the success of the experiment seemed to
arouse a member placed at the other extremity
of the hall, apparently inattentive. He
appeared to emerge suddenly from a state of
profound preoccupation, fixed with his eye
M. Robertson, who had produced the explosion,
and then turning to a member near him,
said: "Fourcroy, this concerns chemistry
more than physics; you should take care to
master it." The drawer of that just distinction
was the first consul, Bonaparte.

One or two sketches from the portfolio
opened by M. Robertson at his public
entertainments, will show not only how well he
practised his art, but with what horrors he
strove to satisfy the taste of a town familiar
with ghastly scenes of blood.—The death of
Lord Littelton: Littelton is at table between
two persons. A phantom; clock strikes
seven; a voice is heard crying, "At midnight
thou shalt die!" Littelton falls back in his
chair, and the phantom vanishes—Torments
of Littelton: Scene changes to a bed—Wills
o' the Wisp dance about—the phantom, or
Death, lifts the latch of the door, enters,
floats upward and lifts the bed-curtains. A
cry is heard, "Littelton, awake" Littelton
rises; the clock strikes. The same voice:
"It is the hour!" At the last stroke of the
clock thunder peals, fire rains, Littelton falls,
and all vanishes.

Another sketch is the change of the three
Graces into skeletons. Another is the head
of Medusa, "as terrible as it was formerly."
Another represents a digger with a lantern,
seeking for a treasure in a ruined church.
He opens a tomb, finds a skeleton, of which
the hand still wears a jewel. As he is about
to seize it, the skeleton stirs and opens its
mouth. The digger falls dead in an agony of
terror. A rat, which had caused the movement,
runs out of the skull.

Some of the subjects are, however, meant
to be agreeable and sentimental. The Birth
of Rustic Love, for example, was presented
in this manner. A young village girl plants
a rose-tree; Nature suns it with her torch,
and brings with her a shepherd by whom it
is watered. The rose-tree grows; it becomes
a home for turtle-doves. Love is born out of
a rose, and in his gratitude unites the rustic
lovers. Many of the subjects show a love of
English themes; one certainly is odd: The
soul of Nelson brought in Charon's bark to
the Elysian Fields.

The exhibitions of M. Robertson, artist in
ghosts, puzzled the wits and the philosophers
of Paris. But a time came when his success
tempted two persons in his employment to
secede from him, take the rooms he had first
occupied, and commence an imitation of his
entertainment. Robertson patented his
methods. They infringed his patent. Lawsuits
arose, and the minutest secrets of the Hall of
Spectres had to be explained and discussed
in open court. Mirrors and magic lanterns
had to be produced; all Paris was amused at
the disclosures. Phantasmagorias of every
degree then sprang up in the town. Robertson
would have fallen into neglect if he had not
stumbled at that time upon one Fitzjames,
who was a first-rate ventriloquist; who could
represent to perfection the dentist who pulled
out all a patient's teeth except the bad one,
and congratulated him upon having made a
clean mouth of it. This man could mimic every
word and scroop and shout that might be
supposed proper to such a scene. In his
representation called The Convent, he could
in the most surprising manner imitate the
tolling of the bells for service, the sound of
the organ, the chant of the choristers, etc.
Fitzjames was killed in the year eighteen
hundred and fifteen by Cossacks, who were
then in Paris.

As for Monsieur Robertson, he lived to see
and to do a great many more strange things,
visiting many parts of the world, and wherever
he went working wonders. He lived
also to make fifty-nine ascents into the sky.

WHEN LONDON WAS LITTLE.

LONDONERS of to-day, and more than
Londoners, are easily amused by recollections of
the Town as it was once. In the time of the
Black Prince, for example, when its west end
was formed by Holborn Bars and the Temple
gate. That gate was not the Temple Bar
as we now see it; but consisted of two
rough pillars of stone supporting iron chains,
which at sunset were stretched across the
roadway to keep out intruders. The Strand
on one side of the City, and Whitechapel on
the other, were country highroads, with pretty
hedgerows, and trees. London Bridge was
thickly studded with wooden tenements on
either side, beetling over the coping and
peeping into the dark muddy stream below.
The Lord Mayor lived in the middle house
upon the bridge; and, a terrible gate at the
Southwark end, bristled with iron spikes
intended for the accommodation of the heads
of traitors.

It certainly is not easy to imagine city
boys going out birdnesting between Temple
Bar and Charing Cross—a country village
then, halfway to the remote hamlet of
Westminster; nor can one readily picture London
damsels gathering primroses or violets on the
rising ground about the office, of Household
Words, or hunting for blackberries on the
site of Exeter Hall, or sitting to rest on the
green sward where Drury Lane Theatre now
stands. Marylebone was then a famous
hunting-ground, whither ambassadors, and
foreigners of distinction were taken to enjoy
the finest sport that Middlesex afforded.
In those days a few noblemen's mansions
alone stood in solitary grandeur westward
of Temple Bar, dotted along the banks of
the Thames. The City was the whole of
London.