| to live in the enjoyment of peace and happiness till death closed their singular and romantic career. of his sorrow, but induced him to bribe the grave-digger, by whose assistance he raised her from the tomb, and conveyed her to a proper chamber, where, by the application A case of a very similar character is of all the remedies he could think of, she stated to have occurred in Paris, in 1810. was happily restored to life again. The Mademoiselle Lafourcade was a young womyoung woman was probably in great con- an of great personal beauty and illustrious sternation when she found herself in a strange family, who possessed great wealth. Among house, beheld her darling lover sitting by her numerous suitors was a young man, her bed, and heard the detail of all that had named Julien Bosuet, a poor littérateur, or befallen her during her paroxsym. Her journalist, of Paris, who proved to be her grateful sense of the obligations she lay favorite lover. But her high birth induced under to him, and that love she had always her finally to reject him, and to wed a borne him, proved an irresistible advocate banker and a diplomatist of some distinction, in his behalf; so that, when she was per- named M. Renalle. This gentleman, howfectly restored, she justly concluded that she ever, after marriage, neglected and treated owed her life to him who had preserved it; her with cruelty. She passed with him and, as a proof of her affection, consented to some years of wretchedness, and died,—as accompany him to England, where they it was supposed; for her condition so perwere married, and lived for several years in fectly resembled death as to deceive all who all the tender endearments of mutual love. saw her. She was buried in an ordinary About ten years after, however, they re- grave, in the village in which she was born. turned to Paris, where they lived without Bosuet, filled with despair, and still inflamed the care of concealment, because they con- by a profound attachment, hastened from the ceived no one could ever suspect what had capital to the province in which the village happened. But this did not prove to be lay, with the romantic purpose of disinterthe case, for the collector unluckily met his ring the corpse and getting possession of her wife in a public walk, where he at once luxuriant tresses as a memento of her. At recognized her. He immediately accosted midnight he secretly unearthed the coffin, her, and though she endeavored to divert opened it, and, while in the act of detaching his suspicions, he parted from her fully per- the hair, he was stopped by the unclosing of suaded that she was the very woman to the eyes of her he so tenderly and ardently whom he had some years ago been married, loved. She was aroused by the caresses of and for whose death he had gone into mourn her lover from her lethargy or catalepsy, ing. The collector, by great perseverance, which had been mistaken for death. He not only discovered her residence, in spite of frantically bore her to his lodgings in the all the precautions she had taken to conceal village, and immediately employed the herself, but claimed her as his wife before powerful restoratives which his medical the court authorized to decide in such cases. | learning suggested. She revived, and recogIn vain did the lover insist upon his right tonized her preserver, and remained with him her on the ground that he had taken care of until she slowly recovered her original her; that, but for his efforts and the meas- health. She bestowed her heart upon her ures he had resorted to, the lady would preserver, and returned no more to her husnow have been rotting in her grave; that band, but, concealing from him her resurrecher former husband, who now claimed her, tion, fled with him to America. Twenty had renounced all claim to her by ordering years afterwards, they both returned to her to be buried; that he might justly be France, in the persuasion that time had so arraigned for murder, in not using the pre- greatly altered the lady's appearance that cautions necessary to ascertain her death; her old friends would be unable to recognize and urged a thousand other reasons, sug- her. But it would seem that they were gested by love: but, perceiving that the court mistaken. Her former husband, at the first were not likely to prove favorable to his meeting, actually recognized and immediately claims, he determined not to await their de-laid claim to his wife. Of course this claim cision, and accordingly, escaped with his wife to a foreign country, where they continued was resisted, and a judicial tribunal sustained her and her preserver. It was decided that the peculiar circumstances of the case, with the long lapse of years, had annulled the original contract and the legality of the authority of the first husband, and that the man who had rescued her from the tomb, and with whom she had lived for so many years, was alone entitled to claim her as his wife. These two strange cases, though apparent ly similar, occurred at different periods and in different places. In the latter the court seem to have been influenced by a higher sense of justice than that of the court which was about to decide against the claims of the preserver of his wife, and which he avoided by retiring with her to a foreign country. Among the well-authenticated cases of premature interment, and restoration to life, is the following, which is recorded by Oehlenschlager. It occurred in Cologne in 1547. I give a translation from the original. "Adocht, the reigning burgomaster at Cologne, had buried his young and beautiful wife. She had been subject to frequent fits, and in the last seemed to be dead, and was so considered. The funeral had been magnificent, and a vault in the great cathedral was to hold the body, which had been deposited in a coffin with glass panes and iron wire on the top, according to the manner of the time and the rank of the family, clad in costly robes, the head adorned with rich garlands, and the fingers with precious rings. The sexton, named Peter Bold, had locked the door and returned home, where a scene of a very different nature awaited him. His own wife had prematurely given birth to a fine boy, and was totally unprovided with any kind of the comforts required on such occasions. His marriage had taken place against the desires of his employers, and he had no assistance to expect from that quarter. Isaac the Jew was recalled to his mind, but he would require a pledge. A pledge!' murmured Bold to himself; and why not borrow from the dead, as nothing is to be obtained from the living? I have known this lady who lies yonder. She would not have refused a poor man in the days of her bloom, and why should her manes now begrudge what will do me good, without injuring any one?' "Influenced by these thoughts, he return ed to the place which he had just left, but which he now visited in a very different state of feeling. Before, he had been in the discharge of his duty; now he came to commit sacrilege. How awful was the lonely stillness of the immense building, and how threatening were the looks of the saints on the walls and of the cherubs over the pulpit! His courage had almost forsaken him when, passing the altar, he had there to encounter the image of St. Peter himself, who was his patron saint as well as that of the church; but the remembrance of his miserable wife and child overcame every other consideration, and he proceeded through the long choir towards the vault. The countenance of this lovely woman had nothing in it to renew his terror, and he fearlessly removed the lid of the coffin, and seized the hand of the deceased. But what were his feelings when that hand grasped his wrist! In his effort to release himself, he left both his mantle and his lantern. Running away hastily in the dark, he fell over a projecting stone, and lay for some time senseless on the floor, but, as soon as he recovered, he hastened towards the house of the senator, partly to relieve his conscience, but still more to send assistance into the vault, as he found himself utterly unable to return again to make an examination. 46 In the mean time the lady had entirely recovered her senses. She overturned the lantern by the first movement of her arms, and was therefore for a while in the dark; but the moon cast a feeble light through a small opening in the top, and by degrees she began to recognize the place. She felt around her, and met with the golden ornaments on her head and the rustling thin silk in which she was dressed. What was her agony and despair, when she found she had been buried alive! She uttered a cry, but she knew too well that it could not be heard. The vault was just under the choir; and what voice could penetrate the massive arches? The little air-hole opened into a private part of the churchyard, which was separated from the rest by an iron railing, and might not be visited for a considerable time. Her dead ancestors were then to be her last companions, and her last occupation was to be that of tracing with her nails upon the black walls the melancholy progress of her real death. Chilled with horror, she sought for something to cover herself, and she found the cloak which Peter had dropped. The warmth it communicated revived her a little. She recovered strength enough to get out of the coffin and throw herself on her knees to implore the mercy of God. She then attempted to get to the door and to move its rusty latch. But who can describe her joy when she found it open. She crept mechanically through the dark and narrow passage, and, feeling the influence of a better air as she advanced, she was thus enabled to drag herself up stairs. Here, however, she was so faint that a deadly coldness seized her, and would most likely have made her sink down for ever, had she not fortunately recollected that some wine might have been left from the last mass. She therefore made one more effort to reach the altar, and found just as much as was sufficient for her exhausted frame. and there a glittering lamp; the uncertain rays of the moon entered across the colored pains of the Gothic windows. The stillness of the sepulchre, the obscure depth of the lonely chapel, the solitude of the hour, the profound silence of all around, filled Gherardo with religious awe. He approached the tomb with slower steps, and his hands trembled as he grasped the handle of massive iron. It seemed to him an impious deed thus to disturb the peace of the dead. But love and despair prevailed, and, lifting the ponderous lid of the tomb, he beheld the maiden wrapped in ample folds of linen, white as snow, extended on the bier; a veil was over her face. The rays of the moon fell for a moment over the figure. His delirium returned, and he seemed as one scarcely conscious of what he did, and ready to die as he touched the veil. He, however, raised it. Her face was as pale as a lily, and her long fair hair fell over her shoulders and mixed in tresses on her breast; her eyes were closed as in a placid sleep, and a smile still rested on her half-open lips. 'She "No true believer had set the cup to his lips with more sincere devotion and gratitude to the Creator than she did thus administer the cheering draught to herself. Her husband and her servants found her in that very act, and used such further means for her complete restoration that, a few weeks after-sleeps!' cried Gherardo in his frenzy. 'Oh! wards, she appeared again in the same place, to stand godmother for the sexton's child." The following is another instance of premature interment, of a still more romantic character, and is taken from the ancient chronicles of Venice. waken, in pity !' and he laid his arm under her." He pressed his lips to her pale, cold cheek, and as he did so he fancied he felt her breathe, and that there was some warmth about her. Immediately he lifted her from the tomb, and, placing his hand on her breast, Gherardo was a brave officer of the re- he was satisfied that the heart still beat. public, and joined in the crusade which Imagine Gherardo, ready to sink under these ended in the conquest of Constantinople. unexpected emotions, supporting himself His return was greeted with joyful shouts, against the sepulchre, with the maiden enas his ship, laden with booty, approached veloped in white in his arms! Immovable the shore. But Gherardo had been betrothed as stone, and as white, they seemed together to a beautiful Venetian lady, whom he pasa group of the statuary which adorned the sionately loved, and to whom he was to be sepulchre. The vital heat returned slowly united upon his return. He hastily re-into her breast; and the fortunate maiden, turned the embrace of his father, sisters, whom her ignorant physicians had believed and brothers, who had come to meet him, to be dead, passed to the altar from the and inquired for Elena. Why," asked he, tomb. "is she not with you?" They were silent, and he guessed the cause of her absence. His grief was intense and overwhelming, but he said nothing, and determined to see her once more. As soon as he had an opportunity, he hurried to the church where her body had been deposited, almost in a state of frenzy, and succeeded by bribery in obtaining access to the sacred depository. "There gleamed," says the writer from whom I have taken this curious incident, "here From "Bentley's Miscellany." THE EXECUTION OF FIESCHI, MOREY, AND PEPIN. ABOUT one o'clock on a cold winter night in 1835, a party of four persons were seated in the coffee-room of the Hotel Meurice at Paris. It was chilly, sloppy, miserable weather; half-melted snow mixed with the Paris mud, and a driving sleety rain hissed against the ill-fitting windows. Talk of the cold of London! when we have our clubs, and our curtained windows, and carpeted floors, and sea-coal fires, and our well-closed doors and sashes. Why, we have more real comfort in our three-pair-backs than their most splendid saloons, with all the mirrors, and painted walls, and timber-fed stoves can offer. most likely, let us try that to begin with, and there will be plenty of time to go on to the other afterwards: but we must be early to get a good place. We are not of those who make a practice of attending executions with a morbid appetite for such horrors. Under any circumstances, the deliberate cutting off a life is a melancholy spectacle. The mortal agony, unrelieved by excitement, is painful in the extreme to witness, but worse still is reckless Englishmen carry their customs with bravado. Rarest of all is it to see the them. Our four convives were drinking- inevitable fate met with calm dignity. not the wines of sunny France, but some- Here, however, was a miscreant, who, to thing much more appropriate and homely— | gratify a political feeling—dignified, in his a curiously fine sample of gin, artfully com- | opinion, with the name of patriotism— pounded into toddy, by Achille the waiter. deliberately fired the contents of a battery of gun-barrels into a mass of innocent persons, many of whom it was quite certain would be killed, for the chance of striking down one man, and probably some of his family. That this family, with their illustrious father, should have escaped altogether, is an instance of good fortune as remarkable as the attempt was flagitious. But the magnitude of the crime invested the perpetrators with a terrible interest, which overcame any lingering scruples, and the whole party decided upon setting out forthwith. We made for the nearest coach-stand, which was that upon the quay, near the Pont Neuf. When the clock struck one, three of the party made a show of retiring; but the fourth, a punchy gentleman from Wolverhampton, entreated that the rest would not all desert him while he discussed one glass more-nay, perhaps would join him! But here Achille was inexorable. The master was in bed and had taken the keys. "Call him up, then,-roust him out!" Mais, Messieurs! you would not disturb Madame! ah, non! Madame so tired-so delicate-so harassed with the noise all day —ah, non !”—and seeing the favorable impression, added a climax of silent pantomime to his eloquence. Raising his shoulders to his ears, spreading his hands to the front, and wrinkling his face into a smile, which said, "I knew you were too galant for that"-he bowed himself out. Our four friends have taken their candles,—at and are moving from the room, when a cab drives rapidly to the door-there is a smart ring at the bell, and a gentleman in full evening dress, and enveloped in a Spanish cloak, hastily enters the room. "Who is inclined to see Fieschi's head chopped off?" said the stranger, unfolding himself from the cloak. "The execution is to take place at daylight-I had it from a peer of France, and the guillotine has been sent off an hour ago." "Where ?" Our informant could not tell. It was known only to the police-there was an apprehension of some attempt at a rescue, and ten thousand troops were to be on the ground. It will be either the Place St. Jaques, or the Barrière du Trône-the first What terrible recollections is this old city of Paris invested with! scarcely a street, or a place, or a public building, that has not some dreadful story. Neither is there any least in Europe-where the midnight rambler is more apparently exposed to maltreatment. In London, even at the latest hour, there is a sense of security in the broad glare of gas, and the occasional policeman; but neither of these, except in a very few favored spots, were to be found in Paris, in 1835. When the shops close, your only reliance is upon the light of other days, dangling from ropes across the street. No policeman is to be seen, and the scowling vagabonds-call them chiffonniers, or what you will-are about the very last kind of people which one would desire to meet by moonlight alone. If ever ghosts are permitted to return to scenes of violence and crime, you might surely expect to meet them in Paris. In the short space between the hotel and the revolting heap-naked and exposed-the corpses of the fifteen hundred gallant Swiss guards, gazed at as a show during a whole forenoon, by the male and female thousands of Paris. quay, we passed the spot where lay in one | ried, bore a remarkable resemblance to our great comedian, the late Mr. Liston. There was the same square form of the countenance, the small nose, the long upper lip, the mirth provoking gravity, and the same rich husky chuckle. This curious likeness was at once acknowledged by all present, and an Englishman took the liberty of interrupting the grave functionary with the information that he was the very image of le plus grand farceur que nous avons en Angleterre, a piece of information which the French scion of the House of Ketch received, after the manner of Frenchmen, as a high compliment, being moved to bow and chuckle much thereat. Of all street conveyances, the Paris fiacre is about the worst-it beats the London "jarvy" by the longest chalk. Not only is it worse those who have never seen it may perhaps think this impossible—but it is more rickety, more jingling, more utterly foundered, more powerfully ill-flavored, more alarmingly nasty, than our own timehonored conveyance. Scarcely had we taken our seats than we began to repent of, at least, this part of the adventure. There was a flavor of death about the cushions, which convinced one that by this particular coach "subjects" had taken their last drive to the hospitals. And not only was it vaulty and cadaverous, but from the floor arose a worse odor, as if some previous fare had left behind it a bad leg in the straw. The stomach of the Wolverhampton man was so powerfully affected that he was fain to keep a large portion of his person protruded through the window, adding thereby much to the close sufferings of the rest. The history of this gentleman afforded a melancholy instance of the misfortune of becoming independent. While engaged in business he had the bad luck to win largely by speculation in the Birmingham Railway, which induced him to retire and commence a life of enjoyment. With this view he brought his family to Paris, took five apartments at the best hotel, frequented all public amusements, and drank so much brandy to correct the acidity of the light French wines, that in little more than a twelvemonth from the commencement of his career of pleasure, he found a resting-place in the cemetery of Père la Chaise. In something more than half an hour we jingled into the Place St. Jaques, and pausing at the corner, had the satisfaction to hear the sounds of hammers busily plied upon a dark mass rising in the centre of the square; it was the platform upon which to erect the guillotine. On all sides of this, workmen were busily engaged, their labor quickened by the exhortations of one who walked about, lantern in hand, upon the top. This was the executioner, who, seen by the light he car By this time the hammering had roused the dwellers in the place, and lights were seen rapidly moving about the windows. A café-keeper had opened his saloon, arranged his little tables, and was bustling about with his waiters attending to the wants of the guests already assembled. An execution is a godsend to the Place St. Jaques at any time, but the execution of three great state criminals such as these would go far to pay the year's rent of the houses. As cabs and fiacres began to arrive, we thought it necessary to make arrangement for securing a room from whence to see the execution, and chance conducted us to the corner house, one side of which looked upon the square, directly opposite the guillotine, from which it was scarcely fifty yards distance; and the other side fronted the road by which the prisoners were to be conveyed from the prison to the scaffold. After the manner of Englishmen, who do abroad what they would never think of at home, our party walked up stairs on the door being opened, and commenced a search along the passages, knocking at the doors of such rooms as were thought would afford a good view of the scene. In this we met with other parties of English and other foreigners, wandering about in the most authoritative manner, urging the people to get dressed and give up their rooms, and in the case of unbolted doors, intruding into several little scenes of domestic privacy. One gentleman-the people said he was either Russian or English-was already ensconsed: he had taken a whole room to himself, paid for it, shut himself up in it, and fortified the door with such movable furniture as could |