STER OF SONGS

Br.'JOHN BlackmAn.

THE WORK GIRL'S SONG.

The voices of evening prevail, Merrily, merrily, O ! The wild JJawer-s scent the green dale, - ~- Clieerily, cheerily, 0! tThelnrds are alp singing of love, Free from labour, and sorrow, and care ; ,rEU away in allhaste to the grove", '■' For Willie is-waiting rue there. The sunbeam comes wooing the rose, ~;;■ : - Cheerily, clieerily, O ! And hive ward the honey-bee go.es,- -4,, Merrily, merrily, O ! . I'll box up my sewing machine, ' ; ■ - And exchange nay workroom for sweet air. In the grove by the light o' the e'en;' But Oh! if he should not be there. Then, then, I must wander alone, Drearily, drearily, O! And long for the night to come on— /Ci t'! • ■■' "Wearily, wearily, O ! Hush, hush, wicked thought, and believe, Nor tempt the work-girl to despair ; He promised to meet me at eve, And Willie Is sure to be there.

HE ART MUSIC.

'Tis not from scenes that please the eye, 'Mid nature's green repose,. ' Nor from this bright New Zealand sky, That piu-est pleasure flows. ' The fields, and streams, and happy birds, Can healthful joys impart; But sweeter still are kindly words, : The music of (he heart. The pleasant sounds of murmuring rills, ■ The voices of the free, . . The, golden vales and breezy hills,-,.- • , Htfve living charms for me. ' ' But vain are joys which nature brings, If viewed from sonl apivrt, And songless all her genial springs, Without the merry"heart.

THE PLOUGH IN NEW ZEALAND.

'Tis not the sword that wins the noblest prize, Nor crowns'with fairest flowers the Victor's brow; But that which stirs the earth for food supplies, Man trusty friend, :the good 'old English plough.

Since here, I've witnessed pianv a pleasant scene, And lonely mWedtipon1 the men and now;- No sight among the many, sigh;s I've seen, Was cheerier than the good old English, plough.

I've stood in silent eestacy to gaze, On plan's tosna friend beneath a-spreading ibongh, And felt reflections of my ea,rly days* ■ Of the old homestead and the English plougi. ,Then.tell pie.npt of, war's; ignoble strife, • ;>.' ' ' Nor tintille'cl fields where thorns and thistles grow, But of,the, corn-yales, and those scenes of life, Where plenty wreathes the good old English plough,

UNDER THE ROSE.

_ _ V.* Our fathers -were merry, and brave, and bold, And in the wmter's priinej They kissed the girls.""who loved to be kissed, {T >■' ■ Atffe&ive.Christmas-time. •■ I'- V ; '■'■'• '•■'''*■■ \ And still in this land-th&custom lives, Where : warmly glows ;Yj ['■ Bat not under"'the berried mistletoe, .But 'neatti.the. blushing ~ros.e. , ■ Thus bo-Qifteoiis nature ever supplies,' ';'■'• ■ Themefans of earthly bliss, •And every pretty maid expects, : ; Under the rpse:—a kiss. " E'en though they struggle, and double, and feign, Their lovers to oppose, .---■■ They are never offended when they get A kiss beneath tho rose.

YES, AND NO.

If you should go courting a lassie, my friend, And ask for her love, and your passion confess, And if with your suit, '.ruth and constancy blend, . She may lean on ydur1 bosom and :fondly sigli Yes T , But should the lass frown on the love you profess," And turn from your gaze with a heart-rending No, Hope not to win from her the exquisite Yes, But leave her alpne ere she deepen your woe. But should, she refuse either word for a while : To give you the Yes or th c No in reply, You may trace the response of her heart in her smile, And read the sweet Yes in the light of her eye. • .

SHE NEVER SMILED AGAIN.

He would not take the purple silk Sbe plead with Mm to buy; He did not heed her sorrow,!; I : Nor the tear-drop in her eye. "You are," he said, " extravagant, , Too fond of dress, and vain."' ' ■ .. ' He said ii;'with a surly, look; j,-,,,, ; ... ,■; , ; Sheineyer smiled again. ,', j .::..;.." :: . "Jlyjewiiiry is out of style," ,: > ■ - ;l: The in jui-edwoman; eaid, -. . ■.' ■ . : " The Smiths are wearing diamonds now; Alas ! that I were dead..._..!: : -.-.-. Go buy me," Cbarlea; the set I chose." - . He said, "No,.Mary Jane,. •.. ■.-■.-..... Ido not think you need it." I Ah,! i-jall She never smiled again. .. ■>:■:,> The joscs'faded. from her cheek, . ! . ■ ■-■ Each day. she weaker grew, , . ~ The doctor said a Summer trip Would give, her strength, he knew.' i< " The ocean breeze she .needed much,; The remedy was plain." ' •' r ft •■ ■■■' " Her cruel husband answered M.No.'? ' She never smiled again. i ' But Oharleg, alas.! is dead and gone, ' " And sleeping in his grave,.. And Mary. Jane is now. no ;mOre sii.) •'■■■ <::'.i His persecuted .slave.. . . ~,.', 'Tis not for us to rate him new, From censure we refrain; -~<.■> ■..,-• +■, , But while her cruel husband.lived, ( She never smiled again.

TAINTED.

I',Y T. C. Habbaugh

Sho stood ai the door of a stylish church, , And wistfully looked within,-. y?y r.. v t She daughter of want and scorn* '"J : She the child of sin. She heard the organ'a-peal.on peal Of unknown melody ; . And said with a.si^h that wxung her soul : r >. " He never died for me." ....: ,:.;,; ...-., ,:.'.■> i-*V**tait l^ J* >'i Slie saw the worshippers and heard The fashionable-.prayer ;, ,-iwri , ' <>' The rich oppressor preached ttfHeav'n, X Theiwronged to—God knows whero ! The cushioned pews, tho long drawn aisle, . Wero^very fair. toflee.;> riiiV/ -*, ■ ■'■ •' '■' "Until this; very hour.'? cried she,. " I've thought he died for me. ru>i- n "0, thought how'loved of late, but vain ! 0, hot, repentant tears!'; ,0*1! 1. J" U I nearer;stand to a church tonight Than I have stood for-years;!*! :.;::.. A'church;Ms thisrGod's temple?; Say t< And tellmeycanit ber ;aio*e nasoii' That hersrho stands to.the.pulpit says ■ l ■ .. ChrJßtnever died forme 1 -,n.:.■■■, .■'.■:.; ;.•; 1: It must be so! X hear him read .■%& m i Thew6rds'ofr.Ghri&t,'the>;inad.s - s .a h'x t* Are they the same my mother read ■ :Tom<j-ffhen-bwtja;childj?'; a*i «m; j . Oh! the deductions that he draws! ■-. > i.«i\ Hißstory.ofithe.tree! r.' ■ n.-.',i i mof. He died for the proud, the rich, the great, But not,, alas! forme." , ~ , ; , ay.lV She turned away from the stylish church, I And never more looked within; T m Away from the chancels agilt with gold, Down to the haunts of sin. .' . Then from its doors ere the night had passed, -And in the light ofthe sun; - ' i^A& eJ.found oa,th& river, the beauti/al corp«e , Of the "wronged, unprayed for one. ,jj ■. .

A STRANGE STORY.

I got ever my difficulty with, the Arabs," said the believer in presentiments, returned to my temporary abode at Jeru salem, and vent into <he little garden at the i*aefe of trie bhme to;fire-off the r'evqlver, as I have an excessive dislike of keeping fire arms by me loaded. ! Tfc L was well I had not been driven m my affray with the Araba to the necessity of using my revolver as well as shdwino; ft, for I 1 found, onI'pulling the trig ger, that it was a fixture and. jshatt, owing to 'some derangement in the lock, I could not stir it with;all ;«iy force. Aa>l never went out -without being armed, it became necessary '.to:' Have the"' 'pistol'looked- to }at once." go I went to a friend of mine, a resident,at Jerri i salem-i-an-Englishman and a' surgeon—to ask Wsn.if.he cpuld tell ;ine" i of-any;me.chaDic in the place who was likely to understand the piece of machinery -which required, ,repa£r. There wits' only one man, he said, who could be trusted in such a case. He was la German locksmith, who. had. been living,a year or two at Jerusalem, and who was the most Intelligent workman in thetiVn. He could do what I wanted if it could be done at all, and my friend the surgeon would go with me to_ his house atlonce. It was a dark and ! miserable r place, blacksmith's shop, dirty, and inconvenient for the purpose to to which it r?had: been applied. It was sur rounded rhjx the -implements: of )its owner's trade, an unpleasant one enough in a climate where the necessity-of using fire is so dis tressing a thing as it is in the East. But the ocksmith ! Who .'cpuld, observe anything else.in : the place ; when that man was there to fix the attention, to attract the eyes, which shuddered as ,they,looked.? ; If ever I saw a

man with, a great, sorrow,; a heavy anxiety, a deadly expectancy gnawing at his heart, lie ! was before me whtn I first caught sight of that German locksmith. He was a tall and powerfully built; man, but attenuated to ai shadow. His hollow eyes, sunk deep ia his head, were fu.ll, of, an indescribable horror. His hair was long and. grey, but his. beard was black'asjet. "Bui what a doomed look —what a fatal aspect ! 0 r*' And yet' to a physiognomist, the mark that had been set pa; rtfeis man's brow had' not been left there by a deed of crime. It' was the ghosb of some sigh*; of horror that; haunted his past—it was the apprehension of some impending misery that hung over his j future. Briefly explaining to him what was wanted, I left the revolver ia his hands, cautioning him that it was loaded in every chamber. The locksmith shuddered as he > took the weapon from my hands. " '-What, in Heaven's name, is matter with that'man ?' were my first words-is I tleffe the shop with my.friendthe surgeon ; \' there is some aad history attached to that [man's life, I know.' " 'There is,' said the .surgeon,,' and jt so that the circumstances connected iwith it are, perhap3,..better known to myself jthan to any other person you could apply to.' ! "About four years ago a party of travel lers arrived at'a certain convent in Jerusa lem, at' which you can be put up for the night and entertained very much .asJEuro pfean travellers who are crossing the Alp 3 are received at the Great St. Bernard. Amongst, the party, who had newly arrived was on©' who — as had been the case with m y Se lf_^had got the lock of his pistol so deranged'that it was impossible to stir it, and as he, like myself, and most other East ern travellers, very much "disliked the idea; 6i proceeding on his journey unarmed, he was anxious to have the defect in his weapon

intended"to at once. It was easier to feel this want than to get it supplied, there being no pne at that time in Jerusalem who ;vl-©"uld laje at all likely to understand the pistol in c[uestion, which was a revolver, and furnished witball the .latest improvements.' 'At length,1 however, after much consideration and cast ing about as to what waFtb" be done, one of thejay toothers,of the- convent ( suggesteda way out of the difficulty, which seemed pro- Jmising enough. There—were, he said, a couple of German travellers,; sleeping that night in the convent who were ~ locksmith's by trade, and he had little doubt that one of them would be able to do what was? neces* sarjr. to the the pistol,'-if anybody - could.: Tlpe weapon was-handed over" to $he lay brothei*, who s^t once jtodk it to the: ropms which the twol G-ermans and, ex plaining to them what was amiss, asked if they would undertake to~set it-right. JThe

traveller, he gddedi would pay them liberally for their trouble, y >A r The two Germans were sitting at supper wtien the lay brother came in with/the pistol in; his hand. TKe elder of them, whose name was Max, getting up from table, ; took the weapon from the monk, ariS carried it to thi window (as the light was failing) that he plight examined/it' more J completely. His friend remained at table, sitting witfr 'Ms1 badk towards Max, finishing his supper in a philosophical manlier enough. The German ; Who-wife'-examining the pistolhad not been oc cupied so for a couple of minutes when it we-it offiwith-a, loud ij|bise.'> At ttiatTmcni'ent' theipoor fellow who was sitting eating his supper at the table fell forward without ut tering a sound. The charge had entered his^ back. t /[OI>THAO Q£A YATfOJ.JOI • "jHe fell upon his face on the^ground, and when my friend, who told told me the story —and who as (surgeontb the;eml>asßy w^s sent

for atr^oncerrrwheii he arrived, it seemed to hi mat first as if twr men had been killed Instead of one, for both ihe Germans weTe stretched upon the floor, and he who was to be the survivor, holding the other locked in hi.« arms, -wore upon his ehastly countenance the d* a«'lier look of the two. It was quite a difficult thing to separate them. The wounded man had got the other's hand in his as if to reassure him, and to show him that he loved him all the same.

" The surgeon caused the wounded man— it was *but rtoo evident that he had not long to live—to be removed to the infirmary, and laid upon a bed to die. It was a bed that stood beneath a window, and across which, when the sun was setting, the shadow of a cypress fell. A very brief examination showed that-any attempt to relieve the dying man wonld be useless, and they could only staunch the blood that flowed from his wound and watch him with that breathless eager ness —there is none like it—with which men watch their brother, when each short breath —drawn less and less often— seems as though it were the last. As for the other German he was sunk in a heap upon the ground beeide the bed in speechless stupifi cation. One of his hands was on the couch and the expiring effort of the dying man was to take this passive hand in his. Those who were around him seeing then a change upon his face leant, hastily over ■ him, for they heard him whisper faintly.

" 'Poor Max,' he Eaid—-poor Max.' The last act of the man who died was to pity the man who lived. '' ••■' " And well he might. "For some time it wss very uncertain whether the man who hstd thus slsjn his best and dearest friend would not speedily follow him info another world—so fearfully was he .affect.;-.]. ] For n still longer period it was rloubHess in the last degree whether he would retain his reason. And, indeed, at the time when the stoiy was told me he c on!d hardly be said to be altogether of sound mibd. At that very time the man was bfcmterl by a fixed presentiment Ithat he should die one day as bis friend had died. No reasoning with him had the least effect, ibe presentiment had taken a hold upon his mind which nothing could shake.

"So much," continued the narrator of this sad story. " from what I learnt from my friend the surgeon concerning the past lifr of the singular man by whose appearance I had been so powerfully struck. Of the re m.iining'portion of his history the particulars came under my own knowledge, and with the circumstances of its termination I myself was to a certam extent mixed up. " My revolver was sent back to me re pajrec}, and as I was just about to start away on a short journey into the environs, and was in some haate, I set off without trying it. " .Tn ; ,the course of the day, however, partly wishing to ascertain how far my pistol was restored to a condition of usefulness, partly from a desire to bring down a bird which I saw on the wing, apparently within pistol-shot,, I lifted my revolver to let fly at him. " The weapon missed fire. " On examination I found that the defect this time was precisely the reverse of what it had been before. The lock went so loosely now, and had so little spring in it, that the hammer did Uibt fall npon the ;cap with suffi cient force to explode it. I tried the pistol several times, and finding it useless sent it again on my return to Jerusalem to the Ger man locksmith, charging my servant to ex plain to him its new defect, and above all things to caution him as to its being loaded, as I had done myself on the former occasion.

; " Mark how that pistol played with the man's life ! Mark how it returns to him again and again ! Why not have done its work at once ? i "The revolver was brought back to me the next day in a state, as I was told, of per fect repair. j 'AThis time ; I took it into the garclen: fs\ try it. The first time it went off welr! enough, but, atr the second time (for I waa de termined to prove it thoroughly) I found that its original defect had returned, and the lock would not stir, pull the trigger as I might/'.:,, m '.'■. li'<> , ' f<i '■■'■ "'There ia something radically wroag here,' I said.' ,'I will go myself and see the German locksmith about it without delay.' !" 'That pistol agaiß,' said the.locksmith iooking up as I entered his miserable abode.

"^hat (would I not have given to have been.able to say anything that, would havp altered the expression of thati'hagg«r'id coun tenance. But/ it 'was impossible.' I made sbine attempts to draw tbe poor fello-yr into conversation, though I fell; that even if these ha&fnot proved (as they did) wholly, useless my comparative ignorance of his language wojuld-; have stood in the way of my saying' anything that could have been of any ser-' vice. Our conversation, then, limited itself to !the firatter ,inr hand, and we agreed that the1 only thing'to be done to the pistol now was toVtake, its lock off, and make a perfectly new one in imitation of ib. This, however, would take some time, and ib would be neces sary that, the locksmith should keep the weapon by him for three or four days at TleasK.,, He took it from my hands as he;told me so, and placed it carefully on a shelf at the back of his shop. " y "Above all things,'l said, as I left the

house—' above all things, remember that the revolver is loaded.' " • I shall not forget it,' he said, turning round to me with a ghastly smile. j ;. " This, then, was the third time that that pistol was taken back to the German lock smith for repair. " It was the last. " I can see," continued the narrator of this strange story, looking round on us, after a pause—"l can see that you all know what happened, and that I have only to tell you how the fatal termination of my story was brought about.

" The German locksmith, being very much occupied, owing to the reputation he had ob tained as a clever, workman, had taken into his employment a sort of apprentice or assistant, to help in the simple and more mechanical parts of his trade. He was not much use. A stupid, idle, trifling fellow at best. One day, soon after I had left my revolver for the last time to be mended, this lad came in from executing some errand, standing idly about the place, took down my pistol from the shelf on which it lay, and began to look at with some curiosity, not being accustomed to the sight of a revolver.

" The locksmith, turning round from his work, saw the lad thus occupied, and hastily told him to put the pistol back in the place be had taken it from. He had not had time he said to attend to it yet. It was loaded and it was dangerous to pull it about in that manner. Having said this the German lock smith turned round, and went on with what he was about, with his bach towards the lad whom he had cautioned, and who, he natur ally supposed, had restored the pistol to its shelf.

" The boy's curiosity was, however, ex cited by the revolver, and instead of doing as he was bid he letained it, and- went on prying into ifc : examining how the lock acted, and what were its defects. ' "The poor German was goifig with his work, muttering to himself, • Strange how that pistol returns to me again and again.' " The words were not out of his lips whea the fatal moment, so long expected, arrived, and the charge from the revolver entered his back. >H fell forward in a mo ment, saying a3 he fell, 'At last.' " The foolish boy rushed out of the shop with the pistol in hand screaming for assist ance so loudly that the neighbours were soon alarmed, and hastened in a crowd to the house of the poor locksmith. " My friend the surgeon was instantly seat Cor, and from him I gained the particulars which follow: " Turning the pool' fellow over on his face, and cutting open the garments to examina the wound, the surgeon said to those who were standing round : ' The ball has entered his back ; if by chance it should have glanced off and round by the ribs, as will sometimes 'happen, this wound would not be fatal.' "'lt is fatal,' said the wounded man, "with a sudden effort. ' Have I been waiting for this stroke so long, and shall it fail to do its work when it comes ? It is fatal,' he gasped again, ' and I shall die—but not here.' "I have to 1 elate a horrible and incredible thing, which impossible aa it seems, is yet true. > " The German locksmith started up from where he lay, pushing aside all those who atood around him with an unnatural and inconceivable strength. His body swayed for an instant from Bide to Bide, and then he darted forwards. The crowd gave way before him, and he rushed from the house. Be tore along the streets —the few people whom he met giving away before him in Horror as he flew along—his clothes cut open at the back, blood-stained and dripping, and with death in his regard. Not one pause, not an abatement in his speed till he reached the infirmary, passed the man who ktept the door, and up the stairs he flew, nor stopped till he came to a bed which stands beneath the window, and across which the

shadow of a cypress falls when the sun "begins to sink. 'A '\i. <>. j" It was the bed on which his friend had bijeathed his last. ■=. I"'I must die here/ said the German locksmith, as he fell upon it. 'It is here that I must die.' ,"And there be died. The haunting .thbught which had made his existence a living death was justified. The presenti ment had come true at last ; and when the thunder-cloud, which had hang so long over this man's life, had discharged its bolt upon his head, it seemed to us, asvif the earth were then lighter, for the shade has passed away. ' v Is death the name for a release like thiis ? Who could look upon his happy face, as he lay upon that bed, and say ao> t It was not the end of a life—but the beginning."

i The telegraph is being introduced into Turner's Falls, Mass. The other day, haridly five minutes had elapsed after the erection of one 'of the posts before some enterprising genius posted a bill thereon, and soon two street arabs were attracted to the spot, when the following dialogue ensued: ''I,say, Mickey, what an invention the tele graph is." " Vis, an here's a dispatch broken oat on the post." A Yankee paper, describing the effects of a storm, obseryed that it shattered mountains, tore up oaks dismantled churches, laid whole villages waste, and overturned a haystack."" ~

TWO REMARKABLE GHOST STORIES.

(BY A PHYSICIAN;)

The two instances of simple vision resulting from thought-impTessing at the moment of death, which I am about to bring before the reader, were related to me by an undeniable witness. They were told me by the Rev. W. W—n, mathematical tator at one of the Cambridge colleges : a man of talent, and of undoubtedly hard brains, for he has written more than, one work upon" the' most crabbed

questions of Fluxions; and the Differential \ Calculus—workß highly esteetned. , ; i Number One happened to ' be' the Professor himselfi " *i;I !-' ■'>'■ ■"''•■'■' ':- ". When I was about ten yearu" (W. W—n loquitor) "Iwas taken much notice of by a lady of rank and fortune". My : own mother being dead, this excellent person almost sup plied to me her place. Very of ten I stayed for weeks in her house. The last time that this was the case, Lady M. was sufferin from indisposition. First sha kept her room, then her bed. I had not seen her for some days, but that she was dangerously ilj I was not told. Indeedj from her native kindness of heart, lam sure all those about me were studiously warned not to alarm or; distress me by speaking to me of Lady M.'s precarious state. Yet, though I felt that the watchful care of this lady was still over me, that through her invisible attention my meals were brought to me as usual, and my pony came to the door at the accustomed hour, I was rather pining for the society of my kind friend, and often asking,- 'When shall I be allowed to see Lady M. ?' The answers to this question were evasive. But the last thing a child thinks of is death. I had no fear that Lady M. would die.

" One night I was lying in my little bed. It was winter. The . fire cait a bright light all over the room. I had not long been in bed : I had not been asleep. Indeed, I know' that I was at that moment as wide awake as lam now. Suddenly, though I neither saw nor heard the door open, I saw lady M. quite distinctly, advancing as if from the door towards my bed. She was dressed' in a ; white wrapper. The fire shone upon her face. I never doubted that it was herself. Stretch ing out my arms, I cried, ' Oh ! Indy M.. are you indeed come once more to see your little prince ?' (her favourite name for inc.) But she did not answer a word. She came onto within a certain distance of my bed, then stood still, and looked upon me- with such an intense expression of kind affection that I never saw equalled. iTheti, somehow; I can hardly tell in what manner, she seemed

to retreat from me, and, as itr were,' to go out through the wall. She 'was gone. But 1 did not feel frightened. I supposed that Lady M. having come, as she sometimes did, to my room, to see I had everything comfortable, had feared to disturb me by'speaking, and so had gone out quietly somehow by' the door, or a door, of. course. So I fell asleep, greatly comforted and pleased by having scan Lady M.

" The nexb morning there was a mixture of silence and mysterious sound in the house. Strange persona crept about. I was hindered from going near the door of Lady M.'s cham ber. At last I was told, in answer to my re iterated entreaties that I should see Lady M., for she was now well, I said (had- she not come herself to my room the preceding night?), that Lady M. was dead—had ex-i: pired at the very moment (as far as could be ascertained) when I had seep he.r, the even-! ing before, come to my bedside and^look at me so yearningly." ..,. ..' uwitt ban I, of course, asked the Professor -'if,-- by possibility, Lady M. (unwatched during'th»t momont) might really (as in the case.of some other supposed spectre) hare come to his bedside, and returned to die in her own room? The Professor declared that such a thing was impossible, for Lady M.'s own mother, knowing her daughter's .momenta were cumbered, had never left the sick-bed 'for v bingle moment, and in her arms the poor patient breathed her last, at the identi cal time when the appearance visited Mr.; W-—n. . : ,\- ..,.' ' .■- I-. :.v,;-^ Urn nm

The second story told me by mathematical Reverend W——n, runs thus :— - ] i At St. John's College, Cambridge, was a professor of tbe name of Fallowea, ci-divant senior wrangler, " ajrosy, man i right.plump. to.see." He was an especial friend of W—n,. who was in the habit, of seeing him con stantly. One morning calling upon him, Mr W—n found his friend in his dressing-gown at a later hour than usual,, reclining on his sofa, and looking pale and dispirited. To continue in the Tforda .of Mr W—■ —n,:. MI asked Fallowes, 'What is the matter, with you ? Are you i|l ? ' If o ! lam not. ill.', ,J rallied him on his despondency, and entreated hinji to tell me the cause.. He .said, j,' You, will laugh at me if I tell you,' ( Jasgure4 hini> I''promised''him, I, would not., At length, after much pressing, he said, .'lf. ever I saw any one, I saw my friend M. last nigjit at the foot of my, bed.' ' Why,? re r pM^d I, 'he is in Scotland.' IkncjW: it! said Fallowes, 'and that is the wonder of it, and the horrible thing. For he appeared to me with dripping hair, and swollen features, and with all the appearance of a drowned corpse. And I cannot get it put of my head. thai something has happened.to him.' 'My deat friend,' I said, ' you have, only had •» horrible dream, and be sure nothing will come of it.' However, do all I could,J[ ( fou^d it impossible to remove the impression from

Fallowes' mind. For days he continued melancholy, and at length one morning ihe put a letter into my hand with merely these words : 'You see I was right !' The letter •was to narrate that on the very night when Fallowes had received the impression, his i friend,had been drowned in crossing a ford ! in Scotland."

Many of my contempol. aiies at Cambridge will remember that portions and distortions of this story (of which I now give the cor-, rect version) were dimly bruited about, and that it was reported (which was the truth) that Fallowes could never endure to be interrogated on the subject. ' They will also bear witness that Fallowes did not look like a man addicted to seeing ghosts.

A BENEDICT'S NOTES ON MARRIAGE.

[Prentice Miilford's Letter in San Francisco

Bulletin.]

I am still married and intend remaining so for some months to come. But marriage is a fearful and risky business. No one knows what may turn up on either side. Temper and.temperament are such peculiar things. However, all as yet is quiet on the Potomac. The marriage service has never been fully written out. JPeople who marry don't know what they are promising. The bond should read-"You promise to take this man or this woman for life; you must not after this walk er talk with any other woman, if you are a man; or any other man, if you are a" woman, nave in. the most circumspect and guarded way ; you must not- become ititere- i-tfi. in another woman, if you are interested you must not show it; you must consider your wife or your husband as the incomparable man or woman in the universe ; there must be none other like unto him or

her; if there be, or you think there be, you must, if possible, not believe it, or try not to believe it fyou must bow be wholly devoted; to each other;; you must, also how lay aside all remembrance of your old name 3; you xnußt get rid of the idea that you ever had any regard for them'; if you had, you! must try and make yourself believe you had hot, and if such a notion will stick to you, you must never mention it to each, other, or there will be.a row."

"Young man and young woman ! you think that the divine intoxication of courtship is to last for ever. You think it is always going to be an ecstatic pleasure to trudge through mud and rain to buy Seraphine Ann a paper of ping. But this state of things can't last." It is too high pressure. It must cool down When you are married, andshe is yours and you are hers, and the novelty of the affair is over, and you are fairly settled down into '.'old married folks," then comes the test. Then, if you have been a crabbed old' bachelor, full of little whims, habits, arid peculiarities as is the fretful porcupine of quills, then, will come the tug of war. Don't you recollect how, when single, you came .home after some ted'tj business, heated, tired, irritable and disgusted with the world, and got alone in your room, that you used to'niug books and blacking brushes about, and swear and thrash around for an hour or two before you simmered down into (Comparative calmness ? Well, matrimony won't cure this—at least at first. But you jmusa't cut up so now. Even a temporary raving maniac is not a proper or a pleasant 'person for any young woman to be shut up alone with. And if, on- entering she sees trouble on your face, and asks you " What's the matter ?" and you reply "Oh, nothing," because you don't want to be spoken to, and, above all things, it annoys and irritates you to be bo interrogated, and still she persists in asking " What's, the matter 1" and still you try to say "Oh, nothing," as mildly as you can,."only it won't- be said mildly, and it comes off your tongue like a pistol-shot; and you jyouldijust then like to bite somebody's head off. Oh won't you, at such a time, wonder where the amiability, the oil, the sugar; the honey, the sunshine of courtship has all gone to ? And how will you feel, you have Been accustomed to go in and out of your vile bachelor's den without enquiry or .hindrance ? How will you feel as "you start to go out for the purpose of getting a drink round the corner, ttf hear her say, " Where are you going? " And this a dozen times a day, and every time it is asked, you must stand a^d-rack your brains for a new lie. And those girls on the opposite side of the street, who are always at the windowy and .with whom, before marriage, you carried ion a soft of optical flirtation, which, to be sure^ went no further than the eyes—how do you feel noWj'aa you catch yourself looking into those windows, and find yonr wife regarding you in a peculiar manner, and you know that she knows that you know how she knows all your goings on. at those windows !

I have learned a great deal during my matrimonial: career..:! would not have j remained single if only ■ for the sake of the information I've gained. I know now,., in the first place, that one's wife is never in? tb.6 least wrong. .If there's a row, its yon,' all you, every bit your, fault. You may labour, by the hour, trying to make her own. up that there being one pound avoirdu pois or sixteen ounces of blame between you,, you are willing to take fifteen .ounces of that blame, provided she will but shoulder the remaining ounce, and she won't. When she BayjS; she will be only five minutes getting ready to go out, it means an hour, and when she says she's all ready, it means fifteen] minutes more for putting on the final touches."; She! may never be considered really dressed until she ia out of the house and fo^iid the corner, and even then the chances are that sheis forgotten gloves or handkerchief. If theje was a bed-room a mile long, and her entire wardrobe could be packed in a band box\ still you would find portions pi that w«rttf6be scattered along; the whole mile of drestoing-room. She's a nice thing to look at wn4* put together, but this wonderful crea tiouHs evolved from a chaos interminable, of

pins, ribbons, rags, powder, thread, bras nea combs and laces. If there were seven thousand drawers in your room, and you asked'but for dne to be kept sacred-and inviolate' for your own private use, that particular one would be full of hair-pins, ribbons aad soiled cuffs. Some* provision, some protection : iii this .matter, should be inserted in the marriage service. _ . :

ROMANTIC HISTORY.

The Paris "Siecle" says—^'iOne o£' the most attractive i actresses of- one ofi (our vaudeville theatres was lately seized •< with an ambition very common to her • com panions. Tried of ephemeral triumphs and; transient connections* she •dreamed qf marriaeie-^a grand- marriage' winch would give her an aristocratic title arid a solid fortune.! Possessing considerable attractions, she was not long in finding a gentleman, who suited her ideas. A ydung marquis presented himself, briliant, tar ing a -good ;name belonging to the.; pure blood of the Faubourg St. Germain,'and perfectly imbued with the philosophy of ihe day; which consists in disdaining: all *j prejudices: Themarquis was one of those 1 who are not alarmed, at the report of adventures, or at the hundred and one names inscribed on the tablets of gallantry of a theatrical nymph; He thought that true; conjugal happiness might arid- ought to be; found with a woman who had seen much of life in.a short time ;he therefore set forth his pretensions, and made honor able proposals.' "We will throw the;veil of marriaga over : the past,"; nobly exclaimed the young marquis.. The act ress was prudent; andi before accepting his offer she called and made; due enquiries from .the1 solicitor of herd'suitor.- "She i wished [for nothing better than to be a ' march;ones.s, but she had made consider able savings, and did not feel inclined ?to> place them in an opulent common fund: The solicitor completely satisfied her that the marquis had a:fine income? of 80,000 ifrancs ayear, free of all incumbrances, and was completele free from debt - She hesi tated no . longer^ 'and her; hand w^as graciously accorded to the noble i suitor, who declared himself toi be the happiest; of men, and expressed his wish that th© marriage should take place very shrotly, "Jn the first place, howeve t, and before our marriage." i said he to the actress, "there is a sacrifice which delicacy and my dignity demand from you. I can iac cept your past life, but not the profits yon •have derived from it. 3 I; will not consent that you should hiring me as your dowry the tribute of nations, nor that the jewel box of my wife.should be composed of the gifts of; a crowd of g%nerou3 amateurs ; I cannot see you adorned-with the insignia' of your former follies. .Send back, there fore your, diamonds; bank depositsnaod other securities which you' may- have. As to your furniture, sell it, and give the proceed s: to the pobr. il wish you 'to be stripped of all,' like a;repentant 'Madeline. You must owe to me alone your^ fortune and your ornaments." The pride -of the gentleman was inflexible! on ithis: point, and the actress resigned.iherself to'the sacrifice for, which she was to be; so amply indentified by the title of Marchiohes,s the 800,000 francs a year income of her husi band, ; and the promised splendour of heri wedding f presents. She- executed his wishes with good grace. The furniture was lately sold for the benifit of the pooH and; the jewels and:securities returned-to her ole friends, who were not a little*ars touished at the unlooked-for restitution! and it is said that some of the gentlecieh who had almost ruined themselves with their prodigalities, were,well satisfied at the circumstance. All this was done, and their seemed nothing to delay the mar-: riage, when suddenly the young marquis; disappeared without a word of intimation.! Whether he yeilded to the representations^ of his family, or friends, or whether the iwhole affair was for the purpose of reven !ging himself on the actress, or of playing a joke upon her, remains a mystery. The rage of the duped_ actress may be bettery. imagined than described. It is said: tnatf; she is, about ito commence legal proceed?, ings against' her deceiver. This is what. her comrades recommend her, and'what.[ the curio as are in hopes of. , : r

A BIG BLOW.

Last evening, 'while the chief; engineer;!. of a luri£-tester -was expatiating upon thet benefits/'to{ be derived from the free use v of his instrument.a cadaverous individual;"' stepped out of the crow and remarked: ? to him :— ' , ] '•Mister^ do you' think it:.would Help '' rf ;me.any to blow into that can P'' s "Tes, sir. certdinly; it would expand ." 'yjour. chest, give elasticity to ypyr lutigs, , and'solengtheri ;your life. Why, • ypiu'd.' ''., soon be able to blow 500 lbs. and' win,'" 1 the five dollar prize. " ' ' "Why,1 does a fellow get five dollars (* w.hen he blowsthat many pounds ? " ""\ ' l i "-Y7es i,:sin"' '. Wouldn't you like' to make *' a' trial "P." with, a very knpwing kind of * wink to'the'crowd. ' ' . " / *

I" rdon*t.cai'e if I do," said Green, walk-;* ing round and planking down a, dime of the greasy shin plaster sort. | ;Then, taking the mouth-piece in his hand,1 he jiriade ready. He opened His t \ mputh until the hole in his face looked like a dry dock for ocean steamers, and 'began to take in wiud. The. inflation , ; was like the-Graphic balloon, "but not sH']:J. disastrous. That fellow's chest began to 1 grpw and distend until he resembled a pouter pigeon more than a man, at which, point he put the mouth-piece to his lips, and blew with such force that his eyes came and stood on his cheek bone's to see what on earth was the matter-—but that can top went up like a great flash, and the needle of the indicater spun around "like button on a country, sclioolhouse door, unifcil it stood still at 500 pounds. The crowd jeered, and the keeper of the; can paid over the ,5 dollars in stamps,s with a mutter of astonishment. Green pocketed them coolly ;| .

A gentleman was describing to Douglas Jerrold the story of his courtship, and marriage—how his wife had been brought up jin a convent and, was on the point of takpng the yeil when his presence burst on her enraptured sight, and she accepted him as her husband. : Jerrold listened \to the; end of the story, and then quietly remarked, " Simply thought you better ■than nun." ■■"■' >. :--": '■■'■ '■'■ -• - >*- -i!-: '-- - '.-

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