h the open sides of the crypt,
and, mingling with the darkness which seemed to deepen and flash in
corners, and with the potent mouldy smell, made me feel as if I had
descended into the very bowels of history. I emerged again, but the
rain had settled down and spoiled the evening, and I splashed back to my
inn and sat in a chair by the coffee-room fire, reading Dean Stanley's
agreeable "Memorials" of Canterbury, and wondering over the musty
appointments and meagre resources of English hostels. This establishment
had entitled itself (in compliment to the Black Prince, I suppose), the
"Fleur-de-Lis." The name was very pretty (I had been foolish enough to
let it take me to the inn), but the lily was sadly deflowered. I found
compensation at Dover, however, where the "Lord Warden" Hotel struck me
as the best inn I had encountered in England. My principal errand at
Dover was to look for Miss Betsey Trotwood's cottage, but I am sorry to
say I failed to discover it. Was it not upon the downs, overlooking the
town and the sea? I saw nothing on the downs but Dover Castle, which, in
default of Miss Trotwood's stronghold, I zealously visited. It is an
establishment of quite the same character, bristling with offensive and
defensive machinery. More seriously speaking, it is a magnificent
fortress--a bequest of the Middle Ages turned to excellent account by
modern engineers. The day was clear and beautiful, and I walked about
for a while among the towers and the grassy bastions; then I stood and
gossiped with an amiable gunner who talked to me of Malta, leaning
against the rampart and looking across the wrinkled sea to the
glimmering cliffs of France.

HENRY JAMES, JR.

THE ELIXIR.

"Oh brew me a potion strong and good!
One golden drop in his wine
Shall charm his sense and fire his blood,
And bend his will to mine."

Poor child of passion! ask of me
Elixir of death or sleep,
Or Lethe's stream; but love is free,
And woman must wait and weep.

EMMA LAZARUS.

LEONIE REGNAULT: A STUDY FROM FRENCH LIFE.

In the pretty town of Macon, on the banks of the Saone, lived Leonie
Regnault. She remembered no other home than the gray stone house with
its balconied windows that overlooked the beautiful river and the long,
somewhat formal promenades that stretch along its banks, with their
green trees and many seats, but never