not the least disposition to stir while the dog continued in their neighbourhood, and he began to move forward, calling on his mute friend to follow. The dog obeyed so far as to bound to his side, but instantly returned to his guard and to his growl. The traveller understood him as well as if he had revealed his object by words, and proceeded on his journey, which he knew was within a few hours of its completion, and which he had not pursued above three English miles, when he perceived his faithful companion limping, still bleeding and apparently much exhausted, by his side. Though weakened by the loss of blood from three wounds which he had discovered and endeavoured to staunch in the best way he could as he proceeded, he contrived to alight and caress his preserver, and, with the strips of a large cashmere which he tore asunder for the purpose, succeeded in forming a sufficient bandage for the shoulder of his wounded protector. He then remounted, made a sign to his dog, who, with a gentle leap, was instantly behind him on the camel, and pursued his way, arrived in safety at his caravansera, and afterwards proceeded in a litter, of which the dog partook, to his destination in Bengal.

At this place John Torrid, as before stated, first became acquainted with the traveller and his dog. On entering the service of the former, he was presently instructed that his duties were to be more particularly confined to the care of the latter. "That dog," said the traveller (who was known in India by the name of Bearcroft), "is not my property, though we have been inseparable companions for the last three years. He has been confided to my care to deliver to a lady in England, together with a letter, which will be found in my portfolio, in case anything should happen to me. In the meantime, on that silver collar which you see is riveted round his throat, the name and address of the lady is engraved. The character which General L has left behind him, equally to your honour and his own, has induced me to be confidential with you at once; so make the dog your friend without farther loss of time." "I looked," continued John Torrid, "rather suspiciously, I fancy, at the poor brute, after the story I had already heard of him."

"You need not fear him," said Mr. Bearcroft; "to those whom he knows he is as gentle as a lamb; though I would not fear to trust myself within a tiger's leap when he is by me." Then rising and patting me on the shoulder, he called the dog and said, "a friend, Mufti !—remember - a friend!" The creature looked up in my face as if to say, “Ay, ay, I shall know you again," and then squatting on his haunches, he swept the carpet with his tail, while he placed his forepaw upon my knee; and the expression of his ears, as well as of his eyes, almost spoke the words, "I know you now."

Mr. Silverthong here interrupted him by observing, "I think you stated that Mr. Bearcroft never mentioned the name of my family in your hearing ?"

"Why, no, sir," replied John, "not exactly; but many a time and often during the four years I lived with him, when speaking of England and his desire to return to it, he alluded to the family whose name was on the dog's collar; but he never mentioned that name, and seemed indeed as carefully to avoid it, as I have done ever since you gave me orders to forget I had ever heard it.”

"For which you well understand my motives, John," replied his master; to which John bowed assent. "And his age, you say, was about thirty-six."

"I heard him say so one day to a fellow-passenger, when they were comparing the ages of people on board," said John.

"And that letter which was also addressed to my poor mother?" inquired Silverthong, with some emotion.

Ay, that unfortunate letter," replied John, "would most likely have explained everything. Master Bearcroft showed it to me one day, pointing out where I should find it in case anything should befal him, for he was still occasionally suffering, and told me more than once he thought he never should reach England, and once added, perhaps 'twere better so." In that case he charged me to deliver that and the dog according to the address,' where,' said he, 'they will perhaps be the more welcome if delivered by any other hand than mine.' The brother and sister exchanged expressive glances. "And this happened after you had left Calcutta ?"

"Ay, sir, on our homeward-bound voyage, and just before we entered the Bay of Biscay, where our ship foundered in that terrible storm. Ill as he was, Mr. Bearcroft never forgot the portfolio when he was helped into the long-boat along with Mufti and me. He hugged it close under his arm until the boat upset; I saw him no more alive, for he was still very weak, and no doubt sank directly. For my own part I was reckoned a good swimmer in the Ganges; but here among the salt-sea breakers my skill was of little use to me. Poor Mufti, however, never left my side, and we did contrive at last to scramble ashore, helping one another, almost dead with fatigue."

"I well remember the story of your fortunate escape," interrupted Mr. Silverthong, who wished to shorten a story which he knew by experience was a very long one; "and that on the following day the body of your late friend was driven on shore, when you procured him Christian burial; but are you certain beyond a doubt, that, bruised and mutilated as the body was, that it was indeed that of Mr. Bearcroft ?"

"If I had ever had a doubt, sir, it would have been removed when I saw his wounds which I had dressed a thousand times. It was the body of my late master, as sure as I am John Torrid Loton."

"And now, John," said Mr. Silverthong, at the same time pulling out his watch, 66 as you expressed a wish to see the Indian ballet at the Opera House to-night, you had better make haste, or you will be too late to gratify your curiosity."

John, thus dismissed, an impression almost amounting to conviction remained on the minds of the young people that Mr. Bearcroft was indeed their uncle Gilbert. "Who, then, can be this mysterious stranger ?"

It now becomes necessary to raise a portion of the veil which covers this apparent mystery, lest, like the curtain in Mrs. Radcliff's celebrated romance, it should produce, when fully withdrawn, something very like angry disappointment.

THE REPUBLICAN NEWSPAPERS OF PARIS.

BY THE FLANEUR IN PARIS.

AND their name is legion.

One of the first inevitable tendencies of republican institutions in France was towards unlimited liberty of her press: and one of the first decrees forced from the hands of the Provisional Government of February, by popular clamour, and by the outcry of the thousands of ambitious political scribblers, with whom Paris abounds, as it does with wine shops, cafés, and restaurans,-although the spiritual food of knowledge, with which Paris is now crammed by the former, at the cheapest possible rate, may be even far more unsavoury, indigestible, and deleterious, than the material food with which Paris is stuffed in the latter, at the lowest possible price also, was that which removed the stamp-duty upon journals, and did away with the caution money, which the editors of papers were compelled to depose as a guarantee for their respectability. The liberty of the press was proclaimed unlimited, untouchable: and the natural course of Liberty, under such circumstances, was to throw off her robes, to go about naked and dirty, or at best scantily, but not decently, cover herself with rags, and call herself forthwith Licence. One of the first actions of Liberty of the press, however, in this form, was to quarrel with her twin sister, proclaimed co-heiress of republican privileges, at the same time as herself, Liberty of opinion. Liberty of the press, or, at least, that Liberty which had nothing better to do than to don at once the Phrygian cap, and assume the pike, became autocratic, despotic, violent, declared herself the only true Liberty, and the only queen of the republican regime, refused to walk hand in hand with her sister, tried to thrust her down from their joint throne, and even went so far as to denounce her as traitress to her country, and demand her mise en accusation: it is the way with redcapped Liberty so to go to work. The office of a journal, which had dared vigorously to oppose the new government, was for three successive days attacked by a mob, excited by the editors of the "true republican papers: in the provinces similar scenes have continually taken place; and in one part of Paris another journal was long daily denounced, and nightly burned by a few frantic students beneath the tree of liberty, and in her august and autocratic name. Whether Liberty of the press and Liberty of opinion,-which have never ceased to fight, as were they two kings of Brentford with only one crown, ever since they were enthroned, the former always acting on the offensive, the latter on the defensive,-will fight it out one day, or whether they will come to the very improbable issue of "kissing and making it up," remains, for the present, one of the mysteries of a revolutionary future. The Flâneur will not attempt to speculate upon their destinies. The new restrictions, rendered necessary by the abuse of the press, and established since the days of June, may tend to modify much.

Of course the inundation of popular journals that followed the opening of the sluice-gates of restriction, was overpowering: and on it continued to flow in rapid current, and with stormy tide. At moments it might have been supposed to be at its last dribble: and then

again came a new torrent of new journals from the republican Montagne, like a muddy avalanche from a mountain top, bringing with it rocks and refuse enough to crush and overwhelm a whole plain of moderation, but, fortunately, often hemming itself in and blocking up its own avenues by its own force. It is quite impossible to calculate the quantity of these new papers, with which Paris has been flooded: some have run into the stream, and after a day or two run off again, for want of a supply to keep them going, leaving nothing behind them but a little mud: but their channels were always quickly filled by fresh ones: some irrigated only little unknown valleys, and never found their way into the great world; although most made roar and sputter enough to be taken for a whole torrent in themselves. There is, consequently, no possibility, in the midst of this constant appearing and disappearing, of coming to any correct statistical reckoning of the quantity of new republican prints floating on the surface of publicity: their numbers, too, have, until the late events, been always on the increase; on the morrow the account was no longer that of the previous day. Taking those which have vanished in haste also into the reckoning, they must have been nearly two hundred.

Among the many changes which the republic has produced in Parisian manners, that effected in the tone and habits of the lower classes, by the inundation of these cheap prints, has been one of the most striking. As those intended for the perusal of the working classes exclusively, and written for party purposes, to exercise an influence over their minds, and prepare them for the approach of that millenium of the new prophets of old republicanism, which was lately so near its fulfilment, popularly called the "Red Republic," or in other terms, the republic of proscription, terror, and blood,—are mostly at the price of one sou, and as none exceed the price of two sous, or a penny, these new papers easily fall into the hands of every good patriot, who desires his own enlightenment for the good of his country. The influence they exercised may be seen in the late insurrection. Long before its outbreak they had contrived to work their will in souring that better spirit of decent fraternity and conciliation, which marked the manners of the Parisian ouvriers of the better class in the first days of the Revolution. What the soidisant patriotic clubs, and the pretended friends of the people, with their violent declamation and denunciation of all that possessed, did not effect, was done by the frantic ultra-republican journals, that laboured so assiduously to instil into the hearts of the lower classes, their venom and their spite, and that hot poison of hatred and suspicion, that once admitted into the body corporate, ran through every vein with the maddest fever. What a wild delirium of carnage and cruelty that fever produced, we have seen. But it is not for the Flâneur to plunge into the fathomless depths of moral effects: it is his nature and his task to do no more than skim over the surface and catch up, as he goes, the more salient points of the outward forms of things. He will turn, then, to the change produced in the external manners of Paris by the inundation of republican papers-a change that contributes so greatly to its confused and tumultuous aspect.

See! along the Boulevards, and all the principal thoroughfares, and in the passages and galleries, by night, the throngs that line them on stirring occasions--and they are of daily occurrence-at the

lighted shop-windows, and under the gas-lamps. The evening papers have just come out: and every mortal being in Paris, who can read, and can dispense with the capital of a sou, cannot sleep without knowing the details of the news of the day. The eagerness of curiosity is upon all the faces, thus fantastically illuminated by the gas-lights from above and from the side: what a strange physiognomy do these confused regiments of readers, in long detached chiar'oscuro line, present! Here a knot of ouvriers have squeezed together in compact mass around a fellow-labourer who reads to them at a window: there another body forms a curious group around one who has mounted on a bench, or a post, as close as he can to a gaslamp, and declaims violently as he reads: here again a few acquaintances have got already into a discussion upon topics of interest, and flourish their papers in their hands, and gesticulate, at the imminent risk of smashing the plate-glass of the shop-windows with their elbows: there again a quiet artisan, who has not a sou to spare, poor fellow, stands humbly by to pick up what crumbs of intelligence he can, as they fall from richer men's mouths, or ventures to ask enlightenment as to the general subject of curiosity. On the chairs and at the tables of the brightly gleaming cafés, every creature, man, woman, or child, seems to have bitten at the republican apple of the knowledge of good and evil, and holds a paper. The host of journals has produced a host of various readers, who, in these public night scenes, have a perfectly peculiar effect.

By day, however, also, the change in the aspect of the streets is no less striking, although not quite so picturesque, and no less confusing. At every ten steps is a strange-looking wooden frame, erect upon two feet, adorned with transverse lines of string, upon which hang thick clumps of the hundred and one newspapers of the day. By the side of these machines sit, or squat, upon the pavement, old women, or gamins, or men in every variety of popular attire, who offer their wares of intelligence to the passengers; and, in truth, there is a goodly show of variety to tempt; there are papers for all political tastes, and every shade of opinion-the more violent, be it understood, still in far the greatest force. At many street corners, moreover, there are more solid structures. They are wooden booths or sheds, with a moveable glazed front, and a shop counter, erected at conspicuous angles of thoroughfares, very much like those ancient little shops of the écrivains publics, which, in modern days of the more general diffusion of the art of writing, have almost disappeared from the face of Paris.

These modern establishments of political knowledge, in place of the ancient ones of small commercial and amatory correspondence, are a new feature in the aspect of the French capital, and belong peculiarly to its republican character under the new regime of the liberty of the press.

One of the most striking features, however, of the effects of the newly-acquired liberty, may be found in the public criers and newspaper venders, who have poured down upon the streets of Paris, like the savage hordes of Attila. What a screaming fills the air, from the earliest hour of the day to the latest hour of the night! The public thoroughfare is almost as much obstructed with them as with the late barricades of fearful memory! A dozen arms are stretched out to oppose the Flâneur's way at every step he