FOR THE BOYS.

VIVAT REX !

There's a tyrant who rules with a sceptre of might, -. >.- i His subjects are legion. __.&. bJaok, brown or ■From equator to pole they acknowledge his

.-. right, * ; ; ■-.. i. And nre.steadfast and loyal and true., , His mandates are honored in feverish haste. And deference paid to each whim of his taste. His speech is with .--finite eloquence graced; And yet he says nothing but goo."

Howlong has he reigned! Since tlie world was

begun, - ■'• And his reign will emiutotti; iti.glories aro done. There's nothing so wonderful ui.der the sun : As this king who hits nolliing to do. But to eat and to sleep tun! U- nlways at hand, To enslave a new sul-jci-l o>- glv. a command Which thoy fly to obey. Im tiu.- all understand. . Although lie says no__n.-t.t_ 1 "goo."

Ah, velvet despot, how .silken your chains! How cherished your bott-.-i.i-o o'er all earthly gains. How sweeter your voice ih-.-.ix c elestial strains,

As you lie in your cradle nr.rt coo. No monarch e'er ri.i;.n.il .vitb anway so corn-

plete. Whose subjects so abjectly '.ue-.1-d at his feet. Whose rule was so dear, and whose thraldom so sweet As this one who says iioilm__.' bnt "goo." H. A. Freeman.

MOTHER'S WORK.

From the. " Philadelj^'iM tivialay Republic."

Baking, stowing-,am. brewing, . - Roasting, fryiii'r, unit boiling, Sweeping, _uHti;i», .unci cleaning. Washing, staiviiiii::, a; dir'ning. Ripping, turnii.K,:.'.,; mending, Cutting, bnsti:!-.;-,!,,: stitching, -taking the oirt i:-.-:«_ now: Shoetrins.',, in ii.cc, ,• Faces to wash. Buttons Us sey,. And the like of such; Stockings to darn - - ~--' : While thi- i-MMr; n play, .Stories to tell, Tears wl_<!»\v ; ,y. Making titmn happy Thelivolotii! i':iy ; It is ever thus from im-rn t ill night; Who says thata niotln..- s work is light ? "ii. , , . At evening, Icur Little for::: i_ vhite; Prayers „iisai<:. And the-lost :,',.Gil.„ight, Tucking then; -afe In each downy bed, Silently as'-iiitr O'er each hea_ That the dual Father In heaven «i'; keep Safe all my darlings. Awake or asleep. Then I think the old aaajto true ever will prove: " It is easy to labour for those that we love." in. Ah me! dear mo I I often say, As I hang the tumbled olothes away; And the tear-drops start While my bnniancd heart Aches for the mother across the way. Where, oh, where are Her nestlings flown. All, all arc none. Save ono alone! Folded their garment. With tend crest care. Unpressed the pillow. And vacant the chair. No ribbons to tie. No faces to wash. No hair all awry; No merry voices To hush into rest; God save them ! He took thorn, And He kuoiYeth best; But, ah! tlie heart anguish! the tear 3 that fall! This mother's work is the hardest of all!

The Faithful Shepherd Boy.

Gerharut was a German shepherd boy; and a noble fellow he was too, although he was very, very poor.

One day as he was watching his flock which was feeding la tho valley, on the borders of a forest, a hunter came out of the woods and asked : -

"How far is it to the nearest village?" "Six miles, sir,"roplied the boy ; "but the road is only a sheep track, and very easily missed."

The hunter glanced at the crooked track, and then said :

"My, lad, I am hungry, tired, and thirsty. I have lost my companions and missed my way. Leave your sheep and show mo the road. I will pay you'well." ."I cannot go, sir," replied Gerhardt, very firmly. "My master pays me for my time, and he trusts me with his sheep. If I were to sell you my time, which does not belong to me, and the sheep should get lost, it would be just the same as if I stole them."

"Well," said the hunter, " will you trust your sheep with me while you go to the village and get some food and drink and a guide ? I will take good caro of your sheep." "I cannot leave my sheep, sir. They would stray, into the forest and be eaten by wolves or stolen by robbers."

"Well, what .qtsMsis -_&u'^"&'OKe* hunter. "They are not your sheep. The J_oss^jf'one-ortn-re*"wottld* not be**muck"to

your, master.; and I'll give you more money than' you 'ever' earned1 before in a. whole y-ar."' -*>■*.«»**•;-. :*^ •;-■.-■'• ... •:•-■'( ■ -_'

; The boy Shook his head, "-". '; -••"The sheep do not' know your voice, and . " "' "-""'.*

•->''/ And what? Can't yod'trust me? Do I look like a dishonest" man?" inquired the hunter, rather angrily. : *"* "Sir," said the boy slowly, "you tried to make me false* to'my trust and wanted me to break-my word to my master. How do I know you would keep your word to me?" ■ . * ■'■ ' ..'..*'

The hunter laughed, for he felt that the boy had fairly cornered him. " I see, my lad, that you are a good faithful boy. I will not forget ycu. Show me the road and I will try and make it out myself." ■■ ■ • Gerhardtnow offered the humble contents of his scrip to the hungry man, who, coarse as they were, ate them gladly. Presently their attendants came up, and then Gerhardt, to his surprise, found that the hunter was the Grand Duke, who owned all the country round. The duke was so pleased with the boy's honesty that he sent for him shortly after and had him educated. In after years Gerhardt became a very rich and powerful man; but he remained honest and true to his dying day. Honesty, truth, and fidelity are precious jewels in the character of a child. •'-'*•

Sir Cloudesley Shovel.

Sir Clou lii-'m.ky Shovel, British Admiral, raised himself from the lowest birth to the highest honour. He was'born in a small vil lage in Norfolk, England, and at a suitable age he was bound apprentice to a shoe maker. But he had always a strong in clination for the sea.

Happening to be sent on some errand connected with his trade to one of the sea port towns on the Norfolk coast, the sight of tho. shipping fired his fancy to such a degree that he never ceased entreating his parents to permit him to try his fortune in the'navy.

At last he obtained their consent, and the more readily that they knew how little they were able to do for him in any vi ay on account of their impoverished cir cumstances.

ihey had directed him to be christened Cloudesley, in view of recommending him to the notice of a somewhat well-to-do kins man of that name.

This kinsman procured him a recom mendation to the famous Sir John Nar borough, who thereupon at once made him His cabin-boy.

Thus'W&«.fulfilled the fondest wishes of young Cloudealey's heart. At that time this was-a most promising way of entering the navy. The berth gave him all the opportunities he could desire of gaining his master's regard, and he did not fail to make the best use of them.

Sir John had raised himself from the same station, and was s. generous patron of all who discovered any extraordinary symptoms of maritime worth.

He saw with pleasure the fidelity and affection of his cabin-boy.

He soon had no less reason to admire his coolness and courage. In the heat of an action the boy heard the Admiral express a wish that he could send certain papers to the captain of a ship then engaged at some distance. Cloudesley stepped forward and offered to swim with them.

Sir John hesitated a moment, then placed the papers in the boy's hand.

The brave boy was lowered to the water, and, taking the papers in his mouth, at once struck bravely out.

The battle raged around, and the enemy, not knowing what danger to them was plot ting, fired at tlie brave boy. Shots struck around him, but he did not falter.

Men paused in the fight to watch his little head as it sank and rose behind the waves ; and'at last-a wild cheer burst out as they saw him reach the other ship and grasp the rope thrown to him. His commander now ordered him to be thoroughly instructed in navigation, and in every other requisite to make him a com plete seaman, and then procured for him a lieutenant's commission.

When he was made an officer the British trade to the Levant was suffering very greviously from the pirates of Tripoli and Algiers.

A squadron was ordered to suppress them, under the command of Sir John Nar borough. He, with Shovel on board his flag-vessel, arrived at Algiers in the spring, and found everything ready to give him a warm reception. The Algerines, upon his first appearance, drew up their ships of war, and the pirates of Tripoli, following the example of their confederates, had brought their ships to tho walls of their capital, and the artillery of a fort that commanded the harbour.

The appearance ot the enemy's enor mously superior strength, joined to the tenor of Sir John's instructions, by which he was directed to try negotiations, ere he proceeded to force, determined him to send a person in whom he could confide to the Dey of Tripoli, to propose an accommoda tion upon receiving satisfaction for what was past and security for the future. Tne admiral pitched upon Shovel to carr j* the message. Accordingly he went on shore and delivered it with great spirit. But the Dey, despising his youth, treated him with great disrespect, and sent him back with an indefinite answer, the con tomptuousness of which was barely con cealed.

Shovel, on returning to the admiral, ac quainted him with some highly important discoveries which he had made about the condition of affairs on shore.

Sir John at once sent him back with an other message, and well furnished him with proper rules for conducting his inquiries and observations.

The Dey's behaviour was worse the second time. But Shovel bore it with patience, and made it an excuse for staying some time longer on shore, all the time with his eyes thoroughly open and wide awake.

When he returned, he informed the ad miral that it was a matter by no means difficult to burn the ships in the harbour, notwithstanding the lines and forts. Accordingly Lieut. Shovel, at the head of all the boats of the fleet, went boldly and destroyed all the enemy's ships. He returned safe to the fleet without the loss of so much as a single man. ■ This extraordinary act struck the Tripo lines with amazement and consternation, and they instantly sued for peace. But when they came to treat, they re fused to make good the losses which had been sustained at the hands of the piratical cruisers by the English traders; so Nar borough at once commanded the cannonade of the town. Finding that ineffectual, he sent Shovel to land with a body of men at a place about twenty leagues from the1 city. . *

There the expedition succeeded in burn ing a large magazine of timber, which was provided for building their nefarious cruisers. ' . ,

When all this failed of reducing tho people, Sir John .ailed for Malta. After remaining there for some time, he returned suddenly upon the enemy, and distressed

th_tn co much that theyI wereglad to faStfC elude a peace on the terms prescribed. -*-Shoyel''behaved"-30*__sgn_flceittly •Wall" these transactions and encounters, and Sir John gay_so honourable an account of his behaviour in his letters to the Admiralty, that in the succeeding year our young herb was rewarded with the"command of the " Sapphire," a fifth-rater. ■ - He remained a faithful servant of his King; Charles ll,' until the death of that sovereign. ; - ;' ,'""~"b.' M

A GRANDMOTHER'S STORY.

[By Charles H. Barstow.]

TOLD ON CHRISTMAS EVE.

You ask for a sto-y, my darling, to-night, while the wild winds blow. While within ia the gleaming firelight, and without is the drifting snow ! You ask for a plea-ant Btory, a story of Christ mas Ere? Ah! the one that I best can tell yo_isthe one that will make you grieve!

Let me think for a moment, darling, while I call the facts to mind ; You see I am getting old now. How mourn fully whistles tho wind: Draw the curtains a little closer, and stir the fire torn glow It is eighteen years ago, my dear, eighteen long years ago.

Since he knelt with his face upturned, a youth in the pride of his years; The brown of his dark looks mingling with tbe rippling gold of hers; Since he spake in a voice impassioned—a light in his dark blue eye- In tho fashion as old as the world, dear, of a love that never should die.

And ehe—well, she was a maiden who knew not tho world's soft wiles: She trusted his words of promise, she trusted his sunny smiles; And can you wonder, mj- darling, that she lost her heart that, day— That it went right out trom her keeping, into his, for ovor and aye?

He-ali. my dear! it is but a story that's grown very old! He wandered away and left her—thrust her out of hi 3 heart In the cold; And ho sent no word of his wanderings, no tidings of good or ill, And she, in her guileless nature, did trust and wait for him still;

Till one day there came a whisper o£ a tale too foul to be spoke— A woman betrayed by her darling—that day from her dream she woke. She woke, and wed at tho bidding of her pare nts. who saw no wrong. A man with a name and a fortune, a man who had loved her long;

And he gave her a life ol comfort, so far as it in him lay. But she drooped like a (lower in autumn, like the light of the closing day; Until a baby was born, dear, then tho spark of her life went out. Do you ask why Itellyoti this, what my story is all about ?

I toll you only this, dear—'twas your mother ot whom I spoke ; Hers was the love betrayed, dear; hers wa3 the heart that was broke. And can you blame for thinking of her grave in the churchyard white, Or for telling a sorrowful story instead o£ a glad ono to-night 1

THE MAN IN THE IRON MASK.

What History and Traditions Have to ' Say about this Mysterious Character.

Although conjecture has long been ex hausted as to the identity of the person in the Iron Mask, yet the fact of such a prisoner haying been confined and dying in the Bastile, as first made public by Vol taire) has since been abundantly confirmed in all its leading points. The journal of M. de Jonca, who was many years Lieuten ant de 80l at the Bastile, gives an account of the prisoner being removed from the Island of St. Marguerite on M. de St. Mars being appointed Governor at the Bastile. He says the prisoner always wore a mask of black velvet, a circumstance confirmed by several writers, although he has been called the Iron Mask, and when he died in the Bastile was buried on the 20th Novem ber," 1703, in -the burying place of St. Paul. In the registry of this "parish there is the. following entry : "In the year 1703, on the 19th day of November, Marchiali, aged 45 years or thereabouts, died at the Bastile. His body was interred in the burying-place of this parish of St. Paul on the 20th of the said month, in the presence of Monsieur de Rosarges, Mayor of the Bastile, and Mon sieur Keith, the surgeon, who accordingly sign this." ■;_■',: Father Grissett, in his ", Traite de Preuves gui servant pour etablir la Verite deTHistoire," says nothing can exceed the dependence that may be placed on the journal of M. de Jonca. He addß that a great many circumstances relating to-the prisoner weie known to the officers and servants at the Bastile, when Monsieur de Launay was appointed Mayor there ; that M. de Launay told him he was informed by them that immediately after the prisoner's death his linen, clothes, mattresses, and, in short, everything that had been used by him were burned; that the walls of his room were scraped, and the floor taken up, all evidently from the appre hension that he might have found means of writing something that would have dis covered who he was; and that Monsieur d'Argenson, who often came to the Bastile when. Lieutenant-General of the police, hearing that the garrison still spoke of this prisoner, asked one day What was said about him, and after hearing some ot the con jectures, observed: "They will never know."

It is related by others that, besides the precautions mentioned by M. de Launay, the glass was taken' out of the window of his room and pounded to dust, the window frame and doors burnt, and the ceiling oi the room and the plaster *of the inside chimney taken down. Several persons have affirmed that the body was buried without a head; and M. de St. Foix, in his " Essais Historiques," informs us that a gentleman, having bribed the sexton, had the body taken up in the night, and found a stone instead of the head.

Voltaire, in his "Age of Louis XTV," says:—"Some months after the death of Cardinal Mazarin in 1661, there happened an event of which there is no example, and what is iso less strange, the historians of that time seem to have been unacquainted with it. There was sent, with the greatest secrecy, to the castle on the Island of Marguerite in the Sea of Provence, an un known prisoner, rather above the middle size, young, and of a graceful figure. On the road he wore a mask, with steel springs that enabled him to eat without taking it off. Those who conducted him had orders to kill him if he made any attempt to dis cover himself. He remained there until the governor of Pigneroe, an officer of con fidence, named St. Mars, being appointed governor of the Bastile, 1690, brought him thence to the Bastile, always covered with a mask. The Marquis de Louvois, who went and saw him at St. Mar guerite, spoke to him standing, and with that kind of attention that marks res pect. He was lodged at the Bastile as well as that would admit. Nothing was refused him that he desired. His chief taste' was for lace and linen, remarkably fine. He played on the guitar. His table was the best that could be provided, and the go vernor seldom sat down in his presence. An old physician of the Bastile, who had often attended him when he was indisposed, said that be never saw his face, though he had often examined his tongne- and parts of his body ; that he was admirably made : that his skin was rather brown ; that he had something interesting in the sound of his voice; that he never complained or let drop anything by which it might be guessed who he was."

This unknown person died in 1703, and was buried in the night at the burying ground of the parish of St. Paul. What increases our astonishment is that when he was sent to-St. Margueriteho person of im portance in Europe was missing. Yet this prisoner certainly was of importance. See what happened soon after his arrival there. The governor put the dishes on the table himself, retired and locked the door. One day the prisoner wrote ■ something with a knife on a silver plate and threw it out of the window toward a boat that was drawn on shore near the bottom of the tower. A fisherman to whom the boat belonged todk up the plate and brought it to the governor, w .10 with evident astonishment, asked the man if he knew what was written on the plate, or if any person had seen it. H_ said that he could hot read ; that he had just found it, and that'no one else had seen it. He was, however, confined until the governor was certain that he could not read, and that no other, had; seen the plate. He then dismissed 'him, saying : "It is lucky for you that you cannot read." The Abbe Papon relates " that a young lad, a barber, having seen one day.some thing white floating on the water, took it up. It was a fine shirt, written almost all over. He carried it to M. de Saint Mars, who, having looked at some parts of the writing, asked the lad, with an appearance of anxiety, if he had read it.. He assured him repeatedly that he had not; but two days later the boy was found dead in his bed."

M. de la Borde informsus that M. Linguet, in the course of his inquiries, found that when the Iron Mask went to mass he had the most express orders not to speak or show himself; that the invalids were com manded to fire on him if he disobeyed; that their arms were loaded with ball, and that he therefore took good care to conceal him self and to be silent.

Among the various conjectures respecting the Iron Mask, the most prevalent opinion is that he wa. the twin brother-of Louis XIV, born some hours after him, and that the King, their father, fearing that the preten sions of a twin brother might one day be employed to renew civil wars, with which France had so often.been afflicted, cautiously concealed his birth, and sent hijh away to be brought up privately.

A Night of Adventures.

I haVe travelled in my time over a great portion of the world, and have had some rather, curious and exciting adventures, but the most remarkable of these, taking every thing into. consideration, was the series which occurred one night at London in the winter of 1863.

I was visiting the city on a, trip "of pleasure, and had letters of introduction to some three or four of the first families. But I arrived there a perfect stranger, put up at one of the principal hotels, and thought I would see a little of the town before making myself known to those who would be bound by the rules of good breed ing to receive me as a friend. .

. With this view.l started out one evening for a walk, .and having pasoed through some of the public thoroughfares, I found myself on the borders of a locality that did not look particularly inviting, the streets being badly lighted, and the houses and the people indicating the quarter of the poorer class. I kept on, however, some little distance, taking care not to lose sight of the main street I had left, and was on the point of turning back, when, from a dark, alloy, a little girl, poorly and thinly clad, came running towards me, crying as if her heart would break.

" What is the matter, my child?" said I, in a tone of compassion. She stopped and looked up at me, pre senting to my view, by the light of a street lamp, a tearful face of great sweetness and beauty,'and whose innocence I would have vouched for.

." Oh !" she sobbed, my poor mother, I fear, is dying i She has been ill for a week, and for two days we have had nothing to feat. We have pawned every thing, and I have started out to see if I can get a little charity. It goes hard with me to ask it, sir, and I have shrunk from it till the last moment; and now lam afraid it is too late. Oh, what, will become of us ?" "Her voice was soft and sweet, her lan guage that of a child who had received the early training of a refined mother, and all my sympathies were strongly enlisted in her behalf.

"If I was certain, my child, that what you tell me is the truth, I would give you enough to make you comfortable for the present—that is, I mean, so far as money can do it."

"Oh, if you doubt me, sir," come and see for yourself. It is but a step," she rejoined, in a pleading, agitated voice. I. lpoked at the dark alley and its old, dilapidated, half-tumbled-down houses, and hesitated. What if this should be aplot to trap the unwary and unsuspecting? I looked again at the face of the little girl, and at once discarded the suspicion as unjust. Either nature lied as 1 had never known nature to lie, or that little pitiful creature was innocent of one single thought of wrong. Instinctively, however, I put my hand on my pistol as I said, " Lead on, child ! I will foilowyou !" She caught hold of my hand and hurried me forward through the dark alley into a darker court, and thence into an old build ing, up one flight of stairs, and back to a sniall room that contained not a single -ray of light. I stopped at the door, but'the little girl ran in, exclaiming, " Oh, .mother, mother! Heaven has sent us a good, kind gentleman, who will keep us from starving, and perhaps let me get a doctor for you ? Oh, you musn'tdie—you shall notdienow !" A feeble groan was succeeded by a faint, hollow voice,' which said, " Where is the gentleman, Nellie?" - . ■ -....,

"Here," said I, stepping into the room. " Cheer up, my good woman ! All that money can do to make you comfortable shall be done. Here, my child," continued I, thrusting.my hand into my pocket and bringing out a number of coins — probably both gold and silver, it was too. dark to see

—"take this and run and get what you most need now, among the rest a candle. I will remain here until you return."

The child bounded away, and I heard her little feet pattering down the stairs.

" Are you seriously ill with any disease, madam ? " I inquired of -the poor sufferer ; " or does your sickness result from being deprived of the necessaries of life ?"

" Ah, sir," groaned the poor woman,

Her words were cut short by a wild, piercing scream from below, followed by a cry of " Murder! murder ! Help ! help ! help!"

Impulsively I sprang out of the room, down the stairs, and back to another room on the lOwer floor, where I perceived a glimmer of light through a partly-opened door. As the cries of murder came from this apartment, I bounded in without hesi tation, and was immediately clutched by a woman with disordered dress and dishevel led hair. I had only time to see this much, and that there was a man springing back with a knife in his hand, when the light was suddenly dashed out, and the man seemed to retreat through a door on the other side of the room. The woman, evi dently under the impression that she had got hold of her murderous assailant, held on to me with the grip of death, crying, " Quick ! quick ! I have him ! Murder ! murder • Help ! help !",.

As every succeeding word grew fainter and more faint, till the last one had a choked and indistinct utterance, it was evi dent that the poor woman was either dying or swooning ; and as her hold of me was in bo degree relaxed to correspond with the feebleness of her voice, I feared she was already in the convulsions of death'

Here, then, was a situation for a stranger in a strange city—to be found in the clutches of a murdered woman, with no means of proving that he did not commit the wicked deed ! And even if, not con demned for the crime—even taking the most favourable view possible in case the woman should not live to testify—there would be the suspicion, the arrest, the lock up, the prison, the examination, the in quest, the trial perhaps, and last, but not least, the public report of the press, in which my name would be sent far and near, with the stigma attached. All this, which flashed upon my mind like lightning, filled me with an indescrib able dread and horror, and prompted me to make my escape as if actually guilty of the crime.

Already I heard numerous steps and voices, from different quarters, hurrying up to the scene, and in another moment my fate must be sealed.

I must escape —it would be madness to remain—and without a moment's hesitation I tore myself from the grasp of the woman, whose body fell heavily upon the floor, but whether in life or death I could not tell.

I sprang across the room for the' door through which I supposed ' the real murderer had escaped j and just as I succeeded in finding it, some two or three persons burst into the apartment, with a light, and following the first cries of horror, I heard the rough tones of excited men—

"There he .goes'! There goes the mur derer! Catch him—catch him ! Eollow : Follow ! Murder, murder ! Help ! Help! Stop, thief ! Stop, murderer ! Help, help !': _ It seemed to be life and death to me now, and I bounded forward I knew not whither,

"---■ "•- " ■ •• ■ - ■•■•■"■"" - ■■• ''?*m?m% I entered a small yard, and in ton Steps I was stopped by a high board-fence. I caught hold of the" top of this wit-f'iny *_ai__,' and with a desperate spring threw myself gver. E was -iow. in another yard, and in a'46w stops was stopped by another" fence of the same kind. Over this I went in the same manner, and as I, struck the ground I was seized_ by a fierce* dog,1* which buried its , teeth in my boot. Like lightning I drew one of my pistols, and with it struck him a fearful blow on ;the: head. He let go his hold with a yelp and howl of pain, and making a speedy use of my liberty, 1 was over the opposite fence- in less tinie than it takes to tell ft.

I now,found myself clear of all the yards, and in a dark, narrow, filthy alley, but with the cries of my pursuers ringing from different quarters, dogs barking al! around, a.nd windows being hurriedly thrown up, and eager questions shouted out by the alarmed inmates of the numerous dwellings. I did not stop a -moment; to consider,'but ran down the alley, and hoping to throw all new parties from the .right suspicion, t shouted, "Stop—murder—thief!" as loud as the best of them.

'•' Where—who—what?'.''cried a man, try ing to detain me. ■■■■■-.

"Yonder, he * goes—just turning the corner!" I shouted, as I eluded his grasp, and bounded on. '

'Atthe corner of the next ttreet a man he might have been a watchman or a police man, for all I know—jumped forward, and seized hold of me. Quick as thought I struck him in the face with the fist in which I still held my pistol, and down he went' like a log, and on I went, shouting, " Stop, murderer ! Stop, thief.!" By this time there was a perfect roar of voices behind, the whole town seemed to be in commotion, and a number joined me in the hue and cry, little dreaming I was the person those behind were seeking, and they as little dreamed thoy were in pursuit of an innocent man. ■.*■..

The rapid increase of numbers increased my safety; and soon, as I found myself surrounded by a large mob, I gradually slackened my pace, as if yielding td fatigue, and thus permitted the more. eager runners to get ahead of me. In this way we all kept on, past several rows of houses, till we came to an open, space on the right, when, thinking to get clear of the danger and crowd at the same time, I turned off.

But now, too late, I found I had only increased nay peril, by attracting particu lar attention to myself: and "the shout of "There he goes ! Stop thief—Btop, thief !"" caused me to bound forward like a hunted bare.

In those days I was young, slender, and a_ fleet runner j and both my fife and reputa tion -being at stake, I made the best pos sible use of my limbs, and to such good effect that I gradually gained upon the foremost of the yelling crew. ' * : • In this manner I came to a high wall that seemed to shut in tbe garden of some private mansion, and as I could, not scale it I kept along its base till I came to a gate, which, fortunately fer me, was slightly ajar,. having been opened by the black porter to see what was going on, andwho was how standing within a few feet of it, and look ing wonderingly at the approaching crowd. He did not, from some cause, particularly notice me till I was in the act of entering, when, with a loud yell, he made an effort to intercept me. But he was too late. Be fore he could reach the gate I had 'sprung, through, closed it, and shot the bolts; and as I still ran on through the grounds, be neath the delightful orange-grove, I heard' the human tide surge up around the walls, with loud cries of disappointment and rage, "I was now comparatively safe, and I determined, as my best course, to enter the mansion and to appeal to the inmates to save me from the mob, even at tho risk of their refusing to credit my truthful Story and subsequently giving me up to the officers of the law. -

' As I approached the house, some three or four servants, who had heard the shouts of the excited mob, and had come out to guess, rather than see, what the matter was, called . to me, evidently mistaking me in the dark- ; ness for the porter or some of their number. " What is it, Jim—what is it?" . . " "Rundown to the gate if you want to sco some fun," I replied, keeping on to- - wards the dwelling. They started off, and thus left me f_ee. I reached the mansion and bounded in through the open door. ■ Not seeing anyone below, I hurried up a broad flight of stairs, and in a large, elegantly-furnished sitting room, beheld a young and beautiful lady, seated at a table, quietly" poring over a book. •■'•'■■

"Excuse me, madam," said I, panting for breath, " for this unceremonious in trusion. I have met with a misfortune, and am pursued by a wild mob, Who are seeking my life. I* am a stranger in the city, know not where to go, and now thrbw myself upon your mercy." At the first sound of my voice the lady looked up in startled wonder,, and by the time I had ceased had risen to her feet,, and now stood before me as pale and beauti ful as a sculptured "Venus. "Who are you, and what does all this, mean ?" she blandly and firmly inquired. In as few words as I could I told her all that had happened since leaving my hotel*."-" " A strange story," ehe rejoined, looking at my disordered dress, and evidently with no smalt degree of suspicion. An idea flashed upon me. "Madam," said I, '.'to prove that I am not an impostor, though a stranger in the city, permit me to call your attention- to these letters of introduction," addressed to some of the first families here, and of whom it is highly probable, from, your exalted position, you have some knowledge." Saying this, I produeedthe letters, which I had fortunately taken out' with me, and handed them to her. At the first super scription I ,saw her, eye brighten, and the second letter she opened': quickly and-read eagerly, with a slight change of colour. "This is to my father,'from an old and valued friend," she said with a. smile, coming forward and offering me her hand. "In hiß absence permit me, Mr Warring ton, to welcotneyou to our dwelling, though for yoiir own sake I could wish your entree had been more agreeable to yourself.-'*

" A more agreeable surprise I certainly could never have had," was my reply, as I bowed to my beautiful and fascinating bostesrf, and felt the while as if a mountain of trouble had been lifted from my heart. Well, I was saved. When,.an hour later; the police rang the bell, and made inquiries concerning a fugitive murderer, no such personage was known to any in the.man sion.. On the return of the other members of the family from the opera, whither they had. gone previous to my singular arrival,,. the story of my adventures was told,;; and was received with sympathy' and mirth. I remained over night, and," the next day my baggage was sgnt *' for and myself 'booked as; a .gjest-. for the season—and a gay and brilliant one : it proved to mo. The poor girl, and; her; • mother were cared tor, and the realty murderer of the woman was found, tried,>. and executed. "•. i.', I havo but 'one'thing more to **y.^/K-' corning these adventures. The. la-*r'"?H£.r. that night gave me the hand of my hour of tribulation subsoqqfflSay v, added hor heart to it." She is now, and Baa- - been for years, my wifo.— Prize Tit-biK'>:--,..*. '-. .■.V/i^Up.