II.

The pages in the "Post Office Album," through which we were looking in our last number, are by no means exhausted. There is yet another curiously addressed missive to Her Majesty—"To the lady queen vicktorieha queens pallice London" (Fig. 1); the late Earl of Beaconsfield was also signalled out for an hieroglyphic wrapper (Fig. 2); the gentleman occupying the civic chair at the Mansion House in 1886 was the recipient of a somewhat remarkable envelope—sufficiently suggestive, however, to reach him (Fig. 3); whilst the Receiver and Accountant-General of the Post Office received a veritable puzzle in "Receive the county general Cheapy hall London" (Fig. 4). One remaining specimen (Fig. 5) here reproduced—which was actually delivered to the proper persons for whom it was intended—we will leave to those of our readers who revel in the unravelling of the mysterious.

FIG. 1.

FIG. 2.

Turn over another leaf, and you are requested to make yourself acquainted with an interesting little Welsh town in Merionethshire, familiarly known as "Llanllanfairpyllghyllgheryogogogoch"; and the next page gives rise to unbounded sympathy for the unfortunate postman who dutifully delivered a letter to—

"Mr. Paddy O'Rafferty O'Shaugnessy,
'The Beautiful Shamrock'
Next door to Barney Flynn's Whiskey Store.
Knock me down entirely street,
Stratford on Avon
In the County Cork if ye like Dublin."

FIG. 3.

One gentleman is evidently partial to boxing—all his envelopes are pugilistically illustrated, whilst another individual's wrappers always bear a request—in big capitals—to carry his communication by a British vessel, and on no account by a foreign one. A minister, evidently just ordained, and residing in Jamaica, is depicted in the pulpit with his old college cap and boots in the distance, with the reminder to "Never forget old friends." One envelope strongly suggests that somebody has a weakness for anything but toast and water, for the gentleman is represented fast asleep, with a huge barrel of beer above him, and the tap still flowing freely into his opened mouth, which is waiting to receive it.

FIG. 4.

FIG. 5.

The volumes devoted to humours nearer at home are brimming over with merriment, whilst not a few leaves contain somewhat serious impressions. Suggestions of holiday making form a prominent feature. Pretty and effective views of the sea and country lanes, picturesque valleys and mountains, are liberally displayed on the various envelopes. One lady is at Margate, attired in such masculine clothing, with binocular under her arm, that the artist has added a flowing beard to her face. There is a landlady presenting a bill, whilst the next is really a very original idea of the various stages of matrimony. On a number of boards resting on an easel, is one marked "1883," with a pair of lovers drifting down a stream in a boat, whilst "1884" finds the same pair in wedding garments. Other "years" are waiting for their events in the lives of the young people.

FIG. 6.

Poetical addresses are as numerous as they are varied. Here are one or two examples. A postman read the following instructions:—

"Near Bristol City may patience lead thee;
At Totterdown Row—postman, heed me—
Stands Gordon House, 'tis passing fair,
And Mr. Brittain dwelleth there."

FIG. 7.

Another envelope, bearing the Peckham post-mark, thus silently appeals:—

"To Exeter fair city, by Western Mail,
Good postman, send me without fail;
And when in Devonshire I arrive,
Over Exe Bridge and through St. Thomas drive,
Past the old turnpike, and up the hill
Held sacred to Little John's ✠ still,
Just where the road begins to turn,
You'll find Rose Cottage and Mrs. Hearn.
Ask her if there's a fair young lass
Come down from London her holidays to pass;
To her please deliver without delay,
For I'm postage paid, and so you need not stay."

The poetry is not great, but it is suggestive.

An eminent maker of umbrellas received a most artistic wrapper, with numerous illustrations showing the position his umbrellas held amongst the community. Gentlemen are using them as a means of roaming the seas, whilst a more adventuresome spirit, remarking that "Umbrellas make you rise in the world," is going up à la balloon with one. Finally, at the death of the worthy manufacturer his own umbrella is carried in state followed by an appreciative populace, and the head of his memorial stone is further decorated by a number of these very useful protectors. The uncertainty of our glorious climate is the subject for another wit, who has drawn a monumental stone over which a watering can is freely flowing with the words—

Sacred
to the
memory of the fine weather
which departed from this land
June, 1888.

* * * * *

Also
the sun of the above.

FIG. 8.

One envelope has an ingenious direction on it. It is intended for s.s. Kaisow, lying in the Red Sea. It shows a very intelligent-looking sow labelled K, with a belt round it in the form of the letter C painted red.

A somewhat similarly addressed wrapper is one despatched to Wales. Swansea is represented by a swan with a capital C in the immediate vicinity of its tail (Fig. 6); whilst following the word South is a representation of a number of enthusiastic fishermen making every effort to harpoon some whales. A stalwart Highlander, in all his glory, appears upon another, wishing "A guid New Year to ye," and as he holds out a palm almost as large as himself, he merrily exclaims, "And here's a hand, my trusty fren'!" An invalid is lying with a heavy box on him, labelled appropriately "A Chest Complaint." John Bull and Young Australia occupy two corners of the wrapper, shaking hands across the sea, whilst the next is a loving message to an ocean roamer, showing an energetic little nigger indulging in what is frankly admitted to be a "mangled version of an old song," to the effect of—

"Good bye, John,
Don't stop long,
Come back soon to your numberless chickabiddies;
My heart is low,
The winds blow so,
And takes away my sailor."

FIG. 9.

Niggers seem strong favourites for illustrative purposes. A magnificent specimen of a black is that of a gentleman in a huge broad-brimmed straw hat, with the name and address written on an equally prodigious collar. The gentleman destined to receive the letter rejoiced in the name of Black, hence the presence of our dark friend (Fig. 7). Here (Fig. 11) is a merry little drummer boy, whose face is hidden by the paper he is reading, which bears the postage stamp.

FIG. 10.

A young lady residing at Port Elizabeth probably felt a shock when she found on an envelope from "home," a gentlemanly but gluttonous cannibal making a small lunch out of a venturesome white man, whom he is swallowing at a single bite. "A Native Swallowing a Settler" is the comforting inscription on it. Equally startled, too, probably, was the lady who found that she had been singled out as "Lost, Stolen, or Strayed," with a crowd of interested onlookers—including representatives of the military and police—eagerly scanning the bill on which was set forth her name and address (Fig. 8).

What looks like a sly hint at matrimony was sent by an amorous swain to a young damsel at Cape Town. A gentleman's head, labelled "An unfurnished flat," surely suggests house furnishing. Page after page of the postal scrap-book is replete with illustrations: artists, sculptors, eminent politicians, all classes of the community, all have their own particular "skit"—a musician, probably, and a violinist to wit, receiving his envelope with a pictorial representation suggesting the weight of his instrument, so much so that it took a couple of men to carry it between them, and even then the fiddle and case proved too heavy, and was allowed to fall to the ground, much to the evident hurt of one of those engaged in the job (Fig. 9).

"The lion is a noble animal, and to his keeper he appears to possess no small degree of attachment." So says an envelope with the king of beasts taking his unwary keeper into his paws.

It is needless to say that married people receive a fair share of attention from the envelope artist. The "delighted parent" is in strong evidence, whilst the nurse approaches with gladdened step and joyfully exclaims "Twins, sir!"

And a wit winds the series up with a request on his missive addressed to the care of a post-office to the effect:—"Don't give him this unless he calls for it."

FIG. 11.

We append a couple of illustrations which seem to have escaped the usually keen eye of those at the Post Office, always on the look-out for these little curiosities in envelopes. One is kindly forwarded by a gentleman interested in these "Postal Humours," and shows a boar partial to boating playfully flying a kite, on the tail of which is the name and address. The sun looks on somewhat dubiously from above (Fig. 10). The second is a specimen of many similar ones which arrive at the office of Tit-Bits, and depicts the various stages through which a letter passes whilst on its way to compete for the weekly "Vigilance Prize," until it is finally handed in at its proper destination (Fig. 12).

FIG. 12.

[Celebrated Beauties.]

"Woman, be fair, we must adore you;
Smile, and the world is all before you."

Looking back across the gulf of years which divides us from the latter portion of the last century, we must be struck by the total change that has passed over society generally. No men like those giants in intellect, Chatham, Fox, Swift, Johnson, now fill the canvas; no fine gentlemen, who, as Thackeray says, were in themselves a product of the past, and for which the finikin, white-vested masher is but a poor substitute. And the women!—those wondrously fair creatures, whose faces have been handed down to us by Reynolds or Gainsborough, and who smile at us from their gilt frames. What witchery in the almond-shaped eyes, long and languishing; what pouting lips; what arched and lovely necks; what queenly dignity in their gait and carriage, and withal nothing of the voluptuous immodesty which marks the wanton beauties of Charles II.'s Court: they were mistresses, these were wives.

ELIZABETH GUNNING (DUCHESS OF HAMILTON).

(From the Picture by C. Read.)

There was never a period when so much homage was paid to beauty as in the last century. Men went mad for a lovely face, fought duels for a smile or a flower given by their mistress to a rival, and threw prudence to the winds to obtain her. We are now going to take a glance at some of these fair magicians, whose stories read, many of them, like fairy tales; Cinderella, for instance, pales before the history of the two Irish girls who, more than 150 years ago, crossed the fish-pond which divides the sister countries, and came to seek their fortunes, with only their lovely faces pour tout potage. The surpassing beauty of the sisters has become matter of history, nor, perhaps, is there a parallel instance of mere beauty exciting so extraordinary a sensation as that produced by these portionless girls.

Horace Walpole, writing to Sir Horace Mann, says:—"You who know England in other times will find it difficult to conceive what indifference reigns with regard to Ministers; the two Miss Gunnings are twenty times more the subject of conversation than the Duke of Newcastle or Lord Granville."

Again he says:—"The Gunning girls have no fortune, and are scarce gentlewomen, but by their mother. (She was the Honourable Bridget Bourke, third daughter to Theobald, sixth Viscount Mayo.) The Bourkes have Plantagenet blood, quite enough to compensate for the inferior tap of the Gunnings."

Maria was the eldest of "the goddesses," as Mrs. Montagu styles the two girls. She was born in 1733, Elizabeth two years later. Consequently, when they appeared in London, one was nineteen, the other seventeen.

The character of the beauty of the Gunnings will be seen in the accompanying portrait of Elizabeth—long swimming eyes, and small, delicate mouth, and the soft, composed face, breaking from between the two lace lappets, secured in a top-knot over the head.

Soon both sisters had admirers. "Lord Coventry, a grave lord of the remains of the patriot breed," dangled after Maria, while Elizabeth was singled out by the Duke of Hamilton, who was wild and dissipated. He fell desperately in love with the young beauty, who, on her side, was well tutored by her Plantagenet mother how to play the noble fish she had on her line. The sequel is well known; how the Duke, inflamed by Elizabeth's coyness and coquetry, insisted upon the extempore marriage at midnight, the curtain-ring doing duty for a golden fetter. Her sister's good fortune decided the fate of Maria, who in a short time wedded her grave lord.

It is an old maxim that "Nothing succeeds like success," and the furore caused by the "goddesses" increased after their elevation to the peerage. "The world is still mad about the Gunnings.[1] The Duchess of Hamilton was presented on Friday; the crowd was so great that even the noble crowd in the drawing-room clambered upon chairs and tables to look at her. There are mobs at their doors to see them get into their chairs, and people go early to get places at the theatre when it is known they will be there. Doctor Sacheverell never made more fuss than these two beauties." A shoemaker got two guineas for showing a shoe he was making for Lady Coventry. But the mind of her ladyship was not equal to her beauty, the fact being that neither of the girls had been educated decently. The Duchess, however, concealed her deficiency better than Lady Coventry, who, Horace Walpole tells us, said every day some new "sproposits." Stories flew about of her sayings which, no doubt, lost nothing in the repetition; as when she told the good-natured king that the only sight she wished to see was a coronation. It was to him she also complained that she could not walk in the park, the people stared at her so much; upon which George II. sent her a guard to keep the starers in order. This incident caused the circulation of the accompanying ballad, composed by Horace Walpole:—

[1] Horace Walpole's letters.

"Shut up the park, I beseech you,
Lay a tax upon staring so hard;
Or, if you're afraid to do that, sir,
I'm sure you will grant me a guard.

"The boon thus requested was granted,
The warriors were drawn up with care.
With my slaves and my guards I'm surrounded,
Come, stare at me now, if you dare!"

The beautiful Coventry enjoyed her title but a short time, killing herself by the excessive use of white paint. She died at the early age of twenty-eight, and it was a tribute to her that she was regretted by all who had known her; even the heartless set who made up her world have a word of sorrow for this beautiful simpleton.

Elizabeth was more prosperous. Her life from end to end was a success. She was double-duchessed, marrying, a second time, after a year's widowhood, Colonel Campbell, who succeeded to the Dukedom of Argyle. The Duke of Bridgewater had also proposed for her. She was created Baroness in her own right, and given the office of Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Charlotte. She died in 1791, having been mother to four dukes and wife to two, a dignity which few women could claim.

Here come another pair of charming sisters, Catherine and Mary Horneck, daughters to Reynolds' kinsman, Captain Kane Horneck; they are best known to this generation through the medium of Oliver Goldsmith's admiration for them, just as the Miss Berrys' best claim to celebrity is Horace Walpole's quasi-Platonic friendship. The loving nicknames of the "Jessamy Bride" and "Little Comedy," which were given to the sisters by Oliver, show the terms of intimacy upon which he stood. And this friendship seems to have brought out some of the best points in the character of the lovable author of the "Immortal Vicar." Now we see him leading them through the crowded masquerade at the Pantheon, arrayed in his plum-coloured suit and laced hat; or he is conducting them and their mother on a trip to Paris, his simple, harmless vanity highly pleased at being the escort of such a lovely trio (for Mrs. Horneck was as handsome as her daughters). As usual, his innocent pride was misinterpreted. Boswell, whom Horace Walpole calls the "Mountebank to a Zeno," talks of his envious disposition, and adds that when accompanying two beautiful young women with their mother on a tour in France, he was seriously angry that more attention was paid to them than to him. But Boswell seems always to have hated Goldsmith.

Of the two sisters, Mary, the younger, the "Jessamy Bride," seems to have exerted a strange fascination over him. "Heaven knows," as his biographer, Mr. Forster says, "what impossible dreams may have come to the awkward, unattractive man of letters, but he never aspired to other regard than his genius and simplicity might claim at least, for the sisters heartily liked him, and perhaps the happiest years of his life were passed in their society."

MARY AND CATHERINE HORNECK. (From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds.)

One is glad to hear of even a ray of happiness crossing the path of the poor, sensitive poet; but it was nevertheless through his admiration for the "Jessamy Bride" that he met one of those mortifications which press keenly upon one of his highly strung, nervous temperament. This annoyance came when he was in the full tide of the success of "She Stoops to Conquer." We may assume that the sweetest part of this success had been that it raised him in the eyes of his dear Mary. Nine days after, The London Packet, in an abusive article directed against the author of the new comedy, attacked him coarsely. "Goldsmith had patiently suffered worse attacks, and would doubtless here have suffered as patiently, if baser matters had not been introduced, but the libeller had invaded private life and dragged in the 'Jessamy Bride.' 'Was but the lovely H—— k as much enamoured, you would not sigh, my gentle swain, in vain.'"

On reading this, Goldsmith fell into one of his sudden furies. He rushed off to the publisher, Evans, and beat him with his cane. Evans, who was a sturdy man, returned the blows; the combatants were at last separated, and Goldsmith was sent home in a coach much disfigured. The affair did not end here; the poor, sensitive poet was abused in every newspaper of the day, all steadily ignoring the real ground of offence. He had in the end to pay fifty pounds to Evans for the assault.

It is pleasant to think that during the lifetime of the poet no rival disturbed his peace of mind. Catherine, "Little Comedy," married early Mr. Bunbury, second son to Sir Charles Bunbury, of good Suffolk family, but up till the time of Oliver's death, the "Jessamy Bride" had no declared lover, nor did she marry Colonel Gwynn until three years later. Both sisters mourned their gentle friend sincerely. At their request his coffin was opened that a lock of hair might be cut from his head for them. It was in Mrs. Gwynn's possession when she died nearly seventy years later. She lived to a great age, preserving her beauty even in years. The Graces in her case had triumphed over Time. Haslett met her at Northcote, the artist's; she was talking of her favourite, Dr. Goldsmith, with recollection and affection, unabated by age.

"I could almost fancy the shade of Goldsmith in the room," adds Haslett, "looking round with complacency."

Let us make place now for the most lovely of all Sir Joshua's lovely creations—and the woman in the flesh was quite as beautiful. Her beauty got her a royal husband, hers legally with all sanction of Church, but not of State. Ah! there was the sore place. It was, in fact, her beguiling of the Duke from the right path of royalty that induced the famous Marriage Act of 1772. The Duke of Cumberland, third brother to George III., was little more than an overgrown school-boy; his manners, Wraxall says, made his faculties, which were limited enough, appear even meaner. He was immensely attracted by Lady Anne Horton, recently a widow, and daughter to Colonel Simon Luttrell, of famous, or rather infamous memory; an Irishman of wild, roistering habit, who had been put forward to fight Wilkes, and so made Lord Carhampton.

Anne Horton is described as having bewitching, languishing eyes, which she could animate to enchantment if she pleased. Her coquetry was so active, so varied, and yet so habitual, that it was difficult not to see through it, and yet as difficult to resist. She danced divinely, sang charmingly, and was by no means deficient in talent. Like all the members of her family, who were cunning and specious, she laid her snares for the weak prince so adroitly that he fell in with all her plans; and, her marriage being duly witnessed, she had none of the heart-burnings and uncertainty which poisoned the life of Lady Waldegrave, who had married the Duke of Gloucester, but had left matters very much to his honour. Both ladies, to say the truth, had a troublous time. It was hardly worth the fuss and the turmoil, the ups and the downs, the humiliations and the slights inflicted upon them by the Royal pair, and their subservient Court.

ANN, DUCHESS OF CUMBERLAND.

(From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds.)

Here we have another group of sisters—Irish too—the Miss Montgomerys, daughters to Sir William Montgomery. They are painted by Sir Joshua as twining wreaths round a statue of Hymen, a pretty allegory, for the three girls were standing hand in hand on the threshold of Hymen, one of them being engaged to Mr. Gardiner, afterwards Lord Blessington; the other to the Honourable J. Beresford; the third and handsomest to the Marquis of Townshend, then Viceroy of Ireland. The Marquis, who was son to the odd Lady Audrey, who figures in Walpole and Selwyn, was a frank and fearless soldier, having fought at Dettingen and Fontenoy. His fancy had been taken by Miss Montgomery, whom he had seen some two years before performing in a Masque of Comus at Marlay, the residence of Mr. Latouche. He had then prophesied she would be a lovely woman, and felt bound to set the seal of his approval upon the fair creation. Mrs. Delaney says that the women did not admire Lady Townshend, which, no doubt, is a proof that she attracted the admiration of the worthier sex. In Sir Joshua's picture she fills the canvas—her attitude is commanding, her smile bewitching. Her sisters are of a less majestic type.

What a lovely creature have we here—Elizabeth Linley, whose talents and mental endowments were something surprising, joined as they were to a beauty which seems to have captivated every soul who came near her; indeed, we have only to look at her portraits by Sir Joshua and Gainsborough, both evidently stimulated by love of their subject, to gather an idea of the spell she worked. The expression of the faultless face is so divinely sweet, there is such a mixture of archness and intelligence in the wondrous eyes, that we can make a guess at what the impression must have been when life animated the lovely picture. So, too, it was with her singing; she was possessed of the double power of delighting an audience equally in pathetic strains and songs of brilliant execution, a combination allowed to few vocalists.

MRS. BERESFORD.

LADY TOWNSHEND.

(THE MISS MONTGOMEREYS.)

(From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds.)

MRS. GARDINER.

The life of this gifted being was a troubled one. It began in a romance, which added to her interest in the eyes of the public. The Linleys were all musicians; her father, Dr. Linley, was a teacher of great eminence, living at Bath. When the Sheridans came to reside there, the two brothers fell at once in love with the siren Elizabeth, who had already more lovers than she knew how to manage. She preferred, however, Richard Sheridan, and eloped with him to France, to avoid an importunate lover, Captain Matthews. On their arriving in France, the astute Richard worked on his companion's feelings and persuaded her to be married to him at Lille by a clergyman who performed these irregular marriages. The bride at once retired to a convent, where she remained until her father came to fetch her. Of late this version of the incident has been denied, and it is said there was no marriage; anyhow, the father, daughter, and Sheridan returned to London. Richard fought two duels with Captain Matthews, and finally the course of true love ran smooth, and he and Elizabeth were publicly wedded, with all pomp and ceremony, in April, 1773. From the first the public took the young pair under its protection; they made friends everywhere. It was in truth an ideal union of beauty and talent. Mrs. Sheridan's lovely voice would have ensured them a good income; but her husband would not allow her to sing in public. This resolution on his part earned him the hearty commendation of Johnson:—"He has acted wisely and nobly. Would not a gentleman be disgraced by having his wife singing publicly for hire? No, sir, there can be no doubt here." Autre temps, autres mœurs—a gentleman does not now disdain to live by his wife's earnings!

Meantime, admirers crowded round the beautiful Mrs. Sheridan. Sir Joshua's portrait of her as "St. Cecilia" was exhibited in the Academy of 1775. Most simple and beautiful, was the praise of the carping critic, Horace Walpole. Even the excellent and most virtuous King took notice of the young beauty, and it was said ogled her when she sang in oratorios.

The struggle in which Sheridan was more or less engaged during his whole life had begun. A brilliant, erratic genius, such as was the author of the "Rivals," is not a safe guard of domestic happiness; but, after all is said and done, Sheridan was not so much to blame, and even his worst enemy cannot deny that he had a warm heart.

Moore tells us that, with all her beauty and talent, Mrs. Sheridan was not happy, nor did she escape the censure of the world; but that Sheridan was ever unmindful of her, Moore declares to be untrue. On the contrary, he says he followed her with a lover's eye throughout. Her letters to him would certainly give the reader the idea that she was on the best terms with her husband. They are delightful, fresh, and natural, and perfectly frank.... This gifted woman died early. She was only thirty-one when consumption laid its fatal hand upon her.... During her last illness Sheridan was devoted to her. His grief and his remorse for any shortcomings in his married life are most touching! Miss Le-Fanu, writing an account of the last days to Miss Sheridan, says: "Your brother behaved most wonderfully, although his heart was breaking, and at times his feelings were so violent that I feared he would be quite ungovernable at the last. Yet he summoned up courage to kneel by the bedside till he felt the last pulse of expiring excellence." And Mr. Moore tells us that, some weeks after his wife's death, "a friend, happening to sleep in the room next his, could hear him sobbing through the greater part of the night." But soon after he fell in love with Pamela, and married a Miss Ogle in two years.

MISS LINLEY.

(From the Picture by Gainsborough.)

And now we come to the most beautiful woman of her time, Isabella, Duchess of Rutland. Looking at her picture by Sir Joshua, we cannot but be struck by the infinite grace of the attitude, the queenly dignity mixed with womanly sweetness. The Duchess was in fact eminently womanly, although acknowledged to be a queen of beauty. No word of scandal touched her name; and this in an age of Sneerwells and Backbites.

In The European Magazine of 1782 there is this curious testimony to her Grace's devotion to her lord:—"Annexed to the respective names are the amusements which the following women of fashion principally delight in:—

In 1782 the Duchess accompanied the Duke to Ireland, where he filled the post of Lord Lieutenant. She was well fitted to win the hearts of the Irish people, who were then, as now, easily impressed by beauty. The magnificence of the little Court had never been equalled, while at the same time decorum and a certain order were preserved, which had not always been the case. Under Lords Chesterfield and Townshead, Mrs. Deans talks of the guests carrying the dishes off the supper tables, and in Lady Hardwicke's time there it was that the romping bouts and the famous Cutchacutchoo prevailed, but no wicked tales are told of our Duchess's Viceroyalty. Once only did she descend from her pedestal of dignity: it might be that the breath of frolic was too strongly in the air for even a Saxon nature to resist. Anyhow she did repair to the Irish Ranelagh Gardens to see the fun, disguised in the dress of one of her own waiting-women She was of course recognised, and mobbed.

On another occasion, her jealousy was excited by hearing the Duke say he had accidentally seen the loveliest woman he had ever beheld. She never rested until she found out the residence of this Mrs. Dillon, and forced her way into her presence, when a glance told her she was both beautiful and virtuous. Ashamed of her suspicions, she frankly told what had brought her, and warmly invited the other to return the visit. This, however, Mrs. Dillon had the good sense and dignity to decline.

In Mr. Gilbert's interesting history of Dublin, he mentions that the body of the Duke was waked (according to the Irish custom) in the House of Lords for three nights. The coffin was then carried by bearers to Christ Church Cathedral, where it lay in State. The Duchess returned to England, and never married again.

ISABELLA, DUCHESS OF RUTLAND.

(From the Picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds.)

[Three Birds on a Stile.]

By B. L. Farjeon.

A learned bishop has declared that the night before men and women are married should be spent in solitude, and devoted to prayer, repentance, and meditation; but a bishop may be very learned, and yet deficient in common sense. Miss Adelaide Dorr, who was to be married to-morrow to Mr. Arthur Gooch, had several sisters, two brothers, and the usual number of parents. With all these around her, popping in and out, asking questions, making remarks, laughing, crying, teasing, and kissing, and trying on things, you may imagine the state she was in. Arthur had put in an appearance, but he had gone away early, he had so much to do to complete his arrangements for to-morrow. There was, of course, a tender leave-taking in the passage, from which Adelaide came in rather quieter than usual, but she was not allowed to be quiet long. The entire house was in a flutter of excitement, and had the charming girl expressed a desire for solitude, for the purpose of following the learned bishop's advice, it would instantly have been feared that the prospect of approaching bliss had turned her head. She had no wish for solitude, and as to her having anything to repent, the idea was monstrous and absurd. There is little doubt that before she fell asleep on this important night in her young life she would breathe a prayer, but it would not be exactly such a prayer as the bishop had in view. And it is true she thought a great deal of Arthur; indeed, she thought of little else—a statement, perhaps, which my female readers will dispute when they take into consideration the wedding dress and the trousseau. All I can advance in proof of my assertion is that Adelaide was very much in love, and that there are circumstances—rare, I grant—in which dress does not occupy the first place in a woman's mind.

Neither did Arthur Gooch, who was as much in love as Adelaide, spend the last night of his bachelor existence in solitude and repentance. When he left Adelaide, he jumped into a hansom, and was driven to his chambers, where he expected to find a letter of pressing importance. He was not a man of fortune; he had good prospects, which were almost certain of realisation, and he had a little investment or two which paid him fair interest, and which could not, without loss, be turned immediately into cash. Now, the expenses of the coming wedding, and the furnishing and decoration of a house he had taken on lease, had made more serious inroads on his bank balance than he expected. Calculating the expenses of the honeymoon trip on the Continent, he found that he would run short of money, and in this dilemma he applied to a friend, Jack Stevens by name, for a loan of seventy-five pounds, which, with seventy-five of his own, which he had by him, would carry him and his pretty bride comfortably through. It was Jack Stevens' answer to his letter asking for the loan that he was expecting as he rode to his chambers with the image of Adelaide in his mind. What a dear girl she was! Was there ever such another? Was he not the happiest man in the world? And so on, and so on. Who is not familiar with a true lover's rhapsodies? Arthur was the sort of man who would have rivalled Orlando, had the positions been similar. He would have carved Adelaide's name on every tree.

Running up to his rooms, which were at the top of the house, he found half a dozen letters in his letter box, and among them one from his friend. It may be mentioned that Jack Stevens would have been his best man, had it not been that his presence was imperatively demanded in another part of the country on the day of the wedding. It was provoking, but it could not be helped.

"Dear Arthur," said Jack Stevens in his letter, "certainly you can have the money, and more if you want it. As time is so short, I do not care risking it through the post, and a crossed cheque might not suit you. I have to catch an early train in the morning for Manchester, as you know, but I shall be at Lady Weston White's 'At Home' between eleven and twelve o'clock to-night. I saw a card for the crush stuck in your looking glass. Look me up there, and I will hand you the notes. I am awfully sorry to give you the trouble, but I can't come to you, and I am anxious to be certain that you are properly furnished before you and your bride start for Paradise. Always yours, dear boy, Jack."

Lady Weston White was not one of Arthur's intimate friends, but he was on her list, and he generally received cards from her three or four times in the course of the year. He had not intended to go to her house in Grosvenor-street on this occasion, but Jack's letter settled it, and he got out his swallow-tail. The money he must have, and there was no other way of getting it. There were letters to write, and a lot of things to be attended to which he calculated would keep him up till one o'clock in the morning. Well, he would have to stop up another hour or so, that was all. At half-past eleven he was in Grosvenor-street, engulfed in one of those London crowds of ladies and gentlemen which contribute to the success of a London season. The beautiful house was literally packed; to ascend a staircase was a work of several minutes, and to find his friend Jack in such a vast assemblage a matter of considerable difficulty. It was a notable gathering; the élite of society were present, distinguished men and fair women, and Arthur, as he squeezed his way along, thought he had never seen so wonderful a profusion of diamonds and lovely dresses. The ladies seemed to vie with each other in the display of jewels. They glittered in the hair, round the necks, in the ears, on the arms and bosoms, on shoes, and fans, and ravishing gowns; and Arthur observed that a new fashion was coming into vogue, diamond buttons on ladies' gloves. "If any of the light-fingered fraternity were here," thought Arthur, "they could gather a fine harvest." And said aloud, "Allow me." A lady had dropped her fan, and Arthur managed to rescue it from the crush of feet. It sparkled with diamonds. At length Arthur reached the hostess, who held out two fingers to him.

"ALWAYS YOURS—JACK."

Lady Weston White was a woman of great penetration, and, as became a society leader, of perfect self-possession. She never forgot a face or a circumstance, and, busy as she was at present in the performance of her arduous duties, she remembered that Arthur Gooch was to be married within a few hours; she remembered, also, that to her R. S. V. P. she had received a line from him regretting he could not accept her kind invitation. She said nothing, however, but gave him rather a questioning look as he passed on to allow other guests behind him to pay their respects to their hostess. The look puzzled him somewhat; it seemed to ask, "What brings you here?" He had quite forgotten that he had declined her invitation. At length, after much polite squeezing and hustling, after dropping his handkerchief and picking it up again, to the annoyance of some neighbours who had become fixtures and could scarcely move for the crush, he saw Jack Stevens in the distance. They were both tall men, and communication being established between them they made simultaneous efforts to get to each other. This accomplished, Arthur hooked Jack's arm, and said:

"Let us get out of this as quick as we can."

It happened that Lady Weston White was close enough to hear the words, of which fact Arthur was oblivious, but as they moved on he turned in her direction, and caught another strange look from her. "What on earth does she look at me in that manner for?" he thought. "One might suppose I came without an invitation." He and Jack got their hats and coats, and going from the house, stopped at the corner of a street a few yards off.

"I haven't a moment to spare, Arthur," said Jack, "nor have you, I should imagine. I had almost given you up; it is a mercy we met each other in that crowd." He took out his pocket-book. "I would walk home with you, old fellow, if I had time; you must take the will for the deed."

"All right, old man," said Arthur; "it was very good of you to take all this trouble for me. I don't know how it was I miscalculated my finances so stupidly."

"Oh, these accidents happen to all of us. Feel nervous about to-morrow?"

"It makes me rather serious, you know."

"Of course. Wish I could be there. Now, no nonsense, Arthur. Will seventy-five be enough? Isn't it cutting it rather close? Don't spoil the honeymoon for a ha'porth of tar. You can have a couple of hundred if you like. I've got it by me."

"Well, make it a hundred," said Arthur. "It will be safer perhaps. Adelaide might take a fancy to a new bonnet."

"Or to some chocolate creams, or to the moon and stars," said Jack, with a good-humoured smile, "and you'd get them for her. Say a hundred and fifty."

"All right. A hundred and fifty."

Jack Stevens, shaded by his friend's tall form—for several persons passed them as they were talking—counted out thirty five-pound Bank of England notes, and slipped them into Arthur's hand.

"Thank you, Jack."

"Not necessary. Good night, old fellow, and good luck to you. Kiss the pretty bride for me, and give her my love."

"I will, old man."

A few minutes afterwards Arthur Gooch was in his chambers, "clearing up," as he called it. He wanted to leave things as orderly as he could, and in the accomplishment of this laudable design there was a great deal to do. All the time he was writing and tearing up papers and burning them, and packing bags and portmanteau, he was thinking of Adelaide.

"Dear little woman! I wonder if she is asleep. She hasn't left things to the last as I have done. Altogether too tidy for that. While I am fussing about in this musty room—what a cosy nest we shall come home to after the honeymoon!—there she lies, with a smile on her pretty mouth, dreaming of me. Your health, my darling!"

"LET US GET OUT OF THIS AS QUICK AS WE CAN."

He had opened a bottle of champagne, of which he had already drunk a glass, and now he poured out another, and as he held it up to the light he saw Adelaide's bright eyes amid the sparkling bubbles.

"Your health, my darling, and God bless you!"

He drained the glass, and set it down.

It was really a love match, of which there are more in this prosaic world than cynics will admit. These young people were all the world to each other, and if anything had occurred to prevent the wedding coming off their hearts would have been broken.

Arthur set the glass upon the table with a tender light in his eyes, and as he did so he heard a ring at the street door below. As has been stated, his chambers were at the top of the house, but everything was very quiet, and that is why he heard the bell so plainly. The window of the room in which he was working looked out upon the street. He took no notice of the ringing, and proceeded dreamily with his packing. The wine he had drunk intensified his sentimental mood, and he paused many times to gaze upon the portrait of his darling which stood in the centre of the mantelpiece. It was a speaking likeness of the beautiful face; the eyes seemed to look at him with looks of love; the lovely lips seemed to say, "I love you, I love you." And Arthur pressed his lips to the sweet face, and murmured in response, "I love you, I love you! With all my heart and soul, I love you, and will be true to you."

Suddenly it occurred to him that the street door bell continued to ring. The sound jarred upon his ears. Throwing up his window he leaned forward, and at the top of his voice inquired who it was that continued to ring so pertinaciously.

"I have come to see Mr. Arthur Gooch," was the answer.

"To see me?" he cried in wonder.

"Yes, you, if you are Mr. Gooch."

"What for?"

"On most particular business."

"YOUR HEALTH, MY DARLING!"

Wondering more and more, the young man ran down the stairs and opened the street door. In the dim light he saw the figure of a gentleman with whose face he was not familiar.

"What do you want with me?" he asked.

"It will be best for us to speak privately," replied the stranger. "It is a most delicate matter."

"A most delicate matter!" stammered Arthur.

"A most delicate matter!" repeated the stranger in a grave tone.

The young man did not reflect upon the imprudence of asking a stranger up to his rooms at such an hour of the night. With the exception of the housekeeper, who occupied the basement, and who had been heard to declare that nothing less than an earthquake would wake her, once she was asleep, Arthur Gooch was the only night resident in the house. All the chambers, with the exception of his, were let as offices, and were tenanted only during the day. It is scarcely probable, however, if Arthur had given the matter a thought, that he would have acted differently. Here was a stranger paying him a visit, at an untimely hour it was true, but upon a delicate matter, which had best be disclosed in private. Arthur was a man of muscle, and stood six feet and half an inch in his stocking feet. The man who had intruded himself upon him was about five feet eight, a weed of a man in comparison with him. There was, moreover, no lack of physical courage in Arthur—a quality, it may be remarked, very different indeed from moral courage, in which respect a pigmy may be superior to a giant.

"Come up," said Arthur, and the two men ascended the stairs. "Now," he said, when they were together in his room, with the door closed, "you see that I am very busy. Explain your errand as briefly as possible. What is this delicate matter you speak of? I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance. Oh," he said, looking at a card presented by his visitor, "Mr. P. Foreman. Your name is as strange to me as your face. Who are you? What are you?"

"I am a private detective," said Mr. P. Foreman.

"A private detective!" cried Arthur, with an ominous frown. "And what business can you have with me at this hour of the night? I've a mind to pitch you out of window."

"Don't try it," said Mr. P. Foreman. "I should be bound to resist, and my shouts would be certain to bring someone to my assistance. As to my business, it is, as I have informed you, of a delicate nature."

"Speak in plain English if you have any regard for yourself."

"It is a very simple affair," said Mr. P. Foreman, "and it rests with you whether I shall take my leave of you with an apology, or adopt other measures. You were at Lady Weston White's 'At Home' a couple of hours ago."

"I was. What of it?"

"I am employed by her ladyship," proceeded Mr. P. Foreman. "She has given other 'At Homes' this season."

"DON'T TRY IT."

"She has, and I have been present at them."

"So I understand. Very serious things have occurred at those parties of her ladyship's at which you were present. Some of her guests have made complaints to her, and it is only at great expense and trouble that these complaints, and their very serious nature, have been kept out of the society papers."

"What has all this rhodomontade to do with me?" demanded Arthur, impatiently.

"I am about to tell you. Valuable diamonds have been lost at her ladyship's 'At Homes,' and have not been recovered. Her ladyship is naturally anxious to put a stop to this, and to bring the—" (Mr. P. Foreman hesitated, and chose another word than the one he intended to use)—"the offenders to justice."

"Quite proper," said Arthur. "Go on, and cut it short."

"The display to-night was brilliant, and knowing that it would be so her ladyship employed me and one or two others to keep watch upon suspicious persons. As you see"—he unbuttoned his light overcoat—"I am in evening dress. I was supposed to be present as a guest, but I was really there in my professional capacity, keeping my eyes open. Had it been regular pickpockets whom her ladyship suspected I should have found it an easy job, as I know most of them, but it was not. She suspected certain gentlemen upon her list, to whom she was in the habit of sending cards."

Mr. P. Foreman spoke in a significant tone, and there was no mistaking his meaning. Arthur laughed.

"Does her ladyship do me the honour to suspect me?"

"I am not at liberty to say; my orders are to speak not one word that might compromise her ladyship."

"A very prudent instruction. Well?"

"Certain articles of jewellery have been lost to-night in her ladyship's house. A crescent diamond brooch, another with the device of three birds on a stile, and a pin of brilliants with a pearl in the centre. There may be other articles missing, but we have not heard of them. Of the three ornaments I have mentioned the one most easily traced is the three-birds-on-a-stile brooch. The birds are perched upon a stile of gold; one is set with sapphires, one with brilliants, and one with rubies. I remarked to her ladyship that it was a pretty device. She is quite determined to make the matter public, and to bring the—the offenders to justice without an hour's delay, if we are fortunate enough to track them down."

"I infer," said Arthur, glaring at his visitor, "from the very guarded answer you gave to a question I put to you that her ladyship really does suspect me. I am greatly obliged to her ladyship." He recalled the strange looks which Lady Weston White had given him, and believed that he could now interpret them. He strode to the door and threw it open. "If you have any regard for your bones, you will now take your departure. I give you just one minute."

"If you send me away unsatisfied," said Mr. P. Foreman, composedly, "I shall, in accordance with instructions received, have you arrested the first thing in the morning, and brought before a magistrate on a distinct charge."

Arthur's heart seemed suddenly to cease beating. There was no mistaking that the man was in deadly earnest, and would carry out his threat. What! To be arrested on the very morning of his wedding! True, the charge was false and monstrous, but it would take time to prove it so, and meanwhile—

"GO ON AND CUT IT SHORT."

Yes, meanwhile, there was Adelaide in her bridal dress waiting for her bridegroom. Indignant as he was he could not but inwardly acknowledge that his best course would be to hush up the affair if possible—not for his own sake, but for Adelaide's. The shock to her feelings would be too great; she might never recover from it, and the happiness of her life might be for ever destroyed. Mr. P. Foreman, standing rather timidly near the open door, kept his eyes fixed upon Arthur's face. He shrank back as Arthur approached him.

"I am not going to hurt you," said the young man. "Come in and shut the door." Mr. P. Foreman obeyed. "You said at the commencement of this interview that it rested with me whether you would take leave of me with an apology, or adopt other measures. By other measures you meant my arrest." Mr. P. Foreman nodded. "But how do you propose to arrive at the apology?"

"It is entirely in your hands," replied Mr. P. Foreman. "You have only to prove your innocence, and I apologise. Her ladyship trusts everything to me, and will be guided entirely by the report I present to her."

"I have only to prove my innocence!" exclaimed Arthur. "But how can that be done if you will not take my word for it? I swear to you that I am innocent, and I declare this to be a foul and monstrous charge, for which, if I am put to any inconvenience or annoyance, I will make her ladyship and all concerned in it suffer. Now are you satisfied?"

"That is not what I meant," said Mr. P. Foreman, quietly. "What I require is proof of your innocence. I cannot take your word. Any other gentleman would say as much."

Arthur could not help admitting that this was true. "Again I ask you," he cried, "how can I prove my innocence, except by my word?"

"It is very easily done. You have not changed your clothes. You have on your dress trousers and waistcoat; your dress coat hangs upon the back of that chair. If none of the missing articles are in the pockets I will offer you the completest apology in my power, and shall sincerely regret that I have caused you so much uneasiness."

"HE SHRANK BACK AS ARTHUR APPROACHED."

Mr. P. Foreman was a private detective, but he certainly spoke like a gentleman. Throughout the interview he had conducted himself with moderation; there was even a sadness in his manner which, now that so reasonable a course was suggested, impressed itself upon Arthur.

"I am quite willing," he said, "to do what you ask, though I dispute your right, mind."

"I understand that," said Mr. P. Foreman.

"It is only," continued Arthur, "because I am to be married in the morning, and wish to spare a young lady's feelings, that I submit."

There was a deeper sadness in Mr. P. Foreman's voice as he observed, "To be married in the morning! I must be mistaken." He took a step towards the door.

"No, you don't go now," exclaimed Arthur. "I insist upon your stopping, and being completely satisfied. There's my coat. Search the pockets."

But Mr. P. Foreman would not touch the garment. "If you insist," he said, "you must go through the formality yourself. I should be ashamed to have a hand in it."

"You are a good fellow, after all," said Arthur, with a great sigh of relief. Will you have a glass of champagne?"

"Thank you," said Mr. P. Foreman. Arthur filled two glasses. "Your health," he said.

"Your health," said Mr. P. Foreman. "Allow me to wish you joy and happiness."

"Now you shall see," said Arthur, in a gay tone. "Come a little nearer; I might be a master of legerdemain."

A melancholy smile crossed Mr. P. Foreman's mouth, and he stood, apparently unconcerned, while Arthur turned out the pockets of his waistcoat and trousers.

"Nothing there," he said.

"Nothing there," said Mr. P. Foreman, and again moved towards the door.

"Stop a moment," said Arthur, "there is my coat."

He turned out the pockets upon the table; from the breast pocket he produced the bank notes he had received from his friend, Jack Stevens; from the tail pockets a handkerchief and gloves. Nothing more. He laughed aloud, and lifted the handkerchief from the table. The laugh was frozen in his throat. As he lifted the handkerchief there fell from it a jewelled brooch, the device a stile of gold, with three birds perched thereon, one of sapphires, one of rubies, one of brilliants.

"My God!" he gasped, and sank into a chair.

Mr. P. Foreman did not break the silence that ensued. With sad eyes he gazed upon the crushing evidence of guilt. At length Arthur found his voice.

"You do not, you cannot," he cried in an agonised tone, "believe me guilty!"

Mr. P. Foreman uttered no word. Arthur's face was like the face of death. A vision of his ruined life rose before him, and in that vision the image of his fair young bride, stricken with despair.

"What am I to do?" moaned the unhappy man. "What am I to do? As I hope for mercy in heaven, I swear that I am innocent!"

Mr. P. Foreman in silence pointed to the brooch on the table. It was an eloquent sign, but he seemed to sympathise with the hapless man before him. Arthur rose to his feet, trembling in every limb.

"Have mercy upon me!" he murmured, stretching forth his hands. "Before God I am innocent!"

"I am sorry for the young lady," said Mr. P. Foreman, "deeply, deeply sorry. I have a daughter of my own, whom I hope one day to see happily married. But she is in delicate health."

"HE GASPED, AND SANK INTO A CHAIR."

There was a plaintiveness in his voice, and Arthur, overwhelmed as he was, caught at the despairing hope which presented itself to his distracted mind. He and the man who held his fate in his hands were alone; there were no witnesses, and not a sound reached them from house or street.

"Save me!" implored Arthur. "As you hope for your daughter's happiness, save an innocent man—save an innocent girl from despair and death!"

Mr. P. Foreman put his hands before his eyes. "My duty!" he murmured.

"You owe a duty elsewhere," said Arthur, in a rapid, feverish voice. "The lady who has employed you trusts you implicitly, and will receive your report without question."

"I do not grasp your meaning," said Mr. P. Foreman.

"Your daughter is in delicate health, you say," continued Arthur. "You hope to see her one day happily married. You are not rich?"

"I am very poor," said Mr. P. Foreman. "Do you think I would otherwise follow this miserable occupation? Fortune has been against me all my life."

"It smiles upon you now," pursued Arthur, desperately; "it offers you a chance. You speak like a gentleman; you have a soul above your station. See here. There are a hundred and fifty pounds in bank notes. Take them; they are yours—and keep my secret, guiltless as I am. You are not a young man; you have had experience of the world; you must know the voice of innocence when you hear it. Could a guilty man plead as I am pleading? By all your hopes of happiness, save me! No one is near; no one knows but you and I. It is so easy, so easy!—and I shall bless you all my life!"

"You tempt me sorely," said Mr. P. Foreman. "My daughter is ordered abroad for her health, and I have no means to take her."

"You have means here, at your hand. Take the money—it is yours; I give it to you freely. No one will be the wiser, and you will be an instrument in the hands of Providence to save two innocent lives!"

"Let me think a moment," said Mr. P. Foreman, and he turned his head. Arthur awaited his decision in an agony of despair. Presently he spoke again. "I will express no opinion of your guilt or innocence, but you have offered what I cannot resist. I will take the money, and will keep your secret, for the sake of the lady you are about to marry, for the sake of my poor daughter. It may be the means of restoring her to health. As for this brooch——"

"Take it," cried Arthur, impetuously, "and do what you will with it. It is one of my conditions. Heaven bless you—Heaven bless you!"

"We are accomplices in a transaction that must not be spoken of," said Mr. P. Foreman, who had put the money and the brooch into his pocket. "I pity and despise you, as I pity and despise myself."

He did not wish Arthur good night; seemingly ashamed of the bargain they had made, he went downstairs, accompanied by Arthur, who closed the street door upon him.

Dazed and bewildered, the young man returned to his room, and with great throbbings of his breast at the mysterious danger he had escaped, completed his preparations for the wedding and the honeymoon. Before he threw himself upon his bed in the vain attempt to seek oblivion for an hour or two, he wrote a letter to his friend Jack Stevens, saying he had unfortunately lost the money that had been lent to him, and begging for another loan, which was to be forwarded to a hotel in Paris where he intended to stop with his young wife for a few days.

"TAKE THE MONEY—IT IS YOURS!"

There is no need to describe the wedding. Everything passed off well, and everybody in church declared they had never seen a lovelier bride; but they observed, at the same time, that the bridegroom appeared far from happy, and one of the spectators remarked that he looked several times over his shoulder, with the air of a man who feared that a ghost was standing behind him. His own people and his new relatives, being in a state of excitement, did not take the same view of it; they said he was nervous, which was quite natural on such an occasion. Adelaide was tremblingly happy, and she and her lover-husband departed on their honeymoon amid the usual showers of rice and hurling of old slippers. In Paris, Arthur received from Jack Stevens a draft for another hundred and fifty pounds; but in the letter which accompanied the welcome draft Jack said he could not understand how Arthur had managed to lose the money. "I saw you," wrote Jack, "put the money in the side pocket of your dress coat, and button your overcoat over it. How could you have lost it? Did you have an adventure, and are you keeping it from me? Make a clean breast of it, old fellow. I should like to know. And if there is anything I can do for you while you are away, do not fail to call upon me. I am in London for good, and am entirely at your service." Arthur pondered over this letter, and pondered deeply, also, over the events which had occurred on the night before the wedding; and the more he pondered the more he was dissatisfied. Once his young wife, who had noticed that something was weighing on her hero's spirits, said to him:

"Arthur, dear, are you happy?"

"Very happy, darling."

"But quite happy, Arthur?"

"Yes, darling, quite happy. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know—only you seem so melancholy sometimes."

"All your fancy, darling."

"I suppose so, Arthur, dear."

But the young bride was not satisfied for all that. She was sure that her hero was keeping something disagreeable from her. However, like a sensible little woman, she did not worry him; no bride could expect greater attention and devotion than he showed towards her, and she lectured herself, and said that she could not expect to know everything about her husband all at once. "I shall have to study him," she said, "and when I know him thoroughly I will make him perfectly, perfectly happy."

On the eighth day of the honeymoon something curious happened. They had travelled from Paris to Geneva, and they put up at the Grand Hôtel de la Paix. The first time they dined in the hotel, Arthur, looking up, saw exactly opposite to him the forms of Mr. P. Foreman and a lady. He turned red and white, and his heart beat furiously. There appeared, however, to be no cause for apprehension; Mr. P. Foreman looked him straight in the face, and evinced no sign of recognition. Perceiving this, Arthur took courage, and glanced at the lady. Again he turned red and white. On the bosom of the lady's dress was affixed a beautiful brooch—a stile of gold, with its three little birds of rubies, sapphires, and brilliants.

"Did you think the lady opposite to us was very pretty, Arthur?" asked Adelaide, as she and her husband stood close together after dinner, looking into the clear waters of the lake.

"I did not take particular notice, dear," replied Arthur, awkwardly.

"Oh, Arthur! I saw your eyes fixed upon her."

Arthur did not dare confess that it was the brooch he was staring at, and not at the lady, so he diverted Adelaide's thoughts by means of those tender secret caresses which render young brides supremely happy. But he thought very seriously, nevertheless. The lady who accompanied Mr. P. Foreman seemed to be in perfect health, and she was not young enough to be his daughter, by a good many years. The dreadful position in which he had stood upon the occasion of Mr. P. Foreman's nocturnal visit to his chambers weighed terribly upon him. He knew himself to be innocent; but the brooch which his accuser had now appropriated was found in his pocket; he had taken it out himself. How had it got there? That was the mystery that was perplexing him, and he felt that he could not be at peace with himself until it was solved. That night he wrote to Jack Stevens, and made a full confession of how he had lost the money, and in his letter he gave a very faithful description of Mr. P. Foreman.

"If you can clear up the mystery," he said in his letter, "for Heaven's sake do so. I do not advise you to go to Lady Weston White to make inquiries, for that might result in attracting attention which, as things stand, I wish to avoid; but do what you can for me, and act as you think best, for the sake of your old and unhappy friend, Arthur." He directed Jack to reply to him at the Hôtel Victoria, Interlaken, where he proposed to take Adelaide after a stay in Geneva. He made his visit to this beautiful city shorter than he intended, so anxious was he to receive Jack's reply. It was not there when he arrived, but on the following mid-day it was delivered to him.

"My dear Arthur," (Jack wrote), "my dear simple friend, my timid love-stricken swain, your letter astonished me, and in your interests I set to work at once. I have a friend who is a real detective—a real one, mark you—and when I entrusted him with your precious secret, and read to him the careful description you have given of your saviour, Mr. P. Foreman, he first looked at me in blank amazement, and then burst into a fit of laughter. 'By Jove!' he cried, when he got over his fit, 'that is my friend Purdy. He's been at his tricks again.' 'Who is your friend Purdy,' I inquired, 'and what are the particular tricks you refer to?' He did not favour me with an answer, but stipulated that I should pay an immediate visit to Lady Weston White, and ask whether the jewels lost in her house on the night before your wedding had been recovered. I did as he bade me, and learned from her ladyship—what do you think? Why, that there were no jewels lost in her house, and never had been, to her knowledge. I did not enlighten her, old fellow, having some regard for your reputation for shrewdness. I went straight from her to my friend the real detective. Learn from me, O wise young bridegroom, that Mr. P. Foreman, alias Purdy, is no more a detective than I am, that he must have slipped the brooch (all false stones, my boy) himself into your pocket, having previously ascertained that you were to be married in a few hours, and that he practised upon you a rather clever trick which he has practised successfully upon other victims as simple as yourself. Now I come to think of it, I shouldn't wonder if he was one of the men who passed us when I gave you the thirty five-pound notes at the corner of the street. My friend the real detective tells me that Purdy is one of the best actors he has ever seen, and that his skill would beat the devil himself. Let us hope he will soon have the chance of trying it on with his Satanic majesty. Anyways, he is enjoying himself on the Continent with your money and mine, and, as he has cast a cloud over the first fortnight or so of your honeymoon, I should recommend you to lengthen it by just as many days of happiness as he has robbed you of. And here is another recommendation, my dear, simple, old fellow. Tell your little wife all about it, and tell her at the same time that I have given an order for a brooch, of which I shall beg her acceptance, with the very original design of a gold stile and three little birds perched atop of it. Give her my love, and accept the same from yours ever and ever."

"BY JOVE!" HE CRIED, "THAT IS MY FRIEND PURDY."

Arthur danced about the room when he read this comforting letter. Adelaide looked up from a novel in which she had been absorbed.

"Why, whatever is the matter with you," she cried, "you dear old goose?"

"Never mind the dear old goose," said Arthur. "Let us have a waltz round the room, you dear young darling!"

A waltz they had, and they made some glasses on the table jingle so that a chambermaid knocked at the door, and asked whether her services were required.

"Not at all," replied Arthur, in very indifferent German. "I am only giving madame a lesson."

At the end of which lesson Arthur related to his bride what it was that had been disturbing him. How she pitied him! The tears ran down her pretty face as she took his between her little hands, and gave him kisses which he returned with interest. Of that you may be sure.

"Oh, Arthur," said Adelaide, with the fondest of looks, "I am glad I married you; because, you know, you do want someone to look after you."

As for the rest of the honeymoon, I leave you to imagine it. All I will say is, that I wish no newly married young couple a happier.

[A Night in an Opium Den.]

By the Author of "A Dead Man's Diary."

Yes, I have smoked opium in Ratcliff Highway, and in the den which was visited by Charles Dickens, and through the pipe which had the honour of making that distinguished novelist sick.

"And did you have lovely dreams? and what were they like?" asks a fair reader.

Yes, I had lovely dreams, and I have no doubt that by the aid of imagination, and a skilful manipulation of De Quincey, I could concoct a fancy picture of opium-smoking and its effects, which might pass for a faithful picture of what really occurred. But, "My Lord and Jury"—to quote the historic words of Mrs. Cluppins, when cross-examined by Serjeant Buzfuz—"My Lord and Jury, I will not deceive you": what those dreams were, I could not for the life of me now describe, for they were too aërial and unsubstantial to be caught and fixed, like hard facts, in words, by any other pen than that of a Coleridge, or a De Quincey. I might as well attempt to convey to you, by means of a clay model, an idea of the prism-fires and rainbow-hues that circle, and change, and chase each other round the pictured sides of that floating fairy-sphere which we call a soap-bubble, as attempt, unassisted, to describe my dreams in words. Hence it is that in this narrative, I have confined myself strictly to the facts of my experiences.

THE PROPRIETOR.

The proprietor of the den which I visited was a Chinaman named Chang, who positively grinned me over from head to foot—not only when I was first made known to him by the friend who had piloted me to the establishment, but as long as I remained within grinning range. An uninformed onlooker might not unnaturally have concluded that I was stone-deaf and dumb, and that our host was endeavouring to express, by his features, the cordiality he was unable to convey in words. In reply to every casual remark made by my companion, the Chinaman would glance up for a moment at his face, and then turn round to grimace again at me, as though I, and I only, were the subject of their conversation, and he was half afraid I might think he did not take a becoming interest in it. In the few words which I exchanged with him, I found him exceedingly civil, and he took great pains to explain to me that his wearing no pigtail was attributable, not to his own act and deed, but to the fact that that ornament had been cut off by some person or persons unknown, when he was either drunk or asleep—I could not quite make out which. The deadliest insult which can be offered a Chinaman (so I understood him) is to cut off his pigtail, and it was only when referring to this incident, and to his desire to wreak a terrible vengeance upon the perpetrators, that there was any cessation of his embarrassing smile. The thought of the insult to which he had been subjected, and of his consequent degradation in the eyes of his countrymen, brought so evil a look upon his parchment-coloured features, and caused his small and cunning eyes to twist and turn so horribly, that I was glad to turn the conversation to pleasanter topics, even though it necessitated my being once more fixed by that bland and penetrating smile so peculiarly his own. The smile became more rigid than ever, when I informed him that I was anxious to smoke a pipe of opium. The way in which he turned his face upon me (including the smile, which enveloped and illumined me in its rays) was, for all the world, like the turning-on by a policeman of a bull's-eye lantern. With a final grin which threatened to distort permanently his features, he bade us follow him, and led the way up the most villainously treacherous staircase which it has ever been my lot to ascend.

A VILLAINOUS STAIRCASE.

"Den" was an appropriate name for the reeking hole to which he conducted us. It was dirty and dark, being lit only by a smoking lamp on the mantel-shelf, and was not much larger than a full-sized cupboard. The walls, which were of a dingy yellow (not unlike the "whites" of the smokers' eyes) were quite bare, with the exception of the one facing the door, on which, incongruously enough, was plastered a coarsely-coloured and hideous print of the crucifixion. The furniture consisted of three raised mattresses, with small tables on which were placed pipes, lamps, and opium.

IN THE DEN.

Huddled or curled up on these mattresses lay two wretched smokers—one of them with the whites, or, I should say, "yellows," of his eyes turned up to the ceiling, and another, whose slumbers we had apparently disturbed, staring about him with a dazed and stupefied air. Something in the look of these men—either the ghastly pallor of their complexion, or the listlessness of their bearing—reminded me not a little of the "white lepers" of Norway. I have seen patients in the hospitals there whose general aspect greatly resembled that of these men, although the skin of the white leper has more of a milky appearance—as if it had been bleached, in fact—than that of the opium-smoker, which is dirtier and more yellow. The remaining occupants of the den, two of whom were Chinamen, were wide awake. The third was a partly naked Malay of decidedly evil aspect, who shrank back on my entrance, and coiled himself up in the recesses of a dark corner, whence he lay furtively watching me, very much in the same way in which the prisoned pythons in a serpent-house watch the visitors who come to tap at the glass of their cages. The Chinamen, however, seemed pleased to see me; and, after I had handed my cigar-case to the nearest, begging that he and his friend would help themselves, they became quite companionable. One of them, to my surprise, immediately relinquished the drug which he had been smoking, and began to suck with evident relish at the cigar. The other, after pocketing the weed, lay down on his back with his arms behind his head, and with his legs drawn up to his body, in which singularly graceful and easy attitude he carried on a conversation with his friend, watching me narrowly all the time, through the chink between his knees. At this point of my visit, and before I could take any further stock of the surroundings, I was not a little surprised by the entrance of a young, and by no means ill-looking Englishwoman, to whom I gave a civil "good evening," receiving, however, only a suspicious and surly nod in reply. She occupied herself at first by tickling one of the Chinamen under the armpits, evidently finding no little amusement in the fits of wild, unearthly, and uncontrollable laughter into which he broke, but growing weary of this, she seated herself on the raised mattress where I was located, and proceeded to take stock of her visitor. Beginning at my boots, and travelling up by way of trousers and waistcoat, up to my collar and face, she examined me so critically and searchingly from head to foot that I fancied once or twice I could see the row of figures she was inwardly casting up, and could hear her saying to herself, "Boots and trousers, say, sixty bob; and watch and chain, a couple of flimsies each; which, with coat and waistcoat, bring it up to thirty shiners; which, with a couple of fivers for links, loose cash and studs make about forty quid—that's your figure young man, as near as I can reckon it."

A MALAY.

While this was going on, my host, Mr. Chang, was busily making preparations for my initiatory smoke by sticking small pellets of the opium (a brownish, glue-like substance) upon a pin, and rolling and re-rolling them against the pipe, which is about the size of a small flute, and has a big open bowl with a tiny aperture at the base. Into this aperture the drug-smeared pin is slipped, and the pipe is then held over a lamp, and the fumes of the burning opium inhaled. The occupation is by no means a luxurious one; for, as surely as I removed the pipe from my lips to indulge in a furtive cough (and it did make me cough a bit at first), it inevitably went out. By means of repeated applications to the lamp, however, I managed to get through the allotted number of pipes, and sank slowly and insensibly into the deep waters of slumber, until at last they closed over my head, and I was swept and borne unresistingly away upon the vast seaward setting tide of sleep.

Of my dreams, as I have already said, I have but the haziest of recollections. I can just recall a sensation of sailing, as on a cloud, amid regions of blue and buoyant ether; of seeing, through vistas of purple and gold, a scene of sunny seas and shining shores, where, it seemed to me, I beheld the fabled "Blessed Isles," stretching league beyond league afar; and of peeps of paradisial landscapes that swam up to me as through a world of waters, and then softened and sank away into a blending of beauteous colours, and into a vision of white warm arms and wooing bosoms.

And so we slept on, I and my wretched companions, until, to quote Rossetti:—

Sleep sank them lower than the tide of dreams,
And their dreams watched them sink, and slid away.
Slowly their souls swam up again, through gleams
Of watered light, and dull drowned waifs of day;
Till, from some wonder of new woods and streams,
He woke and wondered more.

Yes, "I woke and wondered more"—woke to wonder where I was, and where were my boots, my hat, and my umbrella; woke to find the faithless friend, who had promised to guard my slumbers, sleeping peacefully at his post; and woke with a taste in my mouth which can only be likened to a cross between onions and bad tobacco. And this taste, in conjunction with a splitting headache and a general lowness of spirits, served, for the next day or two, to keep me constantly in remembrance of my visit to the Opium Den in Ratcliff Highway.

[Janko the Musician.]

From the Polish of Sienkiewicz.

[Henryk Sienkiewicz is perhaps the most popular of contemporary Polish novelists. He is a realist, but his realism is tempered by a dash of romance. Keenly in sympathy with the poor, the oppressed, the despised, and possessed of a genius for portraying the character of Polish peasants, he has a particular gift for depicting the sufferings of artistic natures dimly conscious of their gifts, or blighted by the curse of mediocrity. Sienkiewicz was born in 1845, and was educated at the University of Warsaw. In 1876 he went to California, and first attracted attention by letters descriptive of the New World contributed to the newspapers of his native country. These sketches were collected, and, together with some short tales, published at Warsaw in 1880 under the title of "Pisma." To his American experiences we owe Sienkiewicz's delightful story, "For Daily Bread," one of the most simple and touching narratives possible. His chief work, "With Fire and Sword," has been translated into English. This gifted writer was almost entirely unknown in this country until recently. At the present day he resides at Warsaw, where he edits a paper.]

Weak and frail came he into the world. The neighbours, assembled round the bedside, shook their heads over mother and child. The blacksmith's wife, the most experienced amongst them, began to comfort the sick woman after her fashion.

"You just lie quiet," she said, "and I will light a blessed candle. It's all up with you, poor dear, you must make your preparations for another world. Someone had better run for the priest to give you the last Sacraments."

"And the youngster must be baptized at once," said another. "I tell you he won't live till the priest comes, and it will be some comfort not to have an unbaptized ghost spooking about."

As she spoke, she lit a blessed candle, took the baby, sprinkled it with holy water, till it winked its eyes, and at the same time pronounced the words:

"I baptize thee in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, and give thee the name of Jan," adding immediately (with a vague recollection of the form of prayer used for the dying): "And now depart, O Christian Soul! out of this world, and return to the place you came from. Amen."

The Christian soul, however, had not the least intention of departing out of this world. It began, on the contrary, to kick with the legs of the body as hard as ever it could, and to cry, but in a fashion so feeble and whimpering, that it sounded to the women like the mewing of a kitten.

"THE PRIEST WAS SENT FOR."

The priest was sent for, discharged his sacred office, and retired; but, instead of dying, the mother recovered, and, after a week, went back to work.

The life of the baby hung on a thread; he scarcely seemed to breathe, but, when he was four years of age, the cuckoo cried three times over the cottage roof—a good omen, according to Polish superstition—and after that matters mended so that he somehow attained his tenth year. To be sure, he was always thin and delicate, with a slouching body and hollow cheeks. His hay-coloured hair fell over his clear, prominent eyes, that had a far-away look in them, as if he saw things hidden from others.

In winter the child crouched behind the stove and wept softly from cold, and not unfrequently from hunger if "Mammy" had nothing in the cupboard or in the pot. In summer he ran about in a little white blouse, tied round the waist with a handkerchief, and wore an old straw hat on his head. His flaxen hair poked its way through the holes, and his eager glance darted hither and thither like a bird's. His mother, poor creature! who lived from hand to mouth, and lodged under a strange roof like a swallow, loved him, no doubt, after a fashion, yet she gave him many a cuff, and generally called him a "changeling." At eight years of age he began life on his own account, now driving a flock of sheep, now making his way deep into the forest to look for mushrooms when there was nothing to eat at home. He had Providence only to thank that the wolves did hot devour him on one of these expeditions. He was not a particularly precocious boy, and, like all village children, had the habit of sticking his finger into his mouth when addressed. The neighbours prophesied that he would not live long, or that, if he did live, he would not be much of a comfort to his mother, for he would never be strong enough for hard work.

One distinguishing characteristic he had. Who can say why the gift was bestowed in so unlikely a quarter? But music he loved, and his love was a passion. He heard music in everything; he listened to every sound, and the bigger he grew the more he thought of melody and of harmony. If he tended the cattle, or went with a playfellow to gather berries in the forest, he would return empty-handed, and lisp, "O mammy, there was such beautiful music! It was playing like this—la, la, la!"

"I'll soon play you a different tune, you good-for-nothing monkey!" his mother would cry angrily, and rap him with the ladle.

"YOU GOOD-FOR-NOTHING MONKEY!"

The youngster might shriek, and promise not to listen to the music again, but he thought all the more of how beautiful the forest was, and how full of voices that sang and rang. Who or what sang and rang he could not well have told; the pine-trees, the beeches, the birch-trees, the thrushes, all sang; the whole forest sang, and the echo sang too ... in the meadows the blades of grass sang; in the garden behind the cottage the sparrows twittered, the cherry-trees rustled and trilled. In the evening he heard all imaginable voices, such as are audible only in the country, and he thought to himself that the whole village resounded with melody. His companions could only wonder at him; they heard none of these beautiful things. When he was set to work to toss out hay he fancied he heard the wind playing through the prongs of his pitchfork. The overseer, who saw him standing idly, his hair thrown back from his forehead, listening intently to the wind's music on the fork, seized a strap, and gave the dreamer a few cuts to bring him to his senses, but it was of no avail. The neighbours, at last, nicknamed him "Janko the Musician."

At night, when the frogs croaked, the corncrakes cried across the meadows, the bitterns boomed in the marsh, and the cocks crowed behind the fences, the child could not sleep, he could but listen with delight, and heaven only knows what harmonies he heard in all these mingled sounds. His mother dared not bring him with her to church, for when the organ murmured or pealed, the eyes of the boy grew dim and moist or else brightened and gleamed as if the light of another world illumined them.

The watchman, who nightly patrolled the village and counted the stars, or carried on a low-toned conversation with the dogs in order to keep himself awake, more than once saw Janko's little white blouse scudding through the gloom to the alehouse. The child did not enter the tavern, but crouched close up to the wall and listened. Within, couples revolved merrily to lively music, and now and then a fellow would cry "Hooray!" One could hear the stamping of feet and the affected voices of the girls. The fiddles murmured softly, the big 'cello's deep notes thundered, the windows streamed with light, every plank in the taproom seemed to creak, to sing, to play, and Janko listened to it all. What would he not have given to have a fiddle that would give forth such sounds, a bit of board that would make such music! Alas! where was he to get it; how could he make it? If they would only allow him just to take one in his hand!... But no! all he could do was to listen, and so he listened till the voice of the watchman would call to him out of the darkness—

"Off to bed with you, you imp!"

"OFF TO BED WITH YOU, YOU IMP."

Then the little bare feet would patter away to the cabin, and the voices of the violins would follow him as he ran through the night.

It was a great occasion for him when at harvest time or at a wedding he heard the fiddlers play. At such times he would creep behind the stove, and for days would not speak a single word, looking straight before him with great glowing eyes, like those of a cat at night.

At last he made himself a fiddle out of a shingle, and strung it with horsehair, but it did not sound as beautifully as those in the alehouse; the strings tinkled softly, ever so softly, they hummed like flies or midges. All the same, he played on them from morning until night, though many a kick and cuff he got till he was black and blue. He could not help himself, it was in his nature.

The child grew thinner and thinner; his shock of hair became thicker, his eyes grew more staring and swam with tears, and his cheeks and chest became hollower. He had never resembled other children, he was more like his own poor little fiddle that one could scarcely hear. Moreover, before harvest-time he was almost starving, living as he did chiefly on raw turnips, and on his longing, his intense longing, to own a violin. Alas! this desire bore evil fruit.

Up at the Castle the footman had a fiddle that he sometimes played in the evening to please his pretty sweetheart and his fellow-servants. Janko often crept amongst the climbing plants to the very door of the servants' hall to hear the music, or, at least, to catch a glimpse of the fiddle. It generally hung on the wall, exactly opposite the door, and the youngster's whole soul was in his eyes as he gazed at it, an unattainable treasure that he was unworthy to possess, though he held it to be the most precious thing on earth. A dumb longing took possession of him to touch it just once with his very own hand—or, at any rate, to see it closer.... At the thought the poor little childish heart leaped with delight.

One evening there was no one in the servants' hall. The family had for a long time lived abroad, the house was empty, and the footman, with his sweetheart, was elsewhere. Janko, hidden amongst the creepers, had already been looking for many minutes through the half-open door at the goal of his desires.

The moon, at her full, swam high in the heavens; her beams threw a shaft of light across the room, and fell on the opposite wall. Gradually they moved towards where the violin hung, and streamed full upon it. To the child in the darkness a silvery halo seemed to shine around the instrument, illumining it so brightly that Janko was almost dazzled; the strings, the neck, the sides were plainly visible, the pegs shone like glow-worms, and the bow like a silver wand.... How beautiful it was; almost magical! Janko gazed with hungry eyes. Crouching amidst the ivy, his elbows supported on his little bony knees, he gazed open-mouthed and motionless at this one object. Now fear held him fast, next moment an unappeasable longing urged him forward. Was it magic, or was it not? The violin, with its rays of glory, absolutely appeared to draw near to him, to hover over his head.

"JANKO WAS ALMOST DAZZLED."

For a moment the glory darkened, only to shine again more brilliantly. Magic, it really was magic! Meantime, the wind murmured, the trees rustled, the creepers whispered softly, and to the child they seemed to say, "Go on, Janko, there is not a soul there.... Go on, Janko."

The night was clear and bright. By the pond in the garden a nightingale began to sing—now softly, now loudly. Her song said, "Go on; have courage; touch it." An honest raven flew softly over the child's head and croaked, "No, Janko; no." The raven flew away, but the nightingale remained, and the creepers cried more plainly than ever, "There's no one there."

The fiddle still hung in the track of the moonbeams. The little crouching figure crept softly and cautiously nearer, and the nightingale sang "Go on—on—on—take it."

The white blouse glimmered nearer the doorway. Soon it was no longer hidden by the dark creepers. On the threshold one could hear the quick, panting breath of the delicate child. A moment more and the little white blouse had disappeared, only one tiny bare foot still stood upon the steps. In vain the friendly raven flew by once more, and cawed "No, no,"—Janko had already entered.

The frogs in the pond began suddenly to croak as if something had frightened them, and as suddenly were silent. The nightingale ceased to sing, the climbing plants to whisper. In the interval Janko had edged nearer and nearer to his treasure, but fear seized him. In the shadow of the creepers he felt at home, like a wild creature in a thicket, now he quivered like a wild creature in a snare. His movements were hasty, his breath came short.

The pulsing summer lightning that glanced from east to west illumined the apartment for an instant, and showed poor trembling Janko almost on his hands and knees, his head stretched out, cowering before the violin, but the summer lightning ceased, a cloud passed before the moon, and there was nothing to be seen nor heard.

Then, after a pause, there sounded through the darkness a low wailing note, as if someone had accidentally touched a string, and all at once a rough, sleepy voice broke from a corner of the room, asking angrily—

"Who's there?"

A match cracked against the wall. Then there was a little spurt of flame, and then—great heaven!—then were to be heard curses, blows, the crying of a child, appeals, "Oh, for God's sake!" barking of dogs, people running with lights before the windows, uproar in the whole house.

Two days later poor Janko stood before the magistrates. Should he be prosecuted as a thief? Of course.

The justice and the landlord looked at the culprit as he stood in the dock, his finger in his mouth, with staring, terrified eyes, small, emaciated, dirty, beaten, unable to tell why or wherefore he found himself there, or what they were about to do to him. How, thought the justice, could anyone try a wretched little object like that, only ten years of age, and barely able to stand on its legs? Was he to be sent to prison, or what? One must not be too severe with children. Would it not be well if a watchman took him and gave him a few strokes with a cane, so that he might not steal a second time, and so end the matter?

"Just so. A very good idea!"

Stach, the watchman, was called.

"Take him, and give him a caning as a warning."

Stach nodded his stupid, bull head, took Janko under his arm like a kitten, and carried him off to the barn.

"HE TOOK JANKO UNDER HIS ARM LIKE A KITTEN."

Either the youngster did not understand what it was all about, or he was too terrified to speak; in either case he uttered not a word, and looked round him like a little frightened bird. How did he know what they wanted with him. It was only when Stach seized him, laid him on the barn floor, and, holding him fast with one hand, turned up his little shirt with the cane, that poor Janko shrieked "Mammy!" and after every blow he cried "Mammy, mammy!" but lower and weaker each time, until after a certain number of strokes, the child was silent, and called for his mother no more....

The poor broken fiddle!

You clumsy, wicked Stach! Who ever flogged a child in such a fashion? The poor, tiny fellow was always thin and weakly, and scarcely had breath in his body!

At last the mother came and took the child with her, but she had to carry him home. Next day Janko did not rise. On the third day he breathed out his soul in peace, on the hard bed covered by the horsecloth....

As he lay dying, the swallows twittered in the cherry-tree that grew before the window, a sunbeam peered through the pane, and flooded with glory the child's rough hair and his bloodless face. The beam seemed like a track for the little fellow's soul to ascend to heaven.

Well for him was it that at least at the hour of death he mounted a broad and sunny path, for thorny would have been his road in life. The wasted chest still heaved softly, and the child seemed still conscious of the echoes of the outer world that entered through the open window. It was evening; the peasant girls returning from hay-making passed by and sang as they went; the brook purled close at hand.

Janko listened for the last time to the musical echoes of the village. Beside him, on the horsecloth, lay the fiddle he had made from a shingle. Suddenly the dying child's face lit up, and his white lips whispered—

"Mammy!"

"What is it, dearie?" asked the mother, her voice stifled with sobs.

"Mammy, God will give me a real fiddle in heaven."

"Yes, darling, yes," replied the mother. She could speak no more, for from her heart the pent-up sorrow burst suddenly forth. She only murmured, "Jesus, my Jesus!" and laying her head on the table, wept as those weep from whom death robs their dearest treasure.

And so it was. When she raised her head and looked at the child, the eyes of the little musician were open but fixed, the countenance was grave, solemn, and rigid. The sunbeam had disappeared.

"May you rest in peace, little Janko!"

Next day the Baron and his family returned from Italy to the Castle. The daughter of the house and her suitor were there amongst the rest.

"What a delightful country Italy is!" remarked the gentleman.

"Yes, and the people! They are a nation of artists! It is a pleasure to note and encourage their talent," answered the young lady.

The larches rustled over Janko's grave!

[A Silver Harvest.]

SHOOTING SEINE-NET.

Cornish pilchards are, no doubt, sufficiently well known to create some interest in the method by which they are caught. Some years back the fisheries were worked almost entirely by the "seine" net system, and had developed into a most flourishing industry; but, at present, owing principally to the large increase of drift-net boats which, in their more regular expeditions, tend to break up the "schools" or "shoals," the old picturesque way of catching them by the "seine" boats is more or less falling into desuetude. The glory and excitement of the pilchard fishing belongs, however, to the seine-net almost exclusively. For weeks the cliffs are patrolled by anxious watchers, and when once the red streak in the water shows to the practised eye the "school" slowly moving, the cry "heva" or "hubba" is heard shouted from one to another, and every man, woman, and child rushes to the beach. A volunteer colonel the writer once met touring about Cornwall with a camera had skilfully arranged a characteristic group of fishermen and lasses in a disused fish-cellar, and had carefully had an artistic background of nets, lobster-pots, &c., built up after some hours of trouble and difficulty, when, just as he was about to raise the cap, a tap at the little window, a cry of "hubba," and his group flew off like lightning out of the place. He never got them again. For many weeks they were all busy with the pilchards.

Another visitor, not knowing the colloquial terms of the fisher-folk, was alarmed to hear his landlady, in great excitement, shout to a neighbour, "Shot at Cadgwith," and anxiously inquired whether anyone was hurt or killed. Though the fishing villages as a rule are in communication only through coaches, or more often carts, the news of the first catch rapidly flies; naturally each place anticipating the advent of the pilchards at any moment.

LAUNCHING THE TUCK-BOAT.

Many of the fishermen are almost practised athletes. Down a long "way" or "slip" the big seine boat is shot, the men hanging on, pushing, or clambering on as the boat is launched into the sea. In a second the big heavy oars are shipped, every man in his place, and pulling with all his strength for the "shoal," guided by the "huer" who, on the top of the cliff, directs them by waving two branches of furze-bush in the direction required. The turn-out of a metropolitan fire-engine is not accomplished more expeditiously. This work, as may be supposed, is very arduous, and on many parts of the coast the manual labour is superseded by steam seine-boats, which are constantly kept at sea on the look-out, the men being paid weekly wages by the proprietors. Occasionally the "school" is missed, and sometimes, in the difficulty of manœvering the heavy boats in a comparatively rough sea, a small portion only is secured. Many tries have often to be made, the fish sometimes turning out too young and small, and, though these latter are valuable to the sardine factories, many of which are established in Cornwall, the cost of packing and drawing the fish over many miles of rough country prevents it being worth the labour and trouble. And the roads in some places, say, for instance, the way down to Sennen Cove, Lands End, are most decidedly rough, the writer having once seen a poor old blind man, who perambulated the country with a donkey-cart and apples, once literally hung up on a huge boulder of rock in the middle of the road. The fish once reached, the net is thrown into the sea and a complete circle made round them, the net righting itself in the water by the leads at the bottom and the corks at the top. Then comes the "tuck-boat," often launched by women and children, carrying a smaller net, which is fastened inside the bigger "seine," and partly under the fish, by means of which, by gradually lessening the circle, the precious catch is forced to the surface. Large heavy boats, characteristically called "loaders," are used to convey the fish to the shore. Stalwart young men dip the "tuck-basket" into the shoal of live fish, the water naturally draining out when it is raised to the surface, while the pilchards are stowed in the "loader" by large wooden shovels, to the accompaniment of the screams of thousands of sea-gulls.

It is almost alarming, too, to see how deep in the water the boats are loaded, within an inch or two of the gunwale, Mr. Plimsoll's load-line evidently not applying; though, fortunately, accidents are rare.

Upon arriving at the shore or landing-place many from their own and neighbouring villages are there to take them up in "creels" to the cellars. We have once seen a large influx of Cornish miners for this work only. They are paid 2d. a basket, and can make £1 a day, though the work is comparatively laborious.

Of course the natives manage at these times to get fairly well provided with fish. The children are very busy picking up the stray pilchards, and the stray ones getting scarce, an apparently accidental stumble on the rough stones may upset a large creel full, which is not worth gathering up when fish is plentiful.

DIPPING FOR PILCHARDS.

If large catches, or perhaps two or three catches fill the cellars, an interesting sight is to see the fish packed on the ground by the women and children, salt being plentifully used, of course, and the heads placed outwards. The row of carefully arranged pilchards is then thatched over and left to pickle for about a month.

The pay is pretty good for this work, the children even getting 3d. per hour. The pile is then undone, the fish packed with great care in barrels, and by means of a long lever with a heavy stone hooked on at the end, pressed down tightly. It is then ready for the market.

The inland villagers are good customers for pilchards, and, indeed, for all sorts of fish, conger and mackerel being especial favourites with all. They are usually supplied by the country dealers called "jowters," though how the word arose is uncertain; but the biggest market is Italy, several Italians being permanently established in Cornwall in the business. It might be supposed that the fishermen themselves would care but little for fish, but experience shows that few people are so particularly fond of it. We have often heard the natives declare that a bit of fresh or salted fish was better at any time than meat, roast or boiled. In the winter, when unable to go to sea, the storms and gales preventing the men from doing anything for a livelihood, the salted pilchard is the staple article of food. Served with a boiled potato it makes a savoury enough dish, though I think, perhaps, it needs an acquired taste on behalf of the town dwellers to enjoy it thoroughly.

Most of the fishermen have their plot of land, and in their intervals of enforced leisure are assiduous gardeners, cultivating generally sufficient potatoes to last the winter.

PACKING.

The oil which is pressed out of the fish is drained by little gutters into a small well, and although after some lapse of time it becomes anything but odorous, or even agreeable to the view, it is very valuable to the men for dressing their boots, &c., which become so hardened by the sea-water. Many of the fishermen in days gone by have made a considerable lot of money by Cornish pilchards. In some of the fishing villages it is not at all uncommon for the men to have built their own cottages out of their earnings and to have put a little by besides. Formerly, too, the "schools" came along as early as August, but now they are seldom seen until October. No satisfactory reason either for their present apparent scarcity or the change of the time of their appearance can be given, the fishermen themselves being at a loss for an explanation.

[The State of the Law Courts.]