fortnight, I miy run up to JLondon to see Maud and Mrs Grant, and make my mind easy about them. " While they are away I can have alter ations made. I can hive, all the repairs and alterations done while I am in Egypt over hauled and perfected. Maud may like many things changed ; and, of course, any. thinir Maud wauls to be done shall be done. Of course. Fancy Maud saying she would like something or other done, and my say iDg, ' No, Maud ; I cannot do that 1' .Fancy such a thing ! 1 wish she would ask me for something. It is to dull to have nothing to do tor Maud.

" B-fore I knew Maud—it seems a long time, and yet it is only a few days : it is strange to think how long ago my previons life seems- bow much time the past ten or a dozen days cover. I have often seen painters, waen they had painted-in the solid objects of their pictures, go over parts wiih thin transparent colour, and, as if by magic, the ruin or the mountain that a moment ago pressed offensively forward retired into its proper place in the composition, and gath ■ored round it mellow repose and forgetful ness. This j^laze takes the heat and worry "out of the picture. It gives it moist perfume and collected dignity. The tew days I have spent here have acted like the glaze on the substantial background of facts in my past life. Wuy ? " Why? Never mind why ; I am con teat. I like the collectedness that has come upon me. I canuot arise from tho title or the estates. I am leaving all the money behind me, and for all practical pur poses the title alao. When I go away 1 shall be nothing more than a Government deck in the foreign service. When I get thore, the few Europeans 1 know may not have hard of Sir Alexander's death. It is not the title or the money. "What has done it? " Before I knew Maud I always fanciad anyone called Maud should be young and iragl! and exquisitely (air ; and my Mand ia mine, for are we not of the one house?) is young and fragile and exquisitely fair. "Maud. " What a musical name it ia I The lips ■and ears nuver tire ot it. The oftener you say it the more beautiful it seem?. It i 3 a name you muat speak softly. You cannot shuut it out or fancy yourself saying it angrily. Imagine for a moment my speak ing angrily to my Maud ! "Speaking angrily to Maud ! The mere supposition ia like a blow. Maud is sanctified to me doubly, as being the last ■daughter of our family, and as being friend less. " When I go away I shall leave my fo tune and my title behind me. Shall I leave anything else ? Yes, everything else. Maud. " If I leave my fortune and my title and Maud behind me, what do I take with me ? " Nothing worth the carriage. "Bounteous Gud, I thank Thee with all my heart, and all my soul, and all the faculties of my nature, for having given love to man, and having given me to love 1" "The evening of the day Grey had visited the Island after his return from London, "the two cousins sat alone in the little I .drawing-room after dinner. I

" Maud, will you take groat cira of yourself while I am away J" he asked very earnestly.

She was sitting by a small ebony table in front of the fire. He reclined in an easy chair at the opposite side of the grate.

She looked up with a childish, amused smile, and answered :

" Yea; I will try and take care of myself -while you are away. This is a very safe .place to live in. No one can get near us without a boat, and everyone knows that a farmer's house would.be better for thieves than Island Castle."

" And yet, Maud, though no man come, something very precious might be stolen by a thief while I am away." He.spoke grasrely, with tbat old far-away look in his eyes.

*• And who is the thief, and what is the thing V she asked with a bright smile. "linffian Death," he answered, for a moment overwhelmed by some dark dread and chilling foreboding. She grew paler in her black dress; the hand resting on the table seemed whiter than life.

"But. William, I am quite well; I never felt better in all my life ; and I think, considering what has lately hap pened, that is very wonderful." She was anxious, and looked into his face with eyes of grave solicitude.

Still he was following up the chain of his thoughts, and for the moment, unaware, he uttered them :

" There is death in every day, danger in every hour; you must encounter the danger. The way in which you inset the danger decides your relations with death. Life is a series of compromises with death. 1 wish I were not goiDg away." «'So do I, indeed, William," she said earnestly. " But you must not be uneasy on my part; I am quite well, and shall keep quite well while you are away. I should ba moat unhappy if I thought you went away uncomfortable on my account."

The tone of the girl's voice Drought him back to a consciousness of the situation. ■ His manner changed. He looked ud at her and smiled.

" Unhappy about you, Maud ! Not I. You must not think that. I was talking generalities; I was not alluding to your -case. You see, when a man has been" a long time in a foreign country, where the speech of the people in the streets is un known to him, and where, among the few people who speak European languages, there are a couple for whose society he cares, he falls into one bad habit certainly, that of looking at all things in the abstract; and into an other bad habit probably, that of mnttoring aloud to himself. lam afraid I have been treating you to a small examplo of both vices." He smiled brightly, and held out 3iis hand to her, She took the small white hand off the ebony table and placed it in his. The brown fingers closed over the white ones, and looking down at the joined hands he said: "Like the rough 'brown sheath of the •cocoa-nat, and the snow-white fruit with in." ""What?" " My hand round yours," She said nothing. He released her hand. " You will take care of that hand, Maud, ■while I am away? Some time someone -will value that hand more than the regalia in the Tower. It will be to him above all price. He would like to set guards over it as they set guards over the royal jewels, and yet would allow no one to act as sentinel but himself." Such talk was new to her. She dia not «ay anything. "We have grown good friends in the few days we have been meeting one another ?" "Oh, yes." 11 The best of friends ?" , 11 The best ot friends." •' And all the time I am away you will never cease to think of ma as your best friend V ','Never."

it almost made her cry, she could not tell why, to hear him askjog such a quos tion.

" And should you be in any need of aid or advice, you will let me know at once ?" "At once." There was a pause, during which Mrs Grant entered the room.

The baronet got up, and sitting down beside the widow, said to both the women :

"I had a chat with Mr Grey to-day apropos of my going, and nothing could h.ive buen ulcer or more gratifying. He is, without exception, the most straightforward and honourably minded man I have ever met. He baa, Airs Grant, not only under taken to keep bis eye on the workmen when they come here, bat he has, without any hint or suggestion on my part, proposed not to do anything final with Maud's fortune until I return. And, in addition to all this, he will pay all the legacies out of his own pocket and at his own risk. Maud, I cannot say how grateful I am that you have fallen into such excellent bands. You may place your«*lf wholly under his direction while lam away. You need not consult me on any subject of business : you will be quite safe with him, aud he has a thousand times my knowledge of business." " Did I not tell you ao V' asked Mrs Grant of Miss Mifilmret.

" Yes," answered Maud softly,

" What was it T" asked the baronet, turn ing with a gratified smile towards the widow.

••I told dear Maud long ago that ehe might have full confidence in Mr Grey," an swered Mrs Grant, with lively self-satis faction.

"And you told her what was perfectly true. I mu't'go now. I shall not see you again, Mrs Graot, uatil I come back from Bgypt- 1 canuot tell [you now happy it makes me to know how good, how loyal Maud's two friends are—yourself and Mr Grey."

tie had shaken both Maud's hands, and kissed her lips for the first time, and shaken bands with Mrs Grant, and was gone.

Her consin William was gone, and she should not see him again for months. Whit a pity he had to go t When he was by her side, or in Oaneford, she felt quite safe ; nothing could harm her while he was near. When her father died she had felt alone and cold in the world. She had been susceptible to attack on all sides. She bad no confidence in herself; and although Mr Grey had d ne everything man conld.do for her, she owned no claim npon him. But this cousin, this man of her own family, who, finding her timid and unguarded, sought the privilege of shielding her from the world and'the bleak unknown lying beyond Island Castle— was a new experience, a delightful im provement on the present. But no sooner had she learnt to lean upon his reassuring strength than he must hurry away. What a pity ! Her c jusin William would come back, no doubt ; but Kgjpt was for off, very far off, and the power of bis protection was reduced greatly bydi»tauce. Why should she think she would need protection o£ auy kind ? Surely Mrs Grant and Mr Grey were protection enough in a quiet well-ordered place like Daneford and its neighbourhood !

Yes j but Cousin William had been more than a protector ; he had been » companion aa well, and tbere was something in his talk and manner neither Mrs Grant nor Mr Grey pos-essed. She was always content with what Mrs Grant said, or what Mr Grey said. Their words always exhausted the topic ; but when he had spoken ulie felt led on to wonder what lay behind and beyond what he had said.

Sbe bad told Mrs Orant truly he had in terested her; and although he always had spoken to her aa though there could be no question of the supremacy of his will over hers, she liked tlut.

When Mrs Grant told her to do a cer tain thing, tbo rioisg of tt was dry and an interesting, Wnen Cousin William had told her ta do a thing, she always did it with the 'sound of his voice in her ears ; or she had thought what (mystery of Egypt he had before bis eyea when he gave her the command ; or she had tried to fathom his mind as to the manner iv which he would best like to see the thing done. But now all was cold and monotonous and dnli. Really the place had got so quiet of late that she found her chief delight in her old books of .Egypt, and in the geo graphy of that country, and in following on the map the overland route he had taken to Africa.

, (To be continued.)

From, Pig to Pork in Chicago.

Of course I went to see the stockyards, and my visit, as it happened, had something ot a special character, for I saw a pig put through its performances in thirty-five seconds. A lively piebald porker was one of a number grontiog and quarrelling in a pen, and I was asked to keep my eye on him. And what happened to that porker was this : He was suddenly seized by a hind leg, and jerked up on to a small crane. This swung him swiftly to the fatal door through which no pig ever returns. On tbe other side stood a man—

That two-handed engine at the door fa tanas ready to smite once, and smite no more. and the dead pig shot across a trough and through another doorway, and then there ■was a splaßh! he had fallen head-first into a vat of boiliog water. Some unseen machinery passed him along swiftly to the other end of tbe terrible bath, and there a water-whfeel picked him up and Sung him out on to a sloping counter. Here another machine seized him, and with one revolu tion scraped him as bald as a nnt. And down the counter he went, losing his head as he slid past a man with a hatchet, and then, presto! he was up again by the heels. In one dreadful handful a man emptied him, and while another squirted him with fresh water, the pie—registering his own weight as he passed the teller's box—shot down the steel bar from which he hung, and whisked round the corner into the ice honse. One long cut of a knife made two " sides of pork " out of that piebald pig. Two backs of a hatchet brought away bis back bone. And there, in thirty-five seconds from his last grant—dirty, hot-headed, noisy—tbe pig was hanging up in two pieces, clean, tranquil, iced! The very rapidity of the whole process robbed it of all its horrors. It even added the ludicrous to it. Here one minute was an opinionated piebald pig making a prodigious fuss about having his hind leg taken hold of, and lo 1 before he had even made up bis mind whether to squeal or only to squeak, he was hanging up in an ice house, snlit in two ! He had resented the first trifling liberty tbat was taken with him, and in thirty-five seconds he was ready for the cook ! That the whole process is virtually painless is be yond all doubt, for it is only for the first fraction of the thirty-odd seconds that the pig is sentient, and I doubt if even electri city could aa suddenly and painlessly ex tinguish life as the lightning of that uner ring poniard, "the dagger of mercy," and the instantaneous plnnge into the scalding bath. —"Sinners and Saints," |>y Phil Rob inson.

AN AMERICAN KELLY GANG.

Desperadoes Captured and

Lynched,

Waveely (la.), June 7. —The capture of the nototious Barber boys occurred at a fatm-house, four miles south-west of Tripoli and sixteen miles south-east of this place. Daring the day tbey had been concealed in the barn of a German farmer named August Teglemere, and about eight in the evening they went to the house and asked for some supper. Henry Teglemere, son of the farmer, recognised them, and succeeded in conveying thu fact to his father, whom he instructed to give the alarm to the neign bours. Henry remained at home to assist his mother in preparing the meal for the desperadoes. Seveial men, all of whom were Germans, accompanied the elder Teglemere to his home. They had no weapon-*, save one shotgun, which, it i 3 claimed, was not loaded.

The intention wus to surround the house, and when the b jys came out,to spring upon them and secure them before their sus picions could be aroused. This plan was baffled, through the excitement of one man, who rushed into the house to secure the bandits, upon which the latter both drew revolvers, and began firing promiscuously. Henry Tenlemere sprang upon Bill Barber, and caaght him by the throat. The melee then became general, and Bill was soon on the floor, but ne managed to continue firing over his shoulder. Ike managed to escape his pursuers for a moment, and, leaping through an open window, began firing at the men inside. By this time several of the attacking party were wounded; and, finally, one named Henry Hage went out side the door and succeeded in pinioning Ike by the arras, fcienry Karstin» received a ball through the body, and exclaimed— "Boys, I'm goiag to die ;" but he still con tined to fight, and aided in tying both the boys by the arras with a rope, which Mrs Tealemere had gone to the barn and pro cured.

Sixteen shots were fired by the outlaws. Ike emptying the two weapons he had on his person. Of the five brave persons who attacked them, all were wounded, the in juries being as follows : Henry Karsting. shot through the body, and died at 1.15 o'clock in the morning ; John H. Karsting, shot in left brea«t, bip, and arms; Henry Teglemere, shot in neck ; Henry Pops, shot in the breast, the bullet striking the bone and comiDg out at the back ; August Tegle mere, fiogt-r bitten and crushed. It is thought all the wounded will recover. Word was send to Waverly, and as soon as pos sible Deputy Sheriffs \, Davis and Corsten sen went for the captured men, and landed them in gaol at six o'clock yesterday morning.

Dubuque (la.), June 7.—The notorious Barber b-.y* were removed from the gaol at Waverly last evening by the Sheriff and deputies, quietly carried by wagon twenty ; two miles to Waterloo, and thence by rail to Independence, where they were gaoled, At a late hour last night the anticipated raid on the gaol at Waverly, for the pur pose o£ iynchiog the boys, occurred. TXhe party were admitted to the gaol, convinced that tbe prisoner's had been removed, and departed chagrined. j. TTBUTJQE, June 9.—The reporters sent to Waverly retnrned this evening with de tails of the hanging of the Barber brothers at 11.30 last night, after they had been brought back from Independence and lodged In the gaol. At 10 o'clock yesterday word was rapidly sent through the towns outside of Waverly, and by 5 o'clock the streets began to fill with people. • They continued to arrive, on foot and in all kinds of con veyances, until 9 p.m , when the town was fuli. About 8.30 p.m. a large crowd col lected in the vicinity of the gaol, composed of spectators who had gathered to witness the lynching. Those who did the work met at some distance away, and appeared to hold a consultation. Soon they were seen approaching, with the leader at their head : with a coil of rope in his bands. The man who took charge was named Shepard, a brother of the man killed by the Barbers last fall in Fayette county. None of the lynchers were masked or made any effort to conceal their identity, but simply kept Bteadily at work with coolness and determi nation, making no threats. About one hundred men were engaged in the lynching, mostly from the vicinity of Madder and Keratins;, though a number of the people of Waverly took part, some of them being rather prominent citizens. AT THE GAOL. When the Sheriff heard the mob coming he took a woman named Cronin out of her cell, and concealed her at his house. She shot her paramour at a hotel the first of the week, and was the only other occupant of the gaol. The mob demanded the keys of Sheriff Adair, but he refused to give them up. He made no effort to protect the Bar bers ac any time during the evening. The outer doors were easily broken in, but the inside door was strongly barred, and re quired an hour and a half's hard work with picks aud sledge-hammers to break it down. Shortly after 11 o'clock it gave way, and access was gained to the cell where the two men were confined together. The first man who put his head in was knocked senseless, but they were at once overwhelmed with numbers. Hopes were thrown over their necks, and they were dragged out. Mayor Shepard and others expostulated with the mob, but it availed nothing to save the desperadoes. " KILL US, BUT DON'T HURT US." In taking them out of the gaol, Bill Barber stumbled, and fell, and was thus dragged out of the door. On the steps he was let up, when, as soon as he could get his breath, he said : " Kill us, if you wish, but don't hurt as so badly." Bill said they bad been accused of many crimes they had never committed. They had never killed a man for money. They had been charged with killing seven men in Illinois, but it was falae. It was he who killed Shepard in self-defence. The smaller one of the brothers, Ike, a quiet and desperate man, then said he had never killed a man unttl within the past week, and then it was in self-defence, and to save the life of Bill. He had no hand In the killing last fall. Short as the speeches were, the crowd be came impatient, and called out to the mob to go on with the banging. It was first proposed to hang them in the gaol yard, but tae Sheriff begged that it should not be done, on account of his family, 'l'he tic tims were then taken across the street, where there are some trees; but here the City Marshal interfered, and asked that they should go outside the corporate limits. The accommodating mob thought this a reasonable request, and went up Main street, half-a-mile to the east, where, just outside the limits, there is a grove. As they marched out the Germans in the mob sang a hymn. The Barbers, with ropes around their necks, went along sullenly, without a word. COOL TO THK LAST. When the grove was reached, the man who was knocked down in the cell climbed a tree. While he was doing so the murderers were told to say their prayers, if they had any to say. Bill muttered som i

gibbeiish, but Ike was dumb. One of the ropes, which was no more than six or eight feet long, was tied to the limb. Bill was held up by several men while it was being done. As soon as it was tied he was dropped and left swinging in the air, his brother looking on defiantly, without moving a muscle. Another man then climbed a tree close by, and Ike was in Jike manner held up and the rope tied, when he was dropped and thus died. The neck of neither was broken. They were strangled. Both were dead in twenty minutes. It was just before midnight when they were finally hung. Their bodies were left hanging until 11 o'clock this morning, before being cut down by the Coroner During the forenoon the spot was visited by immense crowds, 'lhe bodies were placed in rude coffins, just as they had gone for a week, without coats, hats or boots, and will be delivered up to their sisters and other relatives, who live in the eastern part of the colony. An inquest will be held.

THE KOH-I-NOOR LOST.

)ot 1_ At one of the early meetings of the Board the jewel was formally made over to the Puu jab Government, and by it committed to tbe care of John Lawrence. .Perhaps the other members of the Board thought him the most practical and business-like (as no doubt in most matters he was) of the threo, or they deeoied that his splendid physique, and the gnarled and knotted stick which (fit emblem of himself) he always orried with him, and which fie Sikhs, thinking it to be a kind of divining-rod or familiar spirit, chi^tened by its owner's name— "lan Larens" would be the best practical security for its safe-keeping. But in this instance they misjudged their man. How could a man so careless of the con ventionalities of life, a man who never wore a jewel on his person till the orders and clasps which he won compelled him to do so (and even then used to put them so re morselesily in the wroDg place that the court costumier exclaimed in despair that he would lose reputation by him in spite of all his pains), -how, 1 ask, was it likely that such a man would realise the inesti mable value of the jewel entrusted to him 1 AnH, again, what was the custody of a court jewel compared with that of the hap piness of the millions for which he was also responsible ? Anyhow, half unconsciously, he thrust it, wrapped up in numerous folds of cloth, into hi« waistcoat pocket, the whole being con tained in an insignificant little box, which could be thus easily put away. He went on working as hard as usual, and thought no more of hi 3 precious treasure, He changed his clothes for dinner, and threw his waistcoat aside, still forpetting all about the box contained ln^it. About six week* afterwards a message came from Lovd Ualhousie, saying that the Queen had ordered the jewel to be at once transmitted to her. The subject was mentioned by Sir Henry at the Board, wtien John said quietly : " Send for it at once," " Why, you've got it," Paid Sir Henry. la a moment the fact of his carelessness fisshed across him. He was horror-stricken, and, as he used to desciibe Ills feelings "afterwards ■when telling the story, he said to himself : " Well! this is the worst trouble I have ever yet got into !" But such was his control over his coun tenance that he gave co external sign of trepidation, "Oh, yes, of course; I forgot about it," he said, and went on with the business of tbe meeting as if nothing had happened. He soon, however, found an opportunity of slipping "/way to his private room, and, ! with his heart in his mouth, sent for his old bearer, and said to him : " Have you got a small box which was in my waistcoat pocket some time ago ?" "Yes, Sahib," the man repled, "dibbia [the native word for it]. I found it, and put it in one of your boxes." " Bring it here," said the Sahib. Upon this the old native went toa broken down tin box, and produced the little one from it. "Open it," said John Lawrence, "and see what is inside." He watchfd tbe man anxiously enough as fold after fold of the small rags was taken off, and great was his relief when toe precious gem appeared. The bearer seemed perfectly unconscious of the treasure which he had had in his keeping.

" There is nothing here, Sahib," he said, "but a bit ot glass."

The Koh-i-nor was then quickly pre sented to the Board-that it might be for warded to the Queen ; and when John Lawrence told them his story, great was the amusement it caused.

The jp.wel passed, I am told on good authority, through one or two other strik ing vicissitudes before it was safely lodged in the English crown. Bat never, I feel sure, whether Sashing in the diadem of Turk or Mogul, or the up lifted sword of Persian, or Afghan, or Sikh conguerer, did it pass through so strange a crisis, or run a greater risk of being lost for ever, than when it lay forgotten in the waistcoat pocket of John Lawrence, or in the brokea-down tin box of his aued Dearer.

Bouquets at Theatres.

Among the absurdities of the modern stupe, the habit, so much on the increase, of bo stowing flowers on actresses who may or may not have deserved such tributes, ig specially ridiculous. Whenever a new play is produced, or on any occasion when oppor tunity appears to offer, bouquets, wreaths, baskets of flowers, &c, are brought in by the attendants of the theatre, and handed over the footlights to an actor, who presents them to the lady who is supposed to be the heroine of the evening. The ludicrous part of all this, if it may be considered ludicrous rather than irritating, is 'that the heroine in question, together with her manager ana triends, are understood to pay for the flowers and arrange the ceremonies of their presen tation, 'l'he actresses who manage these floral farces no doubt rehearse the " busi ness " of bowing with an expression of sur prise and gratitude on their faces, just as they rehearse the other points of the play. The object of this performance Is difficult to understand, for nobody can be received by it. When, formerly, ladies carried bouquets to the theatre, to throw them on to the stage bs an acknowledgement of the art which created a passing sentiment of admiration, it was a graceful recognition • now the playgoers understand that, as a very general rule, an actress invests money in thii species of self-glorification, or arranges with her manager that he shall do so, the custom is one rather to be avoided than followed. One can readily understand that on such occasions as the recent gather ing at the Haymarket on the last night of "Caste," friends of the management, of whom there were many present, would present flowers. As a rule, however, the flower business merely provokes con tempt.— " Standard."

A STEAMER BLOWN UP.

Eighteen Lives Lost.

From Pan Francisco information has just been received of a shocking marine disaster, which resulted in a vessel being blown up and the loss o.f about eighteen lives. The steamer was tho Pilot, and the disaster happened at Petaluma Creek, near Lakeville, It seems that on the 24th ult. the steamer Donahue was some miles from the Pilot, when those on board saw a sudden cloud of steam issue from the latter Hteamer, preceded by the funnel of the vessel being shot up some 300 feet in the air, descending within a few feet of the vessel. The steamer herself then suddenly seemed to disappear. It was some hours after the disaster before the news reached the ciiy, and it was then only known that the stern half of the vessel had been ashore on the west side of Petaluma Creek. There were some twelve passengers on the vessel at the time. A search party which went to the vicinity found the captain and two others of tlie vessel in a field, all being injured. Further search resulted in the discovery of four other injured men. Several bodies were !>!so found. From the statement of the survivors, it appears that after the explosion the forward part of the vessel sank, and those who were not either ecalded to death or crushed by the falling timbers were drowned. The captaiu and the others had scrambled on to the shore and dragged theaiclves up with the long grass. There were nut few bodies founrt, and the exact numb r of the missing could not thus be ascertained, but it was said that the loss of life was at least, eighteen. One poor woman was found iv the loDg weeds Btanding up« right but quite unconscions. She was conveyed to Lakeville, bnt died shortly afterwards. It is supposed that she had been struggling through the weeds to obtaiu assistance. Through the disaster one man lost four of hia children, whilut the recovery of a fitth was doubtful. The sad affair was said to he causing much excitement in the district.

FAMOUS POPULAR SONGS.

" Auld Lauj» Syne" is popularly supposed to be the composition of Bums, but. ia fact, he wrote only tbe second and third verses of the ballad as commonly sung, retouching tbc others from an older and less familar soDg. "The Old Oaken Bucket" was ■written by Woodworth in New York city during the hot summer of 1817. He came into the house and drank a glass of water, and then said, " How much more refreshing it would be to take a good long drink from the old oaken bucket that used to hang in my father's well." His wife suggested that it was a happy thought tor a poem. He sat down and wrote toe song as we have it. "Woodman, spare that Tree" was the result of an incident that happened to George P. Morris, a friend's 1 motner bad owned a little place in the country, which she was obliged, from poverty, to sell. On tbe property grew a large oak,' which had been planted by bis grandfather. The purchaser of the house and land proposed to cut down the tree, anil ! Morris's friend paid him £2 for a bond that the oak should Be spared. Morris heard the story, saw the tree, and wrote the song. " Oit in tho Stilly Night" was produced by Moore, after his family had undergone apparently every painful misfortune. One of his children died youutr, another went astray, and a third was accidentally killed. 11 The Light of Other Days" was written to be introduced in Balfe's opera, "The Maid of Artois." The opera is forgotten, but the song still lives and is as popular as ever.

Payne wrote "Home, Sweet Home," to help fill up an opera he was prepariog, and at first it had four stanzas. The author never received anything for it, but though the opera was a failure when played In tbe Covent Garden Theatre, the song took, and over 100,000 copies were sold the first year. In two years the pnblisbeis cleared over £2,000 by the publication ; and variations, transcriptions, and imitations have been innumerable. The melody is believed to be a Sicilian air, and Donizetti has a variation of it in his opera, " Anna Bolena." i'ayna was afterwards appointed American Consul at Tunis, where he died, and whence bis re mains the other day were tent to America. Some of his miseries may be guessed from his own words : " How often have I been in the heat of Paris, Berlin, London, or some other city, and have heard persons singing or hand-organs playing ' Home, Sweet Home,' without having a shilling to buy myself the next meal, or a place to lay my head. The world has literally sung my soug till every heart is familiar with its melody ; yet A have been a wanderer from my boyhood, and, in my old age, have to submit to humiliation for my bread."

Foster's " Old Folks at Home " was the best song he ever wrote. Over 400,000 copies were sold by the firm, that first pub lished it, and the author is said to have received £3,000 ior his share of the sale. " JKock Me to Sleep" was written by Mra Allerj, of Maiae. She was paid £1 for it, and Russen and Co., of Boston, who had it three years, and gained £1,000 by its sale, offered her £1 apiece for any songs she might write. Some years after, when a poor widow and in need of money, she sent them a sonfr, which was promptly rejected. "A Life On thu Ocean Wave," by JEpes Sargent, was pronounced a failure by his friends. Iho copyright of this song became very valuable, though Sargent never got anything from it himself. " What Are the Wild Waves Saving!" was suggested to Dr. Carpenter by a scene from Dlckens's novel •' Dombey and Son," and the music was by Glover.

"Love's Young Dream" was one of Moore's beet, but the tune to which it in commonly sung in from an Irish ballad called " The Old Woman."

'' Auld Kobin Gray " was the work of Lady- Anne Lindsay, who tells a cuiious story of the circumstances of its composition: "I called to my little sister, the only person near, and said, 'I have been writing a ballad, my dear. I am oppressing my heroine with many misfortunes. I have already sent her Jamie to sea, and broken her father's arm, and made her mother fall sick, and given her Anld liobin Gray for a lover, but I wish to load her with a fifth, sorrow within the four lines, poor thing. Help me to one.' ' Steal the cow,' said the little Elizabeth. The cow was immediately lifted by me, and the song completed." "Kathleen Mavourneen" was sold by Crouch, the author, for £5, and brought tho Eublishers as many thousands, "Annie laurie " is 100 years old, and was the pro duction of a man named Douglass to cele brate the praiee of a girl named Laurie. The lady afterwards deserted the man who made her famous, and married a man named Ferguson, "Sally in Our Alley "waa written by Carey, the dramatist.

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, AUGUST 4, 1883.

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