not topple over, runs to the foremost of a row of sacks beyond the low green door, unties it, and comes back with a handful of exquisitely white flour. She lifts her handful to the nose of Monsieur Furet before he sees her intention, and in an instant the subtle powder spreads, and his face is as white as that of Madame Rousset. Hat, face, spotless coat and waistcoat, all receive more or less, and monsieur's countenance is rueful to behold. Ah, mon Dieu, how giddy I am! Ah, monsieur, I am in despair! But wait an instant; I know a method." 66 She claps both hands together to free them of flour, thereby enveloping her visitor in a fresh white cloud, runs up the steps, and is again beside him with a huge brush, before he has time to get out a word. 66 Ah, madame, I thank you a thousand times, but it is enough. I will not give you this trouble." "C'est ça, c'est ça." This in accompaniment to the vigorous brushings, under which Monsieur Furet's should ders shrink not a little. "Monsieur is quite another thing now." Monsieur bows, but for some moments her tongue goes on click-clack, keeping time with the brush; she gives him no chance of getting a word in. And now she seats herself, brush in hand, with a long gasp of fatigue. Her visitor gladly follows her example. "It is possible that monsieur will not care to mount to see the mécanique up above, as I have had the maladresse so to incommode him, and there is no denying that the stair-ladder is floury. Still, if monsieur has the slightest desire to go up the view from the top is wonderful, all the way - all the way to Le Trait." She makes a movement to rise from her chair; but at this, his first opportunity, monsieur lays his hand on her arm and clears his throat. 66 Madame," he bows profoundly, "do not disturb yourself, I beg. My business is with you absolutely, and not with the mill. I have no sister, madame, no female relative; so it is necessary that I speak for myself. Madame," he bows again," I ask your permission to pay my court to your daughter Mademoiselle Eugénie Rousset." Madame Rousset's eyelids have winked so rapidly during this precisely spoken proposal that she has shaken some of the flour from her light eyelashes into her eyes. This sets them smarting, and she rubs them with her pink knuckles. This demonstration puzzles the suitor. He has risen and removed his hat, and now he stands with it in his hand, half sheepish, half angered. Madame Rousset looks at him and she smiles. “Hé! but monsieur must pardon the flour, for it is in my eyes at this moment. Monsieur must not think I am insensible to the great honor he wishes to confer on our daughter, only," she puts her head on one side and screws up the suffering eyes," I ask myself if monsieur knows how young is our Eugénie. She is but seventeen, monsieur." Madame," monsieur says coldly, "if you object I withdraw my pretensions. I am willing to make your daughter the richest woman in Villequier and to join my interests with those of Monsieur Rousset in his building schemes. I make no objection to your daughter's youth, and your husband, who is a sensible man, will make none either. I am not young, but I am hale and hearty, and I have never had a day's illness." Monsieur Furet puts on his hat and looks sternly at the little bundle of a woman; his profession has taught him how to deal with Madame Rousset. "But indeed, monsieur, a thousand pardons, but monsieur does not understand. I could not intend to make any reflection on the suitability of monsieur as a husband for my little girl; it is only that Eugénie is so young and so much of a child that she is hardly suited to be a companion for monsieur, and " Monsieur seats himself again and waves his hand with dignity. "I am the best judge on this point, madame. Then I may suppose that you are willing for this alliance, and that I am at liberty to make the business arrangements Two hours pass by, and then comes the grate-grate of cart wheels on the stony road. "Sainte Vierge !" The miller's wife runs to an upper window which commands a view of the road. "Is this the father or Eugénie? and how am I to tell them what I have promised? It is possible they may not consent, and then what shall I do?" She comes down to meet her husband with a very scared face. The miller is a broad-cheeked, jolly Norman, with a halfshut corner to each of his blue eyes. He looks genial and good-tempered, but he also looks capable of making an excellent bargain. His face is more serious than usual as he comes up the steps, and his wife sees this and feels yet more nervous. He does not come into the house; he stands lounging against the door-post. There is discontent on his face. His wife looks at him anxiously. She waits till he has lit his pipe. "What is it then, Jacques?" "Ah, what is it, Jeanneton? It is always the same want. I have seen to-day at Bolbec an improvement on our mécanique. Monsieur le Baron de Derville has just procured it from England. Ah! but it is an improvement that I must have at any price. In a year's time I would count my sacks by sixties where I now count twenties, if I could find the money to obtain it for the mill." Madame Rousset could not have said why she had felt anxious that Monsieur Furet's suit should find favor with her husband. Certainly it would be pleasant to hear her daughter called "the richest woman in Villequier," but this is only a new and temporary idea; for she worships Eugénie, and shrinks from the thought of losing her. Why then does her weak nature leap up in joy at hearing her husband's words? "It could not have come at a better time," she thinks, with prodigious relief. "Monsieur Furet will lend him the money, no doubt, if Jacques consents to the marriage." I have had a visitor," she says shyly. Jacques feels aggrieved. He is accustomed to sympathy from the foolish little woman. He gives a twist with his shoulders, turns away sulkily, and goes on smoking. "Yes indeed, a suitor for our Eugénie, who wishes to see thee on business, and to join his interests with thine. What dost thou think of Monsieur Furet?" Jacques takes his pipe out of his mouth and looks at his wife to see if her wits are straying. "Yes, Monsieur Furet; " Madame Rousset bridles, and smooths down her apron with both hands; "and he proposes to make our Eugénie the richest woman in Villequier, if she will be his wife." She gives a quick glance in her husband's face and sees a shrinking there. "I said Eugénie is too young, but Monsieur Furet said she was old enough; he bade me ask thee when he could talk to thee about business." "The agent who brought the machinery goes back to England next week," says Rousset to himself; the struggle of dislike that came at the thought of his lovely little daughter and Monsieur Furet yields as he pictures to himself the results to his mill. "Aha!" he says, aloud, "the miller of Caudebec will learn to laugh the other side of his mouth when he sees my sacks everywhere. Why, I shall be king of the country side!" "Eh bien, Jacques, mon homme, when?" 66 Jacques turns and slaps her gayly on the shoulder: When, my girl? Why, there's no time like the present. I'm going to see Monsieur Furet now." He turns away to go down the steps and stops suddenly, At the foot of the steps is a young girl, blue-eyed and fair-haired like her parents, but with the liquid softness in her eyes and the exquisite bloom on her skin of sweet seventeen. Eugénie is much taller than her mother, and has a well-shaped, well-rounded figure; she wears a sprigged cambric gown, a black jacket, and a white muslin full bordered cap, tied under her chin. "Thou art home first, my father," she says merrily. "Well, I was so tired of Madame Giraud's cart, that I slipped out and came across the fields. Pierrot will bring my marketing. Why," she goes off into a ringing laugh, "mother, what hast thou done to our father? He looks as if he saw a ghost!" Madame Rousset slips past her husband, comes down the steps, and kisses Eugénie on both cheeks and then on her forehead, to give Jacques time to recover himself. He stands with his mouth still open; but by the time his wife has ended her kisses he stuffs both hands, pipe and all, under his blouse into the pockets of his trousers, and clears his throat. "Allons, Jeanneton," he says, "I am going into the kitchen, and thou canst bring Eugénie there. The child must not be kept in the dark." It is an effort to say this, for the new machinery draws him like a magnet; but spite of his love of money-making, Jacques Rousset loves his little girl better than any other part of his life. He seats himself in a broad-backed easy-chair, and beckons to Eugénie as soon as she appears. "Tiens, la petite." He winks at her pleasantly with his sly eyes. "What dost thou say to a husband? tiens!" and he goes off into a suppressed laugh. But Madame Rousset's sense of fitness is outraged. "Tais-toi donc, maladroit!" She frowns her dusty eyebrows at the miller, and sidles up to Eugénie. 66 Ah, but it is no wonder the dear child blushes and looks frightened - just a busband. Mon Dieu! He might be any vaurien. Look up then, my lily, and listen; thy father should have said that a gentleman, a distinguished gentleman," - here Eugénie raises her drooping head, and looks interested," the best parti in Villequier,' - madame smooths down her apron and simpers — "so admires our Eugénie, that he will not be happy till she consents to become the richest woman in the neighborhood." Eugénie's face clouds. "It is the owner of the beautiful garden, Monsieur Furet. Aha, my Eugénie! thou wilt always wear silk, and eat white bread, and drink wine instead of cider. Mon Dieu! what good fortune!" She runs on as fast as she can, for her daughter's pale face frightens her. Eugénie turns her back on her mother and puts her hand on the miller's shoulder. "My father," she says, simply, "Monsieur Furet is an old man, and I do not want to marry." 66 Go away, Jeanneton," says the miller, angrily, and in his heart he mutters, "It is that chattering fool who has done the mischief." Madame retreats in frightened silence, and then Jacques Rousset puts his arm round his daughter's waist. "My little one," there is a wonderful tenderness in the rough man's voice, a tenderness which no one but Eugénie knows of "Monsieur Furet is of middle age- - but he is a hale strong man, and he is kind and good also. See how near his house is to our mill; it will hardly be like leaving home. He can do more for thee, my beloved, than thy father can." "Well, my little one, I do not want to force thy inclination, but it seems to me that thou dost not care for any of our bachelors, even for Sylvestre or Victor Eugénie shakes her head, a little curve of disdain on her pretty lip "and Monsieur Furet is excellent in every way-and - and—well, my child, thou hast guessed it," for Eugénie is smiling slyly into his eyes, "some of Furet's spare cash would enable me to buy the new mécanique, and that would make my fortune." Would it make thee happier?" she laughs mischievously. She is too full of youth and brightness to realize that she is jesting about her life's destiny. "But yes, Eugénie." Jacques stands erect, holding his head rather higher than usual. "The man at the top of the ladder and the man at the bottom are equally content; but the man who has got half-way looks down and sees what he has done, and looks up and sees what is yet to do; there is no happiness until he reaches the top; and I am half-way up my ladder, my little girl." But still Jacques feels in a false position, and makes no attempt to caress his daughter. Eugénie stands thinking. "I "It is all new and sudden, my father," she says. cannot say at once that I will marry Monsieur Furet. I cannot even say," she goes on quickly, for an eager hope shoots into her father's eyes, "that I will ever marry him; but I will try and think of it; and thou knowest, my father, I would do very much to please thee." The sweet blue eyes are so tender as she says these words that Jacques turns away suddenly, and draws the sleeve of his blouse across his eyes. (To be continued.) FUN IN FUR. - A STUFFED Animals' Company (limited) is a comical notion in itself, and the result of its operations, on view just now at the Crystal Palace, is odd and interesting to a degree which mere description cannot adequately convey, because the collection will strike people differently according to their tastes. Every one must be impressed by the advance in the art of Taxidermy evidenced by the tenants of the two long galleries, which are about equally divided into serious and comic subjects, and are entirely unlike the stiff, dull, staring-eyed, stark-coated stuffed beasts of former days, which, beginning with those at the British Museum, - where even the big rhinoceros looks mean, and the golden eagle is only a bird of straw, were the deadest of dead things. To attune his mind perfectly to the inspection of the curious collection, the visitor ought to begin with a peep into Mr. Wilson's office, where he will see a bull-dog, sitting by the wall, so exceedingly natural and so appallingly ugly, that he will start first, and then expect to see Brummy" "under the adjoining table; but the "bull" is only a model, which produces an illusion as complete as does the kennelled mastiff among the frescoes in the Wiertz Gallery at Brussels. It would be well if, in the arrangement of the Wurtemberg collection, a more jungly effect could be produced. At present the platform is a little too apparent, and there is too much sameness in the trees, with one wild beast crouching on each, while his or her companion is pulling down the 66 quarry at its foot. This repetition gives the appearance of an assemblage of individual groups, each having been constructed on a similar plan, rather than the effect intended to be produced by the entire collection, that of a vast space in a land where the fierce creatures have it all their own way, with specimens of them in pursuit of their prey. If the Crystal Palace could have accommodated the Wurtemberg people with a pond, planted a jungle round it, roofed it over, hung the roof and the sides with the climbing growths of the tropical forests, and then dropped the great carnivora here and there, set elephants and camels drinking, hippopotami floating in the water, whence should have protruded a saurian snout or two, with herons and flamingoes among the reeds, kingfishers perched amid the rock-work, and vultures brooding, gorged and gloomy, on the tree tops, the collection would have had real justice done to it. But even under the restricted actual circumstances, the assemblage carries one fascinated into the life of the forest creatures. The attitudes are conveyed in many instances so perfectly, that watching the glide, the subtle serpentine curve of the spine under the sleek, striped, tawny coat, the pounce of the powerful paws, one almost listens for the low, fierce, satisfied growl. This is on the serious side of the gallery, where tigers, who might be the untransmigrated Cleopatra and Antony of Mr. Story's poem, leopards, pumas, bears, elks, and Indian deer, - all worthy to have fallen to the rifle of the Old Shekarry himself, hunt, or fight, or feed, or watch, or rest; each with marvellously life-like action and curiously individual expression, the triumph of the taxidermist's art. The stuffer, in these cases, has considered the subject as a character in a little drama of strong passion and decided action, and there is not a suggestion of the straw bolster and glasseyes to-be-fitted-in-anyhow kind of handiwork which lends a forlorn dreariness to such things in general. These heads are alert, these eyes keep watch. The deer are listening, or calling, or challenging, or their strong, graceful limbs have but just been checked into stillness; the huge American bison, with blood-injected eyes, grinds the writhing jaguar beneath his enormous frame with sheer crushing strength; but the great cat's comrade has seized the lord of "the Barrens," and with ripping claws, rending teeth, and lashing, swollen tail, is tearing the life out of the huge beast, whose size and weight avail little against the lithe ferocity of Felis Onca. Two splendid striped tigers seize a harmless Arabian camel, in the vicinity of his familiar date-palm and prickly pear. The creature shrinks and bends under the weight of the prowling brute who has just flung himself upon him; and the leopards in a neighboring group, who are rending a bontebok, are startling in their intent and greedy blood-thirstiness. Another moment, and surely these brutes, with their lissom muscles strung into the tension of whip-cord, and their growling mouth distended into crimson and black streaks, will be at each other's throats; and the sly lynx yonder, with peering muzzle and soft, uplifted, tentative paw, will have his chance of a quick, furtive snatch. Here is a magnificent lion; and under his forepaws lies a panting negro, with watching, agonized eyes, and raised hand, ready, when the dreadful, roaring, red-hot mouth shall snarl down nearer to his bare, black breast, to strike that sharp, jagged knife between the stretched, foam-dabbled jaws, into the deep chest of the royal brute. A grand animal must have stalked, and hunted, and roared in the jungle, prowled over sands tawny as his own hide and as his topaz-tinted eye, drunk at pools in the night, scaring the lesser creatures from the brackish water, under the black and yellow skin of No. 35, when he lived at home in South Africa, and exulted in the storms which made his hunting easy work, frightening the folk of forest and desert into panic-stricken, ready prey. He was not afraid, not he but just such a lion as William Hewitt taught us to believe in forty years ago, a lion "made to dwell In hot lands intractable, ers. Were a tyrannous, triple band; Lion-king, and desert throne, All the region was his own; a lion concerning whom one asks, looking at him, "When he sent his roaring forth, fell not silence on the earth?" The family groups are very charming: the little wild swine, all striped, like young deer, when they are born, but who grow up with common, coarse, gray coats, like their parents; and the fluffy cub-bears look so cozy and happy, and so surprisingly small, as they nestle snugly round their mothThere is one delightful group, consisting of six European brown bears; the maternal satisfaction of the mother, the gambols of the four youngsters, and the careful pride of Bruin père, who is returning with a lamb for his young barbarians' supper, are so admirable that this family party more properly belongs to the Comic department of the collection. Smaller creatures are scattered all over the ground, innumerable birds perch in the trees; there is a fine collection of hawks and vultures, with all their characteristics perfectly preserved; and a nest of horned owls in a rock-cavity, who have thrown themselves on their backs to repel an intruding wild-cat, and are fighting desperately with their claws, the talons protruded like four spokes of a wheel from the centre, after the fashion of owls, which makes them as difficult to dislodge, when they are fixed, as fish-hooks or harpoon-heads. The pounce and clutch of the huge mother-bird on the wild-cat's breast are really superb. Scaly serpents lie curled up in the mimic grass, or hang in listless festoons from the trees, suggesting the siesta of tropical forest life, or they are stretched upon the ground, with lifted head and glittering eye, so true, so treacherous, that we listen for the rattle or the stealthy clash of the scales. Here is a neat, paddling crocodile, whose cuirass is absurdly like that of Saint George down below in the transept, and conveys just the same uncomfortable tight-sleeved effect; and near him is a pangolin, a mysterious creature, graceful of shape, but clad in scales precisely resembling artichoke-leaves, and of which "natives" make gala costumes. The jackal, concerning whom our early notions are dispelled, for instead of being the "Lion's Provider," we now know he only sneaks after him, and, so to speak, licks the plates, the ocelot, the fox, the wolf, the otter, the great boar-hound, and his fierce, brave enemy, grandly displayed, with a disabled meute around him, and charging furiously, a group of dainty, delicate, quick-eared chamois, taking counsel of the wind and of the echoes, — these are only a few of the objects on which the eye rests as one passes down the gallery, towards the great group at the end. About the middle one's attention is caught by the slow swaying in the air, from the open ceiling, of a huge albatross, its swooping form, with widely extended wings, bent downwards, and its duck-like bill open, as though it were screaming over the waves. This is an unrivalled specimen, and à propos of it we learn a curious fact. A highly esteemed kind of pipe being made by sailors from the wingbones of the albatross, those which answer to the human fore-arm, between the elbow and the wrist, Mr. Wilson gave a commission to some men who sailed northwards with the whaling and sealing fleet last year to bring him some albatross wing-bones. Undeterred by Coleridge, they brought them, to the number of 1000 wing-bones, which have been made into pipes and are being sold in London. There are also three great condors from the Andes, at which one cannot look, though they are standing over their prey, a dead lamb, in a cavity of a rock, and their great wings are furled, without thinking of them calmly swaying in the still, clear atmosphere cleft by Chimborazo's peak, keeping their motionless lookout over ten thousand miles of space, at the height which brings their wonderful inflating apparatus into action, enabling them, like the gannet and other sea-birds all insignificant beside the brooding, roc-like grandeur of the condor, whence so many myths have been derived to fill their whole structure, even to the quills, with hot air, and so to rest passive upon the airwave, surveying the world from their height of 21,000 feet above it. The great group at the end of the gallery is like one of Horace Vernet's desert pictures. A splendid black horse is bounding and pawing the air, snorting with rage and terror, while his rider, a Hindoo, in native dress and accoutrements, turns to finish with a parting shot a superb tigress, already mortally wounded, who is tumbling backwards, the attitude wonderfully preserved. A male tiger is charging the murderer and robber, from whose saddlebow swing the cruel cord tight round their innocent necks-four beautiful little tiger-cubs, whose curled forepaws, curved backs, feebly-protesting hind-legs, and screwed-up, pitiful eyes, convey, with quite distressing fidelity, the agony of strangulation. This group is a masterpiece; the horse especially, without a stiff line about him, and full of movement, is said to be unrivalled amongst the achievements of taxidermy. As we come up the gallery on the opposite side, the comic element prevails. A more dexterous blending of our own notions of fun, frolic, and satire, with the special traits and characteristics of every animal introduced into the numerous groups which line the long wall, and illustrate Fable in its essence and its details, it would be difficult to imagine. The chief interest of the collection attaches to the story of "Reynard the Fox," as related by Goethe, and illustrated by Kaulbach. It is represented in eighteen tableaux, and they are all exquisitely funny, from the first scene of "Reineke Fuchs," which portrays the fox, with a preoccupied, fussy, commandant air, before Fort Malepertus, to the last scene of all, when he rests from his labors, in an attitude the very perfection of dapper dandyism and self-complacency, on a stiff German sofa, with his dainty limbs crossed, and his right paw resting on his breast, with a ludicrous suggestion of its being tucked into a white waistcoat. It would be difficult to decide which is the most admirable of these groups, in all the blending of the animal form with the human meaning is accomplished with such surprising skill; but if one were obliged to choose, perhaps the two which respectively represent the action of the Crow and Hares against Reineke would merit selection, from their fullness and variety of suggestion, and the irresistibly droll, protesting vagabondism of Reineke under the circumstances. Nothing but the Japanese pictures of Kitsné, in Humbert's description of the worship of the Fox, could convey a notion of the humor and meaning with which Herr Ploucquet has animated the skins of the foxes, the hares, the crows, the mice, and other little animals employed in these tableaux. They are succeeded by a series of groups in which animals play the parts of human beings with an astonishing adaptability and finesse of expression. A council of three statesmen, personated by foxes; "Afternoon Tea," by eight little cats; a frog-ball; a skating-rink, at which sixteen hedgehogs - absurdly like skaters wrapped up in gray great-coats - are the performers; six cats and a polecat mourning over a dead relative; a lady in crinoline, with her husband and servant, represented by a cat, a red howling monkey, and a baboon; and a party of six hares, as receivers of stolen goods, surprised by a fox, as policeman, are among the cleverest of these admirable performances. An evening scene about the market-fountains at Stuttgart, in which four dogs flirt with four young geese, the dogs being in uniform, and " quite killing;" and eight geese, who are not flirted with, cackle scandal round the fountain, is indescribably funny; and close to it is a group which combines the humorous with the pathetic with rare power. On a doll's bedstead, beautifully decked, lies a snow-white kitten, attired in a dainty night-gown of lawn and lace, with a delicious little cap of lace and satin ribbon. A tiny bouquet lies on the white coverlet, the faint, feeble head indents a down pillow, the tiny paw lies in the hand of a venerable, accurately-attired, spectacled foxdoctor, who, with solemn mien, announces that it is all over. One cannot look at this without being half ashamed of being touched by the pathos, as much as amused by the fun, of that early death-bed. Near the exit are several beautiful birds, in strangely life-like guise; and as a last glimpse of the ideal and poetic, a superb lyre-bird arches its glistening neck, and curves its shining tail-feathers into the old, immortal harp-form, with the delicate silver threads crossing it for chords, as though tuned for the fingers of Orpheus; and a gorgeous Argus peacock turns its keen head, and spreads its plumed tail, as though wondering at what hour Juno's chariot has been ordered for a drive in the Crystal Palace Gardens. FOREIGN NOTES. THE usual centenary festivities in honor of Ariosto at Ferrara are postponed till next spring. THE Contemporary Review, for October, will contain an important article by Mr. Gladstone on Ritualists and Ritualism. MR. LAYARD, the English minister at Madrid, who is a great admirer and collector of ancient pottery and glass, has just presented some remarkable specimens of old Muranese glass, of the time of Charles V., which he has found in Spain, to the Museum of Murano. IN repairing the pavement of the cathedral at Rouen, there has been discovered in the centre of the nave a heart inclosed in a leaden box. M. Deville, the historian of the tombs of the cathedral, thinks that the heart may be that of Sibylla, wife of Robert II., Duke of Normandy. SWINBURNE'S" Bothwell" has passed to a second edition. The Athenæum understands that Swinburne is now engaged on a critical essay on the Life and Works of George Chapman, to be prefixed to the second volume of the complete edition of his works, of which the first volume has recently appeared. THE Berlin Academy of Sciences has granted a subsidy of 2000 thalers to the African traveller Hildebrand, to aid him in his explorations in Central Africa. This is the largest sum which the Academy has ever voted for such a purpose. According to last advices, Hildebrand was still detained at Zanzibar for want of supplies. THE London Athenæum has an excellent American corD." He is by far the best correspondent respondent in writing from this side of the water. This is not, perhaps, exaggerated praise. What we mean to state is, that "D." not only has something to say, but has the skill to say it in clean, correct English. It is said that Alexandre Dumas fils is the only dramatist elected to the Academy whose pieces have not been played at the Théâtre Français. What is perhaps more strange is to see that the Academy has opened its doors to the son while it refused to admit the father, several of whose plays are still performed at the "house of Molière." THE town of Eisenach has presented to the widow of Fritz Reuter, in perpetuity and free of all charges, the piece of ground in the new cemetery where the poet has been buried. Frau Reuter has commissioned Herr Afinger, who had made an admirable bust of the poet, to execute a monument to be erected over the spot that shall be worthy of the reputation of the deceased. MR. GUDBRAND VIGFUSSON, who is at present in Sweden, has discovered, among the MSS. of the University Library at Upsala, a previously unknown perfect copy of the "Orknöyarsaga," which hitherto has been known only as containing various lacunæ; these are now all filled up. The newly-discovered passages of the Saga, one of which is described as being of peculiar interest as giving a unique sketch of the fisher-life of primitive Scandinavia, will be brought to England, and published there by Mr. Vigfus son. THE Vienna papers assert that the triple sarcophagus of Attila has been discovered at Tisza Zoff, in Hungary. About half a league below Roff some fishermen found in the bed of the Theiss, about eighteen feet from the shore, a place where, on striking with poles, a ringing sound was produced resembling that of brass. The length and width of the object discovered suggests the idea of a coffin, and why not the triple coffin of gold, silver, and iron of the King of the Huns, whom history relates to have been buried in the bed of a river of Hungary? The village of Roff also bears the name of the uncle or brother of Attila. When the waters of the Theiss have become lower, further researches will be instituted. A LETTER from Irkutsk to the Russian Gazette de l'Aca démie states that an expedition has lately reached that town on its way to the heart of China. It is composed of MM. Sosnovsky, Mitoussovsky, who has already travelled to Kobi and Ouliassoutai by the Upper Irtish, a naturalist, physician, etc. The object of the expedition is to visit the tea-plantations and to study the progress of the Doungan insurrection. It is proposed to start from Peking, traverse the whole of Central China to the northwest gate of the Great Wall, and then to make for the Irtish by Ouliassoutai and Kobi. The expedition will also study the means of bringing to the Irtish the tea caravans sent from the western plantations. "PARIS," says La Liberté, "is at the present moment going mad on the subject of ceilings." This will be readily understood when it is stated that the exhibition of M. Baudry's frescoes for the new opera-house is now open at the École des Beaux-Arts. Everybody is rushing to see these much-talked-of works, and the papers are filled with exulting pæans in praise of Baudry in particular, and French art in general. "The arts in France," writes one patriotic critic, are in such a flourishing state that the chronicler becomes embarrassed by the abundance of matter offered to him." The Gazette des Beaux-Arts has been for some months past occupied with M. Baudry's designs, but its illustrations give only a slight idea of the gigantic nature of this monumental work. THE discovery of the remains of Leonardo da Vinci, that was announced so positively in several of the Paris papers, and the news of which was telegraphed to England, turns out to be no new discovery after all, but only a resuscitation of the old bones found by M. Arsène Houssaye in 1863. The Government at that time erected a small monument to the memory of the great painter at Amboise; but the dubious bones were not interred in it, and appear to have remained unnoticed until quite recently, when the Comte de Paris gave orders that they should be placed in a leaden coffin, and buried in the chapel of St. Hubert, in the castle at Amboise, with the following inscription: "Sous cette pierre reposent des ossements recueillis dans les fouilles de l'ancienne chapelle royale d'Amboise, parmi lesquels on suppose que se trouve la dépouille mortelle de Léonard de Vinci, né en 1452, mort en 1519.1874." Hence the whole story. The on suppose somehow got left out in the newspaper version of it. A CURIOUS trial has lately taken place at the Tribunal de Commerce de la Seine, relative to an Aldine Horace. M. Gromier, a bookseller of Bourg (Ain), purchased in a sale with some other books, which he bought for a trifle, an Aldine Horace, dated 1509. He placed it in a book cover of Grolier which had adorned another work, and priced it in his catalogue at 500 francs. It was purchased by the Comte de Jonage. M. Bachelin Deflorenne, the wellknown buyer of old and curious books, applied for it to M. Gromier, who referred him to Count de Jonage; this last expressed his willingness to part with it at the price of 2200 francs, and sent M. Bachelin Deflorenne at the same time a designation of the book, setting forth that it was a Horace of Aldus, dated 1509, in a Grolier binding of red morocco, with his customary inscription, "Johannis Grolieri et amicorum." On receipt of this description, the bargain was concluded; but when it was once in his possession, M. Bachelin Deflorenne declared that his employers refused to accept the volume; that though the book was edited by Aldus, it was not in a Grolier binding made expressly for Grolier, and that consequently the book had never belonged to Grolier. Count Jonage persisted in his demand to be paid the 2200 francs, declaring he had concealed nothing from his purchaser, that the description he had sent M Bachelin Deflorenne was perfectly correct, that the Horace edited by Aldus in 1509 was in a Grolier binding, and that he had only guaranteed the date of the edition and the authenticity of the binding; and that M. Bachelin Deflorenne, an "expert" himself, must have well known from Leroux de Lincy's catalogue of the Grolier library, that the only edition of Horace which belonged to Grolier was of the date 1527, and not 1509. It was in vain M. Bachelin Deflorenne pleaded it was not likely he should have given Count Jonage 2200 francs for a made-up volume, for which it appeared the Count had only paid 200 francs. The tribunal gave the following judgment: "That the book answers the description furnished by Count Jonage, upon which the bargain was concluded; and that if the defendant pretends that he should have had a book with the text of 1509 and primitive binding, the error is his. In his profession of bookseller, and specially of old books, he should have known that the only edition of Horace that belonged to Grolier was that of 1527; that as the parties had agreed upon the price, the sale was good; and that consequently the defendant is sentenced to pay the 2200 francs claimed, with interest, and the costs of the suit." SEPTEMBER. INNUMEROUS chills of Winter smite the air; The linnet shrills, at times, an antique tune; Deep in the west a reeling precipice - The day wanes pale, and yields. The scared sheep huddle near the sheltering cote; Now shall the puce-apparelled iris close; Where late the grape waxed blue; Yet, grieve not that the sun and swallows range, |