at Mont Blanc. The Frenchman wishes us both good-evening, and takes himself off.

The next minute I hear his voice again. He and somebody else have come into collision in the passage, whereupon follows a mutual asking of pardons, and he enters the room again. His companion is hidden by the screen near the door, but I hear the little fellow say, still speaking in English,

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Ah, Monsieur! you are just too late. The diligence from Genève was behind time, I suppose? You have ordered dinner, of course? Yes. Come and look at Mont Blanc. The moonlight is on it."

From my window I hear their footsteps approaching me,-the tripping, light step of the one, and the heavy, slouching tread of the other. As I listen to the latter a cold chill comes over me. We distinguish footsteps after a time as we learn to know voices. I have a strong misgiving that I know that tread, but I listen in suspense without looking round.

“Yes, it is very grand," says a voice at my elbow, referring to Mont Blanc, which towers before us clear and distinct in the bright moonlight.

Oh, that voice! It realizes my

worst fears. How often had I heard it calling from the second floor at No. 9 Old Inn. I feel disposed to rush out of the room, but remembering Mr. Frith at the next window, wait to see what comes of Mr. Bolt's arrival.

"Very grand," he continues. "We don't have sights like that in London. Do you know London ?”

"Gently, gently, Mr. Bolt! for your own sake," I murmur. "If you could only know the trap you are falling into.”

"O yes! I know London," replies the Frenchman, promptly. "What part of London do you come from?" "Old Inn."

"What!" cries the other. Then that is the friend you will meet," pointing to Mr. Frith, who at that moment unwittingly comes out of the recess of his window.

"No; I haven't the pleasure of knowing him either."

For a minute the Frenchman does not seem to understand. " But you all live in the same house," he then says slowly.

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"O yes," replies Mr. Bolt, who begins to see the fun, and seems rather to enjoy it, "all lived there, I believe, for more than four years."

"And you are all strangers?" "Perfect strangers," again replies Mr. Bolt.

"Well, I should not have thought it possible, even in England," says the little fellow so seriously that we all smile. He looks first at one and then at another, and finally rushes off to tell his friends of the three curiosities that he has discovered.

Our smiles vanish with his pres

The next morning I am not as careful of my landlord's feelings, perhaps, as I might be. I hardly proffer an excuse for leaving, but leave I do, and take up my quarters in another hotel. That settled, I go to the post-office, thence to the Bureau des Guides, and on my way thither, after a good deal of considering this and looking at that, decide upon the excursion for that day. I choose the one to "Le Jardin," arguing that it was too late for Mr. Frith, and that Mr. Bolt, who evidently visited Chamouni before, was not likely to do that excursion on his first day. Pretty confident, therefore, that I should not be troubled with either of them, I hire a guide and start at once to make up for lost time.

"Pity I didn't start an hour ago.' "Why?" I say to Pierre-Pierre being my guide-as we go up the zigzags of the Montanvert.

"Because Jacques went with another English gentleman, and it would have been company for us," answers Pierre.

I express myself quite satisfied with the companionship I have, and Pierre, of course, swears that he was

thinking of me only and not of himself. When we reach the glacier we see the gentleman of whom he spoke, but he is too far ahead for me to distinguish him.

Feeling sure, however, that he is neither Mr. Frith nor Mr. Bolt, I don't bother my head about him. As we go along Pierre tells me a long story about some of his comrades. He speaks villanous patois, and has a confused way of telling his story; and so, though I do my best to be enlightened, I am never certain whether I am supposed to be Jean or Alphonse; in fact, I can't make out whether Jean and Alphonse are two distinct men, or the two names of the same man. Jean falls down a crevasse; I understand that; but then it is Alphonse who is afterwards pulled up, so I get hopelessly muddled again. And, moreover, I can't sufficiently realize that I am either of them, for, as we near "Le Jardin," my own legs keep cruelly reminding me that I am Alfred Hay and nobody else; and I find myself panting in a way that either Jean or Alphonse would be ashamed of doing.

"Ah, voilà Jacques!" exclaims Pierre, as we step on to the grass at our journey's end, pointing to his comrade, who rises from the side of the stream over which he was stooping. I look round for the Englishman, but he is not visible. Jacques, when he comes to us, points to a great boulder of rock behind which, he says, the other is lying, rather knocked up by the walk. And there, sure enough, I see part of a pair of legs so protruding beyond the boulder as to indicate that their owner is on the broad of his back. While I am looking at them they begin to move with a wriggling sort of motion, and the next minute Mr. Frith's face appears, cautiously peeping beyond the rock. Completely taken by surprise, and not having time to turn away, I stare vacantly at the sky over his head; but I see, nevertheless, his face disappear again very quickly,

sight.

"Hang him!" only I say something stronger; and he, doubtless, from behind his boulder, returns the compliment. "What on earth made him come up here ?" I mutter, feeling a strong temptation to send a big stone by my side at his boots.

They prevent me admiring the view; they prevent me enjoying my luncheon; they make me wish that he and they were at the bottom of the deepest crevasse in Switzerland. And, worse still, when Jacques, coming to my side, expresses his pleasure at seeing me, because I can help "Monsieur là" back to Chamouni. "Not I. I'll see 'Monsieur là' frozen to death before I will help him." And to avoid being called upon to assist him in any way, I tell Pierre that I am in a hurry to get back, and hint that we had better start at once. To this he answers, "Here are two others coming." It has nothing to do with my getting back, but, nevertheless, I ask where the others are.

"There!" And both he and Jacques point out the direction. I can't see the newcomers at first, and, when I do, I lose them again immediately afterwards. They are much nearer the next time they appear; near enough for me to discern that one of them is tall and thin, and, though he is walking quickly, has an awkward clumsy step. That is quite enough. I am certain who he is; but after finding Mr. Frith at "Le Jardin," I am not surprised. I take it quite philosophically at first. Then I try to look at our all meeting again in its ludicrous light, but here I miserably fail and get angry. I lean back in disgust and pull my hat over my face; and the rest of my grumbling is confided to the lining.

In due course of time Mr. Bolt reaches "Le Jardin." The guide, after handing him the haversack and receiving back his portion of the

Mr.

Bolt scrutinizes my corpus; again fails to recognize me, but suspects me to be English, so he keeps his distance. Peeping under my hat, I see Pierre and Jacques presently compare watches and then rise. The latter, however, moves away alone and goes to the boulder. At his first words the odious boots disappear entirely, but he begins to remonstrate, shows his watch, points to the sun, and after a little while bends forward to help Mr. Frith to rise.

That gentleman then emerges from behind his friendly rock, shaking his legs and settling his coat, and, without looking my way, tries to bustle off as if he didn't know I was there. Not so Jacques. He speaks to Pierre, who comes to my side, and Jacques lingers, seeing that I do not rise. Meanwhile Mr. Frith, by his crablike movement, nearly tumbles over Mr. Bolt, without seeing him. "Halloa," cries the latter, "you here!" Whereupon Mr. Frith turns round and stares, with open eyes and mouth, seeing Mr. Bolt when he expected to see me.

"I had not an idea you were here," he says, emphasizing the "you," and so criminating himself. "Fine scene, isn't it?" He then makes a second attempt to be off, but Jacques still lingers.

Pierre all this time has been nudging me in the side, and now, shaking me gently, says, quite loudly, that the other gentleman is going. Being unable to feign sleep any longer under such treatment, I remove my hat and sit up, and see that Mr. Bolt is looking at me. "By Jove! No. 9 in force," laughs that gentleman, pointing at me and then at Mr. Frith, who thereupon pretends to see me for the first time.

"Mr. Hay, too," he says, in feigned surprise. "Dear me, have you been here long?" asking this in the most innocent tone.

"Why, nearly an hour," I answer,

as if it was the strangest thing in the world that we should have been so near one another for so long and not have found it out.

The next minute we are all standing together, no one knowing how to get away first or how to stop behind. But Pierre puts an end to any manoeuvring by saying that if we wish to get to Chamouni in time for the table d'hôte, we must start at once. We can't say that we don't wish to be there in time for the table d'hôte, so we look helplessly at one another as the three guides start off together; and then we three follow, also together, but in silence.

We

Mr. Bolt is the first to speak. "It seems," he says, "that we are not to be separated." Well! fate is fate; and as we have, likewise, a walk of about five hours before us, it is nonsense to be snappish and surly. There isn't much conversation at first, just a remark about the scenery or a word about climbing; but it creeps on little by little. begin to talk more freely and to say what we think. We avoid speaking about No. 9, or anything connected with it, for some time, till Mr. Bolt asks me why I didn't bring my dog. He claims an acquaintance with it, that I was not aware of; and that makes me think better of him directly. We pass "Les Egralets," but not without Mr. Bolt nearly killing himself, and get well upon the glacier. The crevasses are nothing, and we walk abreast. I begin to think, as we go along, that Mr. Frith is not a bad fellow, and that there is a good deal of fun, after all, in Mr. Bolt. I find their conversation more pleasant than the guide's, with his interminable story about Jean and Alphonse. We actually get to laugh about the little Frenchman and about our all meeting, and, somehow, speak about the latter as if it were a fortunate occurrence. begin to wish that I hadn't changed my hotel, and, while I am thinking

I

about it, Mr. Frith asks if I didn't think the very full last night. "Yes, and too much dress. One doesn't care for that sort of thing here, you know."

"No, you don't, In fact, I changed this morning to the naming one equally good, but quieter, and more frequented by regular pedestrians.

"You went there! As Mr. Bolt says, 'we are not to be separated.' I changed there this morning too."

"Simply because the other was too crowded!" he says, with smile.

a

"That's the only reason why you left it, I suppose?" I answer.

Then we both laugh, but promise, nevertheless, to look out for one another at the table d'hôte.

"And I shall be left alone with the Frenchman," says Mr. Bolt, with mock seriousness.

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'No, come and dine with us," replies Mr. Frith.

"And bring the Frenchman," I add. "Then we can have a rubber afterwards. He will be sure to play."

When the time for the rubber comes, we find that he does play, and a first-rate hand into the bargain. Before he leaves us he makes a little speech. We are in a room by ourselves, so he stands up and drinks our health, and then says that it is the happiest day in his life, for he has made us friends forever.

We cannot persuade him to join us on our next day's excursion, for which the three of us start together instead of meeting half-way. That excursion is followed by another, and that by another, and so on, for a fortnight, till we reach Aosta, and are there forced to part.

Since then we have all met again at No. 9. But the three names are no longer the same on the doorway. Mr. Frith's alone remains. Mr. Bolt and I, however, often go there, and it was only the other night that we were making arrangements for starting on our next trip together.

THE Controversy upon the subject of eternal punishment is participated in by all classes. What do you think about hell? is a query heard in drawing-rooms, and the word does not seem to produce its former wilting effect upon ears polite. There is a dim, half hopeful feeling that after all the famous Protestant divines who have taken up the cudgel against Satan may vanquish him, but to our thinking it is better to take the view of St. Bernardine of Sienna, who replied to some unbelieving companion that rallied him upon the disappointment which the virtuous would feel in the absence of a heaven and hell: "If there is no heaven I shall be safe, but if there is a hell, can you have the like security? It is better in doubt to take the safe side."

The faith of the Church upon the subject and the earliest Christian tradition are clear upon the question of an unending state of future punishment. Origen, in the first age of the Church, fell into the error of the ultimate salvation of the demons and the damned, but he was immediately and unqualifiedly condemned. His error resulted from his predilection to Platonic philosophy and the doctrine of the metempsychosis. We do not read that he remained contumacious in his heresy. The Church has not defined aught upon the nature or quality of the punishment endured, though she is definite with regard to duration. Of course, theologians have speculated much upon the theme, and nearly all hold to the materiality of the fire which torments the lost. St. Thomas has written very fully upon the subject, and gives the teaching of the Scholastic schools. There is a regular gradation of pain meted out, with the strictest regard to justice. The principal woe is of course the loss of the Beatific Vision, and yet who knows that hell may not have some redeeming qualities? With the Church, however, we should pray: "Ab æterna damnatione, eripiat nos Deus."

We hope our readers will not suppose that our reflections upon the other world have led us to speak of Victor Emanue'. In the obituary notices of him there is a singular lack of hearty praise. Even the Masonic papers are chary with their laurels. His bad life was vulgarly open. That "chivalry" which, according to Edmund Burke, takes away half the evil of vices by taking away their grossness, did not lend its enchanting grace to the late king, although his flatterers styled him the Re Galantuomo. He flaunted his amours in the glare of day,

and without the slightest regard for the feelings of his wife and children. Like George the Second, who consoled his dying wife with whimpering out, "J'aurai des maîtresses," and whose Dutch mistresses stolidly faced the Queen, the royal family, and the whole court, Victor Emanuel did not even regard the ordinary laws of reserve and concealment required by a decent respect for the opinions of society. Such an example upon the throne was deplorably scandalous, and in the middle ages would have brought down upon his head the sharp censure of the Vatican. But the relations of Pope and King were changed.

He

The dying declaration of the monarch showed "a will most adverse to heaven." In the gathering darkness of eternity he declared that he had done nothing that he regretted; that he was the friend of religion, etc. This was to falsify the declarations of the Holy Father. We are willing to make every allowance for the King, if, as some contend, he was a weak tool in the hands of powers and elements that he could not control. But was he so helplessly swayed? He did not look like a weak or vacillating man, and his talents were of no mean order. was brave to a fault, and certainly knew how to take care of his crown. To represent him as a sort of automatic sovereign under the influence of Garibaldi and the Revolution, is to contradict what we know of his force of personal character and general reign. At all events he is judged as a principal party in what history will ever regard as the basest spoliation and meanest violation of international law that modern times present, not even excepting the dismemberment of Poland.

He realized the dream of free and united Italy, the free church in a free state of Cavour, and that fervid Italian temperament which had so long desired the happy consummation was satisfied at last. But in that dream Rome, too, could have been seen as the crowning grace of the vision. Rome, Catholic and Papal, harmonizing and directing the kingdom, or at least introducing no discordant elements therein Why seek to remove the chair of St. Peter to make room for the Italian throne, when in all ages it was possible for Cæsar to rule, yet God have his own? There was no truer son of Italy than Pius IX, no more liberal and enlightened ruler, nor one who would more willingly make the greatest sacrifices to promote her glory and her prosperity. In fact he was too trusting, too indulgent to his children. The liberal constitutions which he