sown, so to speak, by a storm-blast between
the chinks of a mouldering rampart, stained
with the blood and blackened with the
thunder of battle.

And that date, has it not brought us (let
it be remembered distinctly by no more than
an eighth step) to a period removed from the
Actual Present by a lapse of more than Three
Centuries?

Link by link the chain of memories might
be strung together, readily enough, indefinitely
onward, from generation to generation:
connecting the age of Victoria not less
easily with that of Boadicea, than the former
is here brought, by eight paces, within view of
an epoch positively beyond that of Elizabeth.

Enough. I am suddenly recalled from
fifteen hundred and forty-two to this present
year of our Lord eighteen hundred and fifty-
seven, as by a jerk, startling me from my
meditative recollections. The glass-doors of
the Commons have swung-to, and I kick off
my Shoes of Swiftness and subside into mere
Wellingtons.

A TOUCHING (AND TOUCHED)
CHARACTER.

SOME few years ago, the reading-room of
the Bibliothèque Royale, at Paris, was
frequented by a personage whose quaint
costume could not fail to attract the notice of
every visitor. Dressed from top to toe in a
close-fitting garb of red, or blue, or yellow
cloth, with the grand cordon of some unknown
order of knighthood around his neck, and his
hat adorned with artificial flowers, bright
beads, and tinsel ornaments of every description,
the strangely-accoutred student would
sit all day long in one particular place, with
his head bent over his book, apparently wrapt
in attention to the subject before him. He
was a man past middle life, his hair and
beard were grey, and his countenance, which
had evidently once been handsome, bore
traces of long and deep suffering, in the
furrows with which it was plentifully seamed.
The curiosity excited by the singularity of
his dress could not fail to be increased by the
ineffable sorrow expressed in his face; and
if any one, interested by his appearance,
inquired who he was, he probably obtained
no other answer than this: "It is Carnevale."

Indeed, Carnevale's history was so well
known to the habitués of the library, that
they thought no further answer was necessary;
but if the inquirer pursued his questions,
he might have heard the following
account of him:

Carnevale was an Italian, of a highly
respectable family in Naples. He came to
Paris about the year eighteen hundred and
twenty-six, young, handsome, and well
provided with money. With these advantages
he had no difficulty in getting into
society, and was received with open arms by
his fellow-countrymen resident in the French
capital. Suddenly, however, he disappeared
his friends lost sight of him; no one
knew why or whither he had gone, until
some time afterwards it was discovered that
he had fallen passionately in love, and had
sought solitude in order to enjoy undisturbed
the sweet society of the mistress of his affections.
But his happiness was of short duration;
the lady died, and her death robbed
poor Carnevale not only of all that was dearest
to him on earth, but of his reason, too.

When he had in some degree recovered
from the first violence of the shock, he went
daily to pray and weep at her tomb. The
watchman at the cemetery noticed that, at
every visit, he took a paper, folded in the
shape of a letter, from his pocket, and placed
it under the stone. This was communicated
to Carnevale's friends, one of whom went to
the grave, and found five letters hidden
there: one for each day since her burial. The
last was to this effect, though it is impossible
to render in a translation all the pathetic
grace of the original Italian:

DEAREST,—You do not answer my letters, and
yet you know that I love you. Have you forgotten
me amid the occupations of the other land? It would
be unkind—very unkind—if you had. But now, for
five days—five long days—I have waited for news of
you. I cannot sleep, or if I close my eyes for an
instant, it is to dream of you.

Why did you not leave me your address? I
would have sent you your clothes and trinkets. . . .
But no! do not send for them: for pity's sake, leave
them with me. I have arranged them on chairs, and
I fancy you are in the next room, and that you will
soon come in and dress yourself. Besides these things,
which you have worn, spread a perfume through my
little room; and so I am happy when I come in.

I wish I had your portrait, very well done, very
much like you, so as to he able to compete with the
other—for I have one already. It is in my eyes, and
it can never change. Whether I shut my eyes, or
open them, I see you always. . . Ah, my darling!
how skilful is the great artist who has left me this
portrait.

Farewell, dearest! Write to me to-morrow, or
to-day, if you can. If you are very busy, I will not
ask you for a page, or even for a line,—only three
words. Tell me only that you love me.

                                                        CARNEVALE.

His friend, imagining that he was suffering
from an illusive melancholy which every
day would tend to decrease, requested the
watchman to take away the letters as
Carnevale brought them; but the result was
not as he anticipated. On finding that his
love did not send him any reply, Carnevale
fell into a state of gloomy despair; after
having written thirty letters, he ceased his
visits to the cemetery.

It was about this time that, as he walked
along the boulevards, he saw a variety of
bright coloured cloths displayed in a
draper's window. He smiled at seeing
them, and, entering the shop, purchased
several yards of each sort of cloth. A week