to mind a single line which it would be necessary to expunge, in order to render it fit reading for the most fastidious.  As far as we ourselves are concerned, we heartily wish M. Dumas would travel over all the kingdoms of the earth, and write a book about each of them; and if he is as good company in a post-chaise as his books are at the chimney-corner, there are few things we should like better than to accompany him on his pilgrimage.

* * * * *

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.

PART IX.

  “Have I not in my time heard lions roar? 
  Have I not heard the sea, puft up with wind,
  Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? 
  Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,
  And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? 
  Have I not in the pitched battle heard
  Loud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets clang?”

        SHAKSPEARE.

The market-place was lighted up, and filled with dragoons.  Leaving my hulans under cover of a dark street, and riding forward to reconnoitre, I saw with astonishment the utter carelessness with which they abandoned themselves to their indulgences in the midst of an irritated population.  Some were drinking on horseback; some had thrown themselves on the benches of the market, and were evidently intoxicated.  The people stood at the corners of the streets looking on, palpably in terror, yet as palpably indignant at the outrage of the military.  From the excessive blaze in some of the windows, and the shrieks of females, I could perceive that plunder was going on, and that the intention was, after having ransacked the place, to set it on fire.  Yet a strong body of cavalry mounted in the middle of the square, and keeping guard round a waggon on which a guillotine had been already erected, still made me feel that an attack would be hopeless.  I soon saw a rush of the people from one of the side streets; a couple of dragoon helmets were visible above the crowd; and three or four carts followed, filled with young females in white robes and flowers, as if dressed for a ball.  I gazed intently, to ascertain the meaning of this strange and melancholy spectacle.  At this moment I felt my horse’s bridle pulled, and saw the old noble at his head.  “Now or never!” he cried, in a voice almost choked with emotion.  “Those are destined for the guillotine.  Barbarians! brigands!—­they will murder my Amalia.”  He sank before me.  “What! is this an execution?” I exclaimed.  His answer was scarcely above a whisper, for he seemed fainting.  “The villains have been sent,” said he, “to burn the town; they have seized those children of our best families, compelled them to dress as they were dressed for the Prussian ball, and are now about to murder them by their accursed guillotine.”  Pointing to one lovely girl, who, pale as death, stood in the foremost