he walls. Each member speaks from his place, and the
voting is by ballot. First a footman hands round a tray of beans, and
then each advances, when his name is called, to a table in the center,
where he drops his bean into the box. The beans are then counted, and
the result proclaimed by the president. On the right of the chair, in
the front, is the bench assigned to the ministers; and there I had
the good luck to see Narvaez, otherwise called Duke of Valencia, and
a great many fine names besides, and, in reality, master of all the
Spains. His face wears a fixed expression of inflexible resolve, very
effective, and garnished with a fierce dyed mustache, and a somewhat
palpable wig to match. His style of dress was what, in an inferior
man, one would have called 'dandified.' An unexceptionable surtout,
opened to display a white waistcoat with sundry chains, and the
extremities terminated, respectively, in patent leather and primrose
kid. During the discussion he alternately fondled a neat riding-whip
and aired a snowy pocket-handkerchief. Those who know him give him
credit for good intentions and great courage, but do not expect
that he will ever set the Thames on fire, whatever he may do to
the Manzanares. He is a mixture, they say, of the chivalric and the
asinine: a kind of moral mule. His personal weakness is a wish to be
thought young, and hence he was naturally angry when Lord Palmerston
wanted to give him a 'wrinkle.' I saw, likewise, Mon, the Minister of
Finance, smiling complacently, like a shopkeeper on his customers;
and the venerable Castanos, Duke of Bailen, who, as he tottered in,
stooping under the weight of ninety years, was affectionately greeted
by Narvaez and others. On the whole, the debate seemed to be languid,
and to be listened to with little interest; but that is the general
fate of debates in July."

* * * * *

THE KANASZ.

Of the Servian swineherd we have heard something of late, both in
history and romance; because this was the vocation of Kara George, the
Servian Liberator. In Hungary the swine-keeper does not seem to be so
respectable a person. Here is a sketch of him from Max Schlesinger's
new book on the Hungarian war:

"The Kanasz is a swineherd, whose occupation, everywhere unpoetical
and dirty, is doubly troublesome and dirty in Hungary. Large droves
of pigs migrate annually into the latter country from Serbia, where
they still live in a half-wild sta