We shall soon be ac

"You see, dearest Léonie, it was inevitable. customed to our new abode, and our best friends will, from time to time, be our visitors. Short of leaving the country, there was no possible means of freeing you from your connection with that dreadful society. I use the word 'dreadful' because every society must be such, whatever be its supposed aims, in which women are enrolled without the knowledge of their husbands, and to carry out intrigues which are to remain a secret to those from whom they are bound to have no secrets. I doubt, for instance, whether your society has not done a great deal more harm than the good which it boasts about. You remember by the way, that you have not yet told me by what means you originally became connected with it."

"Through the Duchesse de Guémenée. She no doubt thought me a discreet person, who might be relied upon. I was led on from one thing to another, till at last I was induced to give a promise which I regretted immediately afterwards, but could not retract. But you— you have not yet told me how you became acquainted with our existence." Her husband mused for a few moments. "Ah!" said he, Doctors may have, must have secrets which they are bound to preserve. However, there is nothing mysterious about the matter depend on it, and some day I will relate it to you. Meanwhile," he added, to turn off the conversation from a point which he saw reason to avoid, "this ring, the dead lady's ring! What shall I do with it? Throw it away, to be picked up by the first peasant, and convert him, maybe, into a second Napoleon ?"

"Keep it, dearest," she said, Some day, too," she added, "we may try

Léonie stopped her husband's hand. "keep it for an heir-loom.

its effects on

"On whom?" asked the Doctor.

"Ah! women too have their secrets, Monsieur, which they are bound However, as I don't think this one of them-" she leaned over, and whispered something in his ear.

to preserve.

He clasped his wife in his arms and embraced her again and again. "This, that I thought one of the saddest, is in reality, the happiest day in my life," he exclaimed, and henceforth, the towers of Paris grew smaller and smaller, and the cloud of smoke on the horizon, which represented the great city, dwindled into a speck, and then entirely melted away, without the Doctor's once turning round to note the change, or to release the little hand that lay fondly, securely, faithfully reposing

in his own.

Twenty years after this, that is to say, in eighteen hundred and thirty-six, when young Léon de Longjumeau was completing his medical studies in Paris, it was observed, at the masked balls, and other places of study which he frequented, that he wore a ring of singular appearance and antique design. When interrogated about this trinket, he would reply that it had been put upon his finger by his father, on the day of his departure from Florence, who had enjoined him to wear it "as a talisman," but whether the old gentleman spoke seriously or in jest, he was unable to say. The ring was probably an old family

jewel; the de Longjumeaus being descended, as every oue knew, from a twin brother of Philip the Fair. Certainly, viewed in the light of a talisman, it could scarcely be said to have achieved a high character. Since he had been its fortunate wearer, Léon had twice visited the interior of Clichy, seen himself abandoned no less than seven times, by as many favourite mistresses, for each of whom he would have given his life, and been more or less seriously wounded in three duels. In fact he had met with pretty much the same adventures as his friends and gayer fellow-students, in that degenerate period of French history.

One evening, when, much to his ennui, he had been betrayed into respectable society, and was assisting at a grand ball in the Faubourg St. Honoré, he happened to meet with a certain great statesman and philosopher, to whom his father had given him a letter of introduction. In the course of a few minutes' conversation accorded to him by this illustrious man, the latter, took particular notice of the ring, which the student, in taking off his right glove, showed to view. He even requested to be allowed to examine it, and on handing it back to its owner, enquired whence he had procured it.

"You

"Per

The great Comte smiled when he heard the student's answer. have found its effects very marvellous, I will engage," said he. haps, by the way, your father has never told you the real history of this little object."

"Is there any history connected with it, your Excellency?"

"Simply this. It was a symbol used by a secret society, composed entirely of women, to designate to each other the persons whom they wished to advance. The society had existed for some time, and fancied that they did great things, and preserved their secret. The notion of a

body of women preserving a secret! In reality, they never met without our knowing, through our accredited spies in their body, all that passed. When I say we knew this, I mean we, the chiefs of departments; the police, of course, were suffered to remain in ignorance— they would have spoilt all. The fact was, the society was useful to us at that time. They were legitimistes enragées. After the Restoration, we were obliged to put a stop to them, or rather, to give a finishing stroke to the institution, which was already tumbling to pieces. believe that, during the first Revolution, it possessed some vitality; but latterly the society had become a mere clique of some twenty fashionable ladies, for the pushing of their favourites, and the furtherance of the most trivial objects. Scribe founded his play of 'La Camaraderie' in part upon what I told him of them. You should give this ring to your next new mistress, mon cher," added the Count, playfully, before moving "it may, perhaps, form a slight additional inducement to her to run away from you, and as such, render you a great and lasting service."

on;

The next day, Leon de Longjumeau entertained half-a-dozen of his best friends to a social dinner. The entrées were excellent, and the wine sparkled and foamed, like so much real champagne. Every one wondered whence the money to pay for this feast (at least, five francs a head), could have been procured. A few of the more observant noticed that their host had sat down without his watch-chain and topaz ring, and that, in place of the china ornaments that used to decorate the

mantelpiece, there stood a row of wine-bottles, which were first emptied, and afterwards broken.

He is a respectable man now, having succeeded to his late father's property, of which, together with his health and morals, he takes the greatest possible care. His Sunday supper-parties rival those given by the Doctor, and unite the great geniuses and great fashionables of every country. The writers in the "TRAIN are, of course, welcome, in both capacities; and to one of them, in a moment of after-Burgundy expansion, M. de Longjumeau related the story of his father's adventures, and of THE DEAD LADY'S RING.

PICTURES ON THE PAVEMENT.

BY GODFREY TURNER.

No. II.-PAILLASSE.

HYSICIAN, heal thyself!

There is a story which has been told of one Domenico, famous as a harlequin, for certain brief part of the eighteenth century; and, indeed, of two or three other gentlemen in the same serious line of life. The story comes from Harlequin's own land, Italy, where, it would seem, men sometimes laugh on the wrong side of their mouths, after a fashion not unknown among us. It was not Harlequin, however, but a fellow-mime, whose dismal experience furnished the anecdote; which, by the bye, is of much older date than the time of Signor Domenico. It represents a doctor prescribing for a case of hypochondria. Says he to his patient, "You must seek recreation. You must look abroad, and be amused. your

You must shake off these brain-sick fancies. You must divert

mind. You must positively put away your cares. Go and see

Scaramuccia.'

To whom the patient, very ruefully, makes reply

"Alas! I am Scaramuccia."

So you, not for yourselves, O bees, employ your time in the honeymaking business. So you, O zanies, continually grin and tumble; and-well! let us hope that good children may like the fun. It is

VOL. V.

P

sweet, says Horace, to play the fool occasionally. Occasionally. Sometimes. Now and then. Once and away. Not always, though? Not, we should think, during the entire run of a pantomime, for instance. There is time and place for fooling, as for all things else. On the floor of Parliament; on the Platform; on the Bench; in the Pulpit, even. But not in front of a booth; not for food and raiment; not for a night's lodging; not with the cramp or ague; not with the heartache; not on "the regular boards; " not-definitively not-on the Pavement.

I confess there is fascination for me still, in the paint and spangles. When I hear afar off that concord of sweet sounds, the big drum and the ear-piercing pan-pipes, I quicken my step as in days of old. When I turn into Great Decorum-street, W.C., what time the mountebank spreads his carpet in the road, and ranges, ready to his hand, the knives, the cups and balls and basins, the large brass rings, and the soup-plate, which he raps demonstratively before spinning it on a stick; when he clears a space for the performance, by whirling, fearfully near to the noses of the front row of spectators, a couple of large, round pads, fastened to either end of a long string: when I perceive these preparations a-foot, I halt awhile even in that most genteel of thoroughfares, to see what is coming. No less than the juggler's dexterity do I admire the feats of the gymnast, or, as we now call him, the acrobat. Nothing has ever been to me a greater mystery, or a cause of more painful and fruitless cogitation, than the art of throwing clear summersaults from feet to feet. As well as I can understand the matter, it seems that this is the only notable human performance which must be perfectly accomplished at the very first trial; which must, I say, positively be done at that time, if ever. Here is an act, surely the most difficult and amazing. How to do it is a problem that can be solved no other way than empirically, and is clearly beyond the inductive method. Its formula is "Here goes." Any error in working out the proposition, is a case for the hospitals. You or I could not, were it to save our lives, get so far with the attempt even as to break our necks by the failure. And yet, every man who throws a summersault must have done it for the first time, at some time or other, and he can tell us nothing that shall help us to a correct knowledge of the business.

I was once very near discovering the secret in a dream. Methought that I was led into the midst of a hollow square of soldiery, and was ordered by my school-master, and the Emperor Maximin, who, in a scanty suit of armour, and sandals, and nothing else, sat beside him in a gig (and strikingly resembled the absurd statues of military persons of the time of Queen Anne), to throw a double summersault backwards, on pain of being instantly shot, whether in case of refusal or failure. I have a most vivid recollection of making up my mind, and of the perfect confidence, nay, elation, with which I bounded from the earth, resolved to astonish and baffle the tyrants, by complying with their brutal demand. Of course, just at that interesting moment, I

woke.

There is, it occurs to me at this point of my subject, another feat of some consideration in the tumbler's arcana. It is technically known as

the " up spring," and, though it attracts little notice from the uninitiated, on account of its apparent facility, is said to be almost as difficult as the summersault. A clown performs this feat about ten times on an average, in the course of a pantomime. It is his professional way of getting up when he has been knocked down. Pantaloon, under the same circumstances, you will remember, is picked up by his nether drapery. But the clown always throws an up-spring; and this is how he does it. Being on his back, he elevates his heels as much as possible, and then jumps quickly to his feet, taking the spring from the shoulders. That's all. It looks really very easy. Try it. Sitting at the table d'hote, at Boulogne, once, I happened to start a conversation which became general. It was in the matter of gymnastic exercises, and embraced remarks on the up-spring, and on the fearful exertion it called forth. A tall gentleman, of grave demeanour, and a very serious tone of voice, both of which combined had gained him the universal deference of the company, said he thought he could perform the feat in question. One of the youngest and least reverential persons present offered to bet him a good round sum that he would fail on the first attempt. To the astonishment of the whole table, the serious gentleman took the bet; but how much greater was the surprise of everybody, when, having laid his long ungainly form on the floor, he threw the up-spring in a clever manner, and calmly pocketed his gains! He soon afterwards informed us that he was an American clown, proceeding to Paris, on an engagement with Franconi's.

Ι

Paillasse, who reflects, in various ways, our incomprehensible humanity, is liable to human mistakes in the specific valuation of his qualities. What man among us all but has plain aberrations from reason and modesty, when his pet accomplishment is in question? From poking the fire or mixing a salad up to planning a fortification, it is given to every man that he shall go mad upon the point of his ability to do something or other, superlatively well. My own particular talent is-never mind what. I might have made my fortune by it, though; which is more than I shall ever succeed in doing by my Lyrics of the Liver, or other poems. Paillasse believes that the one trick of his which ought to render him famous is just that very trick which nobody cares much about seeing him perform. "There ain't a man going as can do the splits like me. Bill do the splits! He can't do 'em no more than a babby. Bill ain't so bad at a flip-flap, neither; but if he was to try for ever so long, he wouldn't come nigh me with the splits. It ain't a trick as everybody knows how to set about, mind you. Here! you just see me do the splits."

Bill, on the other hand, though acknowledged to excel in the conduct and finish of a flip-flap, rather plumes himself on his perfection as a patterer. His gift is decidedly that of the gab. If the public had any discrimination, and could tell real merit when it's put right before their very faces, how great would have been Bill's success in his favourite line! Never heard him with the performing birds? Ah, then, you don't know yet what out-and-out pattering means.

By the way, those performing birds, and the white mice, which, with the tambourine-playing hare, belong to the same company, seem to me to have fallen into the gipsy mode of life, and to possess all the traits of