eous letters of M. Libri, and the
curious work edited by M. Paulin, it is our duty likewise to mention
many bold and conscientious writings on the subject of the "Society of
Jesus," recently published by the elder Dupin, Michelet, Quinet, Genin,
and the Count de Saint Priest--works of high and impartial intellects,
in which the fatal theories of the order are admirably exposed and
condemned. We esteem ourselves happy, if we can bring one stone towards
the erection of the strong, and, we hope, durable embankment which these
generous hearts and noble minds are raising against the encroachments of
an impure and always menacing flood.--E. S.

BOOK II. INTERVAL.--THE WANDERING JEW'S SENTENCE.

XVII. The Ajoupa XVIII. The Tattooing XIX. The Smuggler XX.
M. Joshua Van Dael XXI. The Ruins of Tchandi XXII. The
Ambuscade XXIII. M. Rodin XXIV. The Tempest XXV. The
Shipwreck XXVI. The Departure for Paris XXVII. Dagobert's
Wife XXVIII. The Sister of the Bacchanal Queen XXIX.
Agricola Baudoin XXX. The Return XXXI. Agricola and Mother
Bunch XXXII. The Awakening XXXIII. The Pavilion XXXIV.
Adrienne at her Toilet XXXV. The Interview

INTERVAL.

THE WANDERING JEW'S SENTENCE.

The site is wild and rugged. It is a lofty eminence covered with huge
boulders of sandstone, between which rise birch trees and oaks, their
foliage already yellowed by autumn. These tall trees stand out from the
background of red light, which the sun has left in the west, resembling
the reflection of a great fire.

From this eminence the eye looks down into a deep valley, shady,
fertile, and half-veiled in light vapor by the evening mist. The rich
meadows, the tufts of bushy trees the fields from which the ripe corn
has been gathered in, all blend together in one dark, uniform tint,
which contrasts with the limpid azure of the heavens. Steeples of gray
stone or slate lift their pointed spires, at intervals, from the midst
of this valley; for many villages are spread about it, bordering a
high-road which leads from the north to the west.

It is the hour of repose--the hour when, for the most part, every
cottage window brightens to the joyous crackling of the rustic hearth,
and shines afar through shade and foliage, whilst clouds of smoke issue
from the chimneys, and curl up slowly towards the sky. But now, strange
to say, every hearth in the country seems cold and deserted. Stranger
and more fatal still,