passion is returned by the young lady who is herself an eminent painter on porcelain, and cannot see a white plate without dropping a few painted flowers upon it. In spite of the difference of position, for the turner is poor and turns in vain, the youth ventures to propose. "A tradesman in my family! Never!" cries the artist in canes; and he thrusts the young millionaire through the door on the right, while enters on the left, a sculptor who has not tasted food for a week, and has thus become by French precedent, the son-in-law of his choice.

The despair of the young millionaire is deep. Why should he go back to America? He has realized his visions in tallow; and besides, he loves France, for though no artist, he was born there. He prefers to remain in Paris, were it only for the sake of consuming some of those artistic products of which there is such a vast accumulation, and which nobody ever buys. His resolu

Father. “And you claim to be my son! Avaunt! You are not even a Frenchman. Your eleven brothers, all belong, more or less, to the Institute, the Academy, or at least the chat noir. There is not one of them who has not dabbled in water-colors, played the Lancers on the piano, or had a few fierce lyrics printed by Lemerre. Your eight sisters chirrup like birds and annihilate Malibran every day of their lives. Your cousins go into everything. There is not one of your friends or acquaintances who has not won, by his performance on the flute or the drum, a right to the title of 'dear master' you are no child of mine. You come from America, you do! Bourgeois, return thither!"

and, moreover he will become an artist, like the rest of his countrymen and he will have his girl!

He gives all his fortune to the Taylorian Society to promote the holding annual exhibitions. He then climbs up into a garret, and devotes himself to making landscapes in hair, using his own. He will be bald, but he will be famous. It is a new thing. He excels, and lo, and behold, he is a "dear master" like all the rest of us! His father then forgives him. The turner is conciliated. The painter on porcelain weeps. They are married, and France bestows a benediction on the only species of artist which she had not produced before. On the other hand the sculptor, who had been false to his art and taken up a trade, is arrested and condemned to the guillotine. Such is the piece which I propose to bring out. M. Sarcey permitting. Possibly he may think the plot slightly exaggerated. Let him pay me for another, then, and I will dazzle him by the magnificence of my verity. The scene, however, will have to be laid in Paris; that is to say in a city where one cannot

many repetitions of various caddies' adverse opinions of his arithmetical powers to throw anything like a serious doubt upon his honor. And yet what club is there which does not possess one or two members of whom it is sotto voce said that if you play with them you will have to look pretty sharply after their score?

It is the commonly accepted belief that the vast majority of golf players belong to a class which is incapable of cheating-at all events out of business hours. I am sorry to have to express the deliberate conviction that the belief in the honor and honesty of golfers has very unsubstantial foundation in fact. I have golfed for a number of years over all kinds of greens, and with all sorts of people; and on innumerable occasions I have been driven to strongly suspect my opponent of cheating, and on many оссаsions I have positively detected him in so doing. In a match, as every golfer knows, the two players are often pretty widely separated. Under such circumstances it is obvious that various minor acts of cheating are comparatively easy. If a player discovers his ball in a rather bad lie, he can, in the act of addressing, alter its position, and thus give himself a good lie. Such a thing as missing the ball altogether is not unknown even with fairly experienced players; and I have known many instances when I have not been obviously looking, but have only detected out of the corner of my eye that my opponent has had a mishap of this kind-that the coup dans l'air has not been counted unless I have drawn attention to it when on the green. Of course this miscounting of strokes is much easier when the fortunes of the game carry the two players on different sides of a hedge or other defence from observation. I remember on one occasion, having satisfactorily negotiated a somewhat high bunker into

ing his head and shoulders-the only part of him visible-from the other side. He made several strokes, and at last jerked the ball over. I thought it had taken four to get out, but he declared that the three first strokes were only practice ones at the sand. I, of course, could not contradict this, and, being of a placable temperament, refrained from pointing out that it was scarcely etiquette to practise strokes when practically out of sight in a bunker.

Apart from instances of this sort, nothing is easier than to intentionally forget a stroke when counting up after holing out on the green. As a matter of fact, unless one steadily counts as one goes along, it is quite easy to genuirely make a mistake, and it is to this fact that the habitual cheater trusts should at any time his miscount be detected. And if, being somewhat doubtful of the accuracy of his computation, you endeavor to recall his individual strokes, he will very likely tell you that it is not etiquette to do So. No doubt he is right in a certain sense, for it is the honorable custom of good golfers to entirely trust each other in the matter of counting strokes. But if one's suspicions are aroused as to the untrustworthiness of the memory of your opponent (to put it politely), it is impossible to avoid keeping an eye on him and counting his strokes; and when your total does not tally with his it seems only right to point out the fact. As a matter of fact, the true scoring etiquette of golf enjoins the frequent mutual reference by the two players to their several scores. Most players ought to be approaching the putting green, and consequently pretty near together, at their third stroke; and by that time a pleasant colloquy of "You've played the odd," or "Shall I play the like?" should be easily practicable, and always is desirable.

I know

EPITHALAMIUM.

not heard

Further than I have travelled she hath fared:

Come ye, look thro' our little golden loop;

Here is the best that heaven to earth did send,

Here is the bond of love, and joy, and

hope;

Take up this tiny wreath, the marriage The soldier's laurel, poet's bay, down fling,

ring.

The double bow, which heralds sunny weather,

The shining halo of the rising day, Th' equator smooth, which binds the world together,

The chaplet fair, that rounds the brow of May,

A diadem by meanest mortals owned, Who rightly wears thee, sits a king enthroned.

Let but a slender finger swift pass thro' thee,

And all delights shall follow in its train. Hold fast by this, and woe may not undo thee,

That brave ring-armor blunts the edge of pain.

Genties, but harken to the minstrel's voice,

And ye' shall ne'er repent, but aye rejoice.

C. E. D. PHELPS.

NOT IN TEMPLES MADE WITH HANDS.

dust,

The sweet bells greet the fairest morn of seven;

Wherever simple folk love, pray, and trust,

Behold the House of God, the gate of heaven!

FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.