vacant, laughing like a fury escaped from the infernal regions.

The fishermen had found in the bottom of the net the corpse of Don Jaime. Damian had found his cabin deserted and Carmen's bed untouched.

Was Carmelita in the other net? with the other half of the walnut plank?

"She also! I did not count upon so many, did not want that! I wished to save her for myself, although she was

good catch!" screamed Damian between savage bursts of laughter and with all the strength of his lungs.

He ran and shut himself in the cabin. When the officer entered to arrest him, he found that he was armed with a saw cutting his right hand and screaming with fearful glee:

"A good catch, a good catch!" From the Spanish of Pedro Antonio de Alarcón, by Jean Raymond Bidwell.

A Quaint Spectacle at Westminster.The House of Lords presents a very quaint appearance during the hearing of the important trade-union appeal, Allen vs. Flood, in which for the first time in seventeen years the judges of the High Court have been summoned to give their opinion and advice. Eight of their lordships, in full-bottomed wigs and their robes of state, almost sitting upon one another's laps, are seated at a small table, between the lord chancellor and the narrow space reserved for the bar, on two settees in shape resembling the Woolsack. Their mouths are closed, and the most loquacious of them may not so much as put a question to the learned counsel engaged in the case, while the law lords, seated in plain clothes on the barons' benches behind them, are keeping up a running fire of critical comment. There is no provision for the usual voluminous note-taking, and at most they exchange a few remarks in undertones among themselves. To the judicial mind, accustomed to be supreme within its own domain, it must be something of a trial to play second fiddle, or, rather, to play no fiddle at all, but merely to be called in to say whether the strings are in tune.

At the conclusion of the arguments their lordships will be invited to express their opinion upon the points submitted to them, but they have no effective vote or voice in the matter. The judges summoned to attend are Justices Hawkins, Mathew, Cave, Wills, Grantham, Lawrence, Wright, and Mr. Justice North of the Chancery Division, who would hardly be recognized in his scarlet and ermine by the practitioners and litigants in his sober-suited court. There are nine law lords present, including the lord chancellors of Great Britain and Ireland, an unequal number, in order to ensure a majority on one side or the other. Yesterday morning the Bishop of Manchester in his robes, looking rather like the proverbial fish out of water, occupied a seat during the hearing behind his lay brethren. Ushers in sombre black, with rosettes and silk stockings, flit noiselessly to and fro at the bidding of the lord chancellor. As it is not perhaps generally known that any member of the public has a right to enter the House of Lords when it is sitting as a court of justice, the spectators are few.-Westminster Gazette.

This incident gives the conversation a new turn, and strange stories are told about Jake Herring's housekeeping and general shiftlessness. It is recalled how, before he built the lean-to which now serves for a barn, his old black mare was kept, in cold weather, in the same house with the family, and how on one occasion Jake complained that their dinner had been spoiled because "old Raven whisked her tail through the gravy." "They say," narrates Foss Jones, "that when the doctor went, last week, to see Almiry [Jake's wife], he found a bushel of potatoes in the bed with her. It was the only place they had to keep them from freezing."

Nobody starves to death in our village, but some of the mountain folk, who live far away on by-roads, in places which are often inaccessible in winter, are very poor, ill nourished and ill-clothed. However, the prevailing tone in Asher Dill's store and in the village generally is a humorous one,—a tone of irony and of good-natured sarcasm. Almost everybody cultivates a fine sense of humor; in fact, to be humorous, and especially to be good at repartee, is the one intellectual ambition of the community. We do not care much for learning of any sort. Our letters-which we put off writing till about six months after they are due -do not excel in grammar or in pen. manship. And it is really astonishing, even to ourselves, how little we care for what goes on in the outside world. We read the papers with only a languid interest, being more concerned about the trivial events in the next town, duly

we are about what is said or done in Washington, in London, or in Paris. But the sense of humor is developed among us in childhood, and is never lost, even in moments of difficulty or of danger. Last Fourth of July, a desperate character who lives on a mountain road in the outskirts of the town, drove into the village in a little rickety cart, waving over his head a woman's broken and battered sunshade, which he had picked up somewhere. He was very drunk, and before long the cart was upset. His horse, a half-broken colt, kicked and plunged, and tried to run away. The fellow pluckily clung to the reins, and was dragged about on the ground hither and thither, being finally extricated from the ruins of his cart. But through it all he kept the sunshade in his hand. "I don't care anything about myself," he said, as he was assisted to his feet, the blood streaming from his face, "nor about the hoss, nor about the cart, but I wuz determined to save this beautiful parasol."

To discuss why this humorous spirit should be the prevailing spirit in an Anglo-Saxon community of Puritan descent would be a difficult though pleasant task; but I must content myself here with the obvious remark that it could not exist except in connection with an ample background of leisure. Our village-and perhaps this cardinal fact ought to have been stated at the outset-enjoys a blessed immunity from railroads. The nearest station is ten miles off; and the mails come by a stage which arrives anywhere between seven P.M. and midnight,-except on some nights in winter when it does not arrive at all, being prevented by snowstorms. This isolation helps to keep out the feverish spirit which troubles most American communities. There is very little ambition of any sort among us; and the modern principle that every man ought to labor every day, and through the whole of every day, finds no acceptance whatever in our corner of New England. There is no man in the community so poor that he cannot afford to take a day off for partridge

shooting, for visiting, or even for resting. If a farmer feels inclined to suspend haying in the middle of a week in order that he may go trout-fishing, he does so without loss of self-respect or of credit; he can get trusted at the store just the same. If one goes to the mill or to the blacksmith shop, he does not feel bound, when his errand has been done, to hurry home; he is at liberty to sit down in the sun and whittle a stick in whatever company may be at hand. In short, we prefer to take such amusement as we can get, day by day, rather than to expend all our efforts in merely striving to better our material condition.

From "A Remote Village." By Philip Morgan.

From St. Nicholas.

GENERAL GRANT'S RIDE.

When, about seven o'clock of that calm August evening, the presidential party stepped out of the Sinclair House, General Grant's trained eye, sweeping over the team with the glance of a connoisseur, at once recognized its excellence. Walking quickly to the driver's side, he said to Cox, "If you have no objections, I will get up there with you." "It is pretty rough riding up here, general," was the reply. "I can stand it if you can," said Grant, as he climbed to the place and settled himself. The president was dressed in high silk hat, black suit, and a long linen duster covering as much of his clothing as possible. The others of the party adjusted themselves in the big, heavy wagon according to their ideas of comfort, and all was ready. Sixteen people were in that vehicle, including Mr. Cox.

The driver tightened the reins with a "whist!" and with a spring, in perfect unison, the noble animals were off for the Profile. The telegraph operator at the St. Clair sat with his finger on the key, looking out of the window and watching for the moment of the start. A message at once flashed over the wire to the Profile House, saying that

they had gone, and the time was noted. It was precisely seven o'clock.

At the Profile a large company had gathered in the office, waiting for the arrival. Among them were several stage drivers, who with becoming gravity gave various opinions, as sages and oracles of profundity in road knowledge, and fully discussed the situation. It was known that Cox intended to break all records if he could; but it was the unanimous expression of the drivers, knowing every foot of the road as they did, that "Ed" could not make the drive in less than two hours, and a portion of them thought he had better make it two and a half, as the last three miles were right up into the mountain, with a steep grade all the way into Franconia Notch. But that he could make the eleven miles in less than two hours was not believed for a moment.

Those of my readers who have visited this famous hotel, the Profile, will remember Echo Lake, and the little cannon kept there to wake the echoes. This beautiful sheet of water, famous far and near for its echoes and their many repetitions, is about a quarter of a mile from the hotel, and the presidential party had to pass it to get to the house. It had been arranged that when they drove by, the gunner should fire the cannon, to announce the fact to the house. At the hotel we were discussing the event, and passing the time as best we could, when-bang! went the gun. The echo-maker had spoken. We looked at the clock hanging in the office. It was not believed it was the president. "It cannot be!" "Look at the time!"

"Some mistake has been made!" Such were the expressions heard on all sides.

The proprietor hurried a bell-boy to the lake, to ascertain why the gun was fired before the time. But it was the expected party. In what seemed an incredibly short time we heard the tramping of the flying steeds, and the rattle of the chariot; and in another moment they swept around the corner of the house into plain view.

Never will I forget the scene, as they