"For fifteen years," says Sir Samuel Romilly, writing in 1813, "my happiness has been the constant study of the most excellent of wives; a woman in whom a strong understanding, the noblest and most elevated sentiments, and the most courageous virtue, are united to the warm-known in her beloved society, all the many and est affection, and to the utmost delicacy of mind and tenderness of heart; and all these intellectual perfections are graced and adorned by the most splendid beauty that human eyes ever beheld.

stoned by her death deprived him of his senses, | and in his despair he committed the fatal act which laid him in the same grave with his devoted wife. In life they were united, and in death they would not be separated.

Mackintosh married when only a young man in great pecuniary straits. He was living in the family of Dr. Fraser, London, where Miss Catherine Stuart, a young Scotch lady, was a frequent visitor. She was distinguished by a rich fund of good sense, and an affectionate heart, rather than for her personal attractions. An affection sprang up between them, and they got privately married at Marylebone Church, on February 18th, 1789. greatly to the offense of the relatives of both parties.

When composing his Vindicia Gallica at Little Ealing, his wife sat by him in the room; he could tolerate no one else, and he required her to be perfectly quiet-not even to write or work-as the slightest movement disturbed him. In the evening, by way of recreation, he walked out with his wife, reading to her as he went along. This amiable wife died in 1797, when slowly recovering from the birth of a child, and she left three daughters behind her. Mackintosh thus spoke of his departed wife, in a letter to Dr. Parr, written shortly after his sad bereavement, and we do not remember ever to have met with a more beautiful testimony to a deceased wife than this is :

lost; and I have lost her when her excellent natural sense was rapidly improving, after eight years of struggle and distress had bound us fast together, and moulded our tempers to each other, -when a knowledge of her worth had refined my youthful love into friendship, before age had deprived it of much of its original ardor. I lost her, alas! (the choice of my youth, the partner of my misfortunes) at a moment when I had the prospect of her sharing my better days. If I had lost the giddy and thoughtless companion of prosperity, the world could easily repair the loss; but I have lost the faithful and tender partner of my misfortunes, and my only consolation is in that Being, under whose severe, but paternal chastisement, I am bent down to the ground."

Mackintosh married, about a year after the death of his first wife, Catherine, the second daughter of John Allen, of Cresselly, Co. Pembroke. She was an amiable and accomplished woman, and greatly contributed to his happiness in after life. She died in 1830, at Chêne, near Geneva, after a short illness; and her husband, speaking of her afterward, "in the deep sincerity of deliberate conviction," calls her "an upright and pious woman, formed for devoted affection, who employed a strong understanding and resolute spirit in unwearied attempts to relieve every suffering under her view.”

CRIME DETECTED.-AN ANECDOTE OF
THE PARIS POLICE.

PREVIOUSLY to the year 1789, but at what
precise date can not say, the city of Paris
possessed as guardian of its safety, and chief
minister of police, a man of rare talent and in-
tegrity. At the same period, the parish of St.
Germais, in the quarter of the Rue St. Antoine,
had for its curé a kind venerable old man, whose
whole life was spent in doing good to both the
souls and bodies of his fellow-creatures, and
whose holy consistency and dignified courage
caused him to be loved by the good, and respect-
ed by even the most abandoned characters. One
cold dark winter's night, the bell at the old curé's
door was rung loudly, and he, although in bed,
immediately arose and opened the door, antici-
pating a summons to some sick or dying bed.

"In the state of deep, but quiet melancholy, which has succeeded to the first violent agitations of my sorrow, my greatest pleasure is to look back with gratitude and pious affection on the memory of my beloved wife; and my chief consolation is the soothing recollection of her virtues. Allow me, in justice to her memory, to tell you what she was, and what I owed her. I was guided in my choice only by the blind affection of my youth. I found an intelligent companion and a tender friend, a prudent monitress, the most faithful of wives, and a mother as tender as children ever had the misfortune to lose. I met a woman who, by the tender management of my weaknesses, gradually corrected the most pernicious of them. She became prudent from affection; and though of the most generous nature, she was taught frugality and economy by her love for me. During the most critical period of my life, she preserved order in my affairs, from the care of which she relieved me. She gently reclaimed me from dissipation; she propped my weak and irresolute nature; she urged my indolence to all the exertions that have been useful and creditable to me; and she was perpetually at hand to admonish my heedlessness or improvidence. To her I owe whatever I am; to her, whatever I shall be. In her solicitude for my interest, she never for a moment forgot my feelings, or my character. Even in her occasional resentment, for which I but too often gave her cause (would to God I could recall those moments), she had no sullenness nor acrimony. Her feelings were After a moment of secret prayer, the curé an warm and impetuous, but she was placable, ten-swered, "I will go with you." Without asking der, and constant. Such was she whom I have any further explanation, he allowed his eyes to

A personage, richly dressed, with his features partly concealed by a large false beard, stood outside. Addressing the curé in a courteous and graceful manner, he apologized for his unseasonable visit, which, as he said, the high reputation of monsieur had induced him to make.

"A great and terrible, but necessary and in evitable deed," he continued, "is to be done Time presses; a soul about to pass into eternity implores your ministry. If you come you must allow your eyes to be bandaged, ask no questions, and consent to act simply as spiritual consoler of a dying woman. If you refuse to accompany me, no other priest can be admitted, and her spirit must pass alone."

be bandaged, and leaned on the arm of his suspicious visitor. They both got into a coach, whose windows were immediately covered by wooden shutters, and then they drove off rapidly. They seemed to go a long way, and make many doublings and turnings ere the coach drove under a wide archway and stopped.

During this time, not a single word had been exchanged between the travelers, and ere they got out the stranger assured himself that the bandage over his companion's eyes had not been displaced, and then taking the old man respectfully by the hand, he assisted him to alight and to ascend the wide steps of a staircase as far as the second story. A great door opened, as if of itself, and several thickly-carpeted rooms were traversed in silence. At length, another door was opened by the guide, and the curé felt his bandage removed. They were in a solemn-looking bed-chamber; near a bed, half-vailed by thick damask curtains, was a small table, supporting two wax lights, which feebly illuminated the cold death-like apartment. The stranger (he was the Duke de -), then bowing to the curé, led him toward the bed, drew back the curtains, and said

in a solemn tone:

"Minister of God, before you is a woman who has betrayed the blood of her ancestors, and whose doom is irrevocably fixed. She knows on what conditions an interview with you has been granted her; she knows too that all supplication would be useless. You know your duty, M. le Curé; I leave you to fulfill it, and will return to seek you in half an hour."

The half-hour had expired, and the step of his terrible conductor was heard approaching. "I am ready," said the curé, and having allowed his eyes to be covered, he took the arm of the Duke de —, and left the awful room, praying meanwhile with secret fervor. Arrived at the foot of the staircase, the old man, succeeded, without his guide's knowledge, in slightly displacing the thick bandage so as te admit a partial ray of lamp light. Finding himself in the carriage gateway, he managed to stumble and fall, with both hands forward toward a dark corner. The duke hastened to raise him, both resumed their places in the carriage, and, after repassing through the same tortuous route, the curé was set down in safety at his own door. Without one moment's delay, he called his servant.

"Pierre," he said, "arm yourself with a stick, and give me your support; I must instantly go to the minister of police."

Soon afterward the official gate was opened to admit the well-known venerable pastor.

"Monseigneur," he said, addressing the minister, "a terrible deed will speedily be accomplished, if you are not in time to prevent it. Let your agents visit, before daybreak, every carriage gateway in Paris; in the inner angle of one of them will be found a blood-stained handkerchief. The blood is that of a young female, whose murder, already begun, has been miraculously suspended. Her family have condemned their victim to have her veins opened one by one, and thus to perish slowly in expiation of a fault, al So saying he departed, and the agitated priest ready more than punished by her mortal agony. saw lying on the bed a young and beautiful girl, Courage, my friend, you have already some bathed in tears, battling with despair, and call- hours. May God assist you-I can only pray." ing in her bitter agony for the comforts of re- That same morning, at eight o'clock, the minligion. No investigation possible! for the un-ister of police entered the curé's room. happy creature declared herself bound by a terrible oath to conceal her name; besides, she knew not in what place she was.

"I am," she said, "the victim of a secret family tribunal, whose sentence is irrevocable! More, I can not tell. I forgive mine enemies, as I trust that God will forgive me. Pray for me!" The minister of religion invoked the sublime promises of the gospel to soothe her troubled soul, and he succeeded. Her countenance, after a time, became composed, she clasped her hands in fervent prayer, and then extended them toward her consoler.

As she did so, the curé perceived that the sleeve of her robe was stained with blood. "My child," said he, with a trembling voice, "what is this?"

"Father, it is the vein which they have already opened, and the bandage, no doubt, was carelessly put on."

At these words, a sudden thought struck the priest. He unrolled the dressing, allowed the blood to flow, steeped his handkerchief in it, then replaced the bandage, concealed the stained handkerchief within his vest, and whispered:

"My friend," said he, "I confess my inferiority, you are able to instruct me in expedients." "Saved!" cried the old man, bursting into tears.

"Saved," said the minister, "and rescued from the power of her cruel relations. But the next time, dear abbé, that you want my assistance in a benevolent enterprise, I wish you would give me a little more time to accomplish it."

Within the next twenty-four hours, by an express order from the king, the Duke de and his accomplices were secretly removed from Paris, and conveyed out of the kingdom.

The young woman received all the care which her precarious state required; and when sufficiently recovered, retired to a quiet country village where the royal protection assured her safety. It is scarcely needful to say, that next to her Maker, the curé of St. Germais was the object of her deepest gratitude and filial love. During fifteen years, the holy man received from time to time the expression of her grateful af fection; and at length, when himself, from extreme old age, on the brink of the grave, he received the intelligence that she had departed

"Farewell, my daughter, take courage, and in peace. have confidence in God!"

Never until then, had a word of this mysteri

ous adventure passed the good curé's lips. On
his deathbed, however, he confided the recital to
a bishop, one of his particular friends; and from
a relation of the latter, I myself heard it.
This is the exact truth.

ZOOLOGICAL STORIES.

person to know) who regularly placed himself upon the ceiling over a young lady's head whenever she played the harp, and followed her if she changed her position. The celebrated violinist, Berthome (it is our shame never to have heard of him), when a boy, saw a spider habitually come out to hear when he was practicing: this creature at last became familiar, and took a seat upon the desk. Lenz tells of a goose who followed a harp-player wherever he performed, probably to hiss him out of self-respect. Bingley tells of a pigeon in the neighborhood of a young lady who played brilliantly on the harpsichord; the pigeon did not greatly care about her playing, except when she played the song of

ПRAVELERS' tales have a peculiar reputation for the marvelous, and many travelers have been accused of fiction. Whether zoologists' tales are in all cases to be trusted, we have, now and then, a doubt. They are true in the main; but sometimes, possibly, the first narrator of an unusually good story has judiciously abstained from sifting it; and once in the Zoological Storybook, the pleasant tale has stood on its own mer-"Speri si," from Handel's opera, Admetus: then its, and been handled tenderly, as is the way with ornaments; no man too roughly scratching at them to find out of what materials they are composed.

it would come and sit by the window, testifying pleasure; when the song was over, it would fly back to its dovecote, for it had not learnt the art of clapping wings for an encore.

In the matter of experience, we can believe the story of a dog who either was not blessed with a love of music, or had a master given to the perpetration of atrocities against his canine ear; the dog whose peace was broken by his master's practice on the violin, took every opportunity to hide the stick. Plutarch's story of the mule we are at liberty, we hope, to set down in the list of pleasant fables. The mule laden with salt blundered, by chance, into a stream; on coming out it found its load to be so agreeably lightened, that it afterward made a point of taking a bath upon its travels. To cure it of this trick, the panniers were filled with sponge, and then when the mule came out of the water with the sponges saturated, it felt a load that it had reason to remember.

Of course we accept legends as legends. It was once believed of crocodiles, that, after they had eaten a man comfortably, and left only his skull, at the sweet kernel of which—the brainthey could not get, their tears were shed over the bone until they softened it, and so the skull was opened, and the brain devoured. When that is told us as a legend, we say, certainly, it was a very quaint thing to believe of the tears of crocodiles. Then, travelers' tales of the proverbial kind are next of kin to legends. Here is a very marvelous one, and yet, let us be bold and say that we believe it. It is this. An Indian, having tamed a rattlesnake, carried it about in a box with him, and called it his great father. M. Pinnisance met with him as he was starting for his winter hunt, and saw him open the box-door and give the snake his liberty, telling it to be Dr. Pelican saw a party of rats around the sure and come back to meet him, when he re- bunghole of a cask of wine dipping their tails in turned to the same spot next May. It was then and then licking them. Mr. Jesse tells of rats October. M. Pinnisance laughed at the man, who performed a similar feat with an oil-bottle. who immediately saw his way clearly to a spec- But this is nothing in comparison with the acuteulation in rum, and betted two gallons that his ness of Degrandpre's monkey. Left with an snake would keep the appointment. The wager open bottle of aniseed brandy, he sucked what was made; the second week in May arrived; he could from it with tongue and fingers, and the Indian and the Frenchman were on the ap- then poured sand into the bottle till the rest ran pointed spot. The great father was absent, and over. Le Vaillant, the African traveler, had with the Indian, having lost his wager, offered to re- him dogs and a monkey. When the monkey peat it, doubled, if the snake did not return with- was weary he leapt on a dog's back for a ride. in the next two days. That wager the French- One dog on such occasions quietly stood still. man took and lost. The snake, who (had he The monkey, fearing to be left behind, would speech) might have apologized for being rather presently jump off and hasten to the caravan: behind his time, appeared, and crawled into his the dog, with studious politeness, took good care box. We believe this. Rattlesnakes are teach- to give him precedence. An elephant-we must able; and, in this instance, the keeping of the at once append one tale about the elephant, whose appointment seems to us only an apparent won- great sagacity makes him the hero of a thousand der. Snakes are not given to travel in the win- and one-an elephant belonging to an officer in ter, and the Indian's father, turned out of the the Bengal army, was left during the long abbox, made himself snug at no great distance sence of his master to a keeper; who, as even from the place of his ejectment. Winter over, elephant-ostlers will do, cheated him of his rathe Indian came back. His great father may tions. When the master came back, the poor have been dining heartily, and indisposed to stir; half-starved elephant testified the greatest joy, but, as he grew more brisk, the accustomed in- the keeper, in his master's presence, put, of vocation of his little son became effectual, and course, the full allowance of food before the elebrought the tame snake to the box as usual. phant, who immediately divided it into two parts. Disjonval knew a spider (such a spider was a one representing his short commons, which he