ing came over most Englishmen with the thought that the race
of James II. was now extinct.

But the world had forgotten that the children of Edward IV. were
resuscitated; that the son of Louis XVI., whose poor little dead body
had been handled by the Commissary of the Republic, had returned to
earth in the shape of five or six perfectly distinct individuals,
Bruneau, Hervagault, Naundorff, whatever else their names; that King
Arthur is still living in the kingdom of Morgan le Fay; and Barbarossa
still asleep on the stone table, waiting till the rooks which circle
round the Kiefhaeuser hill shall tell him to arise; and the world had,
therefore, to learn that a Stuart still existed. The legend runs as
follows.

In 1773, a certain Dr. Beaton, a staunch Jacobite, who had fought at
Culloden, was attracted, while travelling in Italy, by the knowledge
that his legitimate sovereigns were spending part of the summer at a
villa in the neighbourhood, to a vague place somewhere in the Apennines
between Parma and Lucca, distinguished by the extremely un-Tuscan name
of St. Rosalie. Here, while walking about "in the deep quiet shades,"
the doctor was one day startled by a "calash and four, with scarlet
liveries," which dashed past him and up an avenue. During the one moment
of its rapid passage, the Scotch physician recognised in the rather
apocalyptic gentleman wearing the garter and the cross of St. Andrew,
who sat by the side of a beautiful young woman, "the Bonnie Prince Charlie
of our faithful beau ideal, still the same eagle-featured, royal bird,
which I had seen on his own mountains, when he spread his wings towards
the south." Towards dusk of that same day, as Dr. Beaton was pacing up
and down the convent church of St. Rosalie, doubtless thinking over that
"eagle-featured royal bird," whom he had seen driving in the calash and
four, he was startled in his meditations by the jingle of spurs on the
pavement, and by the approach of a man "of superior appearance."

This person was dressed in a manner which was "a little equivocal,"
wore a broad hat and a thick moustache, which, joined with the sternness
of his pale cheek and the piercingness of his eye, must indeed have
suggested something extremely eerie to a well-shaven, three-corner hat,
respectable man of the eighteenth century; so that we are not at all
surprised to hear that the doctor's imagination was crossed by "a sudden
idea of the celebrated Torrifino," who, although