meet with a waggonette waiting outside the door of the principal inn, the driver of which was continually reminding the people that it was the last conveyance to Trottingcover that evening. I was the first to take my place in the waggonette. Then came a musician and his wife, who made the driver take them for a fare and a half. Then came crowds of soldiers at sixpence a-head, who filled up every inch of space, some being obliged to let their legs hang over the sides, and others holding on to one another on the conductor's step behind. And so we drove along; the musician and his wife singing professionally, apparently for the edification of each other; the soldiers making a long chorus of "When Johnny comes marching home," putting in verses of their own when the original ones were exhausted; and myself wondering how it was that we were not overturned, or run into, or brought to grief in some way or the other. The rain did not come down after all; and when we past the "Cat" people were sitting at tables in front of the inn, drinking, singing and waving their glasses about like an opera chorus. It was 7 p.m. when we reached Trottingcover, and there would be no train until 9.30.; so for some two hours I must_wander about and accept whatever amusement Trottingcover offers. I soon found out that the only amusement to be obtained would be of my own providing; so I made up my mind for a long stroll through the dreamy old town; and I never enjoyed an evening more. The shops are being shut, the lights are disappearing from the windows, and people are no doubt beginning to think of supper and bed. All is very quiet, and it seems as if Trottingcover people kept to the old-fashioned notion that from sunset to sunrise was the time for rest. But, considering it was the night of the races, they might have made their town more lively. In the lower part of it (for it is a large town and has many districts) there is more life, if a few shops half-open and people gossiping at the street doors can be called life. I tumble over a theatre which has been long closed against the regular drama. Bills announce that a well-known lady entertainer will come there in a few weeks time, which announcement has little interest for me. Hearing music from the first floor of a large inn, I go upstairs and find myself in a ball-room, with no company but the musicians. The landlady tells me that being race night, and having a licence for music and dancing, she attempted to get up a ball; but public dancing seems to be a dead failure as far as Trottingcover is concerned.

Then I wander into the genteel quarter of the

town, where I find a London organ-man grinding away at London tunes all by himself, in a dreary, desolate, seemingly-uninhabited square; stately-looking houses frown down upon mehouses that have seen grand goings on in their time, but are now either leased by retired merchants and tradesmen, or let in lodgings. I begin to wonder what sort of people live inside, and what makes them all go to bed so early; for there is not a light gleaming from any of the lower windows, and the glow from the upper storeys is gradually becoming less. Desolation, darkness, and a dreamy sort of dreariness reign everywhere. Not that I am complaining of the state of things. If I were living in the town, instead of just coming away from the noise of the race-course into its deserted streets, I should have thought such a quiet, peaceful night-time delightful. What a blessing to be able to walk out without meeting gangs of the lower class of shopboys, undersized, foulmouthed, blocking up the path, and insulting all who do not belong to their own vile set! How pleasant to walk through a town after dark, without having to pass miserable, poorly-dressed, vicious looking women, who stand in groups at the top of courts and alleys, yelling and jeering at any passer-by whose worldly circumstances may be a shade better than theirs! How nice to have no jolly dogs shouting insane melodies as they reel home at early hours of the morning, waking all but the soundest sleepers! Nothing does more good for people who have much brainwork to get through than a quiet walk after dark, when thoughts can be collected without the thinker being taken for a lunatic. In most towns this is impossible. The roughs (and they are not only men) are monarchs of the streets after nightfall, and well-disposed people who invade their territory find it very unpleasant, often extremely unsafe. Here was the only town I have wandered through after dark without meeting mongrel boys playing at men in the public thoroughfares to the annoyance of everybody. Rest and quietness in your houses, silence and security in your streets, O Trottingcover, Trottingcover! what a home you would be for hundreds of people who are wearing out their minds through having to work amidst all that is favourable to nervous disorders, and have no chance of proper sleep and rest when work is over!

For a wonder the train was not late, and I was home and in bed before eleven. When the days are short and the nights cold, it is pleasant to think of summer days; and one of the pleasantest I passed in '66 was when I went "over the hills to the races.'

99

JOHN CHURCHILL BRENAN.

OUR PARIS

MY DEAR CIn spite of our Grand Exhibition we are not happy. The political horizon is dark and gloomy, and keeps us continually floating between hope and fear. Now War is certainnow Peace is possible; we are no sooner reassured than we begin again to tremble. Last week it was noised abroad that the Emperor, in a moment of exasperation against Monsieur de Bismarck, had sent his ultimatum to Prussia; that the Empress, accompanied by several Ministers of State, had gone and thrown herself at his Majesty's feet, imploring him to recall his despatch; that it was not until after great supplications and prayers that Napoleon was persuaded to stop the ultimatum. Then it was said that the Emperor was about to strike another coup d'état, close the two Houses, levy a million of men, and go and seize the coveted dukedom by force. Others affirmed that Prussia, elated by her recent success, had demanded a French province as her natural limit, and no doubt would come to take it, while most of the papers seemed to add coals on the burning fire, and did all in their power to push the Emperor to declare hostilities. "It is the only thing that will reinstate him in public opinion," said those who see all on the black side, "and he is very low in Parisian estimation since he allowed the conquests of Prussia, and the alliance of Italy with that power." Add to all this the illness of the Prince Imperial, whom some declare to be attacked with an incurable disease. That report may be nothing but party malignity, there has been so much said of that child. The palace account is that he fell while taking his gymnastic exercises, and hurt his leg, which caused a tumour in the thigh. His convalescence has been several times announced, and he was expected to be at the opening of the Exhibition, but was not there-"a sure sign," say the dissatisfied, "that he is worse than acknowledged." The possibility of his death causes people to speculate on future events, and the Orleans family has of late been much talked of.

The Opening of the Exhibition was very splendid, and the weather fine by exception. When I say splendid I mean by the great concourse of spectators who surrounded the outside of the building. The entrance being twenty francs that day, the happy few alone penetrated under the green-and-gold velvet velum spread for a long distance over the grand entrance for the reception of the Court. Several thousand workmen, employed in turning the vast space opposite the Champ de Mars called The Trocadero into a park, left their work just as the imperial carriages arrived, and, with their spades and shovels on their shoulders,

formed a row on each side, as a guard of honour for their Majesties, whom they cheered with mighty lungs. There is a very beautiful little pavilion in the park, near the principal door, erected for the Emperor and Empress: nothing can be more elegant and pretty. Of course it was not finished-nor was anything else. It will take at least a month longer to have everything in order. The English soldiers with their red coats attracted great attention as the Court passed down the British section. The first week was all five-franc days; but few cared about going amidst workmen, dirt, and dust at that price: since then the franc days have been established, which is cheap enough. Weekly tickets, at six francs, have also been issued; but, in order that you may not lend your ticket, you must send your photograph, and your ticket is stuck on it. It is the same for the seasontickets, for which ladies pay sixty francs, and gentlemen one hundred francs. As the papers have not yet published the number of these tickets sold, I fancy that there has not been many; nor do I think that the number of visitors has as yet been very prodigious.

The Empress is to inaugurate soon the reserved Park, where there are to be daily concerts, resembling those of the Champs Elysées. This part of the Exhibition is spoken of as the gem of the place. Amongst other curiosities the Turks have made an oriental public square, with a fountain in the middle, a mosque, a habitable kiosk, and a bathing-house. For the delusion to be complete they ought to have peopled it with Turkish men and women: the Frenchmen about it spoil the whole affair. The public pay extra to visit this park. There is also to be a flower-show here every fortnight. It is here, too, that the famous carp, from Fontainbleau, have been transported, and gambol about in the aquarium made on purpose for them. Some of these carp are said to be more than two hundred years old. What is certain is that they are very old, several being blind from age. What a pity that they should have been touched! it being more than probable that many will die from this change in their element. Such remnants of the past ought to be sacred; but is anything sacred here! In the public park, near the principal entrance, the Protestants have erected a church and Sunday-school-room, which were inaugu rated the other day by Lord Shaftesbury and the Baron de Chabaud la Tour, so that there will be no excuse for not going to church even at the Exhibition. The Bible Society of London distributes gratis, here, a copy of the Gospel according to St. Luke, to all the passers by, much to the amusement of our freethinking journalists, who pretend that the salvation of their

THE TWO WILLIES.

CHAP. I.-DEATH IN A HOVEL.

"God of the fatherless! I leave this orphan in Thy hands!"

A faint glimmer, a sudden flare, a flickering gleam, scarcely breaking the room's shadows. The candle was melting in its socket, for it was near midnight, and the dim wick had been wasting untended since night-fall.

Half disclosed, or obscured, as the flame waxed or waned, was a low pallet, on which, covered by tattered blankets, lay a woman whose life was ebbing as the candle flickered. Beside her reposed a little boy, whose quiet respiration mingled with the painful breathing of his dying mother.

When the flowers of summer-time withered upon their stems, and the brown autumn foliage drifted silently from the trees-and when, afterwards, sad winds of November rustled the fallen leaves into dry heaps by the way-side-a young, pale-faced widow, dwelling in one of those miserable hovels that are often found in the rear of fashionable streets, had wasted slowly, upon her bed, drifting from life, until now, at the winter's coming, her wearied dust was to be gathered among the dry heaps of a pauper burialground.

But the instinct of love was strong as death. She pressed her shrunken hand upon the head of the little boy beside her, and, with her last tremulous breath, murmured a prayer to the Merciful One:

"God of the fatherless! I leave this orphan in Thy hands!"

The child, awakened by his mother's embrace, clung, frightened, to her bosom; for the candlewick, nearly consumed, gave out, at intervals, only a sullen tinge that could not dissipate the gloom.

Mother, mother! it is dark! where are you?" "Willie, I am going from you""Mother-"

My child!-God will find-you a-mother!" One convulsive clasp of her boy's neck in the darkness-one tremulous movement of her lips, as with a parting kiss; and then the widow's spirit soared beyond its earthly habitation, and Willie clung to his mother's lifeless breast-an orphan.

Dwellers in other hovel-like apartments of the tenant-row-neighbours poor as the departed widow-came and stilled the child's loud grief with soothing words. Closing the eyes and straightening the limbs of the dead, they waited, curiously, while a coroner hurried through his routine, and the alms-house officer gave orders for a pine coffin, wherein to cover up the dust

of that friendless sufferer, who had died of neglect and privation.

But whither wandered the child Willie, when strange-faced men had nailed down the coffinlid, and when his tearful gaze beheld a dark hearse driven from the narrow alley? Was it the hand of his Father in heaven that led the poor boy out of this desolate home, and directed his young eyes, all blinded with weeping, away from those dreary tenant-house walls, that had, till now, surrounded him?

"Mother! dear mother! where are you?"

Sobbing thus, Willie wandered through the thoroughfares. His tattered garments brushed the rich apparel of many who passed him by unheedingly; his feeble cry sunk all unheard amid the bustle and tumult of traffic and pleasure. But still, as the tiny figure of the little child threaded the crowd, he lifted his sorrowful eyes, and stretched out his imploring handscrying, always

"Omother! when will God find you for me?"

CHAP. II.-DEATH IN A PALACE.

A little white crib in the corner, and beside it a pair of sinall boots, with grass-mould of the garden still soiling them; in the corner a vacant chair, over the back of which hangs a boy's satchel. A child's velvet cap lies upon the chair; and near it sits a pet spaniel, with its black eyes fixed steadily upon the white-clothed crib. It is Carlo, the good little dog.

But where is Willie, whose shining ringlets used to dance so lightly on the breeze, as he frolicked with Carlo up and down upon the greensward, swinging his velvet cap, to make the little dog leap high and bark merrily? Ah, me! Carlo has nobody to play with him nownobody to love, as he loved his kind young master.

But Carlo remembers-O, he must always remember-how once, in the woods, he was chasing a silver-winged butterfly, down among the daisies and buttercups, by the brook-side; sharply barking as the bright insects circled above him; and how a cunning snake darted quickly from a tree's root, to strike with his cruel fangs; and then how brave Willie, who was following close behind his little dog, frightened the wicked adder back to his covert again. Ahl perhaps, if Carlo could talk, he would tell everybody how much he remembered and loved the dear boy who saved him.

But Willie-sweet Willie-is dead. His musical voice will not any more awaken his tender mother, calling for her first kiss in the morning. His sunny ringlets lie damp on his pale