described in an extraordinarily vivid and
striking manner. Effect is given to every
intonation and characteristic of the speakers;
and each is introduced with a short
biography. There is no such reporting as this
in the English press; and here it would
have been considered unfair towards the
prisoner, as tending to arouse a feeling of
supernatural abhorrence against him; but
the interest and genius of the narrative
are unquestionable and masterly.

The report of the trial of Tropmann is
followed by a Chronique de Paris, which
contains a letter from the Emperor to M.
Emile Ollivier and a list of the new
ministry without comment or remark.
Then follows a jocular money article,
three occasional notes on personal subjects,
and a theatrical criticism. The rest of the
paper is composed of advertisements; but
even some of those are so cleverly edited
as to be sprightly, suggestive, and
readable. In fact, they very often must be
read; since now and then there is a smart
joke in the body of the paper, and the
reader is referred to an advertisement for
the point of it. One advertisement is set
to a popular air, printed in musical types;
another concerns the immortal M. Foy, the
marriage agent: who appears to keep a
large assortment of noblemen and
marriageable ladies constantly on view at his
establishment, open to any eligible offer.

THE BOWL OF PUNCH.

UPSTANDING, and brim every glass!
  Outside the wind is sobbing,
Let it lament, so we can watch
  The golden lemon bobbing.
Upon the steaming fragrant sea
  The precious fruit swims gaily,
To Cupid let us Aves sing,
  And to old Care a Vale.

The silver ladle that I wave,
  My sceptre shall be, mind ye!
I stir the liquid that has spells,
  Black cares of life to bind ye.
The vapour of this magic draught
  To kings will transform each one;
The floor beneath has turned to clouds;
  Ha! look up there, I'll reach one!

Hark, how the fretful shrewish wind
  Is through the keyhole scolding,
Joy listening from the ingle side,
  His lazy arms is folding.
Mirth laughs to see within his glass
  The mellow spirit beading,
While Wisdom squeezes sour drops,
  Of Sorrow little heeding.

They talk of nectar dear to Jove,
  And praise its unknown flavour,
The Greeks were fools; no nectar yet
  Had ever such a savour
As this sweet liquid that we've brewed
  In the great bowl before us:
Upstanding all, join hand in hand,
  And comrades chant a chorus.

'Tis magic drink! Enchanted, we
  Seem raised upon some steeple;
Below us cities lie, like toys,
  With busy ants for people.
Kings spread before us crowns and gems,
  And beauty smiles propitious;
Why, waggons brimming o'er with gold
  Would make Job avaricious!

The spell dies out, the glamour fades,
  Enchantment is all over,
You would not find so dull a lot
  From Berwick town to Dover.
No longer kings, we pay the bill,
  Which really seems tremendous:
Indeed, old Brown looks very blue,
  And swears it is stupendous.

One golden curl of lemon peel
  Droops o'er the bowl regretful;
We're no more wizards, Robinson,
  Come, Jones, man, don't be fretful!
To-morrow night another crew
  Will find new joy and pleasure,
Deep hidden in this bowl of ours,
  Our landlord's special treasure.

A LITTLE SECRET.

"IT is with unmitigated gratification,"
said my friend, Richard Longchild, between
the puffs of his cigar, "that I have obtained
from the excavatory (puff) perquisitions of
the persevering (puff) Jones, overwhelming
corroboration of the heretofore theoretical
deterioration of the (puff) species, man.
Nothing can be more satisfactory. It is
now (puff) known, that we are descending,
sir, at the rate of two inches and an eighth
per century."

"I don't see the fun of that, though,"
said I.

"It shows, at least, what we were,"
rejoined Mr. Longchild, rather bitterly.
"The indefatigable archæologist, in (puff)
demonstration of the indestructibility——"

"I must be off in ten minutes, Dick,"
I remarked.

Dick took the hint, and dropping from
his polysyllabic stilts, came lightly to the
ground.

"Yes. Jones has put his thumb upon
a chap who might, in his lifetime, if in
condition, have whopped any amount of
authenticated bones we know of. In the
much-admired, but carefully-avoided,
island of Sardinia, there was a spot known
by the natives as the Giants' Sepulchre.
It proved to be thirty-seven feet in length,
by six in breadth."

"The skeleton?"

"No. The grave. And ditto in depth."

"Thirty-seven feet!"

"No, six. With enormous stones
reclining on their massive bosoms,"
continued Mr. Longchild, a little obscurely.
"It was upon raising one of these, that