they are up to the level of Miss Ingelow's best work; yet several of the pieces are pleasing, and certainly worthy of being brought to the attention of the author's admirers. The best thing in the collection is so brief that we reproduce it here;

"Sweet is childhood-childhood's over,
Kiss and part.

Sweet is youth; but youth's a rover-
So's my heart.

Sweet is rest; but by all showing
Toil is nigh.

We must go. Alas! the going,
Say Good-by.'

The illustrations, twenty in number, are only passable, but the book is beautifully printed and bound.

LITERATURE and art are very happily wedded in "The Insect," by M. Jules Michelet (London and New York: Thomas Nelson & Sons). M. Michelet turns science into poetry, and fascinates the imagination while feeding the mind. The literature of natural history contains no more charming book than his work on "The Bird;" and, if the present companion-volume is inferior in interest, it is only because it deals with a branch of animal life less understood, and therefore less appreciated. The affluent imagination, the nimble fancy, the poetic sensibility, the literary skill, the art of making dull things bright and tedious things entertaining, are equally conspicuous in both; and the reader may be sure that the mysteries of the insect-world will never be revealed to him through a more agreeable medium. The illustrations by Giacomelli are of such exceptional excellence that they fairly compete with Michelet's text in the matter of imparting pleasure. Their mere variety is surprising as the work of a single artist, for it is very rare that the same draughtsman is equally skillful in landscape, floral pieces, sketches of animal life, and those fanciful bits which do duty as vignettes, tail-pieces, and the like. The engraving was done by the best English and French engravers, including Whymper, Sargent, Rouget, Berveiller, Méaulle, Ausseau, and Jonnard, and is beyond all praise. Printing and binding are admirable-and, taken as a whole, the volume is an exceedingly elegant specimen of the art of book-making.

ANOTHER book from the same publishers, and illustrated by the same artists and engravers, is "The History of the Robins," addressed more particularly to children. Mrs. Trimmer furnishes the history, which is highly "moral" and commonplace. The beauty of the book lies in the seventy illustrations by Giacomelli, which, both in design and style of engraving, are greatly superior to those usually found in juveniles. The printing is good, and the binding exceptionally tasteful.

OF Will Carleton's "Farm Legends" (New York: Harper & Brothers) it is enough, perhaps, to say that they are poetry of the type already made familiar by the same author's "Farm Ballads," which may almost be said to have become famous. There is the same local flavor in the topics, the same simplicity of theme, the same directness and objectivity of treatment, the same quaint

homeliness of phrase and expression, and the same picturesque vividness of illustration. If it subserved no other purpose, the present volume would settle the question as to the authorship of the "Ballads;" the same hand is unmistakably recognizable in both. Besides the legends, the book contains about a dozen miscellaneous poems, none of which strike us as markedly good, except "The Burning of Chicago," which, if somewhat turgid in expression, is a graphic and impressive picture. The volume is issued in holiday style, being handsomely printed and bound, and copiously illustrated.

Ir is easy to recognize the hand of Mr. Horace E. Scudder in "The Doings of the Bodley Family in Town and Country" (New York: Hurd & Houghton). It was written for the amusement of children, and in such work Mr. Scudder has long ago proved himself a master and a prime favorite with the "It contains some of the doings

little ones.

of Nathan, Philippa, and Lucy Bodley, their father and mother, the hired man Martin and his brother Hen, Nathan's Cousin Ned, Nathan's pig, the dog Neptune, Lucy's kitten, Lucy's doll, Mr. Bottom, the horse, chickens, mice; and has, besides, stories told to the children by their parents, by Martin, and by each other." There is plenty of fun of a wholesome sort, plenty of frolic and childish adventure; while, through the medium of their fondness for story-telling, the children are introduced to some good literature whose formative influence upon the mind will be permanent. Of this kind are "The Pied Piper of Hamelin," "The Ballad of Chevy Chase," and the "Heir of Linne." Besides these, much excellent verse is disinterred from the pages of the Riverside Magazine, and a new and wider audience will thus be secured for "The Little Small Rid Hin," "The Battle of Bumble-Bug and BumbleBee," 66 Harry O'Hum," and "Picture Bob and his Wonderful Cob"-all of which, as Mr. Scudder says, are "too good to be buried in the pages of an extinct magazine." The book is profusely and amusingly illustrated, and the binding is both novel and pretty.

MR. FRANK R. STOCKTON's "Tales out of School" (New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co.) is on the same plan as his admirable "Roundabout Rambles," and would doubtless prove a highly-acceptable gift to any boy or miss from five to fifteen years of age. The plan is the now familiar one of taking a lot of old woodcuts (of which publishers of illustrated books usually have a goodly store) and writing a story or abridging a narrative to suit. Usually the process of construction is apparent on the very face of the work, but Mr. Stockton is so fertile in invention, and so skillful as a raconteur, that he fairly deceives even those best acquainted with the sources from which he draws his material. It is amusing, for instance, to notice how closely he has stuck to the text, and yet how fresh-seeming he has rendered the thrice-familiar pictures and adventures of Sir Samuel Baker in the chapter purporting to narrate "Colonel Myles's Adventures in Africa and India." Besides the " conver sion" of various books of travel and advent

ure, including one of Verne's fanciful narratives, the volume contains many curious bits of natural history, descriptions of mechanical processes, fairy stories, legends, traditions, and several new items from the old Norse mythology. The pictures, of course, are an exceptionally striking feature, and are as numerous and various as those of a scrap-book-though few scrap-book collections would equal this in artistic merit.

THE character of Mr. E. H. KnatchbullHugessen's latest collection of fairy-stories is very aptly and accurately defined by the author himself in his preface. "In the six stories which it contains," he says, "there are jumbled up together witches, jackdaws, fairies, pigs, mermaids, magistrates, dwarfs, cock-pheasants, and a great variety of other creatures who do not usually consort together, and could only have been brought into the same book by those wondrous powers of magic which confuse and confound the common order of Nature. I have neither the time nor the power to sort them out properly and put each in his own place; and so, having learned what I knew about them from the fairies, who kindly supply me with information upon such subjects, I have written it down as well as I could, and send out the six stories which contain it, under the fitting title and designation of Higgledy-Piggledy."" Few modern writers of fairy-stories have Mr. Knatchbull-Hugessen's power of fusing the homely interests and incidents of " the humdrum present," and the supernatural creatures of a poetic and over-credulous past, into a homogeneous and artistic whole. His stories have something of the old-time directness, simplicity, and air of good faith; and, at least, they never attempt to put science and history into elfin or goblin costume. The present collection is addressed to "everybody and everybody's children; " but the very small children will have to enjoy much of them by faith rather than by understanding. Published by D. Appleton & Co.

WE should explain, in conclusion, that the above does not exhaust the list of "holiday books;" but it contains the best of them, and all that we have received at the time of writing this article. Others may be mentioned in subsequent issues, and in making selections for the little folks the reader should not forget Miss Johnson's "Catskill Fairies," noticed in a recent number of the JOURNAL.

THE Athenæum is civil to the Marquis of Lorne in its review of his poem, but reminds him that criticism must be honest or it is nothing; it cannot afford to play the courtier. It then goes on to say that the book "is very prettily got up. The binding, with its sprays of olive, the paper, with its smooth and tinted surface, and its four capital illustrations, all prepossess us in its favor. It is possible even to speak of its graceful and melodious verse. At worst, there is some knowledge of metre, some careful imitation of rather antiquated models, and some traces of fancy and of sentiment. But beyond that, what can we say? The work certainly shows no genius. There is about it no real fire or imagination. It is a poem-we feel tempted to call it a copy of

For the professional musician, Dr. von Bülow will probably be the most admirable as a player of the Liszt school of music, that which aims to reproduce the wealth of the orchestra on one instrument. His grasp of resource is such as to compel the most unwilling wonder and submission. Such a performance as that of Liszt's "Rhapsodie Hongroise" has rarely, if ever, been equaled for brilliancy and boldness of effects. Yet, for those who love music for its own sake, his rendering of Beethoven, Schumann, and Chopin, is a source of far more enjoyment than the stormy splendor of execution with which he dashes through the measures of the great Hungarian pianist. In the one the hearer is lost in the composer, for the player's style is like a sheet of transparent glass. In the other, one thinks as much or more of the stupendous art of the player than of the composer himself. We have not attempted any detailed analysis of Dr. von Bülow's performance of special pieces, for even musicians care more for the effect produced than the machinery of execution. But there can hardly be any question of this artist's superiority as an interpreter of the piano over any and all who have visited America within the memory of this generation. Without the powerful creative instinct of Rubinstein, from which the latter could never free himself, and which sometimes gave him a magnetism to which Bülow never attains, he has yet such massive scholarship and versatility, combined with so much executive skill, as to place him beyond rivalry as the interpreter of pianoforte music. The precision of the martinet is united with the boldness and fire of the man of genius.

The earlier concerts of. Dr von Bülow were given with full orchestra. The latter ones, with simple quartets of instruments, have been more enjoyable, as they have furnished a richer variety of music, and enabled the player to display his skill to far better advantage. Be the pianist never so great, the impossibility of securing a perfect orchestra and sympathetic leader always lessens the effect. Dr. Damrosch and his musicians, on the whole, did well in their trying work, but the recitals with quartet have been more pleasing.

MR. SAMUEL COLMAN, who returned from Europe about three months ago, was absent three years and a half, visiting Italy, Egypt, Morocco, and Algeria, besides spending some time in Holland and France. He has brought with him a large and varied collection of pictures and studies.

The largest and most important class of his works were painted in Africa, in which country he penetrated into strange and remote regions, quite apart from the ordinary track of tourists and even of artists. Some of his most interesting paintings are of Moorish ruins of mosques, with their beautiful towers and horseshoe arches, at Tlemsen and Mansoria in Algeria on the borders of Morocco, quite remote from the sea. Mr. Colman from his early life has been remarkable for his pure and rich coloring, which shows

meadows of our own country, and in our variegated autumn forests. But then there is no class of his works so well fitted to develop the variety and harmony of his palette as these architectural pictures, where, under a warm and golden atmosphere, brick and mellow-hued stone-work are combined into forms of elegance and strange grace. In one of his pictures, an old arched entrance to a dilapidated mosque shows the building as it now stands after six or seven hundred years' duration. Constructed at nearly the same time as the Alhambra, it was supposed to rival that structure in richness and beauty. Mr. Colman shows it as it now is in its decay. The front of the arch is built of mingled brick and stone, and the entire surface of the ruin is carved into every sort of arabesque device. Not far from this ruin is an elaborate study of another portion of the town, which is still inhabited and in good preservation. Here, illumined by warm sunshine, a square tower rises two hundred feet into the air. A Saracenic dome is in the distance; and Moorish arches, which admit a procession of finelycostumed men and women, and a part of a high city wall, compose a picture of rare beauty. But the tower is the chief feature of this scene, and Mr. Colman has covered it, with almost daguerreotype fidelity of minuteness, with the delicate tiles, whose glazed surface reflects the daylight, with the Arabic written characters, that picturesquely break the monotonous curves and lace-work of the carving; and he has painted, with a delightful feeling of light and shadow, the delicate, arched openings and the projecting cornices, with heavy tooth-cuttings, which give the relief of mingled brightness and dark massing of tints to the otherwise flat character of the structures.

Besides these architectural paintings, Mr. Colman has brought back with him sketches taken on the borders of the desert, whose near white sands and dry mimosas are relieved by a dark atmosphere, charged with dust and heat, which spreads over distant, arid hills, while the sky is almost darker than this distance. Bands of Arabs, with horses, camels, and the usual paraphernalia of the caravan, appear also, painted with a fidelity and with the mature precision of an artist of great experience in the use of color.

Mr. Colman's Italian pictures cover much of the well-known ground, but he has made studies of the Duomo and of Giotto's Campanile at Florence with the same rare and delicate color that shows in his Moorish sketches. In one of these, the Campanile, which Ruskin has made immortal by his description, even if it had not appealed, by its beauty, to the feeling of every one familiar with its multifarious and wonderful ornament, appears at the end of a vista made by one of the streets that diverge from this great centre of Florence. A summer brightness rests upon its summit, towering much above the house-tops, and passing down its carved arched openings, with their fine tracery and lovely columns; and the eye penetrates into the shadow of the street and square below to see the opening filled by people in the gay attire of an Italian festa.

A famous poet who is also an artist once said to us, on seeing some Dutch pictures, that he thought all skies should be painted with the same atmospheric mistiness as these an observation which showed more appreciation of the Holland landscape than knowledge of the difference between the skies of a land of canals and dikes, and the drier and clearer heavens of other countries. Mr. Colman, in addition to his studies in southern lands, has brought home with him a number of pictures from Amsterdam, with minutely-painted likenesses of the many-storied warehouses, with their irregularly-shaped gables, that rise from the edge of the "Venice of the North." In the canals, which form the streets of the watery city, Mr. Colman has painted, in rich colors, and with much feeling, the bloated-looking trading-vessels, with their broad beams and blunt, round hulls, that are as much in contrast with the delicate prows of the Venetian gondolas as the heavy warehouses of Amsterdam are with the brilliant and elegant palaces that line the Grand Canal. Mr. Colman's imagination has, apparently, been captivated very posi tively by the bulky trading-craft we have described, and in one or two sketches we saw fleets of these vessels lumbering slowly along with the tide, with the flat, vapory, evergreen meadows of the Netherlands around them, while overhead was the watery sky, with its fat, billowy clouds, misty and vaporous.

A collection of these pictures, and many more than we have described, will shortly be on exhibition at Snedecor's Gallery in Fifth Avenue, and all our art-loving people will then have the opportunity to enjoy the latest and best studies from one of the most poetical and refined colorists America has yet produced.

WHILE statuary and busts of a very high order of refined modeling are exceedingly rare, now and then some brilliant piece of sculpture appears in the exhibitions of New York that merits attention. The two or three best specimens of this department of art we have lately seen have been at Schaus's Gallery, in Broadway. A few months since a charming female head, supposed to represent music, was in this gallery, and at the present time Mr. Schaus has a striking and expressive white-marble bust, called "The Scoffer." It is by an Antwerp artist named Peeters, and represents a handsome and graceful head, full of mobility and action, yet which shows every feature and line curled and twisted into a look of contempt. The dress of the man, and even his hair in sharp and curved locks, helps to carry out this pervading purpose of the artist.

The ideal tranquillity of classical sculpture, or portraiture which is not caricature, has been settled upon as the legitimate field of the sculptor, but of late some works have appeared here which, from their flexibility of action and vivacious expression, seem rather adapted for painting than marble. From the standard of correct and traditional taste, such works as "The Scoffer" may be esteemed bad art; but when, as in this case, these violent characteristics are combined

with great finish of execution, and action and expression that show much cleverness as well as cultivation in the artist, aside from the actual pleasure they give, they bave a value as showing the direction and progress of modern art-thought in connection with sculpt

ure.

AFTER much discussion, litigation, and preparation, "Rose Michel" has been produced at the Union Square Theatre. The version of the play given here is reported to be very much changed from the French original, and as being greatly improved by the adapter, Mr. Mackaye. The public are, however, in the dark as to the extent or character of these changes, except as to the fact that the part of Moulinet is wholly new. The other improvements could be measured only by an opportunity of comparing the two versions. As Moulinet is the only humorous delineation in the play, its introduction was very judicious. Fortunately, this interpolated character falls easily into the action of the play, and, although it does not directly contribute either to the involve ment or evolvement of the plot, one cannot easily detect by internal evidence that it is not an organic part of the structure. But, although new to this play, it is scarcely an original creation, being manifestly derived from the Barnaby Rudge of Charles Dickens. It is the character of a half-idiot boy, full of great affection, and passionately devoted to his pet dogs and cats-a delineation marked by many fine touches, and well portrayed by Mr. Stuart Robson.

In a measure, "Rose Michel" is a disappointment. It is a strong, well-constructed melodrama, and this is all. There is little that is new and nothing to charm in the story; there are no characters to live in the memory as exalted types; there are none of those pictures of life that in some productions delight the fancy and leave there long, pleasant recollections. It is not a drama that the world is better for having, nor is it one to reflect the least art-credit upon the era. It is so intense in action that it is sure to hold the auditor's attention; it affords some excellent opportunities for accomplished actors to show their skill; but it has no good excuse for its existence either as art or literature.

The incidents of the story occur in Paris in the last century. Rose Michel is the wife of a sordid, miserly innkeeper; she has a fair young daughter, whom she loves passionately, and who has just been betrothed. Baron de Bellevie, a notorious libertine, has been paid a hundred thousand livres by Count de Varnay to leave France, and never seek his wife, who is living under the protection of the Countess de Varnay. De Bellevie comes to the innkeeper's house with all this money upon him. His murder is planned by Pierre Michel, the innkeeper; Rose discovers her husband in the act; she conceals the crime for the sake of her daughter, whose matrimonial prospects would be ruined by the discovery of the father's crime; but, in secretly restoring the money taken from the baron to the Count de Varnay's escritoire is the means of fastening suspicion of the murder

upon the count, who is brought to trial, and condemned to death. Rose refuses to reveal her knowledge of the true criminal, although being suspected of some knowledge in the matter; is put to the rack in order to extort her confession; but, in the end, just on the eve of the count's execution, Rose, exasperated by fresh treachery of the husband, denounces him as the murderer.

This is a brief outline of the story. The construction in the main is good, but the complications grow out of a wholly unlikely incident. Rose, in restoring the money taken from the murdered man, takes a step that would have been sure to lead to the detection of her husband, had the money replaced in the escritoire been discovered by the count; but, being found there by police officials, it involved an innocent man instead. Rose, whose conscience could be so blunt in another direction, would scarcely have felt impelled to restore money to whom it really did not belong, when by so doing the risk of discovery became imminent.

We may

The interest of the story turns upon the complications that fix suspicion upon the count, and the sufferings and struggles of Rose between her conscience and her intense maternal affection. But what is it we are called upon to admire? A woman whose devotion to her offspring would consign an innocent man to the block, and that man the son of her benefactress, would give to dishonorable death the hope and pride of a great house, that her own daughter may marry the man she loved! The woman's crime is really monstrous. It is really worse than that of her husband, who slew a villain for his money, while she would deliberately slay an innocent person, to whom she was bound by many obligations, simply that her daughter should be spared a few pangs. sympathize with the woman's maternal affection, we may even admire the stubborn obstinacy that the rack cannot subdue; but one's moral perceptions must be greatly blunted if he does not revolt at the moral cowardice and hideous selfishness which Rose Michel's conduct exhibits. That the woman would fain avert the doom from the count, and endeavors to effect his escape, are but slight palliations of a wrong so great. The dramatist seems to think his delineation one of moral strength and greatness; he makes it the centre of an admiring group, and confidently expects us to applaud this picture of wrongful heroism. Even the father of the youth to whom Rose's daughter is betrothed, who has resolutely required a pure record of the family to which his son may be allied, forgoes all his prejudices, and discerns in Rose's resolute attempt to enact the part of murderess something to admire. Obviously, the moral perceptions of French dramatists take strange shapes.

The acting at the Union Square is generally good. Miss Eytinge gives a powerful delineation of Rose Michel. In the hands of a really great artist, the character would doubtless take on many shadings and touches that would enhance its effect in some of the scenes, but Miss Eytinge is generally very effective, although at times she mistakes noise for intensity. This lady has undoubtedly

as Pierre Michel exaggerates his costume somewhat, but he acts with force and consistency. Mr. Stuart Robson gives a faithful, half-humorous, half-pathetic picture of the idiot boy. Mr. Thorne as the count and Mr. Parcelle as the prefect are good. Indeed, the performance throughout is smooth and satisfactory, and the play is put on the stage with great care as to every detail, and with some superb scenic effects. The view of Notre-Dame and the Seine at night, in the last act, is a wonder of scenic illusion.

THE Colossal statue of Liberty, proposed by the Franco-American Union of Paris, is to be erected on Bedloe's Island, in New York Harbor. The statue will be placed on a pedestal of granite one hundred feet high, and will be cast in bronze of the same height as the pedestal; it will consist of a figure of Liberty draped, holding in one hand a tablet inscribed “Jay 4, 1776," and the other hand, uplifted, wil hold a torch. It is designed to have streams of light radiating from its brow at night. The design is by M. Bartholdi, an Alsatian sculptr who carved the Lion of Belfort. At a banquet given by those interested in the enterprise, held at Paris early in November, at which M Laboulaye presided, and where Mr. Washburne, General Schenck, General Sickles, Edmond About, Emile de Girardin, Alexandre Dumas, and other distinguished persons, were guests, M. Laboulaye made an address, from which we copy the subjoined passage: "# wish to erect a statue the most colossal eve raised, which will rise above that immer plain which covers New York with its millix of inhabitants; Brooklyn, which has four Le dred thousand; and Jersey City, which recaons as many. There it will be really in is place. I have seen the colossal statue of Bvaria thrust into a corner outside the gates of their capital, and I often asked myself wis the statue was doing there if not to call t mind that Bavaria is but the shadow of her self. The Colossus of Rhodes saw little vessels pass between its legs; but, compared with our statue, the Colossus of Rhodes was but a clock-ornament. The statue which we would cast is not made of cannon taken on the fiest of battle. Each of his limbs has not cost a thousand men's lives, and has not caused countless widows and orphans to shed tears. It will be cast in virgin metal.”

CEE

From Abroad.

OUR PARIS LETTER.

November 16, 1975. ERTAIN pages of the new pamphlet by Victor Hugo, "Ce que c'est que l'Exil" the preface to "Pendant l'Exil," are extremely interesting as affording glimpses of the E of the illustrious exile during his long expstriation. Thus he speaks of the commerc ment of those years of literary toil and e banishment:

"In December, 1851, when he who writes these lines arrived in a foreign land, wore at first a hard aspect. It is in exis. above all, that the res angusta domi wake itself felt.

"This summary sketch of what exile realy is would not be complete were the materia side of the existence of the outlaw left without a passing mention, and one likewise proper moderation.

"Of all which that exile had possessed, there remained to him seven thousand five hundred fran-es (fifteen hundred dollars) of annual income. His plays, which had brought him in sixty thousand francs a year, were suppressed. The hasty sale at auction of his furniture had produced something less than thirteen thousand francs (twenty-six hundred dollars). He had nine persons to support.

"He was obliged to furnish means for removals, for journeys, for new installations, for the movements of a group of which he was the centre, for all the unforeseen of an existence henceforward uprooted from the earth and the sport of every wind; an exile is an uprooted tree. He was forced to preserve the dignity of life, and so to act that no one around him should suffer.

Brittany.

A bouquet of flowers as large as the city of London-such is Jersey. All there is perfume, sunbeam, smile, which does not hinder the visits of the tempest. He who writes these pages has somewhere called Jersey an idyl in mid-ocean. In pagan times, Jersey was more Roman, and Guernsey more Celtic; at Jersey one perceives Jupiter, and at Guernsey, Teutates. At Guernsey, what was formerly Druidical is now Huguenot; it is no longer Moloch, but it is Calvin; the church services are cold, the landscape is prudish, and religion has the sulks. Taken altogether, both islands are charming; one is lovely and the other harsh.

the

"Hence an immediate necessity for work. "Let us state here that the first abode in exile, Marine Terrace, was rented at the very moderate price of fifteen hundred francs a year.

"His first Belgian publishers reprinted all his works without rendering him any account, and, among others, the two volumes of the Euvres Oratoires.' Napoléon le Petit' was the sole exception. As to 'Les Châtiments,' they cost their author twenty-five hundred franes. This sum, confided to the publisher Samuel, has never been repaid. The total product of all the editions of 'Les Châtiments' has been for eighteen years confiscated by foreign publishers.

"The English royalist newspapers loudly celebrated English hospitality-a hospitality adulterated, as may be remembered, with nocturnal assaults and expulsions, like Belgian hospitality. Wherein English hospitality was complete, was in its tenderness for the books of the exiles. It reprinted those books, and published and sold them with the most ccrdial empressement for the benefit of the English publishers. English law, which forms a part of Britannic hospitality, permits that style of forgetfulness. The duty of a book is to let the author die of hunger, as in the case of Chatterton, and to enrich the publisher.

Les Châtiments' in particular have been sold, and are still and always sold in England, solely for the profit of the bookseller Jeffs. The English stage was not less hospitable toward French plays than were English book-shops toward French books. No author's right has ever been paid for 'Ruy Blas,' which has been played in England over two hundred times.

"Thus it will be seen that it was not without reason that the royalist Bonapartist press of London reproached the exiles with an abuse of English hospitality.

"That press has often called him who writes these lines a miser.

"It called him also an abandoned drinker. "These details form a part of what exile really is. This exile complains of nothing. He has worked. He has reconstructed his life for himself and for his. All is well."

Here is a brief but vivid sketch of the exile's chosen spot of refuge :

"The archipelago of the Channel is peculiarly attractive: it has no difficulty in resembling France because it is France. Jersey and Guernsey are fragments of Gaul, broken off by the sea in the eighth century. Jersey was more coquettish than was Guernsey; she has thus become prettier and less beautiful. At Jersey, the forest has become a garden; in Guernsey, the rock remains colossal. More grace here, more majesty there. At Jersey, one is in Normandy; at Guernsey, one is in

midst of a silent crowd. Not a hat was lifted. One man only saluted her-the exile who now speaks! He saluted not the queen, but the woman! The pious island remained sullen. That Puritanism has its grandeur."

The following details respecting the spy system employed by the Empire toward the exiled patriots are curious:

"Expect all things, you who are in exile. You have been hurled afar, but not let go. The persecutor is curious, and his gaze multiplies itself upon you. A respectable Protestant clergyman seats himself beside your hearth; that Protestantism draws a salary | from the strong - box of Tronsin Dumarsan. A foreign prince, who speaks broken French, presents himself; it is Vidocq who comes to see you; is he a real prince? yes; he belongs to a royal race, and also to the police. A grave, doctrinal professor introduces himself to you, and you surprise him reading your papers. All is permitted against you; you are outside the law-that is to say, outside of equity, outside of reason, outside of respect, outside of probability; men will declare themselves authorized by you to publish your conversations, and will take care that they shall be stupid; words will be attributed to you that you never uttered, letters that you never wrote, actions that you never committed. You are approached, so that the place where you shall be stabbed may be better chosen.

"You speak to a visage, and it is a mask that hearkens; your exile is haunted by that spectre, the spy.

"A very mysterious unknown comes to whisper in your ear; he declares to you that if you wish it he will undertake to assassinate the emperor-it is Bonaparte who offers to kill Bonaparte. At your fraternal banquet, some one in the corner will cry, 'Long live Marat! Long live Hebert! Long live the guillotine!' With a little attention, you will recognize the voice of Carlier. Sometimes the spy begs; the emperor asks an alms of you through his Pietri; you give; he laughs-gayety of the hangman. You pay the hotel-bill of that exile, he is a police agent; you pay the traveling-expenses of that fugitive, he is a sbirro; you pass along the street, you hear some one say, 'There goes the real tyrant!' It is of you that these words are spoken; you turn, who is that man? The answer is, he is an outlaw. Not at all. He is a functionary. He is savage, and paid. It is a republican signed Maupas. Coco disguised as Scævola."

Here are some few of the trenchant, vigorous paragraphs scattered throughout the work:

"He who says justice, says strength." "The short sight of tyrants deceives them; corspiracy that has succeeded looks to them like victory, but that victory is full of ashes. The criminal believes that his crime is his accomplice. Error; his crime is his punisher. The assassin always cuts himself with his knife; treason always betrays the traitor; culprits, without suspecting it, are held by the collar by their crime-an invisible spectre; a bad action never loses hold of you, and fatally, by an inexorable road ending in pools of blood for glory and abysses of mud for shame, without remission for the guilty, the 18th Brumaire leads the great to Waterloo, and the 2d December drags the little to Sedan."

"A man, so ruined that he has nothing left but his honor, so despoiled that he has nothing left but his conscience, so isolated that he has nothing beside him but justice, so deserted that he has only with him the truth, so cust into the shadows that there remains with him only the sun, such is he who is an exile."

"Calumny sometimes ends by adding lustre. By a silver ribbon upon the rose we recognize that a caterpillar has passed over it."

"Insult is an old habit of humanity; to throw stones delights idle hands; woe to all that rise above the ordinary level; mountainpeaks have the property of attracting thunder-bolts from above, and lapidation from below. It is almost their fault: why are they peaks? They attract the eye, and affront it."

"Glory is a gilded bed wherein there lurks vermin."

"Where Vitellius is a god, Juvenal is filth."

"The prosperity of the empire was a national misfortune. The mirth of orgies is misery. A prosperity which gilds a crime lies and hatches a calamity. The egg of the 2d of December is Sedan."

66

On the back of the pamphlet from which we have just quoted appears an announcement of two forthcoming works by Victor Hugothe two concluding volumes of the "Légende des Siècles," and "The Art of being a Grandfather." The book on which M. Thiers has been at work for so long is to bear, it is said, the title of Men and Matter." It is to be in four volumes, of which it is reported that two are already finished. Furne, Jouvet & Co. have just published the fourth volume of Martin's Popular History of France from the Earliest Times to the Present Day." This last volume brings the work down to 1804. It is to be completed in one volume more, which will be issued in the course of the ensuing year. The work, when completed, will contain over one thousand illustrations. The same house has also issued the third number of its superb edition of Michaud's "History of the Crusades," illustrated by Gustave Doré. The third volume of the "Merveilles de l'Industrie," by Louis Figuier, has also just appeared. This work, which is a popular description of modern inventions, is to be completed in four or five volumes at the most, and will contain fifteen hundred illustrations. Glady Bros. have just published "Coups de Bâton," by Louis Verbrugghe, and continue to puff violently their long-announced edition of the "Imitation of Christ." Dentu has issued "A Journey to the Ruins of Golconda and the City of the Dead," by Louis Jacolliot, and announces the second series of "The Women of the Court of Louis XV.," by Imbert de St.-Amand, and the "Marquise de Lucillière," the second series of "The Inn of the World," by Hector Malot. The Librairie Bachelin Deflorenne announces a su