placed, to await identification, the bodies of those found dead in the streets or in the river. The practice, which seems to have fallen into desuetude in other prisons, maintained its ground in the prison of the Châtelet. In a dark, damp, poisonous room were thrown one upon another the corpses of unknown persons who had perished by murder or suicide, and there they remained till claimed by friends, who came, lantern in hand, to seek for their missing kindred. Trifling ameliorations were made. The corpses were stretched out, and the public looked at them through a small window made in the door of the room; but the general state of things was still horrible. The great Revolution, which changed so much else, left the Morgue untouched. Its history is interwoven with that of the epoch, and recalls some of the most hideous scenes of that great drama. Hither came the trunk of old Foulon, while the head, its mouth stuffed with the grass which he had told the people they might eat, went through the city aloft on the head of a pike. It was met in its course by Berthier, Foulon's son-in-law, whose dismembered body went also to the Morgue.

John

But the old Morgue was doomed. Peter, or, as he preferred to be called, Anaxagoras, Chaumette, the great inventor of the Worship of Reason, and of the law of Suspects, devised many other things in his day, being a man of versatile genius. True, his proposal to compel the whole French people to wear wooden shoes, and to live on potatoes, fell through; but before he himself had come to be "suspected," and had had his head shorn off, he had pronounced the condemnation of the Morgue of his day as a disgusting device of kings, and unworthy of a republic, which ought to have in its place a clean, well-ventilated building, with stone slabs, and running water, and full registers. It was only in 1804, eleven years later, that Chaumette's proposal was carried out by the opening, on the "first Fructidor," of a new Morgue on the quay of the Marché-Neuf. Considerable alterations were afterwards introduced. In 1830 it was reconstructed and enlarged; and still further changes in 1835 left the Morgue pretty much as it was at its closing a short time ago. What it was at the time of our last visit we may now describe.

Crossing the Pont au Change, a visitor on his way to the cathedral of Notre Dame would hold on, till, just before coming to the bridge leading off the island of the city, he would take the turning by the side of the river, the Quay of the Marché-Neuf, leading to the church. He would have taken very few steps in its direction before he found himself near a sombre,

low building, with its wide carriage-doors thrown quite open, showing the interior, paved like a stable. Through these doors would be passing, at busy times of the day, pumbers of people of both sexes, of all ages, and of every class; all, as they enter, turn to the left. Not knowing what to expect, the visitor, who has made it his rule in travelling to enter every open door, walks in with the rest. The faces he meets would not, except in rare cases, prepare him for what he is about to see. He also turns to the left; but for the moment his view is interrupted by a crowd, all looking earnestly at something on the other side of a sort of shop-window. The bonne, with her basket, has just run in on her way home from market; the workman in cap and blouse, who has a few minutes left after his meal for a pipe and a stroll; mothers with children in arms; perhaps even a well-dressed woman with her little son in the half-military costume of the schools,

anybody and everybody is there. At last some one who has had enough makes room, and then you advance, and, leaning your arms on a railing breast high, you can look through the window like the rest. Ten large slabs, arranged in two rows of five each, the upper parts of which, inclined towards the window, have brass plates let into them. How many of the slabs are occupied ? One, two, three-perhaps more. More frequently than those in front, the back ones; for on them are placed the bodies fished out of the Seine, and the river is the great purveyor of the Morgue. They lie there with their leather aprons, in a full light from above. To-day it is a fair girl, whose long hair hangs dank about her face and bosom, which seem flushed by exercise. She looks so calm, that you might think she slept another sleep than that of death. Near her lies a heavily-built fellow, who looks as if he had stumbled drunk into the canal. How long since? From a tap over the head the water drips constantly over the swollen black face

swollen out of all recognition—and trickles along the swollen black body and limbs. "Hold! how droll it is!" says the little collegian, turning away with his mother. The cap and blouse asks, appealingly, "Whether one can recognise objects like that?" A lively conversation goes on around. The age, the length of time since death, and the cause of death, are all discussed; and from the authoritative manner in which some persons express their opinion, it is easy to divine that they are regular frequenters of the place. The Morgue is their theatre and their literature. Hither they come for their "sensation" dramas and novels, and assuredly they get them. But the sensation must have dulled, for

Morgue, whither flocked crowds so great that gendarmes had to be stationed to regulate the entry. Men of the highest rank came, and elegant ladies; and rich equipages were stationed at the Morgue doors. No discovery was made. A plaster cast was made of the limbs, which were buried, and a whole month elapsed. At the end of that time a woman, who had just risen from a dangerous illness, which had prevented her from going to the Morgue as every one else had done, heard of the murder. She dragged herself to the Morgue, and from the cast was able to identify the remains as those of Dautun. He had been murdered by his

brother.

But the great event in the annals of the Morgue took place in 1840. On the 17th of March, the body of a handsome little boy, of about ten years of age, was found in the suburbs of Paris with the throat fearfully cut. Hanging from his neck was a little silver medal gained at school, and in his pocket a top. All Paris, at the news of the murder, flocked to the Morgue to see "The Villette Child," as he was (and still is) called; but no one could solve the mystery of his death. The period during which exhibition of the body was possible was drawing to a close, when the authorities, to extend the time, had recourse to a plan till then unknown in the history of the Morgue, though proposals have since been made to adopt it as an ordinary regulation. A M. Gannal had recently discovered a method of preserving entire bodies from the effects of decomposition, by the injection of certain salts. His aid was called in, and the body was duly prepared. It was then clothed; a light touch of rouge was given to the cheeks, and, with the limbs in an easy position, the body was placed on a little white bed. Public curiosity was immensely excited; and those who would have shuddered at the thought of visiting the ordinary exhibitions of the Morgue, hastened to see "The Child of Villette." It was only after the lapse of six weeks that the murderer, a religious madman, was discovered, through the commission of other murders at Bordeaux. On the 2nd of June the little body was removed from the Morgue, and at Bordeaux the criminal and his victim were once more brought together.

It is scarcely in the legends of the Morgue that one would seek for subjects for light comedy; but a farce, which had some success, was based on an incident which occurred at the old Morgue in 1767. A traveller from Grand Cairo brought back with him a mummy. Passing through Fontainebleau, he arrived in Paris by the coche d'eau, a sort of barge. He unfortunately left his mummy behind him in

the barge; and the clerks, having opened the case, saw in it what they supposed to be the body of a murdered young man. A police officer and a surgeon who were called in agreed in the belief that a mysterious crime had been discovered. The body was carried to the Morgue, and immediate steps were taken for the apprehension of the supposed murderer. A hundred versions of the story, each more horrible than the last, were soon flying over the city. The proprietor of the mummy having meanwhile discovered his loss, returned to claim his property, and was forthwith arrested. An explanation soon convinced the officer of his mistake; but the mummy had been deposited at the Morgue, and could only be got out by the fulfilment of the due formalities, which helped to make the whole affair public.

We Londoners, who are accustomed to a different mode of procedure with regard to unclaimed bodies, are perhaps too apt to condemn hastily the horrible exhibitions of the Morgue. In justice to our neighbours, however, we ought not to lose sight of the fact that the obvious objections to the Morgue are fully appreciated by them. Its utility, however, is so universally acknowledged, that the objectors generally confine themselves to the question of its site; and it has been often proposed to remove the Morgue to a less frequented quarter' But French logic is unflinching; once grantand who can deny it ?—that the recognition of the bodies of suicides or murdered persons is earnestly to be desired in the interest of public morality, and it is not easy to find valid grounds of objection to the arguments of those who de mand that the Morgue shall be placed in the centre of Paris. If the Morgue is useless, say those who take this view-if the Morgue is useless, demolish it; if useful, you ought not to take measures which detract from its utility. Your object should be to encourage people to enter the Morgue, and you do this best by placing it in a populous and thronged quarter. "This condition," says M. Devergie, “is of so much importance that every other consideration ought to give way before it." If proof were wanted, it would be found in the fact that recognitions are not principally due to immediate friends. Two-thirds of the bodies identified are recognised by chance passers-by; and so true is this, that on Monday, the workman's holiday, almost as many bodies are identified as during the remainder of the entire week. It is also asserted that the greater number of those who have committed murder go to the Morgue to ascertain whether the body of their victim is there. This strange desire is known to the police, who accordingly have constantly their agents mixing with the crowd, and carefully

noting every gesture, every movement of the face that may betray recognition. They have, perhaps, scanned your face, reader, as you looked through the window at the sad sight! We have seen that about 300 bodies are annually brought to the Morgue, most of them from the Seine. How many are taken from the Thames and the canals in London, with a population much larger than that of Paris? But one does not hear of half of them. It may be said indeed that the public do not, as a rule, hear much about them, unless they are given to reading the dismal notices posted outside the police-stations, the headings of which, "Body found," are followed by a description, reading like a passport to another world. If we prefer losing the chance of detecting crime, or of restoring the body of a suicide to sorrowing friends, to tolerating the undoubtedly shocking exhibitions of the Morgue, let us at least acknowledge that there are two sides to the question.

DANGEROUS DRESSES.

THE time of year is on us again when crinoline will be coming into dangerous proximity to ball-room fires. Fain would we suggest thoughts of caution to our matrons and maidens; but experience has made us sceptical touching the efficacy of good advice, especially -must it be said ?-when the patients are ladies. On this particular matter we have largely catechised our fair friends, and have not yet found one to have been practically influenced by the advice given in the public papers.

Sydney Smith had great faith in the force of an illustrious example. He thought the moral lesson involved in the sacrifice of a Bishop or a Lord occasionally necessary, in order to keep alive our interest in the maintenance of the general security. And no doubt there is a great deal of truth in this notion.

So perhaps an illustrious example of death from the incautious use of inflammable garments, may have effect where mere advice would fail. There is a story of the kind which we should like to afficher in every boudoir throughout this realm—a story of death among courtiers, and deadly peril to a king; and all because they trifled with just the kind of risk that is involved in the incautious use of crinoline. The actual material in question was of another kind; but this makes no difference as to the main point. The folly to be deprecated is that of investing one's-self with trappings which, being highly inflammable, and so assumed as not to be easily shaken off, must, in case of their igniting, cause the tor

ture and death of the wearer; at least according to all reasonable expectation.

Poor Charles VI. of France is our hero, that unfortunate monarch whose reign was one scene of wrong and violence, of detriment to the country, aud misery to the people. Frenchmen, however, of old always persisted in loving their kings if they possibly could get the chance. In the exaltation of their loyalty they were especially attached to one whom it had pleased Providence to bereave of his reason, and who could exercise government only at lucid intervals. He was not to be blamed for the general confusion, and for his sake it was that they took all patiently. Their very grievances became the aliment of compassionate devotion. "How must the King suffer," they would say, "when he came to understand how ill his ministers behaved to the people!" Isabelle of Bavaria, his wicked consort, was not the sort of woman to trouble herself about other people's sorrows. King and people might go their way, be as mad as they pleased, or as wretched, provided she might be left to enjoy herself. As for her lord and master, she was willing to resign him to the blandishments of a "petite reine" and to seek compensation elsewhere. As for the people, she could not afford to bother herself about such canaille. What she did care for was her own will.

On a certain occasion she had a very fair excuse for extravagance, and set herself to make the most of the opportunity. A marriage was to be celebrated between one of her ladies and a gentleman of the court. The lady was one of her own Bavarians, and of course a special favourite. No one could blame her for being a little extravagant in honor of such an event, and accordingly she laid herself out to entertain on an unusual scale of magnificence.

In those days the popular taste demanded large doses of the grotesque. Religious processions were half caricature, and their solemn pomps of welcome to sovereign princes presented features that to us seem sufficiently inadmissible.

However each age has its code of toleration and appreciation. Such was the prescription of that age, and the Queen was not likely to be before the times in such matters. Accordingly she felt that her arrangements would be incomplete if they were to be simply matter of fact in character. She must have some burlesque, some practical joke, or the whole thing would be a failure. This was good as a standing rule; but on this particular occasion there were special reasons for being riotous, for the bride was a widow, and a widow's marriage is a fair opportunity for a charivari all the world over.