ON BOARD THE "BAVARIA."

BY THE EDITOR.

THE good ship Bavaria lay at anchor in Queenstown Harbor waiting for the mails, and only the little cloud of white steam curling from her escape-pipe gave sign of the huge forces hidden beneath her placid exterior. Her decks were almost deserted, for her passengers had yielded as usual to that ridiculous fascination of a few more hours on land, which forms apparently the staple industry of the city of Queenstown, and is probably responsible for more sea-sickness than all other causes put together. But the Eminent Tragedian was far too wary to leave the ship at the one moment of the whole fortnight when her decks were reasonably still, and as he leaned over the rail of the upper deck and watched the little waves lapping musically round the black sides of the great Liner, he was almost the only figure visible. He took off his eye-glasses, wiped them, and replaced them with admirable accuracy. He removed his peaked cap for a moment, and ran his long, graceful fingers through his hair. He drew a dainty cigarette-case from his pocket, lighted a cigarette, and,

thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his thick pea-jacket, he wedged himself comfortably between the life-boat and the rail, and gave himself up to general reflections, which doubtless proved as pleasing to him as they must to any man who neither remembers nor contemplates anything but success.

So comfortable did he find himself in his new corner, and so entertaining or profitable did his meditations prove, that he was not a little displeased to notice some footsteps passing beneath him on the lower deck, and turning toward the companion-ladder. A moment later a pleasant baritone voice broke out carelessly with Lover's old song, suggested naturally by the last glimpse of Erin

What will you do, love, when I am going,
With white sails flowing, the seas beyond?

and the Eminent Tragedian had hardly time to discover whether he was more pleased by the voice or amused by the words, before the head of the singer appeared above the deck. It was that of a young man of perhaps thirty, with rather long, fair hair, and a slight, drooping mustache. He mounted the ladder with quick steps, still happily singing, and had just got to the second verse

What would you do, love, when home returning,

With hopes high burning, with wealth for you

when his eye fell on the Eminent Tragedian wedged in the corner. He stopped short, and seemed for a moment

on the point of sliding down the ladder out of sight; for they had met often before, but always as Critic and criticised, with the deceitful glare of the footlights between them. His embarrassment, however, passed away as quickly as it had come, and, stepping upon the deck, with the ease of a well-traveled man, he lifted his hat to the Eminent Tragedian, whom, although he had never met before, he felt instantly that it would be both absurd and unmannerly for him to pretend not to know, and expressed formally but deferentially his pleasure at this unlooked-for meeting. The Eminent Tragedian, who had felt a greater embarrassment, though he had showed none, was still more courteous, as became his more distinguished position, in reciprocating these expressions, and added, with more than enough politeness to cover the sarcasm, “I venture to anticipate, sir, much profit from this meeting." There was an awkward pause, and both men looked up at the rigging. The younger man lowered his eyes after a moment, to find the other one's gaze fixed upon him with an amused expression, and the first signs of a smile hovering about his lips. Their eyes met, and, as if by some pre-established harmony of humor, they burst simultaneously into a hearty laugh. "My dear fellow," exclaimed the Tragedian, extending his hand cordially, "I am really delighted to make your acquaintance; I dare I dare say I shall learn something from meeting you, and who knows but you may unlearn something from knowing me. Won't you finish that song?"

Under the circumstances hardly any request could have been refused; but the conversation was interrupted by a shriek from the whistle of the tug-boat bringing the returning passengers and the mails from Queenstown, which had drawn almost alongside unnoticed.

The two men leaned upon the rail side by side, and scrutinized their approaching fellow-travelers for some minutes in silence. "We shall be a small party," remarked the Eminent Tragedian at length. "I have two old friends among them, but the rest are strangers to me. Who, for instance, is that big, athletic-looking fellow with the deep-set eyes and short brown beard? A Frenchman, evidently." "No more a Frenchman,” replied the Critic, "than an American, or an Italian, or, for the matter of that, a Hindoo. He is the Novelist, you know, who began with the story of Allahabad, and went from there to Rome, and then to Boston, and now I believe he has just done with Persia. An extraordinary fellow, so I've been told-began by trudging on foot through all the dangerous districts of Italy disguised as a peasant, with a knife in his boot, and picking up the dialects as he passed along. Then he edited a newspaper in India, and learned Hindustani and magic. A man with half a dozen mother-tongues, who was just about to settle down in life as a professor of classical philology, when he discovered that fiction was his strong point. I don't know him myself, but we have a common friend on board that dark fellow in the long yellow ulster, on