was leaning on his arm--his personal crimes, if any, were so little known, that he was on the point of being dismissed from the bar for want of an accuser. Pindar, in his red cap, with his many-stringed harp in his hand, was there; and all Helicon glowed like molten lead in his vindictive heart when he looked at the miserable pair. "What sentence shall we pass on the person called Grimod, ci-devant sub-collector of taxes, and the woman beside him, who has aided and abetted him in several attempts to escape from the censorship of the Committee of Public Safety?" The accused looked timidly round, in hopes that no answer would be returned to this routine enquiry, in which case their safety would have been assured; but red-capped Pindar struck his hand hurriedly over the chords, and cried, in the shrill sharp tones, that both the prisoners remembered too well, "A la mort! a la mort!" and in ten minutes their bodies were lying headless, side by side, amidst the hootings and howlings of ten thousand demons, exemplifying to astonished Europe the perfection of civilization and philanthropy. Little more needs to be said of the Sieur Lebrun. He lived through the dangers of the Revolution; wrote odes and satires indiscriminately on friend and foe; worshipped power to the last, and was the sycophant, and would have been the murderer, of Napoleon, as he had been of Louis and Robespierre; and died at last in receipt of a pension from the state, member (like Lord Brougham) of the National Institute of France; and had his panegyric pronounced on him by his successor, as if he had united the virtues of Aristides to the genius of Homer. Whereas, we take him to have been the true type of the Frenchman of his time--a monkey, till he got the taste of blood, and then a tiger. FOOTNOTES: [Footnote 3: In case we should have done injustice to the poetical inspiration of the Dame Lebrun, we give the originals-- "Tu captives tous les suffrages, Tes talens sont cheris des dieux; Puisse ton nom, dans tous les ages, S'immortaliser avec eux! D'Apollon recois cette lyre, Pour chanter au sacre vallon; Dans tes mains meme on pourra dire, C'est toujours cette d'Apollon!"] [Footnote 4: "Que les dieux te courronnent; Moi, je n'ai qu'un verger; Mais le coeur assaisonne Les presens des bergers. Si des fruits de Pomone Tu devenais friand, Je te promets, a chaque automne, De t'en offrir autant."] CENNINO CENNINI ON PAINTING. TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN BY MRS MERRIFIELD.