"Eugénie de la Tour?"

"Eugeéie de la Tour."

"The same!"

"But how do you find yourself in that
room?" I asked, still somewhat incredulous.

"I took this little place to-day," said he,
"as a quiet room to read in, and to sleep in at
night. By the way, I have to apologise for
coining through your apartment in your
absence, for the porter had not yet given me
the key of the other door upon the landing."

"I saw you," said I; "but how did you
contrive to lock your door again without my
hearing it?"

"Do you not know that when this door is
once shut, it cannot be opened again, from
your side, without a key?"

"I understand," said I, advancing, with the
light, to shake hands with him. But his
unaccountable resemblance, in dress and features,
to Robespierre himself (which I had
almost forgotten), his pale face, and sunken
eyes, struck me again so forcibly, as the light
shone upon him, that I started back."I
hope you will not think me unpolite," said I,
"if I observe, before coming closer, that I am
struck very forcibly with the remarkable resemblance
that you beav to a certain historical
pereonage."

"Ha! ha!" he laughed, in a tone that
sounded strangely hollow. "To whom, now?
Tell me. To Louis Seize, or the Cardinal
Richelieu; Jean Jacques Rousseau, or the
Emperor Napoleon; the lean Frederick of
Prussia, or the portly Mirabeau?"

"To none of those," said I.

"To a man of the Revolution- eh? A
Girondin, or a Cordelier; a Feuillant, or a
Jacobin?"

"To a Jacobin!" said I, "without any
offence."

"No doubt!" he replied; "but to which
of them? Not to Marat, the blackguard, I
hope? nor little Camille Desmoulins? nor
the jolly Danton? Something more of the
Robespierre look about me- isn't there?"
Holding the nosegay in one hand, he placed
himself exactly in the attitude of Robespierre
in the portraits.

"I certainly," said I, "did have such an
impression when I first saw you; and now
that you stand in that position, I cannot help
being struck with the similarity between
you."

He laughed again, in the husky tone of a
man afflicted with a severe cold. "The day
I was born, my nurse- who never before, in
her life, admitted a child to have the slightest
resemblance with anybody but his own father
- could not help exclaiming, 'Ah, le petit
Robespierre!' for she had seen the great man
when a girl. Everybody said I resembled him
exactly; everybody was right. Faith! to-night,
at the fancy ball at the Chaumière, I
make my appearance in this style, with nosegay
complete, and everybody recognises me
in a moment."

"Ha! ha!" I exclaimed, laughing in my
turn." The mystery is unravelled! Pray, step
in; I will light my fire in a moment. I think
I have materials for a bowl of punch."

"With all my heart," said he. " I dare not
go to bed, lest I should oversleep myself, and
forget my engagement."

"To your fair cousin, Eugénie!" said I,
when the bowl stood smoking on the table,
while we struck our glasses together, in ratification
of the toast.

"To one not less fair!" said he, filling
again, "whose name I need not tell."

KING DIRT.
A Song adapted to a slow Sanitary Movement.

DRINK from the dark and mantling pool,
With festering weeds begirt,
A deep black draught to the lazy rule
Of poverty's king- KING DIRT!
Though I stoop my head, and trail the skirt
Of my robe in the miry way,
All know that the ragged and old King Dirt
Hath a potent and patent sway.
I laugh to see
How all devoted my people be,
Grovelling low, and bepraising me.

And many friends, wealthy and steadfast, have I,
Though they oft look askant as they pass me by;
And many a purse-proud burgher, wise
In his generation, on me relies;
And many town-councillors, seeing no hurt,
Sneer down my enemies- proud of King Dirt!
Aud I laugh on still, while they let me be,
And extend my realm unceasingly!

Opponents of Progress, who love the inert,
Who claim for inanity Wisdom's desert,
Loving friends, round me cling!
Fill high the bowl, and sing
Long live your lazy king, squalid King DirtI

There's a low-roomed house in a ruinous street,
Where filth and penury lovingly meet;
And the cobwebbed roof, and the rotting wall,
And the rag-stifled casement, dark and small,
Are unheeded there, among many more-
So wretched the homes of the wretchedly poor!

A poor worn weaver there works for his bread-
Working on, working on, far in the night;
His daughter breathes hollowly, lying a-bed,
And the wasting clay
Lets the spirit play
Over her face with a flickering light!

The clock of a neighbour ticks solemn and low
On the neighbour's side of the crazy wall;
And the loom clicks on with an answer slow,
And the shuttle flies silently to and fro,
As it weaves the robe for bridal or ball.

But the loom is stopped; and down by the bed
The father kneels by his dying child;
But vainly he speaks- her time is sped;
No answer there comes to his outcry wild,
For the child stares out with her glazéd eyes,
Till the eyes turn back- and she silently dies!