine, with its bridges, quays, and terraces, flanked with the long line of the Tuilleries, and the Luxembourg, and Louvre galleries, on the one side; and on the other by the noble façade of the Chamber of Deputies; the courtly mansions of St. Germain, and the blackened front and dome of the Institute. What a multitude of associations flitted across the memory, by a single glance at PARIS—the capital of that gay, light-hearted, and mercurial people—the French nation—the focus of European luxury, and the grand political arena of modern history, the very calendar of whose events, within the last half century, will form one of the most interesting episodes that ever glowed among the records of human character. In the chain might be traced the vain-glory of conquest linked with defeated ambition, and the sullied splendour of royalty just breaking through the clouds of discontent, and slowly dispelling the mists of disaffection and political prejudice. What an unenviable contrast to the man who has "no enemy but wind and rough weather." The same objects that prompted these discordant reflections gave rise to others of the most opposite character; and within the walls, where treaties, abdications, and warrants, by turns, settled and resettled, exiled and condemned—were the store-houses of art, with all her proud and peaceful labours of sculpture, painting, and architecture, through galleries and saloons, on whose contents the chisel and the pencil had lingered many a life, and reduced the compass of its fond designs to the cubits of a statue, the fame of a picture, or the glory of a pillar or ceiling—such are the frail elements of human art.

The road now began to exhibit the usual appearance of an approach to a country fête or fair. Scores of pedestrians, overcome with the heat and dust of the day, might be seen at the little boxes or shops of the traiteurs, or cooks, and at the houses of the marchands de vin et de la biacre; these by their anticipated anxiety caused the line from Paris to St. Cloud to resemble a road-side fair. Cheerfulness and vivacity were upper-most in the passengers; and the elastic pace of dozens of gaily-dressed soubrettes not a little enhanced the interest of the scene. Neither were these charms impaired by that species of vulgarity which not unfrequently characterizes the road to our suburban fairs; and, what is still more creditable to humanity, there was no brutality towards jaded horses or hacks sinking beneath their loads.

Historians attach some antiquarian importance to the village of St. Cloud, it being historically confounded with the earliest times of the French monarchy; for, from the beginning of the first race, the kings of France had a country-seat here.