A STRANDED SHIP A STORY OF SEA AND SHORE.

BY L. CLARKE DAVIS.

PART 11,

BY THE SWEAT OF HIS BIXOW

The beautiful night, closing down on the golden City by the Sea, hid under its shadows a thousand wrongs and crimes; but as the sultry day faded, and the lamps were lighted, other wrongs and crimes grew fairer and bolder, and the gamesters hung out their gaudy lures to entrap the devotees of Chance. One San Francisco gaming-house differed in no essential particular from a hundred others of the same class which night apd day kept open doors for their votaries during Pthe summer of 1855. The same rough sort of men were to be found m them all; the same gaudy furniture and hang ings, the sume low-voiced croupiers or dealers, the same soft-footed servants, were characteristic of each. In one, the night was far spent, the raw, chilly morning beginning to dawn, and the players dropping off one by one from around the green taW. The croupiers yawned woarily, tired of raking into their strong boxos treasures which they were only paid to gather, and which they could not share. The long, high-coiled room shone gaudily in the gas glare, reflecting back from its mirrored walls the gorgeous hangings and crimson - coloured furniture. A gilded buffet against the wall sparkled with its stovo of beautiful glass, through which glnrfcil redly the fiery liquors, placed there by Jim wily spider of this parlour with a cunning forethought to steal away the bruin* of the unwary flies whom he had en trapped. l'luy went on 'ftt a single table, about which" the men wore mostly miners, who had come down from the mountains with their largo or small stores of gold, the result of week* or months of such Tabonr and ex posure as few men long endure and survive, only t j lay it all down pn the green cloth bo fore to quiet-voiced croupier, never to see it again. Rough-voiced, rude-mannered, hard-listed fellows mostly, who staked and loat and bore their failure or success with * oath or laughter equally unpleasant to hear. One by one as the day came on the players went away up into the mountain gullies again, only to dig and sweat and find gold, to bring back, after more weeks' or months, to tliia room to lose. But one man there did not stir, though the sunlight of the morning had already fallen on and made beautiful the Golden Gate, its ships and cliiftf and piers. Seated at the table, a few men still standing about, ho sat watching the game with feverish anxiety, being flushed or depressed beyond all others as he lost or won ; ho differed from the rest not only in his nervous, feverish impatience, but in that there was about him an air of gentler breeding than they had known, a gentleman at odds with luck, fast parting with that something which raised him above his coarse associates ; so much of his face as could bo seen—for his hat was drawn low over his forehead and his hand wandered about his mouth and chin in al most perpetual unrest—was pale and thin, his hands white and attenuated, his eyes sunken and fierce, as if from an inward fever. He had evidently suffered great bodily or mental distress, and had scarcely recovered from its effects. Later, he was left quite'alone at the green table with the croupier, the drowsy servants hanging about silent and sole spectators of the game. The croupier raked in the result of the previous play, and,1 looking out into the eunßhine, asked, " Do you play again J" The man's voice was thin and weak as he answered, "Yes, I play my last dollar on the red." The rod spun quickly round, resting on the black. , " You havo lost," said the other, coolly, raking in the pile of coin. ' "Were you Tight in saying you had staked your last dollar f" " Yes, the last of a good many hundreds that have gone down into this hell since yesterday." The croupier tossed back to him a half handful of coin. " Take that; it will pay your xay to the diggings; and if you don't like this hell, keep out of it. You came here of your own choice, you miserable Then the man held the money in his hand, irresolute for a moment whether to keep it or fling it bock into the croupier's face. The banker smiled. "Keep it, my man," he said; "you'll need it soon." There was more pity than insolence in his tone now, which made it all the more offen sive to the ruined gamester. He put the money into his pocket and crept away into the chill, moist air of the morning; a gentleman very much at odds with fortune, and slipping fast dowu the "'■He's' been sick, that man has," said a eleepy servant. <, :. "And not long out of gaol," added an- The keeper of the place that the man had iust left was no better or no worse than his fellowa. They were all willing enough to give back to the men that they plundered a small percentage of their losings to enable thorn to reach the mines, knowing by long experience that they would find their way back to the green tables again with re plofaished stores. .'■..., . . .. When the man reached the street, his first thought was to find a hotel j but he carefully avoided the best houses, and walked on until he found an obsjure tavern in an obscure street, and there he entered. The clerk, alow, narrow-browed ruffian, eyed him closely as he advanced slowly to the desk and stated his object. ... "You have made a mistake; this is a hotel, not a graveyard," the. fellow said in nolently, smiling at some loungers in the

"I have made no mistake, and Idont mean to die yet awhile; if I should, I have sufficient money to pay my funeral ex penses." He threw some coin on the desk. "Take what you* want out of that for a day's accommodation ; givo me a decent room nnd breakfast." . . • "I don't want your money now. A good many people come in who have none, and I Sit you looked like one of that sort," Mid the clerk, abating nothing in the in dolence of ( his manner. "Sign ,the register, W«{Vhat isityou ask?" taid the man, per fectly understanding the request, but pre tending he did not, trying to gain time. «I ask you to register your name. "Mv name?' . , .. •••YeVvour name-or another mans; it don't matter to us, only we require people who iw hereto write the names by which Sfev wW> to be known on our register.',' cramped hand wrote his name,

Abel Dunlethe.

The clerk turned the book about, and read it " I think," ha said, " your people »ade a mistake in your obristemng. "How? I don't understand. " They called you for the wrong brother. It should hare been Cain-the other one. Loud, coarse laughter greeted this sal y of the clerk's; but Abel Dunlethe only BPowled upon the ruffiaus in the room, and S«t to find his breakfast elsewhere. Still choosing the obscure streets, he went cnuntil he came to a decent, cleanly- tavern on Suter-street, where he wl and received civil treatment. He l n Wasted and afterwards slept until DOOflsndM of the day in buying an outfit remainder_oi * mO rninghe started, fwi tw thTourney by steamer to Sacra- SSS 8 1£ efor together across the ? «Hi level of the plains, among the great SJ or awhile, and then over a dreary a Jol sand, or through a tangled wilder d6 ao l bushes to the MBkslumnp River, on new ot bosses to the minerß th01 B i lEnts digging and washing the fffli He» at nightfufl, as yrflow sands xi flrM and Me OD6; v f the Ss grow denser with each ES.v-^^« S&SS o Sn with the game. He webt ,back to bis tent. ;. ... V

"When he hod made all fast for th c night, he .sat on his tent floor silent for a long time. "It teas a mistake," he said pre sently, getting up; "I should have been called Cain, for it seems as if I carried his mark in my face. I haven't had a friendly word today." Nor had he. He had come among a rough desperate crew,.mostly vagabonds and ad venturers from the States, noisy and ftoric some, but, for all that, with a good deal of human feeling for tho unfortunates of their class who fell Exhausted by the way. But they did not like this man's appearance; it might have been that the air of the gentleman was too strong upon him to suit their tastes, or it might have been that, when they looked iDto his face, they indeed saw there the mark of Cain. Dnnlethe resolved that first night never to try again to got a friendly word from any man. In the morning he located his claim, and with increasing strength went to work with pick-axe and spade and sieve. But he was not a strong man yet; illness had pulled him down, and he was unused to such exertion, so that, the given quantity of labouv being small, the result was not great. The rough fellows, who had avoided him at first, seeing how poorly he began to look and how unsuccessful his awkward efforts were, came about him now to proffer assistance or advice ; but he was morose or silent with them all, as they had been with him. Then he fell sick, and the men, seeing his pick and shovel lying idle in the pit, went over to his tent, but he was soured and bitter, and he turned them savagely away. After a time, when he was betteV, and the miners noticing that he still kopt himself aloof from them, refusing to join in their games at cards, or story telling, or drinking-bouts, they left him quite alone, and went no more to his tent or diggings. He believed for awhile that he was glad of their neglect, and stoutly maintained hia resolve; but tho time soon came when he grew intolerably lonely and miserable 5 hia money, too, was given out, and he found no nuggets, and but little dust to replace it. Other mon, he thought, had friends or companions in the gullies of these black hills, and he had none; other men got letters from home, but none ever came to him; occasionally, though, he borrowed a newspaper from the States, and then he read eagerly every line of it, down to the last advertisement; it made him feel loss lonely, somehow. Returning one night from his claim, he came upon a man read ing a paper to a group of miners seated around the fire, and, going in among them, he found the reader had finished. Then he heard some one ask, "Didn't you say that you knew the murdered man, Joe ?"

" No, I didn't know the man, but I knew the boy, George Lawrence; I lost sight of him when he was a man, for I left home young, you see." The speaker looked up into .Dunlethe's face, which was shaded with his hand, as if to shut off the glare of the.flames. *' We were 'talking, mate," he said, "of ft man as was murdered in the States—a gentleman I once knew. Sit down arid 111 tell you about it." Dunlethe sat down among them, still shading his face from the fire, keeping his hand between the narrator and himsolf.

The miner went on, keenly relishing his story, and glad to have another listener, to whom it was all hew.

"I knew that boy, George Lawrence; I worked for his father. He was English— from Surrey, and I think George <vas English too, but ho must have come over when young. He was a baddish sort of boy, was George. But no matter about that now; he's dead." " Murdered, I think you said ?" Dunlethe asked.

"Yes, ho was murdered, at night, in Boston—flung into the river off old Dunlethe's wharf. Hello 1 there, mate, aren't that what you're called—Dunletho I" " That is my name, but I do not know the wharf, nor the owner. lam from the West—Ohio." The men turned lazily to look at him as he spoke, but the next moment their eyes were bent on the fire. " Well, stranger 1" he asked, " was the murderer discovered?"

"Yes, he was ; he was found and tried for George Lawrence's murder, and though he said he did it, they let him go. ' Not guilty,' was the verdict." " What was that man's name ?" " The murderer's do you mean I" "Yes —the man who killed George Lawrence."

" Well, Mr Dunlethe, hia name was Luke Connor," the miner said, turning full upon him, as being the one auditor most in terested in his story. "You did not know this man Connor, then, did you V asked Dunlethe. "I'm not so sure of that, mato; there was some Connors in that town where I came from; maybe I did know him, for he was a friend of the man he killed. If he was one of them Connors I knew ; though I might forget his first name, I would know his face if I ever saw it agaiD. I never for get faces." The face he looked at now was shaded from him and from the fire by a hand that was visibly trembling. Dunlethe got up. "The man was acquitted, you said I" "Yes —'not guilty,' was the verdict. You're not going, eh? Well, then, good night, mate," said the miner; ''sorry to lose so good a listener. " Good night, Mends all," He had been gone but a few minutes, when he returned, and asked permission to take the paper to his tent.

Dunlothe sat up half the night reading it, and as often as he concluded the account of .the murder and the trial, went back to it again. When he started out to the pit in the morning, he- carried the paper to the owner. He was glad the miner had gone to his work before he got there ; ho flung the paper into his tent, and went on, think ing a. good deal, by the way, of the man who knew the Connors, and never forgot faces.

During the next few days ho kept him self very close to bis "work and quarters, but the solitude oppressed him beyond en durance, and be tried to make friends with some of the better sort, but the effort waa futile; be met with no response,and was made to understand that he was disliked, and that, even by the hardened wretches of the mines, he was regarded with suspicion. He worked on then alone for several weeks, digging and washing, but scarcely getting out sufficient gold to support exist ence from day to day; and then the rainy season set in, which was unfortunately at a time when he was certain he had reached a lode filled with gold. For several days be fore he had been encouraged to more vigorous exertions, to go deeper, both by the indications and the increased results and within a few hours he had found a num ber Of rich nuggets, scales, and dust in abundance, and felt that his labours were about to be rewarded. The night that followed was rough and stormy, beyond all nights he had ever seen. The rain fell in unbroken torrente, swelling the mountain streams, which rushed im petuously down the caiions, sweeping before them whatever encumbered their way. In the morning, while the rain still fell, he ventured out, going down to see how, in the general rack and ruin his lode had fared. When he arrived at the place where he thought that it ought to be, he could dis cover not a trace of its whereabouts. The gully in which it was located was filled up with mud and stones and trees ;he looked down upon a miserable, hopeless wreck, never to be..worked nor made profitable again ; even his tools were gone—nothing left of all yesterday's hope and promise of success. His long months, labour and ex posure had gone for nothing, and he must begin all anew. Buried in the corner of his tent were some nuggets, scales, and dust, which lie dug up and sewed into his tattered clothing. ..... He eat by his fire all day, while the rain pelted down upon his tent roof, counting over his losses, living over again the better years he had known, between which and to-day a dead face came and went for ever, —a dead face which came and looked in at his tent-door by day and by night, in fou or pleasant weather—always there. Then he grew sick of the place, of his hard luck, and of-the men who avoided him; afraid, too, of the man who knew the Connors and never forgot a face. The next day the rain had ceased falling and the sun shone. Then, not knowing but that the storm would come again to-morrow, he shouldered his traps, started out to find _ a new location—one not likely to be buriodjin the next tempestuous night. He went farther away into the newer fields and the profounder loneliness of the mountains, to locate his claim and dig and wash, and wash and dig. He found the place he sought after several days' toilsome tramp, pitched his tent, and began prospecting; finally locating a claim a short distance from the mountain road. Half a mile off was the nearest cabin, where provisions, liquors, and implements were sold. Thero be went and bought flour, bacon, and coffee, stored them away.and then wenttohis work, a little more ragged and dirty, a little more desperate, a little further off from the God he once knew than he had ever been. He was not lonely here, as he had been before; there were no other men about him to be roughly rude to him, or happy, or to get letters from home, or to have mend ships and loves. Here he was sufficient unto himself, alone, but not lonely. Then he dug on and on, day after day throwing out the washed|»ands which left no gold be

hind, digging deeper through sand and clay and rock in vain. Disappointment and defeat made him mad; He valued gold for its own sake as littlo as any man ; but to get it meant success, or, as he grew to call it, luck. In tho place of human love and fellowship, which should have been in Dun lethe's heart, there suddenly was en gendered in it, by defeat, a single feeling— an awful hunger and thirst to find gold. That one.passion filled his life up, took all his thought, and occupied his sleep. Having found it, he might have flung it away again, or recklessly tossed it open handed to the first beggar that passed that way'; but he was mad to find it, for that would be luck, and luck meant to this poor wretch' that his God had not deserted him, that he was not altogether forgotten and cast out. Then day by day and month after month be digged deeper into the pit he had sunk, but the indications grew no more promis ing, the luck his very soul grew hungry for did not come to him, and the few ounces of gold that, he had before gathered were going fast. Desperate at last under continued failure, he swore a savage oath that if he should be unlucky for only another day, he would dig no more. The day came, and the man, as if regret ful of his oath and repenting it, dug with the persistence and energy of one who delved for life, or to save his soul alive. It wore on slowly and surely to its close, leaving him digging there, every muscle strained to its utmost tension, great beads of sweat standing on his face and hands, rolling down his limbs, sapping his strength; but that was all of his reward. The dying day gave him no signß of the golden luck he toiled for—it was almost gone now, and as Dunletlie paused in his work, leaning on his shovel, watching the sun sinking behind the line of melancholy cedars skirting the horizon, ho hoard the music of a loud, jubilant song, echoing along the hills, and turning around ho saw some mon approaching, a rough and caro less crew of Frenchmen. They como nearer and stood upon the brink of the pit he had made. One touched his cap gaily, and asked, " What luck, Monsieur ?" Abel Dunlothe clambered up from the depths of the holo. "No luck, Messieurs," he said; "and be damned to it. I have dug there. for many months, and in all kinds of weather. Tho dry mino of yesterday I have scon to day filled with water, and have bailed it out with such poor contrivances as you see sere about mo. I have begun with the pick at dawn, and have laid the shovel down only at dusk. I have washed the accursed Bands till my fingers were worn to the bone, and yet I have found nothing. I will dig no more. If you care to try your luck, there is tho claim and there are tho tools. Take them, Messieurs, you are welcome, and may your luck be better than mine. There are my tent and traps on the hill, yonder, you aro welcome to them all. " A million thanks generous Monsieur," they said, and the merry fellows, ready for any fortune good as well as bad, jumped down into tho pit, went to work, and re sumed the measures of their interrupted

song, lie shook tho dust of the hole from his

torn hlioos, and with no object, no place nor time in view, started off along tho mountain doGlo by which the other men had come.

"What luck, Monsieur Dunlethe?" ho asked himself savagely, and he answered back to the mocking"devil within. "No luck, Monsieur Dunlethe, no luck at play, no luck at work, no luck at anything, no luck for tho man on whom the curse has fallen, no luck for the alien adventurer, bearing a dead man's name." - On no went down the mountain path in the rapidly closing twilight; down to the valley below, where lights already gleamed from tent and cabin door. He was haM way down when a horse's feet struck the path beside him. Ho stopped aside into the bushes to let the horse and rider pass. " What luck, stranger ?" askod the rider drawing rein.

"No luck, stranger, pass on," the man replied, cursing the other for using that word at that time.

The rider looked down at Abel Dunletho with an ugly, mocking smile on his faco. "I meant to tell you," ho said, "you surly devil, of the luck of some friends of yours, back in the hills yonder. They have struck tho lode to which you had dug down, and within an hour have taken out a hundred ounces. You had hotter return and ask them to give you back your claim, or share it with you."

Dunlethe strode on to where the lights shone in the valley, cursing the good for tune that shunned him and went to other men. The rider shot pott, leaving the luckless, surly stranger to himself. He reached the valley at last, and, foot sore and weary, entered a tavern, about the door of which a score of miners wore seated, all eagerly discussing the ill luck of the man Dunlethe, and making their plans for migrating soon to the new and richer diggings which he bod found but not enjoyed. He sat alone by the stove, his ragged hat drawn down over his faco, damning the men outside who continued to sneer at his folly for giving his claim to others after so "many months of labour.

In the morning, having paid for his lodg ing and breakfast, ho found that his last grain of gold was gone, and remembered bitterly that in halt an hour after he had thrown away his lode it had yielded to others a hundred ouncea. He went down to the river then, and stood watching a gang of labourers digging away a bank for a mill-site. He recollected that he too must work, if he would live ; in a few hours he would be hungry ; about lodgings, that did not matter; he could creep into any shed and find shelter. He found the fore man of the works after a little search, and asked to be employed. The man, a hearty, frank follow, looked at him for a moment, and the result of his survey not being satisfactory, said " No. I have no work here that you could do. You are scarcely strong enough tor this job." " You mistake. I nave worked for months in a hole, digging sand and rock, lam a strong man, "replied Dunlethe, his voice quivering a little; he wanted the chance to get near to this bluff, pleasant faced gentleman, to make a friend of him, if he could.

The other, remarking his anxiety to get work, said oheerfully, " Very well, turn in and try your luck with the rest, though you don't look fit."

Ilaving arrived late, ho was placod on the outer edge of the labourers' gang, where the earth tossed to him from above could be thrown into the river. The sand was wet and heavy, his shovel large and unwieldy. After an hour his back began to ache as it never aid before, and at the end of another hour his hands were gashed and sore ; he could barely stand erect, every muscle seemed strained and ready to crack. Momentarily he looked up, watching the sun lazily crawling to the meridian, think ing that noon would never eomo; for he meant to knock oil then and go away—his pride would not permit him to do it before. Noon came to the poor wretch at last, and found him without strength, with aching back and musclos, his hands dripping blood where the rough-handled shovel,gliding through,bad torn and bruised them. When the dinner-bell rang for the workmen he did not follow them, but hunted up the foreman. When he found him, he said, frankly, " You were right this morning, and I was wrong; the work is too hard for me, Pay me for half a day, and let me go; my luck is against me," . "I can't pay you till Saturday night, "the man said. "It is against the rules. Stay here till then, and I will look up some light work for you, maybe." He was sorry for the poor wretch, who had no friends, and who would be hungry and houseless when night came ; he locked around to find some excuse for employing him until pay day. "Go in and get your dinner now," he said, "and'afterwards, go up the hill yon der, and chop away those bushes ; they are in our road there.. I will pay you the same wages as I pay the others." "No, I will not do that. I will do a man's work, or I will not take a man's wages.. As to what you owe me, give that to some other poor devil on Saturday night for me. Good-bye." "Good-bye," the foreman said. "I'm sorry I can't help you." Then he stood looking after the poor fellow whose luck was against him, until he was lost in the turn of the road.

The road to Sacramento lay straight be fore him, another led away to his deserted mine. He took the former, penniless and already hungry, with a hundred miles, over a rough road,' to go. He could not go into the tavern with the other labourers for dinner; he had earned, it but be had not got his pay. Afterwards he was hungrier, less fastidious about satisfying his hunger. He went on till nightfall, meeting here and there a worn-out straggler like him celf; then he entered a rough roadside tavern. The landlord was leaning on his counter as Dunlethe entered, but he glanced once at the stranger, and left him standing in the middle of the room without further notice. '

Dunlethe, quick to see the hostile man ner of the man, turned to go out; but hunger and fatigue held him fait. " I hava no money, and I want supper and lodging, I have not eaten anything .since morning, and the night will be cold,' :-

" Stranger," said the landlord, " a hun dred men like you pass this road every day, and each one stops to tell me what you have told mo. If it was only one man, I could help him, but I can't help a hun dred."

" You are right. I beg your pardon for intruding. Good-night."

"Stop, though," said the landlord, who recollected that he could help one man, and had not done it for a long while. "Stop, you are not fit to go on to-night. You shall be the one man; you shall have your sup per, and if you can sleep on that bench, you are welcome."

The supper was set before him, and Dunlethe ate ravenously, and then slept until morning on the bench before the fire. Before dawn he was up and gone ; before noon he had accomplished twenty miles, with fifty yet to go, and his long fast from the previous night began to tell on him. He stopped again at a tavern. '' Can you give me dinner?" he asked of a woman standing in the doorway. "I have no money."

" No," sho said. " I can give you no thing. I can't feed every beggar thai comes this road."

Then he went on again until sundown, and only ton more miles gained. He could go no farther, he thought, and began to look about among the trees for a place in which to pass the night, when he saw, a short dis tance ahead, the light of a camp-fire. As ho approached the camp, a young girl ran out into the road, closely followed by a savage-looking dog, that darted past her and llew at his throat. The girl caught the dog's collar, held him back, and called to some one in the tent to help her, for the rough beast was more than she could hold. Dunlethe, too, worn and weak to have struggled with the animal, stood passively waiting for his spring, when the tent-flaps woro thrown back, and a tall, powerfully formed man camo out, struck the dog down, apologised to the strangor for the rough reception he had got, and asked him what he could do for him.

"lam tirod, sick, and hungry. Can you give me a bit of bread, and a place by your fire ?"

"Cortainly, I can do. that, and more. Come in and soe." Then, getting ready a comfortable meal, he set it before Dunlethe, and watched him iw he devoured it. " Whore did you have your dinner, com rade 1" he asked presently. "I had no dinner—nor breakfast either. Do I eat too much, that you ask ? My luck is down on me, and I am going to Sacra mento to get work." " Eat till you are filled, my surly friend, you are welcome," Baid the other; " but how would you like to go further than Sacramento and fare better ?"

"Whereto?"

"To Australia. I'm going there to try f razing, and shall want a man like you to elp me. Will you go ?" . " Yes," said Dunlothe, " 1 will go there, —the farther the better. When do you start?"

"In tho first outward-bound vessel that leaves San Francisco," his host answered.

Three days later, the grazier, having left his littlo girl in charge of some friends, stood with Abel Dunlethe on the deck of an Australian trader, getting out to sea.

On the sixth day out, tho steward wont into tho grazier's cabin, and when he came on deck again, ho ran to tho captain, trembling and white-faced, and told him that he had one passenger less than he had shipped, for tho grazier waft lying in his berth, with his eyes wide open, staring blankly up at the coiling, dead.

(To be Continued.)

A SAILORS YARN.

Tho Duke and tho Boatswain.

There was a story-toller attached to the Harbour, a champion " yarn spinner," named P, J. Miller.

For moro than half a century Miller had been spinnin" yarns, and at last he really got to believe his in own inventions. In one respect ho was really the greatest inventor of tho ago. One of his greatest lies, and yet the only story he over told which literally came true, was his yarn of meetin' with H.R.H. the Duke of Edinburgh.

According to Miller, the Duko and him self had met in Canadian waters, and the Duke had taken a fancy to him on the spot —or as he tersely though ungrammatically expressed it, " me and him was groat friends." At tho grand Duke's "special invite," Miller used to call regularly on board H.R.H.'s ship to see H.R.H., and according to Miller H.R.g. would not havo any remarks made about this singular deviation from tho ordinary routine of navy discipline. Miller used to tell the story in this way: " Miller, don't you pay, Miller, my hearty, any attention to the marines and quartermasters, and that kind of cattle, when you aro coming on board for to see mo. But jest you slide right over the side, and slide right down inter my cabin hero, and help yourself to jest what you may happen to fancy." Well, Miller got tellin' this preposterous story till he absolutely believed overy word of it, and. was ready to swear to and to fight for it. The story got to goin' the rounds, and hardly a ship in the navy but had heard of "old Miller" and his illustrious friend. Finally, and very unexpectedly to Miller, the ship on which he happened to be boatswain just then, being in English waters, met an English man-of-war having HiR.H. the Duke of Edinburgh on board, and of course the two vessels saluted each other. Now, the American Admiral was then on board the ship on which Miller was boatswain, and lia Imstened to pay his respects to the Duke. The next day the Duke returned the compliment, and called on the Admiral on board Miller's ship. This set everybody to laughin', and the Duke noticed it, and asked the Admiral what they were all laughing at. Tho Admiral didn't know, for he was probably the only one who hadn't heard the boatswain-duke story, and bo lie sent for the captain of the vessel to inquire about the laughter, and the captain, laughin', referred him to the officer of the deck. . ~'"

The latter individual on bein' questioned owned up to the laughter, and then in a good-natured way told about the duke boatswain yarn. The old American Admiral was1 inclined to be mad at the boatswain's presumption, but the young English Duke took the matter splendidly, He laughed heartily himself, and then, as a special favour, asked to see the old bos'n. Word was accordingly passed forward for P. J. Miller to come to the Admiral's cabin to see the Duke. Consideiin' "me and him were such great friends," the bos'n was strangely reluctant to go and meet his old chum, but he had to obey orders. So feelin' like a man about to be sentenced to be hung, Miller wobbled to the cabin, where the greatest surprise and erownin' honour of his life awaited him. For when

he entered the Duke advanced to receive him with a genial smile, and ex tendin' his hand to the old fellow, Raid:

" P. J., old man, put it there, and whenever you come on board to eeo me don't pay any attention, my beauty, to marines or quar ter-master or that kind of cattle, but slide right up into my cabin, and help yourself to just what you may happen to fancy." It almost took P. J. Miller's breath away to hear the Duko givin' him back his own language, but he got back to the crew somehow, and recovering Mb balance as he got back, he cried out in triumph: "Didn't I tell yer that the Grand Duke and I were real cronies ?"

Some Snake Delusions.

The keeper of the reptile specimens In the Smithsonian Institute contradicts much of the popular belief as to snakes. Some of the most dreaded have no existence. The hoop sdake, which takes the end of its tail in its mouth and rolls over and over like a hoop, killing everything it touches with its venom, and the blow snako, the breath of which is deadly, arp fictitious. As ser pents move about they are constantly feeling ahead with their tongue, and the forward thrust and peculiar forked appearance of this organ has given rise to the false idea that with it tho sting ing is done. In North America there are but three species of poisonous snakes—the rattlesnake, the copper-head or mocassin, and tho coral. There are about thirty varie ties of these species altogether. The copper head is probably the most dangerous, as it is vicious, and never gives warning of any kind before striking. The rattlesnake, though more poisonous than either of the others, will rattle at the approach of any thing, and try to get away unless brought to bay. The coral is much smaller, and is a native of the Southern States.

A DARK DEED.

It was Sophy's doing. "Give yourself a bit of a rest in the country, John," she said, "the business will get along well enough under the head clerk till the hot weather's over. We will take a little house in the country. What we want—at least you do—Li the fresh air of the open country. I declare you begin to look quite thin, John, dear. I'm really quite concerned about you." I yielded with a good grace, and every evening for a week I came home to find Sophy .with a dozen or so of advertisements of "Desirable Homes in the Country," marked for ready reference. After a voluminous correspondence and several hours of inspection, we made a choice at last. It was a semi-detached villa in a secluded locality, and surrounded by commodious grounds thickly shaded with trees. The other house was occupied by a family who, the agent said, had given the best of references, though ho Knew nothing of thorn personally. The surrounding grounds were divided by a close fence, which completely sopar ated the portions pertaining to the respec tive halves of the villas ; so, if we didn't care to cultivato our neighbours, wo could easily keep aloof. It was several days before we saw any of the adjoining occupants. The first of them encountered was a white-headed old man, whom I met one morning coming out as if for an early walk similar to that from which I was Just returning; He was bent with yeara and very venerable in appear ance, and the bow with which he returned my aaluto was full of courtesy. At intervals glimpses were caught of the remaining inmates, who consisted of a dark, dyspeptic-looking man of- 35, or there abouts, a cheery-faced little wotoan some fivo years younger, whom Sophy set down as the dark man's wife, and a dowdyish maid-of-011-work. It was not long before we discovered one drawback to our new abode. The par tition-wall was so thin that we could not help hearing all that passed on the other side. So it was ascertained that the dyspeptic man's name wan Eldritch, the old gentleman's Mr Harbine, and the servant-, maid's Biddy; furthermore, that Mr Harbine was Mrs Eldritch's father, and that his life was insured for his daughter's benefit. I hod always had a special dislike of prying curiosity; and one evening, as Sophy sat knitting close to .the communica tive wall—her favourite position lately— with her eyes on her work and one ear cocked attentively, I was in the act of clearing my throat for a homilly on the sin of ovor-inquiflitiveneßa, when Sophy gave a start that nearly tumbled' her from her chair. Her face turned white and her whole frame trembled. "Good Heavens! Come here quick, John, and listen to this I" Sophy's terrified look drove the lecture from my h»ad, and in an instant I was at her side with my ear as closely glued to the partition as her own. "Tho poison has dono its work effectu ally," said a voice which Sophy whispered was tho dark man's. "Thank goodness we're rid of the old nuisance at last 1" returned another, which wo agreed was the wife's. "lie's been a terrible pest, but he'll trouble us no more," replied the first. Then the speakers must have moved away a little, or turned their backs, for tho next words woro lost—all, except something about "insurance money," in the man's voico. What was to be done'? I knew not if there was a magistrate in the neighbour hood, or whore to find him if there was. Besides, Sophy absolutely refused to bo left alone while I went in search of one. After much consultation we resolved upon a course of action. There was no danger of Eldritch or his wife trying to escape as long as they had no reason to believe themselves suspected. I had a friend in the detective force, to whom I would telegraph from the village the first thing in the morning, to come immediately, as I had important business for him. The next day was Sunday, and after send ing my despatch I resolved to keep as close a watch on our neighbours as was practic able .without awakening their distrust. It was verging towards ten o'clock, when through a chink in the division fence, at which I was keeping watch,' concealed by the shrubbery, I saw the Eldritchcs, in Sunday garb, pass through their front gate, looking as placid as if that whito-hairod old man's murder were not upon their con sciences. I went out at our own gate, and followed at a safe distance. Tho two walked along leisurely, the woman's hand on the man's arm, till they reached tho village, and finally, a neat little church, which they entered. I waited awhile, and thon also went in. Judge of my surprise at seeing in the pulpit, in the act of giving out the opening hymn—whom do you .think ? As truo as my name's John Hetley, it was none other than the dark-faced murderer ! I could hardly repress a cry of indignation at such sacrilege; and when ho went onto preach a sermon on the golden rule, and full of brotherly kindness and benevolence, I sat in stupitied amazement at tho man's effrontery, At tho closo of the service I resumed my watch till I had seen the reverend assassin and hia wife enter their own door. Sophy and I listened at the wall, but no sounds were audible. The neighbouring inmates were either exercising 'extraordinary oaution, or were in another part of the house. My detective, friend came on Monday morning. A few words revealed what I had to disclose. "If they've murdered the old man for the insurance," said my friend) " it's singular that they should conceal his death, as they appear to be doing. They can't £et the money without disclosing the man is dead, and every moment's delay would only tend to excite suspicion. It looks as if they had changed their minds about trying to get the insurance, and were how only intent on covering up their crime. I propose that we call at once on Eldritoh, ana that you con front him with your discovery before they've had time to hide the body." Our ring was answered by tho dowdyish servant, who, at our request, led us into Mr Eldritch's presence. " A life has been taken in this houso by poison !" I said, abruptly and impressively. I expected to see' tho wretch.quail with terror, but he didn't. He looked up calmly, but a little curiously, and with an amused smile, answered, "I admit the fact." Was there ever such audacity ? "Where have you bestowed the body?" I demanded. "Come and I'll show you/ he replied, without a sign of trepidation. Could the man be in his senses, or would ho, after all, escape the gallows on the plea of insanity? He rose and led the way to a back garden, we following. Then, removing a few spadefuls of earth, he revealed to our expectant eyes the swollen corpse—don't be 'startled—of a huge rat! J« The old scamp had pestered us a good while," said Mr Eldritch, "and being too cunning to be trapped,-.and more than a match for the cat, at last I laid a dose of arsenic for him."' "Don't trifle, with us I" I said Bternly. " I overheard you talking about insurance money at the same time I heard your con fession of the poisoning. You'll hardly claim youhad this creature's life insured ?" Mr Eldritch's smile broadened. "My wife and I have consulted several times of late," he replied,."about getting up the money to pay the forthcoming in stalment on her father's policy,, but you must, have had pretty sharp ears to have heard us." Before I had time to answer, the white haired victim of tho supposed murderer made his appearance on the scene, and greeted us. with his accustomed bow. As well us I could for my confusion, I hastened to make a -clean breast of it to Mr Eldritch, who laughed heartily and forgave my espionage in consideration of the motive. We got to be excellent friends afterwards, and I found him to be a very worthy gentleman.—" Prize Tit-bit."

Morganatic Marriages.

A Leii'sic journal has compiled a list of morganatic marriages which have taken place within a comparatively short period, with the object of showing that when the Grand Duke of Hesse espoused Madame de Kalomine he did nothing at all excep tional; and it points out that the wrath of bis relatives in England and at Berlin is. really very unreasonable, which has all along been the general opinion in Germany. There have been seventeen unions of this sort, and it is added that " they all turned out most happily." The list includes one Emperor, four Kings, one Elector, two Archdukes of Austria, and nine Royal Princes. The indignation of the English relatives is all the more absurd as, according: to German law, the marriage of PrineessTjpuise. lyith Lord Lome is a morganatic unton,

SPORTS AND PASTIMES.

(From our London Correspondent.)

The cricket season of 1884 has at last come to an end, and athletes are beginning to turn all their energies towards football.

The past cricket season has been in every

way a successful one. The presence of the Australians in our midst has, of course, had a groat' deal to do with this, but county cricket has beon of an exceptionally high class, The positions of the counties are not materially different from last year. Nottinghamshire once more heads the lists with an unbeaten record of ten matches played, nine won, and one drawn ; Middlo sex takes second place with ten matches playod, four won, three lost, and three drawn; Yorkshire comes next with 16 matches played, eight won, four lost, and four drawn ; while Surrey takes fourth place with 16 matches played, 7 won, 4 .lost, and 5 drawn; Lancashire, Sussex, Kent, and Gloucestershire follow in the order named, while Derbyshire brings up the rear with a record of ten matches, all lost. The highest innings of the year (484) was obtained by Gloucestrrshire in their return match with Surrey, while the smallest total (40) was made by Yorkshire in a match- with Nottinghamshire. Surrey has the honour of having made more runs than any other county, their figures being 4,905 runs scored for the loss of 245 wickets, an average of 205 por wicket; while, as a set-off against this, moro runs were.scored off their bowling than that of any other county. As a proof of the excellence of this summer's play, it is worth while noticing that no leys than 25 three-figure innings have beon played, as against 1G last year. Hall, the Yorkshire captain, three times succeeded in scoring over n hundred, while six other butsmen twice reached the coveted three figures. The following aro all the scores over 100 made in county matches this season:—Shrewsbury (Notts.), 209 and 127; Gunn(Notts.), 13S and 122; Lord Harris (Kent), 112 and 101 ; Me New ham (Sussex), 137 and 100; Mr O'Brien (Middlesex), 119 and 100; Mr Paintor (Glou cester), 133 and 11G ; Mr Ulyett (Yorkshire), 107; Mr Bates (Yorkshire), 110; -Mr Mac kinnon (Kent), 102; Jeato Hide (Sussex),

112; Mr H. B. Steel (Lancashire), 100; Bfcggs (Lancashire), 112; Mr Brain (Glou cestershire), 143; Mr Pullen (Gloucester shire), 161 ; Mr J. Shuter (Surrey), 101; Mr W. W. Read (Surrey), 135; 'and L. Hall (Yorkshire), 135, 128 (not out), and 100. .

Football this season promise? to be ua successful as cricket has been during the summer. Large entries have been received both for tho Association Cup and the London Cup, while a series of keen struggles are expected to take place before the winner of the Hospitals Cup is decided. One great evil which the Football Association will have to put down is professionalism, which is more than ever rampant this year. It is a well-known fact that in the Midland counties good football players have been given good situations in certain towns on condition that they play for tho local club, arid loavo the team with which they were formerly connected. This state of things exist only among Association clubs, and chiefly in towns round about Birmingham. Tho only way to deal with the evil is for tlio Association to disqualify for overall clubs paying their members, and tho members subsidised by them as well. A few days ago the Amateur Swimming Championship, for 100 yds., was held at the Lambeth Baths. There were five com petitors, and the favourite was T. Cairns, tho 200 and GOOydg. champion. The race, however, resulted in a win for J. L. Mayger, of the Burton-on-Trent S. C, who soon gained tho lead, and eventually won some what oasily. The time is given as lmin. 11 1-5 sees., but several experts declare it to have been at least one second faster.

■ Some surprise has been shown in English athletic circles at Meek, the American walker, who was recently over here, having turned professional. Great praise is due to Meek for the straightforward action ho has taken, and he haß set a good example to a good many so-called amateurs, who are really nothing more nor less than professionals living on the "pots" they win ; or, in the caso of bicyclists, on the funds furnished them by the makers of the machines.they ride. Apropos of cycling, twomore records have just beon cut by amateurs. On Saturday, on the Crystal Palace track, R. English succeeded in doing 20 miles within the hour, his full distance in the time being 20 miles 2GO yards, which is 2!t5 yards more than the famous Cortis (who, by the way, is now in Australia) accomplished. Not only did English beat tho hour's record, but from the second mile to the twentieth ho estab lished an ontirely new set of times. The firstmilo he completed in 2mins. 426ec5.,0n1y 2-ssecs. more than the record, and, after this, he went on and cut every record up to the twentieth mile. He intends shortly to try the mile alono, and he is almost sure to beat the present time of "mine. 413 ssecs. On .the following Saturday another of Cortis's records was beaten, this time by H. A. Spoechley, of the Ranelagh Harriers, who rode 10 miles on grass in 34min. 12 2.-ssecS., beating the pvevious best time by 19sec8. The event was the Ten Miles Scratch Race at the Surrey Bicycle Club's meeting, which camooff at Kensington Oval. Eleven .men turned out lor the race, and after a good start, all rode hard. After four miles only four men had any chance— Crippß, Wilson, Sipeechley, and Mayes. At seven miles the latter was disposed, and then came a splendid race between the other three ; Crippß and Wilson led alternately, with Speechley a yard behind. At the com mencement of the last lap the order was Wilson, Cripps, Speechley; half-way round, Speechley rushed to the front, and, main taining his.lead in spite of all Wilson's epiirts, won by six yards, Cripps third, a foot* behind Wilson. Time, 34min. 12 2-nsecs.

The lost appearance of any of the Aus tralian cricketers in England took placo on September '20th, when Palmer, Blackham, Giffen, and Boyle played for Mr Hyslop's eleven against sixteen of Erith and District, Giffen hit freely for 46, the highest in dividual score of the day, while Palmer took 10 wickets for 17 runs and scored 22. On tho day before Palmer, Boyle, and Alexan der ..played for Captain Patton's eleven against twenty-two of the Theatrical Club. Each of tho Australians got into double figuros, Palmer making 27, Boyle 43, and Alexander 31, while all three wore very successful with-tho ball.

A Model Ghost Story.

A vbby singular etory, which forms one of the sensational social topics of the day, is the best authenticated of the many stories of the supornatural that have been lately told. Only a short time ago a young and well-known artist, Mr A., was invited to pay a visit tr his distinguished friend, Mr Lizard. The house was filled with guests, but a large and handsome room was placed at his disposal, apparently one of the best .in the houso. For three days-he had a de lightfulvisit, delightful in all particulars save one, he had each night a horrible dream. He dreamod—or waß really— suddenly awakened by some person entering his room, and on looking around, saw the room brilliantly lighted, while atthe window tood a' lady, elegantly attired, in the act of throwingsoinethingout. This accomplished, she turned her face toward the only spec tator, showing a counternance 80 distorted by cvi) passions that he was thrilled with horror. Soon the light and the figure with the dreadful face disappeared, leaving the artist suffering from a frightful nightmare. On returning to his city home, ho was so haunted by the dreadful countenance which had for three consecutive nights troubled him, that he made a sketch of it, and so real that the evil expression seemed to horrify everyone who taw it. Not a great while after the artist went to make an evening visit on Mr Izzard ; that gentle man invited him to his picture gallery, as he wished to show him some remarkable old family portraits. What was Mr A.'B sup rise to recognise among them, in the like ness of a stately very well-dressed lady, the one who had so troubled his slumbers of his previous visit, lacking, however, the revol ting wicked expression. Soon as he saw it he involuntarily exclaimed, " Why I

have seen that lady." "Indeed," said Mr 1., smiling ; "that is hardely possible, as she died more than a hundred years ago. She was thesecond wife of my great-grand father, and reflected anything but credit on the family. She was strongly suspected of haying murdered her husband's Ron by a former mairiaga, in order to make her own child, heir to the property. The unfor tunate boy broke his neck in a fall from a window, and there if every reason to be lieve that hewasprecitated from the window by his step-mother." The artist then told the host the circumstances of his thrice repeated experience or dream, and sent for the sketch, which, so far as the features were concerned, was identical with the por trait in Mr Izzard's gallery. The sketch has since been photographee, but from lto hideous expression is far from pleasant to look upon.—'• Boston Courier."

THE LONDON THEATRES.

(From Oun London Correspondent),

London, September 29. The " Fall " season at our theatres is now in full swing, and every week briogs new and important novelties. The Court re opened last Thursday with a revival of

Tom Taylor and A. N. Dabourg's comedy,

I " New Men and Old Acres." , This piece lias had more than, one long run in London, and is always acceptable when well cast. I saw it finst at the Haymarket about fif teen years ago. So George Leybourne has gone at last I expected to hoar of his death about a year ago, but, wreck though he was, he clung to life tenaceously, and talked nonsense to the last. Leybourne was the first and the greatest of the so-called "lion comi ques," and a very fair sample of his class. There are various stories as to the manner in which ho commenced life, but I am told, by one who ought to know, he was the " pot-boy " of a Bradford free-and easy. Subsequently he was sent to work at the mills, and might have stayed there for eva.1 if his facility for catching up lively tunes and improvising what the profession call "patter had not struck one of the singers at the local music-hall. He taught Leybourne some of the comic ditties of the day, and got permission for him to sing them in public. The lad's broad humour and questionable jokes delighted the provincial audiences, and Leybourne was soon a man of many engagements'. His great auocess, however, dawned on the day that he met Alfred Lee. Mr Lee is a man who has made a great many folks' fortunes without materially benefiting his own. . Fully sixty per cent, of the successful comic songs played and whistled and barrel organed about the world for the last twenty years have been composed by him, and yet I think it probable that nine men out of ten never even heard his'name. For Leybourne he composed the ever-to-be remembered "Champagne Charlie," "The Lancashire Lass," "Up in a Balloon," " Moet and Chandon," "Down in a Diving Bell," and many other ditties which brought in hundreds of pounds to the ex-pot-boy. It was "Champagne Charlie" made L»y bourne's fame. The words (as is generally the case with this class 6f song) were of the vulgarest description—in fact, beneath con tempt, but the music would not disgrace Offenbach or Hery^. Leybourne paid £7 for "Champagne Charlie." He sang it night after night for three years, doing " turns " at four different halls each evening when in London, and sometimes earning as much as £120 a week. He was not the least bit of a vocalist. The veriest amateur could have sung "Champagne Charlie" better, but his "patter" amused people, and he was the first pomlque to dress up his parts appropriately. Well do I remember my first sight of " The Great George Ley • bourne," as the play-bills used to style him. I was a boy then—a "snobby" lad with horribly vulgarised tastes—and I had nover seen anything so " swell" as Ley bourne's.broad-striped trousers, dashing cutaway coat of costliest velvet, resplen dent tie, bojcwelled paws, elaborate oane, and curly-brimmed hat. I daresay your readers' would laugh if I were to say that Leybourne, when at the zenith of his career, did" something towards sotting the fashions, but it is true he did. Many beside myself will, I doubt not, recollect the time that flat curly brimmed " Champagne Charlie " hats and coats cutaway almost to swallow tails were as much " the thing " as crutches and toothpicks afterwards became. Like most of his brethren, Leybourne was hope lessly improvident and extravagant. Money slipped through his fingers .miraculously. The more he earned the more involved he became. People seemed to be always after him for money. As for his tastes and life, they were accurately described in " Cham pagne Charlie,"

" Up all night. In bed all day, And swimming in champagne" This sortof career couldn't last, and in due course Leybourne broke down. He was cent to a retreat, recovered, and began life again, but his voice, his " patter," and his popularity were alike gone, and/though up to the very last he could earn £20 a week when able to sing, he appeared but the shadow of his former self.

Ley bourne's last success was a song, " Ting ! Ting ! that's how the Bell goes !" Like "Champagne Charlie" it was com posed for him by: Lee. I heard the poor fellow try and croak through it at the Pavilion Music Hall eighteen months ago. The singer was a failur.e, but the song a triumph, and for months after the melody kept poor Loybourne's memory green. He leaves a widow and some children (wholly unprovided for) as legacies to the profession. They will probably be duly looked after, Leybourne, besides being good-natured, was kind-hearted, and never refused to assist to the best of his abilities a broken singer. Those who knew him personally aver, with a sigh, that he was nobody's enemy but his own. After an unprecedentedly long run of just two years, '"Confusion" was withdrawn from tho bills at the Vaudeville Theatre, and to night "Saints and Sinners,'"a five-act drama by Henry A. Jones (part author of the "Silver King"), will be produced. The scene is kid in a small provincial town, and the play illustrative of modern middle class life. Mr Thomas Thome takes the principal .part. ','.'! ■"'!," . "The Private Secretary" .continues to capital business at'the Globe Theatre, but when it gives out,|the brothers Hawbrey have a new comedy ready called "Outof Sorts."

On Monday next a farcical Comedy in three acts, entitled "AWet Day," will be produced at the Gaiety, where a burlesque on " Called Back,"rather peculiarly named "Called There and Back," is also in pre paration. Meanwhile" Little FraDrayblo" will be revived as... an afterpiece. The' Novelty Theatre management are pre paring "Pally,"a comio opera by James Mortimer and' Edward Solomon, in which Miss Lilian Russell will appear, I don't think it will be worth much. .. •..;.-...'.

The long-promised revival of "Hamlet," at the Princess Theatre, with Wilson Barrett as the Danish Prince, will take place next month. Miss Eastlake has been cast for Ophelia, Mr Willard for Claudius, and Mr George Barrett for the First Grave digger. Great things are hoped from Wilson Barrett's Hamlet.

"The Babes, or Whines from the Wood," the new burlesque in three acts at Toole's, is but a poor affair, and unlikely to have more than a brief run, Lionel Brough, as " not too much villain but just villain enough " is funny, and Willie Edoum and Alice Atherton, as two immense babies, look droll; but the piece itself is thin, attenuated, and terribly slow. On the, evening of,our visit the sole success was achieved by Alice Atherton, who gave '" The Babies on our Block," so well known in Australia, with great effect. The song is not known in England, and, of course, caught everybody's ear. ,'■:.''....■>...■

British Brutality.

We seldom read of so gross a cose of cowardly inhumanity as,that which came to light at an inquest at Wye a few days ago, A party of men had been drinking together, and one of them made a wager that he would swim across the River Stour. The man, it appears, was drunk, and promptly began to drown. A stranger tried- to rescue him, but without success; whilst the ruffian who had made the wager remarked that " the fellow meant to drown ;" and drowned he consequently was before the eyes of the whole party, who then returned to the public-house for "another glass." The coroner's jury had to content themselves with censuring the inhuman conduct of the men, who certainly have good reason to rejoice that the law accepts the distinction drawn in Clough's " New Decalogue ":—

Thou Bhalt not kill, but need'at not strive

Officiously to keep alivo.

How American millionaires Spend Their Fortunes.

Hebe is a description of a recent masquerade ball, given by : James Gordon Bennett, at his Newport, U.S.A., villa, in honour of his principal .guest, President Arthur :— •Electric lights were profusely f i»ed around the grounds and within a large tented ball-area of shaven and rolled tan. Beneath the pines, maples, and oaks were many small pavilions connected together, as well as with the ball-room and the supper pagodas, by carpets. At one end of the dancing pavilion was a mimic iceberg, composed of twenty tons of ice, over the sides of which, from invisible pipes, gushed little rivulets, that escaped into grassy basins beneath, the whole lighted by an in geniously concealed electric light. At the other end of iho pavilion was a massive pyramid of maiden fern, surmounted by the' flags of the host's large steam yacht Nainouna. The thermometer'beyond the grounds stood at eighty degrees, but the icy atmosphere is said to have destroyed all sense of heat in the six hundred gueßts, ■:"■

A Violinist Who Could Not Play.

"Haven't I scon you somewhere before?" asked Mr Jones, who was extremely affable, of the hair-dresser who shaved him one Saturday evening. " Haven't I seen you somewhere before ? I think I know your face ?" " Perhaps so, sir," said the hair-dresser s as he poised the lather-brush in midair one moment.

"Bid you attend the grand series of con certs at the • ~ about five years ago J You did ? Well, I played the violin there, though, if you'd believe me, I don't know one note of music from another. You look astonished. No wonder, but I'll tell you how it was.

I lived a long time as valet with a gentleman who was a wonderful vio linist — Signor Stefferstofferi was bis name. Be lived in bachelor rooms, and I had plenty to do besides dressing his hair and keeping his wardrobe in order, and often ana often I used to watch him playing, until, though I .didn't know one tune from the other, I knew just how he held the bow,and just whatflourishes he gave, and how he rolled his eyes up and looked over his shoulder. He was a very handsome man, and it was quite fascinating to watch him. And often and often I'd take his violin in my hand, after he had gone out somewhere, and stand before the glass and play away in dumb show, you know, looking for all the world as if I was a most splendiferous player, but not making one sound.

If I'd been deaf I should have thought myself a most talented performer ; indeed, I should, sir. But bless your heart, I can imitate any motion of the body that can be made, air; walk like any body you mention, I'm a good mimic, and : always was. If the old man wasn't looking, sir, I'd make you think I was him this minute, walking away with my back to you and saying:—"Come, sir, come. Why, don't (you see what that gentleman wants, sir?" It won't do now, though, or I'd show you how the gentle man over there—a businea man and always in a hurry—cornea to be shaven, or with my handkerchief over my head, I'd be an old lady as natural as life. I'm not boast ing, sir; it's the talent as was born with me, and no more my doing than my eyee are, or my nose. Yes, I'd imitate my master as to -his motions on the violin until you'd-think I was the old signor himself. •■■•. . . ■: . It was a pleasant place after all, and I was sorry enough to part with him when he went off to the continent one day,- and took a Frenchman along with him, as understood foreign languages,; but he was. very generous—paid me my wages and gave me a present Deside's, and, left me a' lot of things; coats, bats, boots —he was too much die dandy to wear out his old things —and a violin besides, one that he thought nothing of, of course, though to my mind it was a deal finer than the old thing he thought so much of—a Straddle.'apis, I think he called it; but, leastways, it was something as.sounded most uncommon like it. That shabby old thing he doted on," whatever its name was.

Well, I always thought it one's duty to take all that came honestly in one's way, and I found it was well I did in this! case; for love or money I could get no new place, and after I came to the end of my cash I began to sell my other things, and at last every coat and vest was pawned, and all I had left was an old dress-coat of master's, a pair of white kid gloves, and my violin.' I rolled the coat in a bundle, and the gloves I put in its pocket. I could pawn them if I could not sell him. The violin I hoped to get a little more for. After that, if luck didn't grow better, I meant to drown my self I I did, indeed, sir. .

It was a winter night—the first one ef that set of concerts, you remember—as cold as Greenland. I know it, for I had no fire and not much food to warm me that day either.

Well, I.took my violin under my arm, and I walked out into the street, as low spirited aa I ever was in my life, and not, knowing at all what I ought to have for' my violin, and it was a matter, you may say, of life or death' to me, I thought I'd step into a big music store I passed, and ask ono of tbe gentlemen there to tell me what it ought to fetch, and maybe give me a hint where I could sell it. - • ' '

I step; jod in and wen tto wards the counter, and then bided my time, for there were two old gentlemen standing there, and it wasn't the place of one that was only going to ask a favour to step before a customer. - And I listened to what they were saying, and I found they were in a peck of troubles. One of the gentlemen was the manager of the concerts you went to hear, and he'd just received word from one of the violin players, or from his friend, rather, to Bay he'd died an hour before.

"And we have had such careful re hearsals," said the old gentleman, not «v bit sorry for the poor violinist, it seemed. "And whom we shall get to take bis place I don't know. The concert commences in an hour "

"Hang it," says the old gentleman, quite angry, " Pfiffenhi might have taken some other time to die;"

Well, I'm quick at catching names. I knew all about the old gentleman, for I'd heard my master, Signor Stefferstofferi, talk of him, and all of a sudden a thought came into my head. I don't know what put it there, but in it poped. I walked up to the old gentleman and I madeabow, and I said, " Mr Bags, I believe ?" And he said, "That's my name, sir." Says I then, "Sir, just an hour before the late Signor Pfifferini died—feeling unwell, and knowing my abilities—he made me pro mise that ifhe were taken ill I would take his place in'your concerts. I need only say that Signor Stefferstofferi was my master/ and of course I am anxious to oblige poor Pfifferini, though I really' had no idea I should be called on to do so when I pro mised him." ' ,

I said this with all my master's shrugs and bows and airs. And when I said he was"my master," I meant them to unaer stand that lie taught me music of course. Then they asked me if I had rehearsed the musie,^ and I said ".yes," ot course, laughing as if it was an absurd question, and then w© went on to the hall, and there I put on the dress coat and white, gloves I had been.going to pawn, and did my own hair in superior style. I; never was so poor as not to have a comb'in my pocket. And that evening I played the violin in pubjicfor the first time. I know I did it well, for I could see my self in the long glass down the side of the proscenium boxes. It might have been my master, Signor Stefferstofferi himself. After the performance the manager en gaged me for the -whole set of concerts, and the first violin player complimented me very highly ; said I was better than poor Pfifferini, who never could keep his pace; and, without making a single sound, I flourished my bow until the concerts were over, and earned more money than lever had earned in the same space of time in my life. . - ; ' ■■■ ' ■ ■'■ , ■-, V;

But I was glad when it was over, for I was ill,-and though, to be sure, it was de lightful to have the young ladies looking at me through their opera-glasses, and to feel that I was making a figure before the first society, I'm quite content as I am. This is a very good place, and when Mr Bogs came in to be shaved the other night he said to me: ' ■* ' " ■■■ ■' ■ ' '"' ''■ ;-

" Do you know, young man, you are very like one of the best violinists I ever knew V

And I said, " Indeed, sir; I'm proud to hear it." But I saw that he had no idea that I was the selfsatno man, and of course I didn't enlighten him. Why should I, sir? But since then I haven't been quite so much taken in by musical critics, sir. I've shaved and curled many of 'em ; and two at least, I know, sat paging at me while I played dummy fiddle, and never guessed it.' Have your moustache trimmed, sir? Yes, sir. Thank you."-— " Prize Tit-bit."

A Fashionable Call.

If there is any one thing a fashionable lady does really enjoy it ia to to make a formal call on some other fashionable lady and find her out. A few days ago an elegantly; dressed lady emerged proudly from a carriage, and called . , at one_ <?f the stateliest mansipns at the vv esc End, in front of which : the ladyV. son was nlariug. "your raa is not in " said the visitorf in a confident tone of voice, '! Oh, yes she is; she ia in the drawing-room." ■' I thought she always went out to take a ride about thia time in the afternoon, re plied the lady, in a disappointed tone, of voice; and an expression of horror and disgust flitted over her. moire antique features. "I believe she would have been out if you had let her' know you were coming, and bad given her a chance to be absent. I heard her say so the_other day to pa " Just at this moment the lady of the house came out. They rushed towards each other's arms like two collid ing locomotives—smack on both sides, and. in the middle. . " Yum, yvaa, yumj ,how; glad I am—yum,' yum—to see yOul You naughty thingi you haven't been to see me lor an," age—smack, yum.' Now come into the, house and make yourself at home. How are your dear children! I;do , think they a,re the most charming little | cherubs," etc., etc., ad itmswm.

On the Brink of Niagara.

"Did you ever hear of a man's standing on tie'top of Niagara Falls without loosing hifl

life?" asked Mr C. P. Sherman, yesterday.

" Well, I did. You have heard of the mag* nilieent ice bridge below the Falls. Having business at Buffalo, Iran up tolookattho , ice gorgo. The ice, which had poured ',' down from the upper lakes, piled up at the Horseshoe, and froze under the' spray; I clambered over the bridge, and going up >■; on the Canadian side, went down under the Horseshoe Falls into the Cave of the Windp, ' What superb staligmites and stalactities: of ice thore were there, reaching from roof . } to floor, with the thundering curtain of the fall between us and the light. After I hod ■ recrossed the river by the Suspension BridgQ ( I crossed the. bridge above the American . Fall to Goat Island, which was covered with snow, and deserted. The shrubbery and trees near the Falls were coated with. 7 ice—in places, on some of the trunks, sev-_. eral inches in fhickness—looking as if they had been cut out of marble or were. the ; ghosts of dead trees. Wandering across the island, I crossed over the Three Sisters. ', and, by means of a jam of great blocks of * ■ ice, out of the old canal boat, post which the water was rushing swiftly. " Going back to Goat Island, I went down to the footbridge to Terrapin Rock, where the old tower used to stand, and out | on the rock. When I got there I observed that a quantity of ice covered with scow I had by some means become fixed upon the projecting rocks on the edge of the Horse- . shoe Fall beyond the rock where I stood, forming a bridge on the extreme edge of the fall about 100 feet long by 10 or 15 ;: feet wide. Instantly the desire to go upon this bridge and look over the fall seized me, I dug out a etone from the snow, as heavy : -, as I could lift, and stepping out as far as 1., dare, threw it with all my force upon the bridge, which stood firm, the stone sticking ■ fast on the snow. Then I ran back to- th« .-; island and broke off a good stout staff, and coming back "to Terripah Rock, com-'.' " mencedthe rather trying journey* The: snow which covered the ice was itself cov ered with a thin.'coating of. ice, which- ' broke beneath my feet, thus giving me a . good foothold ; and .as to my head, I was sure of that, as I had thoroughly tested ita anti-dizziness the preceding summer on shipboard and among the'Swiss'glaciers • ana precipices. Prodding my staff or alpen stock heavily into the enow before .me to try the way, I walked out until I. had :, reached about the middle of my ice bridge,. and then I stopped to look. ■'•The 'flight.. was the grandest and the most awe-inspir ing I have ever beheld. As I lookel up the river the curve of the oncoming water seemed almost as high as.my; head, and,, <'• steadying myeye uppn■ some floating; par-',, ---tide, the whole mass seemed coming down upon me with an irresistible-power: that must inevitably carry me over the brink and into eternity;' but with a swift,, hissing,'' rush, it swept under me, leaped out, and, ; with a horrible roar, plunged into the awful; , chasm, whence huge clouds of spray, like the smoke of its torment, ascending, swept back and over me, ■ '; vr ':!l

"Steadying myself by mystaff, i tsahk, J quietly upon my knees,-then stretched: my-7 : - Belf flat upon my stomach, and looked down F over the fall. You can imagine what I saw. When the spray would clear away, :thß'-< water, rushing so swiftly as to appear to be' : - drawn into lines and furrows, ana springing, out under my very face, could be seen to fall, at first a solid, 'greenish mass," then broken into foam; into a chaos .which tho eyes could not penetrate. I could: feel my ; bridge trembling with the rush ,of water,'; and, realising that any moment might see it and me following.the descending flood, I arose, took one look up and down—a 'look .. ' to last for a life-time—and retraced .my steps. As I passed the rock I had thrown

oh the bridge, I could not resist tha temp tation of dislodging it and, seeing it whirl away over the liquid precipice. "-i~'J Phila delphia ;Press."j ." ': . .■">.. >. -

Willing and Thought-reading.

" Willing " and " thought-reading "have . 1 naturally become society amusements, and ■ ■ .> are especially popular at" the,"wnivereities among the undergraduates. They' are in- : . tere^ting enough, if rightly- understood,' but are not without their perils and mis- ; . chiefs, of which two caßes, reported at the - • laßt meeting of the Cambridge Medical Society, afford characteristic examples. ■ The one case was related by Mr Deigbton. / In November of 1883, he was summoned in ?«■».'/ urgent haste to see an undergraduate. Ho ' found him surrounded •• by his /friends, who :"n said they had been playing the- willing , game, and' that-lie had been blind-folded ; and willed j■" soon" afterwards he became-'. tottery on his legs, and went off into a state . of convulsions. When seen, lie was tossing:.'• '-'■' about on a sofa, with face slightly flushed, ! the movements at the arms and legs being most irregular, almost equally exaggerated >:.: on both sides. The muscles of the face and • - neck were least affected j but he i spoke in a jerky way, and, on putting out: his tongue,' it was protruded and withdrawn suddenly.' He was quite conscious, clear, and colleoted, and said that he tried to prevent himself; ■ ; tossing about, but could nothelpiit. Tha pupils acted to light and'were natural in —■:', size. He recovered after calming treat- * p ment and rest. It was an attack of induced chorea or hysteria brought on by mental! : strain.—Mr Wherry reported", ako a case. ; He was sent for one evening to see an un dergraduate who had become suddenly ill during the willing game. It appeared that his fi tends had blind-folded him in the* uaual manner, and were willing him to do some simple action, when all of a sudden he became weak' in the knees, and had to be . helped to a seat, The handkerchief was •■ ---removed at once, but the patient did not seem at all himself., He found'him1 leaning .-::. ■': against the mantel-she f. looking fixedly ■ ■ downwards in/ a dogged andi morose atti». ■; '. tilde. Ho answered questions in monisyl lables in a hesitating way, not stammering, but with" a jerk and without expression. - Usually,'' Bis ■friends said, his manners were natural and polite. The pupils weredilatedj .■■■ with no action to light, and his memory was a blank as to tho details of the game, He: m was sent ■to bed, and when seen the next.•:.•■ morning he was better—his pupils normal••-■: and active to light, but his manner was BtiU odd, and nis speech 'remarttable'j i. When-advised to leave Cambridge: for a'\ ' fewdays 1 change he refusedrudelyj^but was ■<;}■' afterwards persuaded by his friends, and •■ ---returned quite well, r Mr Wherry remarked •: ■■:,'■ upon the strange stata induced %ithis ; willing game; the dogged and morese manner,'slow replies, no action of the pupils I to light, rapid recovery, arid no recollection • of the period during which he was being willed—altogether a condition -whicbi' he - ■ was,informed, corresponded with thehyp* • notic or mesmeric state, and one of which medical men were interested in;—" British. Medical Journal." ': •■- ' -'■'-•*. v ; '■ • ■ ' -•

The Decadence of Snuff.

The taste for snuff appears to ■ be/declining in England with much rapidity, if -wo may judge by the official returns just published as to its importation is recent years. Ad i/! ; cording to the figures thus given, the coun try received last year in its ports for home consumption only the paltry total of 541bs. It is true that there was also imported 4,3431ba. of this commodity designed to bo exported again; but this only proves more conclusively how little the Britisher is now able to appreciate the once favourite drug - when he hasti in his power to do'so. Fifty four pounds seems a truly absurd quantity to suffice for, domestic use when it is under stood that in Scotland alone there are elderly men still who are accustomed ■to . apoon up tbe fragrant dust into, their dos- -~, tiils with asorfc olyroodett shore},; la/steed' ; , of being content to convey it thither in the. , orthodox fashion, grasped between their thumbund forefinger. jWiiafc can have be come of »H those snuff-boxes,once regarded as gems of'art, • which 'the wits of ,the Georgian era used to rap with such elegant gestures, and open with such dignified complacency? Why, if even one-half ofV, them were still in existence and performing their ancient duty, 541ba. would not suffice to keep them going for a month. There must be still in England some hundreds of ", shops, irrespective of taverns, still " licen- * Bed," according to the old formula, " to sell tea, coffee, tobacco, and snuff." At leasi, ".'.-. if the inscription over their doors does .not say this, it certainly affirms the readiness of the owner or occupier to deal in Bnuff as well as other luxuries." Where does tbia snuff come from?; Evidently the 641bs, re- ■ ceived last year from England cannot gci Vj far towards stocking these shops and tav erns. It is to be feared that the snuff-taker ,: who resorted to such places for the purpose of refilling his box > would be in. danger of getting a, duet which had been subj to a ripening process less benefioialtp it tl.an -*! to port; wine. That, snuffers, as they are now sometimes irreverently called, do still exist, we all admit.

3

THE. AUCKLAND EVENING STAR, SATURDAY, JNOVEMBER 22, issa.



Wise Folly.—"For ten years my wife wa* confined to her bed with Buoh a complication of ailments that no doctor could tell what was the' matter or cure her, and I nsed up a small for tune in humbug stuff. Six months ago I saw an American flag with Hop Bitters on It, and I thought I would be a fool once more. I tried it, but my folly proved to be wisdom. Two bottles cured her. she is now as well and strong as any man's wife, and it cost me only two. dollars,"— H W., Detroit, Mich, Bead. ?



SKINNY MEH.-"Wdl«-«H««IttiK«ie»ei'rMtotMhe«llh md Timor cuvw Oy»I»I»I». Impofcnw, D«Ullly. At CrojgUU B aTimor,_^"jJ2gggJk tamttCo., A»»u Auukuui



DON'T DIB IN THE HOBSR-.-Hmjthana.fc,. «leii» pat xst*, mie*. beetles, roacW bed-btvl.ttica?*utii!iiu2>tf^^s^