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thing beyond and above itself; in the one case a prose epic which exhausts the life of Paris, in the other a philosophical satire which exhausts the life of provincial England. Now epics and philosophy are not for him who runs to read. Accordingly many readers who come to works such as these, expecting nothing more nor less than an entertaining novel, are often disappointed and angry at finding something far greater. They open what they thought a tavern door, and straightway they are in a temple. For our part we think there are not yet too many of such splendid disappointments in the world.

On the other hand, there is no lack of novels to which the foregoing remarks cannot be said to apply, for the plain reason that they will not bear reading through. As to these, if they are to be read at all, it matters but little when and how they are taken up and laid down. We will not say that a novel which cannot be read through has no right to exist, for it may have considerable merit in parts. But then its claims, whatever they are, must not be made in the capacity of a novel; for a good novel is an organic whole, a work of art. The sort of novel we speak of can be treated only as a quantity of printed matter which happens to contain certain brilliant fragments. The rest might be tables of logarithms, or proverbial philosophy, or anything else unreadable. When this is the case, odd minutes will clearly do as well as any other time for picking out whatever good there is in the mass; indeed better, since those favorable seasons whose advantages we have tried to indicate should be carefully reserved for books worthy to occupy them. It may be said, no doubt, with some justice, that there is a vicious reciprocal action in modern literature, hasty reading and careless writing giving one another mutual encouragement. But we believe care and skill always have their reward in the end; and we trust that a deeper culture will in time eradicate the slovenly habits induced in both writers and readers by the present diffusion of superficial taste.

A LIFE'S ENIGMA.

A NORWEGIAN SKETCH.

BY BJORNSTJERNE BJØRNSON, AUTHOR OF "ARNE," ETC.

"WHY sit here?"

"Because it's high and pleasant.”

"But it goes so deep down, it makes me quite giddy; and the sun shines so dazzling on the water; let's go a little farther."

"No

not any farther."

"Just back, then, as far as that green enclosure — it was

so pleasant there." "No-I say not there, either;" and he flung himself down, as if he either could not, or would not, go farther. She remained standing, with her eyes intently fixed upon him.

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Aasta," then he said, "now you must explain to me why it was you were so much afraid of that foreign skipper who came in just in the dusk of the evening."

"Did n't I think that was it!" she whispered, and seemed to wish to avoid the matter.

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Yes, you must tell me before you go, else I shall never come again."

"Botolf!" she exclaimed; and she turned, but still remained standing.

"It's true," he continued, "I promised you I would n't ask any questions, and I'll still keep my word if but then things must come to an end between us.'

you

like ;

She burst into tears, and came over to him, with the sun shining full upon her slender little figure, small hands, and soft golden hair, wherefrom the kerchief had fallen.

He sprang up.

promise you a hundred times not to wish to know about your bygone life, I never have any peace? I can bear it no more." His face, too, did indeed bear a look of longcontinued suffering.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, "you know very well when you come looking like that at me, I always give in to you. But I know, too, that the longer this thing goes on, the worse it gets. Can't you understand that, though I may

"Yes, Botolf, you did indeed promise me to let that thing rest that which I can never, never tell you about. You promised me solemnly; you said you did n't care about it, if you could but have me. Botolf!" she exclaimed again, sinking to her knees before him upon the heather; and she wept as though her very life were in peril, and so looked at him through her fast-falling tears that she seemed at once the loveliest and most miserable creature he had ever seen in all his days.

"Oh dear me!" he exclaimed, rising, but then directly sitting down again, "if you did but love me well enough to have confidence in me, how happy we two might be!

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""

If you, rather, could but have a little confidence in me!" she implored, coming nearer him, still upon her knees, and looking yearningly into his face. "Love you! Why, that very night when your ship had run into ours, when I came up on the deck and you stood there in command, I thought I never had seen anybody so brave and manly; and I loved you from that moment. And then when you carried me over into the boat when the ships were sinking, I once more felt, what I thought I never should feel again, a wish to live." She wept in silence, with her hands clasped together, resting upon his knee. "Botolf!" then she exclaimed, "be good and noble; be as you were when you first took me! Botolf!"

"Why do you urge me so?" he replied, almost harshly. "You know very well it can't be. One must have a woman's whole soul; though for a little while at first, perhaps, one is content without."

She drew back, and said hopelessly,

"Ah. well, then, my life can never come right again!" O God!" and once more she began to weep.

"Trust me with the whole of your life, and not merely a part of it, and it will all come right so far as I am concerned." He spoke cheerfully, as though to encourage her.

She did not answer; but he saw she was struggling with herself.

"Master yourself," he urged: "run the risk of doing as I wish. Things can't be worse than they are now, at any rate."

"You'll drive me to the very worst," she said piteously. He misunderstood her, and continued, "Even if you have to confess the greatest crime to me, I'll try to bear up; but this I can't bear."

"No; and neither can I!" she exclaimed; and she rose. "I'll help you," he said, rising also; "day by day I'll help you, when I only know what this thing is. But I'm quite too proud to be with a woman I don't fully know about; and who, perhaps, belongs to somebody else." A bright flush came over her face.

"For shame! If you talk of pride, I'm a good deal prouder than you are; and I won't have you say such things. So, stop!"

"If you're so very proud, then, why do you leave room for my suspicions?"

"God help me! I can bear this no longer! "No, nor I either; I've made a vow it shall come to an end this day."

"How cruel it is," she wailed out, "to go on worrying and tormenting a woman who has trusted herself so fully to you, and has begged and prayed of you as I have been doing." She was near again beginning to weep, but with a sudden change of feeling she exclaimed, "Yes, I see how it is, you think by provoking and exciting me, you'll get things out of me!" She looked at him indignantly, and

turned aside.

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and wept; then ceased weeping, and returned to her former mood.

"Ah, I knew very well you did n't love me," she heard next, and became in a moment the most humble and penitent of creatures.

Twice she tried to answer, but, instead, she flung herself down upon the heather, and hid her face in her hands. Botolf came forward and stood over her.

She knew he was there, and she waited for him to speak, and tried to prepare herself for whatever he might say; but not a word came, and she grew yet more disturbed, and felt obliged to look up. She sprang to her feet instantly: Botolf's long, weather-beaten face seemed to have become sunken and hollow, his deeply-set eyes staringly prominent, and his whole figure monstrous; and it stood over her with some strange influence that suddenly made her see him once more upon the ship just as she saw him on the night of the wreck; but now his strength was boundless, and it was all turned against her.

"You have been untruthful with me, Aasta."

She turned away, but he followed her, and continued, "And you have made me untruthful, too; there has n't been perfect truthfulness between us a single day ever since we have been together."

He stood so near that she could feel his hot breath; he looked straight into her eyes till she felt quite giddy; she knew not what he might the next moment say or do; and so she closed her eyes. She stood as though she must either fall or rush away: the crisis was coming.

In its prelude of deep silence, Botolf himself became afraid. Still, once more he began in his former strain: "Make everything clear; make an end of all this miserable trickery and concealment do it here now." "Yes," she answered, but quite unconsciously "so 1 do it here- now!"

say

He gave a loud cry, for she rushed past him, and flung herself over the steep. He caught a glimpse of her golden hair, her uplifted hands, and the kerchief, which spread out, slipped off, and floated slowly down after her by itself. He heard no shriek, and he heard no fall into the water below; for it was very far down. Indeed, he was not listening; for he had sunk to the earth.

Out from the sea she had come to him that night at first; into the sea she had now passed away again; and with her, the story of her life. In the midnight darkness of that silent deep, lay all that was dear to him: should he not follow? He had come to that place with a firm determination to make an end of the thing that tormented him this was not the end; and now it could never come; the trouble was, indeed, only now in reality beginning. Aasta's deed cried out to him that he had made a terrible mistake, and had killed her. Even if his misery should become ten times greater, he must live on to find out how all had happened. She, who was almost the only one saved on that fearful night, had been saved only to be killed by him who had saved her. He, who had gone voyaging and trafficking about as if the whole world were nothing but sea and mart, had all at once become the victim of a love which had killed the woman of his choice, and must now kill him. Was he a bad man? He had never heard any one say so, neither had he ever felt it himself. But what if, after all, it were so? He rose; not, however, to cast himself over the steep, but to return to the valley: no man kills himself just when he has found a great enigma which he wishes to solve.

But the enigma of Aasta's life could never be solved now. She had lived in America ever since she had been grown up; and she was coming from there when the ships ran into each other. In what part of America should his quest begin? From what part of Norway she had at first come, he did not positively know; and he was uncertain even whether her family name had not been changed since then. And that foreign skipper? Who could he be? Did he know Aasta, or was it only she who knew something of him? To question thus was like questioning the very sea; and to journey forth to investigate was like plunging into its depths.

Surely he had made a terrible mistake. A woman penitent on account of some guilty thing would have found relief in confessing it to her husband; and one still impenitent would have sought refuge in some evasion or other. But Aasta had neither confessed anything, nor had recourse to any evasion, but had sought refuge in death when he had so tormented her. Such conduct showed no sign of guilt. But why not? Some folks had a great dread of confessing anything. Aasta, however, had no such dread; for she had already confessed there was something about her life which she could never tell him. Perhaps, then, the greatness of her guilt made confession impossible! But she could not have had the burden of any great guilt upon her; for she was often joyous - nay, even full of fun. She was hasty and impetuous, it is true; but she was also very full of tender feeling and kindliness. Perhaps the guilt was some other person's, and not hers at all? Why then had she never told him so? If she had only done this, all would have come right. But supposing there were no guilt, either on her side, or on that of anybody else, how then? But she herself had said there was something she could never tell him. And then how about that foreign skipper she was so afraid of? How was it? In the name of goodness, how was it? Ah, had she been still alive, he would still have tormented her! This thought moved him deeply, and made him reproach and despise himself beyond measure.

Still he began again: perhaps she was not so guilty as she herself believed; or perhaps not so guilty as others might have thought? How often did we do wrong quite innocently, and only through ignorance, though so few could understand that! Thus Aasta had thought that he, who was always full of suspicion, would not understand it. Out of one clear, simple answer, he would have found matter for a hundred suspicious questions; and so she had chosen to confide herself to death rather than to him. Why could he never leave her in peace? She had fled from the things of her past life, and sought refuge with him; and then he, forsooth, must constantly drag them forward and fling them in her face! She was truly attached to him, and showed him all love and tenderness; what right had he, then, to concern himself about her past? And if he had any such right, why did he not say so in the beginning? Whereas, the more her affection had grown, the more his disquiet had grown likewise—when she, not merely through admiration and gratitude, but also through love, had become wholly his own, then, forsooth, he must begin to wish to know all about what she had done and been in days gone by. The more, too, she had pleaded for herself, the worse he had thought of her, and the more he had insisted that there was something he ought to be told.

Then, for the first time, arose the question, had he told her everything? Would it really be right for husband and wife to tell each other everything? Would all be understood if it were told! Most certainly not.

He heard two children playing, and he looked around. He was sitting in the green enclosure Aasta had spoken of a little while ago, but he had not been aware of it till now. Five hours had passed: he thought it was a few minutes. The children had most likely been playing there for long ; but he heard them now for the first time.

What! was not one of them Agnes, the clergyman's little daughter of eight years, whom Aasta had loved even to idolatry, and who was so like her! Good Heavens! how like she was!

Agnes had just set her little brother upon a great stone, where he had to be in school, while she was schoolmaster. Say now just what I say," she commanded: "" "Our Father.' "Ou' Farver."

66

999

"Who art in heaven.'" "'Eb'm."

"Hallowed be thy name.' "'Arvid be name."

"Thy kingdom come.'' "No!"

"Thy will be done."

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'No; s'an't."

Botolf crept away; not, however, because the prayer had touched him; indeed, he had not marked that it was a prayer; but while he looked at and listened to the children, he became, in his own eyes, a horrible wild beast, unfit to come near either God or man. He dragged himself behind some bushes, so that the children might not discover him he was more afraid of them than he had ever been of any one in all his life. He slunk off into the forest, far away from the high road.

:

Where should he go? To the now empty house he had bought and furnished for Aasta ? Or should he go somewhere farther away? It mattered nothing; for wherever he thought of going, he saw Aasta standing there. It is said that when folks are dying, the last object they see is pictured upon their eyes; so, too, when a man awakes to consciousness after doing a wicked deed, the first object he sees is pictured upon his eyes, and he can never get rid of it. Thus, when Botolf now saw Aasta, she no longer appeared to him as she had upon the mountain-slope so short a time before, but she seemed to be a little innocent girl in fact, to be Agnes. Even the picture he retained of her figure while she was sinking down the steep was that of Agnes, with her little hands uplifted. In whatever direction he turned his thoughts and remembrances of the suffering woman whom he had so suspected, they were met by this innocent child, whom he had just heard repeating the Lord's Prayer. In every scene of his life with Aasta from the night of the shipwreck to this Sunday morning the child's face appeared. The thought of this mysterious transformation so preyed upon him, in both mind and body, that in the course of a few days he became unable to take his necessary food, and a little while after was compelled to take his bed.

Soon every one could see he was approaching death. He whose mind is burdened by some great life-enigma acquires a peculiar manner, through which he himself becomes an enigma to others. Even from the day Botolf and Aasta first came to live in that parish, his gloomy taciturnity, her beauty, and the loneliness of the life of both, had been the subject of frequent gossip among the neighbors; and now, when Aasta all at once disappeared, the talk increased until the most incredible things said were the best believed. Nobody could throw any light upon the matter; for none of all those who lived upon the mountain-ridge, or the shore beneath, or who were accustomed to go there, had happened to be looking towards the steep just when Aasta flung herself over. Neither did her corpse ever drift to land, itself to give evidence.

-

Even while Botolf was yet alive, therefore, no end of strange spiritualistic stories were told about him. He became dreadful to see, as he lay there with long, sunken face, red beard and unkempt red hair, growing tangled together, and large eyes looking up like some dark tarn in a deep mountain-hollow. He seemed to have no wish either to live or to die; and so the folks said there was a fight for his soul going on between God and the devil. Some said they had even seen the evil one, surrounded by flames, climb up to the windows of the dying man's chamber to call to him. They had seen the evil one, too, they said, in the form of a black dog, go sniffing round the house. Others, who had rowed past, had seen the whole place on fire; while others, again, had heard a company of devils, shouting, barking, and laughing, come from the sea, pass slowly towards the house, enter through the closed doors, rush furiously through all the rooms, and then go down once more beneath the waves, with the same awful row as they made in coming out. Botolf's servants, men as well as women, left immediately, and told all these tales to everybody. Hardly any one dared even go near the place; and if an old peasant and his wife, to whom the sick man had shown some kindness, had not taken care of him, he would have lain utterly untended. Even this old woman herself was in terror when she was with him; and she used to burn straw under his bed to keep off the evil one; but though the sick man was nearly scorched up, he still kept alive.

He lay in terrible suffering; and the old woman thought at last he must be waiting to see some one. So she asked him whether she should send for the clergyman. He shook his head. Was there any one else he would like to see? To that he made no answer. The next day, while he was lying as usual, he distinctly pronounced the name, "Agnes. Certainly, this was not in reply to the old woman's question of the day before; but she fancied it was, and she rose gladly, went out to her husband, and bade him harness the horses with all speed, and drive over to the parsonage to fetch Agnes.

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When he reached there, everybody thought there must be some mistake, and that it was the clergyman who was sent for; but the old man insisted it was the little girl. She herself was indoors, and heard the message, which frightened her greatly; for she, among the rest, had heard the tales about the devil, and about the company of devils rushing up out of the sea. But she had also heard that there was some one whom the sick man was waiting to see, and must see before he could die; and she did not think it anywise strange that that one should turn out to be herself, whom his wife had so often fetched over to the house before. Agnes' sisters told her, too, that one must always try to do what dying folks wish; and that if she prayed nicely to God, nothing could do her any harm. She believed this, and let them dress her to go.

It was a cold, clear evening, wherein she could see long dark shadows following, and hear echoes of the harnessbells sounding far off in the forest: on the whole, she felt it was rather dreadful, and she sat saying her prayers, with her hands folded together inside her muff. She did not see the devil any where, neither did she hear any company of devils rushing up out of the sea while she rode along the shore; but she saw many stars above her, and light shining straight before her upon the mountain-peak. Up around Botolf's house, all seemed dismally quiet; but the old peasant woman came out at once, and carried Agnes indoors, took off her travelling dress, and let her warm herself at the fire. Meanwhile, the old woman told her she need not be anywise afraid of the sick man, but must just go in to him with good courage, and say the Lord's Prayer to him. Then, when Agnes had got warm, the old woman took her hand, and led her into the sick room. Botolf lay there with long beard and hollow eyes, and he gazed at her intently; but she did not think he looked dreadful, and she was not afraid.

"Do you forgive me?" he whispered.

She supposed she ought to say "yes," and she said "yes," accordingly.

Then he smiled, and tried to raise himself in the bed, but his strength failed, and he remained lying.

She began at once to say the Lord's Prayer; but he made a movement as though to bid her pause, and pointed to his breast. So she laid both her hands there; for this was what she thought he intended her to do; and he directly laid one of his clammy, ice-cold, bony hands upon her little warm ones, and then closed his eyes. When she found he did not say anything after she had finished the prayer, she did not venture to remove her hands, but just began to say it again.

When she had said it for the third time, the old woman came in, looked, and said, "You can leave off now, my dear — he's gone!"

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chronicled with all possible pains and accuracy every word that occurs in his poems. The sole use that a Concordance serves for such persons is that it enables them to find a quotation. Mrs. Cowden Clarke's famous compilation is valuable in their eyes on this account only; and such an end may well seem to fail in justifying the means, seeing that the means involve weariness and painfulness and watchings. But far other is the estimate of such productions that is made by the student. Familiar as he is with the wild assertions incessantly volunteered as to what is Shakspeare's and what is not, he is profoundly grateful for any help in analyzing the genuine work of the poet. The existence of Concordances, and the judicious use of them, might have stifled half the follies of which many a criticaster has been proudly guilty. And the age of criticasters is not past; perhaps, indeed, it is only now fully come. The effrontery of these gentry is amazing. They "have no bands" in their statements. Conscience never makes a coward of them. Now against such persons what is the antidote? How are we to disinfect ourselves and get rid of them? The unfailing antiseptic is facts. They cannot away with facts. Only let facts be laid about everywhere, and they will soon be extirpated. For them and their kind it is difficult to conceive a more deadly book than a Concordance. It is mere hemlock. "By my troth" they "cannot abide the smell of" it. The appearance, therefore, of a companion volume to that of Mrs. Clarke is really a memorable event.

The new volume is in shape uniform with the valuable "Variorum Shakespeare" now issuing by the husband of the compiler. In point of typography there is nothing to be desired.

It contains a record of every word occurring in the Poems, even of prepositions and conjunctions, in short, of every word without exception. The tabulation of the, for instance, occupies no less than twenty columns.

"As it is impossible," runs the Preface, "to limit the purposes for which the language of Shakespeare may be studied, or to say that the time will not come, if it has not come already, when his use of every part of speech, down to the humblest conjunction, will be criticised with as much nicety as has been bestowed upon Greek and Latin authors, it seems to me that in the selection of words to be recorded, no discretionary powers should be granted to the harmless drudge' compiling a Concordance. Within a year or two a German scholar has published a pamphlet of some fifty pages on Shakespeare's use of the auxiliary verb to do, and Abbott's Grammar shows with what success the study of Shakespeare's language in its minutest particulars may be pursued. I have, therefore, cited in the following pages every word in his Poems."

Also the number of the line, not only the number of the poem, in which each word occurs is given, a detail which will save the explorer many a minute. In these two respects, Mrs. Furness's work is more exact than that of Mrs. Cowden Clarke. In one way it is less complete; but no one will grudge the difference.

"Having adopted," says Mrs. Furness, "the rule of recording every word, I thought it needless expenditure of space to insert in every instance the entire line in which a word occurs. I have given the clause in which the word stands and the number of the line, and then, that nothing may be wanting to the convenience of the student, the Poems themselves are reprinted at the end. If in any case the citations appear meagre, the original is instantly accessible."

Mrs. Furness's design is most satisfactory; happily, the execution is no less so. Of course it is improbable that there are not some few errors both of omission and commission. Mrs. Furness is as conscious of this possibility as her "dearest foe"-only there cannot be any such monster could be. "As the pages are stereotyped," she writes, " corrections can be made at any time of misprints, against which it seems no human vigilance can guard, and I shall be grateful to the kindness that will notify me of them." It would, indeed, be a marvel if every entry was faultless, or if no claimant for enrolment had been overlooked; for there are some 33,000 entries, each one consisting of several words, and from one to five fig

ures. Surely the most "hanging" judge in the world would be lenient in such a case, and wink with the utmost readiness at an occasional slip of the pen or the compositor's fingers.

Ubi plura nitent in carmine, non ego paucis Offendar maculis quas aut incuria fudit Aut humana parum cavit natura.

We say that everybody would be willing to show indulgence towards such a minute register. Mrs. Cowden Clarke, with all her excellence, is not independent of indulgence. But we must not speak as if Mrs. Furness stood in special need of consideration. So far as we have at present used her work, we have only found reason to be astonished at the accuracy with which it is executed.

We may just add, that by "the Poems" Mrs. Furness means the pieces usually printed along with Shakespeare's Plays. Some of them are not by Shakespeare; but Mrs. Furness has done well, we think, in following the popular attribution. Those to whom her Concordance will be most useful are in no danger of being misguided.

We heartily thank Mrs. Furness for her work. It is a credit to herself, to her sex, and to her nation. Properly considered, it is a most valuable contribution to true Shakespearean study, by the side of which much of what passes for Shakespearean lore is shown in its full worthlessness.

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MR. WILLIAM BLACK, the author of "A Princess of Thule," etc., is about to publish a collection of his briefer sketches under the title of "The Maid of Killeena, and Other Stories." The chief story, giving the title, is Hebridean, and deals with the life of the fisher-people.

THE last number of The Saturday Review makes the following surprising statement: "We have next to notice a handsome edition of Shakespeare's Midsummer Night's Dream,' published by Messrs. Roberts of Boston, and profusely illustrated by the American artist, Mr. Konewka."

A PARAGRAPH in the Daily News calls attention to the fact that the monument to Bunyan in Bunhill Fields, erected by public subscription in 1862, is already in a very dilapidated state. The figure of Bunyan is crumbling away in places, and much wanton injury has been done to the bas-reliefs.

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ROSSINI had a favorite provision merchant. One day the latter rather bashfully said to Rossini, "I have for a long time wanted to ask you a favor." "Name it," said the maestro. "It is," replied the merchant, "that you will give me your photograph, with a few words under it." "Willingly," responded Rossini, and he took a photograph from his pocket-book, and wrote under it, " To the friend of my stomach."

A STRASBOURG paper complains of the production of artificial wine at Kehl, where there is a large establishment much patronized by Strasbourg wine-merchants, into which a grape has never entered. This colored and sweetened Rhine water is recognized by the Excise as grape wine. In the Rheingau and the Palatinate there are hundreds of similar establishments. The Rhenish and Alsacian winegrowers intend to urge the Reichstag to pass a stringent law against the falsification of wine and other drinks.;

A MAN named Justin has just died at Bicêtre, whose lunacy had a very singular origin. He was an exhibitor of waxwork figures, and one of his models was the figure of a young girl, remarkable for her graceful form and perfect features, her hair falling in long curls over her naked shoulders. Justin showed a latent insanity long before his mind actually gave way, for he fell passionately in love with his waxen Galatea, and would contemplate her in silent admiration for hours. His wife could not be expected to take the matter with such indifference, but her remonstrances only infuriated him. One day she could stand it no longer, and she gave to the wax beauty sundry blows with a broomstick. The enraged husband then tried to kill his wife, but neighbors interfered, and saved her from his violence. Deprived of his treasure, he went mad, and sojourned at Bicêtre five years. To the last, it is said, the vision of his inanimate charmer was before him.

THE details of a case of poisoning reported from Waitzen by the Spenersche Zeitung recall these refinements of murderous science. The daughter of a physician in that place fell dead in her father's room, and it was ascertained that she had died from poison. She had a suitor whose courtship was not regarded by her parents with a favorable eye, and she was, after a time, induced to contemplate marriage with another. The wedding was to take place in a week, when she took a walk with her former lover, at the end of which he left her at her own door, and then went down to his father's country place. He there confessed that he had placed a strong poison, the smell of which alone will kill, in the pocket of his beloved, knowing that as soon as she lifted her handkerchief to her face a

fatal result would follow. It appears from the event that he had not miscalculated the powers of the drug, the nature of which has not yet transpired.

THE Rappel states that MM. Monduit Béchet et Cie., who were charged with the restoration of the Colonne Vendôme, have nearly completed their difficult work, and that the column will probably be set up again in the course of the autumn. The Vendôme Column was not erected according to the original idea of Napoleon I. The first decree for its erection is dated October 1, 1803, and is signed by the First Consul. By this decree we find that the design for the column was to be similar to that of Trajan at Rome, that it was to be ornamented with 108 bronze figures representing the departments of the Republic, and surmounted by a pedestal adorned with olive leaves, on the top of which a statue of Charlemagne, the representative monarch of France, was to be placed. But all this was changed after the great victories of 1806. The column was then consecrated to the glory of the " Grande Armée,” and was cast from 1200 cannon taken from the enemy, Napoleon I. taking the place of Charlemagne. He first appeared in classical costume, but before long the well-known figure of "Le petit Caporal" was set up.

named Giuseppe Ricci, who certainly seems to have taken rather a long constitutional. Having come some months ago from Alexandria to Constantinople in search of employment, but being unsuccessful in his object, Ricci resolved to return to Alexandria. A slight difficulty, however, arose at the very commencement of his journey, owing to the fact of his having no money,—a serious drawback to a bonâ fide traveller, for, notwithstanding the "wretched impotence of gold," it is uncommonly difficult to travel comfortably without it. Ricci at first tried to work his passage back in a steamer or ship, but failing also in this endeavor he set his face resolutely southwards, and determined to work or beg his way to Egypt. He accordingly started off "with a light heart and a thin pair of breeches," and after marching for 158 days across the peninsula of Asia Minor, and along the coasts of Syria and Palestine, he arrived in safety at Alexandria, where, by latest accounts, he was enjoying the repose he was justly entitled to after his fatiguing walk.

A REMARKABLE pedestrian feat has, according to the Finanza of Alexandria, been lately performed by an Italian

A HIATUS in a theatrical placard caused by an oversight or a practical joke has lately mystified the public of Bordeaux. The talented actress Mile. Paola Marié has been delighting play-goers in that city; but as the time of her sojourn on the banks of the Garonne drew to a close, the manager of the Théâtre Français posted up a notice stating that the engagement of Mlle. Paola Marié expiring on Friday next, the "Périchole" would be played but four times more. The words "the engagement of" did not, however, appear on the placard, which therefore bore the sinister announcement that, Mile. Paola Marié expiring on Friday next, the " Périchole" would be played but four times more. The faithful admirers who bastened to pay their last homage to the popular actress and to witness these four "positively the last " performances sought in vain, it seems, for any symptom, in the countenance and manner of their favorite, of a state of health justifying so serious a reason for the cessation of her performance of the part of Offenbach's lively heroine. They took care, however, in spite of many favorable signs, to keep on the safe side by showering down in the shape of bouquets as many sweets to the sweet" as graced the fair Ophelia's funeral.

"6

A CORRESPONDENT of the Times has written a singularly interesting account of what may fairly be called the disinterment of the Coliseum, now proceeding under the direction of Signor Rosa; and the picture which it presents of the engineering ingenuity, as well as architectural splendor, which the Romans devoted to their truculent sports is rather awful. The excavations have now laid bare part of the Arena, which is proved to have been a solid floor, paved with herring-bone work, and not a movable platform. Upon the arena converged a number of large, tunnel-shaped corridors, having a series of lateral chambers, vast enough to accommodate scores of animals, and with an adjustment of gates such that, without danger to the keepers, even the hundred lions, recorded by Vopiscus as having bounded on its floor together, might be admitted to the view of the 87,000 lords of creation in the Amphitheatre. A magnificent corridor, not yet perfectly cleared, but having evidently no lateral galleries, doubtless represents the passage through which the gladiator emerged to his duel and the martyr to his cross. Through it, too, it would seem, were removed the slaughtered corpses and carcasses, while the applause of the audience and the bellowing of the other beasts waiting for their gates to swing round must have made terrible harmonies.

THE Moniteur de l'Armeé calls attention to the fact that the sword of the late Latour d'Auvergne, "premier Grenadier de la France," has been left by his nephew, lately deceased, to Garibaldi; and the French military journal expresses a hope that some means may be taken for preventing its departure from France, so that it may remain as an heirloom in the country, if not in the family, of the illustrious private. Latour d'Auvergne was killed just seventy-four years ago, at Oberhausen; and the curious and somewhat melodramatic practice was thereupon

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