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jects are the great pavilion of the City of Paris, appropriately designed with something of a Hôtel de Ville type about it, and filled with illustrations of the work of the Municipality; the restoration of “Vieux Paris," which looks picturesque at a distance, but is not worth entering—it is at best a trumpery piece of sham antique; and the large “Palais de l'Economie Sociale," one of the most dignified erections in the Exhibition.

Coming to the upper end of the Champ de Mars, we find on either hand large masses of building of extraordinary effectiveness in a sense, and certainly of extraordinary boldness and originality. Here, as everywhere else, we are struck with the French facility and vigor in modelling, and the lavish use of the figure in decoration; nude figures everywhere, hanging on cornices and ledges as if blown there by the wind, with their feet kicking out into the air; always well and vigorously designed, but a little too omnipresent. The view is closed at the lower end of the Champ de Mars by the Palais de l’Electricité, a most brilliant bit of improvization in

which the building seems to symbolize something of the flashing and restless character of electricity; and in the centre of it the vast architectural cavern of the Château d'Eau, whence issue cascades of water, to be illuminated at night by colored light, to the delight of the festive Parisian. This

may be called pronounced and rampant rococo, no doubt, but it is impossible to deny that there is a touch of genius in it.

In conclusion, let it be said, that while the Paris Exhibition is a remarkable effort of French genius, it is to be hoped that Paris will now be left in peace for a considerable period. The cost to her, in every sense, of such shows recurring at such short periods as the eleven years which separate this from the 1889 Exhibition, and that from its predecessor, is too great to be regarded without alarm. Once in a generation is often enough for such an Exhibition, to exhibit the progress made in arts and industries during that period, and it will be well if a quarter of a century is allowed to elapse before such another effort is. made.

H. Heathcote Statham.

The Fortnightly Review.

A PENITENT.

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It was high noon in the New Zealand Above were myriads of leaves and bush. The great silence was made only branches; below, myriads of ferns. The the impressive by the little stately tree-ferns towered

up above breaks of sound-the rippling of the the gravel bed of the stream, and in stream an occasional tui flitting every gully by tens and hundreds the overhead, with a gush of melody. ferns multiplied and grew. Life was Scarcely a leaf stirred in all that green so rampant here as to hide death and wilderness. Here and there, where a decay. If a tree fell to-day one would shaft of sunlight had found its way expect to find it green to morrow with through, spotted lizards lay basking ferns and young suckers. There seemed among the dry leaves and fragments something almost savage and unnatof brown and silvery bark that covered ural in this swarming luxuriance of the moist black earth on every side. life, this insistence of growth. A touch

of quiet autumn would have come as a his hand ready to throw, when a swift benediction. In such an hour one feels compunction seized him and he flung most the mystery and the solemn gran- the pebble crashing through the distant deur of the bush.

underwood. Presently a man came limping into “No, I'm darned,” he muttered, “if sight. He was covered with dust from I can hurt the pretty, innocent thing head to foot, and the great beads of after all!" perspiration rolling down his face had At the noise of the falling pebble the made runlets through the dust, and bird rose with a loud whirr of its maggave him a strange, ghastly look. His nificent wings, and passed on to another eyes were like those of a hunted animal; tree. The man was sorry; he wished his tongue lolled out in the heat like it had stayed where it was, that he a dog's.

might watch it. Then things gradually He mad straight for the stream, grew indistinct, and he fell asleep as and, painfully scrambling down the easily as a child. edge of the gully, among ferns and He slept heavily for a time. Then his creepers, he flung himself over the sleep became broken, dreams troubled water and drank eagerly, laving his him-ugly dreams of things that had face in the stream as he drank. Then happened since this summer sun rose.. he drew a deep breath of relief, and Again he was at the little village lay back, his arms behind his head, in public-house, smoking and drinking a state of exhaustion.

with his mate, Bill Harris. The drink He had thrown aside his hat; and was bad, but the day was hot, and his hair, wet with sweat, lay limply on both men thirsty after hours of work his brow. He was a stalwartly built in the scorching sun. Then they turned fellow, with a keen, hard face, and out again, going back to their felling hands roughened by years of toil. His and sawing of timber. And as they clothes were old and rough; on the went a quarrel sprang up between knee of one trouser was a stain like them and grew fierce. Then Bill, in an that of recently spilt blood.

unhappy moment, reminded his mate As he lay pillowed among delicate Jack of the 301. he had been owing him fern fronds, still hot, and panting now these months past. This brought Jack's and then, a wild pigeon came close wrath to a climax; he raised the axe he above him on a fallen tree bough. The was carrying and struck Bill, who fell mild, innocent creature looked at him like a log on the dusty road, the blood with its full red eye, and showed no spouting from his wound. Jack knelt sign of perturbation; its kind had not down and gazed stupidly; Bill yet learned to be afraid of man. This dead. The shock sobered him on the man lay and watched it awhile in si- instant. He dragged the dead man lence. His eye marked its one beauty into the shade of the bushes, and fled after another; its broad, snowy breast, for his life, feeling the hot breath of its red bill, the lovely mingling of the avengers behind him every second. green, red and purple on its wings and Bill dead? Bill? Oh, confound it all, back. He had opportunity to examine no! Things were getting mixed up in it fully, for it sat there with great com- his brain. It was he himself who had posure, only now and then pulling off been ill for weeks together in the wina green leaf and eating it. At last the ter-nigh at death's door-and Bill had man reached out his hand for a big nursed him and waited on him with the pebble; he could knock it down easily tenderness of a woman. Yes, it was without changing his position. He had Bill who had saved his life-brave,

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honest old Bill, who had faced sun and storm with him for three years past. Ay, he was such a mate as a fellow didn't often chance to get. And then to say that he was dead! Oh, how absurd!

Wildly thoughts and images floated through his brain, leaving only a dim, haunting sense of trouble. Then he slipped back to the English meadows of his childhood-daisy-sprinkled grass, and a gray river edged with pollard willows that broke into green loveliness every spring. How well he remembered it all! He used to bathe there as a boy, and dream of striking out bravely for himself in the great river of life. The skies above him were not higher than his aspirations. And now it had all come to this—that he had struck down his friend, and the word MURDERER was written in letters of fire across his soul!

He shivered, drew a long breath and awoke. There was a refreshing undercurrent of coolness in the air, and golden lights slanted down among the ferns. It must be evening, then. He looked at his watch; it was five o'clock. He rose, still shivering, and looked round him. What should he do? Selfpreservation urged him to some immediate course, but where had he best turn for safety ?

He stumbled on listlessly for awhile, swearing hard now and again at the tangles of creeper and brambles through which he had to force his way. All at once he stood stock still, trembling in every limb. He rubbed his hand across his eyes to assure himself that he was not dreaming, and then grew a worse feeling-that madness had come upon him. He had often heard of murderers being haunted by the corpses of their victims, and ah! here the ghastly thing had come upon him! Bill's body lay almost at his feet, and already it was overarched by long, luxuriant ferns.

He knelt down with a little stified

cry and hid his face. When he looked again IT was still there; but as he looked a sudden ray of hope darted into his mind. This thing wore coarse plaid. It could not be Bill. The sudden overpowering sense of relief made him sick and dizzy. Then, recovering himself, he examined the body carefully, with a new gentleness of touch and a new reverence. Slowly he identified it as that of an old stockman who had lived in a lonely hut on the ranges; and then the whole story came back to him. The man had gone away to town and nothing further had ever been heard of him. He had lived so solitary a life that he had not been missed at once, and little wonder was raised when he was, for he was known to be a queer, erratic being.

He was believed to have no relations on this side of the world, and public opinion conjectured that he had taken ship and gone home to his people. And here he had perished far from all kindly human sounds, in this mockery of green, silent beauty. It made Jack shudder afresh.

In the dead man's pocket-book he found crisp bank-notes for 501. Good God! Had he had these yesterday he had not now been a murderer! He bowed his head, then started up wildly, for he seemed to hear footsteps gathering all round him, and voices accusing him from every tree. In an agony of fear his resolution was taken. He would take this man's clothes and personate him in his hermit's hut till the crime had blown over sufficiently for him to slip off to Australia with safety. Anything rather than be taken!

It was nearly midnight when he reached the deserted sod hut, for he was footsore and weary and walked but slowly. It was a cloudless summer night, and the moon was at her full. Under such skies as these even the rugged hills looked lovely, folded into soft, ample curves in the quiet moonlight. And the nodding tussocks in Jack's eyes

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looked far more friendly and beautiful the Ancient Mariner, sailing á sea so than the wonderful shimmering ferns lonely that God Himself scarce seemed he had left. He pushed open the door there to be. To this man the terror of the hut and went in, a cobweb catch- and the awe lay in the fact that God ing his brow as he did so. He struck did seem there beside him night and day, a match and looked round him. All the only Being in all that changeless was neat and in good order the solitude. God, and the dead man, and dead man had left it. His blankets he seemed the only realities in a uniwere rolled up in one corner, the kettle verse of shifting shadows. swung over the empty fireplace, and a One day he found a late-blossoming pipe with some tobacco was on the wild flower in the shadow of a tussock. shelf above. There was a cupboard, He clutched at it like a cbild, and too, with some cheese, tea, flour and a hugged it to his bosom, tears springing mouldy loaf in it. The sight of food to his eyes. He took it home with him, reminded Jack that he had had nothing and had it by him while he slept. He since since that last drink with his could not love and admire too much chum. Was it only years ago, or in this homely little thing that spoke of some other existence?

simplicity and common everyday life. He brought water from the little He held it in his hand and fondled it, spring by the door, built up the fire, till the fragile flower drooped on its and put the kettle on to make tea. long, slender stem and died. Then Then he made himself some "damper," again he was left alone with the maand took his meal with relish. He was jestic, unpitying stars, whose million not used to fast so long. After that he eyes burnt into his soul. He rememsat smoking awhile, then put out the bered a fragment of the Psalms that tallow dip, rolled himself up in the he had once known: "The heavens deblankets, and slept fitfully till morn- clare the glory of God.” What came ing.

after he had forgotten, but this he His scheme was perfectly success- had no chance of forgetting whilst these ful. The days passed on in monoto- relentless ministers of His glory shone nous succession, and no man came near luminous above him night by night. his city of refuge. Once or twice he Often at dusk the woodhens would ventured down to the township on the steal out from tussock and toomatooother side of the hills to replenish his gooroo, croaking shrilly. One, bolder stock of necessaries. Few people knew than the rest, would come to his very him there, and no one eyed him askance door. He had been wont to hunt these as he came and went. Still, had he been birds unmercifully, but now he tried a prisoner, living on the poorest fare, his utmost to propitiate and tame this it could not have changed him more. one. He longed to stroke its speckled His cheeks began to fall in; he was black-and-brown plumage, and have it haggard and gaunt; his bloodshot eyes eat out of his hand. Once it carried off had a strained, listening look in them. a gaudy handkerchief he had spread Among the bare, bleak hills by day, and out to attract it, and he rolled himself alone beneath the illimitable stars by up in his blankets that night happy. night, his mind began to totter. As But it never came again. Perhaps a erery summer sun sprang up, red and chance stone or a dog had ended its glorious, he almost hoped that a po- life. liceman would come for him before He had been almost afraid to ask for night and break this awful spell of a newspaper when buying his stores, loneliness. His was not the plight of lest the very fact should betray him.

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honest old Bill, who had faced sun and cry and hid his face. When he looked storm with him for three years past. again IT was still there; but as he Ay, he was such a mate as a fellow looked a sudden ray of hope darted didn't often chance to get. And then into his mind. This thing wore to say that he was dead! Oh, how ab- coarse plaid. It could not be Bill. The surd!

sudden overpowering sense of relief Wildly thoughts and images floated made him sick and dizzy. Then, recorthrough his brain, leaving only a dim, ering himself, he examined the body haunting sense of trouble. Then he carefully, with a new gentleness of slipped back to the English meadows touch and a new reverence. Slowly he of his childhood-daisy-sprinkled grass, identified it as that of an old stockman and a gray river edged with pollard who had lived in a lonely hut on the willows that broke into green loveli- ranges; and then the whole story came ness every spring. How well he re- back to him. The man had gone away membered it all! He used to bathe to town and nothing further had ever there as a boy, and dream of striking been heard of him. He had lived so out bravely for himself in the great solitary a life that he had not been river of life. The skies above him were missed at once, and little wonder was not higher than his aspirations. And raised when he was, for he was known now it had all come to this—that he to be a queer, erratic being. He was had struck down his friend, and the believed to have no relations on this word MURDERER was written in let- side of the world, and public opinion ters of fire across his soul!

conjectured that he had taken ship and He shivered, drew a long breath and gone home to his people. And here he awoke. There was a refreshing under- had perished far from all kindly human current of coolness in the air, and sounds, in this mockery of green, silent golden lights slanted down among the beauty. It made Jack shudder afresh. ferns. It must be evening, then. He In the dead man's pocket-book he looked at his watch; it was five o'clock. found crisp bank-notes for 501. Good He rose, still shivering, and looked God! Had he had these yesterday round him. What should he do? Self- he had not now been a murderer! He preservation urged him to some imme- bowed his head, then started up wildly, diate course, but where had he best for he seemed to hear footsteps gathturn for safety?

ering all round him, and voices accusHe stumbled on listlessly for awhile, ing him from every tree. In an agony swearing hard now and again at the of fear his resolution was taken. He tangles of creeper and brambles through would take this man's clothes and perwhich he had to force his way. All at sonate him in his hermit's hut till the once he stood stock still, trembling in crime had blown over sufficiently for every limb. He rubbed his hand across him to slip off to Australia with safety. his eyes to assure himself that he was Anything rather than be taken! not dreaming, and then grew a worse It was nearly midnight when he reached feeling-that madness had come upon the deserted sod hut, for he was foot. him. He had often heard of murderers sore and weary and walked but slowly. being haunted by the corpses of their It was a cloudless summer night, and victims, and ah! here the ghastly thing the moon was at her full. Under such had come upon him! Bill's body lay skies as these even the rugged hills almost at his feet, and already it was looked lovely, folded into soft, ample overarched by long, luxuriant ferns. curves in the quiet moonlight. And

He knelt down with a little stifted the nodding tussocks in Jack's eyes

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