She started up. "I can do no more than I have done," vehemently. "And

I'm tired of hearing of myself as a wife. I'd as soon consider myself as

a grandmother."

Mr. Muller waited a moment, too shocked and indignant to speak: then he

took up his hat and went to the door. "Good-night, my child," he said

kindly, "To-morrow you will be your better self."

Kitty knew nothing of better selves: she only felt keenly that two

months ago such rudeness would have been impossible to her. Why was she

growing vulgar and weak?

The air stirred the leaves of the old Walnuts outside: the black-coated,

dapper figure had not yet passed from under them. He was so gentle and

pious and good! Should she run after him? She dropped instead into her

chair and cried comfortably till a noise in the shop stopped her, and

looking through the dusky books she saw a man waiting. She got up and

went in hastily, looking keenly at his face to find how long he had been

there, and how much he had seen. It wore, however, an inscrutable

gravity.

Most of Peter's old customers sold to themselves during his absence, but

this was a stranger. He stood looking curiously at the heaped books and

the worn sheepskin-covered chair, until she was close to him: then he

looked curiously at her.

"I have had some correspondence with Mr. Guinness about a copy of

Quadd's _Scientific Catalogues_."

"Mr. Guinness is not at home, but he left the book," said Kitty, alertly

climbing the steps. Bringing the book, she recognized him as Doctor

McCall, who had once before been at the shop when her father was gone.

He was a young man, largely built, with a frank, attentive face, red

hair and beard, and cordial voice. It was Kitty's nature to meet anybody

halfway who carried summer weather about him. "My father hoped you would

not come for the book until his return," she said civilly. "Your letters

made him wish to see you. You were familiar, he told me, with some old

pamphlets of which few customers know anything."

"Probably. I could not come at any other time," curtly, engrossed in

turning over the pages of his book. Presently he said, "I will look over

the stock if you will allow me. But I need not detain you," glancing at

her work in the inner room. Kitty felt herself politely dismissed. Nor,

although Doctor McCall stayed for half an hour examining Peter's

favorite volumes as he sat on his high office-stool and leaned on his

desk, did he once turn his eyes on the dimpling face making a

picturesque vignette in the frame of the open window. When he had

finished he came to the door. "I will call for the books I have chosen

in an hour;" and then bowed distantly and was gone.

He had scarcely closed the gate when the back door creaked, and Miss

Muller came in smiling, magnetic from head to foot, as her disciples in

Berrytown were used to allege.

"And what is our little dove afraid of in her nest?" pinching Kitty's

cheek as though she had been a dove very lately fledged indeed. She had

always in fact the feeling when with Kitty that through her she suffered

to live and patted on the back the whole ignoble, effete race of

domestic women. Catharine caught sight of her satchel, which portended a

visit of several days.

"Pray give me your hat and stay with me for tea," she said sweetly.

Miss Muller saw through her stratagem and laughed: "Now, that is just

the kind of finesse in which such women delight!" she thought

good-humoredly, going into the shop to lay off her hat and cape. The

next moment she returned. Her face was bloodless. The muscles of the

chin twitched.

"Who has been here?" she cried, sitting down and rubbing her hands

violently on her wrists. "Oh, Catharine, who has been here?"

Now Kitty, a hearty eater with a slow brain, and nerves laid quite out

of reach under the thick healthy flesh, knew nothing of the hysterical

clairvoyant moods and trances familiar to so many lean, bilious American

women. She ran for camphor, carbonate of soda and arnica, bathed Miss

Muller's head, bent over her, fussing, terrified, anxious.

"Is it a pain? Is it in your stomach? Did you eat anything that

disagreed with you?" she cried.

"Eat! I believe in my soul you think of nothing but eating!" trying

resolutely to still the trembling of her limbs and chattering of her

teeth. "I was only conscious of a presence when I entered that room.

Some one who long ago passed out of my life, stood by me again." The

tears ran weakly over her white cheeks.

"Somebody in the shop!" Kitty went to it on tiptoe, quaking at the

thought of burglars. "There's nobody in the shop. Not even the cat,"

turning back reassured. "How did you feel the Presence, Maria? See it,

or hear it, or smell it?"

"There are other senses than those, you know," pacing slowly up and down

the room with the action of the leading lady in a melodrama; but her

pain or vision, whatever it was, had been real enough. The cold drops

stood on her forehead, her lips quivered, the brown eyes turned from

side to side asking for help. "When _he_ is near shall I not know it?"

she said with dry lips.

Kitty stole up to her and touched her hand. "I'm so glad if you are in

love!" she whispered. "I thought you would think it foolish to care for

love or--or babies. I used to care for them both a great deal."

"Pshaw! Now listen to me, child," her step growing steadier. "Oh dear!

Haven't you any belladonna? Or coffea? That would set me right at once.

As for a husband and children, they are obstructions to a woman--nothing

more. If my head was clear I could make you understand. I am a free

soul. I have my work to do. Marriage is an accident: so is

child-bearing. In nine cases out of ten they hinder a woman's work. But

when I meet a kindred soul, higher, purer than mine, I give allegiance

to it. My feeling becomes a part of my actual life; it is a spiritual

action: it hears and sees by spiritual senses. And then--Ah, there is

something terrible in being alone--_alone_! She called this out loudly,

wringing her hands. Kitty gave a queer smile. It was incredible to her

that a woman could thus dissect herself for the benefit of another.

"But she's talking for her own benefit," watching her shrewdly. "If

there's any acting about it, she's playing Ophelia and Hamlet and the

audience all at once.--Was it Doctor McCall you fancied was in the

shop?" she asked quietly.

Miss Muller turned, a natural blush dyeing her face and neck: "He has

been here then?--Oh, there! there he is!" as the young man came in at

the gate. She passed her hands over her front hair nervously, shook down

her lace sleeves and went out to meet him. Kitty saw his start of

surprise. He stooped, for she was a little woman, and held out both his

hands.

"Yes, John, it is I!" she said with a half sob.

"Are you really so glad to see me again, Maria?" She caught his arm for

her sole answer, and walked on, nestling close to his side.

"It may be spiritual affinity, but it looks very like love," thought

Kitty. It was a different love from any she had known. They turned and

walked through the gate down into the shadow of the wooded creeks, the

broad strong figure leaning over the weaker one. Kitty fancied the

passion in his eyes, the words he would speak. She thought how she had

noticed at first sight that there was unusual strength and tenderness in

the man's face.

"There will be no talk there of new dresses or reformatory schools, I'm

sure of that," she said, preparing to go to bed. She felt somehow

wronged and slighted to-night, and wished for old Peter's knee to rest

on. She had no friend like old Peter, and never would have.

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

OVERDUE.

The beads from the wine have all vanished,

Which bubbled in brightness so late;

The lights from the windows are banished,

Close shut is the gate

Which yesterday swung wide in joyance,

And beckoned to fate.

The goblet stands idle, untasted,

Or, tasted, is tasteless to-night;

The breath of the roses is wasted;

In sackcloth bedight,

The soul, in the dusk of her palace,

Sits waiting the light.

Ah! why do the ships waft no token

Of grace to this sorrowful realm?

Must suns shine in vain, while their broken

Rays clouds overwhelm?

Tender Breeze, if some sail bear a message,

Rule thou at the helm!

But if haply the ruler be coming,

Drug the sea-sirens each with a kiss:

Stroke the waves into calmest of humming

Over ocean's abyss:

Speed him soft from the shore of the stranger

To the haven of this.

And the soul-bells in joyous revival

Shall peal all the carols of spring;

The roses and ruby wine rival

Each other to bring,

In the crimson and fragrance of welcome,

Delight to the king.

MARY B. DODGE.

QUEEN VICTORIA AS A MILLIONAIRE.

Queen Victoria either is or ought to be a very wealthy woman. Her income

was at the beginning of her reign fixed at L385,000 a year. This sum, it

was understood, would, with the exception of L96,000 a year, be divided

between the lord steward, the lord chamberlain and the master of the

horse, the three great functionaries of the royal household. Of the

residue L60,000 were to be paid over to the queen for her personal

expenses, and the remaining L36,000 were for "contingencies." It is

probable, however, that the above arrangements have been much modified,

as time has worked changes.

The prince-consort had an allowance of L30,000 a year. The queen

originally wished him to have L100,000, and Lord Melbourne, then prime

minister, who had immense influence over her, had much difficulty in

persuading her that this sum was out of the question, and gaining her

consent to the government's proposing L50,000 a year to the House of

Commons, which, to Her Majesty's infinite chagrin, cut the sum down

nearly one-half.

During the happy days of her married life the expenditure of the court

was very much greater than it has been since the prince's death.

Emperors and kings were entertained with utmost splendor at Windsor.

During the emperor of Russia's visit, for instance, and that of Louis

Philippe, one or two hundred extra mouths were in one way or another fed

at Her Majesty's expense. The stables, too, were formerly filled with

horses--and very fine ones they were--whereas now the number is greatly

reduced, and many of those in the royal mews are "jobbed"--_i.e._ hired

by the week or month, as occasion requires, from livery stables. This

poverty of the master of the horse's department excited much angry

comment on the occasion of the princess Alexandra's state entry into

London.

But besides the previously-mentioned L60,000 a year, and what residue

may be unspent from the rest of the "civil list," as the L385,000 is

called, Queen Victoria has two other sources of considerable income. She

is in her own right duchess of Lancaster. The property which goes with

the duchy of Lancaster belonged originally to Saxon noblemen who rose

against the Norman Conqueror. Their estates were confiscated, and in

1265 were in the possession of Robert Ferrers, earl of Derby. This

nobleman took part with Simon de Montfort in his rebellion, and was

deprived of all his estates in 1265 by Henry III., who bestowed them on

his youngest son, Edmund, commonly called Edmund Crouchback, whom he

created earl of Lancaster. From him dates the immediate connection

between royalty and the duchy. In 1310, Thomas, second earl of

Lancaster, son of Edmund Crouchback, married a great heiress, the only

child of De Lacy, earl of Lincoln. By this alliance he became the

wealthiest and most powerful subject of the Crown, possessing in right

of himself and his wife six earldoms, with all the jurisdiction which

under feudal tenure was annexed to such honors. In 1311 he became

involved in the combination formed by several nobles to induce the king

to part with Piers de Gaveston. The result of this conspiracy was that

the unhappy favorite was lynched in Warwick Castle. The king, Edward

II., was at first highly incensed, but ultimately pardoned the

conspirators, including the earl of Lancaster; but that very imprudent

personage, subsequently taking up arms against his sovereign, was

beheaded.

In 1326 an act was passed for reversing the attainder of Earl Thomas in

favor of his brother Henry, earl of Lancaster. Earl Henry left a son and

six daughters. The son was surnamed "Grismond," from the place of his

birth. He greatly distinguished himself in the French wars under Edward

III., and was the second knight companion of the Order of the Garter,

Edward "the Black Prince" being the first. Ultimately, to reward his

many services, Edward III. created him, about 1348, duke of Lancaster,

and the county of Lancaster was formed into a palatinate or

principality. This great and good nobleman who seems to have been the

soul of munificence and piety, died in 1361, leaving two daughters to

inherit his vast possessions, but on the death of the elder without

issue the whole devolved on the second, Blanche, who married John of

Gaunt (so called because born at Ghent in Flanders, in March, 1340), son

of Edward III. He was created duke of Lancaster, played a prominent part

in history, and died in 1399, leaving a son by Blanche--Henry

Plantagenet, surnamed Bolingbroke, from Bullingbrook Castle in

Lincolnshire, the scene of his birth. He became King Henry IV., and thus

the duchy merged in the Crown, and is enjoyed to-day by Queen Victoria

as duchess of Lancaster.

Her revenue from this source has been steadily increasing. Thus in 1865

it was L26,000; in 1867, L29,000; in 1869, L31,000; in 1872 L40,000. The

largest of these figures does not probably represent a fifth of the

receipts of John of Gaunt, but the duchy of Lancaster, like that of

Cornwall, suffered far a long time from the fraud and rapacity of those

who were supposed to be its custodians. Managed as it now is, it will

probably have doubled its present revenue before the close of the

century.[B]

The other source is still more strictly personal income. On the 30th of

August, 1852, there died a gentleman, aged seventy-two, of the name of

John Camden Neild. He was son of a Mr. James Neild, who acquired a large

fortune as a gold- and silversmith. Mr. James Neild was born at Sir

Henry Holland's birthplace, Knutsford, a market-town in Cheshire, in

1744. He came to London, when a boy, in 1760, the first year of George

III.'s reign, and was placed with one of the king's jewelers, Mr.

Hemming. Gradually working his way up, he started on his own account in

St. James's street, a very fashionable thoroughfare, and made a large

fortune. In 1792 he retired. He appears to have been a man of rare

benevolence and some literary ability. He devoted himself to remedying

the condition of prisons, more especially those in which persons were

confined for debt: indeed, his efforts in this direction would seem to

have rivaled those of Howard, for in the course of forty years Mr. Neild

visited most of the prisons in Great Britain, and was for many years

treasurer, as well as one of the founders, of the society for the relief

of persons imprisoned for small debts. He described his prison

experiences in a series of papers in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, which

were subsequently republished, and highly praised by the _Edinburgh

Review_. Mr. Neild had three children, but only one, John Camden Neild,

survived him. This gentleman succeeded to his father's very large

property in 1814.

Mr. James Neild had acquired considerable landed estate, and was sheriff

of Buckinghamshire in 1804. His son received every advantage in the way

of education, graduated M.A. at Trinity College, Cambridge, and was

subsequently called to the bar. He proved, however, the very reverse of

his benevolent father. He was a miser born, and hid all his talents in a

napkin, making no use of his wealth beyond allowing it to accumulate.

From the date of the death of his father, who left him L250,000, besides

real estate, he had spent but a small portion of his income, and allowed

himself scarcely the necessaries of life. He usually dressed in a blue

coat with metal buttons. This he did not allow to be brushed, inasmuch

as that process would have worn the nap. He was never known to wear an

overcoat. He gladly accepted invitations from his tenantry, and would

remain on long visits, because he thus saved board. There is a story of

how a benevolent gentleman once proffered assistance, through a chemist

in the Strand, in whose shop he saw what he supposed to be a broken-down

old gentleman, and received for reply, "God bless your soul, sir! that's

Mr. Coutts the banker, who could buy up you and me fifty times over." So

with Mr. Neild: his appearance often made him an object of charity and

commiseration, nor would it appear that he was at all averse to being so

regarded. Just before railway traveling began he had been on a visit to

some of his estates, and was returning to London. The coach having

stopped to allow of the passengers getting refreshment, all entered the

hotel except old Neild. Observing the absence of the pinched,

poverty-stricken-looking old gentleman, some good-natured passenger sent

him out a bumper of brandy and water, which the old niggard eagerly

accepted.

A few days before his death he told one of his executors that he had

made a most singular will, but that he had a right to do what he liked

with his own. When the document was opened it was found that, with the

exception of a few small legacies, he had left all "to Her Most Gracious

Majesty Queen Victoria, begging Her Majesty's most gracious acceptance

of the same, for her sole use and benefit, and that of her heirs."

Probably vanity dictated this bequest. To a poor old housekeeper, who

had served him twenty-six years, he left nothing; to each of his

executors, L100. But the queen made a handsome provision for the former,

and presented L1000 to each of the latter; and she further raised a

memorial to the miser's memory.

The property bequeathed to her amounted to upward of L500,000; so that,

supposing Her Majesty to have spent every penny of her public and duchy

of Lancaster incomes, and to have only laid by this legacy and the

interest on it, she would from this source alone now be worth at least

L1,000,000. Be this as it may, even that portion of the public which

survives her will probably never know the amount of her wealth, for the

wills of kings and queens are not proved; so that there will be no

enlightenment on this head in the pages of the _Illustrated London

News_.

Both Osborne House in the Isle of Wight, and Balmoral, were bought prior

to Mr. Neild's bequest. These palaces are the personal property of Her

Majesty, and very valuable: probably the two may, with their contents,

be valued at L500,000 at the lowest. The building and repairs at these

palaces are paid for by the queen herself, but those of all the palaces

of the Crown are at the expense of the country, and about a million has

been expended on Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle during the present

reign.

The claims made on the queen for charity are exceedingly numerous. They

are all most carefully examined by the keeper of her privy purse, and

help is invariably extended to proper objects. But whilst duly

recognizing such calls upon her, the queen has never been regarded as

open-handed. Her munificence, for example, has not been on the scale of

that of the late queen Adelaide, the widow of William IV. It is to be

remembered that her father suffered all his life from straitened

circumstances, and indeed it was by means of money supplied by friends

that the duchess of Kent was enabled to reach England and give birth to

its future sovereign on British soil. Although the duke died when his

daughter was too young to have heard from him of these pecuniary

troubles, she was no doubt cautioned by her mother to avoid all chance

of incurring them; and a circumstance in itself likely to impress their

inconvenience on her memory was that one of the first acts of her reign

was to pay off, principal and interest, the whole of her father's

remaining liabilities.

A good deal of sympathy is felt in England for the prince of Wales in

reference to his money-matters. His mother's withdrawal from

representative functions throws perforce a great deal of extra expense

upon him, which he is very ill able to bear. He is expected to subscribe

liberally to every conceivable charity, to bestow splendid presents

(here his mother has always been wanting), and in every way to vie with,

if not surpass, the nobility; and all this with L110,000 a year, whilst

the dukes of Devonshire, Cleveland, Buccleuch, Lords Westminster, Bute,

Lonsdale and a hundred more noblemen and gentlemen, have fortunes double

or treble, no lords and grooms in waiting to pay, and can subscribe or

decline to subscribe to the Distressed Muffin-makers' and Cab-men's

Widows' Associations, according to their pleasure, without a murmur on

the part of the public.

About five years ago the press generally took this view of the subject,

and a rumor ran that the government fully intended to ask for an

addition to the prince's income; but nothing was done. We have reason to

believe that the hesitation of the government arose from the

well-grounded apprehension that it would bring on an inquiry as to the

queen's income and what became of it. Opinion ran high among both Whigs

and Tories that if Her Majesty did not please to expend in

representative pomp the revenues granted to her for that specific

purpose, she should appropriate a handsome sum annually to her son. It

may be urged, "Perhaps she does so," and in reply it can only be said

that in such case the secret is singularly well kept, and that those

whose position should enable them to give a pretty shrewd guess at the

state of the case persist in averring the contrary. However, it will no

doubt be all the better for the royal family in the end. The queen is a

sagacious woman. She no doubt fully recognizes the fact that the British

public will each year become more and more impatient of being required

to vote away handsome annuities for a succession of princelings, whilst

at the same time it may look with toleration, if not affection, upon a

number of gentlemen and ladies who ask for nothing more than the cheap

privilege of writing "Royal Highness" before their names. If, then,

Queen Victoria be by her retirement and frugality accumulating a fortune

which will make the royal family almost independent of a parliamentary

grant in excess of the income which the Crown revenues represent, she is

no doubt acting with that deep good sense and prudence which are a part

of her character. And here we may just explain that the Crown revenues

are derived from the property which has always been the appanage of the

English sovereign from the Norman Conquest. For a long time past the

custom has been to give this up to the country, with the understanding

that it cannot be alienated, and to accept, in lieu thereof, a

parliamentary grant of income. This Crown property is of immense value.

It includes a large strip of the best part of London. All the clubs in

Pall Mall, for instance, the Carlton, United Service, Travelers',

Reform; Marlborough House, The Guards Club, Stafford House, Carlton

House Terrace, Carlton Gardens--which pay the highest rents in

London--stand on Crown land; as do Montague House, the duke of

Buccleuch's, Dover House, etc. But this property suffers very much from

the fact of its being inalienable. It can only be leased. The whole of

the New Forest is Crown land, and it is estimated that if sold it would

fetch millions, whereas it is now nearly valueless. If the royal family

could use their Crown lands, just as those noblemen who have received

grants from sovereigns use theirs, it would be the wealthiest in

England, and would have no need to come to Parliament for funds.

Half of the people who howl about the expense of royalty know nothing

about these Crown lands, which really belong to royalty at least as much

as the property of those holding estates originally granted by kings

belongs to such proprietors, and if exception were taken to such tenures

scarcely any title in England would be safe.

Taking her, then, for all in all, Queen Victoria is not only the best,

but probably the cheapest, sovereign England ever had; and her people,

although inclined, as is their wont, to grumble that she doesn't spend a

little more money, feel that she has so few faults that they can well

afford to overlook this. Deeply loved by them, she is yet more

respected.

REGINALD WYNFORD.

FOOTNOTES:

[B] How the revenues of the duchy of Cornwall have grown under the

admirable management instituted by the late prince-consort, who

discovered that peculation and negligence were combining to dissipate

his eldest son's splendid heritage, the following will show. In 1824 the

gross revenue had fallen to L22,000: in 1872 it was nearly L70,000! Loud

were the howls of the peculators against "that beastly German" when His

Royal Highness took it in hand. But "he knew he was right," and had his

reward. When the prince of Wales came of age, instead of having from

L13,000 to L14,000, net, a year from his duchy, as the last prince of

Wales had, there was a revenue of L50,000 a year clear, and cash enough

to buy Sandringham. The income is now increasing at the rate of about

L3000 a year, on the average. By net revenue is meant the clear sum

which goes into the prince's pocket. Of course his father's prudence and

energy saved the country a large sum, which it would otherwise have been

compelled to vote for maintaining the prince's establishment.

George IV. had on his marriage, when prince of Wales, L125,000 a year,

besides his duchy revenues, L28,000 for jewelry and plate, and L26,000

for furnishing Carlton House. The present prince of Wales has nothing

from the country but L40,000 a year, and his wife has L10,000 a year. No

application has ever been made for money to pay his debts or to assist

him in any way.

CRICKET IN AMERICA

Cricket is the "national game" of England, where the sport has a

venerable antiquity. Occasional references to the game are found in old

books, which would place its origin some centuries back. The most

ancient mention of the game is found in the _Constitution Book of

Guildford_, by which it appears that in some legal proceedings in 1598 a

witness, then aged fifty-nine, gave evidence that "when he was a scholar

in the free schoole at Guldeford he and several of his fellowes did

runne and plaie there at _crickett_ and other plaies." The author of

_Echoes from Old Cricket Fields_ cites the biography of Bishop Ken to

show that he played cricket at Winchester College in 1650, one of his

scores, cut on the chapel-cloister wall, being still extant; and the

same writer reproduces as a frontispiece to his "opusculum" an old

engraving bearing date 1743, in which the wicket appears as a skeleton

hurdle about two feet wide by one foot high, while the bat is the Saxon

_crec_ or crooked stick, with which the game was originally played, and

from which the name cricket was doubtless derived.

In England the game is universally played: all classes take equal

interest in it, and it is a curious fact that on the cricket-ground the

lord and the laborer meet on equal terms, the zest of the game

outweighing the prejudice of caste. The government encourages it as a

physical discipline for the troops, and provides all barracks with

cricket-grounds. Every regiment has its club, and, what is odd, the navy

furnishes many crack players. It is the favorite _par excellence_ at all

schools, colleges and universities; every county, every town and every

village has its local club; while the I Zingari and its host of rivals

serve to focus the ubiquitous talent of All England. The public enjoy

it, merely as spectators, to such a degree that a grand match-day at

Lord's is only second in point of enthusiasm to the Derby Day. Special

trains carry thousands, and the field presents a gay picture framed in a

quadrangle of equipages. It is sometimes difficult, even by charging

large admission-fees, to keep the number of spectators within convenient

limits. Notwithstanding the motley assemblage which a match always

attracts, so unobjectionable are the associations of the cricket-field

that clergymen do not feel it unbecoming to participate in the

diversion, either as players, umpires or spectators.

In this country, while cricket is known in a few localities, it has

never been generally adopted. In New York a few English residents have

for years formed the nucleus of a somewhat numerous fraternity, and the

announcement that an _American Cricketer's Manual_ will be published in

that city during the present season indicates that home interest in the

sport is on the increase. But the chief thriving-place of native

American cricket is conceded to be Philadelphia, and it will be

interesting, perhaps, to take a retrospect of the progress of the game

in this city.

Tradition carries us back as far as the year 1831 or 1832, when cricket

was first played on the ground of George Ticknor, Esq., west of the old

bridge below Fairmount, by a few Englishmen, who shortly afterward

organized themselves under the name of the Union Club. Some of our older

native cricketers remember taking their first lessons from the three

brothers, George, Prior and John Ticknor, who, with Joseph Nicholls,

William Richardson, John M. Fisher, John Herrod, George Parker, Samuel

Dingworth, Jonathan Ainsworth, John Kenworthy and George Daffin, met on

Saturday afternoons and holidays. In subsequent years a few enthusiastic

spirits practiced with home-made bats on the Camden common, and thence

we trace the feeble but growing interest in the game, until in 1854 the

Philadelphia Cricket Club was organized, with J. Dickinson Sergeant

(who still fills the office) as president, William Rotch Wister as

secretary, and Hartman Kuhn (third), James B. England, Morton P. Henry,

Thomas Hall, Thomas Facon, Dr. Samuel Lewis, William M. Bradshaw, Henry

M. Barlow, R. Darrell Stewart, S. Weir Mitchell and (last, but not

least) Tom Senior among its founders. Then came the Germantown Club, of

native American boys, organized in 1855, whose highest ambition, for

many years, was to play the Philadelphia Club, "barring Tom Senior,"

then the only fast round-arm bowler in the country. Next came the

Olympian, the Delphian, the Keystone Cricket Clubs, and a host of lesser

lights, whose head-quarters were at West Philadelphia; and soon after

the now famous Young America Cricket Club was formed by the lamented

Walter S. Newhall, partly as a training-club for the Germantown. Well

did it fulfill its purpose until the breaking out of the war, when the

members of the Germantown Club changed the bat for the sabre almost in a

body, and the club went out of existence.

With calmer times the old love of cricket came back, and through the

energy of Mr. Charles E. Cadwalader the Germantown Club was reorganized,

and the _esprit de corps_ was such that before the club had taken the

field the roll showed more than twice its former numbers. Through the

spirit of its patrons, and especially by the kindness of H. Pratt

McKean, Esq. (part of whose country-seat was tendered for a

cricket-ground), the new life of the Germantown Cricket Club was

successfully inaugurated on the 17th of October, 1866, by a victory in

its opening match with the St. George Club of New York. That was a

red-letter day, when Major-General Meade, on behalf of the ladies of

Germantown, and amid the huzzas of thousands of its friends, presented

to the club a handsome set of colors, and, hoisting them to the breeze,

alluded in his own graceful style to the memories of the past, and the

achievements which he predicted the future would witness on this

magnificent cricket-field.

But what is cricket? Descriptions of lively things are apt to be dull,

and it is indeed no easy task to render a detailed description of

cricket intelligible, much less entertaining, to the uninitiated. The

veriest enthusiast never thought the forty-seven "laws of cricket" light

reading, and, resembling as they do certain other statutes whose only

apparent design is to perplex the inquiring layman, they would, if cited

here, be "caviare to the general."

But come with us, in imagination, on a bright May-day to a great

match--say on the Germantown cricket-ground. You will find a glorious

stretch of velvet turf, seven acres of living carpet, level and green as

a huge billard-table, skirted on the one hand by a rolling landscape,

and hedged on the other by a row of primeval oaks. Flags flaunt from the

flag-staffs, and the play-ground is guarded by guidons. The pavilion is

appropriated to the players, and perchance the band: the grand stand is

already filling with spectators. Old men and children, young men and

maidens, are there--the latter "fair to see," and each predicting

victory for her favorite club. For it must be known that on the

Germantown ground party spirit always runs high among the belles, many

of whom are good theoretical cricketers, and a few of whom always come

prepared with blanks on which to keep the neatest of private scores.

During the delay which seems inseparable from the commencement of a

cricket-match some of the players, ready costumed in cricket apparel,

"take care," if they do not "beware," of the aforesaid maidens; others,

impatient for the call of "time," like jockeys cantering before the

race, disport themselves over the field, practicing bowling, batting,

and, in ball-players' parlance, "catching flies." The whole picture is

one of beauty and animation, and that spirit must indeed be dull which

does not yield to the exhilarating influences of such a scene.

Cricket is usually played by eleven players on each side, the tactics of

each party being directed by a captain. Two umpires are appointed, whose

decrees, if sometimes inscrutable, are always irreversible, and whose

first duty it is to "pitch the wickets." Having selected the ground,

they proceed to measure accurately a distance of twenty-two yards, and

to erect a wicket at either extremity. Each "wicket" consists of three

wooden "stumps," twenty-eight inches long, sharpened at the bottom,

whereby they may be stuck perpendicularly in the ground, and grooved at

the top, in order to receive two short sticks or "bails," which rest

lightly across their tops. When pitched, the wickets face each other,

and each presents a parallelogram twenty-seven inches high by eight

inches broad, erect and firm-looking, while in fact the lightest touch

of the ball or any other object would knock off the bails and reduce it

to its elements. Each of these wickets is to be the _locus in quo_ not

only of a party rivalry, but also of an exciting individual contest

between the bowler and the batsman, the former attacking the fortress

with scientific pertinacity, and the "life" of the latter depending on

its successful defence. The "popping-crease" and the "bowling-crease"

having been white-washed on the turf--the one marking the batsman's

safety-ground, and the other the bowler's limits--all is now ready for

play. The captains toss a copper for choice of innings, and the winner

may elect to send his men to the bat. He selects _two_ representatives

of his side, who, having accoutred themselves with hand-protecting

gloves and with leg-guards, take position, bat in hand, in front of each

wicket. All the eleven players on the _out_ side are now marshaled by

their captain in their proper positions as fielders, one being deputed

to open the bowling. For a few moments the new match ball--than which,

in a cricketer's estimation,

A carbuncle entire, as big as thou art,

Were not a richer jewel--

is passed round among the fielders, just to get their hands in; which

ball, we may mention, is nine inches in circumference, weighs five and a

half ounces, is in color not unlike a carbuncle, and nearly as hard. The

umpires take their respective position, and at the word "Play!" the

whole party, like a pack of pointers, strike attitudes of attention,

more or less graceful, and the game begins.

The _bowler_, stepping briskly up to his crease, delivers the ball, and,

whether it be a "fast round-arm" or a "slow under-hand," his endeavor is

so to bowl it that the ball shall elude the batsman's defence and strike

the wicket. The _batsman_ endeavors, first and foremost, to protect his

wicket, and, secondly, if possible, to hit the ball away, so that he may

make a run or runs. This is accomplished when he and his partner at the

other wicket succeed in changing places before the ball is returned to

the wicket by the fielders.

The several ways in which a batsman may be put out are these: 1. "Bowled

out," if the bowler succeeds in bowling a ball which evades the

batsman's defence and strikes the wicket. 2. "Hit wicket," if the

batsman, in playing at the ball, hits his wicket accidentally with his

bat or person. 3. "Stumped out," if the batsman, in playing at a ball,

steps out of his ground, but misses the ball, which is caught by the

wicket-keeper, who with it puts down the wicket before the batsman

returns his bat or his body within the popping-crease. 4. "Caught out,"

if any fielder catches the ball direct from the striker's bat or hand

before it touches the ground. 5. "Run out," if the batsman, in

attempting to make a run, fails to reach his safety-ground before the

wicket to which he is running is put down with the ball. 6. "Leg before

wicket," if the batsman stops with his leg or other part of his body a

bowled ball, whose course in the opinion of the umpire was in a line

with the wickets, and which if not so stopped would have taken the

wicket.

At every ball bowled, therefore, the batsman must guard against all

these dangers: he must, without leaving his ground, and avoiding "leg

before wicket," play the ball so that it will not strike the wicket and

cannot be caught. Having hit it away, he can make a run or runs only if

he and his partner can reach their opposite wickets before the ball is

returned by the fielders and a wicket put down. All the fielders are in

active league against the batsman, whose single-handed resistance will

be of little avail unless he exceeds mere defence and adds his quota of

runs to the score of his side. To excel in this requires, in addition to

a scientific knowledge of the game, cool presence of mind, a quick eye,

a supple wrist, a strong arm, a swift foot and a healthy pair of lungs.

Thus the nobler attributes of the man, mental and physical, are brought

into play. As the Master in _Tom Brown's School-days_ remarks: "The

discipline and reliance on one another which cricket teaches are so

valuable it ought to be an unselfish game. It merges the individual in

the eleven: he does not play that he may win, but that his side may."

Four balls, sometimes six, are said to constitute an "over," and at the

completion of each over the bowler is relieved by an alternate, who

bowls from the opposite wicket, the fielders meantime crossing over or

changing places, so as to preserve their relative positions toward the

active batsman for the time being. Any over during which no runs are

earned from the bat is said to be a "maiden" over, and is scored to the

credit of the bowler as an evidence of good bowling. In addition to the

runs earned on hits there are certain "extras," which, though scored as

runs in favor of the _in_ side, are not strictly runs, but are imposed

rather as penalties for bad play by the outs than as the result of good

play by the ins. Thus, should the bowler bowl a ball which, in the

opinion of the umpire, is outside the batsman's reach, it is called a

"wide," and counts one (without running) to the batsman's side; should

the bowler in delivering a ball step beyond the bowling-crease, or if he

jerks it or throws it, it is a "no ball," and counts one (without

running) to the batsman's side; but if the batsman hits a no ball he

cannot be put out otherwise than by being "run out." If he makes one or

more runs on such a hit, the no ball is condoned, and the runs so made

are credited as hits to him and his side. The umpire must take especial

care to call "no ball" instantly upon delivery--"wide ball" as soon as

it shall have passed the batsman, and not, as a confused umpire once

called, "No ball--wide--out." Again, should a ball which the batsman has

not touched pass the fielders behind the wicket, the batsmen may make a

run or runs, which count to their side as "byes:" should the ball,

however, missing his bat, glance from the batsman's leg or other part of

his body, and then pass the fielders, the batsmen may make a run or

runs, which count to their side as "leg-byes."

The game thus proceeds until each batsman of the _in_ side is in turn

put out, except the eleventh or last, who, having no partner to assume

the other wicket, "carries out his bat," and the innings for the side is

closed. The other side now has its innings, and, _mutatis mutandis_, the

game proceeds as before. Usually two innings on each side are played,

unless one side makes more runs in one innings than the other makes in

both, or unless it is agreed in advance to play a "one-innings match."

So much for the matter-of-fact details of the game of cricket. To enter

into the more interesting but less tangible combination of science,

chance and skill to which cricket owes not a little of its fascination,

would extend this article far beyond its assigned limits. The science of

"length-balls" and "twisting lobs," the skill in "forward play" or "back

play," the chances of "shooters" and "bailers," are balanced in a happy

proportion, and to a cricketer form a tempting theme. But we must

content ourselves by referring those disposed to pursue the subject to

such books as _The Cricket Field_, _The Theory and Practice of Cricket_,

_Felix on the Bat_, _Cricket Songs and Poems_, and to other similar English

publications on the game, which are so numerous that if collected they

would make quite a cricket library.

Nor can we here refer to the incidental pleasures which a cricket-match

affords independently of participation in the game itself. These are

depicted, from a lady's point of view, by Miss Mitford in _Our

Village_; where a pretty bit of romance is interwoven with a description

of a country cricket-match, the very recollection of which draws from

the graceful authoress this admission: "Though tolerably eager and

enthusiastic at all times, I never remember being in a more delicious

state of excitation than on the occasion of that cricket-match. Who

would think that a little bit of leather and two pieces of wood had such

a delightful and delighting power?"

And this sentiment is echoed by scores of the fair spectators at our

home matches. When, for example, during the last international match at

Germantown, one of the English Gentlemen Eleven said to a lady, "We were

told we should have a fine game at Philadelphia, but, really, I had no

idea we should be honored by the presence of so many ladies," her reply

expressed the sentiments of a numerous class: "Oh, I used to come to a

match occasionally _pour passer le temps_. At first the cricket seemed

to me more like a solemn ceremonial than real fun, but now that I

understand the points I like the game for its own sake; and as for a

match like this, I think it is perfectly lovely!" Another of the English

Eleven--a handsome but modest youth--on being escorted to the grand

stand and introduced to a party of ladies, became so abashed by

unexpectedly finding himself in the midst of such a galaxy of beauties

(and, as a matter of course, the conscious cynosure of all eyes) that,

blushing to suffusion, and forgetting to lift his hat, he could only

manage to stammer out, "Aw, aw--I beg pardon; but--aw--aw--I fancy

there's another wicket down, and I must put on my guards, you know;"

whereupon he beat a hasty retreat.[C]

A game which has for centuries in England afforded healthful recreation

to all classes must needs possess some value beyond that of mere

physical exercise. Not that we would undervalue the latter advantage.

Improvement in health usually keeps pace with improvement in cricket.

Mr. Grace, the "champion cricketer of the world," is hardly less a

champion of muscular physique: he sought in vain for a companion to walk

to town, late at night, from the country-seat of the late Mr. Joshua

Francis Fisher, where the cricketers, after a long day's play, had been

entertained at dinner--a distance of more than ten miles. We heartily

concur in the favorite advice of a physician, renowned alike for his

social wit and professional wisdom, who prescribed "a rush of blood to

the boots" to all professional patients and head-workers--men who,

happening to possess brains, are prone to forget that they have bodies.

In no way can this inverse apoplexy be more healthfully or pleasantly

induced than by a jolly game of cricket. That the sport is adapted to

American tastes and needs we are convinced, and that it may find a

_habitat_ throughout the length and breadth of our land is an end toward

which we launch this humble plea in its interest.

Now we hardly expect all the readers of _Lippincott's Magazine_

forthwith to become cricketers, but we venture to suggest, by way of

moral, that some of them may take a hint from Mr. Winkle, who, when

asked by Mr. Wardle, "Are you a cricketer?" modestly replied, "No, I

don't play, _but I subscribe to the club here_."

ALBERT A. OUTERBRIDGE.

FOOTNOTES:

[C] The following extract from the diary of Mr. Fitzgerald, captain of

the English Gentlemen Eleven of 1872, has been published in England, and

will be read with interest:

"_Sept 21, 1872._ Philadelphia, seventh match. Lost the toss. Ground

fair to the eye, and immense attendance. The bowling and fielding on

both sides quite a treat to the spectators. Total for the English Twelve

(first innings), 105. Not considered enough, but a good score against

such bowling and fielding--quite first-class.

"_Sept. 24._ Second innings. With but 33 to get, the Twelve looked sure

of victory, but a harder fight was never yet seen. Bowling and fielding

splendid; excitement increasing. Fall of Hadow--ringing cheers. Advent

of Appleby--fracture of Francis. Seven down for 29. Frantic state of

Young America. The English captain still cheerful, but puffing rather

quickly at his pipe. Six 'maidens' at each end. The spell broken by

splendid hit of 'the tormentor.'

"This was the best and most closely-contested match of the campaign, and

the scene presented at the finish would lose nothing in excitement and

interest by comparison with 'Lord's' on a grand match-day."

A book of _Transatlantic Cricket Notes_ has been announced in England as

in preparation by Mr. Fitzgerald.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

IRISH AGENTS.

The Irish papers mentioned a few months ago the death of Mr. Stuart

Trench, whose _Realities of Irish Life_ excited so much attention three

years ago. Mr. Trench was the most eminent of a class of men peculiar to

Ireland, and growing out of the unfortunate condition of that country.

He was an agent, which means overlooker and manager of the estates of

absentee landlords.

In England, except on very extensive properties, landlords do not employ

an agent of this sort, and even where they do his duties are of a very

different character. There the landlords, being nearly always in the

country, if not on their estates, look after their business themselves,

and have merely an overlooker, who does not occupy the position of a

gentleman, to superintend and report to them what may be needful, whilst

the rents are collected by a solicitor. This is the case in Scotland

also.

But in Ireland this would never do. Even where the landlord is resident

he almost always has an agent, to save himself the great trouble which

would otherwise be entailed on him, while to the non-resident an agent

is imperatively necessary.

Most Irish property is still subdivided into very small farms, and this

is in itself a source of constant trouble. The tenants get into arrear

or become hopelessly insolvent: they very often refuse to quit their

holdings nevertheless, and have to be coaxed, bought or turned out, as

the case may be; which several processes have to be accomplished by the

agent. Then he is compelled to see in many cases that they don't exhaust

the land by a repetition of the same crops, and in fact to superintend,

either by himself or his sub-agents, in a hundred ways which would never

be necessary in England, where the farms are large and their holders of

a different class.

He also represents the landlord socially, and is frequently the great

man of the district, duly invested with magisterial and other county

offices. The office of agent has therefore in Ireland had a high social

standing, and agencies are eagerly sought by the younger sons of

gentlemen, and even noblemen.

There are three or four estates whose agencies are regarded as special

prizes, and of these Mr. Trench held one, the marquis of Lansdowne's.

That nobleman--who is descended from the ancient Fitzmaurices, earls of

Kerry, and the celebrated _savant_ Mr. William Petty, who first surveyed

Ireland, and took the opportunity of helping himself pretty freely to

some very nice "tit-bits" as "refreshers" by the way--has a very

extensive property in Queens county and the wild maritime county of

Kerry, in which his ancestors were in bygone days a sort of kings.

Probably Lord Lansdowne's agency was worth to Mr. Trench quite $5000 a

year, equal in Kerry, where living is still very cheap, to $15,000 in

New York City; and he had two or three other agencies in addition.

On the smaller properties the agent is usually paid five per cent., on

the large by fixed salary. The best agency of all is that of Lord

Pembroke, who owns the most valuable portion of Dublin and a great deal

of adjoining land.

When the duties and risks of an agent are considered, he can by no means

be regarded as highly paid. Very many agents have lost their lives, and

others are exposed to continual danger. They are sometimes harsh,

tyrannical and overbearing, but far less so now, when railroad, press

and telegraph let light in upon all parts of the country, than formerly,

when they were left to themselves, and as long as the rents were duly

paid no heed was taken of their operations.

To do an agent's work well great firmness and knowledge of the Irish

character is required, and in some districts in the West a knowledge of

the Irish language is very desirable and absolutely requisite.

When an agency becomes vacant a proprietor receives innumerable

applications for the vacant office, often from persons ludicrously

ignorant of its duties. Thus, some time ago a seeker of such an office

accompanied his application--he was a retired army officer--by a sketch

of a sort of watch-tower whence he proposed to watch the tenantry, and

fire upon them as occasion required! With few exceptions the agents on

large estates are gentlemen bred to the business, whose fathers have

been agents, and have thus early become initiated into the mysteries of

the office.

Many Irish landlords are, and still more used to be, very much in the

hands of their agents, of whom they have borrowed money, and further

depend on for support in elections. Instances are by no means wanting of

men now holding high rank as country gentlemen whose fathers and

grandfathers grew rich out of estates confided to them to manage by

negligent, reckless landlords, who gradually fell completely into the

meshes of their managers.

RANDOM BIOGRAPHIES.

JULIUS CAESAR. An ancient Roman of celebrity. He advertised to the effect

that he had rather be first at Rome than second in a small village. He

was a man of great muscular strength. Upon one occasion he threw an

entire army across the Rubicon. A general named Pompey met him in what

was called the "tented field," but Pompey couldn't hold a Roman candle

to Julius. We are assured upon the authority of Patrick Henry that

"Caesar had his Brutus." The unbiased reader of history, however, will

conclude that, on the contrary, Brutus rather _had_ Caesar. This Brutus

never struck me as an unpleasant man to meet, but he did Caesar. After

addressing a few oral remarks to Brutus in the Latin language, Caesar

expired. His subsequent career ceases to be interesting.

JOHN PAUL JONES. An American naval commander who sailed the seas during

the Revolution, with indistinct notions about gold lace or what he

should fly at the main. He was fond of fighting. He would frequently

break off in the middle of a dinner to go on deck and whip a British

frigate. Perhaps he didn't care much about his meals. If so, he must

have been a good _boarder_.

LUCREZIA BORGIA. Daughter of old Mr. Borgia, a wealthy Italian

gentleman. Lucrezia was one of the first ladies of her time. Beautiful

beyond description, of brilliant and fascinating manners, she created an

unmistakable sensation. It was a burning sensation. Society doted upon

her. Afterward it anti-doted.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN. A philosopher and statesman. When a boy he associated

himself with the development of the tallow-chandlery interest, and

invented the Boston dip. He was lightning on some things, also a

printer. He won distinction as the original _Poor Richard_, though he

could not have been by any means so poor a Richard as McKean Buchanan

used to be. Although born in Boston and living in Philadelphia, he yet

managed to surmount both obstacles, and to achieve considerable note in

his day. They show you the note in Independence Hall.

MARK TWAIN. A humorous writer of the nineteenth century. As yet, I have

not had the honor of his acquaintance, but when I do meet him I shall

say something jocose. I know I shall. I have it. My plan will be to

inveigle him into going over a ferry to "see a man." As we pass up the

slip on the other side, I shall draw out my flask, impromptu-like, with

the invitation, "Mark, my dear fellow, won't you take something?" He

will decline, of course, or else he isn't the humorist I take him for. I

shall then consider it my duty to urge him. Fixing my eye steadily upon

him, so he can understand that I am terribly in earnest, I shall proceed

to apostrophize that genial victim as follows:

"Take, I give it willingly,

For invisibly to thee,

Spirits, Twain, have crossed with me."

Then I presume we shall go and "see a man."

CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS. The man who discovered America two points off the

port-bow. One day, in his garden, he observed an apple falling from its

tree, whereupon a conviction flashed suddenly through his mind that the

earth was round. By breaking the bottom of an egg and making it stand on

end at the dinner-table, he demonstrated that he could sail due west and

in course of time arrive at another hemisphere. He started a line of

emigrant packets from Palos, Spain, and landed at Philadelphia, where he

walked up Market street with a loaf of bread under each arm. The

simple-hearted natives took him out to see their new Park. On his second

voyage Columbus was barbarously murdered at the Sandwich Islands, or

rather he would have been but for the intervention of Pocahontas, a

lovely maiden romantically fond of distressed travelers. After this

little incident he went West, where his intrepidity and masterly

financial talent displayed itself in the success with which he acquired

land and tobacco without paying for them. As the savages had no railroad

of which they could make him president, they ostracized him--sent him to

the island of St. Helena. But the spirit of discovery refused to be

quenched, and the next year we find him landing at Plymouth Rock in a

blinding snow-storm. It was here that he shot an apple from his son's

head. To this universal genius are we indebted also for the exploration

of the sources of the Nile, and for an unintelligible but

correspondingly valuable scientific report of a visit to the valley of

the Yellowstone. He took no side in our late unhappy war; but during the

Revolution he penetrated with a handful of the _garde mobile_ into the

mountain-fastnesses of Minnesota, where he won that splendid series of

victories which, beginning with Guilford Court-house, terminated in the

glorious storming of Chapultepec. Ferdinand and Isabella rewarded him

with chains. Genoa, his native city, gave him a statue, and Boston has

named in his honor one of her proudest avenues. One day he rushed naked

from the bath, exclaiming, "Eureka!" and the presumption is that he was

right. He afterward explained himself by saying that he cared not who

made the laws of a people, so long as he furnished their ballots.

Columbus was cruelly put to death by order of Richard III. of England,

and as he walked to the scaffold he exclaimed to the throng that stood

around him, "The world moves." The drums struck up to drown his words.

Smiling at this little by-play, he adjusted his crimson mantle about him

and laid his head upon the block. He then drank off the cup of hemlock

with philosophic composure. This great man's life (which, by the way,

was not insured) teaches the beautiful moral lesson that an excess of

virtue is apt to be followed by a redundancy of happiness, and that he

who would secure the felicity of to-day must disdain alike the

evanescent shadows of yesterday and the intangible adumbrations of the

morrow.

S. Y.

THE CRIES OF THE MARCHANDS.

The other morning I was lying quietly in bed, waiting for the bonne to

fetch my cafe noir, when a most extraordinary sound caught my ear. The

cries of Paris marchands early in the morning are curious enough

usually, but this one exceeded in quaintness all that I had heard since

my arrival. Between the words "Chante, chante, Adrienne!" a horrible

braying broke forth, resounding through our quiet faubourg in a manner

which brought many a _bonnet de nuit_ to the windows. I got up to see

what was the matter.

"Chante, chante, Adrienne!" re-echoed again over the smooth asphalte.

By this time a crowd of gamins--the gamins are always up, no matter how

early--had gathered in the middle of the street around the object of the

disturbance. It was a marchand of vegetables in a greasy blouse, leading

an ass. There was a huge pannier on the ass's back full of kitchen

vegetables, which the marchand was crying and praising to our sleepy

faubourg. With an economy worthy of Silhouette, the scamp had taught

Adrienne--for that was the beast's name--to bray every time he said

"Pommes de terre, de terre--terre!" As often as he said this, or

"Chante, Adrienne, chante!" Adrienne would switch her tail and _chante_

lugubriously, setting the whole neighborhood in commotion. So adroitly

had he trained the creature--with her thigh-bones sticking in peaks

through her hide, and a visage of preternatural solemnity--that when her

master but lifted his finger Adrienne would go through her part with

admirable gravity, thus helping her lord to get his daily bread. I

laughed till the bonne came with my coffee, and was glad to see the

pannier gradually emptying as the grotesque procession defiled through

our street, with a rear-guard of exhilarated urchins poking at poor meek

Adrienne in a manner the most _mechant_. And so on they went till the

peasant and his invaluable assistant were quite out of hearing.

There is no end to the originality of the Parisians. If you but go to a

kiosque to get a _Figaro_, the white-capped marchande has something

clever to say. The rain, the air, the clouds, the sun are full of

_esprit_ for her--are to her banques de France, upon which she has an

unlimited credit--_credit fonder_, if you will, _credit mobilier_, or

what not. The _conducteur_ who stands behind his omnibus and obligingly

helps you in, says _Merci_! with an accent so exquisite that it is like

wit or poetry or music, utterly throwing you into despair after your

months and months of travail and dozens and dozens of louis lavished on

incompetent professors.

"Pronounce that for me, please," said I one day to a gentleman who had

just spoken some word whose secret of pronunciation I had been trying to

filch for weeks--some delicate little jewel of a word, faint as a

perfume, expressive as only a tiny Parisian word can be--and he did so

in the politest manner in the world, adding some little witticism which

I do not recall. Whereupon I went home and instantly dismissed my

"professor."

But to return to our theme, the cries of the marchands. It would take a

pen like Balzac's, as curiously versatile, as observant, as full of

individual ink, to catch all the shades of these odd utterances. You may

recollect as you lay in your sweet English bed in London, just as the

fog was lifting over the great city early in the morning, the distinct

individuality of the voices which, although you did not see their

owners, told each its story of sunrise thrift and industry as it cried

to you the early peas or the wood or the melons of the season. You may

remember, too, how perplexing, how fantastic, many of those cries were,

making it impossible for you to understand what they meant, or why a

wood-huckster, for example, should give vent to such lachrymose

sentimentality in vending his fagots. But quite different is the Paris

marchand. With a physiognomy of voice--if the expression be

pardoned--quite as marked as the cockney's, what he says is yet

perfectly clear, often shrewd, gay, cynical, sometimes even spiced with

jocularity, as if it were pure fun to get a living, and the world were

all a holiday.

Some years ago a marchand was in the habit of visiting our neighborhood

whose specialty it was to vend _baguettes_, or small rods for beating

carpets, tapestry and padded furniture. His cry was--"Voila des

baguettes! Battez vos meubles, battez vos tapis, battez vos _femmes_

pour UN sou!"

It is said that as this gay chiffonnier went one morning by the

fish-markets uttering this jocose cry, a squad of those formidable

_poissardes_, the fishwomen of Paris, got after him, and administered a

sound thrashing with his own baguettes. Such is the vengeance of the

French-woman!

But there is a curious pathos in many of these cries--queer searching

tones which go to the heart and set one thinking; tones that come again

in times of revolution, and gather into the terrible roar of the

Commune. I sometimes wonder if they ever sell anything, those strange

sad voices of the early morning struggling up from the street. They are

the voices of Humanity on its mighty errand of bread and meat. Some

dozen or so traverse our quarter through the day--some of feeble old

women, full of sharp complaint; some of strong, quick-stepping men; some

of little children with faint modest voices, as if unused to the cruel

work of getting a living. It is these poor people who walk from

Montmartre to Passy in the morning, and in the evening fish for drowned

dogs or pick up corks along the canal of the Porte St. Martin. For a dog

it is said they get a franc or two, and corks go at a few sous a

hundred.

Such is an inkling of the life-histories wafted through our summer

windows by the voices of the street. Well, the sun is brilliant, the

Champs are crowded with the world, the jewelers of the Palais Royal are

driving a thriving trade, the great boulevards are margined by long

lines of absinthe drinkers. Who cares? Only it is a little disagreeable

in the early morning to have one's sleep broken by the pathos of life.

Let us sleep well on our wine, and dine to-morrow at the Grand Hotel. We

shall forget the misery of these patient voices which visit us with

their prayer for subsistence every day.

G. F.

THE ANGEL HUSSAR.

I think some of the best talks I have had in my life have been with

chance companions on whom I have happened in the course of a roving

life--sometimes in a restaurant, sometimes in the railroad-car or

steamboat, and not unfrequently in the smoking-room of a hotel.

If you have ever been in Dublin, you know Dawson street, and in Dawson

street the Hibernian Hotel. I am not prepared to endorse all the

arrangements of that hostelry, nor indeed of any other in that part of

the United Kingdom called Ireland: I have suffered too much in them.

Still, I will say that the Hibernian is to be praised for a really

comfortable and handsome smoking-room, containing easy-chairs deservedly

so called, and a capital collection of standard novels. One raw

evening in the spring of 1871 I sauntered in, and found some

gentlemanlike-looking fellows there, who proved pleasant company, and

presently a remarkably _distingue_-looking young man, with an

unmistakably military cut, came in and sat down near me. We fell to

talking. He was quartered at the Curragh, and was up in Dublin _en

route_ for the Newmarket spring meeting. He told me that he made some

L700 a year by the turf. "I've a cousin, you see, who is a great

sporting man, and thus I'm 'in with a stable,' and get put up to tips,"

he said. "But for this the turf would be a very poor thing to dabble

in." And this led to a talk about officers' lives and their

money-affairs. "Oh," he said, "you've no notion of the number who go to

utter grief. Why now, I'll tell you what happened to me last season in

London. I was asked to go down and dine with some fellows at Richmond;

and being awfully late, I rushed out of the club and hailed the first

hansom I could see with a likely horse in Pall Mall. I scarcely looked

at the man, but said, 'Now I want to get down to the Star and Garter by

eight: go a good pace and I'll pay you for it.' Well, he had a stunning

good horse, and we rattled away at a fine rate; and when I got out I was

putting the money into his hand, when he said, 'Don't you know me,

B----?' I looked up in amazement, and in another moment recognized a man

whom I had known in India as the greatest swell in the ---- Hussars, the

smartest cavalry corps in the service, and who, on account of his

splendid face and figure, went by the sobriquet of 'the Angel Hussar.'

"Well, it gave me quite a shock. 'Good Heavens, H----!' I said, 'what in

the world does this mean?' 'Mean, old fellow? It means that I'd not a

farthing in the world, and didn't want to starve. It's all my own cursed

folly. I've made my bed, and must lie on it.' I pressed a couple of

sovereigns into his hand, and made him promise to call on me next day.

He came and gave me the details of his descent, the old story of

course--wine and its alliterative concomitant, conjoined with utter

recklessness." "Well, and could you help him?" "I'm glad to say I could.

I got him the place of stud-groom to a nobleman in the south of

Ireland: he's turned over a new leaf, is perfectly steady, and doing as

well as possible."

* * * * *

NOTES.

There is an old story that Augustus, being once asked by a veteran

soldier for his aid in a lawsuit, told the petitioner to go to a certain

advocate. "Ah," replied the soldier, "it was not by proxy that I served

you at Actium!" So struck, continues the tradition, was Augustus with

this response, that he personally took charge of the soldier's cause,

and gained it for him. Possibly it may be on the theory that his

subjects "do not serve him by proxy" when he needs their services that

the Austrian kaiser even to this day holds personal audiences with his

people regarding their private desires or grievances. Evidently

traditional, this custom is so singular as to merit a more general

notice than it habitually receives: indeed, its existence might be

doubted by the foreign reader, did not a Hungarian journal, _Der Osten_,

furnish a detailed description of it. The only prerequisite to an

audience would seem to be the lodging of the subject's name and rank

with one of the emperor's secretaries, who thereupon appoints the day

and hour for his appearance at the palace. If the emperor has been long

absent from Vienna, his next audience-day is always a trying one, as the

waiting-room is then crowded with hundreds of both sexes, and all ranks

and ages. They are in ordinary dress, too, so that the imperial

ante-chamber presents a motley and picturesque scene--the gold-broidered

coat of the minister of state and the brilliant uniform of the army

mingling with the citizen's plain frock, with the Tyrolean or Styrian

hunter's jacket, with the _bunda_ of the Hungarian, with the long, fur

lined linen overcoat of the Polish peasant; while the rustling silks of

the elegant city lady are side by side with the plain woolen skirt of

the farmer's wife. Each of these in regular turn, as written on the list

from which he calls them, a staff-officer ushers into the emperor's

study. There the petitioner states his case. The emperor listens

without interruption, then receives the written statements and

documents, sometimes asks a question, but generally dismisses the

visitor with a simple formula of assurance that a decision will be duly

rendered. There is evidently much form in the matter, as if it were but

the empty perpetuation of some ancient ceremony designed to show that

the monarch is the father of all his people, and hence is personally

interested in their individual troubles. But yet it appears that the

emperor _does_ listen to the harangues, for he is occasionally known to

affix his initials to some documents; which act is always interpreted as

a good sign, it being equivalent to a special recommendation to the

secretaries, indicating that _prima facie_ the cause has seemed to the

sovereign to be just. However, the precaution of a written statement is

always taken, because it would be impossible for him to remember all the

oral explanations. Only a few weeks after each of these audiences the

suitors are individually notified of the result. The emperor's sense of

etiquette does not allow him to give any sign of impatience during the

interview, though some of the visitors are as long-winded and

importunate as Mark Twain pretends to have been at one of President

Grant's receptions. The emperor answers the German, Hungarian, Tzech,

Croat or Italian each in the suitor's own tongue. It is quite possible

that in the preliminary registry of the names and condition of suitors

care is taken that the emperor shall not be subjected to too great

annoyance from any abuse of this curious and interesting privilege.

Among the canonizations of the past few months a notable place must be

assigned to that of the beatified Benoit Labre. That he was faithful in

doctrine needs hardly be said, but it was his manner of life which

procured him this posthumous honor, in order that those who read of his

career may rank him among those saints who, as in Tickell's line, have

both "taught and led the way to heaven," and may seek to imitate his

example. The decree of canonization, in reciting his characteristic

virtues, says that though of very honorable birth, yet, scorning earthly

things as dross, he clothed himself in rags, and ate and drank only what

chanty gave him. His shelter was the Coliseum or the doorways or desert

places of Rome. He washed not, neither did he yield to the effeminacy of

the comb; his hair and nails grew to what length Nature wished: in short

(for some of the additional details are better fancied than described),

he so utterly neglected his person that he became an object of avoidance

to many or all. But his neglected body was after death placed under a

glass shrine in the church of the Madonna del Monti. The decree calls

upon others to follow the example of the blessed Benoit, or at least as

far as the measure of spiritual strength in each will allow; but we

apprehend that many will modestly confess that the peculiar virtues of

the saint are inimitable.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Little Hodge. By the author of "Ginx's Baby." New York: Dodd & Mead.

The pamphlet has changed since the days of Swift and Dr. Johnson, and

the modern method, which seeks to influence opinion by means of a short,

pointed story, is certainly a gain in persuasiveness and pictorial

vigor. It is hard to say what the dean of Saint Patrick's would have

thought of _The Battle of Dorking_, or _Ginx's Baby_, or _Lord Bantam_,

or _Little Hodge_, by the author of the last two of these. The dean's

ferocity of expression no modern writer can allow himself; and the

engine of a tremendous intellect is by no means apparent, as it was in

his work, behind the efforts of our modern pamphleteers. But the nerves

of pity, when exquisitely touched, are as apt to influence action as the

feelings of hate or scorn, and Swift's proposal, from the depths of his

bleeding heart, to fat and eat the Irish children, was no more adapted

to produce reformed legislation than is the picture in _Little Hodge_ of

the ten deserted children starving under the thatch, the eldest girl

frozen and pallid, the father shot by a gamekeeper, after having failed

to support his motherless brood. Swift would have put in some matchless

touches, but the picture seems adapted to our day of average, mechanical

commonplace. It has a nerve of tenderness in it which will work upon the

gentler souls of our communities. The father of _Little Hodge_ is

represented as an honest field-laborer, working for Farmer Jolly at nine

shillings a week. The birth of his manikin baby and the accompanying

death of his wife increase his cares past bearing. He thereupon commits

three crimes in succession: he applies to Jolly for an increase of pay,

he joins the agrarian movement of a year ago, and he attempts to run

away and find work elsewhere. He is inexorably, minutely and witheringly

punished for these several acts, and at last gets his only chance of

comfort in a violent death, leaving his poor problems unsolved and his

children naked and starving. Such a picture, if drawn by a foreigner,

would arouse English indignation from shore to shore; but it is

home-drawn. The only foreign delineation is in the author's Jehoiachin

Settle, a stage Yankee, whose avocation is planting English children in

Canada after the manner of Miss Rye. Settle is a preposterous failure,

but every other limb of the writer's argument is strong and operative.

At His Gates. By Mrs. Oliphant. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co.

The author of _Miss Marjoribanks_, who is said to keep writing first a

good novel and then a poor novel in careful alternation, will leave her

friends in some doubt as to which category she means her last story to

be placed in, for it is impossible to call it poor, and

conscience-rending to call it good. It is long, and depicts many

persons, of whom only one, Mr. Burton's cynical wife, is at all

original. Mr. Burton aforesaid, a pompous business-man, places "at his

gates," just outside his villa walls, the widow of a man whom he has

used as a catspaw. The catspaw was a guileless artist, whom Burton has

tempted to take a directorship in his bank when the latter was about to

break, he himself retiring in time. The poor painter, in despair, jumps

into the water, and his wife, who is proud and aristocratic, is

condemned to be the pensioner and neighbor of a vulgar villain, every

favor from whom is a conscious insult. Presently the tables are turned.

Whether the asphyxiated artist really comes undrowned again, and returns

rich from America, nothing could persuade us to tell, as we disapprove

of the premature revelation of plots. But the tiresome Burton, at any

rate, is bound to come to grief, and his headstrong young daughter to

run off with his partner in atrocity, a man as old as her father, and

his wife to adapt her cold philosophy to a tiny house in the best part

of London. There is one scene, worth all the rest of the book, where

this lady tries to bargain with her son, whom she is really fond of, for

a manifestation of his love: she is about to yield to his opinion that

she should give up her own private settlement to the creditors of her

ruined husband, and then, just as she is consenting to this sacrifice,

not disinterestedly but maternally, the boy blurts out his passion for a

_parvenu_ girl, the lost painter's daughter in fact--a rival whom he

introduces to her in the moment of her supreme tenderness. She simply

observes, "You have acted according to your nature, Ned--like the rest."

If there were ten such chapters in the book as the one containing this

scene, the novel would be something immortal, instead of what it

is--railway reading of exceptional merit. It forms the first of a

"Library of Choice Fiction" projected by Messrs. Scribner, Armstrong &

Co., of which it forms a very encouraging standard of interest.

Memoirs of Madame Desbordes-Valmore. By Sainte-Beuve. With a Selection

from her Poems. Translated by Harriet W. Preston. Boston: Roberts

Brothers.

Sainte-Beuve, with whom the art of female biography seems to have died,

and who has given us so many softly touched and profoundly understood

portraits, is here engaged with one of his own personal friends and

contemporaries. This is no study of a heroine long dead, and draped in

the obsolete and winning costume of the Empire or the Revolution, but of

an anxious woman concerned with the hardship and grime of our own day,

"amid the dust and defilement of the city, on the highway, always in

quest of lodgings, climbing to the fifth story, wounded on every angle."

Only sympathy and a poetic touchstone could bring out the essence and

sweetness of a nature so unhappily disguised; but Sainte-Beuve,

discarding with a single gesture her penitential mask and hood, finds

Madame Desbordes-Valmore "polished, gracious, and even hospitable,

investing everything with a certain attractive and artistic air, hiding

her griefs under a natural grace, lighted even by gleams of merriment."

The poor details of her life he contrives to lose under a purposed

artlessness of narrative and a caressing superfluity of loyal eulogy. We

learn, however, that Mademoiselle Desbordes was born at Douai in 1786,

and died in Paris in 1859. Daughter of a heraldic painter, the

necessities of her family obliged her to make a voyage, as a child, to

Guadeloupe, in the hope of receiving aid from a rich relative, and a

little later to go upon the stage. In the provinces, and occasionally at

Paris, she played in the role of _ingenue_ with an exquisite address,

succeeding because such a part was really a natural expression of

herself: she thus won the abiding friendship of the great Mars, who

turned to the young comedienne a little-suspected and tender side of her

own character. Mademoiselle Desbordes' artistic charm was infinite, and

she controlled with innocent ease the fountain of tears, whitening the

whole parterre with pocket-handkerchiefs when she appeared as the

Eveline, Claudine and Eulalie of French sentimental drama. But she felt

keenly the social ostracism which was still strong toward the stage of

1800, and bewailed in her poetry the "honors divine by night allowed, by

day anathematized." In 1817 she married an actor, M. Valmore, who

subsequently disappeared into obscure official life, accepting with joy

a position as catalogue-maker in the National Library. Her relatives,

and even her eldest daughter, received small government favors, while

her own little pension, when it came, was so distasteful that for a

long time she could not bring herself to apply for the payments. She was

a confirmed patriot, shrank from the favors of the throne, was ill for

six weeks after Waterloo, and hailed with delight the revolution of '48,

which for some time stopped her pension and impoverished her. After

twenty years of the stage she retired into the greater privacy of

literature, and published various collections of verse which struck a

note of pure transparent sentiment rare in the epoch of Louis Philippe.

She had, in an uncommon degree, the gift of intelligent admiration: her

addresses to the great men of her time appear to be as far as possible

from a spirit of calculation or self-interest, but they secured her an

answering sympathy all the more valuable as it was never bargained for.

Michelet said, "My heart is full of her;" Balzac wrote a drama at her

solicitation; Lamartine, taking to himself a published compliment which

she had intended for another, replied with twenty beautiful stanzas;

Victor Hugo wrote to her, "You are poetry itself;" Mademoiselle Mars,

when past the age of public favor, took from her the plain counsel to

retire with kindness and actual thanks; Dumas wrote a preface for her;

Madame Recamier obtained her pension; the brilliant Sophie Gay, now

Madame Emile de Girardin, wrote of her poetry, "How could one depict

better the luxury of grief?" M. Raspail, the austere republican, called

her the tenth muse, the muse of virtue; and Sainte-Beuve himself,

thinking less of her literary life than of her family life and manifold

compassions, terms her the "Mater Dolorosa of poetry." His memoir,

however, is valuable for its own grace as much as for the modest

sweetness of its subject: without his friendly eloquence the name of

Madame Desbordes-Valmore would not have got beyond a kind of personal

circle of native admirers, nor the present translator have rendered for

foreign ears the whispering story of her pure deeds and the plaintive

numbers of her verse.

Memoir of a Brother. By Thomas Hughes, Author of "Tom Brown's

School-days." London: Macmillan & Co.

Here is a book that was never meant to be dissected and analyzed by

critics and reviewers. It is not hard to imagine the "discomfort and

annoyance" which the writer has (he tells us) felt in consenting to

give to the public a memoir compiled for a private family circle. Still,

on the whole, it is altogether well, and there is good reason to call

attention to it, for there is much benefit in the book for many readers.

It is the loving record of a life that, from first to last, never

challenged the world's attention--that was connected with no great

movement or event, political, theological or social; but a life, all the

same, that was lived with a truth, an earnestness and a straightness

that won the affection and respect of all who came within its influence,

and will, or we are much mistaken, glow warmly in the hearts and

memories of just all whose eyes now light upon this story of it.

How many boys--ay, and grown men and women too--got up from _Tom Brown's

School-days_ consciously the better from the reading of it! But there

was withal a vague feeling of incompleteness, an unsatisfied longing.

The story left off too soon. One wanted to know more of Tom after his

school-days. And then, it was, after all, a novel, a fiction. One would

have liked to come across that Tom, and perhaps felt half afraid that he

might not readily be found outside the cover of the volume. It is true

that that longing to know something of the hero's after-life which is

one accompaniment of the perusal of a thoroughly good work of fiction

was, in the case of Tom Brown, partially gratified. Everybody had the

chance of seeing _Tom Brown at Oxford_, and watching their old

favorite's course through undergraduate days to that haven and final

goal of fiction-writers, marriage. But there he is lost to view for good

and all, and one is left to the amiable hypothesis that he lived happy

all his days, without being either shown how he managed to do so, or

taught how we might manage to do likewise.

Now this _Memoir of a Brother_ may be said just to supply the want that

we have here endeavored to indicate. It is the whole life--the child

life, the school-boy life, the college life and the adult, responsible

life in the world and as a family head--of a real flesh-and-blood,

actualized Tom Brown; and it stands out depicted with an intense

naturalness of coloring that charms one more than the laborious effects

of imaginative biography.

George Hughes, the subject of the memoir before us, was the eldest son

of a Berkshire squire, and little more than a year older than his

brother and biographer. Very pleasant is the glimpse of child life in an

English county forty years ago that is given in the story of his first

years. From the first he showed the calm fearlessness, the practicality

and the helpfulness which seem to have been among his most prominent

characteristics. These qualities, and with them a rigorous

conscientiousness, a sensitive unselfishness, and--no trifling advantage

in these or any other days--a splendid _physique_, he took with him, and

preserved alike unaltered, through Rugby, Oxford and after years. Little

wonder that the possessor of such gifts became a Sixth-form boy and

football captain at his public school, and achieved boating and

cricketing successes, an honorable degree, and the repute of being the

most popular man of his day at the university. Most people who take an

interest in boat-racing, and many who do not, have heard of that famous

race upon the Thames at Henley, in which a crew of _seven_ Oxford

oarsmen snatched victory from a (not _the_) Cambridge "eight;" but not

everybody knows--for the feat was done now thirty years ago, and names

are lost while the memory of a fact survives--that George Hughes pulled

the stroke-oar of that plucky seven-oared boat.

Oxford days over, and after a three-years' spell of private tutoring--a

not uncommon temporary resort of English graduates while they are making

up their minds as to what profession or business to take up for life--we

find George Hughes settled in London, reading law in Doctors' Commons.

By this time his biographer, who has been close by his side, and

following his lead in work and play, through all the years of school and

college life, is at work in London too, and the two brothers are again

together under one roof. The similarity, one may almost say

identicality, of the circumstances of their bringing up might, but that

such things, luckily, don't always go by rule, have led one to expect to

find in them, now full-grown and thoughtful men, something like a

coincidence of sympathies and opinions. Nothing of the sort. George is

by temperament and conviction a Tory of the kindly, old-fashioned

school: his younger brother has become an advanced Liberal, an

enthusiastic promoter of workingmen's associations, and a leading

spirit among the so-called Christian Socialists. Needless to add that,

though never for one moment sundered one from the other in heart or

affection by differences of opinion, the two could not work together in

this field. Downright, practical George has his objections, and states

them. Listen: "'You don't want to divide other people's property?' 'No.'

'Then why call yourselves Socialists?' 'But we couldn't help ourselves:

other people called us so first.' 'Yes, but you needn't have accepted

the name. Why acknowledge that the cap fitted?' 'Well, it would have

been cowardly to back out. We borrow the ideas of these Frenchmen, of

association as opposed to competition, as the true law of industry and

of organizing labor--of securing the laborer's position by organizing

production and consumption--and it would be cowardly to shirk the name.

It is only fools who know nothing about the matter, or people interested

in the competitive system of trade, who believe or say that a desire to

divide other people's property is of the essence of Socialism.' 'That

may be very true, but nine-tenths of mankind, or, at any rate, of

Englishmen, come under one or the other of these categories. If you are

called Socialists, you will never persuade the British public that this

is not your object. There was no need to take the name. You have weight

enough to carry already, without putting that on your shoulders.... The

long and short of it is, I hate upsetting things, which seems to be your

main object. You say that you like to see people discontented with

society as it is, and are ready to help to make them so, because it is

full of injustice and abuses of all kinds, and will never be better till

men are thoroughly discontented. I don't see these evils so strongly as

you do, don't believe in heroic remedies, and would sooner see people

contented, and making the best of society as they find it. In fact, I

was bred and born a Tory, and I can't help it.'" However, our biographer

tells us, "he (George) continued to pay his subscription, and to get his

clothes at our tailors' association till it failed, which was more than

some of our number did, for the cut was so bad as to put the sternest

principles to a severe test. But I could see that this was done out of

kindness to me, and not from sympathy with what we were doing."

After a few years of law-work in the ecclesiastical courts, the call of

a domestic duty took George Hughes--not, one may well imagine, without a

severe struggle--from the active practice of his profession, and bade

him be content thenceforward with home life. Idle or inactive of course

a man of prime mental and bodily vigor could not be. The violoncello,

farming, volunteering, magistrate's work, getting up laborers'

reading-rooms and organizing Sunday evening classes for the big boys in

his village, gave outlets enough for his superfluous energies. And

meanwhile he was now become a pater-familias, and had boys of his own to

send to Rugby, and to encourage and advise in their school-life by

letters which--and it is paying them a high compliment to say so--are

almost as good as those which his father had, thirty years before,

addressed to him at the same place. It is impossible to overestimate the

advantage to a school-boy of having a father who can appreciate and

sympathize with boyish thoughts and aims, and knows how to use his

natural mentorship wisely. We shall be much surprised if readers do not

find the letters from George's father to him, and his to his own boys,

among the most attractive parts of this book. Like most men who care

heartily for anything, George Hughes always continued to feel a strong

interest in public affairs, though circumstances had "counted him out of

that crowd" who do the outside working of them. He had a considerable

gift of rhyming, and that incident of the ex-prince imperial's "baptism

of fire" with which the late Franco-Prussian war opened drew from him

some vigorously indignant lines. Here are a few of them:

By! baby Bunting,

Daddy's gone a-hunting,

Bath of human blood to win,

To float his baby Bunting in,

By, baby Bunting,

What means this hunting?

Listen, baby Bunting--

Wounds--that you may sleep at ease,

Death--that you may reign in peace,

Sweet baby Bunting.

Yes, baby Bunting!

Jolly fun is hunting.

Jacques in front shall bleed and toil,

You in safety gorge the spoil,

Sweet baby Bunting.

Perpend, my small friend,

After all this hunting,

When the train at last moves on,

Daddy's gingerbread _salon_

May get a shunting.

It is not our place here to do more than record how that suddenly, in

the early summer of last year, the true strong man was struck down by

inflammation of the lungs and passed away. What the loss must be to all

whom his influence touched the pages before us sufficiently attest. It

is perhaps well, though, that no life can be faithfully lived in the

world without leaving such sore legacies of loss behind it.

* * * * *

_Books Received._

The Relation of the Government to the Telegraph; or, a Review of the Two

Propositions now Pending before Congress for Changing the Telegraphic

Service of the Country. By David A. Wells. With Appendices. New York.

The Country Physician. An Address upon the Life and Character of the

late Dr. Frederick Dorsey. By John Thomson Mason. Second edition.

Baltimore: William K. Boyle.

Addresses delivered on Laying the Cornerstone of an edifice for the

Academy of Natural Sciences of Philadelphia, October 30, 1872.

Philadelphia: Collins.

Mysteries of the Voice and Ear. By Prof. O. N. Rood, Columbia College,

New York. With Illustrations. New Haven: C. C. Chatfield & Co.

The Poems of Henry Timrod. Edited, with a Sketch of the Poet's Life, by

Paul H. Hayne. New York: E. J. Hale & Son.

Modern Leaders: Being a Series of Biographical Sketches. By Justin

McCarthy. New York: Sheldon & Co.

The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier. Household

edition. Boston: J. R. Osgood & Co.

The Earth a Great Magnet. By Alfred Marshal Mayer, Ph. D. New Haven:

C. C. Chatfield & Co.

The Two Ysondes, and Other Verses. By Edward Ellis. London: Basil

Montagu Pickering.

Jesus, the Lamb of God. By Rev. E. Payson Hammond. Boston: Henry Hoyt.

Social Charades and Parlor Operas. By M. T. Calder. Boston: Lee &

Shepard.

The Yale Naught-ical Almanac for 1873. New Haven: C. C. Chatfield & Co.

Julia Reid: Listening and Led By Pansy. Boston: Henry Hoyt.