marriage very much at heart, though he did
not like to use his own authority against the
interests of a prince of his own blood.

Madame Philippes was much disturbed by
the prospect of being forced to ally herself
with her obstinate suitor; and we may be
sure there were anxious consultations at the
Hôtel Saint Denys. When the day of trial
came, she appeared, accompanied by M. de
Vieilleville, and many other lords and
gentlemen, ladies and maidens. Every one
expected a long and scandalous discussion.
The First President began the proceedings
by telling Madame Philippes to raise her
hand and swear to tell the truth; one then
asked her if she had not promised marriage
to Monsieur le Marquis Jehan-Loys de
Saluces, then present. The lady, forgetting
all her hints and inuendoes, replied, on her
faith, No. The president was about to
examine her closely, and the greffier had
taken up his pen, when the fair defendant
stepped forward, and in a firm voice uttered
the following speech:

"Messieurs, this is the first time I have
ever been before a court of justice; and there-
fore, I am afraid that timidity may make me
contradict myself in my answers. But, to
cut short all the subtleties in which you are
so proficient, I now say and declare, before
you, gentlemen and all present, that I swear
to God and the king—to God on the eternal
damnation of my soul—to the king on the
confiscation of my honour and my life—that
I never gave any promise of marriage to
Monsieur le Marquis Jehan-Loys of Saluces;
and what is more, never thought of doing so
in my life. And if any one says the
contrary, here (taking M. de Vieilleville by the
hand), here is my knight who is ready, saving
the honour of this court, to prove that he
villanously lies!"

This warlike demonstration, so much in
harmony with the character of the period,
and the chivalry which Francis the First
was trying to revive, met with complete
success.

"Here's a business!" exclaimed the
President, familiarly. "Greffier you can pack
up your papers. There is no writing to do.
Madame la Maréchale has taken another
road; and a much shorter one." Then
addressing the Marquis, he said: "Well, sir,
what observation do you make on this
incident?"

The Marquis had glanced at his own portly
person, and compared it with the martial
aspect of the lady's knight.

"I don't want a wife by force," said he.
"If she won't have me, why I won't have
her; and there's an end."

With these words he made a low bow and
left the Court. Then M. de Vieilleville asked
if the lady were not free to marry whom she
liked, and, being answered in the affirmative,
invited the whole company to come and be
present at the betrothal between Madame
Philippes and the Prince de la Rochesuryon,
which would take place immediately. But
the wily lawyers declined, saying that they
must deliberate and send a deputy to acquaint
the king with what had taken place. One of
them also whispered to the knight: "You
had a six months' trial before you if you had
not been so clever. The Marquis had an
interrogatory of forty articles prepared as to
expressions that had been publicly used by
the lady to him and his people; as to the
kisses she had given him by the way,
especially the kiss at Porte Saint Marceau; and as
to her saying to one Saint-Julien (a circumstance
that would have gone much against
her), that she would give him a chain of
five hundred écus for the wedding."

"Well, well," said Vieilleville smiling, "all
we need say now is, that a Frenchwoman has
outwitted a hundred Italians."

Thereupon, the betrothal between Madame
Philippes and the prince, immediately took
place; and in two or three days they were
married at the Augustins without much
ceremony, the bride being a widow. They lived
happily together for twenty-five years, and
had a son and a daughter; but the princess
survived both her husband and her children,
and died in fifteen hundred and seventy-eight,
forty years after her curious journey from
Turin to Paris.

ROGUES' WALK.

ON the twenty-third of October eighteen
hundred and twenty-three a murder was
committed in England under circumstances
of such coldly-planned atrocity and terrible
detail, that even now, after a lapse of thirty-
four years, its incidents are fresh and vivid
to those who remember it, through the
chronicle of other and perhaps even greater
crimes. The name of the murdered man
was Weare, that of his murderer, Thurtell;
and there were two associates respectively
called Hunt and Probert.

They belonged to that somewhat doubtful
but peculiarly English class of individuals
known as sporting men, as distinguished
from sportsmen; that is to say, they took an
interest in sports rather for what could be
made, or won, or juggled out of them, than
from an inherent love of any of the
popular pastimes of the people of England.
They were known at wine rooms, gambling
houses, and fighting taverns, and as such
were considered "upon town." Their society
came under the happily decaying denomination
of Flash, which, started under the
lacquered blackguardism of the Tom-and-
Jerry epoch as Corinthian; gradually sank
through the phases of nobby, bang-up, kiddy
and the fancy; until its flame sputtered out
in the last dull flicker of gentism.

All now living who remember the murder
of Mr. Weare, remember also its details.
Those not old enough to do so will be at