Liverpool. From L. T. Meade's “A Girl of the People." (Lovell) IN Liverpool there are, perhaps more than in any town in the world, all sorts and conditions of men. The very wealthy and the very poor are to be found within its precincts-also the very good and the very bad. Its slums are black and awful; but it also contains some of the finest public buildings, some of the most massive and comfortable houses, and without any exception the largest and greatest docks, in the world. All nationalities come to Liverpool. It sees life from beyond the seas, it has a population of people always coming and going-Americans who go to the theatre in London and arrive in Liverpool about three in the morning, on their return to their own country; Irishmen, Scotchmen, dwellers in Africa; in fact, people from all parts of the civilized world find their way to Liverpool, to return from thence by way of the sea to their native lands. On certain days in the week the hotels and lodging-houses are packed to overflowing; the different piers present scenes of activity and bustle; the great ships come and go and the people come and go with them-Liverpool is passed through and forgotten. That is the case with those fleeting crowds who so largely contribute to its trade and prosperity; but the habitué of Liverpool, the man who spends his days there, is a totally different order of being. The stranger sees the great city most generally through mist and fog; he regards the pavements as rough and slippery; he thinks the public buildings large, but ugly. Liverpool to him is another London, but without London's attractions. But the true Liverpool man looks at his native town from a very different point of view. He is part and parcel of the place, and he loves it for its size and ugliness, its great commerce, its thriving, active business life. Liverpool to its citizens means home; they are proud of their laws and their customs; they like to dispense charity in their own way; they like to support and help their own poor; they have, to an extent absolutely unknown in London, the true spirit of neighborliness. This spirit is shared by all alike, the rich and the poor feel it, and it binds them together; they regard their town as the world, and look askance at inventions and ideas imported from other places. There are bad slums in Liverpool, and wicked deeds committed, and cruel rough men to be found in multitudes; but the evil there compared to London seems at least to be conquerable-the slums can be got at; nobody who chooses to apply in the right quarter need die of famine or dis tress. Hunting Blackcock. From Knight's" By Leafy Ways." (Roberts.) THE rain has ceased. The clouds clear off as swiftly as they formed; the sky is blue and fair. On the sky-line a quaint figure on a rough pony beckons us up the slope. It is Bill Mann, best known of Dartmoor worthies. A flash of light ning, that thirty years ago set his little house ablaze, has left him lame; but he is a true son of the chase for all his lameness, and knows every fox and badger hole in the country side, and every likely pool on the river. Between his toothless gums is his inch of black clay. Round his battered hat are coiled carefully his favorite flies. It is not a bad morning, he says. He has marked down a pack of "black'ock" on that rise in front. He loosens the dog. After a bound of recog nition the setter goes off across the moor at the top of his speed, as if there were no such thing as a blackcock within forty miles. All at once, he stops short, stiffened in every limb; to use old Bill's favorite expression, "as stiff's a gig." We advance with firm and eager tread, our minds intent upon the dog. There is a rustle among the grass of a little hollow, right under his nose. Up they get, with a great rush, two noble cocks. They are down, right and left. The dog just glances at them. His work is not done. There are more yet. Slowly he advances some twenty yards further, his eyes riveted on a great patch of ling in front of him. There they go, a cock and two hens. The hens go by; we give them law. Except by accident, they are never shot. But the cock has met his fate. He is down. He flutters a moment and is still. Is there any man who never knew the pang that follows swiftly on the first keen flush of triumph, when, with a flutter of failing wings, the noble bird falls, struck down in mid-career; when the wanderer of the air is dashed a helpless heap of feathers on the ground? Is there any one who never felt a touch of remorse as the beautiful eyes, fast fading in death, gazed up at him, bold and fearless to the last? The day wears on. After an hour's camp in a sunny hollow Bill finds us another pack. We do well. Ten fine cocks in all are slung on the saddle of the little pony, and there is an "accident" or two hidden away somewhere among the bag. gage. It is a good day's work. Ten birds, and fiveand-twenty miles of moor. As we strike across the heath and gain the old miners' path, and plod cheerily homeward down the hilly road, we wonder which is the greater happiness, which the nobler sport-five brace of birds earned by honest toil among these noble wilds, or five hundred shot down with the aid of a battery of guns, an army of beaters, and all the machinery of a sanguinary battue ? We have reached the edge of the moor. The dusk is settling down over the lonely hills. Long since the sun went down behind the low horizon. The mist of evening rising faint and gray is reddening in the afterglow. Purple shadows gather on the darkening hills. "Silence and twilight, unbeloved of men, A Youthful Adventurer. From Herbert Ward's "Five Years with the Congo Cannibals." (Bonner.) WHEN I acknowledge that the only prize I ever gained at school was a pocket telescope awarded me by the committee of athletic sports for my acrobatic performance upon the hori zontal bar; when I state that my literary taste was confined to records of travel and adventure, and that I eagerly read every book upon these subjects from Herodotus to Robinson Crusoe— in whom, by the way, I took a deep personal interest-further comment upon my boyhood is needless. When I made known my determination to set out into the world, my parents emphatically shook their heads. . One wintry morning, shortly after this, in a typical London fog, amid the gruff voices of half-drunken sailors, busy hauling ropes and heaving capstan-bars, the English bark James Wishart was extricated from the maze of docks, From "Five Years with the Congo Cannibals." (Copyright, 1890, by Robert Bonner's Sons.) Four years of rough life and hard work, with alternations of small successes and many reverses, passed, and I determined, as an opportunity offered, to return to my own home. A brief stay in England, and I was away again, this time bound for Borneo, as a cadet in the service of the British North Borneo Company, which had recently received its royal charter. On arrival in Borneo, I was appointed to a station in the far interior of that wild and almost unknown country. the meagre details of the catastrophe he was then in possession of, he hastened his return to England, and, immediately on his arrival home, sought me out, to hear all that I could tell him of the cruel circumstances that deprived him of an only and dearly loved son. It was through Mr. Hatton that I procured an interview with Mr. Henry M. Stanley; and thus, by a chain of circumstances, an event happening in a far-away Eastern island was the means of sending me to the heart of Central Africa. Dogs for Hunting Ruffed Grouse. From "Shooting on Upland, Marsh, and Stream." (Rand, McNally.) EXCEPT in a few districts in the far North or Northwest, the ruffed grouse has learned to fear man to such an extent that it is next to impossible to make a satisfactory score without the aid of a well-broken dog, to divert the bird's attention while one gains the proper shot-gun range. Even in those outlying districts where potshooting is the rule, the bag may be increased with the help of an experienced setter, pointer, or spaniel. The setter is best, because of his thick coat, which enables him the more easily to enter briarpatches and thorny thickets, and to withstand cold; for the ruffed grouse is nearly always hunted in cold or temperate weather. The following experience in support of his superiority comes to mind: I was among the blackberry patches of Saginaw County, Mich., for a week's shooting, and had as companions two dogs; one a well-broken pointer(not a blue-blood), the other a thick coated Irish setter, who had so far forgotten his early training, by serving as "town dog," as to chase a bird until it took refuge in a tree, and then proclaim the fact with an indefatigable vehemence that was very amusing to every one save his owner. On the second morning, the pointer refused to enter the thorny coverts. I therefore sent in the ambitious red-coat, who hurriedly dispersed the congregations. At the end of the first hour, I caught and thrashed him. This was repeated at irregular intervals until night-fall, when I had a thoroughly subjugated dog, and all of my shells intact. Next morning, much to my surprise, this dog pointed like a veteran, while the pointer again refused to face the briars. The setter was therefore used during the remainder of my stay. By the third night he had worn off what we term the "wire edge," and a large portion of his coat; but, undaunted as before, he resolutely obeyed every motion, pointed with excellent judgment, and without breaking, and worked as industriously and unflinchingly on the last day as on the third. It was a wonderful performance, but one that shall never be repeated by one of my dogs, for after our return home the poor fellow lay by the fire three days, nearly blind, and so foot-sore he could not walk. A dog broken on ruffed grouse is better for that particular game bird, and an old dog better than a young one. If the sportsman can own but one dog whose time afield will be equally divided between ruffed grouse and quail, I would suggest his being broken on the former bird, unless the hunting be done on horseback, or the puppy be a descendant of potterers. It being the fashion at present to raise fast, wide-ranging dogs, it will be found easier to restrain this instinct in the puppy than after it has been sanctioned a season or two upon the quail field. The disposition of the high-strung dog to range just behind the border of his limit is never quite eliminated by early work on ruffed grouse, and is only checked by frequent practice under a master-hand. The time given to the dog's education is an investment that will eventually bring us many happy hours, and a companion capable of sympathizing with us in our sorrowful moments, and worthy of sharing the joy of our happiest day in the woods. How to Excel as a Golfer. From "Golf" in The Badminton Library. (Little, AND now we have finished, immensely, probably, to the student's relief, our didactic treatise upon the normal driving swing. We will now relate, for his recreation, a little golfing fable, a true story, not without its moral: A certain Anglo-American, a true and zealous golfer, commencing the game at the time of life when autumn tints are seen among the hairs of the head, engaged for his instruction a well-known professional player, one Lloyd, surnamed "The General." After six weeks of hard study on the part of the pupil, and of painstaking tutorship on the part of the instructor, the former was mortified to discover that he played worse than on the very first day of his apprenticeship. Remarking on this singular fact to his tutor, the latter, for the first time, lost his much-tried patience, and exclaimed in accents of despair, "Eh then, just tak’ and throw yer club at the ba"." This advice the would-be golfer put into immediate practice, if not in the letter, at least in the spirit, by striking at his ball almost without aim at all. What was his astonishment and delight at feeling the club strike the ball with perfect accuracy, and seeing the globe fly through the air to a greater distance than he ever, save in his dreams, had struck it in his life. And so it continued: by letting himself go, and playing with careless freedom, he found himself able to accomplish feats of which in his days of "taking thought " he had almost come to despair. Now what is the moral to be learnt from this true story? That all the intervening weeks of tuition had been wasted?-by no means. Without them he would never have been able to throw the club at the ball" and strike it as he did. We may be very sure that he swung no differently, on this his first occasion of free-striking, than in all those carefully studied failures which had preceded it. But he swung without thinking. without consciousness of the mechanical adjustments-just as a well-ordered stomach does its work of digestion-with all his eye, thought, and energy concentrated on the ball. But the tuition was necessary in order to give effect to the intuition. And this is the moral which we wish to point. It is necessary, in order to become as good a golfer as your natural gifts permit, to go through all this laborious and careful training while your style is in course of forming; but when once your style is formed, when you are engaged in a match, and not occupied with the painful eradication of some darling fault, then you should let your style take care of itself. You must concentrate yourself then upon hitting the ball. If you get thinking of how you are going to do it, you will not do it well. But, until your style is formed, you will do far better to go conscientiously through this hard course of training, for it will well repay you in the end. Not only so, but after you consider that your style is really fairly formed, you should still practise-at balls at off moments, at daisies as you walk between the strokes, at imaginary golf balls in your front hall-in studious observation of all the rules of correct driving. Then, when the match comes, think about the ball and the hole; and the laboriously acquired series of adjustments will reproduce itself spontaneously. Keep it-the good gift that fortune has sent until you have made it your own and can keep it even in fortune's despite. Washington Irving's Summer Home. From Kobbe's "Central Railroad of New Jersey." (Kobbé.) THE three most interesting historical buildings in Newark are the "Old First" and Trinity churches and the old Gouverneur mansion, famous as Washington Irving's" Cockloft Hall," because of his frequent sojourns there and his references to it in "Salmagundi." At that time it was owned by Gouverneur Kemble, one of Irving's intimates. Pierre Irving, in his "Life and Letters of Washington Irving," says: Among Irving's associates at this time were Peter and Gouverneur Kemble, Henry Brevoort, Henry Ogden, and James K. Paulding, who, with himself, his brother Peter and a few others, made up a small circle of intimates, designated by Peter as the 'Nine Worthies,' though Washington described them as 'The Lads of Kilkenny. One of their resorts was an 'old family mansion' which was on the banks of the Passaic, lections of early days, and of social meetings at an old mansion on the banks of the Passaic." The summer-house was demolished when Passaic Street was extended. The mansion still stands on Mount Pleasant Avenue, corner of Gouverneur Street, but it is much altered, and has no relics of the days when Irving and his companions had their frolics there. He ROAD MAPS.-Mr. Gustav Kobbé has conferred a boon on those who travel, or who drive or walk in pursuit of summer pleasure, by editing and issuing an excellent series of guide-books and road-maps, very clearly and neatly executed. This publisher has already given travellers the best guide-book to the New Jersey coast. now takes up the belt of the same State traversed by the Central Railroad, and makes a neat handbook, entitled "The Central Railroad of New Jersey." It is in every respect fitted for the tourist, giving abundant information respecting local history, scenery, and hotels. The historical matter has been carefully collected, and the most WASHINGTON IRVING'S SUMMER HOME, NEWARK, N. J. about a mile above Newark. On the place was a summer-house and a fishpond, of which Irving says: "An odd notion of the old gentleman was to blow up a large bed of rocks for the purpose of having a fish-pond, although the river ran at a distance of about a hundred yards from the house and was well stored with fish; but there was nothing, he said, like having things to one's self. And he would have a summer-house built; he would have it surrounded by elms and willows, and he would have a cellar dug under it for some incomprehensible purpose, which remains a secret to this day." This summer-house as it was in 1859 was sketched by William A. Whitehead, who presented the drawing to the New Jersey Historical Society. Writing to this society not many years before his death, Irving says: "With Newark are associated in my mind many pleasant recol striking incidents have been incorporated in the work, in order that the book may have romantic as well as descriptive and statistical interest. The illustrations are from drawings by Marie Olga Kobbé and F. A. Ferand, from aquarelles by Hugh Smythe, direct from photographs, and from views of Lake Hopatcong, kindly furnished by the Hotel Breslin. Convenient map sections also accompany the text. Among the suburban road-maps are Jersey Coast," "Westchester Co. and part of Fairfield Co., Conn," "Staten Island," "Central and Northern New Jersey," "Long Island," etc. Publishers or booksellers in various parts of the country might profitably follow Mr. Kobbé's lead and get up maps of the immediate neighborhood of many popular resorts that would be almost certain of very wide sale. Nothing appeals more quickly to a traveller's eye than a practical and accurate map and text and pictures of the notable things to be seen in the vicinity of the place where friends' recommendations have sent him. Father, Mother, and Child. From Gooch's "Miss Mordeck's Father" THAT there was something of mystery about Thomas Mordeck no one, from his oldest friend to his most recent acquaintance, felt the least doubt. His past was an unread book; but whether it was so from being forbidden or merely because no one had ever had the temerity to ask for a perusal, was problematic. He indulged in no reminiscences, claimed relationship with none of the world's inhabitants save his wife and children, and acknowledged no existence previous to the hour he fell in love with Ethel Browne twenty-five years before. As to nationality, he might have been an Anglicized Italian, or an Italianized Englishman, or merely an American with mixed ancestry. In appearance he was tall, well built, with a massive head gracefully poised on a neck that joined, with a muscular, curving expansion, broad, square shoulders. His hair and mustache were iron-gray, white predominating in the former, black in the latter; his eyes were black, large, deep-set and shadowed, not circled, and his lashes curved upward toward a lined forehead over which his hair fell in negligent abundance. His dress was always neat, loose-fitting, tending toward angularity in effect, and of dark, usually black cloth. A silk hat, immaculate linen, and a severe simplicity in the minor details of his dress, made up his unvarying costume. The resemblance between father and daughter was very striking as he held Browné on his knee and let his large white hand wander caressingly over the soft fur of her dainty tea gown, and occasionally let his head drop to one side to rub his cheek against the arm encircling his neck. 46 Papa, why did you not come to meet me, as you promised?" pouted Browné with a childishness she indulged in only when on her father's knee. His habitual pallor deepened perceptibly at her question, but his face was moving with gentle friction against the fur-bordered sleeve in apparent enjoyment of the titillation, and his voice was free from emotion as he replied: "I was called away unexpectedly, or I should have kept my promise." "Yes, I know, of course! but who or what is this troublesome person or business that is always calling you away at such inconvenient times?" Browne was a little frightened at her own perpetual temerity, and she avoided the eyes she felt instinctively there would be no smile in; but she was not prepared for the gentle, decisive repulse her curiosity met with. Mr. Mordeck pushed her from his knee, and arose and crossed the room to where his wife stood with the top of a potpourri jar suspended literally, as was her breath figuratively, while she awaited the answer to the question she had not dared to ask in more than a score of unenlightened years. "I am sure, my systematic little wife, it is too late for any more callers this evening, and you will have ample time in the morning to remove all traces of to-night's invasion of your realm of perfection." The forced smile had died away from his lips ere he ceased speaking, for his wife's blue eyes were uplifted to his face with a look in them he had never seen there before. It was not doubt nor mistrust, but mute, pathetic entreaty. He bowed his head till his cheek rested against hers, · and his voice was a prayer as he murmured scarcely above a whisper : "Ethel, for God's sake trust me! I cannot tell you my secret. Ethel Mordeck was not a woman to whom would be attributed any special strength of character, grandeur of soul, or any of those transcendental qualities that impel women to immortaliz ing deeds; she was simply an adoring wife and a devoted mother, and her life was consecrated to the happiness of husband and children, by whom she was regarded as a household, fairy to be petted, caressed, protected and worshipped for the brightness that followed in her wake; yet at this supreme moment her love was a stronger defence to her husband than would have been the moral courage of a Volumnia or the physical courage of a Grace Darling. The confirmed suspicion of an unsharable secret would have weakened many a stronger character, but in this instance it served a dependent nature; and though her lips trembled beneath her husband's imploring kiss, her eyes smiled reassuringly into his, and he realized that the jewel he had placed on his breast as an ornament had become a shield to him in the hour of danger. First Triumphs as Empress. From St. Imard's "The Happy Days of the Empress Marie Louise." (Scribner.) THE whole month of June was filled with a succession of brilliant festivities. Under the Empire things were not done by halves; battles or balls, everything was on a vast scale. "Never," says Alfred de Musset, were there so many sleepless nights as during this man's lifetime; never was there such a silence when any one spoke of death and yet, never was there so much joy, so much life, so much warlike feeling in every heart; never had there been a brighter sun than that which dried so much blood. It was said that God had created it for this man, and it was called the sun of Austerlitz; but he made it himself with his ever-roaring cannon, that dispelled the clouds on the morrow of his victories." The entertainment given to the Emperor and Empress by the city of Paris, June 10, was magnificent. There were great rejoicings in the capital on that day. In the afternoon there were public sports in the Champs Élysées, and dancing in the open places and the long walks. With nightfall the illuminations began. A troop of mountebanks performed on a huge stage a ballet in pantomime, called the 'Union of Mars and Flora." There were as many as five hundred performers. There were bands playing in every direction, and food was distributed to the contented multitude. From the Arc to the Tuileries, from the Tuileries to the Louvre, from the Louvre to the Hôtel de Ville, the spectacle was really fairy-like. Napoleon and Marie Louise, starting from Saint Cloud at eight in the evening, made their way, in torchlight, through a countless multitude. Their approach was announced to the people by the sudden ascent of a balloon, from which fireworks were discharged. At half-past nine they reached the Hôtel de Ville. Nearly a thousand persons had gathered in the concert hall, almost three thousand in the record room, the Hall of Saint John, and in the semicircular place in front, opposite the spot, on the left bank of the Seine, where the fireworks |