finger to her lips; and then, as we were just issuing from the Rue Royale, pointed onward to the Pont de la Concorde. So we traversed the great square, and without much observation. The street-frequenters were unusually few, and when we reached the middle of the bridge we were in perfect solitude. There was nothing moving near us except the Seine-dark bearer of many a guilty secret to the sad tale-burdened sea! My companion now suddenly stopped, and, taking both my hands in hers, said softly, "We may speak now: no one can hear us. My name is Béatrice. You will call me Béatrice, will you not?" "I have no objection, if that is your name, or if you choose to be known by it," I replied, wondering how such a preface could have any bearing on the nature of our interview. "Ah, how cold the Signore's words are!" continued the strange creature. "Béatrice is my real name. No one has called me Béatrice since I became what I am. But I want the Signore to speak to me fondly. Bend towards me, Signore, and call me Béatrice." My impression that she was mad became stronger than ever; but, as there was a method in her madness, I thought that perhaps the best way to get at the secret she seemed to be possessed of was to submit to her strange caprices : so I bent towards her, till my face was almost close to her own, saying, with as much fondness of tone as I was able to extemporise, 66 "Well, why have you led me here, Beatrice?" Ah, that is as it ought to be!" she exclaimed, throwing her arms round my neck, and kissing me passionately. "Why have I led you here!... because I love you! You will love me, too, when you know what I have done for you. What I have been I am no longer! I am Béatrice once more-you called me so just now! Yes, and I will be your Béatrice, and we shall be so happy-oh, so happy!" Half-bewildered, and more than half-disgusted, I extricated myself from her embraces; and, putting her from me, "Is it possible," I said, "that you have duped me into an interview merely to try your fascinations upon me? Away!" And, had I followed my inclination, I would have hurried off, with self-ridicule added to all my previous self-reproach: but the look of the poor girl arrested me. Injured innocence never looked a stronger appeal into the face of its of fender. With one little hand on her forehead, as if doubting the reality of such unexpected treatment, and the other placed for support against the balustrade of the bridge, her tearful eyes rested on me with an expression that extorted pity, in spite of suspicion. "Never yet," she at length said, in a faltering voice, after a few moments of silencenever yet has woman done more for man than I have done for you this day: and thus I am requited! But it was a black deed, and how could I expect that good would come of it? Ob, where shall I go now?" And, with a low wail of anguish, the poor creature turned away towards the south side of the city. Mercy of heaven! how was I to treat this delicate piece of business? Was this nothing but the scientific continuation of her professional wiles? Or was it reality, strange as it might be? Might I not be losing an opportunity that was pregnant with fate? Was it not worth trying a little longer? I hurried after the retreating figure, and, when sufficiently near, I had only to pronounce the word "Béatrice to cause her to stop short and turn round, as if unable to resist the spell contained in the name she had borne in other days. Seeing her evident look of pleasure, I advanced to her, drew her arm under mine, and led her gently back to the middle of the bridge. "I was wrong, Béatrice," I said, when we had reached our former position; "but I am sure you will forgive my suspicions, and tell me what you have learnt from Guiseppe." "Then you may love me after all, mayn't you? For years my dreams and my waking thoughts have pictured to me a kind being, who was always coming, coming- coming to take me away from this darkness; and I am sure you are he-are you not, now? Will you not lift me into a better life? Shall we not both go away to some better place?" 66 Stay, stay, Beatrice! Be assured that, if you need one, I will be a friend to you; but I must tell you that all the love I have is given away already. However, let us be good friends; and, to show that we are so, tell me all about Guiseppe." "Yes, when I know that you love me. As for the other girl, you will never see her again." "How! For God's sake tell me if you have heard anything about her!" "All I know is she's gone-both she and her father: so you need not think any more about her!" My poor Stephanie gone! and whither? Are you sure you know nothing further of her?" 66 Nothing. But that is enough. I would not have done so. I would have struggled-I would have screamed-I would have bitten-I would have died before they would have taken me from him I loved! She is gone quietly enough; and here am I, just as beautiful-for I have seen her-and oh, what I have done for you!" 66 'What, in the name of heaven, have you done for me!" "Ah, you speak harshly to me again! Then I must away..... What have I done for you? I have sold my soul for you! Is not that enough? And will you not try to save it again, by wrapping it round with your love? Tell me, or I must go and hide it deep down in the waters; for God is frowning at its nakedness, and I cannot bear it!" With a sudden spring she released herself from my grasp, and stood at a short distance, waiting my answer, evidently prepared for flight in case it should not prove favourable to her footsteps became fainter and fainter in the distance. I seized the opportunity, before she again commenced her wild rhapsodies, to ask her what it was she had learned from Guiseppe. "Ah yes, I will tell you now. These wicked men got you among them, did they not?" "Yes." "You found out what they wanted ?" "I did." wishes. New dilemma and new responsibility. | the bridge. Béatrice seemed reassured as the She was plainly hinting at suicide! My fancy suggested to me that she either was, or imagined herself to be, guilty of some dark deed which, in her poor crazed brain, had assumed a connection with my fate. It would be a terrible thing, indeed, if harsh treatment on my part should drive her to the desperate step she was meditating. Was it not mere prudence to humour her illusion, and to try to probe into its origin, for the very purpose of ascertaining the best method of dissipating it? Was not this, also, the best way to eliminate whatever ingredient of truth concerning my own danger might be mingling with her madness? Was it possible to get her to talk soberly and consistently without, first of all, quieting for a time at least the doubts which for the present had possession of her whole mind? Behold the next link in the self-perpetuating chain of melancholy incongruities that hang upon the sin of one false step! Hardly four months ago the pure parting kiss of mother and sisters had blessed my lips. Now, who was this I was kissing, and calling by the name of Béatrice? Even yet I shudder at my own baseness! Surely, the circumstances were pressing. I was hemmed in by necessities. It seemed a choice between evils, and I appeared to be choosing the least. Still I cannot but feel that I was responsible for the existence of those very necessities that were then urging me on, as if thrown from one resistless billow to another. Did they not all arise from the little circumstance of accepting a false passport for convenience' sake? I had to wait patiently through the sore trial of listening to Béatrice as she poured forth the whole floodtide of her re-opened soul. What capabilities of love lie hid in the hearts even of the most degraded! It seemed as if her wandering spirit had at last reached the goal of its desire, and was bewildered with blessedness. Woman, in her sane affection, never uttered such words of worship and adoration as fell from the lips of this godless outcast when she thought she had gained one in whom her being found rest. I was her god for the moment. She prayed me to forgive her years of sin. It was Guiseppe, she said, who had brought darkness upon her youth. But now we would go and live far away, and she would lay her new life at my feet. And, as she spoke, it seemed, under the lamplight, as if the demon had passed from her face, and it became like that of a little child. I gazed in painful wonder at the transformation-transfiguration I had almost said. But it did not last long. No sooner did her quick ear catch the sound of approaching footsteps, than the old expression of horror returned to her eyes; and, clinging close to me, she whispered, with quivering lips, "Hide me from them! Perhaps they have found it out, and are seeking me!" "Found what out, Béatrice?" I asked. "What I did this morning. Hush-sh-sh!" It was but an unobtrusive citizen crossing "And you found out one of the Emperor's great men, and told him all about it?” Yes," said I, getting impatient; "but I knew all this before!" "But you did not know before that this great man to whom you went is himself one of the wicked men !" now. The whole horrible truth flashed upon me The idea was not altogether new to me. It was the same idea under which I had all but swooned in the streets of London. It was the idea that had underlain all my thoughts ever since. It was that which I had inwardly refused to believe-refused even to think upon, just because it was so terrible. And yet it was true! Was, then, anything true? I felt the cold stones to assure myself that I was not dreaming. Stunned as I was, I remember I felt wroth with the poor wretch that had made the revelation, and could have smitten her down but for her womanhood. So! so! I was fairly entrapped! How could I prevent the catastrophe now! What would my story be worth now? I myself had brought over the intended assassin: would I dare to face justice with so incredible a tale as mine? Would not my evidence be put down to the score of tardy repentance and well-timed treachery? And, if I escaped death, would I, therefore, escape penal servitude or exile? These awful hazards on the one hand, and the guilt of murder on the other, how shall I choose! Oh ye thoughts of my love, come not to shake my soul! Oh ye thoughts of home' distract not my tottering reason! The worst has come. Now or never! Yet I cannot face it! God! Father! I have shrunk from thy grace! Send it yet! Send it yet! Yes, yes, I will face the worst! Help me yet! I will cry out in the streets till they bring me to him! I will! Nay, let me be calm. Is this true resolution, or a new frenzy? . . I am calm. This is the Pont de la Concorde: that is the Seine: there is the Obelisk from Luxor. I am in my sober senses! I feel as I have not felt for many a day. It is the strength of heaven. I will go! "Why do you gasp and rave in these strange whispers, and yet speak not? Did I not tell you I had saved you?" "Leave me, and go home, girl; I must "You have not heard all I have to tell you yet. Now you shall know what I have done, and how much I love you!" "I have heard enough. Let me go, I say, or I must force you! There's life and death in this matter-away!" I tried to release myself from her; but she clung to me in spite of my utmost efforts. Who could have believed that those little arms were so slippery and so strong? "You must hear me!" she insisted. "You have heard the worst; but there's good news behind. There was danger, but there is none now!" "How so?" I asked, my curiosity sufficiently aroused to induce me to stand still for a moment to listen for some new contingency. "Will you wait till I tell you all ?" "I will." "And will you take me with you afterwards to live with you?" "Oh, you are trifling with me !" cried I, again struggling to release myself: but it was impossible to do so without injuring her, or dragging her along with me. "Stay, then-stay, and I will tell you; for you must love me when you know all !" "Go on, then, quick!" cried I, as she seemed to hesitate for a beginning. "Well, then- last night Guiseppe did not go to his hotel, but came to me, as we had agreed, when you saw us talking in the street. I made him tell me all the story; and, when I heard it was so wicked a plot, I resolved to save you, and to avenge my own wrong!" Here she paused, her eyes gleaming with demoniacal fury. "Go on, then, quick!" cried I again, trembling with fearful anticipation. Her arms slowly undid themselves from my waist, and she stepped back a few paces, gleaming on me with those terrible eyes. "And I did it!" she said at length, gasping out her words. "I rose early this morning, and locked my door. I went straight to the Seine, and threw the key into it. I have wandered about all-day since. Are you satisfied now?" "What have you done with him?" I demanded, almost as mad as herself; and, seizing her in my horror, I shook her violently, repeating the question again and again. 'Nay, sir, why do you handle me thus? What have I done with him? He asked for wine, and I gave it him. I put something in it to save you; and, when I left him this morning- he was dead!" I remember that I shouted "Murderess !" I remember flinging her from me. I remember a low wail that haunts me still in midnight wakings. Then there is a blank in my memory -a misty region, full of phantom shapes that grew from and into one another, silent and meaningless. At the first stage of awaking from the swoon into which I had fallen, I imagined myself in the estate of the dead. But gradually I became conscious of rough voices, and laughter, and the occasional clank of arms. Then there was silence, and in my semi-conscious state I divined the entrance of authority. "Ah, whom have we here, mes enfants?" said a voice, that sounded like music after the others. "Well, M. Lieutenant, the sentinel at the Pont de la Concorde observed this petit maître in conversation with a young.... ah!.... eh!” 66 On Woman, you are going to say-well?" "After they had talked awhile at the middle of the bridge, he heard a shout, and on turning round saw the young woman making off for the south side, where she disappeared. reaching the spot where they had been standing, he found the young man lying on the ground. He then gave the alarm, and we carried him here, and have done everything to restore him. We can see no wound, and he has no money in his pocket." "I suppose you would rather let the money go than make a police case of it, eh? Well, mes enfants, we're allies just now you know— these other English and we! So I suppose we had better just show the gentleman the way home, and say no more about it. Do you feel able to rise yet, Monsieur ?" I tried to do so, and succeeded pretty well, but found myself unable to walk. The lieutenant having some further rounds to perform was obliged to leave, but kindly promised to send the first cab he should meet to convey me home: and in half-an-hour I was at Mr. Delby's, and in my own room. PINTURICCHIO. BY J. A. LANGFORD. "He appears to have made, like Andrea del Sarto, an unfortunate marriago. Whilst he was suffering under a severe illness, his wife quitted the house with a lover, closed the door, and left the unhappy painter to die of neglect and starvation !" A. H. LAYARD. And this, then, is the end of all my Art! My life, so fraught with glory, ends in this! Bound, impotent, unaided, here I lie, A prey to hunger, and remorseful thoughts, Each thought more bitter than the hunger-pang! Why did I marry? Oh, my God! the fool I was to suffer divorce from my Art, And wed a woman, giving her the power To curse me; to destroy me-leave me thus ! And yet how beautiful she was! I knowFor I have seen the vulgar gaze with awe; Have seen the flush of rapture in the eye; Have heard th' involuntary tribute said By men whose words are honour, glory, fame, When looking on the work of these weak handsI know my warm imagination has In moments of rapt inspiration formed Things of ideal loveliness, to which My faithful eye, my firm and skilful hand With visible existence have endowed, For men to love, to worship, and adore. But than the fairest she is far more fair. What tints could ever paint her glorious flesh ? What genius fix her love-compelling smile? Not even my passion-guided pencil reached The ravishing luxuriance of her hair, Nor made inimortal any grace of hers. The subtle changes of her beauteous face, Still varying with her ever-changeful mood, Were seen, and loved, and lost, ere one could say, "Behold! how beautiful she is!" And I? Oh God! I was entranced. I looked on her Till fascination turned me to a slave. Her beauty held me spell-bound; and I took A woman's form, without a woman's soul, Unto my heart, and called her mine. And she, Because the people praised me, and the men Who rule the wise, the rich, the lords of earth, Endowed with love of my immortal artHad gathered round me, honoured me as friend, And placed me in their council-chambers-she, From merest woman's vanity, not love, Became my wife, and took the holy vows She never kept-the perjured child of shame! The beauty I had loved with heart and soul, As only painters can-the beauty I With wild devotion to my heart had pressed, And placed even as a goddess in my shrine, Proved but a venomed serpent- and it stung ! I see her now. Her matchless arm is round Her guilty lover's neck! Her glorious headCrowned with the splendour of her shining hair, In which my fingers lovingly have played, Whilst I, with pride, have wondered at its mass, And, playfully unwinding it, have showered On her deluded paramour reclines. Her eyes-those wicked, sparkling eyes-upturned, I see, and see, alas! what might have been, I knew they were divine and beautiful; How weak I am! Is no one here? I cannot call for help! I heard two voices whispering at the door; "Hush!" How quick and sharp the pangs about my heart For one too weak to rise. To leave me thus! I wonder how she feels, or will feel when My gaunt and bone-obtruding form, my wan And hunger-sharpened face shall dog her steps, And haunt her-as they will-in all she does! Ay, at the altar, as she kneels in prayer, My presence will the murderess attend, And damn her with her guilt! I need not curse: Her memory will curse her evermore! How still, and dark, and cold all Nature is! I cannot see the sky! 'Tis very dark! CHICHESTER CATHED RA L. "Now though Seffride bestowed the cloth and making on the church, Bishop Sherburne gave the trimming and best lace thereto. I am sorry I can follow the allegory no farther, being now informed that it is not only seam-ript, but torn in the whole cloth, having lately a great part thereof fallen down to the ground."-FULLER. We West-Sussex people are very proud of our cathedral. We know that it is of small account when compared with its brethren. We know that there are larger cathedrals and cathedrals more famous, many of purer architecture, many more complete in their entirety, many more elaborate in their details. But, none the less, we are proud of our cathedral, and, looking upon it with loving eyes, are able to find special beauties therein, just as a mother finds angelic charms in the child which uninterested people think ordinary enough. Turning over the pages of the "Sussex Archæological Collection," I come upon a paper treating of its "characteristic features." The colour of its stone is "almost faultless," says my archæologist; from colour he proceeds to form, and eulogizes the cathedral as "perfectly pyramidal in outline," referring (as is proper whenever a pyramid is mentioned) to Michael Angelo. Then from form he proceeds in solemn march to number. "The cathedral is dedicated in honour of the blessed Trinity, and the triplicity which pervades it is truly remarkable." This ternary arrangement, however, we find, on going into detail, is not a little interfered with by a quinary arrangement; with regard to which conjunction our authority is somewhat bothered, but comes at length triumphantly out of his difficulty by demonstrating how the quinary exceptions prove the ternary rule. Then he goes on to speak of the "quintuple effect" observable in the nave. We have two aisles on each side of our nave, a peculiarity unique among English cathedrals, but common abroad. So we have an opportunity of likening our own little cathedral to Notre Dame de Paris, to Cologne, to Milan, to Seville; and, further, of bringing in an artful hypothesis as to "the foreign derivation of its architecture"; clenching our paragraph with the statement that, York excepted, Chichester is the broadest Gothic cathedral in England. | tions from the perpendicular and ruptures of string-courses intentional parables of mystic faith, why, we are only in the fashion. The sermons in stones" of the thoughtful Duke is a notion not more travestied by our geologists than by our architects in these days. However, we have, or had, real beauties enough in our cathedral to be proud of. And the chief and crown of these was the spire. This spire was justly called the most symmetrical in England. But few of our cathedrals have spires. Lichfield and Norwich have them, but they are placed differently to that of Chichester. In Salisbury and Chichester alone is the posi tion of the spires exactly central. "In Salisbury and Chichester alone (to quote again from my archæologist) is there a visible centre and axis to the whole cathedral, namely, the summit of the spire, and a line let fall from it to the ground. Of these," he goes on to say, "Salisbury was so constructed from the first; the spire of Chichester was made exactly central, to a foot, by the addition of the Lady Chapel at one end and the western porch at the other." Comparing these spires of Salisbury and Chichester, we find that the latter, though of much less height, was the better proportioned of the two. "A spire should be at least as long as the tower on which it is placed, and may safely be considerably longer. Salisbury errs against this canon, Chichester comes within it." The height of Salisbury tower is 207 feet, the height of the spire 193 feet; the height of Chichester tower was about 126 feet, the height of the spire about 148 feet. In our spire consisted our chief and most sure source of pride; and this spire fell to the ground on February 21st, 1861, at half-past one p.m. However clever the expounders of mystic art may be-finding in the unevenness of sunken church-pavements an intentional imitation of the waves of the sea, whereon, as on the We can discover plenty of special beauties in world-billows, the firm fabric of the church our cathedral. Sometimes, no doubt, we carry rests, rising serenely heavenwards; finding this our fondness to egregious lengths, and insist meaning, or a hundred other meanings of the upon finding beauties in blemishes, just as a same kind in the perilous marks of natural decay mother finds inexpressible charms in her child's-I think they will not be able to put forth any squint or carroty shock. Mr. Ruskin has such edifying interpretation of the fall of our taught us the cant of discovering an esoteric spire. When we inquire why it lies there in meaning in each exoteric anomaly; and if we ruins, we shall not be satisfied with any beaufind in the patchings of after-days the master-tiful parable as answer, but shall expect effects strokes of the original designer, and in declina- to be traced to their mechanic causes, |