“God bless Pope Joan!” he cried; “I shall cease to correct her.”

We have failed to learn what Samuel Brohl is doing in America.  In waiting for something better, has he become an humble teacher? has he attempted a new matrimonial enterprise? has he become a reporter of the New York Herald, or a politician in one of the Northern States, or a carpet-bagger in South Carolina? does he dream of being some day President of the glorious republic with the starry banner?

Up to the present time, no American journal has devoted the shortest paragraph to him.  Adventurers are beings who constantly vanish and reappear; they belong to the family of divers; but, after many plunges, they always end by some catastrophe.  The wave supports the drowning man an instant, then bears him away and drags him down to the depths of the briny abyss; there is heard a splash, a ripple, a hoarse cry, followed by a smothered groan, and Samuel Brohl is no more!  For some days the question is agitated whether his real name is Brohl, Kicks, or Larinski; soon something else is talked about, and his memory becomes a prey to eternal silence.