fairly good education from his father, and gave the same advantage to his own children, who lived with him in domestic harmony long after they had grown up to be men and women. It was his wont, every Saturday, to distribute bread to the poor of the district, at his house in the Rue Neuve St. Jean. His son, another of the race of Sanson, succeeded to the office on the death of Henri, in 1840. The office finally went out of the family in 1847.

A curious episode connected with the Sansons and the guillotine is given in Appert's Dix Ans à la Cour du roi Louis Philippe. The Earl of Durham, Mr. Ellice, Dr. (afterwards Sir John) Bowring, and other Englishmen, being at Paris in 1833, expressed a great desire to see the famous guillotine of which they had heard so much, and the almost equally famous executioner who had chopped off so many distinguished heads. Appert went by appointment to the residence of Sanson, where the family room was pleasantly furnished, and a young girl was playing the piano in an adjoining apartment. Appert was requested to occupy an armchair, on which three generations of executioners had sat; he did so, but afterwards confessed that he did not feel quite at ease there. On the following Saturday the Englishmen accompanied Appert to Sanson's. The Earl of Durham asked whether they could see a live sheep guillotined, to ascertain whether life appeared to vanish at the very instant of decapitation; but he was informed that such a proceeding would give offence at Paris. The guillotine was shown to the visitors, and its mechanism explained in detail. It had a framework about twelve feet square, painted of a beef-red colour; the stage or platform was six or seven feet from the ground. The descending blade or chopper was about thirty-two inches high by fourteen wide, weighed a hundred and thirty pounds, and had a stroke or fall of nine feet; it was guided in its descent by grooves in two upright timbers. The block on which the neck of the victim was placed had various contrivances to ensure security, promptness, and the avoidance of needless suffering. Appert was amused at the cagerness with which the Englishmen wished to ascertain personally as much of the ordeal as possiblestopping short, of course, of the final catastrophe. In return for the courtesy shown, Apport invited Sanson to dinner; Vidocq, Balzac, Alexandre Dumas, Fourier,

Victor Considerant, Broussais, and other notabilities were invited to meet him; and the executioner was quite the hero of the evening. He bore a good character among all who knew him.

THE LADY IN THE WHITE SHAWL.

"TO - MORROW, Louisa Lovebird, the dearest friend I have upon earth, is to come to stay; and we will have such expeditions together. She is very pretty; but you are not to admire her, mind. Her husband is in India."

"Admire her!" I said, reproachfully. "Could I?”

"And your photograph-you promised that for to-morrow. I declare this is the fourth valse I have given you to-night. But I suppose I must.

These were the words of an "only

seems

to

daughter," an article which have a mysterious fascination for mankind. She was not exactly pretty, but "so nice" her better-favoured friends protested. The "only" was enough for me. Her name was Lucy Henwitcher, her father being the reverend of that name.

Forget the photograph, for which she had expressed a wish, and reserved a place in an album so stout and gorged that it could not be laced or buttoned-to! I had sat and sat again to Cameron Skewrer, for one of his choicest "Cabinet - Minister" size. That artist had taken infinite pains; but at first he could not satisfy himself, and on succeeding attempts did not satisfy me. I sat four times, each result being worse than the one before. The last, however, he declared, could not be better; and he went into such ecstasies over his own work that he persuaded me. Yet, on the ground of its being so unflattering, I thought it very doubtful if it could be like. However, he assured me that "it was my born self;" "that it would be known if it was set up at Charing-cross" -a contingency so improbable that it could never be adopted as a test.

The morning after the ball I went to receive a copy, which was to be placed on a gaily-caparisoned snow-white steed, which was to set it off-in other words, to be "mounted." The effect seemed to me unsatisfactory; and the operator, seeing the shadow on my face-my own facehumanely came to my relief, declaring that he would have it transferred to one of his "boudoor" mounts, which would give the effect desired, and send it up in an hour. I had left my likeness on the table in the show-room, and had passed into the operating chamber, being curious about a nervous patient "posed" in front of the instrument, when I observed a well-dressed lady, in a snowy embroidered shawl, standing at the table, with my lately-done portrait in her hand. Her behaviour was certainly excited. She was a pale, elegant creature, tall and interesting to a degree, with an air of almost pensive romance in her face. She held the picture near, and then at a distance; laid it down, standing up on the table; drew a chair in close, and pored over it - - now smiling, now clasping her hands like some devotee. Finally, she raised it slowly to her lips, and printed on it a long, slowly-given kiss, drawing away her lips, as it were, reluctantly. It may be imagined how singularly affected I was at this extraordinary proceeding. I did not, of course, rush out and acknowledge myself as the original; for I was so embarrassed by the situation that, when she rose, and, with my picture in her hand, advanced towards the operating-room, I instantly drew aside and passed out on to the stairs. There I listened.

"What is the price of this?" she said. He explained that it was engaged-was waiting for a "boudoor” mount, &c.

"I do not care," she answered. "I must have it. It shall be mounted-in my boudoir. Here is half-a-sovereigna sovereign, if you like--"

The operator looked bewildered. "Well, as you are so bent on it, I will send up to the gent; he was here only a moment ago. I'm sure he'll be flattered; but he is very anxious about it, and said that he must have it in an hour."

"I can't give up this picture. Stay! Tell me his address, and I'll go to him my

self."

At this announcement, as her dress was rustling near, I retreated, fearful of being discovered, and gained the street. There, screened from observation, I saw her come out, my picture in her hand; and she went her way, studying it in a sort of rapt fashion. What should I do? Hurry to my rooms, and wait for what the old romance writers would call "my fair incognita?" I did so; but she never came, though I waited for nearly an hour after the time fixed when I was due at Lucy Henwitcher's. I thought of calling at the operator's again; but I did not relish having him as a confidant; so, ruminating

as I walked, and very distrait at this singular adventure, I betook, myself to the place of appointment. My poor mother always said that I had a sly way of my own; and I had read of the late Mr. Wilkes, who boasted of not being more than a quarter of an hour behind the handsomest man. What an adventure!

The "only" child received me rather petulantly. Why had I kept her waiting? There was some better attraction, she presumed-some young lady, perhaps? Had I been with Miss Nipps, the rector's daughter, whom she knew I admired? I fear I looked a little foolish, and, perhaps, coloured.

"Where is the picture for my album?" she asked, abruptly.

I had to explain-rather confused-that it was not ready; that is, it would be ready soon. It was getting a boudoir mount on.

"I don't want boudoir mounts," she said. "I hate them! I'll paste it in without any card at all. Send up for it."

Much confused again at this situation, I faltered out that I would go myself; and hurried away, glad to be released. I knew that my Lucy was of a jealous turn, rendered sensitive by the fact of thinking that she was sought only for her money; and that she was thought to be only "so nice," and not to have personal charms.

My photographer smirked a good deal, but declared it was impossible to furnish another picture before evening. It should be sent up, indeed, about dinner-time, dismounted or unmounted; and with that I was forced to be content.

I approached Lucy's drawing-room with a certain trepidation. I heard voices, which relieved me, so went in with a certain gaiety and abandon. There was a white Indian shawl there a tall figure. That face! that form! as they say in the melodramas. In short, it was my photographic female, as I might call her.

"My cousin, Louisa Lovebird," said Lucy, introducing us.

The Lovebird smiled, and put out her hand. "We almost seem to have met before," she said. "You are quite familiar to me, from description."

All this time I was staring at her, and, I fear, colouring profusely-a weakness of mine from boyhood upwards.

"Delighted, I'm sure," I began to stammer. She was so cool-hardened, perhaps -I was staring at her so intently, that she began to get confused.

"Why, what is all this?" said Lucy. "You have met Louisa before, then?"”

"Oh, never! that is, I mean "-- and I stopped.

"What do you mean, sir, by 'that is, you mean?'"

"I can say, I have never had the pleasure of seeing this gentleman before."

A skilful equivocation that made me bold. I thought, too, she gave me a glance of intelligence.

"No," I said, "we have never met." And here the stupid wish to qualify again interposed, and I added, "at least, I mean, so far as we know."

"What is come over you to-day?" said our hostess; "I think all this very odd." "Oh, it's nothing, dear," said the Lovebird. "Let's talk of something else."

I saw in an instant that I must be cautious here, or I would peril all my chances. This was a bold, fanciful woman, of whom there were but too many about, to whom the ruin of others was but sport. After all, Lucy was the main, the "only" chance; so I was determined to be on my guard.

At this moment a female visitor was announced, who was dying to see how a particular flower was getting on, a present from herself. She was accordingly taken to the green-house. I seized the opportunity, and stooping over, said, hurriedly:

"You must take care, and not be indiscreet. I saw all that this morning. I must own it is flattering, but, unfortunately, it's out of the question."

She looked at me in haughty astonishment. "What can you mean?"

"I mean, you must be on your guard here. Your charming cousin is lynxeyed, and would put the worst construction on what you do. She suspects something as it is, and is as jealous--"

"And she has ventured to insinuate that to you! But I know the reason, perfectly. She never forgave my being married before her. At school it was the Because I had good looks, and she had money, she has always had this feeling to me. I don't care what she thinks. I shall carry out my own fancies, regardless of her humours."

same.

"But you will be cautious," I said, imploringly. "Here, you know-we might meet elsewhere-and"

"Sir!"

Here Lucy entered, giving a start of suspicion as she saw us thus confidentially engaged. The visitor went away, and now

I noticed a change in the manner of the two friends. They became cutting and even pointed. The charming lady in the white shawl seemed to address herself to me with a curious emphasis. It was really embarrassing. Suddenly, while in this coquettish vein, pulling out her handkerchief, something dropped out of her pocket, at Lucy's feet. The latter picked it up.

"Dear me!" she cried. "A photograph! Now who is this, pray?"

The dénouement was coming. Nothing would clear me now.

I looked at the lady imploringly.
She was perfectly calm.

"Oh," she said, "that's a souvenir of darling Charley. You know he never would sit, or stand, for his likeness."

"Why, it has been done at Cameron Skewrer's, where yours was! How odd all this is." And she looked from one to the other, as though there were some mystery or conspiracy. The fair Lovebird was not in the least confused.

"Yes. I went in there this morning, and took this up by accident. It's not, of course, an exact likeness. But there is a curious 'blear' in the eyes, the man said, from some fault in the negative; but it gives his expression to the life."

Here was an elaborate piece of mendacity, all devised in a second, and without a moment's hesitation! I could do nothing but listen helplessly.

At this crisis entered the maid. "Please, sir, the Foddergraph Man is below, and has brought your picture."

"Let him come up," said Lucy, who, I could see, was in a fever of jealousy and pique. "He will tell us all about it."

"No, no," I said, "I will go down to him. A common fellow. Why should we. have him up here?"

"Why, indeed," said the Lovebird. "I don't care to see him. He has given me all that I desired." As cool as ever!

"Oh, I daresay!" said Lucy, sarcastiMy wishes, of course, But I prefer that he

cally. "No doubt. count for nothing. should come up."

"So be it," I murmured internally. "Now we shall have a scene."

Enter now the operator.

"I have brought the picture, and also one of our 'boudoor' mounts, in case the lady should like to Oh, ma'am "-and he recognised his customer of the white shawl -"hope you see the likeness now?” "What likeness?" said Lucy, quickly.

"Between that gent and his picture. There's just bit of a blear about the eyes, where the neg. gev in."

a

"What!" said Lucy, " is this this gentleman's likeness?"

"Of course, miss; tried him four times. Uncommon hard to please him! The lady would have it."

It had all come out now.

"Thank you," said Lucy, with stern composure. "You may go away now."

An awful calm succeeded.

"So, you see, your deception is exposed," she said at last. "What! engaging in such practices? But your husband shall learn it all-every word of it."

"What! Do you presume to insinuate? But I know you of old. You have never forgiven me that mortification--"

"I do not wish to talk more about it. Papa would not wish me to associate with a person of your character."

The lady burst out laughing. "Don't be ridiculous, child," she said, good-humouredly.

"Don't child me, if you please."

"Really," I said, interposing, "it is all clearly a mistake of some kind; not worth talking about."

"A very droll one," said the Lovebird, scarcely able to contain her laughter. "This picture is a failure, as a likeness of you. No one would ever know it. It's almost comic in its dissimilitude; but it reveals poor Charley's expression, who is certainly not a handsome man, in the most startling way."

"How clever! how ingenious! You ought to write stories-you tell them so well. I suppose you arranged all this together. As for you, sir," she said, turning to me, "never speak to me again."

I am sorry to say I never was allowed to do so. All that could be said or explainedand I even made the photographic artist swear an affidavit in proper form before authority-could not remove the impression. I lost the "only" daughter, and the lady in the white shawl went back to India, to tell the story over tiffins and under punkahs.

OUT OF MY HAND.

ONE by one, one by one,

In the kindred light of the April sun,
While primrose and snowdrop gem the ground,
And the birds are mating and building around;
While violets blossom their steps to greet,
With laughing voices and dancing feet,
With wakening fancy and budding hope,
Beyond my reach, and beyond my scope,
They pass, while in fear and doubt I stand,
Out of my hand, out of my hand.

Baby pleasure, and baby care,

Not one of them but was mine to share;
Not a tear, but I dried it with a kiss,
Not a smile, but I joined in its eager bliss;
Now, the young knight arms for the coming strife,
The sweet girl-fancies start to life,

They nestle, the maiden shyness beneath,
As the bright buds hide in their silken sheath,
By spring dews nourished, spring breezes fanned,
Out of my hand, out of my hand.

I dare not trench on thy realm, my boy,
Nor rob thy sway of one virgin joy;
I dare not touch with my faltering fingers,
The blooms where the light of sunrise lingers;
Nor drag to the garish light of day,
What youth's proud reticence would delay;
I can but wait outside it all,

Where the cold winds sigh and the brown leaves fall;
Oh, the castles I built! oh, the joys I planned!
Out of my hand, out of my hand.

Yet did I not hear them in peril and pain,
Did I not lavish, and watch, and refrain;
Quitting the pleasures of parting youth,
The glories of science, and art, and truth,
That the paths for those little feet might be
Fresh, and sunny, and safe, and free;
Scheme, and vision, and hope of mine,
They were but those golden heads to shrine;
Now, alone and tired, slow drops the sand,
Grain by grain, from my failing hand.

Father of all, Saviour of all,
Behold at Thy altar steps I fall;

Thou wilt not disdain that I come at last,
with my treasure spent, and my noon-day past;
Take Thou the guidance that I resign,

Take this hard embittered heart of mine,
Take the baffled ambition, ungranted prayer,
Baseless terror-refining care;
Take my darlings, my darlings, to Thy hand.

each bark to the heavenly strand,

SKATING AND RINKING.

THOSE estimable persons who cling to the practice of beginning at the beginning, and love to dive into the origin of things, are pleased to derive the modern ice skate from the ancient Scandinavian snow-shoe, composed of two long strips of wood, nearly resembling in form the "runners" of the American sleigh. Transferred from snow to polished ice, the runners have grown closer and closer together; by turns, bone has been substituted for wood, and iron for bone, until, at last, the widely - separated wooden runners have fused into a single skate iron, which, by-the-way, is made of steel. In support of this theory, various learned authorities are cited. Ancient Scandinavian poetry abounds in reference to skating: Olaus Magnus, the author of the famous chapter on Snakes in Iceland, refers both to bone and iron skates. Fitz Stephen described the Londoners of his day (temp. Henry the Second) as skating on "that great moor which washeth Moorfields at the north wall of the city," when