of fortresses naturally suggested the towers, battlements, keys, portcullises, and battering-rams seen on many escutcheons. One of the most singular bearings in existence is that of the ancient Scottish family of Dalziel-namely, a naked man hanging from a gallows with his arms extended-a bearing of honour, though so liable to be taken for the reverse, since, if 'hoar antiquity may be believed,' it was granted to perpetuate the memory of a brave and hazardous exploit performed by an ancestor of the Earl of Carnwath, in taking down from a gallows the body of a favourite kinsman of Kenneth II., who had been hung up by the Picts. A reward having been offered by the monarch to any one who would rescue the corpse, none were inclined to venture, till a gentleman of the family of Menteath came to the king and said 'Dal-zel' (Gaelic for 'I dare '), and having performed the task, assumed the above arms and the surname of Dalziel. Such at least is the legend.

The 'differences' borne to distinguish the younger branches of a family are said to have a hidden moral in them. The crescent of the second son indicates that there is room for the increase of his fortune; the mullet, or spur, of the third, hints that he must up and ride if he means to get anything; the martlet, or swallow without feet, of the fourth, reminds him that he must keep upon the wing, having no land to stand upon. These allusions are probably imaginary.

The origin of 'supporters' is much disputed by heralds, some maintaining them to be derived from the custom of an individual about to be invested with some dignity being led to his sovereign between two nobles, in remembrance of which he chooses two noble animals or figures to support his arms. Menestrier, the French heraldic writer already referred to, traces the practice to that of ancient tournaments, in which the knights caused their shields to be carried by pages in the disguise of lions, bears, griffins, blackamoors, and the like, who also held and guarded the escutcheons exposed to public view some time before the lists were opened.' The probability, however, rather is, that supporters were introduced as a sort of ornamental garnish to the shield, and originated in the taste or caprice of the seal-engravers. Their use is at present confined, in England, to the nobility and Knights of the Garter, with the addition of a few untitled families who have received a royal grant for some special service. In Scotland, the chiefs of clans and baronets of the Nova Scotia creation are also entitled to them.

Formerly, abbeys and religious houses bore arms; trades, guilds, and corporations bore them, and fought gallantly under them too; towns and cities likewise had their escutcheons, as well as the universities, and their several colleges, schools, and public hospitals. They are, in most cases, still jealously preserved, and employed on the seals of these bodies, on their badges of office, and for other purposes. Every bishopric, as already mentioned, has its shield and armorial bearings, in this country as well as throughout the continent.

Blazoning was not confined to the shield; but, at the time when arms were really worn, was likewise displayed on the surcoat, the mantle, and the just-aucorps or bodice. On these, the charge was usually embossed in beaten gold, or embroidered in resplendent tissue. Richard II. carried this magnificence of decoration to its highest pitch; but long before his reign, the knights and nobles of France and England were accustomed to plunge into the dust and blood of battle arrayed in the most costly and splendid attire. Sir John Chandos lost his life at the affair of Pont de Lussac owing to the rich and long robe he had on over his cuirass, which Froissart describes as 'blazoned with his arms on white sarcenet, argent a pile gules, one charge on his breast, the other on his back.' A curious document, entitled The Apparel of the Field of

a Baron in his Sovereign's Company, contributed by Sir Frederick Madden to the twentieth volume of the Archæologia, gives an inventory of the equipments for a foreign campaign of Henry, the fifth earl of Northumberland, the same whose Household Book is so well known. It describes, in the earl's wardrobe, his harness and cote-armure beaten with his arms quarterly,' with a large number of coats, standards, banners, and hundreds of pennons, all 'beaten' or powdered with my lord's arms.'

Badges of cognizance' were sometimes called 'signs of company,' a phrase explanatory of their use. Retainers of every description bore the badge of their lord, and the minstrel of a noble house wore it suspended to his neck by a silver chain. The bear and ragged staff' of the earls of Warwick, the 'buckle' of the Pelhams, and the 'annulet' of the Cliffords, are well-known badges of ancient baronial families. The badges of the House of Lancaster were the antelope and the red rose, and a swan 'gorged and chained.' Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby

wore the first and last of these embroidered on green and blue velvet when he entered the lists near Coventry against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray.? And in that age of factious broils and civil warfare, badges were thought of sufficient importance as party symbols to be forbidden by statute-particularly Richard's white hart, which was so frequent an annoyance to Henry IV. In our own days, we have seen the violet and the fleur-de-lis proscribed in turn for a similar cause. The Scottish clans commonly employed as badges a sprig or branch from some tree or bush: Chisholm, the alder; Menzies, the ash; Buchanan, the birch; Maclean, the blackberry; Buccleuch, the heather; and so on.

The charge and cognizance were, moreover, profusely embroidered on the trappings of the war-horse and the draperies of the tent; but above all, they were blazoned conspicuously on the standard and banner of the sovereign, noble, and banneret, and the pennon of the knight. These were borne before them in all warlike expeditions, often planted on the field by their side, hung out at their temporary lodgings, suspended from the roofs of their halls, and finally reared to droop in sympathetic decay over their graves.

The architect made a liberal use of arms, as well as of crest and badge, in the adornment of both the exterior and interior of his buildings, ecclesiastical, civil, or domestic. They were sculptured on the walls and over doorways and windows, enriched the gables, drips, corbels, and pinnacles, were painted and embossed on ceilings, and introduced, above all, in stained windows. On every piece of furniture they were carved in profusion, embossed on plate, embroidered in the richest manner in gold and silver upon silk or velvet, on canopies, arras, the coverlets and draperies of beds, cloths, and vestures of numerous kinds. The heralds wore them on their tabards, which were and are literally coats of arms.' But one of their most ancient and solemn uses was on seals, the seal of a knight or noble affixed to a deed being a convenient substitute for his signature, when, as was usually the case, he could not write-a desirable confirmation of it when, by miracle, he could.

On sepulchral monuments, arms were splendidly and profusely sculptured and blazoned; none, however, appear on the most ancient monumental effigies preserved in our churches and cathedrals. One of the earliest on which they occur is that of Geoffry Mandeville, Earl of Essex, in the Temple Church. He died in 1148, in the very infancy of heraldry. The general use subsequently made of heraldic scutcheons as an ornament to tombs and a memorial of the family alliances of the deceased, is observable in all our cathedrals and churches; in which also the hatchment,

or funeral achievement, of the departed was usually preserved as long as its more perishable materials permitted, together with, in many cases, the real arms in which he had fought. Over the tomb of Edward the Black Prince, in Canterbury Cathedral, there still hang his shield and surcoat, embossed and embroidered with the arms of England and France, with his gauntlets and the scabbard of his sword. The sword itself is said to have been taken away by Oliver Cromwell. Of the genuineness of these remains, we believe no doubt is entertained.

But without exhausting our subject, we are afraid we have fully exhausted the reader's patience; we therefore bring our lucubrations to a close, although we are thereby necessitated to leave many strange charges entirely unnoticed.

What needless misery it would have cost her! This letter is almost the duplicate of the one we received from Venice, and I think he must have mislaid this and written a second, which he has since forgotten. It appears to have been wet; it is not very legible; and we have just made out that the post-mark is Milan, which is odd, when the postscript is dated Aleppo. Can he be on his way back?

'But, O Everard, how ill I have behaved to Krasinski! Will he ever return to me, or think of me again? Perhaps, when he can bring Arthur with him, he may, if he really loved me as he said he did; but he has never written, nor did I expect he would, for he is very, very proud.'

KRASINSKI: A TALE.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS.-CHAP. IV.

'What a place to come to on such an errand!' exclaimed Edmonds.

'A very good place to come to-never mind the errand,' said De Rosny, smiling.

They employed themselves as people usually do on their first arrival at that fascinating capital; and they had a very good excuse in doing so, since they had no directions how else to proceed-a circumstance which eased their consciences when they thought of the ghost, which was not very often amid so many amusements. Moreover, not long after they arrived, they received a letter from the host of the Leone Bianco, to whom, at the instigation of Emma, they had written to make inquiries on the subject, saying that, on reference to his books, he found that it was not on the 9th, but on the 10th of April that Arthur and Krasinski had quitted Venice. Naturally, this discrepancy discredited the ghost considerably, if ghost there was, though Everard was by no means free from anxiety about his brother.

However, his uneasiness was shortly still further lightened, by a letter from Emma, conveying the pleasant intelligence that they had at last heard from Arthur.

'But you will wonder at his carelessness, well as you know him,' she said, 'when I tell you that the letter was written at Venice in April, though we have only just received it! He writes to acknowledge the receipt of the money he had sent for; and says that he is about to quit Venice, and try to rejoin M. de Rosny at Rome-M. de Rosny having been called away several weeks ago-and that he is tired of waiting for him, especially as his friend Count Krasinski is leaving for England, and that he shall go on with M. de Rosny to the east. He says he has given Krasinski an introduction to mamma, and advises me to take care of my heart, as he is a "handsome nice fellow, and sings like a nightingale;" and so he certainly does. He concludes with begging us not to be uneasy if we get no letters, as he shall be constantly on the move, and have no time to write. Of course, a letter written so long ago would have gone for nothing, and mamma was in a dreadful way when she read it; but, on turning the leaf, we found a postscript dated Aleppo, begging a thousand pardons for his having forgotten to post the letter, which, to his horror, he had just found in his desk. He adds: "I am all right; but I've sprained my wrist by a fall from a camel, and am obliged to scrawl this with my left hand; so no more from your affectionate brother."

'How lucky that I never told mamma of my dream!

husband by your folly.'

All anxiety regarding Arthur being thus removed, De Rosny, feeling that his mission was at an end, announced his intention of leaving Naples. He invited Everard to accompany him northward; but the latter declined, alleging that he liked the place, and, his leave being nearly expired, it was not worth his while to move.

'Confess,' said De Rosny, 'you don't like to leave the beautiful Russian? When I am gone, who knows but she may pay you another visit.'

'I have no such hope,' answered Everard; 'she will scarcely return my bow when I meet her on the stairs, though I take off my hat with an admirable grace, and endeavour to look as killing as I can.'

'Well, you will have the consolation of listening to her delicious voice, at all events,' said De Rosny.

'That's a dangerous pleasure, so I mean to relinquish it,' answered Everard. These apartments are too expensive for me when I am alone, and I shall remove to the Hôtel d'Italia.'

The beautiful Russian alluded to was the Countess Stephanie Menchikoff, and Everard's acquaintance with her had originated in a singular incident.

On their first arrival at Naples, or, at least, after they had been there a few days, but before the intelligence from Venice and London had destroyed all faith in the apparition, De Rosny, who, sceptical as he was, did not like the idea of another interview with his midnight visitor, observed, that it was very perplexing, if anything was required of him, that he was not told what it was.

'Here we are at Naples, but what are we to do? Unbeliever as I am, complied so far as to go to Malta-where, however, I probably should have gone in any case, though not quite so soon-and I have accompanied you here; but what next? How are we to proceed? It would be much more to the purpose if the ghost had directed us what to do.

'But that's always the way in ghost-stories,' replied Everard. "There is always something that renders their proceedings incomprehensible and abortive. He ought to pay you another visit, and explain his intentions.'

'Well, to confess the truth, I had rather be excused unless, indeed, we were together. I should have no objection to that sort of thing if I had company; indeed, I should rather like it. A man, when he is alone, under such circumstances, is not master of his mind; his recollection afterwards is confused, and he does not know whether he is asleep or awake. Suppose we invoke the spirit some night when we are together!'

'With all my heart!' said Everard. 'Why not this

very night? With a bottle of Lacrimachristi, and some good cigars, we may get through the night; and if nothing comes of it, we shall, at any rate, have the satisfaction of feeling that we have done all we could in the business.'

Accordingly, having spent their evening very agreeably in hearing an opera of Rossini's, they established themselves in their salon, when the other inhabitants of the hotel went to bed; and with their wine and their cigars, prepared to pass the night.

They chatted for some time about the music and the singers they had heard, till all seemed perfectly quiet in the hotel; and then Everard proposed that they should collect themselves, and solemnly invoke the spirit-it must be admitted, however, without the smallest expectation that their invocation would have any effect.

You had better pronounce the invocation,' said De Rosny; 'but I believe we should put out the light first: here are the matches to light it again.'

The candles being extinguished, Everard, in a low, earnest voice, called upon his brother, if he were dead, to appear to them, and instruct them how they should proceed to effect whatever purpose he designed in sending them to Naples.

A short silence ensued, and then, to their amazement, they heard the handle of the door turn. De Rosny, who, from his own experience, was naturally less incredulous than Everard, pressed his companion's arm:-the door opened, and they saw by the gleam of light that entered from the staircase, where a lamp burnt all night, a ghostly figure glide in, and, with noiseless step, cross the room towards the window, where it paused, waiting, as Everard-who now really believed it to be his brother-supposed, to be spoken to. Overcome with awe, he rose from his chair, prepared to address the apparition; but at the first motion he made, before he had time to utter a sound, the figure fled with such precipitation, that Everard, who pursued it, only reached the door in time to see the tail of a white petticoat disappearing on the stairs above. However, he heard a door close on the second floor, and De Rosny, who was following, exclaimed: Quel dommage! Voilà un revenant avec qui je ferais volontiers connaissance!'

'Whether she is pretty, I can't say,' rejoined Everard, 'for I only saw her petticoat-tail, but she is young to a certainty. I never beheld such activity. She was up the stairs like a bird! Her feet scarcely touched the ground! What could have brought her here at that identical moment? One would think she knew of our design, and was playing us a trick.'

'Impossible,' returned De Rosny; 'nobody knew of it. Probablement, elle s'est trompée de chambre.'

This was the most feasible explanation: they enjoyed a hearty laugh at their own expense; and, the solemnity of their vigil being utterly dispelled, they went to bed. The next day, they asked the waiter, without telling the motive of the inquiry, who lodged over their heads, and they were informed it was the Countess Stephanie Menchikoff, and that she had previously occupied the lower floor, but had moved, the day the young men arrived, to one less expensive. The waiter added, that she was très belle, and a very fine singer; 'elle a une voix charmante,' he said. Whether she was married, he could not say; nobody visited her but her brother.

After this, the young men made several efforts to become acquainted with the fair stranger; but she resolutely discouraged all their advances, in spite of a good deal of perseverance on the part of Everard, who was considerably épois; which was not to be wondered at, for she was really a beautiful woman, and her voice, as the waiter said, was charmante. He often spent half the evening, when De Rosny was otherwise engaged, at her door, listening to her enchanting strains. Some

times her brother was with her, and they sang together, with exquisite taste and skill.

One evening, as he was ascending the stairs, he met this brother-a tall, fine-looking, dark man, bearded and moustached, who started back with apparent surprise, and evinced so much annoyance, that Everard relinquished the indulgence of listening to the music, lest he should get into a quarrel that would end in making him ridiculous, since the lady certainly gave him no encouragement.

His ill success diminished his regret at removing to his new apartments, which he did the day of De Rosny's departure. As he had formed acquaintance with two or three young compatriots, he got on pleasantly enough, till his leave had nearly expired, when he wrote to De Rosny, who was at Rome, to announce his approaching departure, and to mention also, that when he was packing up at their old hotel, he had found a valuable ring of De Rosny's in one of the drawers of the chiffonier in the salon.

'I should have sent it before,' he added, "but I could not find a safe vehicle. Yesterday, however, I chanced to meet that little fig-merchant that was on board the packet with us, and as he said he was starting for Rome, I have ventured to intrust it to him-I mean the fellow that had that comical souse in the water. Heaven knows whether he is honest; but I have not told him the value of the parcel. Pray, write immediately, and say if you have received it, as I shall not feel happy till I know it is safe.'

Two days after this letter was forwarded, Everard discovered that he had been robbed of the money that had been remitted to him from England to pay his bills and his passage-money to Malta, and also of a set of diamond studs and some other articles of value. How or when this robbery had been committed, was as difficult to discover as the thief. It might have been done in the night, or while Everard was out the preceding evening. People of all countries and languages were incessantly coming and going; several had quitted the hotel that morning, and no suspicion attached to any one in particular. Of course, this delayed his departure; he wrote to his commandingofficer to account for his absence, and to De Rosny to acquaint him with his misfortune; but instead of an answer by letter-indeed, before he could have received one-De Rosny arrived himself. Everard, supposing he had come to relieve him of his difficulties, eagerly welcomed him.

you may

'How kind this is of you!' he exclaimed; imagine what an awkward fix I'm in!' 'Why?' said De Rosny, looking astonished. 'What has happened?'

'Haven't you received my letter?' said the other. 'Yes, and the ring also.'

'But my subsequent letter?'

'No; I started almost immediately-at least, the day after the Greek brought me the ring. But what's the matter?'

Everard thereupon related what had occurred. 'Very vexatious!' said the other; but console yourself with the reflection that your loss is nothing to mine at Venice.'

'It's as much to me,' replied the lieutenant, because you're a rich fellow, and the loss of your jewellery and other little matters is nothing to you. But if you have not had my letter, what has brought you back to Naples?'

You shall hear,' replied De Rosny. That ring you sent me by the Greek is part of the plunder of the rogue who robbed me at the Leone Bianco.' 'Is it possible?' said Everard.

'Quite true, I assure you,' answered De Rosny. 'Good heavens !' exclaimed Everard, turning pale. 'Then probably the rascal who committed the robbery is actually here-and my brother'—

"That is the point,' returned De Rosny. Everard sank into a chair, and covered his face with his hands-'My poor brother!' he exclaimed. 'Poor Arthur!'

'We are certain of nothing yet: the man that stole it may have parted with it-it may have passed through many hands since; but, to say the least of it, it is a curious coincidence, that here, where we have come in compliance with the directions of the ghost or dream, whichever it was, we should stumble upon the first trace of the thief."

"You have not heard of it?'
'Not a word! Where? At Naples?'

'At Naples. A trap was laid for him, and he was caught robbing somebody at the Hôtel d'Italia; and since he is found to be an escaped forçat with the mark of the bagne on his shoulder, he is condemned to death, and I am going to see the execution; for, to say the truth, he is an old friend of mine.'

'I compliment you on your acquaintance.' 'Well, he was the most plausible fellow in the world. I think he would have deceived the devil himself.

"The first thing to be done,' suggested De Rosny, 'is to find out who inhabited those rooms.'

"The Russian countess left them the day we went in; but she can have nothing to do with it; besides, it may have lain for some time where I found it. It was quite at the back of the drawer of the chiffonier-the drawer I used to keep locked, where I put my money; and I should not have seen it, but that, in my haste, as I was coming away, I pulled the drawer quite out.' 'Well, we must get what information we can,' | replied De Rosny; but the difficulty was, how to get any that was available. The master of the hotel said that the Countess Stephanie had lodged there some weeks; before her, the rooms were inhabited by an English family; who were preceded by some Turks of distinction; and so forth; and as they were very expensive apartments, all the occupants had been of the higher class. All he could say was, that nobody had ever complained of the loss of such a ring; and that it was quite uncertain how long it might have been in the drawer. They spoke to the inspector of police, who shrugged his shoulders, without making any remark.

This affair occupied them a good deal for some time. They were unwilling to believe that the clue, so unexpectedly found, was to lead to nothing; besides, Everard had begun to be seriously alarmed about his brother, and the letters of his mother and sister expressed considerable uneasiness.

'How should that letter of Arthur's,' said Emma, 'have been posted at Milan? If he was then on his way back, which he surely must be by this time, if he has not long ago returned, why does he not write again? His conduct is inexplicable, if he is alive and well. How came that letter wet, too? Does it not seem as if that had some connection with the drowning? But then the landlord of the hotel says he left on the 10th of April. Altogether, it is very perplexing, and keeps mamma in dreadful suspense. What would her case be, if she knew all ?'

Notwithstanding these reasons for anxiety, they were obliged to resign themselves to inaction, since they knew not how to take advantage of the hint afforded by the ring; and as Everard had procured an extension of leave, he resolved to accompany De Rosny to Rome. After spending a fortnight there in sight-seeing, he took his place in the public conveyance to return to Naples, and found himself seated beside the Greek fig-merchant, whom he saluted, and thanked for having safely delivered the parcel he had intrusted to him.

'It was very lucky I met you that day,' said he, 'for the parcel contained a very valuable diamond ring belonging to Monsieur de Rosny, which otherwise never would have reached its owner; for I was robbed that night of all my little valuables, and my money too. A rascal got into my room at the hotel, and plundered me of everything of value, except my clothes.'

'Ah, no-that would not suit; they are not portable enough. So you were one of the victims. You know he is taken ?'

"Who? The thief?'

and lodged with my sister at Milan. He was the cleverest fellow, too, I ever met! He spoke French and Italian like a native, and, indeed, generally passed for an Italian, though he was in reality a Russian. I should think he would have made his fortune in your country if he could have been honest. He was connected with the Carbonari, too, and was at one time employed as a spy, which, I suspect, is the real reason why they take his life.'

Did you ever hear if he had a sister?' asked Everard, struck with a sudden thought.

'No,' replied the other, 'I never heard of his having a sister; but he fell desperately in love with a danseuse: a beautiful woman she was; and she had a sweet voice, too, though not of sufficient power for the theatre. I believe it was a real attachment, for he took her from the stage, had her voice cultivated, and married her; and for some time they made an excellent thing of it. They went to Paris, and had great success as chambersingers; but wherever he went, somehow, something unpleasant happened, and I lost sight of him for a long time. I had a strong suspicion, lately, that he was on some new course of action. He was very shy of his former acquaintance, and seemed very flush of money. He used to pretend not to see me when we met; but a few months since I was taking a cup of coffee in the Corso, when he happened to pass, and saluted 'me quite in a friendly manner. I thought he wanted something of me; and when he sat down beside me, and called for some curaçoa and cigars, I felt sure of it, and buttoned my breeches pocket. However, it was not money he wanted, but only that I should put a letter for him into the post at Smyrna or Aleppo.'

'But how did he know you were going there?' 'Oh, he knew that my business carried me there frequently. I forgot the letter, however, and never thought of it till I got back to Milan.'

"To Milan? And did you post it at Milan?' 'Yes, I did.'

'Have you any recollection of the address of that letter?' inquired Everard.

'None, except that it was addressed to somebody in England,' answered the Greek.

'May I ask you if that letter ever got wet while it was in your possession?'

To be sure it did; don't you remember my falling overboard? I had it in my pocket-book then. Why do you ask?'

Overcome by surprise and emotion, Everard could scarcely answer; but as soon as he could speak, he gave his communicative companion a sketch of past events; adding, that the finding of the ring, and this remarkable disclosure about the letter, led him to suppose that the thief under condemnation was also the murderer of his brother, and that the revelations of the ghost were but too correct.

The Greek, to whom such beliefs were not strange, had no difficulty in accepting the evidence, and confirmed at once Everard's suspicion in regard to the Countess Stephanie.

'It seems that he has been carrying on this system of plunder some time,' said he: his wife always had apartments in a first-rate hotel; he never took

anything bulky, and he deposited his spoil with her. It was a capital scheme! In his own apartments, nothing could be found; and who would have thought of searching a great lady's rooms at a hotel? He had several disguises; and they say his make-up, and his familiarity with different languages, rendered it almost impossible to detect him; besides, the fellow is half a comedian.'

Furnished with this information, Everard's first care was to send back a messenger to De Rosny, which he did from Velletri, urging his following him to Naples immediately; and he accordingly arrived almost as soon as himself.

'But what is this fellow's name?' inquired De Rosny.

'Caldesi is the name he went by at Milan; but the Greek says he has several aliases, and that to his knowledge he sometimes passes for an Italian or a Frenchman. I have already applied for an order to see him, and was most anxious for your arrival; to-morrow he is to be executed.'

But although the English ambassador was appealed to, the order was not to be obtained. "The criminal has confessed and made his peace with Heaven,' said the priest; his last moments must not be disturbed;' and all their exertions could not procure a reversal of this decree.

They were inexpressibly disappointed; but anxious at least to see the man whom Everard now feared might be the murderer of his brother, they were early at the place of execution. The scaffold was erected in the Piazza Cavalcotojo; and the ambassador, though he could not obtain permission for them to visit the prison, provided them with an order that secured them an advantageous situation from which to view the last moments of the culprit. But early as they were, soldiers, who have their part in all such ceremonies on the continent, lined the square, and crowds of lazzaroni and other curious spectators, eager to see how a fellow-creature died, were already assembled.

With difficulty the two friends reached their places; and they were not long seated, before a murmur and movement among the crowd announced that the procession was at hand. A group of people approached; uniforms glittered in the sun, contrasting with the black and gray robes of ecclesiastics; and, surrounded by the Bianchi, carrying crosses covered with black, they could just discern an uncovered head. De Rosny was silent; Everard could scarcely preserve the semblance of composure; he felt as if the next few moments would reveal a terrible secret.

The procession stopped behind the scaffold; and some minutes elapsed before the chief figure in this awful scene ascended the steps, and appeared accompanied by one of the padri assistenti, to whose assiduous ministrations, to judge by his attitude, he was attentively listening. After a few words spoken, the confessor appeared to give him his blessing, and then the unhappy man raised his head to take his last look at the world he was leaving.

'Ciel!' cried De Rosny, starting from his seat; and as he did so, the eye of the criminal met his. A glance of recognition and indomitable resolution acknowledged the acquaintance.

'Krasinski !' murmured De Rosny, in a voice stifled by agitation.

Everard seized his arm, and, livid with emotion, rose too; then the eye turned on him, and quailed-Arthur and Everard Edmonds might have been taken for twins, they resembled each other so remarkably.

'I read my brother's murder in his face!' he gasped out.

De Rosny significantly bowed his head.

A moment more, and the signal was given; the tragedy of death was over; and the possessor of all those rare endowments was gone to account for the

use he had made of them, carrying with him the secret that was never to be disclosed.

A piercing scream, and a movement among the crowd near a woman who had fainted, testified to there being one heart amidst the thousand that beat for Michel Lowstoff.

All efforts to discover Stephanie failed. Arthur Edmonds was no more heard of; and the only thing ever ascertained was, that he and Krasinski had quitted Venice on the 9th of April. On being personally interrogated, the landlord of the Leone Bianco called to mind that the bill had been ordered and made up for the 10th; but that on the morning of the 9th, for some reason unknown to him, they had altered their minds, and suddenly departed.

SUICIDE IN FRANCE. ONE of the many popular errors prevalent in France concerning England is, that there are more suicides here than there; and the reason given is the one which Montesquieu enunciated years ago, and which men, parrot-like, repeat after him without examination, that our execrable climate is so miserable we are glad to escape its perpetual fogs even by self-murder. As every milord, according to Gallic ethnography, has an insane love of boxing and betting, so has he the spleen' and a suicidal monomania. You may argue with a Frenchman on this point to the end of time without effect; you may prove by the eternal truths of Cocker that he is wrong, and that the balance is most heavily weighted on his own side; he will only laugh at your credulity, and ridicule your national pertinacity. The thing is undeniable, according to him. Have we not got fogs, and rain, and miasma, and swamps enough to infuse that profound disgust of life which is our national characteristic: ergo, must we not necessarily have the largest number of suicides?' So the argument ends with a smile and a shrug; perhaps with an epigram in addition; and the Frenchman leaves you saying to himself: Que ces Anglais sont bêtes!"

But a recently published work, 'crowned by the Imperial Academy of Medicine,' and written by M. Lisle, ought to set the question of proportion at rest, for this generation at all events. No man who carefully masters the facts and reasonings of this work, can doubt for a moment where lies the suicidal preponderance in Europe; and where-adopting the Frenchman's argument against himself-it must lie by the very nature of things: granting M. Lisle's causes and figures to be correct.

The book opens with the avowed intention of combating the doctrine that suicide is always a sign of mental alienation. Sometimes, and often, of course, it is; even giving a distinctive name to a certain species of monomania; but it is not always and necessarily so. Suicide, like every human fact, obeys fixed laws as exactly as the course of the planets or the crystallisation of salts; and year by year it can be confidently predicted how many out of a certain population will commit suicide; in what proportion between the sexes, and in what proportion between the inhabitants of the towns and the country; the means which will be used, and, to an extent, what will be the moral or social causes of suicide being resorted to.

The result of the writer's investigations, so far as England is concerned, is very far from corroboratory of the opinion of Montesquieu and the national Gallic belief touching our mortal ennui and our suicidal monomania. In France, from 1836 to 1852 inclusive, there were 52,126 suicides, or a mean of 3066 a year; the numbers rising steadily from 2340 in 1836, to 3674 in 1852. From 1827 to 1830, the mean number had been only 1800 a year. Before 1836, the proportion was one suicide for every 17,693 inhabitants; in 1836, it was