of the word " bloody." With him a subject of Napoleon is invariably "a bloody Frenchman." An old tar in the captain's service defined an epicure as "a bloody beggar that eats everything." On a bright and shining day—when he was formerly on duty in the Mediterranean - a large frigate of Her Majesty's navy was visited by the King of Naples, with a numerous suite of courtiers and official personages. The vessel was in the most perfect order, and every part had been rubbed till it shone from The royal party were gay with gold

stem to stern. lace and scarlet uniforms, and rambled over the craft in the most free and sociable manner. Among her various arrangements for comfort, she had several of those round tunnels of sail-cloth to ventilate the hold, which are called wind-sails. These excited the curiosity of King Bomba and his followers more than aught else, as they could not imagine of what possible use pure air, or clean water, or any other provision for personal neatness and health, could be to anybody. After a minute examination, the group descended between decks, at least all but The curiosity of this resplendent royal bird had been by no means satisfied, and he stole back to take a further and nearer view of the phenomenon. First inquisitively staring at the wind-sail, he at length touched it. Then peeping cautiously

one.

down its maw, as we sometimes see a crow investigating the skull of a dead horse, he bent over to look at it more closely. Just then the vessel gave

a slight lurch, his feet treacherously slipped on the smooth deck, a pair of yellow heels twinkled for an instant in the radiant sun of Italy, and silently Don Pomposo Agapantho disappeared. No one had fortuned to see this mishap but an old salt, who was on duty in that part of the vessel. Jack did not. make any useless outcry, however, but quietly went aft, touched his hat respectfully to the officer there stationed, and saying "One of them 'ere bloody kings has tumbled down the main hatch," quietly walked away.

I was highly amused at a story told by the captain concerning Lord Grosvenor, who was among his passengers some time since. This nobleman is the eldest son and heir of the Marquis of Westminster, whose fortune is enormous and said to produce the immense income of £450,000 per annum. He is remarkably intelligent, and the variety and depth of his information would be considered great, even for a commoner. He has travelled extensively in all parts of the world, and it is not long since he returned from a long tour in the United States. While at the West he was one day waiting at a country station for a tardy train, when one of the farmers of the neighborhood entered into conversation with him.

"Bin about these parts consid'able, stranger?" "Yes, for some length of time."

"Like 'em putty well, eh?"

"Yes, pretty well."

"How long have yer bin here?"

"A few weeks."

"What's yer bizness?"

"I have no business."

"What are yer travellin' for, then?" "Only for my own pleasure."

"Don't yer do any bizness? How do yer get yer livin' then?"

"It is n't necessary for me to work for my support. My father is a man of property, and gives me an allowance sufficient for my wants.'

"But s'pose the old man should die?'

"In that case I dare say he'd leave me enough to live upon."

"But s'pose he should bust up?"

Here the conversation ended, and Lord Grosvenor walked away, evidently impressed by a new idea, and one which had never been so forcibly presented to him until now.

CHAPTER II.

THE CHINESE IN PARIS.

PARIS is the very Cleopatra of cities; "a city on the inconstant billows dancing." "Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety; others cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry where most she satisfies, for vilest things become themselves in her." Still, as of old, her weird fascinations irresistibly draw towards her the feet of men, sanguine and elate. She yet dispenses all sensuous delights, and holds up to the world the mirror in which alone their artificial adornments may complacently be seen. "Paris still is Helen's passion, Paris still the glass of fashion," and it is in the eyes of Paris that those graces are redoubled with which the fairest of the fair in our day goes forth to conquest. The queen of worldly pleasure, she rules by a thousand hidden influences, and silken cords and soft persuasions are the only incentives that ensure the obedience of her willing subjects.

Who can resist her reign, when on a fair April day her gayety for the first time flashes upon the sight, and she holds her state in the newest and

greenest of the vernal fashions? The chrysalis of winter has burst at last, and its teeming life is already afloat. The sky is clear and without cloud serene. The trees are doing their bravest, as if sensible of their responsibility, and already are tipped with green and fragrant buds, redolent of the future. The streets are no longer dissolved in molten clay. The throngs in the Champs Elysées are numerous and glittering as the gay motes that people the sunbeams. In the gardens of the Tuileries are crowds of happy and sprightly children, dancing with exuberant insouciance, and tossing trouble to the winds, as in all the colors of the soapbubble they chase the ball and drive the hoop. The air is delicate, and in the all-golden afternoon the spinsters and the knitters in the sun, and the free maids that weave their threads with bone, sit simply chatting in a rustic row. The flames of life warm every cheek and dance in every eye. The team of milk-white goats, with its neat and tasty little train, finds a full freight of enchanted children, who snatch a fearful joy and gratify their incipient humanity by using the whip to the full force of their little biceps. They are but an epitome of the old reproach cast upon our race: "What a lovely day it is. Let's go out and kill something." Their less favored companions dig up the smooth gravel with wooden spades into unsightly holes, or, in imitation of M. Haussmann, open new avenues and Sebastopol trenches for their elders to fall over. The sleek