ing for that day at least. Evidently feeling the force of my arguments, he obeyed with alacrity, and left me in peace.

Our little discussion had apparently been heard and appreciated by the beasts of the forest. I stood under my tree, straining my ears to catch the warning crack of a rotten stick, or the light rustling patter of roe or hare over the dry leaves, but nothing came; and leaning against it, I tried to analyze the whispering, murmuring, and rustling mass of sound, now near now distant, that filled the air, and rose and fell on the whisperings of the evening breeze. The 'too-too-tooral-do' of the wood-pigeon and the asinine laughter of the wood-pecker were old friends. The little brown mice scuttled about, under and over the fallen beech leaves, cheeping and squeeling. The lizards on the bits of hot slate in the dry torrent bed, chirrupped their appreciation of the warmth of the setting sun on their plump little stomachs; and across the path, on the smooth stem of a young beech, a select party of grasshoppers, in bright green and scarlet jackets, were scraping away most perseveringly, apparently for the amusement of a gigantic beetle with long recurved antennæ, who stood head downwards before them, either enjoying the concert, or meditating which of the performers would make the best supper. A pair of great brown hornets, an inch and a half long, wheeling round my head, broke in upon my reverie, and warned me off. Taking the hint, I was just turning to move to another tree, when a slight rustling made me give a glance towards the thick beech screen on the opposite side of the path, and I found myself face to face with a roebuck just drawing back to make his spring across the ride. I do not know which was the most astonished; but he hesitated for a moment, and that

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moment was his undoing. The shot struck him like a ball in the forehead and tumbled him head over heels backwards into the cover, stone dead.

I had hardly reloaded when another roe bounded across the ravine to my left, not quick enough however to escape the contents of both barrels, which struck her in the head and side, and killed her as instantly as her partner.

A few minutes after the drivers came straggling up, hot and tired, and our little party being got together, and a few jokes exchanged in good fellowship with our bullet-driving friend, we were all only too glad to troop off, following our lengthening shadows towards our airy breakfast parlour under the flat-topped apple-tree.

We had a fair show of game considering all things. sidering all things. Eight or ten brace of partridge, half a dozen squirrels, one fox, three roe, blackbirds and thrushes innumerable, a leash or two of hares, and a beater winged, but not bagged. All the game excepting the roe, which were taken by the foresters, was sold by a species of auction, like the fish on Hastings beach. A glass or two of wine went round, and as the last rays of the setting sun were peering over the purple peaks of the Eifel our merry party broke up, scattering in little companies of twos and threes towards their homes. The light smoke of their pipes streaming steadily up in the calm evening air, and the chorusses of their songs coming faintly towards us long after the singers had faded in the darkness. Over the broadbacked stubbles my fat friend and myself trudged homewards in the bright moon-light, as tired, gentle reader, as you must be by this time, but with doubtless more agreeable impressions than you are likely to have of our day's shooting in Ger

many.

THE following story fell into my hands on the death of a young German friend. He was an inte resting youth-full of all wild German fancies, blending together the known as well as the unknown phenomena of mesmerism, and forming a whole of physical supernaturalism, so to speak, which would require large faith to refer back to any admissible proofs of magnetic influence. When I asked him the meaning of the adventure which he named the 'Toad's Curse,' and which I have translated in spite of its improbability and defective keeping, he shrugged his shoulders, saying,

Fate or mesmerism! transmigration, if you will, or witchcraft!' Then, when more closely pressed, he added, My good friend, I write tales, not dictionaries; if the public cannot understand my meaning, I will not condescend to glossaries or paraphrases.'

So the affair ended. I can add nothing, as translator, to the oracular brevity of the author. The tale may be one of mesmerism, or of mere superstitious fancy; it may be explained by the higher phenomena of clairvoyance, or be sent into the recesses of faded fables. I know nothing more than what I now give to the reader, who must interpret, according to his own mental state, a tale which might have been written by a madman equally with a scholar.

The toad had got as far as the drawing-room door, where it hid in the white sheepskin mat, like a 'brown russet' in the snow. Muff, the poodle, and Tiny, the spaniel, were as nothing to it; they might have been painted toys from Wur temberg, and their barks nothing better than the product of leather and acoustics, for all the effect they had on that speckled philosopher. Silence and immovability were the toad's vital characteristics, and canine patriotism was weak against reptilian invasion. It sat and gravely ruminated, while the dogs pranced and growled till they fairly panted: a philosophic indifference which a few of our popular leaders might imitate with advantage.

A

This was not an ordinary beast: it was larger than common, and had a more witched and wicked look, and its colours were brighter, and its jewelled eyes more fiery. It seemed to have come from a foreign land, and to be something different to, and more mysterious than, the ordinary brown toads of a European garden. row of burning spots round its throat looked like living carbuncles, and the splashes of colour on its broad back seemed every one a glancing gem; its flat head bore a crescent-like growth, many-coloured, which gave a singular and weird expression to the reptile face beneath; while the restless eyes, sparkling with all the glory of great diamonds, had the power of loadstones in their magical fascination. It might have been a toad from fairy-land, an elfin sport, a wicked gnome, a wizard long transformed; it might have been a creature of the mysteries of India, a waiter at the door of a Peruvian temple, a dweller in the emerald mines, or the guardian of the central fire; it might have been the denizen of all mystie places, and the product of all supernatural powers, rather than the common big brown toad of common weeds and grass. It would have made the staple of a hundred tales by Tieck, while Fouqué and Hoffmann would have expanded it into something more wonderful than Faust's grim dog. Not the most prosaic Bursch who ever wore blue spectacles, and insulted the Philister, would have overlooked its marvellousness; not the most materialistic professor would have dared to pragmatize its mystic wonders. Even the very dogs were afraid of it, and barked as much from superstition as from rage.

Down came the young master, son and heir of the house, casting about as usual for something whereon he might expend that superfluous energy which was his own misery and the torment of every one about him. He had more than once nearly broken his mother's heart with grief and vexation at his evil ways, and twice had roused the whole village into a combined conspiracy against

his freedom. The head bailiff had threatened him with a flogging if ever he caught him in his orchard again, and the schoolmaster had publicly expelled him from his school as too dangerous and too turbulent to be suffered there. He had killed countless cats and dogs, lamed innumerable horses, spoiled multitudes of cows with untimely milking, driven the village bull mad with teasing, and created a dearth among the barn-door population which threatened to leave the country destitute of eggs and poultry for a chicken generation: he was the torment of the neighbourhood-the great public grievance of Gründorf.

Yet Horace Sommerling was not wholly evil. As there is a bright lining to every cloud, so is there a virtuous side to every character. Unmitigated black may do very well for preachers and moralists; it heightens the picture, and produces good effects. But the moralist knows that every heart contains a germ of good, which, under judicious management, may spring up and bear a rich harvest. Horace Sommerling, sane, was & frank, loving, brave, young hero; Horace Sommerling, insane, was neither more nor less than a little devil, for whom earth was too narrow and human life too tame. The four quarters of the globe could not show a truer specimen of a human fiend than that strong, bright, blue-eyed Saxon lad when his blood was up; no court held anything more polished, no convent anything more meek and loving, than the same Saxon lad when his blood was 'down.' But the mischief was, these intervals of quiet were so rare! His calmness was of the most fragile materials; it did not last the life of an ephemeris. A vapour-wreath, a puff of smoke, a mere glance of the eye, and the whole fabric of Horace's virtue fell to the ground, while a very tempest of passion swept by. You were always on the edge of a volcano with him; never safe, never satisfied that the cloudless sky would last even so long as the shadow on the hill top. Passionate tears, furious exclamations, the writhings of a madman, the anger of a wild beast -these were his natural instincts and constant expressions if but a

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feather blew the wrong way for his wishes. The family doctor-he was an hydropathist-said it was disease. So it might have been. Heaven only knows where disease begins and where health ends in any human being; but the clear skin and bright eye, the broad chest and strong limbs, showed no outward evidence, at all events. However, the dogma comforted the mother; who thus took part of the cause thereof to herself. He had no other fault of magnitude, be it noted; but unhappily this one of unrestrained temper proved more than sufficient for the total destruction both of his peace and his virtue.

The dogs were making a deafening uproar when Horace rushed tumultuously into the hall.

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Down, Muff! quiet, Tiny! have done, you beasts! will you be still, then, you devils ?' and the young master administered a kick right and left, which sent the brutes yelping to his heel; but they snarled plaintively still; only they knew him too well to venture on any overt act of disobedience.

At first the boy could not discover the cause of all this uproar, and the dogs came in for a second beating for having started a false scent. At last, searching through the long fibres of the mat, he unearthed the old toad, as he held his solitary court like a wicked gnome undergoing transformation and keeping out of the way of recognition. Horace saw that the beast had very bright eyes, and a human expression in them, and that its skin was mottled in a peculiar manner, more rainbow-like than anything else, with so many colours and all so vivid! And then the glowing eyes! how they flamed and stared! and the burning crest-how it appeared to change in the changing light, and to fairly breathe and palpitate with life! And how large the brute was, seeming to grow bigger and bigger as he looked, its colours coming out in tenfold distinctness, and its eyes getting more of a fiendish, though still a human, stare in them. The young head elaborated all this, and the young heart began to beat very fast; for fairies are ugly things to deal with, revenging themselves how and when you least expect, and

coming down upon you in all manner of forms and fashions of temptation to do evil. However, the boy was no coward, even in the presence of what might be-of what was, in the eager inductions of childhood-an enchanted toad.

'Hish! shu! get out!' cried Horace, shaking his fists at the toad.

The toad looked sedately into his face, and despised his fists. It must be confessed that the brute looked at this moment terribly unlike a flesh and blood beast.

Horace attacked the sheepskin on this. He tore up the mat, and shook it roughly. The toad came out of it at a marvellous pace; sprawling with all four legs flying like the sprung cords of a tent; its colours bright and angry; and swelling a little, its eyes grew larger, and a peculiar expression gathered in them, defiant and threatening, while it opened and shut its mouth in a queer way; without spitting though. 'Get out!' cried Horace, kicking it with his foot.

The toad made a short sprawl forward, but showed no further sign of voluntary progression.

Shu! ssh! ssh!' cried Horace, again trying the power of mechanical propulsion.

The toad swelled visibly, but did not stir a step beyond what it was compelled to do by the laws of dy

namics.

'Here, Muff! here, Tiny! tear him, boys! tear him!' shouted the boy, hounding on the lapdogs with voice and hand, for his whole soul was roused now by the brute's opposition, and his worst nature was rampant in heart and eye.

The dogs seemed terribly afraid of coming to too close quarters, even at their young master's orders: they ran at the toad, and made snaps at it in the air, and sniffed at it suspiciously, running back on their hind legs like puppy lions, and making great believe to pounce upon it suddenly, and to destroy it without hope when they pranced forward again; but yet they did not touch it, after the manner of those demoralized creatures, parlour dogs, who seem to borrow men's vices while learning their ways, and to lose their courage while perfecting their education.

'Horace was violently excited: he

kicked the toad all the way before him, and no gentle kicks either, and finally accomplished its expulsion from the hall; but it sat on the doorstep obstinately, and looked grim and sullen.

Forcing it all the while reluctant to move-the boy got the beast to the hedge by the low wall and the heap of rubble stones; and then the toad, as if feeling in its own dominions, turned round and looked at him. Such a look! If ever revenge were written in living lines, it was written then in that look of the tormented reptile. It swelled to thrice its size; its angry eyes glared as if lit up by an internal fire; its bloated skin seemed to quiver with rage, and every faintest speckle grow out in large bright colours that looked like livid plague-spots on the skin; the crimson necklace round its throat glowed like flaming blood; the crescent on its head expanded, heaved, and palpitated the deep purple and the seething scarlet flashing like prismatic rays. Horace fairly quailed. The toad sprang towards him, spitting and swelling like an incarnate devil determined on his destruction. The boy thought of all the old superstitions he had ever heard connected with toads-elves, cobbolds, gnomes, nixies, rushed through his brain with a bewildering power; and, believing he had roused a spirit he could not lay, he turned to run for his very life.

But the toad was quicker than he. With one huge bound it leaped against him, hissing and spitting, and covering him with its foam.

Horace shook it off, trembling from head to foot. Some of the slime fell on his flesh, and seemed to blister him to the bone.

Again the toad sprang up against him; again the terrible revulsion sickened the boy to his heart; when in mingled rage and terror he caught up one of the largest stones on the waste heap, and flung it with all his strength at the beast. With good aim and good effect. Mutilated and dying, the witched fiend lay conquered at his feet. But never should he forget that dying look! All that spite and venom could print into an unspoken curse was stamped there as legibly as in so many words of letter-press. Every evil wish

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hung like a noxious vapour round that crushed head; every blighting curse gleamed like grave-yard lights in those baleful eyes; the stained froth about that gaping mouth was the sacred blood of life which called aloud to heaven for revenge; and young Horace stood and looked with all the feelings of a Cain about his heart. For is not the wilful destruction of even the lowest form of life, murder?-murder in spirit and essence, if not in its legal results,— for crime is not to be measured by its results so much as by its spirit; and the unpremeditated homicide may not be so intrinsically evil as wilful cruelty to a dumb beast. This is a truth worth thinking of.

Struck with this reflection, dimly made out as it was in his mind, Horace took the toad in his hand; hoping, like a child, to restore by penitence the mischief he had done by passion. But when, believing it dead, he caressed it gently and without any of his former feeling of repugnance, it opened its glazing eyes, and the film was withdrawn for the same intense expression of hatred and malignity to blaze out againfor the same dying curse to be recorded-the same mute imprecation -the same invocation for divine vengeance on this sin; and then one last burst of burning slime filled the boy's naked palm: the row of burning spots turned pale, and the crescent on the head shrank inwards. He held only a dead thing there-the sacred spirit of life had gone, and he had been the destroyer.

He flung the poor beast beneath the laurel hedge, hastily and shudderingly, and then went slowly to the house. A strange oppression was at his heart, and a stranger consciousness still, that he had committed an irredeemable sin-one for which no repentance could atone. And for days and months that toad's last look haunted the boy-sleeping or waking, it was the same thing; he saw nothing else, dreamt of nothing else, feared nothing else. Had it been a very hydra in its death, it could not have multiplied more horrid shapes to be his dread and bane. Under every form, lurking behind every bush, and peering out from the long grass-shaping

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itself from the clouds and dim mists of early morning-its trace left in the sand, and its trail tracked over the moss-its eyes repeated in the sparkling dew, and every jewel fashioning out its burning spots-in all nature and in all thought that one fearful form was set, as with a magic band that nothing could unclasp.

This impression lasted for a long time; and, together with the growth and consolidation of his reasoning powers, produced a notable effect on the boy. But finally the moral effect died away, and young Horace Sommerling-brave, beautiful, beloved Horace-had quite forgotten all about the fiendish toad, its death and his remorse; though every now and then, after some furious paroxysm of passion, a kind of vague, dim picture would arise before him, wherein all that he could make out was the undefined sense of sin and the blurred memory of repentance.

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The room was crowded with every splendour of commerce, every luxury of art: heavy folds of richest stuffs hung before windows darkened with trailing flowers of exquisite perfume; costly vases, filled with exotics of such colour and odour as one might believe existed only in Paradise, made the air within twin sister to that without; while small bright birds, no bigger than evening moths, flew from this to that, stirring the leaves with their jewelled wings, and shaking the flower-cups as they rested within them, in a very delirium of delight. Glancing waters plashed into their marble basins, with a sweet melody that brought to one's mind every lovely image of fresh country pleasures, and tiny fish of ruddy gold and pearly white flitted through the waters like gems instinct with life. The air was heavy, dark, and musical-flowers, and flower-like birds, silver waters, luxury, and art, all combining to form a home fit for houri or for peri who sought by knowledge of every secret of nature to forget her banishment from heaven. A home fit for houri or for peri, and inhabited by whom?

Lying on a couch, covered with crimson drapery, gold-starred, a young girl, toying with a parrot,