zare, and the liberation of all the desperate characters confined within that formidable fortress, forming one of the most curious and suggestive episodes of this revolution. A considerable body of these youthful and self-constituted soldiers, armed with flints and other extemporised missiles, assembled at the gates, and began by engaging the sentinel; the sentinel gave the alarm, and all the force within the prison concentrated themselves on this point. endeavouring to defend the entrance. Meantime, these diplomatic young officers had organised their plans with considerable skill; an equally numerous body of their "men" was attacking another part of the prison in another way. They form an échelle, and mounting, one over the shoulders of the other, are speedily within the walls. The issues are all guarded by their fraternity, and their numbers overpower the authorities, who are soon forced to give up the keys; the doors fly open one after the other, and there is a general sauve qui peut; with the assistance of the prisoners themselves, the rest is easy, and in an incredibly short space of time, all these gaol-birds "ont pris la clef des champs!"

Those who had forgotten this singular attempt and its successful result have had their minds refreshed within the last few weeks by a revolt of the same nature, even yet more desperate, and mingled with circumstances of barbarity which are scarcely credible. Our readers will know we are alluding to the frightful crime at l'Ile de Levant, Toulon, where the prison was forced, and fourteen of their own number were cruelly burnt by the savage little ruffians confined there, because their victims demurred to joining in the conspiracy. These gamins, of whom there were nearly 300, varied in age from nine to four

teen.

By a singular coincidence, we learn in the same paper which recounts this frightful event, that the condition of the colonie de Val d' Yévre presents a remarkable contrast to that of l'Ile de Levant. Mgr. de la Tour d'Auvergne, who administered confirmation to the young prisoners, expressed himself deeply touched by their edifying conduct on the occasion. After the ceremony a letter was read to the boys, addressed to them by one of their number, who, on the expiration of his term, had led a most exemplary life, and had been decorated with his galons de sousofficier. He had subsequently obtained the situation of "facteur" on a railway, and expressed his gratitude for the advice and education he had received in the colonie. He

It is only a few weeks since the Prison of l'Ile de Levant was the scene of as desperate an attack from the youthful criminals confined there.

forwarded a small sum of money to be given as a reward to the next of his comrades who should receive his liberation in consequence of good conduct.

Let us return to the last Paris revolution, and pursue the gamin into the abode of royalty broken open, ransacked, and abandoned to the mob. All his life, like the "boy Jones,' the gamin has longed to see the interior of that Palace of the Tuileries, every exterior stone and window and chimney of which he knows so well. Now is his time! No bristling rails defend its approaches, no bullying sentinel keeps grim watch before the gate. Ranks and distinctions are levelled, access is free he enters. The unresisting portals stand open before him, and seem to invite his presence. He scales the marble stairs, he slides along the polished parquets, he wanders through painted galleries, and stares up at the gilded ceilings, while he sees himself reflected from head to foot in the noble mirrors; he is master of the place, and he considers himself at home:

I smell sweet savours and I feel soft things; Upon my life, I am a Lord indeed! And so he contemplates all this magnificence which no longer has an owner, for the people are tired of their Roi Bourgeois and, "Mr. John Smith" has gone to England. Why should it not be his? his right to it all is as good as any other man's. He passes his smutty hand over the amber-satin couches; he buries his greasy head in the eider-down pillows, and stretches his unwashed limbs upon the silken ottomans; he wanders into the royal wardrobe, and finding apparel considerably handsomer and more to his taste than his own, he changes clothes, honestly leaving his cast-off garments in the place of those he has appropriated, and at length reaching the throneroom, he ascends the consecrated seat; as he throws himself into its treacherous arms and sinks into the velvet folds, he exclaims, too truthfully, "Tiens! ce n'est pas étonnant tout de même; on enfonce sur le trône."

However, we may forgive the follies of his youth when we reflect on what he often becomes if he sows wild oats, he not unfrequently reaps a harvest of glory, and stores up a world-wide fame. In what country in the world shall we find a regiment like the Zouaves? yet the majority of these dauntless fellows spring from this origin.

We have all heard of Eugène Libaut, a non-commissioned officer of this brave corps, the first who ascended the heights of Sebastopol and planted the flag of France upon its heretofore impregnable summit. His General well discerned the stuff of which he was made; he placed the French standard in his hands,

And it was enough: Libaut darted from the trenches, leading after him the whole column. Struck on the head as he reached the ditch, by a heavy stone, this intrepid young fellow did not slacken his progress; he continued to scale the heights, regardless of the shower of projectiles which assailed him, and, overcoming all obstacles, he gained his point, for the colours of the First Division were seen floating from the Malakoff tower, forming a rallying-point, round which the allies grouped themselves and maintained their post with characteristic determination.

Eugène Libaut, the enfant perdu of Malakoff, began life as a GAMIN DE PARIS.

THE VALLEY OF THE RYBURNE.

We have heard and read much of the great beauty of some parts of Yorkshire; but we must confess that for richness of foliage, and variety of surface, we have seen nothing to surpass the valley of the Ryburne in summer. How frequently have we stood and looked about us while climbing its hill-sides, and exclaimed, "Oh, for an artist's pencil! Every hundred yards present material for a new and beautiful picture.

The valley of the Ryburne, as well as the pretty village or town of Ripponden, takes its name from the Rye, a brook, or "burne," which issues from among the Pennine hills, or that ridge of mountains better known in these parts as the "Back-bone of England." The back-bone itself is dark moorland, but the hills or ribs which radiate from it are cultivated to the very top, as pasture-lands; and richer or greener pasture we have never seen; not even in the Emerald Isle; nor have we ever tasted sweeter milk or butter.

Some, we have no doubt, would regret the author of the "Deserted Village" among the number-to see the tall shaft of the factory furnace raising its head among such scenery, dwarfing the very church towers and steeples; but we think these shafts-some of which are beautifully constructed, and tastefully adorned -rather an ornament than otherwise. The number of cotton mills which have been erected and which are in course of erection in these secluded valleys is really surprising. The mill-owners know well the value of mountain streams; they have wisely estimated the weight and the power of the fall of every square foot of water. There is not a drop of it allowed to pass without paying toll at a number of mills. Some of the mill-dams are within a few dozen perches of each other. No streamlet, however young or small, is allowed

like other little folk, it must go to work at the mill. Though it issue bright and clear from the mountains, it is black enough, especially in winter, before it has run its course and done its work.*

The manufacturers of this district have been the pioneers to railway contractors. There is sa yet no railway through the valley of the Ryburne; but a bill has lately passed the Parliamentary Committee for one from Sowerby Bridge to Ripponden, which will run through this beautiful vale. The way in which the news of the passing of this bill was received was positively startling. We happened to be in the neighbourhood at the time, and witnessed the rejoicing. A few minutes to five o'clock, a man arrived in breathless haste-having outrun the parliamentary messenger-and communicated the welcome intelligence that the "Ripponden Branch Line Bill" was passed. In a few minutes after, a telegram was received from the House of Commons, confirming the news. The report spread like wild-fire, and probably before an hour had elapsed, every cottage in the district was startled with the cry, "Hoora! theyn gotten t' railwai!" This was followed by the ringing of church bells, the firing of single and double-barrelled guns, the music of brass bands, and the barking of village dogs, who did not seem to understand what all the fuss and excitement was about.

Before the main line of railway was opened from Halifax to Manchester, the mail coaches ran through this valley. Here and there along the line we are shown deserted inns and post-houses, "without an inhabitant." There is a large deserted establishment of this kind, which contained stabling for thirty or forty horses, on the top of Black-stone Edge, a wild moor, now inhabited by grouse, where, we understand, there is excellent shooting. How long this may be the case, now that "theyn gotten t' railwai" to Ripponden, we dare not say.

To the north of Black-stone Edge, and at the other side of the valley of the Ryburne, is Norland Head, better known as Ladstone. We crossed the river by stepping-stones, and ascended the mountain, with the expectation of seeing from its top the wild downs of Haworth, where Charlotte Bronté and her sisters lived and died. In passing through a wood in our ascent, we looked back and saw we were followed by a hind. We did our best to keep ahead of him, but soon discovered it was no use trying: he was gaining on us every

The November floods of 1866 along the valley of the Ryburne, and the sad accident by which between twenty readily be forgotten.-ED. O. A W. and thirty persons were swept away at Leeds, will not

step, so we sat down on the mountain side and waited his approach.

And what a splendid view we got from that mountain side! Below was an amphitheatre of hills, intersected by deep glens, at the bottom of which the rivulets glinted and shone out among the branches, like silver threads.

The peasantry in this part of Yorkshire are anything but boorish. It is their habit to salute strangers on the road, and, if they can, to get into conversation with them.

"Ah, isn't that faun!" said the peasant who now stood before us, and evidently read our admiration of the scenery in our faces.

Our strange guide walked fearlessly out to the edge of the rock, which alarmed us not a little, and then scampered off along the top of the wild mountain.

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"Stop. Where are you going? "I'm lookin' for my mates," was his reply.

We suspect the poor fellow is half an idiot. The fits have weakened his intellect.

We found we could have ascended Ladstone by two other routes, namely, the mountainroad by Ripponden Church, and the mountain road from Triangle; but we should advise the tourist who loves beautiful scenery to select the road through the valley, and take the narrow path to the right between the villages of Triangle and Ripponden, and cross the Ryburne by the stepping-stones, and boldly breast the mountain side.

We descended Ladstone by the road to Triangle, as we wished to see the house in which Archbishop Tillotson was born, and which stands on the hill on the southern side of the valley. The old house is in the shape of a barn, or rather of two barns united, the gabled windows of which look towards the lower road. The small front room on the

"Our health is pretty good."

"Mine isn't."

"What's the matter with you ?"

"I'm geen to fits."

"Fits! How often?"

rately panelled with dark oak. The ceiling is panelled in the same way. On a large oaken shield over the fireplace are carved, in high relief, a number of knights with lances crossed in fierce conflict. We were informed it was intended to represent the Battle of

We felt rather uneasy, but asked him if he got any warning when they were approaching. "I get mazy-loike i' my yed." [I get mazy-like in my head.]

"Do you feel mazy now?"

“Oh, naw; the air duy me gooid.” "We are glad to hear it,-we had better be moving."

"Yo're goin' to see the Ladstone ? "

"Yes. Why do you call it the Ladstone ?" "Well, I doant know, if it worn't at a lad wor killed there, by fallin' off on it."

"Who was the lad that was killed?"
"It was a lad they called Jessop."
"How was he killed?"

"He wor printin' his name i' the stone." "Well ? "

a memorable victory over Philip, King of France. The Black Prince was pointed out among the figures carved in the dark oak, but we thought Philip of France as black as he. It was a nice point to say "which was which," so we chose the taller, if not the blacker of the two, to represent England.

On the stone above the fireplace were the figures 1630, the year in which the Archbishop was born. It is quite evident that this stone was erected after Tillotson's birth; indeed, we suspect that the whole of the panelling and all the other decorations of the house were executed after the son of the Sowerby clothier had become Archbishop of Canterbury and Lord Primate of all England. The original design and constitution of the house appear to have been poor, humble, and unornamental. It is the general habit in this part of the world to wear clogs, or "wooden shoes," which make a fearful clatter on the flags. There is a story current of Tillotson's father having gone up to London and called at the archiepiscopal palace, at Lambeth, with a pair of clogs on, to see "My son John."

G.

"BABY'S TEXT."

tunate fellow he'd been. Don't blush, my dear, I am not clever at pretty speeches; but

"Not a penny, uncle."

"Are you mad, sir ?" And as he spoke, the elder man faced round and struck his walkingstick into the turf. 66 Married, no money, and a curacy of 100l. per annum! How the deuce do you intend to live? No church interest either; and a baby before you know where you are; expensive things, babies; the doctor always wants his ten-guinea fee, I am told, to say nothing of nurses and clothing. You must give it up, Willie."

"That I cannot do. I've asked her to be my wife; she knows exactly what I have, and is willing to work with me. Besides, there is some Church interest; Kate has a cousin a barrister, and intimate with the Chancellor; she thinks he'll do what he can for us. I shall write, too; and, if it comes to the worst, I'll take pupils. We won't starve, uncle."

"If you do, don't blame me," said Captain Jackson, testily; “I wash my hands of you. I never married, couldn't afford it when I had full pay, and now that I've only half-pay I cannot afford to help you to the luxury." After this speech the two men walked on a considerable distance in silence, until, just as they entered the village, Captain Jackson asked,

"Is she pretty?"

"Come and judge for yourself," replied Willie, glad to have such a speedy chance of showing what a fair excuse he had for the folly his uncle denounced. "Here's the house, she'll be delighted to see you." And pushing open a little gate, he led the way up the flower-garden towards a cottage, from an open window in which came a sweet voice, singing "The Last Rose of Summer."

"Is that her voice?" whispered the captain, pulling up his shirt collar, and settling his chin in his cravat. Willie nodded and rang the bell, and presently they were ushered into the drawing-room, where sat the owner of the voice, Kate Vickers.

old bachelor to any want of admiration for your sex. I never could afford to marry."

Willie looked appealingly at his uncle, who, feeling he was getting out of his depth, pulled up, and with a tremendous effort to retrieve his position, said gallantly,

'But then, Miss Kate, I never met you," adding, sotto voce, as the door opened to admit Kate's mother, "There, Willie, you dog, will that please you?"

Willie was pleased, and so was Kate, who decided that Uncle Dick was the nicest old man she had ever seen. And as for that gentleman's opinion of his nephew's choice, it would indeed be difficult to find words warm enough to tell half what he felt; and, in good truth, all this admiration was no more than Kate deserved, for a better, purer-hearted, or prettier girl was not to be found in the county.

Everything came naturally to her, unlike the famous wife of the unhappy "Cooper of Fife." Kate could "bake and brew," and, had spinning been necessary, I am sure she would have both "carded and spun," without any fear of spoiling either her pretty fingers or her complexion. With all her talents and accomplishments, Kate, though modesty itself, possessed an extraordinary amount of selfreliance, and that rare gift with women, the power of decision and action. She could make up her mind and act up to her standard without throwing down her weapons and flying off upon a different tack because the result was not altogether what she anticipated. And having said all this for Kate, the reader will understand how it was that Mr. Constable had asked her to marry him and his poverty. Also, how it was that he looked forward to the life before them without any of those misgivings his uncle had given utterance to.

"Proud to make your acquaintance, madam. Ehem! Miss! no, that won't do either,Kate, that's you name, I believe, my dear. Kate Kearney it should be, Kate Constable it is to be. We heard you singing as we came up the garden; Willie knew your voice; he'd just been telling me what a fool-what a for

and when the winter came, and brought sore throats and colds, Kate, who generally accompanied her husband, always carried a little basket containing creature comforts.

Time went on, and Uncle Dick's prophecy came true; and, although the advent of the baby did not exactly take Willie by surprise, still in a manner it did. He had watched the

mysterious preparations with a strange quiver at his heart. They had been so happy, he and Kate, that anything, even a baby, would make a change-and no change could be for the better. He had never felt especially attracted towards babies, and rather shirked the baptismal service; then again he thought of what Uncle Dick had said; there was scarcely a margin left out of his slender stipend for incidental expenses, and "babies were expensive things." Willie was out a good deal alone in those days, and thought a good deal too, as he trudged homewards through the dark, muddy spring lanes. And yet the time came when all his fears made themselves wings, when reaching home, late one evening, from a distant part of the parish, he found the small servant-maid of the house standing at the garden gate, her apron twisted tight round her head, and altogether in a state of breathless excitement, as, starting forward, she barred his progress, blurting out in a stage whisper,

"Oh! please sir! it's all over. Missus have got a fine little boy, sir! and is as well as can be expected, and you're not to exite yourself."

The blood rushed to Willie's heart, and a great gush of happiness came over him; he stood, looking up at the bed-room window, where a faint light was burning.

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'Well, my dear boy," said the doctor, coming striding along the walk, "let me wish you joy: splendid child, and mother a marvel; don't disturb her, she's asleep, first sleep of great importance, God bless you."

And with a hearty clasp of the hand the doctor passed through the gate. Willie never remembered anything about the ten-guinea fee; there was nothing to remind him of it in the good doctor's voice; and after another look at the shrouded window, Willie rushed away into the darkness, and--but we have no right to follow him-when he came back to the house he was caught in the passage by the landlady, and pushed into the parlour.

"The finest babby I've ever nussed, and I've nussed a many-thirteen on 'em my own."

"May I see her?" asked Willie, humbly. "It's a boy, sir, just as it ought to be fust allus a boy."

"I meant my wife." But even when he spoke, Willie flushed with a strange pleasure, as a new feeling of responsibility awoke in him there were two to think of now.

"The missus 'ud like to see master," said the girl, peeping in at the door, and speaking in a whisper.

Willie was up-stairs in a moment, quietly enough too.

"Have you seen him, darling?" said Kate, after a little time of silent joy. "No; where is he?"

"In the basket-be careful, dear."

Willie went over to the fire, beside which standing upon two chairs was the berceaunette sent by the rector's wife, a mass of lace, muslin, and pink silk. Very carefully did the newly-made father lift the muslin and gaze with awe upon his first-born; and then, covering him up, he came back to the bedside.

"Well, dear?" asked Kate, eager to hear the baby extolled.

"He's very small," was all poor Willie found voice to say, and Kate began to laugh; on which the nurse, who had been watching outside the door, bustled in and turned him out of the room.

"Didn't I tell you you'd have a baby?" said Uncle Dick, when he wrote to congratulate Willie. 'You can make me a godfather; and as I don't suppose you want a silver mug for pap, I'll give you a cheque to buy the pap itself."

It was the last cheque Captain Jackson drew, as a month after, the terrible panic which seized the money market in 185began. Bank after bank stopped payment, and, amongst others, that in which the old soldier had invested his savings-not much, certainly, but still just enough to give him the power of doing a kind thing such as that just told. The same shock that swamped Captain Jackson's small fortune, beggared Kate's mother, who went to live with her eldest daughter in a distant county; and although Willie had never permitted himself to look for any help from either side, as far as he himself was concerned, it had been a scarcely recognised consolation that if any unexpected illness or accident shortened his life, Kate would have a home; and it was the sudden shattering of this hope that brought the first shadow upon his path. We know how the cloud, no bigger than a man's hand at first, warned the prophet to gird his loins and flee.

Willie bethought him of the barrister cousin, and went up to London to see what could be done. The cousin was a good fellow; he had no objection to use what influence he possessed; he had simply forgotten his pretty cousin and her curate husband; he liked Willie, too, and introduced him to the Lord Chancellor, who put his name upon his private list, and in eight months Willie was presented with the Rectory of Deepdean; the living was small-150l. per annum-but there was a house and garden, and he was his own master.