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hide and horns. It approached the trap, there was a falling sound, a smart loud click, and Basilene knew that the sudden cry of pain which followed it came from a human voice. As for poor Claude, the occurrence was too great for his unstable judgment. He darted out of the orchard with a shout succeeded by many another. The young helpers were roused and joined their voices to his in wakening the hamlet, as they sped through it with shriek after shriek, that they had caught the prince of darkness in his grandfather's wolf-trap. It was some time till the villagers could gather courage or rightly understand that startling announcement. At length, they were all on the spot, with axes, knives, and every variety of weapon to demolish the grand enemy, but when they arrived under Claude's conduct, the trap was indeed in its place and had caught something, as remnants of short and long hair testified, but the captured foe was gone together with the curé, Basilene and Honore Monod.

Claude and some of the bravest searched the wood in vain. But that night there was a knocking at the gate of the Chateau De Maron, when the last of the household, old Lettice, was about to extinguish her light, and a voice requesting that she would tell her master for the sake of charity and peace, that the curé of Saint Marie wished to speak with him. Thus adjured, thrifty Philip came out lanthorn in hand, and admitted to his court-yard Father Jean, and young Monod, each armed with a heavy axe, and conducting between them with his shoes once more lost, his clothes torn, and his face wonderfully blackened, his own worthy nephew Alphonse Cassite, while Basilene with a curious looking bundle brought up the rear. The bundle was laid down at Philip's feet. It consisted of two old deer skins with horns to match ingeniously patched together, so as to form a sort of dress. Father Jean delivered an explanatory oration on these appearances, from which and his nephew's confession, (the latter now flowed spontaneously) thrifty Philip learned that there had been a conspiracy in Jacque's hut, first to win Ninette, but she got frightened at the machinery, and then to be revenged on her family.

Hence came the fearful sights and tales, whereon followed the wolftrap, and having caught Master Alphonse, and sworn him on the gospels never again to disturb the peace of an honest family, they had marched him in perfect quietness to his uncle. That worthy man scarcely believed either his eyes or ears, but at length recovering from his astonishment, he agreed with the three, being all discreet people, that their wisdom would be sufficient to keep the explanatory part of the legend among themselves, by way of warding off scandal, and his nephew promised with exemplary earnestness, that if he were once safe in Paris, and his father not told, his future conduct should be the model of correctness.

"You will go to-morrow morning," was Philip's brief reply. "But pray," he continued, turning to the Perriers, "Who desired the setting of the trap?"

"It was I, Sir," said Basilene, "but if I had known it was your nephew-"

"You are a sensible woman!" interrupted Philip, "and that was what I never hoped to find."

"Good night, Sir," said Father Jean, "I'm sure Saint Marie, is all in an uproar by this time. We must go and quiet the neighbours."

“Good night.” responded Philip, “quiet them if you can ; and good neighbour," continued he, addressing Basilene, "I give you till tomorrow at noon to consider whether or not, you will be the mistress of the Chateau de Maron."

"When my sister is married, sir," said the frank Basilene with a courtsey.

“So be it,” said Philip, and slamming the gate behind them his wooings concluded.

Readers, there were three betrothals next week at Saint Marie, followed in due course by as many weddings, which raised the grandeur of the Perriers higher than ever in the parish, though the lady of the Chateau was often sent for to give advice at the mill; with these events the terrors of the hamlet passed away, the published account being, that the adversary of souls had been caught in the miller's wolf-trap, but allowed to depart on his promise of never returning. There were grave debates among the older peasants touching the propriety of that course, and when they waxed warm, Father Jean conscientiously assured them, that it was probably not Satan, but one of his emissaries. Nevertheless, it is still an article of general faith in Le Morvan, that his majesty from below was captured, and peasants were apt to come from far and near, when wolf or fox, made more than usual devastation, to solicit Claude for a loan of that unfailing snare, known to all the district as the Perriers' Lucky Trap.

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OUR DEBATING CLUB.

BY PAUL PRESTON.

WHAT intellectual people we are becoming! Fresh reading-rooms, fresh lecture-rooms, fresh mechanics institutions, fresh literary societies, springing up every day almost as thickly as betting offices! Not quite so thickly however-so much the worse for the country: but after all, there is no love so strong as the love of lucre, and so betting offices and gambling-houses, and every other place that appeals to that intensest of passions will continue to thrive till Government or Sir Peter Laurie puts them down," a feat which we fear will not be performed for many a long day. We steady moralists may weep over the evil and lament that our tears cannot wash it out. Meanwhile let us console ourselves with the reflection we started with-that everything which promotes the intellectuality of our race is in England "going-a-head." Look at the periodical you hold in your hand, good reader: examine it minutely turn it over-see the type, the paper, the style, the title page, and, above all, the contents-One Sixpence! Do you suppose such a magazine could exist in an unintellectual land? Do you think you could get fifty pages of well-written matter every month printed on the best paper and "got up" with the most workmanlike finish for that ridiculously minute coin, unless there were thousands upon thousands as well as yourself ready and eager to get it too? Of course not -the thing wouldn't pay. Proprietors, publishers, and authors, would all be in jail in six months, or tasting the delights of workhouse soup in the dog days. "Very well then-why very well then," as Pompey says in "Measure for Measure," what does it all come to that in

spite of a propensity for gambling and a love of lucre affecting all classes more or less, we are a very intellectual people, and by no means indifferent to art, science, and literature.

A man may keep reading and thinking from morn till night half his life, and yet be a very dull, woolly-headed fellow after all. Intercourse with his fellow-creatures, conversation and argument, personal observation, and a dozen other things are necessary to make him an agreeable, quick, intelligent and useful, member of society. In order to ascertain your own aplomb try a wrestle with a friend: you will be astonished to find what new notions you get. You had perfectly made up your mind on a certain subject-you hadn't a doubt about it-you had devoutly believed your own conviction for six years. You get into conversation with Jones one night, and the discourse touches on the very subject. Jones doesn't agree with you at all: you are very much disgusted. How ignorant that fellow Jones must be! You always thought he was decently well read: but its clear you were mistaken; he's actually going to argue with you. You assume a benignant, pitying, smile, and listen. Hang the fellow! he's quoting a book you never read. He's laying hold of the subject quite at a different point from your handle he's twisting it about very strangely. It certainly does look differently now, doesn't it? You rush to the rescue. Jones meets you, fences with you, parries your blows, gets one good thrust at you, follows it up and regularly thrashes you. Your opinion is completely changed on the point after you have held it for six years, its very strange: all you can do is to console yourself by smiling again and saying, "Depend on it, my dear fellow, you're perfectly wrong"though you know the dear fellow is perfectly right, and in your secret heart you would like to kick him therefore.

Now a very excellent thing to make a man use his own wits and profit by his neighbour's is a Debating Club. We belong to a Debating Club, and are a very active member of it. We attend every meeting, and constantly make speeches. At first we were very nervous, especially when any one said, "hear, hear;" and we were not aware that we had said anything good, and so were left in an unpleasant doubt whether we hadn't said something very stupid, and were being ironically cheered for it. But we are getting over our nervousness now, and address the chair almost as coolly as Disraeli does the speaker of the House of Commons. One of the things that struck us on commencing our Debating Club career, was that at first every question proposed for discussion, seemed to promise none. The questions didn't seem to admit of any answer but one: the idea of anybody thinking any way but our way seemed incomprehensible, but we found that many of the questions were eventually decided just the other way. Such scenes as the following constantly occurred.

Chairman.-It is Mr. Tuppy's turn to propose a question for discussion at our next meeting.

Mr. Tuppy.-The question I propose, sir, is-" Was Charles the First a tyrant?"

An hon. Member.-Oh, I don't think that will do. It's been decided so often. Every body thinks the same about it now.

Another hon. Member.-Of course they do. He was a tyrant, you know.

Previous hon. Member.--Was? wasn't you mean.

"Indeed, I don't." "Nonsense." "How absurd! &c., &c., &c." Chairman.-It seems to be a very open question indeed, gentlemen; at all events here. So, if you please, the question will stand.

Our Debating Club contains a great variety of characters. Most of us are young men, though we have two or three middle-aged members. Some of us are bankers' clerks-some of us are merchants' clerkssome are lawyers' clerks, and some are students of the Inns of Court, &c., but it is with our characters as debaters we have now to deal. the reader accompany us to one of our discussions?

Will

We enter a room termed a theatre-semicircular, with seats rising one behind the other, and a platform below, with a table covered with green baize, and a large arm-chair in which is seated the chairman. There are a great many people, for every member who thinks he is going to make a crack speech brings his mother and his sisters; and every man who isn't going to speak at all brings his mother and sisters to quiz his rivals-so the sprinkling of smart dresses and bright eyes is considerable.

The chairman tells us that the question for this evening's discussion is, "Is woman intellectually the equal of man?" to be supported in the affirmative by the proposer, Mr. Filagree.

Mr. Filagree rises. Mr. Filagree is a short, stumpy man, with a florid complexion, and the lightest of hair, crisply curling. At a distance, you would say he is whiskerless, but on a closer inspection you find that it is not his fault if he is so, for the few very white hairs which do grow on his cheeks are curled and combed and nursed with the greatest care. His eyes are round and prominent-they may indicate "language" to the phrenologist, but to a less scientific observer they are suggestive of a tight neckcloth and semi-strangulation. Mr. Filagree is dressed with great care-blue dress coat and brass buttons, white waistcoat, and black continuations; and to complete the dazzling effect there is a massive gold (or electro-gilt) watch-chain trailing across his breast. The ladies like him-he is so polite; and they admire him too -he dresses so nicely; but it's a pity he's so extensive in the waist, poor man!

Mr. Filagree speaks in an energetic style-which fat men, by the way, never should do. He says "Sir: It will be a matter of immense and bewildering surprise to me if any member of this society can be found so blind to reason, so ignorant of nature, so lost to sense as to deny for one moment that in every respect pertaining to the powers of the human mind, woman, bright, glorious, beautiful woman is fully and entirely the equal of her selfish and vain helpmate." (Immense cheering from Mr. F.'s friends, and great rustling of ladies' dresses and flashings of ladies' eyes-which latter may almost be termed the employment of undue influence against Mr. F.'s opponents; three young gentlemen determine to "rat," and go over to Mr. F.'s side, so as to secure smiles from three pretty girls whom they have respectively "marked down.") Mr. F. goes on after a pause; but we are not going to give all Mr. F.'s speech, or we should tire the reader as much as Mr. F. tired himself. Of course he got warmer and warmer, talked louder and louder, and on the whole acquitted himself with immense success -in spite of the misfortune of one of his waistcoat buttons flying off with a loud "pop" in the midst of his peroration, and exciting a little laugh from his opponents. Mr. Filagree resumed his seat amid loud

cheering, and evidently felt convinced that any lady present would have married him on the spot-provided of course that she wasn't married already.

There was a pause-a long and solemn pause. The ladies looked round, as if to say, "What rash man would venture to oppose us?" It certainly required a brave man to do so.

"Mr. Pendragon," cries the chairman, as a man gets on his legs and bows to the chair.

Mr. Pendragon is a tall, slovenly-looking Scotchman, with lantern jaws and lank hair, and an ungainly body and limbs that don't seem to belong to one another at all, and to own no common allegiance to the body or any part of it; for one leg twists one way and another bends the other way, one arm goes up and the other down, and all of them seem to act without consulting Mr. Pendragon's wishes on the subject -so that the serpents who acted as substitutes for legs in the well known mythological character, couldn't have moved about more independently of the man they were attached to, than Mr. Pendragon's legs and arms did with regard to him.

Mr. Pendragon is a hard-headed man from the University of Aberdeen. He has no more sentiment than a hippopotamus, and doesn't pretend to have: and he cares no more for ladies' smiles or frowns, than a crocodile cares for sunshine or showers. He gets up and tells his auditors that it may be all very pretty to turn sounding periods, and quote poetry, and smirk at the ladies (and here he looks contemptuously on Filagree,) but all that isn't argument. If women are the intellectual equals of men, why don't they show it? What have they done? Written poetry? Certainly. Not very good poetry, perhaps, and not always the most delicate either (here he grins sardonically, and some one shouts "order.") He looks on him contemptuously, and says "of course, he never suspected the honourable member of having heard of Sappho-far less of reading, or of having the ability to read, her works." The honourable member thus snubbed blushes and looks angry, and sinks into silence. Pendragon goes on and lashes poor Filagree dreadfully his sarcasm is looked on by us as something like Lord Brougham's, only more severe. The brute absolutely ridicules female pretensions to intellectuality, thinks them amusing dolls to those who like such playthings, and very useful as cooks and upper domestics-but though he believes they have souls, he thinks their possession of minds very doubtful indeed. His speech is a "crusher:" he does not get any cheers when he sits down, but people feel uncomfortable, and don't know how to answer him.

"Mr. McGrady," says the chairman. Immense cheering from all parts of the room follows, as Mr. McGrady gets on his legs. He is an Irishman, and the great speaker of our club. Where he was born, what he is, where he was educated, what he was taught, how he livesall these things and many others are deep mysteries, and seem to be constantly so in the case of gentlemen from the sister isle. But he can talk faster than any man in the club on his legs, he can quote Tommy Moore, and Byron by the yard, and he has a saucy, self-satisfied, laughing manner of saying every thing that always ensures him a round of applause at the end of each sentence. He is just the man to follow Pendragon he comes like the omelette soufflée, after the pièce de resistance. He can't argue, but he can quiz, and joke and bully, and

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