paper articles
had convinced him of the need of inquiry into the subject, and he went to
Rome to consult his former instructors. Finally, this Abbe, selected as
the champion of Rome by the Archbishop of Paris, and convinced by the
arguments adduced by a layman in London, renounced the Romish church, and
though offered promotion for his past services, he came to London and
went straight to the house of the layman, whom he had not yet seen.

Often have I walked with that clever Abbe, riveted by his deeply
interesting conversation, his new and fresh views of English life, his
forcible exposures of those false estimates of Protestant truth which had
for so many years blinded him, and his explanations of the machinery then
in action at the Oratory, near the Strand.

But his former allies could not brook the desertion of so formidable a
champion, and he was driven by their continual annoyance to seek another
home. So he went to Ireland, and soon became the best teacher of the
French language in Dublin, from whence he removed to America. Let us
hope that there, at least, he is free to profess the truth he had found,
and to be one of the instances--very rare indeed they are--of a
consistent and steady Protestant, who had for years before been
thoroughly imbued with those doctrines which gnaw at the very vitals of
mental perception, and obliterate the sense of fairness, and which very
seldom leave enough alive in the mind to hold even real truth firmly.

It will not be breaking the promise that our visit to the exhibition is
not to involve us in a description of all its wonders, if we walk
up-stairs and look into the Tunisian Cafe, attracted by the well-known
drumming and the moaning dirge which Easterns call music. Tunis is best
seen out of Tunis, for the broidered gold and bright-coloured slippers
can then be enjoyed without those horrible scenes of filth--dead camels,
open sewers, and maimed beggars which encase the shabby mud walls I have
seen so near the marble ruins of old Carthage.

The cafe was full of visitors. English and Americans were admiring a
pretty singing girl about fifteen years of age, who was beautifully
dressed, and sitting with four very demure and ugly Orientals in the
little orchestra.

Soon she rose and sang a song. Black eyes, blackest of hair, pale
cheeks, languid grace. She is a fair daughter from the rising sun.
"Yes, there is certainly something in their Eastern beauty which is quite
bey