Dictionary in England. There are two opinions
in this country relative to the utility of academies;
and, without advocating the formation
of such an institution I may be permitted
submissively to plead that we really do want
a new dictionary—if not in justice to
ourselves, at least in justice to foreigners, and in
justice to our great-great-grand-children.

A NORMAN STORY.

Not many evenings ago, when the southwest
wind had cooled the atmosphere, I was
sauntering with my dog on the top of the
cliffs not far from Fécamp, in Normandy. All
at once my dog made a halt, pricked up his
ears, and uttered a low growl. A few seconds
afterwards I perceived in the shade a man
who had also stopped on my approach. I
called my dog; the man came forward; and,
by his cloak lined with sheepskin, I recognised
one of those numerous coast-guards, whose
duty it is to watch all night long in little
hiding-places that are built upon the cliffs,
more than three hundred yards above the
level of the sea.

"You have got there," he observed, as he
laid his hand upon my dog's head, "an excellent
companion for the evening. A real
Newfoundlander," he added, "I once had
one like him, but was obliged to part with
him. We are no longer allowed to take
dogs out with us. To be sure, they would
discover a smuggling transaction sooner than
we could by ourselves; but they would also
inform us of the visits of our night inspectors,
and that would not exactly suit them."
While gossipping thus, he gave me to understand
that this was his native place; that,
although he was not particularly rich, with
his salary of six hundred francs a year, he
was yet glad to be home again. "And,
Monsieur," he continued, "I have not enjoyed
that pleasure long. Although I have now
been here three days I cannot literally say
that I have slept under my family roof; for I
have only every fourth night to myself"
During the course of this speech, he leaned
forward from time to time, and peeped over
the edge of the cliff.

"Do you hear anything?" I asked.

"No," he replied; "but I am looking for
a grotto about which my mother used
formerly to tell me a curious story. The spots
on which we have passed the happiest
moments of our lives, are old friends whom we
are delighted to meet again. Look there—
that's the very place." And he pointed wuth
his finger to a cavern in the cliff, which
imprinted upon its white side a vast and
irregular black spot. I will spare you the relation
of the manoeuvring which I employed, to
induce the coast-guard to tell me his story.
We sat ourselves down inside his little hut,
and he began:—

"In the first place, Monsieur, I assure you
that neither my mother nor myself ever knew
the persons whose history I am going to tell
you. The tale was told to my mother, as
she told it to me, and as I shall shortly tell it
to you.

"A very long time ago, a young man
named Louis Morand was sent by his father to
Paris, to complete his studies, and to take his
Doctor's degree in the Faculty of Medicine.
The father died; and the report went about
that it was in consequence of grief at his son's
ill conduct. However that might be, the
youth, who had no great inheritance to
expect, simply sent for the papers of his deceased
parent, and employed himself one evening in
destroying them, and in selecting those that
promised to be of use. After the inspection
of much that was of no consequence, he came
to a bundle which contained letters all in the
same handwriting. The very first letter made
him extremely anxious to examine the rest,
and he read a tolerably voluminous correspondence.
They came from a friend who seemed
greatly attached to his father. 'Since it is
your wish,' he wrote, 'that I should reserve
for your son what I desire and am able to
bequeath to you, send him to me as soon as
he is five-and-twenty; and, if he shows a
good disposition, I will undertake to provide
for him handsomely. On the other hand, I
will take good care not to furnish him with
the means of developing a vicious and a
malignant character, to the prejudice of those
with whom he has to do.' When Louis
Morand read the signature, he recognised the
name of a man who was reputed here to be a
sorcerer and a necromancer. He laughed at
first at this offer of protection; but after he
had spent, in as bad a way as possible, the
trifling amount of money which remained
after his father's affairs were settled, he then
resolved, under pressure from his creditors
and in uncertainty about his future prospects,
to try his chance upon new ground, and introduce
himself to this unknown benefactor, who
appeared to have both the power and the will
to serve him. He set out on his journey;
and, after a troublesome search, arrived safely
at the necromancer's house. I ought to tell
you that this necromancer was perhaps no
more a sorcerer than you and I. Probably
he was only better informed than other folks,
and by means of a few chemical and mechanical
secrets, contrived to impose upon the
credulity of the vulgar."

At this last word, I looked at the coastguard
with some degree of surprise. "Do
you think so?" I said.

"I don't think anything about it," he
answered. "What I am now telling you is
part of the narrative like all the rest. My
mother told it me in that way, and probably
that is exactly how she heard it herself The
magician's house was in the midst of a wood
on the slope of a hill. When Louis Morand
knocked at the door, a little black-faced man
came and opened it. His appearance made a
deep impression upon Louis. At that time