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will still retain the imprint of beauty amidst the universal death, and then, then at least, there will be no frivolous tongue to blaspheme the greatness of these solitudes."

I was well aware that these words were beyond the comprehension of the pretty little emptyheaded creature who was listening to me. But an old fellow, like myself, who has spent his life over books, cannot vary his conversation to suit the people he is with. Besides, I was glad to be able to give Madame Trépof a lesson in respect. She received it so submissively and with such an air of intelligence, that I added with as much amiability as I could:

"I cannot tell whether to consider our accidental meeting fortunate or otherwise before being sure that my presence is not troublesome to you. The other day, in Naples, you seemed suddenly to tire of my company. I can only attribute this misfortune to my naturally unpleasing disposition, since I had then the honour of seeing you for the first time in my life."

These words filled her with inexplicable joy. She smiled at me with the most graceful sprightliness, and holding out her hand, which I touched with my lips:

"Monsieur Bonnard," she said quickly, "do not refuse to share my carriage. On the way you will talk to me about antiquity, and that will be very entertaining to me."

"My dear," said the prince, "it shall be as you like; but you know that one gets horribly shaken in your carriage, and I am afraid that you are offering Monsieur Bonnard an opportunity of getting thoroughly worn out with fatigue."

Madame Trépof shook her head to show that she did not enter into considerations of that nature, then she untied her hat. The shadow of her dark hair came down over her eyes and veiled them in a soft velvet mist. She remained motionless, and her face had assumed a dreamy expression which one would not have expected. But she suddenly made a rush at some oranges which the innkeeper had brought in a basket, and put them one by one in a fold of her dress.

"These will do for eating on the way," she said to us. "Like you, we are going to Girgenti. But do you know why we are going to Girgenti ? I will tell you. You know that my husband is making a collection of match-boxes. We bought thirteen hundred of them at Marseilles. But we learned that there was a manufactory of them at Girgenti. According to what we have been told, it is a small manufactory, the productions of which are very ugly and hardly to be met with outside the town and neighbourhood. Well, we are going to Girgenti to buy match-boxes. Dimitri has tried collecting all sorts of things, but the match-box collection is the only one in which he has really taken an interest. He already possesses five thousand two hundred and fourteen different

types. The finding of some of them was a dreadful business. For instance, we heard that boxes had been made in Naples with the portraits of Mazzini and Garibaldi on them, and that the police had seized the plates of the portraits and imprisoned the manufacturer. By dint of hunting and questioning, we obtained one of these boxes for a hundred francs instead of two sous. It was not too dear, but we were denounced. We were taken for conspirators. Our luggage was examined; they did not find the box, for I had taken care to hide it, but they found my jewels and carried them off. They have them still. The affair created a sensation, and we were to be arrested. But the king was displeased, and said that we were not to be interfered with. Hitherto

I had thought it stupid to collect match-boxes; but when I found that liberty and life itself, perhaps, were risked in it, I began to enjoy it. Now I have a inania for match-boxes. Next summer we shall go to Sweden to complete our collection. Shall we not, Dimitri ?"

I am obliged to confess that I felt some sympathy with these intrepid collectors. Doubtless, I should have preferred to see Monsieur and Madame Trépof searching in Sicily for ancient marbles and painted vases. I should have liked to see them interested in the ruins of Agrigentum and the poetic traditions of the Eryx. But, after all, they were making a collection, they were of the brotherhood, and could I laugh at them without laughing at myself a little too? Besides, Madame Trépof had spoken of her collection with a mixture of enthusiasm and irony, which made the idea of it very pleasing to me.

We were preparing to leave the inn when we saw some people come down from the room above carrying carbines under their dark mantles. In my eyes they had all the appearance of being regular brigands, and, after their departure, I communicated to Monsieur Trépof my impression regarding them. He answered quietly that he thought as I did that they were brigands, and our guides advised us to obtain an escort of gendarmes, but Madame Trépof entreated us to do nothing of the kind. "We must not spoil her journey," she said. Turning her persuasive eyes towards me, she added:

"Is it not true, Monsieur Bonnard, that life is not worth living without excitement?

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"Ah! madame," said I, touched by the moral poverty of this pretty woman, "if you had a son, you would know what to do. The object of your life would be apparent to you, and your thoughts would be more serious, and at the same time more consoling."

"I have a son," she answered. "He is

tall, quite a man; he is twelve years old, and he finds life dull. Yes, my George, too, wearies. It is most heart-rending."

She again glanced at her husband, who was in the road superintending the harnessing of the mules, and trying the strength of the girths and straps;

then she asked if ten years had made any change on the Quai Malaquais. She declared that she never went there, because it was too far.

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"Too far from Monte-Allegro?" asked I. "Oh no," she answered, too far from the Avenue des Champs Elysées, where our house is." Then she murmured as if to herself:

"Too far! too far! with a dreamy expression, the meaning of which I could not discover Suddenly she smiled, and said: "I like you, Monsieur Bonnard, I like you very much."

The mules were harnessed. The young wife gathered together the oranges which were falling from her lap, rose up, and burst out laughing as

she looked at me. "How I should like," she said to me, "to see you at close quarters with the brigands! You would say such extraordinary things to them! Take my hat, and

hold my umbrella, will you, Monsieur Bonnard?" "Well," said I to myself, as I followed her, "she is a very strange little individual. It was unpardonable thoughtlessness in nature to give such a foolish creature a son."

GIRGENTI (the same day). Her ways had shocked me. I let her settle herself in her lettica, and I installed myself as com

fortably as I could in mine. These carriages have no wheels, and are borne by two mules, one in front and the other behind. This kind of litter, or chair, was in use in ancient times. I have seen similar ones represented on French manuscripts of the fourteenth century. I did not think then that I should ever use one of these conveyances. We never can tell what we may come to.

During the next three hours the mules made their little bells tinkle, and as they trotted over the calcined ground, on either side there slowly defiled the arid and monstrous shapes of African nature.

We stopped half way to breathe our mules.

Madame Trépof came up to me on the road, took my arm, Then, suddenly,

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and led me a few steps forward. she said to me, in a tone of voice which I had not heard her use :

"Do not think that I am a wicked woman. My George knows that I am a good mother."

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For a moment we walked on in silence. She raised her head, and I saw that she was weeping. Madame," said I, "look at this ground, parched by five burning months. A little white lily has pierced through it."

And with the end of my walking-stick I showed her the frail stem, terminating in a double flower.

"Your mind," added I, "however arid it may

be, also produces its white lily. That is enough to make me believe that you are not, as you say, a wicked woman."

"Yes! yes! yes!" exclaimed she, with childish iteration, "I am a wicked woman, but I am ashamed to appear so before you who are so good, so very good.'

"How can you know that?" said I.

"I am sure that it is so; I know you," said she, smiling.

And with one bound she regained her lettica.

GIRGENTI, 30th November, 1859.

I awoke next morning at Girgenti, in the house of Gellias. Gellias was a rich citizen of ancient Agrigentum. He was equally famous for his generosity and his magnificence, and he endowed his town with a large number of free hostelries. Gellias has been dead for thirteen hundred years, and there is no gratuitous hospitality to be found now-a-days among civilised nations. But the name of Gellias has been given to a hotel where, thanks to fatigue, I had a good night's sleep.

On the acropolis of ancient Agrigentum, modern Girgenti raises its narrow and crowded houses, over which towers a sombre Spanish cathedral. Towards the sea, half-way up the hill, I saw from my windows the white range of partly-destroyed temples. These ruins alone have any freshness. All the rest is dried up. Water and life have abandoned Agrigentum. Water, the divine Nestis of Agrigentine Empedocles, is so necessary to animate beings, that nothing lives far from rivers and fountains. But the port of Girgenti, situated about three miles from the town, has a considerable trade. "Here, then," said I to myself, "in this dismal town, on this abrupt rock, is the manuscript of the clerk Alexander." I asked I asked to be directed to Monsieur Michael-Angelo Polizzi's house, and I proceeded thither.

I found M. Polizzi clad in white from head to foot, and cooking sausages in a frying-pan. At sight of me he let go the handle of the pan, raised his arms in the air, and gave vent to enthusiastic exclamations. He was a little man, whose pimply face, arched nose, projecting chin, and round eyes, made up a remarkably expressive

countenance.

He addressed me as "Your Excellency," said that he would mark this day with a white pebble, and made me sit down. The room in which we were partook at once of the character of kitchen, drawing-room, bedroom, studio, and cellar. For there were to be seen in it cooking-stoves, a bed, curtains, an easel, bottles, bundles of onions, and a magnificent lustre of ccloured cut glass. I glanced at the pictures which covered the walls.

"Art! art!" exclaimed Monsieur Polizzi, raising his arms again towards heaven. "Oh art! what dignity what consolation! I am a painter, your excellency!" And he showed me a Saint Francis,

which was unfinished, and might have remained so, without detriment to art and worship.

He then showed me some old pictures of a better style, but which seemed to me to have been indiscreetly restored.

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"I touch up old pictures," said he. "Oh! the old masters! what soul! what genius!" "Then it is true," said I, 66 you are at once painter, antiquary, and wine merchant? "At your excellency's service," answered he. "I have a zucco now, each drop of which is a pearl of fire. I will let your lordship taste it."

"I esteem the wines of Sicily," answered I, "but it is not for bottles of wine that I have come to see you, Monsieur Polizzi.”

He:-"For pictures, then. You are an amateur. It is an immense pleasure for me to receive lovers of pictures. I will show you the chef-d'œuvre of Mourealese; yes, your excellency, his chefd'œuvre! An adoration of the shepherds. It is the pearl of the Sicilian school!"

I:"I shall be glad to see this master-piece, but let us first speak of what brings me here."

His vivacious little eyes were fixed curiously on me, and I perceived, not without a sharp pang, that he did not even suspect the object of my visit.

Much agitated, and feeling a cold perspiration come to my forehead, I piteously stammered out a sentence which amounted to something like the following:

"I have come from Paris expressly to see a manuscript of the Golden Legend, which you told me you possessed."

At these words he raised his arms, opened his mouth and his eyes enormously wide, and showed signs of the greatest agitation.

"Oh! the manuscript of the Golden Legend! a pearl, your excellency; a ruby, a diamond! Two miniatures so perfect, that they give a glimpse of Paradise. What sweetness! Those colours stolen from the petals of flowers have made honey for the eyes. A Sicilian could not have done better!"

"Show it me," said I, without being able to hide either my anxiety or my hope.

"Show it you!" exclaimed Polizzi. "And how can I, your excellency? I no longer have it! I no longer have it!"

And he seemed to wish to tear his hair. He might have torn every hair from his thick skin without my preventing him. But he stopped before he had done himself much harm.

"What?" said I, angrily, "what? You make me come from Paris to Girgenti in order to show me a manuscript, and, when I come, you tell me that you no longer have it. It is shameful, sir. I leave your conduct to be judged by every honourable man."

Whoever had seen me then would have had a tolerably correct notion of what an infuriated sheep is like.

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"My son Raphael, the child of my poor wife, whose death I have mourned for fifteen years. Raphael, your excellency, wished to set up in Paris. He rented

a shop in Rue Lafitte for the sale of curiosities. I gave him all the precious things in my possession. I gave him my most beautiful specimens of Majolica, my finest Urbino ware, my pictures of the old masters, and what pictures, signor! They dazzle me still when I see them again in imagination. And all signed! Finally, I gave him the manuscript of the Golden Legend. I would have given him my flesh and blood. An only son! The son of my poor dead wife."

So then," I said, "whilst I, sir, on the faith of your word, was on my way to seek for Alexander the clerk's manuscript in the heart of Sicily, that manuscript was exposed for sale in a window of the Rue Lafitte, not much more than half a mile from my house!"

"It certainly was there," answered Polizzi, suddenly growing calm again, "and it is there still, at least I hope so, your excellency."

He took from a shelf a card, which he offered to me, saying:

"Here is my son's address. Make it known to your friends, and you will oblige me. Earthenware, porcelain, stuffs, pictures; he possesses a complete assortment of objets d'art, all at the most reasonable prices, and the genuineness of which I can vouch for on my honour. Go and see him: he will show you the manuscript of the Golden Legend. Two miniatures of miraculous freshness."

Like a coward I accepted the card which he held out to me.

This man took advantage of my weakness by again begging me to make the name of Raphael Polizzi known to the Societies.

I had already got hold of the handle of the door when my Sicilian seized me by the arm. He had a look of inspiration.

"Ah! your excellency," said he, "what a city is ours! It gave birth to Empedocles. Empedocles! what a great man, and what a great citizen! How bold in thought, how virtuous! What a soul! Down there, by the harbour,

there is a statue of Empedocles, before which I uncover my head every time that I pass. When Raphael, my son, was on the point of starting for Paris to set up an establishment for the sale of antiquities in the Rue Lafitte, I escorted him to the harbour of our town, and it was at the foot of the statue of Empedocles that I gave him my paternal benediction. Remember Empedocles,' I said to him. Ah! signor, our unfortunate country has need nowa-days of a new Empedocles! Would you like me to take you to his statue, your excellency? I will act as your guide in exploring the ruins. I will show you the temple of Castor and Pollux, the temple of Jupiter Olympus, the temple of Lucinian Juno, the ancient well, the tomb of Theron, and the Golden Gate. Travellers' guides are all fools, but we shall make excavations, if you like, and discover treasures. I have a talent, a gift for making excavations, a natural gift for it."

I succeeded in freeing myself. But he ran after me, stopped me at the foot of the staircase, and whispered in my ear:

"Listen, your excellency. I will take you about the town; I will make you acquainted with Girgentines. What a race! what a type! what forms! Sicilian ladies, signor; antique beauty!"

"Devil take you!" exclaimed I, indignantly, and I fled into the street, leaving him in his

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sham agitation of pretended courtesy and enthusiasm.

When I was out of sight, I let myself slip down on a stone, and set to work thinking, with my head in my hands.

"Was it then for this?" thought I. "Was it to hear such offers made to me that I came to Sicily? This Polizzi was a scoundrel, his son was another, and they had entered into a conspiracy to ruin me. But what had they plotted? I could not discover. Meanwhile, had I been sufficiently humiliated and grieved?"

A great burst of laughter made me raise my head, and I saw Madame Trépof. Leaving her husband behind, she ran towards me waving an imperceptible object in her hand.

She sat down beside me, and laughing most heartily, showed me an abominable little pasteboard box, with a blue and red head on it, which the inscription declared to be that of Empedocles.

"Yes, madame," said I; "but the abominable Polizzi, to whom I advise you not to send Monsieur Trépof, has made the name of Empedocles for ever hateful to me, and this portrait is not of such a nature as to render the ancient philosopher more agreeable to me."

"Oh!" said Madame Trépof, "it is ugly, but it is rare. Those boxes are not exported; they must be bought on the spot. Dimitri has six others exactly the same in his pocket. We took them so as to be able to exchange them with other col

lectors. You understand? At nine o'clock in the morning we were at the manufactory. You see that our time has not been wasted."

"I see that very well, indeed, madame," answered I in a bitter tone; "but mine has been wasted."

I found out, then, that she was a good sort of woman. All her joy forsook her.

"Poor Monsieur Bonnard! poor Monsieur Bonnard!" she murmured.

And, taking my hand, she added:

"Tell me your troubles."

I told her about them. My story was long; but she was touched by it, for she asked me afterwards a number of trifling questions which I took as so many evidences of interest. She wished to know the exact title of the manuscript, its size, its appearance, its age; she asked me for Polizzi's address.

And I gave it to her, thus doing (oh, destiny!) what the abominable Polizzi had requested me to do.

It is sometimes difficult to restrain one's self. I resumed my moans and imprecations. This time Madame Trépof began to laugh.

"Why do you laugh?” I asked.

"Because I am a wicked woman," she an

swered.

And she took to flight, leaving me alone and dismayed. (To be continued.)

CHURCH ORGANISATION IN SCOTLAND THREE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.
By the Rev. THOMAS PRYDE.

WE hear a great deal said about the decay of
ecclesiastical authority in our time. It is said that
the pulpit is losing its power; that the ministers
are losing their influence; that the net of the
Church is no longer wide enough to embrace the
whole land, and no longer close enough in its
meshes to gather in both small and great. Many
cures are suggested for these evils. Some con-
sider that more comfortable and more beautiful
churches will attract the people to the services of
the Sanctuary. Some recommend music as an
attraction. Some recommend free seats, and some,
again, would clear away the wooden benches
from our churches and fill them with rush-bottom
chairs.

Now, all these men agree that the Church once had complete hold of the nation, that her buildings were once sufficiently comfortable and modious, and her methods of working able to overtake the wants of the time.

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It may be interesting to consider what these methods were. We have been able to gratify our curiosity on this point by coming upon an old

book which contains the session-records of a city parish in the last decade of the sixteenth century. John Knox died in 1572, and our description applies to the city of Edinburgh within a generation of his death. Very probably the worthy ministers had their instructions in church management from the great Reformer's own lips.

We are first told that the people of that day were very ignorant, and that a lecture was set up to teach them the Reformed doctrines. The lecture, or sermon, was delivered every Thursday morning at nine o'clock. This Thursday sermon was kept up until the time of Dr. Chalmers, who delivered his Astronomical Discourses in the Tron Church, Glasgow, on that day. He preached the first one. on Thursday, November 23rd, 1815, and the others in the following year. His extraordinary powers made this service, like everything else he tried, a triumphant success. But it was not so with others, and the service came to be abandoned. The only trace of it now remaining is the weekly prayer meeting.

The discipline of the parish was very strict, and

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