have been ashamed to look in the face. Still, the idea of being called 'poor Mansfield' haunted his imagination so much, that Madeline had never hinted at their return to England, which she still fondly thought of as their home. Mansfield would have been much happier, had it not occurred to him so frequently as to retard his recovery, that his wife was hastening before him to another world; and certainly those who had known her a few months before, would hardly have recognised the outline of her former self. They had been inhaling the soft evening breeze, which does not bring, as with us, those heavy dews fraught with danger, now sauntering along a shaded alley, and then sitting upon the trunk of a fallen tree, when, just as they were seated, they heard a laugh from the path they had quitted, and immediately after the sound of English voices.

Mansfield grew at once red and then pale. 'It is really too bad,' he exclaimed; 'we must plunge farther into the depths of France to escape these perpetual intrusions.'

Madeline's colour was also heightened, but from a different cause-she thought she knew the female voice. How shall we retreat?' she said; we must pass them to get home.'

Mr Mansfield rose, and took hold of Arthur's hand. If we walk quickly,' he replied, we can pass the wood before they leave it.' But his calculation was wrong; a group of persons emerged from the shade as they reached the spot Mr Mansfield had spoken of.

Well, I declare!' exclaimed the lady in a loud strange tone, there are the poor Mansfields!' and the same moment Mrs Mansfield's hand was grasped, and her cheek kissed, by Mrs Smith.

As well as Mr Mansfield's confusion and annoyance permitted him to observe, there were two ladies and two gentlemen of the party, one of whom was Mr Orepoint, who advanced and held out his hand to Mr Mansfield. 'Well,' continued Mrs Smith with more than her usual volubility, who could have fancied meeting you here, after all that we heard; but, Madeline, you were always an angel.' Then turning to Mansfield, she said, holding up her finger, Ah, you naughty boy! Indeed, you are such a naughty man, that I don't think I shall speak to you! You know I am not at all like my cousin ?'

'I am quite aware of it,' said Mr Mansfield, bowing proudly.

'Not a bit. My goodness, how ill you both look! But no wonder, you have gone through so much. We drove down here to see the water-works, or fire-works, or whatever they are; but it's the wrong day, so we must come again.'

'And where is your husband?' inquired Madeline; while Mr Mansfield, having regained his self-possession, addressed a few words to Mr Orepoint.

Mrs Smith was disconcerted, and hurriedly replying that she had left her husband with a friend at the place where they dined, hastened away as the objects of her remark made their appearance.

'I beg your pardon,' said poor Smith, lifting his hat, for he did not recognise them immediately, and he looked stupidly wise while he spoke-'I beg your pardon; but have you seen my wife?'

Few words ever caused Mrs Mansfield a more acute pang than these. The kind, simple, absent, and thoughtless man, so completely, so entirely changed. There was a tipsiness about his dress and gestures-in the way his foot moved when he meant to stand still, as if it clawed the earth for support-in the careless rest of his hat, and the slothful sit of the stock and half-buttoned waistcoat. Absent and strange he had always been, but it used to be the absence of mind, not the presence of semi-intoxication.

'Do you not know me?' said Mr Mansfield. " And me?' added Madeline.

He was, indeed, earnestly rejoiced to see them. I know you!' he repeated; to be sure I do, and have

heard so much about you. Why, you were town-talk for a month; first abused, and then praised, and then forgotten.' Mansfield turned away, and Smith continued. 'I would rather see you, Mrs Mansfield, than any living creature. You are the only one who can do anything with her. She is worse than ever. We separated-yes, that was it-and then it was made up by Uncle Oliver, and I agreed to bring her here for a treat; but we quarrelled all the way. And here we met Orepoint-and now she is as troublesome as ever. I cannot comprehend how our little disagreements grow into such feuds. Perhaps you could talk to her. But how very odd I am. I must go and console Mansfield, and tell him all the people said.'

'No,' interrupted the anxious wife, do not speak to him at all of the past; he cannot bear it.'

'Oh, very well-as you please,' answered Smith with an air of stupid astonishment; as you please. Not hear of the past; oh, very well, I'll take care to remember that. I remember, too, what you told me about clubs, and I told her of it; but she drove me there to get rid of me. That's a charming thing: a man marries to make his home comfortable, and then his wife drives him to the club !'

Mrs Mansfield could endure a great deal, but she could endure this no longer.

'Madeline,' said her husband, after they entered her apartment, I do not think I ever felt the fulness of what you have done for me until within the last hour. If you had been such a woman as your cousin, what should I have been now? How you have borne with me, and why, I cannot tell. I have been your bane, while you have been my blessing. The more evil I have done, the more watchful, and protecting, and fervent has been your love. He who sees and hears me, knows that I only think there is hope for my future, because of the glory with which your affection has encompassed me. I say, surely I must be reserved for some good purpose, or I could never have retained her love. May He, who gave me an angel as my guardian, make me in some degree worthy of her. Oh, if I could but obliterate from your memory my past neglect, my unfaithfulness, I should care for nothing else; for, in all the business transactions which you investigated, there was no dishonour!'

'Thank God,' replied Madeline, there was not, and I knew there would be none; and He also knows, that my love is as deep for you as ever.'

I know that,' he replied; but your trust is gone.' She raised her eyes to his-eyes whose lustre had never been dimmed by the least wavering of untruth. 'It is gone!' he repeated passionately.

'It was gone, dear Mansfield,' she answered. 'It has returned; it has been returning. Are not your feelings and sentiments changed? Have I not reason for confidence? Yes, my confidence is established.' And Mansfield believed her.

Mrs Mansfield never saw her unfortunate cousin after that night, though, in three weeks, she heard she was deserted by a man who lamed her husband for life in a duel in the Bois-de-Boulogne.

It is time this story were concluded; and yet how limited its space to describe the events of a life. I have, after all, made but a feeble sketch of Madeline; and though Uncle Oliver has not ate his crutch, he confesses he ought to have done so; for he has ceased to wish her to call her husband'a rascal.'

Mr Mansfield had not been a year abroad, when an excellent appointment was offered him in one of the public offices. He shrunk from a London residence, fearing to meet cold eyes and distant bows from those who had revelled with and in his wealth. And Madeline -what said she? Why, she laughed, and said surely her husband jested; if such looked cold, they would look colder, and if a distant bow were given, not only seem, but wish to cut the giver. And she walked down the streets where once her carriage rolled-with the dignity

extremity; and here is just finished a large edifice of Grecian architecture designed for the courts of justice, gendarmerie, and prison of the department. I went to visit this structure while the workmen were still employed upon it, and found that the cell part of the prison was constructed precisely on the plan of Pentonville, and therefore for the solitary confinement of criminals. Thus, the evil done by a bad arrangement in England is not confined to that country, but is copied as something meritorious by a foreign nation.

We spent, as I have said, a Sunday in the town, and had therefore an opportunity of seeing it in its holiday dress. The day was a fête of some kind, and hence there was a more than usual degree of recreation. After the morning service in the churches, the streets became crowded with hundreds of country men and women, the latter in their fanciful Touraine costume, and all neat, clean, simple-looking, and orderly. The public walks, environed with trees, near the bridge were lined with booths of goods of many sorts for sale, and the spacious place adjoining was well garnished with shows, in front of which mountebanks tumbled and gamboled about, to the vast admiration of the dense crowds who came to witness their buffooneries. In our walk through the fair, as I must call it, I was struck with the appearance of a lonely little show at one corner of the square, which was very much overcrowed and snubbed out of countenance by the superior attractions of some great shows beside it. Nor was it a show of the ordinary spectacle class, but one purporting to be an exhibition of snakes which could be twisted into knots, and tied round men's necks like a boa. It seemed no easy matter for this little show to bear up against the clang of music from the tumbling show on its right, and, in desperation, its solitary outside performer kept up an incessant beating on a drum. Yet this beating was not altogether voluntary. The drummer was a slender and swarthy girl, in a fantastic and tawdry dress, and the poor creature was evidently under the immediate and terrific control of a species of ogress, who acted as money-taker, and was probably the wife of the exhibitor within. Frequently did we turn our steps towards this little show, to see how it was getting on in the struggle, and on every occasion did we observe that la tambourinère was at her post, fighting away as in a paroxysm between death and life on her small brass drum. At length, at one of our rounds, when it was pretty far on in the afternoon, to our surprise the drummer all at once stopped in her mad career. She threw down the drumsticks; not another beat would she give on the noisy engine before her. The passion of the ogress was instantly roused by this flagrant instance of insubordination; but it was all of no use; the poor girl folded her arms-the drum, the show, snakes, and all, might go to the bottom of the Loire for anything she cared; not another rattle would she give; the ogress might do as she liked. Amidst the storm of French uttered by the savage mistress of the establishment, one could only hear the word pourquoi? and to this the ill-used slave of the drum at last replied; her opening speech' being one of the finest pieces of natural eloquence, both in language and gesture, to which it has been my fortune to be a spectator. Her indignant answer to her superior disclosed the touching appeal-that she was dying from hunger. Here,' said she, have I been exerting myself in your service all day long, and food have I not tasted for many hours. I am tired. I can drum no more; and I defy you to compel me. Unless you give me something to eat, I shall resist your tyranny.' The appeal, I am glad for the poor girl's sake, had its proper effect. The ogress put into her hands a sous-a single halfpenny-but it was enough. The starved tambourinère darted off through the crowd, threading her way amid the stalls, till she came to one, a kind of vagrant restaurant, where she had the happiness of purchasing a handful of frizzled potatoes, with which she regaled herself in returning to her duties. Nor was she long in ascending to her platform. Inspired with her humble

meal, she recommenced her occupation, and we left her performing on her drum with renewed vigour and animation.

Besides a public museum, which was crowded with visitors in the latter part of Sunday, Tours possesses some other objects of attraction, including several interesting ecclesiastical structures of old date. The cathedral of St Gatien, in the eastern part of the town, a fine specimen of the florid Gothic, finished in 1510, is grand and imposing, with some fine old painted glass windows, and lofty turrets, whence a prospect of great loveliness, towards the union of the Loire and Cher, is to be obtained. But there are relics of a cathedral in Tours considerably more ancient. These are two tall and bulky towers standing awkwardly apart on opposite sides of a street called the Rue St Martin, and are all that remain of the once celebrated and richly-endowed cathedral of St Martin of Tourslong the fountain of learning and civilisation amid ages of barbarism-long the resort of pilgrims from the most distant parts of Europe. Its costly embellishments and relics were first plundered and scattered abroad by the iconoclasts of the sixteenth century; and at the revolution the whole fabric was razed to the ground, two of its five towers being alone suffered to remain standing. A mean street now passes over the spot where Louis XI. once knelt before the splendid shrine of St Martin. Tours exhibits other tokens of ecclesiastical desolation, though, in this respect, it is no way remarkable. In a back court of the Rue Royale we found the fine old Gothic church of St Julian transformed into a stable and diligence depôt, the horses being stalled in one of the aisles, with a hay-loft above. In a different part of the town, we observed the church of St Clement occupied as a corn and meal market. These spectacles of desecration were affecting; but, coming from a country where much finer buildings had been literally pulled in pieces, I was inclined to acknowledge that it is, on the whole, less distressing to see churches employed as stables or coach offices-for in that manner they are of some use to mankind-than to observe them lying in utter ruin, and of not the slightest use to anybody. The Scotch, it is clear, have not a word to say against the French reformers, well as they deserve castigation. A high and antique fronted house in the Rue des Trois Pucelles is pointed out by tradition as that once occupied by Tristan l'Ermite; of which, however, reasonable doubts are entertained. The northern extremity of the Pucelles issues upon the boulevard-like walk along the Loire, below the bridge; and by pursuing this, first for half a mile on the high bank of the river, and then another half mile or so to the left, in an inland direction, we come upon the hamlet of Plessis, a scatter of cottages and farmeries, hedges, old walls, and gateways, with many sunny garden-plots and fields; the whole, to all appearance, the wreck of something great in days of yore; and in the midst of the scene of fallen and forgotten splendour, do we find all that can now be shown of Plessis le Tours. Approached by a lane between two hedges, we have no long time to pause, for, standing sentinel at an old wooden gate in the aged wall, is seen the sole guardian of the enclosure, a sun-burnt and poverty-struck paysanne, in a pair of wooden shoes, ready to pounce upon us, and exhibit every stone, cranny, and crevice in Louis's stronghold-for a very small gratuity.

There is something excessively disappointing in a visit to Plessis le Tours. Instead of finding anything like a castle or palace, we have before us, within an enclosed and ill-kept garden, a brick house of two storeys, remarkable for nothing but white sandstone quoins to the windows. At the south-west corner, a spiral stair admits us to the upper floors, empty and tenantless, but habitable. Two or three niches in the staircase, and certain old mantel-pieces of large size, are the only remains of an antique appearance. A mean wooden turret outside the staircase has been erected as a shot tower. It is evident that this com

monplace mansion is only a part of a much larger structure now cleared away, and that which remains has been altered considerably since the era of Louis XI. The lower storey, sunk beneath the ground on the western or garden side, is entered from a lower bank on the east, and on this side we visited several gloomy and comfortless dungeons, one of which is used as the dwelling of our humble conductress. The entrances to these vaults from the floor above have been built up. At a little distance, other vaults are pointed out beneath a patch of waste ground; and at the western extremity of the garden is shown a dungeon to which a flight of steps has lately been given, along with some other repairs. This, by a modern inscription on the wall, is styled the prison of Cardinal de la Balue. Towards the south and west, we have a pleasant prospect of the rich flat vale of the Cher and Loire-at the time of our visit jocund with the array of yellow harvest. Within the enclosure in which we stand, everything, from the dilapidated sun-dial to the untrimmed bushes and weed-covered parterres, wears the air of desolation and neglect. With exterior defences thrown down, fosses filled up, and the chatelaine transformed into a bare-legged paysanne, the whole scene seems a vulgar burlesque of a poetic dream. Departing, robbed of a sentiment, we feel that in some cases it would be better not to disturb the visions of the imagination.

One day during our stay at Tours was devoted to an excursion to Mettray, a village about four miles distant in a northerly direction, and situated in the midst of a piece of country so prettily embellished with hedgerows and trees, as to remind us of English rural scenery. Mettray can be reached at certain hours daily from Tours by omnibusses; but we preferred a private voiture; for we wished to spend some time in our inquiries in this interesting locality. And Mettray is worthy of a visit from every Englishman passing down the Loire. Here, some years ago, was begun a benevolent experiment to reclaim juvenile offenders and outcasts, of whom in France there is a fully greater abundance than in our own country. A volume might be written on Mettray: I can find space for only a few brief explanations.

The founder of the Colonie Agricole de Mettray, as it is properly styled, is an enthusiastic philanthropist, who, animated by what he had seen of a rural penitentiary for youth at Horn, near Hamburg, returned to France, and commenced operations along with his friend, the Viscount Bretignères de Courteilles, on the estate of the latter gentleman. The project, after receiving the countenance and pecuniary assistance of a society formed on purpose to encourage it, was begun in 1839, since which time the establishment at Mettray has been gradually increasing in importance, and may now be said to be in as prosperous a condition as could reasonably be expected. I do not know any institution in England with which to compare Mettray. It is not a place of voluntary retreat, like a House of Refuge, because young criminals are sent to it by courts of justice; neither is it a prison, for it has no bolts, bars, or environing walls, and is, to all appearance, a singularly neat and orderly cluster of rustic cottages and mansions, in the midst of gardens, play-grounds, and fields. Arriving at the gateway where strangers are set down, we were shortly waited upon by one of the resident directors, a venerable gentleman in an ample blue surtout, and a long white beard. By this courteous old person we were obligingly conducted over the establishment, beginning with the dormitories, the workshops, the school-room, and the chapel, and ending with the infirmary, the kitchen, and the general sale depôt of manufactured articles. Explanations of the discipline and mecanique were given as we went from point to point, and various pamphlets were put into my hands, which are now lying before me, and at the service of any one who would wish to imitate the good deeds of the founders of Mettray.

In organising the institution, it has been a leading and

judicious principle to imitate, as nearly as possible, the plan of parental supervision. All the inmates are divided into families of forty boys, each family under the general charge of a chief. Under this functionary are two contre-maîtres, each having the special direction of a section of twenty boys. These contre-maîtres are assisted by two lads, chosen by the prisoners from among themselves under certain regulations, and whose duties last for a month. The title given to these assistants is frère ainé, or elder brother, and it is an object of ambition to be considered worthy of such an appointment. The houses, ranged along two sides of a spacious garden, are individually adapted for the accommodation of a family. On the ground-floor is the workshop, with a shed outside for receiving implements of field labour. The upper part of the house consists of two floors, each containing twenty hammocks, and also bed-closets for the superintendents. The lower of these sleepingrooms being cleared during the day, by slinging aside the hammocks, is used as a refectory for the whole forty boys. At night, the dormitories being kept lighted, are under the surveillance of the contre-maîtres and chiefs, who, by apertures in their respective closets, can watch the movements of their charges, without being themselves seen. I see, by one of the printed reports, that the cost of each house, including furniture, amounts to 8300 francs, or L.332, and that the annual rent per boy is under ten francs. In some instances the houses have been free gifts of wealthy donors, from motives of piety or benevolence. In one case a father has built a house in memory of a beloved daughter-a fine trait, I think, of paternal feeling. One of the royal princesses has also contributed a house to the establishment, which is patronised by the first families in France. Having viewed the houses and workshops of shoemakers, carpenters, tailors, harnessmakers, and blacksmiths, we were taken into the large school-room, where at certain hours instruction is given of an elementary kind, including the inculcation of religious and moral precepts. The chapel adjoining is a neat, though plain structure, and suited for the Roman Catholic form of worship; all other sects being excluded from the establishment, in order, as it is alleged, to prevent discussion and the growth of antipathies among the inmates--a poor apology, it will be considered, for limiting the charity to the members of one form of faith. In the infirmary, an airy suite of apartments, we found only a single patient. This department is under the management of three females; and, need I say, they are Sisters of Charity? The cleanliness, order, and tastefulness of this and other parts of the establishment charmed us, and, to mark our general approval, we purchased a variety of articles at the depôt.

During our perambulations over the grounds, we had occasion to see parties of the inmates at work in the fields. With a dress mostly of coarse linen, straw hats, bare legs, and clumsy wooden shoes, they cut a miserable figure, and a more ill-looking set of swarthy boys and lads could scarcely be pictured. The dress of the contre-maîtres at the heads of their divisions was a little better, but also of linen; they appeared to exert a firm control over their gangs or families, and are, as I was informed, a respectable class of young men, who, by their training here, are well fitted for taking the command of similar establishments elsewhere. The number of inmates or prisoners in the colony at the time of my visit was 190.

To understand the principle of seclusion at Mettray, it must be recollected that there is a law in France which sweeps the country of juvenile offenders. Every boy or girl under sixteen years of age, convicted of a crime, is considered guilty without discernment, and if not claimed by parents, is retained in prison till twenty years of age. This partly accounts for the vast number of juvenile detenûs which I saw in various quarters; but there is another cause. Many children are abandoned and thrown upon the public in a very heartless way, and being seized by gens-d'armes wherever they may