may be fresh in the memory of some of my readers, occurred, not very long ago, in the neighboring city of Baltimore, where it occasioned a painful, intense, and widely-extended excitement.  The wife of one of the most respectable citizens-a lawyer of eminence and a member of Congress —­ was seized with a sudden and unaccountable illness, which completely baffled the skill of her physicians.  After much suffering she died, or was supposed to die.  No one suspected, indeed, or had reason to suspect, that she was not actually dead.  She presented all the ordinary appearances of death.  The face assumed the usual pinched and sunken outline.  The lips were of the usual marble pallor.  The eyes were lustreless.  There was no warmth.  Pulsation had ceased.  For three days the body was preserved unburied, during which it had acquired a stony rigidity.  The funeral, in short, was hastened, on account of the rapid advance of what was supposed to be decomposition.

The lady was deposited in her family vault, which, for three subsequent years, was undisturbed.  At the expiration of this term it was opened for the reception of a sarcophagus; — —­ but, alas! how fearful a shock awaited the husband, who, personally, threw open the door!  As its portals swung outwardly back, some white-apparelled object fell rattling within his arms.  It was the skeleton of his wife in her yet unmoulded shroud.

A careful investigation rendered it evident that she had revived within two days after her entombment; that her struggles within the coffin had caused it to fall from a ledge, or shelf to the floor, where it was so broken as to permit her escape.  A lamp which had been accidentally left, full of oil, within the tomb, was found empty; it might have been exhausted, however, by evaporation.  On the uttermost of the steps which led down into the dread chamber was a large fragment of the coffin, with which, it seemed, that she had endeavored to arrest attention by striking the iron door.  While thus occupied, she probably swooned, or possibly died, through sheer terror; and, in failing, her shroud became entangled in some iron —­ work which projected interiorly.  Thus she remained, and thus she rotted, erect.

In the year 1810, a case of living inhumation happened in France, attended with circumstances which go far to warrant the assertion that truth is, indeed, stranger than fiction.  The heroine of the story was a Mademoiselle Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl of illustrious family, of wealth, and of great personal beauty.  Among her numerous suitors was Julien Bossuet, a poor litterateur, or journalist of Paris.  His talents and general amiability had recommended him to the notice of the heiress, by whom he seems to have been truly beloved; but her pride of birth decided her, finally, to reject him, and to wed a Monsieur Renelle, a banker and a diplomatist of some eminence.  After marriage, however, this gentleman neglected, and, perhaps, even more positively ill-treated