whilst his life lasted, and at his death they were his heirs "for," said the old man, "I like to help those who are willing to help themselves."

gauze around it. They then surround the brow of the o'clock, as soon as he had dined. Three or four hours' deceased with a fillet, ornamented with images of sleep was all that he either allowed himself or required; saints, and having religious sentences inscribed on it. during the campaign of 1813, there was only one night They place in one of the hands a crucifix, and set-that when he rested at Gorlitz, after the conclusion down by the side of the coffin a platter with food. of the armistice-that he slept ten hours without wakenFUNERALS AMONG THE RUSSIANS. This dish of the dead is termed koutia, and consists of ing. Often Caulaincourt or Duroc were up with him THE dead are very rarely alluded to in Russia; it is a kind of pudding, made of rice, honey, and raisins, hard at work all night. On such occasions, his favourite held as a sort of impropriety or breach of etiquette to with a cross of raisins decorating the exterior. The Mameluke Rustan brought him frequently strong coffee, advert to them. Such expressions as my late hus-rich make this dish with sugar ornaments, and the and he walked about from dark till sunrise, speaking band," or "peace to his ashes," are seldom heard among clergy like to see it well made, as, after the ceremony, and dictating without intermission in his apartment, the people of the far north. This does not prevent it falls to their share. The priests now chant the which was always well lighted, wrapped up in his night the Russians, however, from surrounding the last rites mass, and, at its close, the relatives of the deceased gown, with a silk handkerchief tied like a turban round of mortality with every possible circumstance of pomp take a final parting ere the coffin be covered up. Each his head. But these stretches were only made under and luxury, and a host of imposing religious ceremo lifts and kisses the hand of the corpse, and it is com- the pressure of necessity: generally he retired to rest nies, which show that they feel the loss of friends as mon for the poor to utter pathetic exclamations at the at eight or nine, and slept till two; then rose and dickeenly as other nations, though indisposed to name the same moment. Women may be present at funerals, tated for a couple of hours; then rested, or more fredeparted in common converse, and it is not unusual to hear a poor bereaved wife quently meditated, for two hours alone; after which he crying aloud, in a voice broken by sobs, "Alas! why dressed, and a warm bath prepared him for the labours hast thou abandoned me, dear husband? Was I not of the succeeding day. ever faithful and loving? Wilt thou come no more to caress thy poor little Feodor? Alas! alas!" In midst of such lamentations, the lid is screwed down, and the train slowly move from the church, where these rites have taken place, towards the cemetery. When the coffin is lowered into the grave, every one present, in turn, throws in a portion of earth. At the funerals of people of high rank, when the metropolitan, or head of the church, officiates in person, small shovels of silver are the instruments used in this ceremony. At the tombs of the poor, rude Greek crosses are commonly erected; the rich raise monuments, in a great variety of forms, as in Britain and elsewhere. It is not customary for the common people to wear mourning in Russia. That practice is only prevalent among the higher orders. The Russians of rank are most particular in respect of mourning coaches and equipages. Lacqueys, coachmen, and postilions, are clothed in dresses of black cloth, edged with sable furs. The coach, seat, and horses, are all covered with black; not the space of a pin's head is left uncovered. In these carriages, the grandees pay visits, and travel, for some months after a family loss.

Immediately after a decease, the Russians dress the body of the dead, place it in an open coffin, and expose it in a room suitably arranged for the purpose. They there kindle a great number of wax-tapers, which are kept burning night and day; and while the relatives take their station in turns by the side of the body, the whole of the friends and acquaintances of the deceased come in succession to pay a final visit to the lifeless remains. People of the most obscure condition, not less than those of the highest rank, receive these last visits, which it is held a special duty to pay. There died lately at St Petersburg a very old man, whose term of life dated from the first half of the past century. He had filled, during his career, many high offices of state. An immense crowd of old men presented themselves at the side of his remains, announcing themselves as friends, though for years the deceased had never seen them, or even pronounced their names. Thither came retired generals, who, in the reign of Elizabeth, had been fellow-cadets with the defunct at the military schools; others were seen there, who professed to have received great favours at his hands, in the time of Catherine; and others also appeared, who had shared his exile in the reign of Paul. All, in short, come forward on such occasions, who have the slightest claim to do so. The On the monuments of people of rank, the most emperor himself, and the heir-apparent of the throne, remarkable feature is the exact and lengthened enuare in the habit of visiting the state-beds of distin-meration of all the honours and titles of the deguished personages. In such circumstances, the poor do not fail to take their share in the ceremonial. They come to pour forth lamentations at the door of their benefactor, and abundant alms are distributed among them on the occasion. Even strangers sometimes appear to offer up a prayer by the side of the deceased, an image of a saint, suspended from the gate, indicating to all passers-by where and when a death has taken place.

The coffins in which children are laid, are made of a beautiful rose-colour. Young women, or girls, are placed in coffins of sky-blue tint; and women of advanced years are commonly laid in those of a violet colour. Black coffins are sometimes, but rarely, used for men; the common hue in such cases is brown. The poor content themselves with painting their coffins; the rich cover them with coloured stuffs, appropriate to the age and rank of the deceased. In other respects, black is the hue of mourning in Russia. The funeral car, the torch-bearers, and the priests, are all clothed in black. The pine is the northern cypress, the tree consecrated to mourning. The poor strew branches of it on the coffin; at the funerals of the rich, the whole route, between the house of the deceased and the cemetery, is strewn with pine-branches. Hence the streets of St Petersburg, through which funeral processions so often pass, are always covered more or less with melancholy tokens of this descrip

tion.

The body lies ordinarily exposed for two or three days. Then the death-benediction is pronounced, and the dead receive their passport for the other world. This phrase is to be understood as literally correct. The priests draw up a long paper, containing the baptismal name and the dates of the birth and death of the deceased, with an attestation that he or she had undergone all the rites and ceremonies, first and last, of the Græco-Russian Church, or any other to which the party may have belonged. This paper is laid on the body of the deceased at the church or place of interment, whither the coffin is conveyed in a still open state, that, by the way, all who have known the defunct may take a final look at the cold remains. The lid is carried in front of the coffin. The funeral procession is always accompanied by torch-bearers, attired in black mantles and large flapped hats, and a number of friends are usually in attendance. Great pomp is displayed at the burials of the wealthy and titled. In front of the body is carried, separately, an image or representation, as splendid as possible, of each of the orders attained by the deceased; and, as the Russians of rank have usually many orders, this part of the procession forms in itself an imposing train. All persons who cross the path of a funeral procession uncover their heads and repeat a prayer for the dead; and such is their respect for the departed, that they will not replace their hats till the convoy is out of sight. These last honours are paid to every one, no matter of what religious persuasion. When the body arrives at the church, besides the placing of the passport on the chest, other ceremonies of a strange order are performed for the mission of the spirit on the last great journey. While the coffin is still open and the body exposed to the bystanders, the priests take each a taper in hand, with a piece of

ceased. If an individual had received an order, care
is especially taken to point out whether it was of
the first class or second; and so on. It would
almost appear as if the Russians imagined that
these things would be of as much consequence in the
life to come as in the present life. With the excep-
tion of the cemetery of the convent of Alexandre
Newskij, and one or two others, devoted particularly
to such monuments as those referred to, most of the
Russian cemeteries resemble a desert. A succession
of low mounds, headed by small crosses, stretches out
before the eye, without a single tree or flower ap-
pearing to relieve the sameness of the view. In this
respect, the Russians show a want of taste. Other-
wise, they evince no deficiency of veneration for de-
parted friends. Though refraining habitually from
allusions to them in common conversation, the sur-
vivors, at least in the upper ranks, celebrate the birth-
days of their lost relatives, going in troops to church,
and repeating prayers for their souls, besides holding
festival at home. The koutia ceremony is usually
repeated on such occasions at church. Each member
of the party eats a portion of the dish, and the rest is
left to the priests.

Every cemetery, as may be observed from what has
been said, has a church or chapel attached to it; and
those most in estimation among the upper classes are
the burial-grounds of convents, which often derive a
large annual income from such appendages. The
cemetery of Alexandre Newskij contains the finest
monuments of any in the metropolis of Russia. Such
powerful families as those of Waronzow, Wolkouski,
and Gallitzin, the last of which numbers among its
members above three hundred living princes, have
their monuments here piled in masses, almost one
above another. But the cemetery has no such inte-
rest as that of Pere la Chaise, fine though some of the
tombs are.

There are few or no historical associations

connected with even the most noted of the Russian
cemeteries. But a few monuments are to be dis-
covered, in the cemetery of Alexandre Newskij, of the
age of Catherine II. One tomb, however, of a plain
description, cannot be said to be without its share of
interest. A marble tablet tells who rests there, in
the simple words, "Here lies Suwarrow." He who
never knew peace in life, nor allowed those around
him to know it, has found quietude enough at last, in
the cemetery of Alexandre Newskij.

NAPOLEON'S HABITS DURING A CAMPAIGN.

If in the course of a campaign he met a courier on the road, he generally stopped, got out of his carriage, and called Berthier or Caulaincourt, who sat down on the ground to write what the emperor dictated. Frequently then the officers around him were sent in different directions, so that hardly any remained in attendance on his person. When he expected some intelligence from his generals, and it was supposed that a battle was in contemplation, he was generally in the most anxious state of disquietude; and not unfrequently in the middle of the night called out aloud, "Call D'Albe (his principal secretary), let every one arise." He then began to work at one or two in the morning; having gone to bed the night before, according to his invariable custom, at nine

His travelling carriage was a perfect curiosity, and singularly characteristic of the prevailing temper of his disposition. It was divided into two unequal compartments, separated by a small low partition, on which the elbows could rest, while it prevented either from encroaching on the other; the smaller was for Berthier, the larger, the lion's share, for himself. The emperor could recline in a dormeuse in front of his seat; but no such accommodation was afforded to his companion. In the interior of the carriage were a number of drawers, of which Napoleon had the key, in which were placed dispatches not yet read, and a small library of books. A large lamp behind threw a bright light in the interior, so that he could read without intermission all night. He paid great attention to his portable library, and had prepared a list of duodecimo editions of about five hundred volumes, which he intended to be his constant travelling companions; but the disasters of the latter years of his reign prevented this design from being carried into complete execution.-Alison's History of Europe.

A VISIT TO STOKE-NEWINGTON, NEAR
LONDON.

WE were lately induced to pay a visit to the village
of Stoke-Newington, one of the pleasantest of those
which surround the metropolis, and possessing accom-
paniments which may be said to place it above most
in point of interest. Its High Street, as approached
by the Kingsland Road from London, presents only
the features of an ordinary country town; but there
are things worth looking at immediately adjacent.
Stamford Hill rises smartly from its termination
country-ward, crowned by villas of the wealthy citi-
zens; and at the foot of the hill lie the beautiful
grounds of Abney-Park Cemetery. Church Street,
leading off at right angles from the High Street, passes
the front of the noble mansion which once belonged
to Sir Thomas Abney, which, though not antique
enough to wear an Elizabethan look, has all the solid,
handsome, and withal picturesque air of that middle
style, by which the Elizabethan descended into the
modern domestic. The house fronts the cemetery on
one side, and, having a large fore-court, or garden, it
stands sufficiently back to be well seen by the pas-
senger. Church Street contains several other good,
substantial, mansion-like residences, more or less de-
tached from the houses of comparatively recent con-
struction, and plainly telling that they were erected
when Stoke-Newington was a more rural village than
at present. As it is, you have only to pass through
these residences into their large, well-stocked gardens
in rear, to taste pure country air, and become sur-
rounded by all the glowing charms of English horti-
culture. Indeed, nearly all the gardens of the upper
class of Newingtonians are remarkable for size, as well
as for being cultivated into high productive beauty.
Many of them stretch into pleasure-grounds—the pad-
dock, the meadow, or the almost park, in which their
owners, with proper pride in so much rurality, make
their own hay, and feed the cows which supply their
families with genuine milk and home-made butter.

Church Street ends, appropriately, with the village church, on one side, and the rectory-house immediately opposite. Two structures are not often to be met with in better harmony with each other and with the character of a quiet village scene. And this was still more noticeable before the church was restored and enlarged, in the year 1829, by Mr Barry, though the alterations effected by that gentleman are evidences of his usual taste and judgment, being eminently conservative of the original style. The rectory is an antique, irregular, wooden building, with a lowbrowed, sunken porch, entered by a wicket. Within the porch are benches, designed probably for the accommodation of waiters upon the parson's charity or spiritual consolations, in the olden time. Approaching the sacred edifice, we are informed, by a date over the principal entrance, that the south aisle, containing that entrance, was built in 1563, or during the reign of Elizabeth; but the tower, and great part of the rest, however altered, must be considerably older. A tomb within, adjoining the pulpit, has kneeling figures in high relief of a man, his wife, and their daughter, with the words-" Obiit 29° Decembris ǎno dni 1580." It also exhibits, in a series of compartments, Latin and English inscriptions, by which we are apprised that the whole is a memorial of Thomas Sutton, Esq., founder of the Charter-House, and Elizabeth his wife. The last inscription runs thus-"Several prelates and

the names of Dr Price, Dr Towers, Dr Amory, Hugh
Worthington, and Rochemont Barbauld, husband of
the literary lady who lies in the churchyard. And
here, though not in the churchyard, is an inscription
in honour of that lady; and another, commemorative
of Dr Price, both which have been placed since the
completion of the late alterations. They are each on
a chaste marble tablet (Dr Price's may make some
just claims to elegance); and the language of neither
is of the " Ann Frohock" order.

other persons, educated at Charter-House School, the
foundation of THOMAS SUTTON, Esq., by their respect-
ful contributions, caused this Tomb to be repaired,
A. D. 1808." A mural tablet against the east end of
one of the aisles, to Ann Frohock," who, it seems,
died in 1764, has an inscription in quite another style,
recording that this lady was the "best of Wife's and
of Woman." In the churchyard is a much more inte-
resting table-tomb, the superscription of which, though
it begins to want the labours of some Old Mortality,
reminds us that we are on classic ground at Stoke-
Newington, the remains within being those of John
Aikin, M.D., whose many useful works have given
him a respectable place amongst the literary men of
the last age. Dr Aikin, and his sister, the celebrated
Mrs Barbauld, were for many years inhabitants of
Stoke-Newington. The venerable lady lived opposite
to her brother (in Church Street), in a house now a
grocer's and she, too, reposes in this tomb, though
there is no notification of the fact upon it.
If we continue our walk in the line of Church
Street, we shall be accompanied ere long, on our right,
by the gently flowing stream of the New River, which
here ornaments the fine park-like grounds attached to
a handsome seat, that of the late William Crawshay,
Esq. This gentleman was an iron-master, and died
in 1834, possessed, as the newspapers said at the time,
of "almost measureless wealth." As winding as it is
gentle, the river, a little farther on, becomes no mean
addition to the beauty of the trim gardens of a num-
ber of houses, none of which have the pretension of
Mr Crawshay's, but which are all good, and several of
them something more. Altogether, this is one of the
finest spots about the village, the Crawshay estate alone
forming a beautiful object, and the intersecting dis-
position of the river, gardens, and residences, having
a very pleasing effect. This district ends at a cross-
road, called the "Green Lanes ;" and the Green Lanes
also terminating the village, we return to the church,
as to a point whence to seek what else may be note-
worthy.

Let us look for that true old English adjunct to the rural church, yclept "the church path." Here it lies, and of the old comfortable, and, as we presume, legal width, bending towards the grave-yard from two oppo

site directions. If we take the northward bend, we shall shortly find ourselves in a colonnade of antique trees, called, from a tradition of unknown origin, "Queen Elizabeth's Walk." Emerging from them, the "path" takes its way among some of the best Middlesex verdure (and there is none better) to an elevated site, known as Woodbury Down, whereon the New River Company have cut two reservoirs, fed by their own river, either of which might be reckoned no contemptible lake. They are truly noble sheets of water, and their inspection will give a characteristic idea of the immense works, in other localities north of the "head," which have been carried into effect by this rich and beneficial company.

PRACTICAL MEN.

tion.

Whilst some "practical men" adhere closely to their evidence, and coincide with the sound theorist in eschewing the wild hypotheses, or hasty generalisations, miscalled theories, and nevertheless appreciate the conclusions obtained by diligent investigation and the sagacious comparison of a variety of phenomena; it is to be observed of the greater part of those empirical persons who laud themselves as practical, that they are of all others the most infected with rash and baseless speculations. If our space permitted, we could give many illustrations of the truth of the remark of Dugald Stewart, "that the simplest narrative of the most illiterate observer involves more or less of hypothesis; nay, that in general it will be found, that in proportion to his ignorance the greater is the number of conjectural principles involved in his statements." As, he observes, "a village apothecary (and if possible, in a still greater degree, an experienced nurse) is seldom able to describe the plainest case without employing a phraseology of which every word is a theory [or an hypothesis], whereas a simple and genuine specification of the phenomena which mark a particular disease-a specification unsophisticated by fancy or preconceived opinions, may be regarded as unequivocal evidence of a mind trained by long and successful study to the most difficult of all arts, that of the faithful interpretation of nature."

any great convenience or magnificent simplicity of combinations, are as much beyond their comprehensions as they are foreign to their habits. From such minds, comprehensive legislation, or decisions upon enlarged principles, never did and never will proceed. Other similar illustrations will present themselves to every observing person in almost every field of art or science, and not the least frequently in the fields of practical statesmanship. How rarely is it that the official or practical legislator condescends, in dealing with the The evening was closing in when we left the chapel; subject-matter of any legislation in England, to consult the Green lay in almost solemn shade; we had seen the experience even of another of the United Kingall pointed out to us as worth seeing at Stoke-New-doms, much less the experience of any of the European ington; and we hastened back to London by the then nations, on the same subject! When do we see any of nearest road, namely, that through the town of Isling- the masterpieces of foreign legislation referred to in our ton. parliament, although they would afford the most valuable instruction? The report, for example, of Michel St Fargeau, on the Penal Code, presented to the Constituent Assembly in 1791, and even the debate which THE Common reliance on the testimony of this class of then ensued upon it, may be submitted as a contrast to witnesses is founded upon an assumption, that those every state paper, and to the display of knowledge made who have been long engaged in a particular pursuit on the same subject, during any session of the English must necessarily have obtained, or at least are most parliament, from the same period to the present day. likely to possess, the whole of the existing knowledge The legislation of the great majority of our rulers, who relative to that pursuit, and must, therefore, be the lift their heads aloft above instruction-who praise their most competent to form a correct estimate of it, in all own groping in the dark under the name of practice, its bearings. This assumption of completeness of infor- and abuse as "theory and speculation" all attempts to mation, as predicated of the whole class of practical act upon extended knowledge and aforethought-is a men, is untenable. By nothing are they so much disscene of continual fumbling and botches; of amendtinguished as by their indifference to the progress and ments upon amendments, often producing new evils, result of any investigations which may be carried on and aggravating the evils which they were intended to relative to that pursuit, and to the utility of any new remedy. The legislation upon prison discipline, upon facts that may be elicited with respect to it. secondary punishments, and upon "the licensing sysAsk the practical agriculturist, the practical mer-tems," might be adduced in illustration of the asserchant, or the practical tradesman, about any book relating to his avocation, which furnishes new facts or presents the old facts in better method and order for practical purposes, and you will find him equally ignorant and careless on the subject. It will be found, in the great majority of cases, that, the routine of practical men being given, you have the whole of their information relative to their avocations. To their indifference to the reception of any new facts, and the consequent incompleteness of their information for any practical purpose, may be added their incompetency to weigh evidence, free from the bias, in most cases, of direct monied interest; and in nearly all cases, of the interest arising from the loss of reputation which would be incurred by acknowledging that others were in possession of superior information, or were capable of making a better application than themselves of the information already possessed: while all experience proves that even the interest occasioned by the disinclination to change old habits is of itself sufficient to counteract a considerable monied interest, when that interest is not immediate and obvious to the senses. "The great bulk of mankind," observes Paley, "act more from habit than reflection;" and most especially must this be the case during the prevalence of systems of education which perform by the memory alone, all which the memory alone can be made to perform-which teach every thing by rote, nothing by reference to first principles. Under the evil influence of the habit of parroting, which is acquired under a common education, almost every person is taught his avocation according to fixed rules, and is made to believe that the existing practice, whatever it be, is the best possible. Before he has time to form an opinion for himself, the associations and belief chosen for him by others become so strongly impressed on his mind by habit, as in a great measure to destroy his power of forming, or even of entertaining, any new combinations on the subject. Hence, perhaps, it is that the most important improvements in the arts and sciences have been made, not by the "regularly-educated practical men," but by persons trained up to other pursuits. The greatest improvements in agriculture have been made by persons bred up in cities. The best laws are made by persons who are not practical lawyers. The same causes will, perhaps, account for the circumstance so frequently observed, that whenever a man of superior mind arises, the last thing benefited by the exercise of his powers of invention will be the pursuit to which he was "regularly educated." We have heard of a practical man who, on hearing that in Holland no distinction was made between real and personal property, expressed his extreme surprise at such deplorable barbarism, and wondered how society could hold together without such a classification. He could form no conception of a state of things, in which the secure possession of an estate could be conveyed with as little expense or trouble as the least important article in daily use. Such a "practical man" is about as competent to judge of the work of codification, or the substitution of any well-systematised body of laws for the incongruous jumble in the administration of which he is practised, as a well-practised hackney-coachman or chairman would, from his practice, be fitted to judge of a comprehensive plan of direct and convenient streets, de vised by a Sir Christopher Wren for the rebuilding of an old, ill-built, confused city, or even part of a city, with the obscure turns of which, its barbarous names, and the slang and usages of the frequenters, the said practical men were familiar. Such men are useful, and often meritorious, in their proper places, which are neither in the legislature, nor, we make bold to say, on the bench. Such men may suggest the straightening of an awkward turn, the stopping up of a hole in which they are themselves jolted, or the removal of a wall against which they run their own heads; but the formation of new, plain, and direct roads, and especially

The "church path" southward seems to have been specially intended to conduct churchward the steps of an almost distinct village, about half a mile distant, called Newington-Green. It led from the Green through the pleasantest fields, until within these twenty years, when the building furor began to trench upon its precincts, and has actually now crossed it by a road, styled the "Albion Road," and forming the carriage approach to Church Street. The road is really a pretty road; it winds pleasingly along, and it has some neat houses by its sides. But then it is a road, and it cuts up the old "church path," and it has spoilt all the quiet of the fields, and brought London nearer to Stoke-Newington by fifty miles than ever it was before.

Making the best of what all ruralist pedestrians like us must deem a bad change, we pursue our way by the sober old "path," till it brings us to the very Green. How calm it looks! how gentle, and how peaceful!—yet a little dull. Can we be, as the milestone on one side of the central enclosure informs us, only two miles from the great Babel, even now roaring forth its million sounds-London? Why, there is many a village-green, two hundred miles from the metropolis, that is all alive in comparison with it. Those high old houses in the shade of the west side, from over and between which, and the trees in their front, the descending sun sends yellow streams upon the grass, seem nodding to their evening repose; and the windows of their opposite neighbours twinkle, like sleepy eyes in the light, as if about to follow their example. Facing where we stand, some equally dreamylooking buildings peer at us from the south, through the poplar row before them; and here, on the north, whence we are making our survey, there is nothing that looks wider awake. By our side, however, is the old Presbyterian chapel-for Stoke-Newington, be it remarked, is an old stronghold of the dissenters, and the place where Defoe was educated, and where some of the most eminent of the dissenting divines have ministered. The building is a square one, of sombre style, between one and two centuries old, but bearing the marks of some recent repairs on an extensive scale. Built, probably, for the accommodation of a small nonconformist neighbourhood, chiefly residing on the Green, when nonconformity was more rife and churches more rare than at present, the change of times has not so subtracted from the zeal of the existing congregation, as to prevent their "repairing and beautifying," very decorously, and in some respects even handsomely. The series of its ministering clergy includes

On the whole, it may be laid down as a general rule, that, unless the mind of a practical man has been trained to habits of generalising beyond the details of his profession, his conclusion as to the effect of any extensive change in his practice is less to be relied upon than that of any other man of equal general intelligence, to whose mind the same facts are presented, and who gives them an equal degree of consideration.—Westminster Review, 1828.

THE ORIGINAL OF "BLUE-BEARD." MR ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE, in his work entitled, "A Summer in Western France," states, that on the way from Angers to Nantes, he fell in with the ruins of the Chateau of Chantocé, famous, or infamous rather, as the residence of one of the most execrable monsters who ever disgraced humanity, and the scene of his atrocities.

"This was no other than Gilles de Laval, Marechal de Retz, whose revolting abominations having been mixed up by the shuddering peasants with supernatural horrors, have obtained for him, under the nickname of Blue-Beard, an universal notoriety of a lighter kind than the reality of his crimes deserved. Gilles de Laval, Lord of Retz, of Briolay, of Chantocé, of Ingrandes, of Loroux-Bottereau, of Blaison, of Chemellier, of Gratecuisse, of Fontaine-Milon, in Anjou, and of many other baronies and lordships in Brittany and other parts of the kingdom, was one of the richest men of his day in the time of Charles VII. He became master of all this enormous property at the age of twenty, and, by the most prodigal and absurd extravagance, dissipated nearly the whole of it. Among other traits of his profuse expenditure, the establishment of his chapel has been recorded. It was composed of a bishop, as he insisted upon calling his principal chaplain, a dean, a chanter, two archdeacons, four vicars, a schoolmaster, twelve chaplains, and eight choristers. All these followed in his suite wherever he travelled. Each one of them had his horse and his servant; they were all dressed in robes of scarlet and furs, and had rich appointments. Chandeliers, censers, crosses, sacred vessels in great quantity, and all of gold and silver, were transported with them, together, says the historian, with many organs, each carried by six men. He was exceedingly anxious that all the priests of his chapel should be entitled to wear the mitre, and he sent many embassies to Rome

* *

to obtain this privilege, but without success. These were the follies of his youth; and it would have been well if he had left behind him only the remembrance of similar absurdities. But these and many other equally ridiculous extravagances soon began to make serious inroads into his property, enormous as it was. He took into his pay a certain physician of Poitou, and a Florentine named Prelati, who pretended to be in communication with the devil, and to be able to recruit his exhausted treasures by supernatural means. These scoundrels found means to make him believe that the devil appeared to him, and persuaded him to sign an agreement with his satanic majesty in due form. Raising the devil may, in the nineteenth century, be laughed at as a harmless absurdity, involving no very heinous degree of criminality. But that is very far from harmless which renders a man criminal in his own eyes. Gilles de Laval conceived himself to have committed the blackest sin of which man could be guilty, and the real moral degradation which ensued from it was proportioned to his own estimate of the offence. No crime was henceforward monstrous enough to make him hesitate in his course; and the recorded series of his atrocities is probably unequalled in the annals of human depravity. With a revolting vampirelike selfishness, more detestable than any ordinary object of murder, he caused the handsomest and finest children of either sex throughout his domains to be seized and put to death within these walls of Chantocé, in order to form a bath of their blood, in the belief that it would preserve his own loathsome life and vigour. In vain, through the wide extent of his lands and villages, rose one universal voice of lament and execration from the wretched peasantry obliged to furnish this fearful tribute, which realised the most horrible fictions of pagan antiquity. Already more than a hundred victims had perished, and the feeble, ill-organised justice of the period was paralysed by the rank, the power, and vast possessions of the monster. At last, however, the universal voice of the country became too loud to be disregarded; and, little as the men of that day were accustomed to be shocked by ordinary crimes of violence and blood, the wretch's life became too revolting to be tolerated by them; and had not the constituted authorities at length interfered, he would have been exterminated as a noxious reptile by the tardily excited violence of popular indignation. He was seized by the orders of the Bishop of Nantes and the Seneschal of Rennes ; and after a trial, during which revelations of wickedness and barbarity almost incredible, continued through many years, were substantiated against him, he was condemned to be burned alive in the meadows before Nantes. And this sentence was executed there on the 23d of December in the year 1440. The culprit is recorded to have presented himself before the tribunal with the utmost haughtiness and disdain, and replied to their interrogatories that he had committed crimes enough to condemn to death ten thousand men. So lived and died Gilles de Laval, the veritable original of the redoubtable bloody Blue-Beard; and the ugly ruins

of his blood-defiled castle of Chantocé seem to remain yet standing solely to perpetuate the memory of his infamy and ignominious name.'

HIGHLAND DROVERS.

[From the description of the engraving of Landseer's picture of "Drovers departing for the South."]

THE hills and vales of the interior Highlands, which in rougher times sent out, under a Graham or a Cameron, bands of armed men, now, in the season, pour forth the herds of cattle which they rear to the eager markets of England, where a savoury mouthful is ever welcome. The cattle which form the drove are gathered together on a set day, and at an appointed place the foot of a mountain, the side of a lake, or near a castle, or in the neighbourhood of a village, or, more likely still, a battlefield: herdsmen are selected to conduct the different portions into which the drove is divided, while over all a confidential person, a sort of chief, topsman, as he is called in the Lowlands, presides, who directs all the movements, makes all the bargains, and is responsible to the owners for the profits.

This person, the topsman, gives the order a signal generally when to move or to halt: he is always busy, now in the front, and then in the rear, and is consulted by his subordinates in all difficulties. He knows the safest roads over the wildest tracks; Shapfell is as well known to him as Shehallion; he prefers the greensward way, which is pleasant to the hoofs of his charge and affords them a mouthful, to the hard and dusty public road, which distresses the feet of his cattle, and has little in the way of food. English parties on their way to the north, to look at the wild deer and wild hills, and trace the scenes of Scott or of Ossian, are often startled by a drove emerging from a glen or rounding the base of a mountain, coming lowing along, urged or directed by their drivers, who, with wallet on back and staff in hand, are conducting them to the south.

These topsmen are now generally paid for their labour and trust; but in days not yet distant, the Highland proprietor accompanied his drove to the south, and with his profit in his sporran, returned to his mountains. It is said that one of those dealers, while on his way back to the Border, was joined on the high road by a well-dressed and civil gentleman, who, while he talked of the martial spirit of the Highlanders, wondered how they dared to traverse the land with so much English gold in their pockets. "Yes," replied the Highlander, " but if we have English gold in the sporran, we have

Scottish steel in the sheath; and," touching the hilt of
his sword as he spoke, "with Andrea Ferrara here, and
Bran there," nodding to a strong, fierce wolf-hound
beside him, "I am afraid of no highwayman in the
land." "What!" exclaimed the other, "and is your
sword a real Ferrara?-such blades are scarce.' "You
shall judge, sir," said the Highlander, unsheathing his
sword, and pointing to the maker's name and the date.
"It is as you say," replied the other, and poised it in
his hand, like a man about to weigh the weapon, rather
than admire it. "Take it by the hilt, man," said the
Scot, sharply; "there's a right end and a wrong in all
things." The Englishman seized it by the hilt, took a
sudden stride forward, and striking the head from poor
Bran, turned on the other, and said, "Your money or
your life-you see that even a Highlander may be
matched." The Highlander saw refusal was death, and
resistance hopeless; and delivering up his sporran, said,
"Who will believe it in Breadalbane, that with such a
good dog, and such an arm at the sword, an English
footpad robbed me?" "Oh! rest you easy on that
head," said the robber sarcastically, "for I have foiled
better men than you; besides, I intend to bestow a token
on you, to show that you were robbed by main force.
Lay down your right hand on that tree stump." Hope
dawned at this on the Highlander: he laid his right
arm on the old stump, but watching the eye of the other,
withdrew it suddenly as the sword descended, and, while
the blade sunk deep in the wood, seized his adversary
by the throat, threw him with violence on the ground,
and clapping his dirk to his bosom, had him at his
mercy. Having bound him hard and fast, the High-
lander regained his sword, retook his
sporran, and gave
up the highwayman to the law of the land, which
speedily helped him to a halter and gibbet; for he was
a noted robber, and had long been the terror of the
district.

THE SPANIARD AND HIS SLAVES.

tection, which they stand more in need of than any other class of the slaves. Nothing can be more horrible than the condition of these wretches in the inland plantations of the island, where the average duration of the life of a slave is said not to exceed ten years; in Barbadoes, in the worst period of English slavery, it was rated at sixteen. Sir Fowel Buxton believes that 60,000 slaves are annually imported into that and the other Spanish colonies. The boasted humanity of the Spanish planter has scarcely left any traces, except, it is said, in the treatment of domestic slaves. But even this is far worse than formerly; and the whites of Cuba have occasionally resorted to the expedient of arming the bozals as a kind of Mameluke guard, to defend themselves against the dreaded hostility of the native coloured population.

PIGEON EXPRESSES.

The modern system of pigeon expresses possesses an extraordinary interest, as well on account of its rapid means of communicating the most important events, as of the curious and laborious mode by which it is set in operation. The birds by far the most valuable for this purpose are of the Antwerp breed, although it is not uncommon to train the English pigeons, called dragons, to carry expresses. They are trained when very young, or, as they are technically called, "squeakers," to fly between different towns and villages, commencing first at a space of only a few hundred yards, and so on, gradually increasing until they accomplish the required diate stations between Dover and London, at which they distance. They are usually trained to fly to interme are succeeded by other relays, but fly, in many instances, the whole distance from other places. The number lost in training is immense. The trade is principally in the hands of the Jews, and the emoluments arising therefrom are very considerable. There are a few instances in which capitalists and others having extensive moneyed and mercantile operations throughout Europe, [From Merivale's Lectures on Colonies.] maintain an establishment of their own, amongst whom UNHAPPILY, or rather, I ought to say, by a just and is the Baron Rothschild, who at Dover rears and striking retribution, the moral and social condition of trains his own flight of pigeon expresses, with connectthis thriving island (Cuba) seem to have declined, under ing branches throughout Germany and other parts of the influence of slavery and its consequences, with the the continent. The establishment at Dover consists of same rapidity with which its wealth has advanced. At about 400 birds, with a keeper, whose wages are 35s. athe beginning of this century the Spaniards of the week. The expense of feeding the birds is considerable West Indies were accused, with justice, of indolence, beans alone, whilst the entire collection is supposed to -as much as 25s. a-week being consumed in Dover in and enjoyed in some respects an inferior civilisation to that of their neighbours. But, on the other hand, the have cost at least L.2000. The express is sometimes steadier habits and greater repose of the old Castilian tied to the middle feather of the tail, by passing a thread genius contrasted favourably with the eager, jealous, with a needle through the stem, but more commonly money-making character of the motley adventurers who attached to the leg, immediately above the spur. The constituted too large a proportion of the West Indian rapidity of these important expresses may be estimated population subject to England, France, and Holland. by the following information obtained from a trainer These were a people whom no ties seemed to bind to and proprietor. His pigeons have arrived in London the land of their adoption; the home of whose recol- with news of the winner of the Ascot cup in 15 milections was in their native countries; whose only ob-nutes; from the Newmarket in 60 minutes; and from ject was the rapid attainment of wealth, in order, if Chichester, bringing the winner of the Goodwood cup, possible, to return there. The Spaniards were perhe majesty having expressed a wish to see one of these 1 hour, 15 minutes. At Ascot races last year, her nent inhabitants; they maintained, in each colony, the habits of a fixed, social, and organised population, with beautiful birds, a carrier pigeon was flown in her distinction of ranks and regular institutions. There majesty's presence from the royal stand; and to the are even now thirty grandees of Spain among the resi- great delight of the spectators, after indulging in sundry dent proprietors of Cuba. gyrations, darted onwards with its winged intelligence to the metropolis.-From a newspaper.

As there was but little profit to be obtained out of the labour of the slave, so his condition was generally easy, and the conduct of his master towards him was humane and considerate. The laws of Spain encouraged this tendency, beyond those of all other nations. Instead of being an outcast from the benefits of law and religion, he was peculiarly under the protection of both. The four rights of the slave, as they are emphatically termed in Spanish legislation, have been uniformly respected in theory, and generally in practice: these are the right of marriage, the right to compel a master guilty of illegal severity towards a slave to sell him to another, the right to purchase his own emancipation, and to acquire property. The sentiments of the Spaniards towards their enslaved dependants were much modified, in the course of centuries, by the wholesome spirit of their laws; and it may perhaps be added, that if the Spanish character, under the excitement of the spirit of revenge, fanaticism, or avarice, be capable of atrocities from which the civilised mind shrinks with abhorrence, there is about it, in the commonalty as well as the higher orders, when uninflamed by passion, a sense of dignity, an habitual self-respect, evincing itself in courtesy to equals, and forbearance towards inferiors, of which nations of more practical but more vulgar habits of mind, afford but rare examples.

But the progress of wealth and of the slave-trade have rapidly changed the moral aspect of these communities. From being the most humane among all European slave-owners, the Spanish colonists have become the most barbarous and utterly demoralised. This is a painful fact, of which the evidence is too abundant and too notorious to admit even of a suspicion of exaggeration. The sugar plantations of Cuba are now almost entirely wrought by means of the slave-trade; that is, as we shall see when we come to examine this part of the subject more closely, they are wrought at an enormous profit, purchased by an enormous expenditure of life, replaced by perpetual recruits, and the humane provisions of the law itself are turned against the imported slave. For, as the trade is forbidden by law, the boxals, as the African negroes are called, are considered in the light of contraband articles, of which the possession and use are winked at, not recognised by the authorities. They are thus entirely without pro

VARIETY OF ENGLISH MANUFACTURES.

England since I left it; but I am less surprised at them.
I am more impressed with the wealth and resources of
Wapping; the quadrant in Holborn; the knives are
The compass of this Portuguese vessel was made at
stamped "shear steel;" the bell for the watch, and the
iron of the windlass, are from an English foundry; the
captain uses an English watch, and calculates by John
Hamilton Moore's" Seaman's Complete Daily Assistant;"
"Sailmaker" is stamped on one of the sails, and the pas
sengers are dressed in Manchester prints or Leeds cloth.
Everywhere it is the same; you meet in the solitary
mountain paths of these almost unknown islands, a pedlar
with two square boxes slung on each side of his ass, and
see him in the villages tempting the women with the
bright handkerchiefs and gay prints from Manchester.
In the obscurest village, the neat blue-paper needle-case
from Birmingham hangs from a string at a cottage door-
way, to tell that English needles are sold within; and in
crossing in an open boat between two of the remotest
islands, Flores and Corvo, an English sailmaker's name
and residence were printed legibly on the sail. V-
tells me that the other evening he had just landed in a
fishing hamlet-a lonely place at the mouth of a deep
ravine which parts two gloomy mountain ridges, when
his reveries were disturbed by a fellow-passenger, who,
having caught sight of some village girls, suddenly ex-
claimed, "Look, these are all my prints!"- Residence in
the Azores.

LITERARY PUBLICATIONS.

On a recent investigation into the affairs of an extensive publishing concern, it was found that of 130 works published by it in a given time, 50 had not paid their expenses. Out of the 80 that did pay, 13 only arrived at a second edition; but in most instances these second editions had not been profitable. In general, it has been estimated that of the books published, a fourth do not pay their expenses, and that only one in eight or ten can be reprinted with advantage. With respect to pamphlets, it has been affirmed that not one in fifty pays the expenses of its publication.

Printed and Published by W. and R. CHAMBERS, Edinburgh.
Sold by W. S. ORR, Amen Corner, London; J. MACLEOD,
Glasgow; and all booksellers.

CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, EDITORS OF "CHAMBERS'S INFORMATION FOR THE PEOPLE,"

NUMBER 508.

THE MIDNIGHT ENEMY.

BY LEITCH RITCHIE, ESQ.

I HAVE an adventure to relate, which, however singular, is absolutely true. I do not give it at secondhand. I do not dress up an old woman's story with the appliances of romance, but relate the circumstances as they occurred, without the slightest exaggeration, and from my own personal knowledge. I am myself the hero of the tale; I was myself the object of a persecution as inexplicable as it was terrific. I am at this moment sound in mind and body; I remember distinctly the extraordinary details I have undertaken to narrate; and I give them with the same fidelity as if I were in the witness-box of a court of justice.

In an instant I was up in a sitting posture, and had withdrawn the curtain. The room was utterly dark, but the window just visible. I thought a shadow passed across it two or three times; but this might have been the motion of the clouds beyond; for the apartment being on the third floor, and overlooking a range of low hills, it had been unnecessary to draw the blind. Gradually, however, a luminous spot became visible in the sky; the tumbling masses of vapour cleared partially away, and a patch of greyish blue appeared, with a single star in the midst. But this continued only for a moment; the clouds resumed their reign; and as darkness came back by degrees, I perceived clearly that the shadow-like form I had seen was not a portion of the phenomena of the heavens. As the light withdrew, it seemed to acquire solidity. It resembled a human figure, covered with a cloak; but from the position of the eyes, which at length were visible under the hood, it was either in a stooping posture, or lower and broader than an ordi

the circumstances of that fearful night start up before
me, not like fancies to amaze, but like spectres to
affright. Some new guests-a mother and daughter-
had arrived unexpectedly in the afternoon; and it was
arranged that I should give up my room to them, and
occupy, for the single night I was to remain, one that
would have been too small for two persons. When
bedtime arrived, Mr Walker accompanied me himself
to my new apartment; he mentioned, incidentally,
the death of an intimate acquaintance of us both,
which had taken place in the very bed. That gentle-
man had been on a week's visit, like myself, at the
Lodge; had retired one night, in good health and
spirits; and was found dead, apparently of apoplexy,
in the morning! This event, however, was now of old
date; and, at any rate, when one has just eaten a full
luxurious meal, and gladdened his heart, without ex-
citing his nerves, with a moderate glass of choice wine,
he does not yield readily to melancholy impressions.
I never was better in my life than at that moment;
I felt a sensation of comfort and consequence; it
seemed to me as if I was taller and stronger than
usual; and when my host and I parted for the night,
I paced for some time up and down the room, think-
ing high thoughts, dreaming vague but agreeable
dreams, and determining that it was a very good
thing to pass a week now and then at a friend's house
in the country.

Perhaps I should begin by speculating upon the history of a belief in supernatural appearances; perhaps I should seek shelter for my own insignificance under the shadow of illustrious names; perhaps I should endeavour to disarm the hostility of science by suggesting the possibility of explanation. But I will do none of these things. I am accustomed to the severity of criticism, and can bear it without flinching; and if I meet with the ridicule I expect, I can console myself with the idea that it is not for the first time.

The scene of the narrative has not a romantic name; it is not in a distant part of the country; it is not sur rounded by woods and wilds: it is in the county of Kent, in the midst of a populous neighbourhood, well known to the traveller along the highway, and the student of Patterson's Roads; in short, it is Prospect Lodge, the seat of my friend Jacob Walker, Esq., formerly of Mincing Lane, London, dry salter and alderman. This gentleman was originally from the same part of the country as myself; but he was much older, and was already on the high road to wealth, when I was thrown, by the force of circumstances, a moneyless adventurer upon the metropolitan world. It was, therefore, many years before we met; but when at length he recognised my harsh and uncommon conjunction of names on the titlepage of a book, he sought me out, and we became intimately acquainted. When he retired from active life, he kindly invited me to visit him at Prospect Lodge; and I was not sorry to exchange for a week the cares of my London life for the quiet of the country.

It is proper to go into these details, even at the hazard of being charged with tediousness; for, without knowing fully the state of mind in which I retired to bed, it would be impossible to come to any just conclusion as to the nature of what took place afterwards. Be it observed, then, that I was well in health and spirits; that the death of the former tenant of the room had taken no hold of my imagination; and that I had not drunk more that day than my usual moderate quantity of wine.

nary man.

Soon the eyes were nearer; I heard no foot-fall, but I knew that something was approaching the foot of the bed; and presently I felt the clothes stirred. I sunk back upon the pillow, oppressed with a horror which it is impossible to describe. The room was small-so small, that I had put my portmanteau under the bed to be out of the way; and this had enabled me to see that there was nothing concealed. There was no closet or cupboard; the furniture consisted of the bed, a small table, and a chair. I had locked the door, according to my usual custom; and I had fastened the window. a precaution useless, however, on the third floor against any thing but the keen night air. Surely I am not to be despised for feeling terror under such circumstances. The clothes, I say, were stirred; my left foot was grasped by something resembling innumerable fingers, and in a moment I felt the teeth of a man, or animal, or fiend, meeting in my great toe. I tried to draw up my leg, but it seemed paralysed; I tried to scream, but horror choked my voice; and the teeth munched and munched, mangling the flesh, grating against the bone; and the blood trickled, and then streamed, till I heard it plashing upon the floor. I at length became insensible, partly perhaps through pain, and partly from loss of blood.

I put out my light and went to bed, but not with the intention of resigning myself all at once to sleep. This was the last night of my week's visit; and, as it usually happens at the close of the petty spaces into which our mundane life is subdivided, my thoughts busied themselves in a review of circumstances. Seven breakfasts, seven luncheons, seven dinners, seven teas, seven suppers, seven sleeps-these were all. There was not much variety, one would have thought, and yet there was much confusion. I was not very well satisfied either with my moral or physical history during the period; but yet I returned again and again, with surprising pertinacity, to the task of disentang

I cannot say, however, that I enjoyed so much quiet as I had expected; for Mr Walker spent, as he does to this moment, his handsome income after the manner of "a fine old English gentleman," feasting his friends and neighbours every day of the week. The good cheer was, in fact, excessive; and as our enter-ling the thread of the chronicle. Sometimes it slipped tainer belongs to a school which has well-nigh passed away, it was impossible for me to preserve, even if I had been very strenuously inclined to do so, my usual simplicity of diet. I was there, however, for the express purpose of enjoying myself, and it mattered little in what way this was done. The birds on the table, though without plumage, were certainly better dressed than those in the air; sheep may be beautiful objects capering on the lea, but so are jigots, with caper sauce, in the dish; the trickle of turtle-soup is as musical as the cooing of turtle-doves; and a crab is a far more amiable monster than a critic. In short, I reconciled myself with great philosophy to the substitution of eating and drinking for reading and writing; and the week passed pleasantly away-all but the last night.

I perceive that I have been endeavouring to conceal from myself the next step in the narrative by an absurd conjunction of ideas. I would enter with bravado upon the scene of terror and perplexity I am now to describe. But it will not do. My hand falters as it traces the lines; sweat breaks upon my brow; and

When I returned to consciousness, the shadow was again at the window. My first thought was to spring to the bell, which was almost within reach; but as if divining this, the tormentor was in an instant in the middle of the floor. But I persevered in my intention, for rage and desperation struggled with terror; and my disabled foot was half-way out of the bed, when the shadow glided to my side. I cannot describe the sickness of my soul on feeling its approach. I sunk back as helpless as a child. I shut my eyes. I knew that it was bending over me, that its face was near mineand nearer, and nearer. Then the clothes at my neck were stirred, and then my throat was grasped by the raw damp hand that had just been dabbling in the blood of my foot. At first the pressure was not severe. I tried to count the fingers; I reflected on the pleasure a man is said to derive from being hanged-but all this was soon at an end. The grasp became tighter and tighter, till I felt that there was no hope. I recollected the fate of the gentleman who had died in this very bed. Apoplexy!-bah! He was murdered -he was strangled! The coroner was an ass; who made him a coroner? The gentleman left a family: he had not paid his debts: every thing was at sixes and sevens! But the grasp became tighter, and tighter, and tighter, and tighter. The bones of my

away from my perceptions, but I caught it again with
a start. The noises of the house, in the mean time,
died away one by one. It was profoundly silent, and
intensely dark. The moment had just arrived when
the wearied and puzzled brain sinks into repose, or
else is withdrawn to new labours of which the senses
are unconscious. The bridle of volition was already
relaxed, and the liberated ideas gave themselves up to
all manner of extravagances; but always of a kind
either cheerful or absurd. Inert objects endowed them-
selves with life and motion. A boiled turbot pursued
lazily an oyster-patty through a sea of transparent
soup; a haunch of venison kicked at a roasted goose,
which thereupon waddled up to the transgressor,
stretching out its headless neck, and hissing indig-
nantly. I was half-amused and half-troubled by those
fancies, which I knew to be the immediate precursors
of sleep, when, all on a sudden, I was startled by three
or four deep groans following each other in rapid suc-
cession, and coming, as it seemed, from the breast of
a man in the agonies of suffocation.

Impatient to become acquainted with a place where we expected to spend some months, I took the earliest opportunity of quitting the hotel, and following the tide I had observed, soon found myself at the entrance of a spacious and noble avenue of trees, leading to a promenade, which is justly celebrated as being one of the most beautiful in the world. It is called the Parc, and consists of a range of high ground, running from east to west, parallel with the River Gave, thickly covered with magnificent trees, chiefly beech, and laid out in walks of every variety, some straight and others serpentine, some leading along the highest ridges and commanding the most extensive view, while others wind along the foot of the eminence, beneath the shadow of the loftier trees; and others, still narrower and more intricate, are nearly lost amongst thicker foliage and closer underwood-as if to suit the different tastes and dispositions of the many strangers from distant lands, who meet here to enjoy the luxury of this delicious climate.

And a motley concourse they are: invalids of every stage, from mere delicacy down to the hopeless disease, are seen basking in the sunshine, or leaning on the arms that would be stretched forth, if it were possible, to snatch them from the grave. It is a melancholy, yet in some respects a cheering sight, to meet this class of our fellow-creatures in such a scene; melancholy, to contrast the symptoms of waning life, exhibited in the human frame, with the glow, the richness, and the exuberance of the landscape smiling around; melancholy, to see the solitary invalid pacing to and fro, as if he was endeavouring to outstrip his mortal enemy, or chasing the phantom of health, which still eludes his grasp; and melancholy, too, to see the fondly cherished females, the wives, the daughters, and the sisters, who come here, perhaps, to die. Yet, on the other hand, it is a spectacle which scarcely can be contemplated without feelings of gratitude and joy, to think that there is such an atmosphere and such a scene, accessible to so many of the inhabitants of less genial climates; and that the health and vigour, of which so many are in search, so often are restored to them beneath these sunny skies. Nor are such feelings rendered less intense, but rather deepened in their interest, by a longer acquaintance with these favourite walks; for if, on the one hand, we then behold the glow of health, the firm step, and the renovated frame, where we had been accustomed to the aspect of disease; on the other, we see the sable weeds, or the solitary mourner, left to tell that all has been in vain.

The houses, again, are not in the condition in which an Englishman loves to see them. As in most of the old French towns, the families of Pau live in flats, with an entrance common to all the residents of each building. These entrances are usually very filthy, the stairs being seldom or never washed. In the internal apartments of each flat, matters are somewhat amended. It is true, that neither sitting-rooms nor bedrooms contain any carpets, the floors being merely stained and coated with wax, which is brushed till it becomes of a bright brown, but at no time undergoes a washing. Much neatness, however, is apparent in the arrangement of the rooms in other respects. "No sooner is the door of a salon or bedroom thrown open, than you see the walls adorned with beautiful paper, hand* Summer and Winter in the Pyrenees, by Mrs Ellis. Fisher, picces and other fancy ornaments, with looking-glasses some slabs and fireplaces of marble, elegant time