was not at all overheated on reaching here. Perhaps a short nap will give him an appetite." "Poor papa!" (in a very low and sweet voice). "I am afraid the walk has been too much for him, after all." "And you are not tired?" "Oh, no. I am not easily tired with walking. There are many more spots among these mountains, I suppose, just as lovely as this. I am so sorry-" She pauses, looks at me swiftly, a little across her shoulder, and then drops her eyes upon the great bouquet which she is holding. "You are sorry for what?" I question, watching her face steadily. I see the infrequent color tinge either cheek very slightly again, as she lifts her eyes and answers : side me, bending above her faded ferns, and "I never knew you so untalkative for "I am sorry that we have once more changed our minds, papa and I, about leaving | I saw you looking quite sad while you read the mountains. Has he not told you?" a letter last evening; I hope it bore you no bad news." "No. You have postponed your depart beure?" answer: "It certainly did not bear pleasant news." And now I proceed, speaking nothing except plain truth: "A friend of mine, a man whom I thought of irreproachable integrity, has committed one of those business dishonesties from which his name can never recover." She looks interested. "What a bitter disappointment to you!" I have scarcely thought of the contents of the letter since a short while after its recep❘tion, because of weightier trouble by far. But I now answer: bles contained in my knapsack, at the laughing solicitation of Mr. Stoddard, who declares himself gnawed by hunger. With her the meal is a farce; I see that she chokes down the few mouthfuls she takes; and I, wretched as it seems to me that never man was wretched before, do hardly better justice to Mrs. Powerley's ample provisioning. Bitterly blaming myself one momentjustifying my words the next-again, regretting that our further conversation was interrupted and yet again giving silent thanks that any worse shame was spared her, it will be understood that I am ill in condition to assume, during the rest of our stay in the glen, or during our after-walk homeward, any thing like an easy or tranquil demeanAnd yet I succeed in so conducting myself as to win no comment from Mr. Stoddard, whatever symptoms of mysterious change he may privately notice. or. With Agatha, however, it is wholly different. She moves, speaks, and acts, like one stunned. Her eyes persistently avoid my face. She never once individually addresses me after her father's awakening. Mr. Stoddard repeatedly remarks upon her altered behavior. Her first reply is that she has a sudden miserable headache, and all her further replies bear upon the same subject of excuse. I am glad when we reach home, at about three o'clock in the afternoon, and separate in the hall. How I hate that lovely glen! How I resolve never to visit it again while I live! The rest of the afternoon, until tea-time, I spend in my own room. Father and daugh"Bitter enough! And that word disap- ter both appear at tea. Agatha's eyes pointment just expresses my feeling. One | scarcely once leave her plate while she is does so hate to think (for purely egotistical reasons if no others) that one has been We sit for some time in silence. The pines near by murmur rhythmically as fitful -breezes move them. Agatha Stoddard seems I closely scrutinizing her ferns, which now be-throwing away his esteem." gin drooping into limp lifelessness. Her glance has returned to her ferns while I am speaking, and as these last words are pronounced a quick start responds to them. She does not lift her eyes again, but speaks in a cold, restrained way, wholly opposite from her wonted voice. My own feelings appear a tumult then, though at this later day they yield more readily to the scalpel of analysis. It has di possibly been the sharp shock of overhearing Miss Bostwick's words there upon the piazza, which has first brought the truth of my love for Agatha Stoddard out from the vague hues of an attraction, by myself neither allowed nor denied, into the sharper insistent colors of a vividly-conscious state. But the moment, so to speak, that my love sprang ed into absolute existence it has been called upon to defend its object against a revolting Strong of nerve though I have always doubt; or rather (with the impetuous ideal-prided myself on being, I tremble, and my izing instinct nearly always inseparable from | voice trembles likewise, as these words rush what we call love) it has taken up hot arms to my lips: pse be to prevent reason from ever fostering an den of such repellent significance. The rethis mental contest has been a sort of Reason Bult of eristlas asserted her right to receive the repel rent idea, but she has received it under a far less afficting form that of Agatha Stodard's probable insanity. Yet Love, if natua ion or y defender, is even still more a compas dat. Onater; and Pity, ever the alert vassal of ove, has set thrilling by her strong touch his that seem like heart-chords over which no wuhotion has ever swept before. I long to size the hand of this woman, as she sits be She turns me a pair of wildly startled eyes, which tell, almost with the my tones have betrayed me. Just then the later Mr. Stoddard is asking how long he has slept. Meanwhile she is busied over her Not long afterward we spread out the edi seated. Mrs. Mackenzie Small inquires of me across the table, with the characteristic rattling accompaniment, how I enjoyed my walk, and it is by no means easy for me to give the little lady a civil response. Fortunately for my reputation, Miss Aurelia addresses no remark to me, being only conversational as regards her immediate surround ers. Mr. Stoddard is his usual affable self, though now and then I see, or else fancy that I see, a worried look possess his face, as he gives a side-glance toward the pale and crushed-looking Agatha. They leave the table before any one else, and I almost immediately follow them, with some wild idea of begging her pardon, or at least humbling myself in her presence, no matter how clumsily. But she is ascending the stairs-has, in fact, almost quitted them-when I reach the hall. Her father stands near the doorway, however, looking out upon the cool commencement of twilight, the darkening slopes of rich green, turfy sward, and the slow brightening of historia moon that poises its pearl which it seemed to sink last night. "Your daughter tells me that you have decided on leaving tomorrow," I at once open conversation, joining Mr. Stoddard. "Yes," he replies, "it is true. Agatha has an idea that the sea-shore will agree better with us both. She has gone up to pack, Poor child, she is feeling wretchedly under now. "What do you want to know?" she "Yes, my daughter," Mr. Stoddard makes just manages, in a choked, effortful way. ready answer. "I must ask you to come up here, papa, please. I can't quite get along in my packing without you." He looks at me with the soft, amiable smile that so often breaks sunnily from under his iron-gray mustache, and goes up-stairs while replying: "Then I am quite at your service, Agatha." me. "Nothing that you do not choose to tell Give it me, if you have it that is all. I will return it to her, and say something -never mind what. I shall clear you in her eyes; she must believe me." A silence. Her eyes meet mine, and there is something in her look which makes this conviction pass thrillingly through me: "They have lied about her; she is innocent!" Immediately afterward she turns away. I have not waited three minutes when she again appears in the space of the partiallyopen door, holding the fan. I take it, while I shiver under the pang of a terrible disap I walk out into the growing dusk. It is no hyperbole to say that I am suffering mental torments, now. Reflection is misery to me. Thought of the future brings only a dreary disgust. The exquisite dewy blue of the twilight presently makes me long to escape from it. Perhaps my reason for sud-pointment; and as she is turning away once denly going up-stairs into my own rooin, and lighting the lamp and opening a book, is half because I am nearer to her while thus situated; though her room is in a side-hall, at some little distance away from the one off | hand draws itself from mine; and in a meas which mine opens. Three-quarters of an hour have probably passed, when I rise and throw aside my book; I have not read a word of it understandingly. Just then I become aware of some rather loud and excited talking outside my door. It is a lady's voice, and one which I am prompt to recognize. "Why, Aurelia, I left it on the mantel in the parlor about an hour before tea. It's that small jet fan, you know, with the heavy carvings - you've often admired it. Why shouldn't I suspect her, after what has happened? Nobody else would dare touch it. I tell you-" And then the voice becomes indistinct, as the speaker and her evident companion pass on to the farther end of the hall. A little later I hear a door close. The hall is now quite quiet again. more I catch her hand. "In God's name," I burst forth, "can nothing be done for you?” moment later, and I move away, answering with light and smiling words. Just as I reach my own room again, I hear her door closed. And just then, also, I find myself face to face with Agatha Stoddard. She is standing at a short distance from my door. The dim lamp-light makes her countenance very indistinct. "I heard you," she whispers, her words as slow as they are low. "It was most generous of you; and, if you value them, you have my best thanks." "I do value them." "Can we speak together?-somewhere else, I mean. Will you go down and wait for me on the piazza? I will join you there in a moment." "Agreed," I answer; and at once go down-stairs, she passing toward her own room. The piazza is vacant to-night, also. The dew lies thick and silvery on steps and railing, and the air, windlessly tranquil, has almost a sting in its moonlit coldness. She joins me, after I have waited about three minutes, dressed as if for a walk. "Not here," she whispers. "Let us stroll out into the garden." I assent with only a movement of my head, and we go down the steps slowly together. We are about twenty yards from the house when she again speaks, calmly, but with the calmness of braced nerves and stim Her whole face seems to harden; her | ulated will. ured, frigid way that would sound utterly And here she closes her door, quietly but I wait until I am calm enough for the performance of my self-set task, and then I pass onward to the door of the room which I know Mrs. Mackenzie Small occupies. The smart little widow opens it herself, a few seconds after I have knocked. She stares at me in astonishment while I extend her fan. "Pray let me return this," I begin. "I took it by mistake from the parlor-mantel, thinking it belonged to Miss Stoddard, who had mislaid hers." "You are a man of cultured mind, of broad intelligence. You have read and stud ied more than most people: you are a think er, unbigoted, catholic, unhampered by fals prejudice." There is a pause; but I feel that my tim for speaking has not come. "Your attention may perhaps have bee called, Mr. Embury, toward some of thos unfortunate insanities which now and the afflict human beings. I do not mean insani in its more usual shapes; I mean those drea ful caprices of it which make the ordina curse seem almost a blessing." Mrs. Mackenzie Small receives the fan and she goes on: looks bewilderedly from it to me. "Why, yes, Mr. Embury," she stammers; I think that both my hands are clinched "it is mine-sure enough-I thought-" tightly as I stand near my door for a brief space, after hearing those words. My face burns hotly, too, with shame-shame for the woman whom a few hours have shown me that I love with a strong, unconquerable passion. A little later my mind is made up. She shall be spared, this time, if it is in my power to spare her. They go to-morrow. She shall be spared. Her room, as I have before said, is in a side-hall, communicating with the one outside. Her father's room is, however, on the next story above. I open my door, and without another moment of hesitation I pass directly on to hers. It is closed. I knock. She responds to "I am compelled to give you this ex nation to-night. I should never have gi it of my own accord." "Who compels you?" "Yes. He was in my room when "You thought, no doubt, that you'd lost it forever," I break in, with a laugh. "Well, you are agreeably disappointed, perhaps? In the most absent-minded way I put it in my pocket, after having brought it to Miss Stod-knocked at the door. He heard what pa dard and ascertained that it was not her property; she had sent me to look for hers, you know, which she thought she had left somewhere in the parlor." I speak with so much careless off-handedness of tone and manner that there is slight doubt of my words carrying full conviction, although I can detect a certain prim change of countenance in my hearer the last time that Miss Stoddard's name is mentioned. Mrs. Small thanks me quite blandly, a between us. He insisted that I should you the whole truth." It is impossible for me to convey ar of how, just at the end of this last sent her composure wholly forsakes her-ho voice grows one succession of stifled s how her eyes, shining with a rich fire suave moonlight, rivet upon my face brilliant fixity. "Some one told you about that bre she speeds on, the words rushing fro T 1 E lips in a pell-mell of eager utterance. "I ❘ and pity you can for-for poor papa; and, if suppose it was Miss Bostwick, although she promised me that she would tell no one. Papa took it; and I discovered that he had done so. I meant, at the earliest opportunity, to replace it, but because Miss Bostwick locked her door afterward I almost despaired of doing this. Then it was taken from my drawer-doubtless by the girl, Margaret, who had seen it and suspected me. Miss Bostwick met me in the hall the night of its disappearance" "I know, I know! You need tell me no more of that! Thank God!" I have turned and caught both her hands in both of mine as those two final words are spoken. Each hand is trembling within my close clasp, but she makes no attempt to free them. "And you have acted this way to shield your father! And I-I have dared to believe so differently! How can I ever dream of getting your pardon?" "I give it without the asking," she murmurs, while bright tears besiege her beauti-ful uplifted eyes. "I saw how you admired, almost loved him, and this made me strong, you know. It is an insanity with him-an awful insanity, that lies like a black blot on his pure, honorable life! Very few people know about it. When it first developed itself, several years ago, he voluntarily went to a private asylum and has remained there, under strict medical care, ever since. The physicians thought him cured, and indeed recommended this change. I would have left at once, when the first symptoms of the 12 old trouble was manifested to me, but for fear of rousing more suspicion by so very sudden a departure. Miss Bostwick met me in the hall this morning, as you know, and insisted on our leaving to-morrow. When you knocked at my door to-night I-I had just discovered about the fan-" Her shaken voice falters into silence. The tears are streaming down her pale cheeks - I lift her hands, hardly knowing what I do, and cover them with many kisses b-and then, as she draws away, I follow her, speaking passionate, headlong words, that "would sound like exaggeration-like fatuity, perhaps if I wrote them down now - but they are words that imperiously demand their answer, and that receive it, not much later. And it is an answer which makes me supremely happy! The moon is very low over the mountain er before we reënter the house, and has changed rom silver to mellowest gold, bringing to my hen mood the sweet suggestion of a hope hat has ripened into rich golden reality! "One thing I must exact of you," I muraur, a little while before we pass in-doors: ito let me tell Miss Bostwick and her friend The whole truth." only just to She smiles very faintly, and I see that her yes, dim in the failing moonlight, are filled ith soft regret. "Well, as you please. It is nove, perhaps, that they should know. toh" (and never voice took lovelier Deading into its tones than hers takes at is moment), "promise me that you will try possible, make them keep it a secret between The tears will not let her finish; but her "I understand," is my low answer, as my lips touch her forehead. "I understand, and I promise!" EDGAR FAWCETT. CERTAIN LONDON SIGHTS. I T was my good fortune, when in London several years ago, to form the acquaintance of Sir John Bowring. This learned and agreeable man, who had been known so widely as an Asiatic traveler and scholar, had been living in England many years, enjoying the cultured leisure which he had so well earned. His home was in the country, but he came to London for the "season," as is the custom of the English gentry, who regard the city merely as a temporary abode, not the place for gentlemen to.live in. Sir John Bowring was my learned "cicerone" to many of the sights of London. Professor Owen, appropriately-not exactly gnawing the bone of a megatherium, but examining it was pointed out as one of the curiosities. Many of the learned men connected with the institution passed before our vision, as did the illuminated manuscripts (the best collection in the world) and the letters of distinguished men, and the Elgin marbles and the Museum of Natural History-all, all merely arousing that vain regret of all travelers that human faculties are so limited that eye cannot see, nor ear hear, half that the mind would gladly grasp did it possess supernatural powers of endurance. Sir John also kindly took us to the Zoological Gardens of a Sunday afternoon, where we saw much fashion, much people, many animals. The huge hippopotami, Frank Buckland's pets, were disporting themselves in their basin, for the dukes and duchesses and common clay to laugh at. Nature had abandoned herself to her love of the grotesque when she made these animals. Then we went to the monkeys, Nature's effectual attempts at caricature and parody. Then to see the giraffes. I said: "What a useless animal, with its long neck!" "Ah," said Sir John, "you must not say that. What do you suppose the giraffe thinks "What is this animal, and what's its use?" It is in June, when England, rural Eng- And so, with many an apt quotation and witty speech, he led us round, and showed us the pleasant spot where Londoners meet of a Sunday afternoon. Finding that, as Americans, we had an in- skip judiciously, and to see superficially the at theid rouse in both of them all the sympathy acquisition. But the most amusing and unique of our explorations was to two London clubs. These haunts of masculine appropriation and retirement are supposed to be sacred and inapproachable to the foot of woman, and yet they are not. Once a week a gentleman may bring lady friends to see their lofty, splendid rooms, their rare pictures, their beautiful libraries, and well-appointed kitchens. The Athenæum was the first we visited. It is most beautifully arranged. Its large windows looked out on a broad street, ornamented (if that is a proper word) by statues of royal dukes and a monument commemorating English victories. The library, a most quiet, opulent, learned, and Russia-leather-feeling apartment, had in it, as we entered, two English bishops, to both of whom Sir John introduced us. They were quiet, unpretending gentlemen, these lords spiritual, and both greeted us with most unhesitating and flattering cordiality. In fact, we found the word "American" a good letter. Hearing that we were going to Oxford, one of the reverend gentlemen turned to his desk and wrote us a letter of introduction which afterward unlocked for us the treasures of the Bodleian Library. The other asked us to his country-house for a visit. I mention these facts because I often hear that English people are inhospitable, cold, and forbidding. I found them exactly the contrary-in fact, willing to take more trouble than we are as a rule. From the learned, grave Athenæum, we went to the Reform Club, where we met After a morning spent with antiquity, we would vary the scene, and descending into the present century with some patronizing sense of condescension, we would go to see the Water-Color Exhibition, most wonderful and most beautiful. We have no idea here of the English water-colors, although many are brought here by opulent picture-buyers. | file past you. An Englishwoman never le so well as on horseback; we though them less handsome than our young American women, but they had fine figures, and were very stately. The men are superb, and the best dressed men in the world. Dr. Charles Mackay, the poet. He showed us the portrait of the Duke of Sussex, who had been always identified with reforms, and told us a good story of Haydon's portrait, or picture, of "Satan," which had been a sort of white elephant in the hands of its owners. Some one finally suggested, as an appropriate place for it, that it should be sent to the Reform Club. "For," said Lord Houghton, "Satan was the first great agitator and reformer!" about every thing else. He did not care much about it either. We had evidently not come out of chaos for Sir John Bowring. He loved the old civilizations: China was his dream and belief; yet so conscientiously hospitable is an Englishman, so absolutely the slave of a letter of introduction, that he treated us with all the tenderness and politeness with which he could have treated a disciple of Confucius. I have spoken of the word "American" as a letter of introduction; so it was, but not to Sir John Bowring; we needed with him what we were fortunate enough to possess, a letter from a man whom he much respected and admired-Dr. This club building, though less elegant than the Athenæum, struck me as being more cheerful. It is more accessible-strangers are admitted on shorter probation-it is up to its name. A few gentlemen were break- | Bellows, of New York. Sir John Bowring and gold chain on neck, received me with the dignity of a sovereign. He showed us his batterie de cuisine; his solid silver saucepans; his rows of cooking - utensils, all shining with cleanliness. The gentleman with me, long connected with the New York clubs, inquired with some interest into details which were of course beyond my ken, as to supplies purchased and dinners cooked which were never eaten, etc., to all of which the chef gave affable and learned answers. I asked him if he gave every dish his personal superintendence. "Not the plain things," said he, but the soups and entrées always; We of course made a pilgrimage early to "Temple Bar," the centre of historical London, lately revived for us in the beautiful spectacular play of "Henry V." To think that ago, a rebel's head figured on this gate! We could not help recalling Dr. Johnson, as he and Goldsmith chatted at the gate of Temple Bar, as Addison, Steele, and Congreve, may have done. We saw in spirit the lofty pageants that have passed under that smoky dome. Queen Elizabeth, in gay attire, drove through to St. Paul's to thank God for the destruction of the Armada; Richard II. shook his golden bells from his bright raiment here; Cromwell here laid sacrilegious hands on the keys of London, which were none of his. Brilliant living Henry V. and poor dead Henry V. alike went under the old storied gate-way. In fact, they must be, as you are well aware, my dear | History, Literature, Romance, three knightly madam, works of genius!" He seemed to me to be a man who would kill himself if the turbot did not arrive in time. An enthusiast in his noble art, would there were more of them! He evidently had his Mordecai at the gate, his "rival beauty" companions, bear us company as we drive in our cab through Temple Bar, and we look lingeringly back on their splendid pageantry. The one scarcely less regal than the other, for who shall say which is greatest-he who lives and fights, he who lives and dreams, or est, Henry V. or Shakespeare? which could we give up ? in the person of the cook at the Junior Unit- | he who lives and writes? Which was greated Service Club, for he referred to that functionary with some asperity, and told the noble officer who accompanied us that the cook of the Juniors boasted that he served twice as many dinners as he did. "Ah!" said the colonel, "they naturally have better teeth there than we do here at the Seniors." At the Tower of London, where every American goes to put his hand directly upon history, strange to say, the heart-shaped ruby of the Black Prince interested me more than all the jewels, the armor, or the block. Our London friends were always amused at our evernew enthusiasm for Fleet Street, Temple Bar, Ludgate Hill, and East Cheap. Old stories to them, they could scarcely understand why we had come three thousand miles to look at the familiar places. They could hardly realize that it was grandfather's house to us, that we had come to ferret out the legends of childhood, the reading of a lifetime. Americans will feel as much bereaved as any history-loving Englishman can, when Temple Our last visit with Sir John Bowring was to the National Academy. Here he was simply invaluable, taking us to every important work of art, telling us its history, giving us the whole story of the Hogarths, the Turners, the Raphaels, and the Sir Joshuas. He paused a moment before the beautiful portrait of Mrs. Siddons, by Sir Joshua, and told us many interesting anecdotes of this daughter of genius, whom he well remembered. In fact, his conversation was all his- | Bar is taken down, ugly old useless thing tory. He had seen and known everybody, had been mixed up in the great, interesting world of London for more than fifty years, and it might be said of him, as Sydney Smith said of Whewell, that his "foible was omniscience." The country, and the only one, which he had never seen, was our own. He was as ignorant of the United States as he was learned that it is. The best ones stay at home. The breadth, beauty, and variety of these pictures, their great merit, must be seen to be appreciated. Then, having tasted freshness in these pictures, we would drive out to Sydenham Crystal Palace to a rose-show, and see England's flowers in a thousand varieties. There is no doubt England's rose must be seen on English soil to be appreciated. The rose in England is a much handsomer flower than here. That moist and soft climate brings all things to perfection, and the rose-show at Sydenham in June, where every cultivator in the kingdom brings his best and most perfect flower, is a thing to live for. They arrange the charming things in moss baskets, on a long, narrow table, and the people in two processions walk on either side these tables for nearly a quarter of a mile. In fact, going and coming, I thought we had nearly a mile of the best roses in the world. Westminster Abbey would claim us for days, and never weary us. After morning service we would drive out of London, perhaps to Kew Gardens to see the people-the humbler people enjoy the day in these public: pleasure-grounds. The conservatories at Kew are the finest in England. Here are the pineries, palmeries, orchid-houses, where one can find the beautiful curiosities of the air-plant -parasite family to perfection. There we saw the white dove of the Isthmus of Panama, the "St.-Esprit" poising its wings over a dry branch; Nature-again a plagiarist, imitating herself. Canary-birds in flowers, white rabbits peeping out of purple liliesthe orchid-flower is always an animal in disguise. Sitting in the shady grounds of Kew, I talked to my next neighbor, a poor woman of London; one of the thousands who came out to enjoy the Sabbath rest and coolnessShe told me of their humble preparations, their bringing their own tea and sugar, and their stopping at a farm-house to make the tea, where they bought a little milk and bread. "The whole day only costs us a shil. ling," said she. "If it cost more we could not do it." The drive home from Kew is over the very roads which were once haunted by highwaymen. We are not stopped, bu reach London in safety. We enjoyed goin to Covent Garden Market to buy flowers an fruits. The English strawberries are in mense things, twice as large as ours, and o the most irregular shape. They do not e them as we do, with cream, but, daintily ta ing them by the green stem, dip them car fully in sugar, and always give two bites to berry, which amply deserves the complimer I once picked them from the vine, in An Boleyn's Garden, at Hampton Court, a whether it was the recollection of her li poor thing, or whether the strawberries w particularly well flavored, I know not, bu taste them still-that glorious English riety called the Queen. Another pleasant sight of London was course the "Ladies' Mile," that row of amazons in the park of a morning when band plays in front of St. James's Palace, you hire a chair and sit down to look on all London's best horse-flesh and all I land's best beauty, aristocracy, and elegan The Crystal Palace at Sydenham is a great source of amusement. There one hears those monster concerts of a thousand, sometimes five thousand, voices. There one can see the models of the Alhambra, the famous sculptures, and almost, I had said, buildings of Europe; there the best flowers, birds, beasts, and curiosities of the world. There can one, after a day of music and sight-seeing, get a comfortable dinner, luncheon, tea, or any thing, and drive back to London comfortably tired, in time for a theatre, opera, and two or three balls. There is no doubt that London taken in this way is fatiguing, and requires a robust love of pleasure, and a strong constitution to do it, and to do it well. you in a Continental city, but then comes "Shadows we are, and like shadows we depart," bered that Shakespeare haunts St. Paul's. He makes Falstaff here, Bardolph there; and Ben Jonson lays the third act of "Every Man in his Humor" in the middle aisle; then did I remember that "horrid, bloody, and malicious flame" which in 1666 destroyed St. Paul, and made way for Wren's genius, which said Wren, and it was a courageous speech. Since 1697 the daily voice of prayer and praise has never ceased in St. Paul. One hour I do remember as fittingly spent there. In the chapel, near its historic dead, I heard service in St. Paul's. The boys' voices"those children of Paul's "-rent the air with their delicious soprano, and fitly bore the mind upward to the grand associations and ideas which should fill that noble dome. says the old sun-dial in the Temple, which | raised the dome. "I build for eternity," The theatres in London are not on a par The dinners of London are very late, never before eight o'clock; this allows of a long drive in the park, but it effectually loses you the evening for any entertainment. It is one of the sights of London to see its welldressed pairs, in a neat clarence or brougham, going out to dinner, each gentleman carrying his hat in his hand for fear of disturbing his well-dressed hair. The late twilight in that high latitude leaves London as bright almost as morning at eight o'clock, and the whole city seems to be going out to dine with somebody else. You almost wonder if there is a house of a respectable grade where the people are staying at home and dining off their own shoulder-of-mutton. Should you wish to go to the theatre or opera, you must refuse your dinner-party, and dine humbly at six o'clock. T M. E. W. S. A DAY WITH DUMAS. HE day before yesterday, at nine o'clock in the morning, I rang at the door of the little hotel occupied by Alexandre Dumas, on the Avenue de Villiers-one of the wide and handsome streets that the seventeenth arrondissement owes to the skill of Baron Haussmann. The house has quite a commonplace aspect. At the first glance it looks small, and one can scarcely realize that it can shelter so much talent! But on entering the house one perceives at once that one is not in the house of an ordinary person. The severely vases filled with exotic plants, the portières of Gobelin tapestry, the thick carpet with its dark, rich coloring, the old lamp of wroughtiron, Bonnington's great composition representing the Rue Royale in 1825-all that impresses the spectator greatly. It is the porch of a temple, not the entrance of a dwelling. And at all events the god does not keep you waiting. Dumas likes to know at once the name of the indiscreet person who comes to disturb him, so he conceals himself behind the folds of the portière. Thence he can see the visitor without being seen himself, and a slight sign dictates his reply to the valet who has admitted you. the hospitality of the ages. Here come the It was always a sight to us to see the enthusiasm of the crowd when the Prince of Wales or any member of the royal family drove through the streets in state. Loyalty is a new sight to us here in free America, and it takes us out of our reckoning. The "Guards"-splendid men, in the most brilliant dress in the world-were another glittering and pompous sight. All this was to be had for nothing, merely a part of your lay, and your own participation in it was to keep your eyes open. So with the handsome English children playing in the parks with heir dogs, groups right out of Punch; so vith the equipages, with their faultless turnut, the servants chosen for their good looks, ❘ could only think of Sydney Smith's witticism lean limbs, and the coachmen necessarily about the old lady who called the vergers lout, the neatness of the livery, and the per-virgins, and who asked Mr. Smith if it was This intense care bestowed on the equiage produces a result which is not reached nywhere on the Continent. The state-carages of emperors and kings may flaslı past true that he walked down St. Paul's with three virgins carrying silver pokers in front of him. He shook his head. "Madame," said he, "some enemy of the Church, some dissenter, has been misleading you." It was after I came away that I remem In spite of the early hour, I knew that I would find the great author already up and dressed. He rises earlier than any one else in Paris. On the other hand, there are very few who retire earlier. "I do not think that I have gone to bed after ten o'clock more than twice during eighteen years," he once said to me. "And I am the awakener of the whole house. I always light the fires in all the rooms. I have never been able to find a servant who would save me that trouble. I have often engaged servants who, finding me, when they came down-stairs, sitting on the floor before the hearth and arranging the fagots, have complimented me on my skill at that task, and who were evidently saying to themselves, 'If it amuses him we will not disturb him!' I even think of the kitchen-fires, so that, when my cook comes down to his domain, he has nothing to do but to put on the blazing fire the soup that I take every morning regularly |