upon which they were found by the boys.  ‘They were all mildewed down hard,’ says Le Soleil, adopting the opinions of its predecessors, ’with the action of the rain, and stuck together from mildew.  The grass had grown around and over some of them.  The silk of the parasol was strong, but the threads of it were run together within.  The upper part, where it bad been doubled and folded, was all mildewed and rotten, and tore on being opened.’  In respect to the grass having ’.grown around and over some of them,’ it is obvious that the fact could only have been ascertained from the words, and thus from the recollections, of two small boys; for these boys removed the articles and took them home before they had been seen by a third party.  But grass will grow, especially in warm and damp weather, (such as was that of the period of the murder,) as much as two or three inches in a single day.  A parasol lying upon a newly turfed ground, might, in a single week, be entirely concealed from sight by the upspringing grass.  And touching that mildew upon which the editor of Le Soleil so pertinaciously insists, that he employs the word no less than three times in the brief paragraph just quoted, is he really unaware of the nature of this mildew?  Is he to be told that it is one of the many classes of fungus, of which the most ordinary feature is its upspringing and decadence within twenty-four hours?

“Thus we see, at a glance, that what has been most triumphantly adduced in support of the idea that the articles bad been ’for at least three or four weeks’ in the thicket, is most absurdly null as regards any evidence of that fact.  On the other hand, it is exceedingly difficult to believe that these articles could have remained in the thicket specified, for a longer period than a single week — for a longer period than from one Sunday to the next.  Those who know any thing of the vicinity of Paris, know the extreme difficulty of finding seclusion unless at a great distance from its suburbs.  Such a thing as an unexplored, or even an unfrequently visited recess, amid its woods or groves, is not for a moment to be imagined.  Let any one who, being at heart a lover of nature, is yet chained by duty to the dust and heat of this great metropolis — let any such one attempt, even during the weekdays, to slake his thirst for solitude amid the scenes of natural loveliness which immediately surround us.  At every second step, he will find the growing charm dispelled by the voice and personal intrusion of some ruffian or party of carousing blackguards.  He will seek privacy amid the densest foliage, all in vain.  Here are the very nooks where the unwashed most abound — here are the temples most desecrate.  With sickness of the heart the wanderer will flee back to the polluted Paris as to a less odious because less incongruous sink of pollution.  But if the vicinity of the city is so beset during the working days of the week, how much more so on the Sabbath!