brella and walked off to keep his appointment. I watched him over the crossing. I saw him stop in the rain (with my umbrella over his head) and talk to Phil | Kegan as he very often did, for the man had been his servant in the regiment; but he did not, as he generally did, tip him. On the contrary, he buttoned up his great coat rather ostentatiously, shaking his head the while. I guessed that poor Phil was getting a lecture on his duties. In about two hours Boldero came back. He had told me he would look in to say how he got on. I never saw him so "down" before. He slided into an armchair in a very limp attitude without a word, and his hat slided, too, in a dejected way to the back of his head. "Well?" I asked. "Lost by a head again; and the very place I wanted — comfortable, fair pay, a house, coals and candles, very little work -none to speak of. Damn it all! Isn't it enough to make a man swear?" There was no smiling about Boldero this time. Then he told me how it had happened. "The old fellow, you know, is sort of uncle by marriage, so I could speak pretty freely to him. I told him this made about the fifth inspectorship I had asked him or his predecessor for. "Pon my soul,' I said to him, 'it's too bad;' but he didn't seem to see it. What claims had I got, he wanted to know, more than that I was always asking, and my friends were always asking for me. 'Well,' I said, 'what more do you want? Doesn't Lord Button ask it as a special favor? The Button influence is good influence, surely?' But he talked about my being an untried man. I might be fit; I might not be. Then there was Chub in the lists among others. Chub had worked all his life in that line. How could he refuse Chub? Chub knew all about the work. There was no doubt about Chub's fitness. If he refused Chub there would be an outcry." to turn an honest penny, Frank, you must work for it, and work hard." Boldero groaned, and collapsed still further into his chair. "You make my blood run cold," he said. "It's no good praying and begging for a good place and nothing to do. You won't get it, and you'll only feel mean. There's the press on the watch, and public opinion. Jobbery and nepotism and all that are gone things in these days." "You bet they're not!" said Boldero, rousing up a little. "Frank, my boy, there's just one chance for you emigration. Scrape together what you have left, go to New Zealand, and join your brother there. They tell me he is making his pile." Boldero only shook his head. I was really sorry for him. He seemed so completely knocked over. "Got any of those bitters left?" he asked, when I had finished my lecture. "I think I want a pick-up.” I rang for a glass of sherry bitters. Boldero rose from his chair, and sauntered half-mechanically towards the drawer with the box of particular Cabanas, took one, lit it, and walked listlessly towards the window. We looked out together. The rain had stopped; the wind had got up. It was a cheerless day. Phil Kegan had turned up his collar, and looked miserable. Still he worked on with a will. "Poor devil!" said Boldero; "but he doesn't know what it is to have nothing to do and nothing to look to. It's a nasty feeling that, general." We Wayfarers were getting scarcer. watched an old lady with a pug come over the crossing; a stout old gentleman with a gold-headed cane; a fishmonger's man with a tray of whitings; a telegraph boy who rang at my door. My servant presently came in with the bitters and a telegram on a tray. The telegram was for Boldero. Boy came on from your club, sir," the man said, as he handed Boldero the telegram and wineglass together. He took the glass first and drank slowly and critically. "What bitters are those, general, eh?" "Chiretta." "I thought so. "Look here, Frank, old man," I said, interrupting him, "this won't do, you know. They don't mean to give you anything. Why should they? What's the good of talking about the Button influence? Things are not managed that way It's the best tonic now. Lord Button doesn't carry half-a-going. Take a glass three times a day dozen boroughs about in his pocket as his before meals. It'll wind you up like a grandfather did. I know a bigger man clock. I shall try it myself, I think. I than Lord Button, who tried at everything am just one peg low." for his favorite nephew, a goodish man, "Try quinine," I suggested. too, and had to fall back upon a club sec- He put his glass down, and took up the retaryship for him at last. If you want | yellow telegram envelope. "Some lie from the stables," he said, opening it contemptuously. "If it is a good thing, what's the use when a man can't swim to it?" "Halloo! I say, general, what's this? 'Chub'- I say, by Jove! Look here, 'Chub has declined. I offer the post to you. We simply looked at each other and laughed. Why do men always laugh in this inane way, I wonder, when they are pleased? I was uncommonly glad, I must say, and Boldero looked happy. It seemed to pick him up a good deal more than the bitters. I shook hands with him, and hit him on the back as one does on these occasions. He did not say much, but I could see that a vision of the good house, the easy work, the coal and candles, was passing pleasantly through his mind. 66 "It suits me, you know," he said presently, with great seriousness. By Jove, sir, it suits me down to the ground." Presently Boldero went off, but he came back before he got to the bottom of the stairs. "I say, general, will you lend me a sov.?" I gave him a sovereign. It made either the twenty-sixth or the twenty-seventh. "I say, you haven't got an old great coat for Phil Kegan, have you? He must be frightfully cold out there, you know.” "No, I give all my things to my own "We sail the sea of life-a calm one finds, IT was on a warm, bright and beautiful afternoon in September of last year, that we set out to pay a visit to the old Protestant cemetery at Florence, the peaceful nook, where so many of our own countrymen and women have found a last restingplace; for it is said to contain the graves of more English than of any other Protestant nation in Europe. It has been closed now for some years, forming a secluded and ornamental square surrounded by railings, and kept in most perfect order by the custode who inhabits the picturesque little entrance lodge. This old cemetery is situated a little beyond the walls of the city; the nearest approach to it is through one of the many quaint and interesting old Florentine gateways, the Porta Pinti. It is a peculiarly lovely spot, covering a gentle declivity; the sunbeams fall warm and bright upon its slopes, numberless flowers and luxuriant shrubs delight the eye of the beholder, while the soft, balmy air is laden with their fragrance. In the centre is a broad walk leading to a monument, a tall marble column erected in 1857 by the late king of Prussia; it is inscribed with a few words in the French language, taken from the Gospel of St. John: "Je suis la resurrection et la vie: Good-bye, old fellow," and he disap-celui qui croit en moi vivra, quand même peared. il serait mort." man." 66 It is difficult to describe the mingled feelings of pleasure and melancholy which filled my mind as I wandered through this lovely retreat, this silent city of the dead, whose stillness and seclusion had something very sweet and soothing in it, but certainly nothing of gloom or desolation. A more peaceful resting-place than this quiet God's acre could hardly be imag ined. As I explored it there recurred involuntarily to my mind the words of Lu. ther spoken in the cemetery at Worms: "Invideo quia quiescunt; while these again recalled the sweet and touching legend of the Psalmist: "Then are they glad because they are at rest: so he bringeth them unto the haven where they would be." I do not think that I am of a morbid disposition, yet I confess that it has never been otherwise than a rare pleasure to me to visit any picturesque spot where loving and reverent hands have laid to rest, from time to time, the treasured dust which was all that remained of those many beloved ones who,, "stricken by the noiseless shadow of the | That overpays them; wounded hearts that bled destroyer," have passed swiftly over to Or broke, are healed forever. the great majority. After all, as some one has aptly observed, "A walk through a churchyard need be no unpleasant thing, for it cannot extinguish the light beaming from that promised house in which are many mansions." To turn on the other hand to those who have done evil - the "thick veil of death" has fallen between us: even heathen writers enjoined that no ill should be spoken of the dead. The sum of their iniquity is accomplished, as Horace Walpole cynically observes, "The dead at any rate have exhausted their power of deceiving." They sleep; let us, too, let all evil sleep. lone in some foreign land, Where their language is not spoken. I know of no places calculated to suggest more completely the idea of perfect rest and repose than the cemeteries (Catholic and Protestant) which I have visited during my residence in this lovely land of Italy, whose "dono infelice di bellezza" seems to extend even to her graveyards; and surely such a suggestion must always It is to be wished that all cemeteries have in it something of joy and satisfac- could be as lovely and picturesque in their tion to a few at least of the many toilers surroundings as this Tuscan one that we of the earth, who, bearing the heat and are describing; yet one appreciates more burden of the day, grow weary of the bat- particularly the beauty of association tle of life, and cannot but cast a longing when one wanders, as is so often the case glance at times towards the calm and here, among the tombs of those whose peace of the "city not made with hands; "fate has consigned them to a grave, and that even the strongest and most manly of our workers do not altogether escape such longings is shown by the utterance of one who was himself a bold and brave soldier in the ranks of life. "One of the many kind wishes expressed for me," said Charles Kingsley in his speech at the Lotus Club, New York, "is a long life. Let anything be asked for me except that; let us live hard, work hard, go a good pace, get to our journey's end as soon as possible then let the post-horse get his shoulder out of the collar. . . . I have lived long enough to feel like the old post-horse, very thankful as the end draws near. Long life is the last thing that I desire." He was one of those divines, and their name is by no means legion, who "followed his own teaching" and kept religiously the precepts he inculcated; now he enjoys to the full the rest that he so greatly needed. I believe I might almost rival the renowned Hervey himself in my numerous "meditations among the tombs," and the result of my musings may be told in a few words. I cannot but think that those who have left "the troubled joy of life" and gained the shores of that Paradise which we all hope to reach — the country so touchingly described in Lady Nairn's most pathetic little ballad, the "Land o' the Leal"- must have effected a most blessed exchange, and are indeed a great deal better off than any they have left behind can possibly be; for there Old sorrows are forgotten, For there is indeed a pathetic pang in the thought of entrusting the earthly remains of some loved one, who has perhaps been the very light of our eyes, to a restingplace among strangers; far, far away from the happy home which we once shared together. This sweetness of association is assuredly not lacking in this old Protestant campo santo outside the walls of Florence, where the spotlessly white marble tombs, many of them very beautiful objects in themselves, look more lovely and striking still, amongst the heavy masses of dark green foliage, the luxuriant growth of fragrant shrubs by which they are surrounded. In this small spot lie buried many whose names have been well known in our literary and artistic world: Elizabeth Barrett Browning, the poetess, most of whose married life was passed in Florence; Mrs. Frances Trollope, the mother of the renowned novelist, herself an occasional writer; Theodore Parker, the Unitarian minister, and writer, amongst other works, of some small volumes entitled, "Essays on German Literature; Walter Savage Landor, well known as the author of " Imaginary Conversations," and "Last Fruit off an Old Tree ; " Arthur Hugh Clough, composer of a poem in hexameters, entitled "A Vacation Ramble,' - and many others. One of the first monuments of interest that we notice is the tomb of Southwell Smith, the physician; it is in close proximity to the king of Prussia's column, and is inscribed with some commemorative verses said to be the composition of his friend, Leigh Hunt. Ages shall honor, in their hearts enshrined, Thee, Southwell Smith, physician of mankind, Bringer of air, light, health into the home Of rich and poor-of happier years to come. Not far from this is the tomb of the Baron Auguste de Mannheim; merely his name and the date of his death, August 19, 1871, is recorded, but two fine and beautifully sculptured angels keep their never-ceasing vigil over the dead. The tomb of Elizabeth Barrett Browning consists of a massive and handsome block of white marble; upon it are carved a lyre, a broken chain, and some flowers; on one side the Florentine lily or threepetalled iris; on the other, which is also ornamented with a medallion portrait in relief of the poetess, are entwined the rose, shamrock, and thistle of her native land. There is no epitaph, merely her initials and the date of her decease, E. B. B. OB. 1861. The early part of the life of this sweet singer was overshadowed by the heavy clouds of ill-health and protracted suffer ing; and some touching words inscribed to the memory of another poetess are not inappropriate here. Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground Alas, the spirit's leap from light to darkness, from heaven to earth, from heights of happiness to depths of loneliness, how swift it is! But a few paces from the tomb of the poetess is another rather similar in shape, also composed of white marble, which bears the touching record of a shipwreck of earthly joy, and hope, and happiness, possessed for a period all too brief for beneath that spotless marble monument, round which the oleanders cluster so luxuriantly, sleeps the bride of a few months, the wife of the artist, Holman Hunt, whose beautiful pic. tures of the "Light of the World," and the "Shadow of the Cross," have been the delight and admiration of the age in which we live. The inscription on the tomb is as follows: In memoriam Fanny Waugh Hunt, Wife of W. Holman Hunt. Died at Florence, December 20, 1866, In the first year of her marriage. Around it stretches the pathetic legend, culled from the pages of the wise king's invocation to his beloved one: 66 Love is strong as death many waters cannot the floods quench love, neither can drown it." How many hopes were borne upon thy bier, Plucked on the bosom of the dead to wither; Hopes from their source all holy, though of All brightly gathering round affection's earth, hearth. In loving memory of Captain James Chute, Late her Majesty's 54th Regiment. Pathetic reference is made to the fact that he found a tomb in a foreign land in the words engraved beneath the name: "For perhaps he therefore departed for a season that thou shouldst receive him forever." No loved ones breathe the holy prayer, And seeks the distant sky. Are prayers that never die. Very constantly our steps are arrested, and we find ourselves pausing to muse amid the "ranks of the unseen silent multitude" to examine some touching record of the beloved dead, or to admire the graceful movements of the lizards which are darting swiftly hither and thither like flashes of colored light, or rustling amidst the luxuriant growth of flowers and grasses which surrounds them. Many of the smaller and less important monuments are composed of marble, which seems to be lavishly used in all decorative work in Florence, being something like silver in the days of Solomon, "nothing accounted of." It gleams with an almost dazzling radiance in this land of cloudless skies and perpetual suns. Some young life prematurely nipped in the bud must be commemorated by yon der tiny miniature obelisk, on which is | Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little carved, in bold relief, the single word ERNESTINO. birds sang west, Toll slowly. And I said in under-breath, - All our life is mixed with death, And who knoweth which is best? C. G. From Golden Hours. Alas, the silver cord was early loosed, the golden bowl too swiftly broken; and a sorrowing mother may have mourned her offspring in the pathetic words of David, "Would God I had died for thee," -yet she can but bow in meek submission to his will, feeling, perhaps, even amid the fatal void of her loneliness, that THE "WHITE WATER" OF THE ARABIAN her child is "taken away from the evil to come;" and remembering that Eve pressed her first-born sinless to her bosom once; touching with her lips the pure and stainless brow, which later on was to be branded with the awful twofold guilt of fratricide and murder. To the memory of L. N. V. SEA. TRAVELLERS and others proceeding to India vid Egypt have occasionally witnessed this grand and awe-stirring phenomenon when crossing the Arabian Sea. Many have written on the subject, but scene its true cause none have assigned to this impressive each and all with Let me recount yet one more touching record of a mother's grief, a country-out a moment's consideration blindly acwoman of our own, who consigned to a cepting the opinion of some far distant grave in a foreign land the remains of authority, who erroneously attributed this one who must have been unutterably dear singular transformation of the color of to her; the tomb is inscribed — the water to the presence of myriads of infinitesimal animalculæ. Should the stern behest of duty or the call of pleasure at any time cause the reader to undertake the overland journey to India, he must not fail to give instructions to be called. It is more frequently seen in the months should this nocturnal phenomenon occur. of July and August, and is principally confined to a narrow belt to the eastward of the island of Socotra, known on the south-west monsoon chart of that sea as the line of the strongest monsoon, and wherein the rain-clouds on quitting central Africa on their passage eastward, are apparently confined. Should the moon But we must not linger in this calm retreat, this lovely home of the depart ed, this "dream city" of the dead whose work is all done there they sleep in endless rest, while we must go back to the crowded arena of life which, with all its toil and turmoil, is lent to us for a little longer space. Let us leave them with some of that exquisite "music for the dead," which flowed in strains of rich, melodious measure from the oft-tuned lyre of the gifted poetess beside whose tomb we have so lately stood. That curious but very beautiful poem entitled "Rhyme of the Duchess May" closes with some musings in a churchyard where, Between the river flowing, and the fair green trees a-growing, Do the dead lie at their rest. be above the horizon an undisturbed ful - night's rest may be anticipated, as the Beating heart and burning brow, ye are very síonally grand and fully developed. To patient now, Toll slowly. And the children might be told to pluck the king-cups from your mould, Ere a month had let them grow. In your patience ye are strong, cold and heat ye take not wrong, Toll slowly. When the trumpet of the angel blows eternity's evangel, Time will seem to you not long. give the reader some idea of this remarkable and striking appearance, we will suppose' ourselves in some fine steamer, about two hundred and fifty miles to the and in the latter end of July, time one A.M. eastward of Socotra in the position named, The monsoon is blowing strongly and steadily-the night star-lit and clear light fleecy scud occasionally passing rapidly to the eastward, and the good |