journey early on the morning of the 10th. Three servants were with her: her maid, George's nurse, and one man. The day fixed upon came round, and they commenced their journey, travelling to Lille, and from thence to Dunkerque, by train; which latter place they reached about four o'clock in the afternoon, and put up at the Hôtel de Flandre.

"Will madame dine in her room, or at the table-d'hôte ?" inquired the head waiter, an old man who had served in the house more than thirty years.

"At the table-d'hôte," replied the servant addressed.

"Madame is

in bad spirits, from having lost two children, and does not like to be alone." The servant thought he spoke but the truth.

At five o'clock, when the bell rang for the table-d'hôte, Mrs. Carlton entered the dining-room. Four or five gentlemen-the hotels are empty at that season-came straggling in, one by one, and the repast began. The dinner was excellent, but it did not last long: she would have given much could it have lasted until the hour of her departure for the boat.

She was seated facing the mantelpiece, consequently the clock was in front of her. Coward, coward that she was! She watched its hands move slowly, but surely, round to the hour of SIX-the exact time that, twelve months before, she had stood before the clock in her own diningroom at Alnwick, hoping that Benja Carlton was burning away to death. Her agitation became painful to herself, and she dreaded lest other eyes should perceive it: her brain throbbed, her head was confused, her hands trembled. The gentlemen withdrew, one by one, as they had entered: they had gazed at her as she sat before them, in her severe beauty, and had wondered that one so young could be so wan and careworn. In vain she drank plentifully of wine; it did not drown her agitation upon one whose habitual drink has for some time been brandy, French wines can make but little impression. A choking sensation oppressed her; her throat seemed to swell with it; and that sure minute-hand grew nearer and nearer. Suddenly she addressed the waiter anything to break the painful silence; but there was no answer, and then she became aware that the old man was absent, and she was alone in that dreary room. With a cry of horror, she flew from it up the broad, lighted staircase, to seek her own room and the presence of her maid.

What is it that comes over us in these moments of dread? We have not the guilty conscience of Mrs. Carlton, yet we have surely all experienced the same sensation-a dread of looking behind us in these minutes of superstitious fear. Yet look we must and do. The miserable woman had taken but a few steps up the stairs, when she turned her head, in the impulse of desperation, and there-there-at the opened doors leading into the court-yard, stood a form, bearing a lighted church, the very one it seemed that the boy had carried on his birthdaynight; and, apparently issuing from the same figure, a dull, wild, unearthly sound smote upon her ear. What the form was, what the dreadful cry was, she will never know; but her guilty imagination whispered it was the apparition of Benja.

She was unconscious how she got up the stairs, she was unconscious how she burst into her room-the first on the right, at the commence

ment of the long corridor. Her maid was not there, as she expected, but two wax lights were burning on the mantelpiece, and a fire blazed in the grate.

She stood there for a moment, her senses deserting her in her terror, when slowly, slowly, the clock before her struck the first stroke of six. Twelve months before-twelve months before! at that dread hour! Mrs. Carlton, with a smothered cry, pressed her hands upon her eyes, and flewit was a habit she had taken to-flew about the chamber.

But, at the same moment, there arose a strange noise; the wildest sounds that ever struck upon the ear of man. They seemed to come from the street; the very air resounded with them: louder, louder they grew; loud enough to make a deaf man hear, and to strike even an innocent heart with terror. The same impulse that had caused Mrs. Carlton to look behind her on the staircase, drew her now to the window. opened it in the height of desperate fear, and leaned out. What was it she beheld?

She

In all parts of the street, in every corner of it, distant, far, near, nearer, pouring into it from all directions, as if they were making for the hotel, making for her, pouring into it in crowds, from the Place, from the Rue de l'Eglise, from the Rue Nationale, from the Rue Davidd'Angers, from the Place Napoleon, came shoals upon shoals of these lighted toys, like the one she had seen in the hotel yard, like the one carried by that unfortunate child when she had hurled him into eternity. Of all sizes, of all forms, of various degrees of clearness and light, came on these conspicuous things: models of cottages, of houses, of towers, of lanterns, of castles, and many models of churches, on they pressed; but Mrs. Carlton saw but the latter, and, to her diseased and terrified mind, they all bore but that one form. Accompanying them, were these horrible and unearthly sounds, making a din to confuse the calmest, and suggesting ideas not of this world. Mrs. Carlton had read tales in her childhood of demons appearing and dragging away a living murderer: will it be credited that she, an educated woman, remembered the idle tales now, and feared them? The forms in the street, to her, were but the spirit of the murdered boy, multiplied into thousands, accompanied by evil spirits howling and shrieking: were they coming for her, she raved, in that dread anniversary hour? Marvel not, marvel not that these fears rushed over her: you know not the fantastic terrors of a guilty

conscience.

With a succession of low sounds, as of one in convulsions, Mrs. Carlton fell on the floor, her limbs contorted, and her mouth foaming.

In the next room, stood her maids, leaning over the little balcony, and gazing out upon all this light and din. To them, with a conscience at rest, the scene presented a most novel and pleasing appearance: though the noise was frightful, and they kept petulantly stopping their ears and laughing, wondering what in the name of wonder it could all mean. The lanterns, or whatever the lighted things might be, were of various forms, mostly composed of paper, the frames of wood; a few only being of glass. A square, or half-oblong shape, open at the top, seemed to predominate. They were mounted on the top of long poles or sticks, and it seemed as if all the population of Dunkerque, rich and poor, old and young, must have turned out to carry them; as indeed it had. The uproar proceeded

from horns; cows' horns, clay horns, any horns, one of which every lad, from twenty downwards, held to his lips, blowing with all his might. The maid servants sought at once for some explanation of the strange sight; and the reader would like it also.

When the holy saint, Martin, was on earth in the flesh, and sojourning at Dunkerque, the legend runs that his ass got lost one night on the neighbouring downs. The saint was in despair, and called upon the inhabitants to aid him in the search. So, all Dunkerque turned out to seek the ass with horns and lanterns, a dense fog prevailing at the time; and, the account says, they were happily successful. Hence commenced this annual custom, and most religiously has it been observed ever since. On St. Martin's eve, and St. Martin's night, the 10th and 11th of November, as soon as dark comes on, the principal streets of Dunkerque are perambulated by crowds, carrying these fanciful-shaped lanterns, and blowing the horns. It is looked upon almost as a religious fête. Police keep the streets clear; carriages, carts, and horses, are not allowed to pass; and, in short, everything gives way to the horns and lanterns on St. Martin's eve and night. But as to the extraordinary din these horns create-I can only say that if anybody wants to hear a noise such as he never heard before, one to last his remembrance for life, and perhaps turn him permanently deaf, he had better pass the next 10th of November at Dunkerque.

We hear and talk of strange coincidences, but none can deny that it was indeed a most strange one which took the unhappy Mrs. Carlton to Dunkerque on that particular night, of all nights in the year: in no other part of the habited world could she have met with the sight that thus struck, and told, upon her guilty remembrance.

Her servants remained at the window, enduring the awful din, admiring some peculiarly tasty church, or castle, and laughing at others that took fire and so burnt away, to the intense irritation of their bearers. Presently the lady's maid passed into her mistress's room, wondering that she had not come up from dinner. Mrs. Carlton was lying on the floor, and it seemed that she had been stricken with a fit of epilepsy.

She revived sufficiently to be conducted that night on board the steampacket, and was conveyed safely to England. But, as the hours and days advanced, she was found to be a lunatic, uttering things her attendants shuddered to hear, and which seemed to be but a repetition of the ravings of the unhappy Honour in her delirium.

She was quiet at first, Mrs. Carlton, except for these wanderings of the mind, but paroxysms of violence came on with time, and the physicians declared her malady to be confirmed and hopeless..

In one of the private asylums contiguous to the metropolis, she has been for some time placed; to remain there, in all probability, for the whole of her remaining life, be it short or long. Strange rumours are whispered in Alnwick Hall and its neighbourhood, and there are some who scruple not to assert that it was his unhappy stepmother who wilfully destroyed the young heir of Alnwick.

A POLITICAL CONVERSAZIONE OF THE YEAR 1848.-METTERNICH, GUIZOT, LOUIS PHILIPPE, PALMERSTON.

METTERNICH. Yes, the first and primary error, sir ex-minister of France, was yours. You have precipitated all. Why neglect to give Rossi more prudent instructions, or orders more in accordance with the urgency of circumstances at the moment? The election of Mastai should never have been hurried through so hastily. In my secret despatches I moreover told you this man was a hot-headed subject, who would have compromised us all and himself into the bargain.

GUIZOT. And who would ever have believed that from Rome would arise the dreaded conflagration? No pope of modern times has ever deserted the cause of kings. Inasmuch as the temporal sovereignty of Rome is the moving spring of all other monarchies, so is the ruin of these a consequence of the decay and the ruin of that.

LOUIS PHILIPPE. But you, Prince Metternich, why attempt halfmeasures? You well know that in state affairs half-measures are the ruin of those who adopt them, and the salvation of those against whom they are directed. Why compromise yourself in the affair of Ferrara? And then why grow alarmed and draw back? During thirty-four years you made no grosser error than this. You have alienated from religion thrones and crowns, and have conjoined it with radicalism. Are you ignorant that the policy of Italy was always that of maintaining for allies the monks, the priesthood, and the bescottinisti? Why set yourself against this moral movement, so ancient, but ever great and powerful? I do not say that of itself papal influence may now be of great weight in European affairs. But I say that, united with liberal principles, it is to be feared, and more especially in Italy. It is for us to divide it. Be also assured that when the Pope becomes united with the people, the cause of kings is lost.

METTERNICH. That is an observation worthy of the exalted personage by whom it was made. Either I ought not to have attempted these measures, or should have carried them through. A new pope, like Gregory XVI, of pious memory, would have agreed to all. The reason is plain. Upon the petty princes of Italy and Germany, who managed to maintain themselves behind our support, and without any moral principle, it was easy to impose silence, and prevent them from relaxing the bit or making concessions to the people. But the Pope, puffed up with a great European popularity, was unwilling to listen to advice, nor would he hearken to reason. In a word, he has placed himself in a false position. I acknowledge my error. But why was I not supported by all other monarchs? Why did the voice of England interrupt me? Why suffer me to be disparaged by the public journals? Why did France maintain a doubtful position? Why was I left alone in the lists? Against our union, and opposed to our bayonets, the Pope would have been forced to humble his tones.

PALMERSTON. These events were but natural consequences. They were

in the nature of things. They might, perhaps, have been protracted, but could not have been prevented. But you exasperate Italy with a senseless policy. You alienate the King of Piedmont. You have placed the supreme government of Venetian Lombardy in the hands of fools, of wretches incapable of any foresight, deaf to every counsel, and who deceived you as to the moral condition of the country. They loaded with ignominy and insolence a people who were ever the prop of your ruined finances, and gave them, in a word, the sole alternative of death or salvation. The least imbecile of all of them was the ex-viceroy, upon whom you reckoned the least. He sold in time, and escaped in time. He possessed foresight, and with a clever hypocrisy he managed to keep the Lombards in good temper, and even to the last sought to palliate the cruelties of the police and the army. I should like much to read your secret correspondence with Torresani and Fiequelmont, who wished to ensnare the Milanese with a Viennese figurante, took serious notice of the boys who scribbled Pio Nono at the street corners, wore buckles and hats, and allowed themselves to be taken unawares, whilst alarming indications clearly showed the general conflagration which was smouldering under the ashes. The boastings of your generals, their incapacity, their vile barbarity, and that of the army, are things which are perfect horrors. The dominion of the house of Austria has ceased in Italy.

METTERNICH. If Austria's dominion has ceased in Italy, the exclusive sovereignty of England on the seas is at an end. We know the cancer that gnaws her; it is a colossus with the gambe di creta. She has failed in the policy of kings, in the general interests of Europe. You, my Lord Palmerston, you, sir ex-minister of England, have abandoned us, have even betrayed us at the most critical moment. And why, on what grounds, and for what national interests, did you favour the convulsions of the revolutionary rulers in Switzerland and Italy? They saw well the desire of the English merchants to get rid of the superabundance of their productions in Italy at the expense of Austrian commerce. They saw well to what end your negotiations tended. But what profit have you derived? You have kindled the firebrands which were to burn your wings. People once emancipated become themselves the fabricators of mercantile commodities. They load with prohibitions imports from abroad, and have nothing to say to the English. Good treaties of commerce can only be made with princes, who (to save themselves) should impede the enriching of the people, or that division of substance which, up to a certain point, brings commerce, and causes the ruin of monarchs. Too late did I discover it even at Vienna. The ports of Illyria and Dalmatia ruined the imperial chest. Why, then, did not England support our threats in Switzerland? What interests had she for the Swiss nation? I repeat, and shall ever repeat, that the nationality of the people is the ruin of England, of its foreign commerce, and its marine. Pitt and Castlereagh were never favourable to the people. They flattered them, aided them in Spain and in Germany to overthrow Napoleon, but it was when they had no longer need of them. If the allied sovereigns in 1815 had so ruined France that she could not again rise, they would not find themselves in their present position. History therefore, no less than political knowledge, indicated the path which England should have kept, and should still keep, in European turmoils.