at we in
England are in a perpetual self-swagger about Waterloo. We are prodigal
of the word upon omnibus, shop, street, and road, because we wish to
humble France at every corner. Waterloo-house is an insult!
Waterloo-bridge a defiance! Wellington boots an outrage! Every step you
take you trample on the national pride of France, for with "insular
arrogance" you walk in boots named of Wellington or of Blucher! We are
intoxicated with our success at having beaten the French--never having
drubbed them before, from the times of Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt,
down to the Peninsular Campaign! This one success of Waterloo--(which,
after all, was _not_ a success, as France clearly gained the battle,
only she quitted the field in disgust!)--we cannot forget; we cherish
it, we riot in it; we blazon the name everywhere to flatter our national
pride and humiliate the foreigner. And, curious enough, the foreigner
_is_ humiliated! He turns his head away as he passes Waterloo-house; he
declines crossing Waterloo-bridge, or crosses it in a passion; and even
his national dread of rain cannot induce him to ride in a Waterloo
omnibus. Of all the many profound misconceptions of English society
current in France, none, we venture to say, is more completely baseless
than the belief in the English feeling about Waterloo. Though it would
be impossible to persuade a Frenchman that omnibus proprietors, hotel
keepers, and builders were guilty of no national swagger in using the
offending word 'Waterloo.'"

SCHALKEN THE PAINTER.--A GHOST STORY.

We take the following from a volume of of ghost stories, with
illustrations by Phiz, which has lately been published in London. One
Minheer Vanderhausen, through the means of a certain persuasive
eloquence, backed by money, becomes the husband of Rose, the niece of
Gerard Douw, and with whom Schalken, the celebrated painter's pupil, was
in love. Vanderhausen and his wife set out ostensibly for Rotterdam, but
receiving no communication from either for a long time, Gerard resolves
upon a journey to the city. No such individual as Vanderhausen is known
there, and the fate of the poor wife is told as follows:--

"One evening, the painter and his pupil were sitting by the
fire, having accomplished a comfortable meal, and had
yielded to the silent and delicious melancholy of digestion,
when their ruminations were disturbed by a loud sound at the
street door, as if occasion