with gilt statues of lions and elephants. At
one end of it an ivory throne of beautiful
workmanship was erected for the high priest;
on one side shone a golden image of the sun;
on the other side a silver image of the moon.
It was probably to these ruins that Knox
referred in the quotation we have given from
his very interesting work.

It is worthy of observation, that the ruins
in Anurajapoora, which strike the visitor as
most worthy of notice, are not the remains of
royal palaces. The dagobahs and the great
brazen palace were evidently erected by the
zeal of mistaken piety. The walls of the city,
massive and extensive as their foundations
prove them to have been, seem to have been
raised for the protection of the people, and
there cannot be a doubt of the utility of the
immense embankments of the tanks, when we
consider the tropical situation of the island,
and the fact that its supply of rain is only
periodical.

We retired to the cool grot afforded by the
cella, or inmost fane, of a tremendous temple;
and, in the presence of at least twenty centuries
- lunched. Before, however, falling
to in earnest, we thought it but decently
respectful to dedicate the first glass of
champagne to the founder of the place; and
we drank, in the solemn silence the scene demanded
- a bumper to the immortal memory
of Anuraja.

A TRUE ACCOUNT OF AN
APPARITION.

ON a wintry afternoon in the month of
February- carnival time- in Paris, I sat in
my room, in the Rue Rambouillet, Quartier
Latin, alone. The course of lectures in the
College de France which I had been following,
were suspended for the holidays. All serious
things were put aside for that round of gaiety
which was to fortify the Parisians against the
supposed privations of Lent. I, however, had
determined to eschew all pleasures for awhile.
Upon a serious review of my career for some
months previously, I had come to the conclusion,
that nothing short of hard study and
moderate fare, in my hermitage, far removed
from the gaiety of Paris, in the time of
carnival, could atone for the past, and bring
me upon good terms with myself. So, upon
this afternoon- being the third day of my
voluntary confinement- I had returned from
the restaurant, and putting on my dressing
gown and Greek cap, sat down with my book
open before me.

There is a solemn sensation in a wintry
afternoon, when the dusk comes on early, and
we sit quietly alone, which belongs to no
other season. Mine was a retired street, and
my room being au sixime, I was as much
removed from the bustle of Parisian life as ii
I had been in Palmyra or Pompeii. Yet,
sometimes, in the pauses of my reading, out oi
the very solitude and stillness, perhaps from
an involuntary listening for some sound, there
grew up a low noise in the air, which seemed
always about to become more distinct; but
dying away, returned again, in a manner that
perplexed me. I speculated upon the cause of
it. I fancied it was the whole noise of the
city blended and softened down into one deep
murmur. I imagined the variety of sounds
of which it was composed. I analysed it into
the rumbling of vehicles, voices of people,
bells, shutting of doors, working of machines,
falling of waters, music, laughter, waitings:
and, letting my fancy take such shapes as it
would, I saw, in my reverie, many scenes
from which such sounds might arise. I found
pleasure in such fancies, and gave myself up
to them easily. When I aroused, the sound
was hushed; but on waiting awhile and listen-
ing attentively, the same murmur seemed to
fill the air. A suspicion that it was a deception
of a sense overstrained by listening, set
me meditating; for with this, as with most
trifling things which baffle our inquiries into
their causes, I was reluctant, having begun
my speculations, to give them up without
coming to some satisfactory conclusion.

I rose from my seat and looked out of the
window. In the square yard below, the bare
branches of the trees were not stirred by a
breath of wind. The sky was cloudy as if
snow were about to fall: in the dusk, here and
there, I saw lights at the windows. My
neighbour, the daguerreotyper, who lived
with his wife- a Norman woman- and four
children, in a little erection upon the next
roof, I could see smoking and reading by the
fire. For three weeks, nobody had been on
his roof to pose for a portrait; the sun having
altogether withdrawn his smiles from the
people of Paris during that time, and the
secret of taking photographic portraits par
tons les temps, not having been then discovered.
He was a cheerful man, and his wife was a
cheerful woman, yet he was poorer even than
I was. He had a little glass-case beside a
shop-door in the Rue Dauphine, with an
announcement that he would take portraits,
in a style there exhibited, at two francs fifty
centimes; or in family groups, of not less than
four, at one franc per physiognomy; and directing
the public to "M. Brison, Rue Rambouillet,
No. 2, top of the house." His roof was never
crowded at the best of times, and in dull
weather his occupation was gone. At such
times, with the wind that way, I have missed
the savoury smell of soup or bouilli at the
accustomed hour of eleven in the morning.
A Frenchwoman can make soup of anything;
and the poverty must be sad indeed, when
she can no longer provide this.

I took an interest in this family. I climbed
up their dark staircase one day, six flights of
stairs and a ladder, and as soon as I could
recover my breath, demanded a portrait at
two francs fifty centimes. They had attracted
my attention from my window, and I was
prompted more by curiosity than aught else