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“ Oh, I had just brought up Billy some dinner, and whtn ] heard you I ran under the bed and ti‘ipp‘ed over the carpet, and fell splash into the gravy. But it is nothing,” 1 wind up, airily. “Nothing! I wish it was less, GO wash yourself, you dirty child.” Then, resuming the ferocious aspect, and with uplifted cane, he advances on Billy. y Authm “c mummy” ‘ v “ \Villiam ’ â€"i1nitating {Java’s voice to a nicctyâ€"J‘ I lizyve not yet done with you. What, sir, did you mean by exposing your sensitive sister to the criticisms of a. crowded table? If your own gentlemanly instincts are not sufficiently developed to enable you to understand how unpai‘donal‘lle are person- al remarks, let this castigation, that a son - - . ‘ l. 3A X'Ulllfllhb, new unlnu wwwbe.-. , V, ,, , f duty compels me to bestow, be the means of teaching you." 'iilly grins, and for the third time com- mences his dinner, while Roland leans against the Window-shutter and contem- ilates him “ith lazy curiosity. ' “ Billy,” he asks, presently, “ is mutton when the fat has grown white and the gravy is'in tiny lumpsâ€"a good thing?” "No it ain’t,” returns Billy, gruinpily, and with rather more than his usual vulgar- I “Dumplings ?”says Billy, regarding me fixedly; “ dumpling! Phyllis, 7I'((.< there dumplings ‘3" “ There was,” I reply, “ And whipped cream!” “Yes,” I answered, faintly.” “ 0h, Phyllis!" says Billy, in the livliest tone of reproach. The flicker of an amused smile shoots across Roland’s face. “Phyllis, why did you not bring him somé?” he asks, in a tone that reflects and with rather more than his usual vulgar-I it . yz‘ I ask merely forinformation,” says Rely. “ It certainly loo/rs odd.” “It’s beastly,” says Billy. “If the gov. (-mor goes in for any more of this kind of thing I’ll cut and run ; that’s what I’ll do.” “ \Vhy (lidn’t you have 'somc dumpling ‘2” Roland goes on, smoothly. “The whipped cream with it was capitgml.:: ,l n would be caught. Besides “ Miss Phyllis, Miss Phyllis,’ comes a. sepulchral whisper at the door, accompanied by a faint knock. 111 the whisper I recog- nize James. Having taken a precautionary peep through the keyhole, I‘ open' the door, and on the threshold discover our faithful friend, with a, large plate of apples and cream in his hand, and a considerable air of mystery about him. “ Miss Phyllis,” he says, in a fine under- tone, “ cook sent this here to Master Billy ; and the mistress says you are to come down at oneet, as the master has been asking where you all are.” 1' . u,, Irnesnl. : J)AAIJ a, “ How would I?” I exclaim, indignantly, “ I could not carry more than one plate, and even as it was the gravy was running all about. Iwas afraid every minute I nnvu. J v» .u. , “ I am coming,”l return ; “ and tell cook we are awfully obliged to her,” Where- u on, having deposited the (lainties before Billy, I charge down-stairs and into the library ; and, having seized hold of the first book I can see, I collect myself ,aml enter the drmving-room with a sedate air. ‘ my __ V, O “ \Vhere have you been?” demands papa, twisting his head round until I wonder his neck doesn’t crack. “ In thelibmry, choosing a book." “ \Vhat book f” “ I glance at the volume I carry, and, to my unmitigated hon-01‘, find it a treatise on surgery. ' n n AL, -y T M. 'J “Come here and let me see it.” Trembling I advance and surrender my book. “ Is this a proper subject for a young wo- man to study?” exelaims papa, in high dis- gust, when he had read through the head- ings of the chapters. “What an abomin- able girl you are? Go over there and sit down, and keep yourself out of mischief for the remainder of the evening, if you can.” “ \Vould you like Tennyson’s ‘ In Memor- iam ’ ?” asks Dora, sweetly, raising her white lids for a moment to hold out to me an elegant littie edition in green-and gold. The next day Dora. is still lowâ€"very 10w indeedâ€"and sighs heavily at intervals. \Vc might, however, in spite of this, have man- aged to knock some enjoyinth out of our lives, but, unfortunately, whatever commu< nication she has made to papa on the sub- ject of Mr. Cai‘rington’s treachery has had the cfiect of rendering him almost unbearl able. .r-Jfigjtrglvmnk you,” I answc‘}, curtly, Iand, subsiding into my chair, sulk confiortably until bed-hour. At breakfast the playfulness of his re- marks can only be equalled by the sweet- ness of his expression; and by lunch-hour he is so much worse that (as far at least as I’m concerned) the food before me is as dust and ashes. 1 think Roland rather enjoys the inurkiness of our atmosphere than other- wise, and takes a. small but evident pleasure in winking at me as he presses the vinegar and pepper upon our already liighly-sensoned lather. There’s many a thing that the maidens wish As they journey along in life, As_ thpyfake'thginp - ' he busy world, -L._~:.\. And ghare in its cares and stn c, Perhafis they wish for a cosy house, Wit furniture spick and spanâ€" But to crown the whole they care the most For the love of an honest man. Yes. pretty maiden. where’er you are. In palace or humble cot. Whether your life is fair and bright, Or trial and toil your lot, Whether your name is Flota May, 0r homely Mary Ann, You will be in luck if you win that loveâ€" The love of an honest man. 6, a maiden may prize her diamond set, 0r dresses of latest style; Or inhabit a house of costl build, \Vith carpets of velvet pi e; But the greatest blessing to woman's life Let her gain it while now she canâ€" From her golden locks, to her silver hairs. Is the love of an honest man. 0-. -“ Itvié by Dr. Butly." I murmur, vague- or of “ Molly Balm," “ The Baby “ Airy Fairy Lilian," ac" dc. “ A11 ‘. Love was nmm‘ yet without Hm pang, the agony, the doubt." Dvnnv The Love of an; Honest Man. CHAI’TER 1X.Auom'1xm«:n. PHYLLIS. BY THE Dl‘ClIESx CHAPTER X. Maud Mil nor. â€"â€"BYRON. The latter, knowing my nomadic tenden- cies, is successful in bringing to light dur- ing the day a dozen unhemmed cmubric handkerchiefs, and before going for his cusj tomary afternoon ride leaves strict injunc- tions behind him that by my fingers they are to be begun and ended before his return. About four o’clock, therefore, behold me sitting in statein the drawingâ€"room, in com- pany Wltll mamma and Dom, hard at work at my enforced task. The conversation is limited; it dwindles, indeed, until it gets so sparse that at length we are ashamed of it and relapse into Slleuce. Dora broods with tender melancholy on her woes; mother thinks of us; while ], were I to give a voice to my thoughts, would de- mand of mother the name of the evil genius that possessed her when she walked to lthe altar with papa. A horrible thought comes into my haul. Supposeâ€"romw it isimpossible ibut sup/20w Mr. Carrington were to come in now, and in the course of conversation mention my photograph: what will not mother and Dora. think? What is to prevent their (lruwinga conclusion about what happened yesterday? Although I do not in the least helicve it 7mm my picture Mr. Carrington was seen cinâ€" bracing still the very idea that it mfg/Ill be, and that he might at any time turns me cold. Something must be done, and that quickly. \Vithout further hesitation 1 rise from my seat, put down my work, and make for the door. No one attempts to detain me, and in an instant I am in the hall, face to face with our visitor The needle-runs into my finger; it does so pretty regularly after every fifth stitch, but this time it has got under the nail, and causes me for the moment keen anguish. I groan, and mutter something under my breath; and mother says, “ Phyllis, darling, be careful,” in a dreamy tone. Surely we are more than ordinarily dull. _ Suddenly there comes a rattle of horses’ hoofs upon the gravel outside. \Ye raise our heads simultaneously and questiml each other by our looks. A little later. zuul Mr. Carringtou’s voice striking on our ears sets speculation at rest. Mamma. glances fur- tivuly alt Dora, and D01; breathes a faint sigh and blushes pale pink, while suffering an aggrieved expression to characterize her lace. I lay my haan upon the fmnt of his :uaf, and whisper hurriedly : “ Do not say a. word about my picture, not a word. Do you understmui?" I have raised my face very close to his in my anxiety, and shake him slightly to empha- size my words. " I :10,” replies lie, placing his lnunl over mine as it lies‘almo;t unconwiously upon his breast. “ Of course 1 will not. But-â€"â€" why ” “ Nothing,” I say; “ at least only a fancy. Go now. 1 will tell you some other time.” “Phyllis, will you ni'eet me at the oak- treo to-morrow evening at five-cat jbm' '3” he asks, eagerly, detaining me as 1 seek to escape ; and I say, “ Yes,” with impatient haste, and. tearing my handout of his, turn my back upon him and gladly dlSapanl'. “ At last! How late you are! I thought you were nezwr coming,” is Mr. Carrington’s somewhat impatient greeting next evening, as he advances to meet me from under the old oak-tree. My cheeks are flushed with the rapidity of my walk: my breath rushes from me in short quick little gas s. “ l certainl); thotfght you rather tragical, and have been puzzling my brain ever since to discover the cause. Now, tell it to me.” “ If I do you will think me horribly con- ceited.” I hesitate and blush; uneasily. For the first time it occurs to me that I have a very uncomfortable stery to relate. “ I will not,” says Mr. Carrington, ami- “ I will not," says ably. “ I was so busi I could xfot 801m: :1 mo- ment sooner. I would not be here at all but that I promised, and was afraid you would think me out of my senses yesterday,” I say, laughing and pantinm “\Vull, then, the fact is, down at the river-trout, the day before yesterday, some- body saw you kissing a picture in a locket, and I fcarcu if you mentioned having my portrait they mightâ€"~they take up such ri- diculous fancies at homoAthey mfg/M think it was mine.” “ Is it possible they would imagine any- thing so unlikely?” “ 0f ('oursw " with eager haste v" [know it was not, but they might choose to think (lifl'et‘ently; and, besides, something)r has whispered to me two or three times since that perhaps I was Wrong in giving my pho- tograph to you at all. Was I?” wistfully. 7‘ That isva hard question to ask me, Phyl- lis, who am so happy in the possession of it. I celitainly do not 911ml; y0u_ worg.” “ Then you would see no harm in my giv- ing my picture to anyone?” “ Of course I do not say it would be right of you to go about giving it to every man you meet.” “ No? Then Why should I give it to you in particular? After all, I believe 1 was wrong: " “ Oh, that is quite another thing altoge- ther,” says Mr. Carrington, biting his lip. “ You have known me a long time; I may almost be considered an old friend. And, besides, you can be quite sure that 1 will prizgflit as_xt desorvcs. ” “That is saying very little," 1 return, gloomily. His reasoning seems to me poor and unsatisfactory. I begin to wish my wretched likeness back again in my untidy drawer. “But why are )ou so sure it was no! your picture 1 was caught admiring the other day?" asks Mr. Can-ington, presently, with an ill-suppressed smile. “ Nongsense!” I reply angrily. (I hate being laughed at). “ For what possible reaâ€" son would you put 7213/ face into your locket? I lawn you would not think me vain when I began, but I am notâ€"â€"a11dâ€"~aud 1 am very sorry 1 tool: the trouble to explain it to you at all.” “ Forgive me, Phyllis. I did not mean to offend you, and I do not think you vain. I was merely imagining what a, famous fool I must have looked when discovered in the act you describe. But have you 110 curiosity to learn who it wall/1 was I was so publicly embracing ‘3” “ I 571071.,” I retufn, with anod'. “ it was that little girl you told me of some time sinceâ€" the village maiden, you remember, whose face was so dear to you. Am 1 not; right?" CHAPTER X I. “ You would only be disappointed, and then you would say so, and 1 could not bear to hear one disparaging word said of my beauty.” “ May I see her?” I ask, coaxmgly. “ Do let me get just one little peep at her. 1 am sure she is lovely, from what you say; and I do so like pretty people?” “ vaillnot be disappointed. Of courseâ€" you have had so much experience to guide youâ€"~your taste must be better than mine. Please let me see her.” “ You promiso faithfully not to scorn the face I will show you? You will say no slighjingwor "”_ “ Quite right. \Vhat a capital guess you made.” “ Very gom .” He raises his watch-chain and detaches from it a plain gold locket. I draw near and gaze at it eagerly. \Vhat will she be like, this rival of Dora’s?” 7‘ I will not indeed. How could you think I would be so rude?” “Yes, yes," I answer, impatiently; and as he deliberately opens the trinket I lean for- ward and stare into the large gray .blue eyes of Phyllis Marian Vernon. "' Now, remember,” he says again, while a look of mtense amusement eweses lns face, “ you have promised to admire ‘1” “ Thou it was an uutruth you tolnl me about that girl?” “ No, it was not. \Vill you not try to understand? You are that little girl; it was your face I kissed the other day down by the river. There is no facu in tllc world I llOlll so dear as yours.” “Then you had no rig/ll! to kiss it," I break out, imiignantly, my'sm'prise and be- wildermcnt making me vehement. “ 1 did not give you my picture to put in your look- et and treat in Athat way. How dare you carry me all over the place with youwmak- ing things so unpleasant everywhere ‘3 And, besides, you are talking \‘cry falsely: it is intiplossiblc that any (mo could think me hemi- ti u .” Slowly I raise my head and look at my companion. He appears grave now, and rather :mxioux. Iknow Jam 21.; white as death. “ Do not use the word ‘ too,’ Phyllis. You have no rival: I keep no woman’s face near me ewcpt yours." “ I do,” says he, gently. “I cannot help it. You know we alljudgc (lifi'ercntly. And as to my ‘rissing it, surely that was no great harm. It became mine, you know, when you gave it to me; and for 1110 to kiss it now and then cannot injure you or it.” He gazes down tenderly upon the face lying in his hand. “The Phyllis here does not look as if she could be unkind or unjust,” he says, softly. “ So you have put Ill” into the luckct too,” I say, in :1 low tgne. “ \Yhy‘f’ 1 am impressed by the mildness of his 1'0- proach. lnsensibly I go closer to him, and regard with mingled leelings the innocent cause of all the disturbance. “ lt~ ccrtaixily looks wonderfully well.” I say, with reluctance. “It never appeared to me soâ€"ahâ€"ynmxub/r before. It must he the gold frame. Somehmv â€"[ never thought so until to-dayâ€"‘hut now it seems much too pretty for me.” “ Remember your1‘n‘0mise,”says Mr. Cal‘- l‘ington, dcmurely. “' to admire and say no disparagmg word. ” “ You laid a trap for me,” I reply, smil- ing in spite of myself, and haul son to pre- vent the smile turning into a 111en'y laugh as breview the situation. I lean my back against the old tree, and, elaspinq my hands loosely before me, begin to piece past events. I had not gone far in my meditations when I became aware that Mr. Carrington has closed the locket, has turned, and is steadfastly regarding me. My hat lies on the ground beside me; the wanton wind has blown a few stray tresses of my hair across my forehead Involuntarily I raise my head until our eyes meet. Some- thing new, indefinite, in his eyes makes my heart beat with a sudden fear that yet is nameless. “Phyllis,” Whispers he. hurriedly, im- pulsively, “ will you marry me ‘1” A long, long pause. 1 am still alive, then I the skies have not fallen! “ W/ml .’ ’7 cry I, when I recover breath, moving back a step or two, and staring at him with the most open and undisguised amazement. (Ian I have heard aright‘! Is it indeed me he is asking to marry him‘.’ And if so-~if my senses have not deceived mefiwho is to tell Dora? This tho‘ught surmounts all others. “ 1 want you to say you will marry me,” repeats he, rather disconcerted by the cm- phatic astonishment of my look and tone. As I make no reply this time, he is emboldâ€" ened, and, advancing takes both my hands, " \\'hy do you look so surprised?” he says. " \Vhy will you not answer me 1’ Surely for weeks you must have seen 1 would some time ask you this question. ‘,Then why not to-day? If I waited for years I could not love you more utterly, more madly, if you like, than now. And you, Phyllisâ€"say you will be my wife.” “ I cannot indeed.” I reply, earnestly; “it is out of the question. I never knew you»- you cared for me in this wain always thoughtflthat is, we all thoughtâ€"youâ€"â€"~” (5 3708,” “ We were all quite sureâ€"I mean none of us imagined you were in love with me.” “ \Vith whom themâ€"with Dora.” “ Well ”â€"nervouslyâ€"“ 1 am sure mam- nm and papa thought‘so, and so did I.” “ \VhAat‘ an absjurd mistake! Ten thou- sand Doras would not make one Phyllis. Do you know, ever since that first day I saw you in this wood I loved you:7 Do you 1'0- member it?” lnember it?” “Yes,” I say, blushing furiously. "I was hanging from the nut-tree and nearly went mad with shame and rage when l fouml 1 could not escape. 1t puzzles me to think what you could have seen to admire about me [but day, unless my boots.” J laugh rather hysterically: ‘71\evcrtlieless I (lid love you then, and have gone on nursing the feeling ever since, until I could keep it to myself no longer. But you are silent, Phyllis. \Vhy do you not speak? I 'zt'i/lnot remember what you snidjus’c now; I m'l/ not take a refusal from you. Darling, darling, surely you love me, if only a, little?" Silence falls upon myvcruel words. His lmmlclasp loosens, but still he does not let me altogether g0; and, glancing up timidly, “ No, I do not love you,” I answer, with downcast lids and flaming cheeks. I see a face like and yet unlike the face I knowâ€"a face that is still and white, with lips that tremble slightly beneath the heavy fair moustache. A world of disappointed anguish darkens his blue eyes. final“... “11 LL£~ And 'I ...... “But- 1 like you, you will understand. 1 may not low you, but I lily) you very much indeedfibetter than any other man I ever met, except Roland and Billy, and he is only a boy.” This is not a'very clear or logical speech, but it does just as well; it brings the blood back to his face, and a smile to his lips, the light and fire to his eyes. “Are you sure of that?” he asks, eagerly. “Are you certain, Phyllis?" “ Quite sure. But then I have never seen any men except Mr. Mangan, you know, and the curate, and Boby dc Vere, andâ€" and one or two others.” Seeing all this, and knowing himself its cause, my heart is touched and a keen pang darts through my breast. I press his hands with reassuring force as I go on hastily: “ And these one or two others"-jealously â€"“ have 1 nothing to fear from them? Have you given they/mono of your thoughts?" “ Not one,” return I, smiling up at him. The smile does more than I intend. “ Then you will marry me, Phyllis?” cries he, with renewed hope. “ If you like me as you say, ] will make you love me when you are once my own. No man could love as I dowithout creating some answering affection. Phyllis,” he goes on passionately, “look at me and say you believe all this. Oh, my life, my darling, how I have longed for you! How 1 have watched the hours that would bring me. to your side! How I have hated the evenings that parted you from me 1 Say one little kind word to me and make u 0 happy. ” His tone is so full of hope and joy that al- most I feel myself drifting with the current of his passion. But. Dora‘s face rising be- fore me checks the coming words, ] draw back. “Phyllis, put me out of pain,” he says; entreatingly. I begin to find the situation trying, being a. mere novice in the art of reâ€" ceiving and refusing proposals with ,pro- pnety. “ lâ€"l don’t think I want to I'th married yet,” I say, at length, with nervous gentle- ness. I am very fearful of hurting him again. “ Athome when I ask to go any- where, they tell me I am still achihl, and you are much older than me. I don’t mean that you are old,” 1 add anxiously, “only a good deal older than I am ; and perhaps when it was too late you would repent the step you had taken and wish you had chosen a wife older and wiser.’7 I stop, amazed ‘at my own eloquence and rather proud of myself. Never before have I made so long and so connected a speech. Really the “ older and wiser ” could scarce. ly have done better. The nqul'ying in haste and repenting at leisure allusion appears to be V ‘y neat, and oily/M to be effective. ‘ “Of course,” says Mr. Carrington, in a low tone, “ 1 know you are very young”* (it is coming)â€"“ only seventeen. And, and" ~(sm'oly coming)“‘ .I, suppose twenty-eight appears quite old to you.” (In another in- stant I shall he disgraced forever.) “ I look even older than I am. But good gracious, Phyllis, is anything the matter with you?” “Nothing, nothing,” I murmur, with a. last frantic effort at pride and dignity, “only ar a~--snce reeze a‘tcliu atchu atclnf All isgoina; on very wellindecd, and I feel leonhl continue with dignity to the end, but that just at this moment I become con- scious I am going to sneeze. Oh, horrible, nm‘omantic thought I Will nothing put it back for ten minutesâ€"for even film? [ feel myself turning crimson, and certain admon- itary twitchings in my nose warn me that the catastrophe is close at hand. 'There isa most awful pause, and then Mr. Carringtonfiftfl a vain endeavor to suppress it, bursts into an unrestrained fit of laugh~ ter, in which without hesitation I join him. Indeed, new the crisis is over and m'y diifi- cult and new-born dignity is a thing of the past, I feel much more comfortable and pleasanter in every way. “ But Phyllis, all this time you are keep- ing me 1n suspense,” says Mr. Carrington, presently, in an anx10us tone; “and I will not le'ive you again without a decided an- swer. The uncertainty kills me. Darling, I feel glad and thankful when I remember how happy I can nuke your life, if you will only let me. You shall never have a, wish ungratlficd thaf is in my power to grant. Strangemore shall be yours, and you shall make what alterations you choose. You shall have your own rooms, and furnish them as your own taste (lir :cts. You shall reign there as the very sweetest queen that ever came within its walls.” “ 1 remembsr the other day you told me how you longed to visit foricgn lands. 1 will take you abroad, and you shall stay there as long as you wish-â€"until you have seen everything your fancy has pictured to you. You will like all this, Phyllis ; it pleases you.” He has passed his arm lightly round waist, and is keenly notng the cffccl of words. The newest form of lawlessness, the hold- ing of Land-league hunts for the purpose of destroying the eoverts and preserves of the landlords and overriding their proprietary rightsy is giving considerable trouble to the authorities, and is likely to lead to violent collisions if it be not repressed. A number of farmers’ hunts as they are called, were organized for recently, but in every case where the authorities were informed of the design they took measures to frustrate it by sending a large body of military and police to each place where “the meet ” was to take place. This course, however, weakens the strength of the executive by drawing away the forces from patrol and other duties, which it is necessary to have more efficient- ly done. \Vhenever the authorities interfere with then] the intended “hunts ” are aban- doned. In ,T/M" (Mth are proclamations prohibiting some of those announced for, and reports have been received to the effect that they have been prevented. Some of them appear to have been planned for the mere purpose of keeping the authorities uso» fully employed. A large force of policeand military left Shillelagh, County \Vicklow, in two divisxons for the purpose of inipeding a hunt announced to come off at Coolhcnny. The hunt did not take place. F<OC 4‘-'> to (Tp BE CONTINUED.) Irish Lawlessness. London Times. my his A RECENT steamer took twenty-seven mir- sionaries to Japan. APA\\'TUCKET hen plckerl the $700 dia- mond out of a. pin. It was found safely hid- den in her crop, and she did not survive the discovery. T11}: msthete wears knee-breaches because he don’t like pants, and so do his. â€" IS an affi'ay at Fort W‘ayne between gamb- lers, J eff Morris crushed the skull of Harry Maxwell. Friends of the latter made an attempt to shoot Morris on the way to the jail. A COLORED boy in a. New Jersey mill who was caught in a revolving shaft: and flung against a. past; ten feet away, said he “never felt so awfully ashamed ” in the whole course of his life. ALL the seats are already taken for the first two performances of \Vagner’s “Par- sifal,” which is to be produced at Munich in July. \Vagner has sold the opera score to the firm of Schott of Mayuuce for $18,- 500. T11}: St. l’etersburg police have issued an order forbidding the appearance of am' actors or dancers on the stage of the thcat ‘ of the capital whose dresses have not pre- viously been rendered incombustible by means of chlorate of lime. The same rule has been in force in Berlin for live vcars. BECKWI’I‘II, the supposed cannibal, \xixo recently murdered Vandercook at [Auster- litz, C. Y., spent Tuesday night at Wesb field, Mass, where he told an acquaintance he had been hiding in a charcoal camp. wards of $750 has been offered for hi capture. ), \tu SOME miscreants adjusted a double-burr ed shot-gun at the residence of Dr. A ' . n‘. Erwin, at Mansfield, 0., in such a manner as to discharge when the gate was swung. The doctor returned after midnight on Fri- day and received nearly two hundred shot in his clothing, but was not fatally wound- ed. IN Allegheny county, Pennsylvania. :1 highly respected young Illa!) named he spent Friday hunting. He met two lall)’ acquaintances in a grove of trees, and at once fired at them, inflicting slight wounds. On being pursued he killed himself with hi< shot-gun, literally blowing his head to pics; 7. There is no explanation of the. afl'air. A GREAT religious gathering known (is Magh Mela. is now being held at thejunc- tion of the Ganges and the J umnu at Alia- habad, in India. It is particularly crowded this year, owing to its being whth is called Khumb, or Twelfth year. The number or visitors is estimated at; from 1,000,000 ta» 2,000,000. Some fear is entertained of an outbreak of some pestileneemnong this \' multitude. ,\ 4 um A BOY died in Philadelphia of hydropho- hia. In one of his struggles a bit of froth from his lips flew into his father’s eye. The man had a nervous temperament, and he imagined he had become inoculated with the disease. He felt all the symptoms, gave the peculiar coughs resembling barks, and writhed in agony. A physician assured him that hydrophobia could not possibly have developed in a few hours, nor from such a cause, but that made no difference. Power- ful doses of chloral were required to quiet him, and he was left almost lifeless by the violence of the attack. AN ttalian has invented a process fer soli<l1fying wine. From a small quantity of this extract may be obtained a bottle of gen- erous wine of good taste and beautiful color. The object is to \‘ictuul ships and supply armies. A chemist in Marseilles has found a. chemical combination by which he can solidify and even crystallize brandy. The brandy in its new form looks like alum. It entirely loses its smell. The facility with which it can be transported is of course the main recommendation of the new invention. An African Prince. The son of an African prince found himself at the close of the war an emancipated slave in the Soulh. He went to work as a team- ster and bought a mule. [10 was possessed. of native shrewdness and knew how to make money ; “saved manure,” among other thingsAa practice unheard ofâ€" and he intro- duced other economics ; he also paid extra wages for extra work, He learned to read and acquired a varied and curious education. He has no faith in the education of the ne- grocs. “Their education is here,” he said to the author of the article, “Studies in the South,” in the Atlantic Monthly, and pointing to the fields. " Not many of our race can work and read too. Newspapers make us meddle with other people’s business and let go of our own.” He owned l’lu- tarch and Montaigne in French, Bacon. Pope’s Homer, Shakspeare, Rollin’s Ancient History, Gary’s Dante, and something of Carler and \Vordsworth. He had read Plato, but thought Plato talked too much. “ If he had a big thing to talk about he talked all the time, and if it was a little thing he talked just the same.” Socrates he liked; thought him a sensible man; would have liked to talk with him. Socrates and Abraham Lincoln would have liked each other, and Carlyle. “Those three men," he said, “ if they could be together would have more fun than ever was in the world at one time; they conld tell so many stories." The writer asked if they would not want Bacon with them, to which he replied, “.lfiacon is very sober, but sometimes it is no great thing he has to tell us.” This negro believes in blood, and prided himself on his descent. Besides the books above mentioned, he had forty volumes of African travel. A rope of'extra-lnrge size hasreeently been made for a. firm in New Zealand, where it is to be used in hauling up ships when they run aground on the soft. mud bottom there. which they occasionally do. This rope is :1. twenty-one-inch white manila hmvser, 1‘20 fathonis long and composed of nine strands of 316 yarns to the strand. Another rope for the same purposo is a fifteen-inch hawser 01' the same material and length, and composed of nine strands with 164 yarns to the strand. VVheu it is remembered that twelve-inch ropes are the largest ordinarily made, the magnitude of those just described becomts apparent. The two ropes werenmnufactmw (l by )Iess‘s. Frost Brothers, of Shadwell. _7W~â€"-‘u 40> oohâ€"â€" A TwentyOne-Inch Kawser. 0n Interesting Subjects. VARIOUS TOPICS. «00¢-» conâ€"â€" London l’osL