remained above, while the rest hurried down to
get into the room below. But here was another
delay, for the woman who occupied it, a good
Protestant, as several of them knew, and therefore
not to be suspected of voluntarily harbouring
a French spy (for such they declared the
fugitive to be), was absent, and the door was locked.
Some, who had hurried round to the back of the
house, found the window of this room fast bolted
on the inside, and there was no other outlet
from it. With a shout they announced their
certainty that the Frenchman was still in the
house, caught in his own trap! So they called
for a crowbar to break open the door, and seize
him at last. Somehow, none of them
ventured to follow him through the hole he had
made in floor and ceiling. They knew he
must be armed; they had abundant proof of his
energy and desperation; and the bravest man
that ever stepped, might well be pardoned for
not adopting a means of descent sure to be fatal
to himself.

But just as the crowbar was about to be put
in requisition, there was a cry of "Stop, stop!"
from a female voice in the crowd, and presently
a little woman, greatly flurried and excited, came
elbowing her way towards them, "Oh, general,
honey!" she cried, "sure ye won't break open
my little room? I have the kay here somewhere
—only wait one moment!" And the little clear-
starcher fumbled desperately in her pockets and
in the bosom of her dress, vowing the while, as
well as she could speak, that it was "the Lord
sent her back from her arrand in time to prevent
her little place from being smashed!" Still, the
poor creature was so frightened and so confused
that it was not until the General, losing all
patience, had again called for the crowbar, that the
key at length made its appearance, in answer to
a despairing dive into the depths of a capacious
side-pocket. It was snatched from her, the door
was flung open, and the men poured in. In a
moment every nook and cranny was ransacked
—in vain! There was no trace of the fugitive,
and they were completely at fault. The window
shut, and bolted on the inside, precluded any
idea of escape in that direction; the fire cheerily
burning in the large grate, as effectually proved
that he could not have ascended the chimney; he
was nowhere in the room, yet there was plain to
all beholders the aperture in the ceiling by which
he had got down. And louder than the cries of
the angry soldiers were those of the little clear-
starcher, whose apartment had been so
unceremoniously disfigured. The would-be captors
were baffled—they swore they were baffled by
the devil himself!

But the Evil One had had no need, even were
he so inclined, to interfere in the matter. The
little Protestant clear-starcher had contrived
very cleverly to outwit the soldiers. That she was
odd in her ways was certain, for while every man,
woman, or child, except herself, was in commotion
on the arrival of the military, she remained
at her wash-tub, rubbing away, and listening to
the uproar and the blows overhead, as if nothing
at all unusual were the matter. There she was,
when the ceiling gave way, and the poor hunted
Frenchman, pale and covered with dust, stood
before her. She never cried out, or even spoke;
she just looked at him for a second, then
pointed to the open window; he sprang out,
and hastened off in the direction she indicated.
The little woman dusted the window-sill where
he had left the prints of his feet, shut the window,
bolted it on the inside, threw some fresh
provender on the fire, slipped out, locking the
door behind her, and mingled unobserved with
the people in the street.

Whoever the Frenchman was, he was saved.
When he jumped out through the window, he
made off across a garden, on through other
gardens, on into a field where some men were
digging potatoes. These seeing him running,
and his dress all torn, guessed how it was, and
one of them gave him his jacket, another his
brogues, another his caubeen, and they rubbed
clay over his hands and face, and otherwise
aided his disguise. Then they put a spade into
his hand, and set him to dig with them. By-
and-by the soldiers came to make inquiries,
and were sent off on a wild-goose chase after
a gentleman without a hat whom they said
they had seen running in an opposite direction.
The soldiers never found him, and the fugitive
got safe back to France. It was not rightly
known who he was; some said one thing, and
some said another; but from what General Duff
cried out when the soldiers wanted to fire down
on him, it was believed he must be somebody
of great consequence. The poor people said it
was the King of France.

PARISIAN ROMANS.

THE history of that group of singular
personages, who, in common Parisian parlance,
enjoy the ethnological appellation of "Romans"
(Romains), and who play a prominent part
in modern Parisian civilisation, has yet to
be written in full—at least, in the English
language. Such a history, however, might not
find an unfitting place in our literature, were it
only by way of affording that warning which
history may be made to convey, in the conduct
of nations. It is not the intention here to
write anything that merits the name of
"history." But a sketch of the habits, manners,
and influence on society, for good or for evil, of
the curious tribe of Parisian "Romans" may be
considered worthy of record, the rather, as sundry
efforts, vain upon the whole, have been made
in latter days to acclimatise certain offshoots of
the tribe in our own country. We may not
know them under that ethnological distinction
which the Parisian people have bestowed upon
them. But we have heard of them under the
name of "Claqueurs," or the generic appellation
of "La Claque."

The tribe can boast of very considerable
antiquity. In the times of the degeneracy of
ancient Rome—perhaps even their origin might
be traced to a far remoter period were their