futilités à la mode, the china vases filled with artificial roses imitated to the life, and covered with glass screens, the golden clock, where a troubadour is tuning his lute to a damsel in the ruff of Marie Stuart, causing her to

"Take no note of time but by its loss,"

the bergères of various sizes, and one high-backed and stiff and formidable-looking, which, together with a certain marble-covered table, bearing instruments of torture, reveals that pain as well as pleasure occasionally claims this site as a scene of operation.

Then my fancy transforms the little insignificant prints hung up round my room here into the chef-d'œuvres which adorned your grande salon de reception. I have not forgotten that marvellous work of art executed by a master at Caen, which, won by your husband in a lottery for ten francs, is acknowledged to be worth three hundred. I still see the family portrait, in which your sparkling countenance and laughing black eyes are rendered so demure and serious; I still behold that mysterious Dutch picture, an undoubted Ostade, painted on wood, and suspected to be of enormous value, looked at with rapture by the curious connoisseur in kitchen utensils, as it stands supported on carved legs in its ebony case, guarded by folding doors, opened only to those worthy of estimating the importance of the gem within. The "bad debt" that placed it within your reach gave you a treasure esteemed far beyond the "ratélier complet" which your husband's labour furnished for a faithless English captain, who left his picture as a pledge for his set of teeth and never redeemed it.

When I retire to my dressing-room, so plainly furnished here, I recal your boudoir à la Parisienne, your toilette and its fluted muslin draperies, your white marble consol with its gilt ornaments, the large swing looking-glass which reflects your round little symmetrical figure when attired in that soie couleur tendre in which Gustave-père pronounces you une petite femme vraiment divine! Then I see you dressed for mass in your coquettish white silk bonnet and gauze veil, your grey hottines with shining black tips, your embroidered muslin visite, and your pale lemon-coloured gloves, sitting like wax to the small plump hands, one of which holds a laced pocket-handkerchief worked in rose-colour, and the other conducts little Gustave in his holiday attire,

"Able to draw men's envies upon man!"

His birthday of seven years is just past, and he wears for the first time a paire of mature boots, polished like those of his father, who waits below to conduct the party; his pantalon is white, his jilet black satin with rounded corners, his jacket of maroon velvet, "curiously cut," his tie of crimson silk, the ends carefully arranged à la Joinville, and his light casquette placed jauntily over one ear, so as not to disarrange his well-oiled hair, flattened smoothly to his head. He looks justly proud of himself, and receives with dignity the applauses of his father and the eulogiums of his mother.

I see the party trip gaily off to church, and in due time return; but toilettes so brilliant are not to be discarded in an hour, nor allowed to pass unobserved. Fifine and her son set out again to pay visits to various neighbours, while the papa takes a walk along the high-street and towards the sea, for the tide is up, and the waters are coming brilliantly into the harbour, dancing and sparkling as if with glee.

Ha! there is Fifine again. She glances up at my window; she knows I am observing her, and she looks gratified; she has added me, she sees at once, to the list of her numerous admirers; she skips lightly across the way to the open private door of Madame Colin-Herbois, the modiste. I see her in the passage shaking hands with her friend, who is admiring her dress with upraised eyes; but she cannot stay a moment, she expects Monsieur to return with her son, to conduct her to the sands, where le monde is already on the promenade. She is forced to go up-stairs; she is required to admire some acquisitions in the best salon of Madame Colin-Herbois; she laughs, shews her white teeth, and is uttering exclamations of admiration of her neighbour's taste. She advances to the open window, and peeps out over the flower-pots, anxious that the effect of her husband's and son's appearance should not be lost. They are returning :-she points them out at the end of the street. There is evident approval in the manner of her friend; both descend, and there is much greeting at the door; after which the trio pace leisurely along in the direction of the beach.

But the scene changes. I see Fifine again on a week-day, and fancy she looks even prettier in her pink peignoire, and black lace handkerchief, fastened with a certain gold brooch, containing the portrait of Gustave-père, which ornament was manufactured by no other hands than those of the original, who is a skilful jeweller, as well as expert dentist and mechanist. At daybreak Gustave is in his workshop, and soon after Fifine is busied in her salons, dusting with her own hands, for she feared to trust Jenny, the bonne with the high blue cap, to touch things so precious. Order and cleanliness pervade every part of her establishment, yet Fifine's hands never seem to be soiled, nor her muslin dress to be chiffonné.

If the day is passed in activity, the evening brings recreation, but it is in-door enjoyment, for neither Fifine nor her husband are fond of visiting, and both enjoy their quiet cheerful home beyond any club, theatre, or réunion. A particular friend sometimes looks in, and partakes of a slice of melon and a petit verre de vin blanc, and lively voices and occasional réfrains, ascend from their salon to mine, with the gay ringing laugh of Fitine always assisting the chorus. Yes, there you are, my little friend! You have brought me some melon too, and some of the other dainties with which you are treating your guest below. Who shall say there is not as much hospitality in France as with us? ay, and, though the rank of my pretty little French hostess is not greater than that of the excellent personage who is now translating her into English habits for my benefit, at my cottage at Esher, it must be confessed, the charming Normande has the advantage in address and manner over the good woman who milks the cow so neatly, and makes so good a syllabub at my Esher retreat.

Alas! if I look back with sorrow to recollections of country life in France, what mournful reflections must at this moment sadden the groves of Claremont, and how many delightful home-scenes must come back to hearts, which are striving in vain to still their throbbings amongst those tranquil shades, sacred to grief as they have been before, when England lost a cherished hope, since replaced with happy interest.

In the numerous and rapid vicissitudes of a year who can tell whether next June may not see the exiled family again at renovated Neuilly, and me, my good-natured, pretty little Fifine,-enjoying a rustic fête champêtre with you on the coast of Normandy.

A MOST UNFEELING AND COWARDLY ASSAULT.

BY HORACE MAYHEW.

WITH ΑΝ ILLUSTRATION

BY LEECH.

YESTERDAY morning at 10 o'clock, as Mr. Dove was sitting in his library alone, the door was opened, and a strange-looking person boldly entered. He went up to Mr. Dove, and deliberately pulled out of his pocket a suspicious-looking bundle, which he proceeded, in the coolest manner, to unfold and play with: he then laid it upon the table. After slapping Mr. Dove familiarly on the back, he rose and locked the door. All this time Mr. Dove, whose feelings can be much more easily imagined than described, was watching the movements of his terrific visitor with the greatest alarm. His first impulse was to ring the bell and call for aid, but this desire was frustrated by Mr. Dummy (such, we have ascertained, is the miscreant's name) stepping between him and the bell-rope, and pushing him down in his chair-which rough movement was accompanied by a gentle request" to make himself comfortable." Mr. Dove, seeing that resistance was hopeless, resigned himself to his fate, and, disguising his fears as well as he could, asked his awful companion "what he wanted?"

We will describe the remainder of this cowardly assault in Mr. Dove's own words:

"Mr. Dummy sat himself down opposite to me. He was plainly dressed; a large black stock concealed his shirt, and his coat, which was of a rusty raven colour, with here and there a bright gloss upon it, was buttoned close to the throat; the bone peeped through many of his buttons. I should not have noticed these trifling things so strongly; but in our long interview-the horrors of which I am about to relate-my eyes, for want of a quiet resting-place, reposed more particularly upon his dress. His features were very black, and expressed a most violent determination, which alarmed me; I could not look at him without feeling a most sinister trepidation. I wished myself anywhere else. But my forebodings, black as they were, were pale in colour to the frightful result.

"He pulled his chair quite close to mine, he stared me full in the face, and asked, with a half-smile, if I wanted a treat?' I met his good-humour, and replied, as cordially as I could, 'Yes.' He then said, 'Well, then, my boy, I will read you the beautiful little novel I have just completed.' I sank back in my chair with undisguised horror; Mr. Dummy-it flashed upon me all of a sudden-was an author! and-good gracious!—I was locked up in the same room with him, and not a person in the house to render me any assistance, excepting a deaf butler. A cold perspiration came over me as I looked at the immense bundle of papers he had laid upon the table. I could see there was no escape for me, for the monster in human form (he wore a wig and spectacles) had placed his chair between me and the door. I prepared myself for the worst. "He took up one heavy roll of the manuscript, and, pointing it at me, said, quite unmoved, This is the first volume.' I almost fainted with terror. My age is fifty-two, and I am subject to nervous