LOUISA STARR CANZIANI. It will be seen that, on the whole, the verdict of the artists on the present style of ladies' dress is considerably more favourable than might have been anticipated from the adverse criticism to which it is so commonly exposed. Indeed, the consensus of opinion is one which cannot fail to gratify our lady readers, since, in reality, it affirms not only that they are themselves, as ever, the delight of painters, but that--tomfooleries of tight-lacing and high heels apart--their everyday attire may be so also. _How the Redoubt was Taken._ FROM THE FRENCH OF PROSPER MÉRIMÉE. [PROSPER MÉRIMÉE was born in 1803 and died in 1870. His father was a painter--but Prosper started life upon a lawyer's stool. Before thirty he was made Inspector-General of Historic Monuments, and in the pleasant occupation of this office he travelled over most of Europe, and afterwards described his travels in a book. Then he began to write short stories--among them "Carmen," which the opera founded on its plot has made a household word. These little masterpieces--he never tried his hand at a long tale--exquisite in style, and full of life and action, gained his election to the French Academy. And he deserved his fame. He has the magic art which makes the things of fancy real as life itself, we know not how. "How the Redoubt was Taken" is in length a very little story--but to read it is to be present with the storming-party, in their mad rush to victory and death.] A friend of mine, a soldier, who died in Greece of fever some years since, described to me one day his first engagement. His story so impressed me that I wrote it down from memory. It was as follows:-- I joined my regiment on September 4. It was evening. I found the colonel in the camp. He received me rather brusquely, but having read the general's introductory letter he changed his manner, and addressed me courteously. [Illustration: "I FOUND THE COLONEL IN THE CAMP."] By him I was presented to my captain, who had just come in from reconnoitring. This captain, whose acquaintance I had scarcely time to make, was a tall, dark man, of harsh, repelling aspect. He had been a private soldier, and had won his cross and epaulettes upon the field of battle. His voice, which was hoarse and feeble, contrasted strangely with his gigantic stature. This voice of his he owed, as I was told, to a bullet which had passed completely through his body at the battle of Jena. On learning that I had just come from college at Fontainebleau, he remarked, with a wry face, "My lieutenant died last night." I understood what he implied--"It is for you to take his place, and you are good for nothing." A sharp retort was on my tongue, but I restrained it.