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the pain possibly would be cured by playing on his imagination. But how?

'Bring a mouse,' said our host; and several servants scurried off to execute the order. In a large Persian house, there is no difficulty in finding a mouse in the traps, or in the earthen jars in which grain is kept.

May it please you, Excellency, may I be your sacrifice, I have a mouse ready,' said my surgical rival, taking a small flat tin box from his pocket.

There was a hum of expectation. The certainty of a deception of some sort caused me to watch the fellow narrowly. He opened the box very cautiously; a poor little mouse, a silken ligature affixed to each foot, was in it. He was alive; no doubt of that, but securely tied. When taken up, he gave a squeak of pain.

That squeak decided me; saw the thing at a glance. 'Do you mean to tell me,' I said, 'that you are able to extract the needle from the Khan's back, and make it enter the body of the mouse?' I asked, open-mouthed, with feigned astonishment.

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'Assuredly,' calmly replied the surgeon. With Heaven's and the blessed Prophet's help, I shall certainly do so.'

Ah,' I replied; this is indeed a wonderful thing. Agha Ali, the surgeons of Persia have in you a burning and shining light; but your trick is old (here he turned pale).-Observe, my friends. Hey, presto, pass!--Khan, the needle has left you, and is now in the poor mouse's body.'

For the surgeon to close the box, in which was the mouse, and spring to his feet, was the work of an instant.

"What is this that the sahib says? What nonsense is this? If the sahib can cure the Khan's pain, why send for me? I am insulted. Let me go o!'

But all to no purpose. The box was snatched from him. As I supposed, the needle-that is to say, a needle-was already there, slipped slily in under the loose skin of the little animal's back. I asked to be allowed to look at it, and requested that it might be compared with the needles in the Khan's packet. It was half an inch too short!

There was no doubt. S Khan was furious. "Take him away!' shouted he, almost foaming with rage; nothing a Persian dislikes so much as to be over-reached—‘take him away! I shall attend to his matter in the morning.'

A general of cavalry, particularly in Persia, is a great man, and his manner of attending to the affairs of those who have offended him is rough. Two black-bearded soldier-servants hustled the disappointed charlatan out of the room. S Khan felt almost well already. The mouse ran away, silken bonds and all; and I begged the absent surgeon off with some difficulty.

'I make you a present of him,' said SKhan.

This little episode had made the time pass. There was as yet (nine P.M.) no sign of dinner, though roasted quails, smoking hot on the spit, had been handed one to each person, as a sort of stop-gap. Most of the guests began to drink, some heavily.

A little wiry man in a pair of bathing-drawers, and otherwise naked, now entered the room. He juggled; he sung; he played on various instruments; he improvised. He and his son acted a little impromptu farce, in which the priests were mercilessly mimicked; then he did all the tricks of the European contortionist; then he turned somersaults amid a forest of sharp daggers, points upwards; then he ate fire; and finally took a header while vomiting flames into the tank below. This man was Gholam Nahdi, the celebrated buffoon. For his performance, he would get his dinner, and perhaps five shillings of our money.

'Where are the cards, sahib? Hakim-sahib, where are the cards?'

I sent for my servant, who produced them. 'Bismillah! let us play,' shouted Mirza M— Khan.

'Let us play,' assented the guests.

They all set to, at a kind of lansquenet. All were wealthy men, and as they gambled only for silver coin, not much harm was done. Like a Christmas party of children at Pope Joan, how they shouted; and how they cheated, openly, most openly! He who cheated most was happiest, and the only disgrace was in being found out. S Khan, who sat next to me, had a method of cheating so simple, so Arcadian in its simplicity, that it deserves description. He lost, lost persistently; but his heap did not perceptibly diminish. I watched him. His plan was this. When he won, he put his winnings on his heap of coin. When he lost, he would carefully count out the amount of money he had to pay. 'Sixty kerans; ah! Correct, you see-sixty.' He would then gather it up in his two hands, place the closed hands on his own heap, let out the greater part of the sixty silver coins on his heap, and opening his closed hands from below upwards, apparently paid his losses into the pile of his successful adversary with a 'Much good may they do you! Another sixty kerans.'

After about an hour of this, the music and singing having been going on unceasingly, dinner was announced. The money was pocketed, or handed over to the care of servants. A long sheet of embroidered leather was spread on the ground; over this was placed a sheet of handprinted chintz, some twelve feet by four; bowls of sherbet (iced sirups and water) were laid at intervals; and the various dishes, filled each to overflowing, and mostly swimming in fat, were placed in circular trays before every six guests. A plentiful dinner-no Barmecide feast. Lambs roasted whole, stuffed with dates, almonds, raisins, and pistachio nuts; sparrow and pomegranate soup; kebabs of lambs and antelope; all the thousand-and-one delicacies of the Persian cuisine-chillaus, pillaus, curries, fowls boiled and roast. All was good, well cooked, and lavish; for each man had some half-dozen servants with him, who would dine on the leavings; and our host had certainly fifty servants, all of whom would get a meal off these crumbs from the rich man's table.

Just as dinner was finishing, a grand display of fireworks took place; and that and dinner over, we all bade our host good-bye, and rode home through the dark streets, lighted only by

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the lanterns which were carried by our servants; and the only sounds to be heard besides our horses' hoofs, were the barking of the street dogs, and the strangely human cry of the jackals. It was twelve at night, and Shiraz was fast asleep.

A HOUSE DIVIDED AGAINST ITSELF.

CHAPTER XVII.

'YES, I hope you will come and see me often.0 yes, I shall miss my sister; but then I shall have all the more of papa.-Good-night. Goodnight, Captain Gaunt.-No; I don't sketch; that was Frances. I don't know the country, either. It was my sister who knew it. I am quite ignorant and useless.-Good-night.'

Waring, who was on the loggia, heard this in the clear tones of his only remaining companion. He heard her come in afterwards with a step more distinct than that of Frances, as her voice carried farther. He said to himself that everything was more distinct about this girl, and he was glad that she was coming, glad of some relief from the depression which overcame him against his will. She came across one room after another, and out upon the loggia, throwing herself down listlessly in the usurped chair. It did not occur to him that she was unaware of his presence, and he was surprised that she said nothing. But after a minute or two, there could be no doubt how it was that Constance did not speak. There was no loud outburst of emotion, but a low suppressed sound, which it was impossible to mistake. She said after a moment to herself: 'What a fool I am!' But even this reflection did not stem the tide. A sensation of utter solitude had seized upon her. She was abandoned, among strangers; and though she had so much experience of the world, it was not of this world that Constance had any knowledge. Had she been left alone among a new tribe of people unknown to her, she would not have been afraid! Court or camp would have had no alarms for her; but the solitude, broken only by the Occasional appearance of these rustic companions; the simple young soldier, who was going to bestow his heart upon her, an entirely undesired gift; the anxious mother, who was about to mount guard over her at a distance; the polite old beau in the background. Was it possible that the existence she knew had altogether receded from Constance, and left her with such companions alone? She was not thinking of her father, neither of himself nor of his possible presence, which was of little importance to her. After a while, she sat upright and passed her handkerchief quickly over her face. 'It is my own fault,' she said, still to herself; 'I might have known.'

'You don't see, Constance, that I am here.' She started, and pulled herself up in a moment. Oh, are you there, papa? No, I didn't see you. I didn't think of any one being here.--Well, they are gone. Everybody came to see Frances off, as you divined. She bore up very well; but, of course, it was a little sad for her, leaving everything she knows.'

'Yes, I know women-enough to say the ordinary things about them,' said Waring; 'but perhaps I don't know you, which is of far more consequence just now.'

"There is not much in me to know,' said the girl in a light voice. I am just like other girls. am apt to cry when I see people crying. Frances sobbed-like a little foolish thing; for why should she cry? She is going to see the world. Did you ever feel, when you came here first, a sort of horror seize upon you, as if-as if-a -as if you were lost in a savage wilderness, and would never see a human face again?' 'No; I cannot say I ever felt that.' 'No, to be sure,' cried Constance. ridiculous nonsense I am talking! wilderness! with all these houses about, and the hotels on the beach. I mean-didn't you feel as if you would like to run violently down a steep place into the sea?' Then she stopped, and laughed. 'It was the swine that did that.'

'What A savage

'It has never occurred to me to take that means of settling matters; and yet I understand you,' he said gravely. You have made a mistake. You thought you were philosopher enough to give up the world; and it turns out that you are not. But you need not cry, for it is not too late. You can change your mind.'

'I-change my mind! Not for the world, papa! Do you think I would give them the triumph of supposing that I could not do without them, that I was obliged to go back? Not for the world.'

'I understand the sentiment,' he said. 'Still, between these two conditions of mind, it is rather unfortunate for you, my dear. I do not see any middle course.' I can

'O yes; there is a middle course. make myself very comfortable here; and that is what I mean to do.-Papa, if you had not found it out, I should not have told you. I hope you are not offended?'

"O no, I am not offended,' he said with a short laugh. 'It is perhaps a pity that everybody has been put to so much trouble for what gives you so little satisfaction. That is the worst of it; these mistakes affect so many others besides one's self.'

Constance evidently had a struggle with herself to accept this reproof; but she made no immediate reply. After a while: Frances will be a little strange at first; but she will like it by-and-by; and it is only right she should have her share,' she said softly.I have been wondering,' she went on with a laugh that was somewhat forced, whether mamma will respect her individuality at all; or if she will put her altogether into my place? I wonder if that man I told you of, papa'

'Well, what of him?' said Waring, rather sharply.

'I wonder if he will be turned over to Frances too? It would be droll. Mamma is not a person to give up any of her plans, if she can help it; and you have brought up Frances so very well, papa; she is so docile-and so obedient’

You think she will accept your old lover, or your old wardrobe, or anything that offers ? You know I don't think she is so well brought up as that.'

'You were crying a minute ago, Constance.' 'Was I? Oh, well; that was nothing. Girls cry, and it doesn't mean much. women well enough, to know that.'

'I did not mean to insult my sister,' cried Constance, springing to her feet. She is so well brought up, that she accepted whatever you chose to say to her, forgetting that she was a woman, that she was a lady.'

I

Waring's face grew scarlet in the darkness. hope,' he said, 'that I am incapable of forgetting on any provocation that my daughter is a lady.' 'You mean me,' she cried, breathless. Oh, I can'- But here she stopped. 'Papa,' she resumed, 'what good will it do us to quarrel? I don't want to quarrel. Instead of setting yourself against me because I am poor Con, and not Frances, whom you love- Oh, I think you might be good to me just at this moment; for I am very lonely, and I don't know what I am good for, and I think my heart will break.'

She went to him quietly and flung herself upon his shoulder, and cried. Waring was perhaps more embarrassed than touched by this appeal; but after all, she was his child, and he was sorry for her. He put his arm round her, and said a few soothing words. You may be good for a great deal, if you choose,' he said; and if you will believe me, my dear, you will find that by far the most amusing way. You have more capabilities than Frances; you are much better educated than she is at least, I suppose so, for she was not educated at

all.'

'How do you mean that it will be more amusing? I don't expect to be amused; all that is over,' said Constance, in a dolorous

tone.

He was so much like her, that he paused for a moment to consider whether he should be angry, but decided against it, and laughed instead. 'You are not complimentary,' he said. 'What I mean is, that if you sit still and think over your deprivations, you will inevitably be miserable; whereas, if you exert yourself a little, and make the best of the situation, you will very likely extract something that is amusing out of it. I have seen it happen so often in my experience.'

'Ah!' said Constance, considering. And then she withdrew from him and went back to her chair. I thought, perhaps, you meant something more positive. There are perhaps possibilitiesFrances would have thought it wrong to look out for amusement-that must have been because you trained her so.'

'Not altogether. Frances does not require so much amusement as you do. It is so in everything. One individual wants more sleep, more food, more delight than others.'

'Yes, yes,' she cried; that is like me. Some people are more alive than others; that is what you mean, papa.'

'I am not sure that it is what I mean; but if you like to take it so, I have no objection. And in that view, I recommend you to live, Constance. You will find it a great deal more amusing than to mope; and it will be much pleasanter to me.'

"Yes,' she said, I was considering. Perhaps what I mean will be not the same as what you I will not do it in Frances' way; but still I will take your advice, papa. I am sure you are right in what you say.'

mean.

If you

'I am glad you think so, my dear. cannot have everything you want, take what you can get. It is the only true philosophy.'

"Then I shall be a true philosopher,' she said with a laugh. The laugh was more than a mere recovery of spirits. It broke out again after a little, as if with a sense of something irresistibly comic. But I must not interfere too much with

Mariuccia, it appears. She knows what you like better than I do. I am only to look wise when she submits her menu, as if I knew all about it. I am very good at looking as if I knew all about it.-By the way, do you know there is no piano? I should like to have a piano, if I might.' "That will not be very difficult,' he said. 'Can you play?'

At which she laughed once more, with all her easy confidence restored. 'You shall hear, when you get me a piano.-Thanks, papa; you have quite restored me to myself. I can't knit you socks, like Frances; and I am not so clever about the mayonnaises; but still I am not altogether devoid of intellect. And now, we completely understand each other.-Good-night.'

'This is sudden,' he said. 'Good-night, if you think it is time for that ceremony.'

'It is time for me; I am a little tired; and I have got some alterations to make in my room, now that-now that at present when I am quite settled and see my way.'

He

He did not understand what she meant, and he did not inquire. It was of very little consequence. Indeed, it was perhaps well that she should go and leave him to think of everything. It was not a month yet since the day when he had met that idiot Mannering on the road. To be sure, there was no proof that the idiot Mannering was the cause of all that had ensued. But at least it was he who had first disturbed the calm which Waring hoped was to have been eternal. He sat down to think, almost grateful to Constance for taking herself away. thought a little of Frances hurrying along into the unknown, the first great journey she had ever taken, and such a journey, away from everything and everybody she knew. Poor little Fan! He thought a little about her; but he thought a great deal about himself. Would it ever be possible to return to that peace which had been so profound, which had ceased to appear capable of disturbance? The circumstances were all very different now. Frances, who would think it her duty to write to him often, was henceforth to be her mother's companion, reflecting, no doubt, the sentiments of a mind, to escape from which he had given up the world and (almost) his own species. And Constance, though she had elected to be his companion, would no doubt all the same write to her mother; and everything that he did and said, and all the circumstances of his life, would thus be laid open. He felt an impatience beyond words of that dutifulness of women, that propriety in which girls are trained, which makes them write letters. Why should they write letters? But it was impossible to prevent it. His wife would become a sort of distant witness of everything he did. She would know what he liked for dinner, the wine he preferred, how many baths he took. To describe how this thought annoyed him would be impossible. He had forgotten to warn Frances that her father

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was not to be discussed with my lady. But what was the use of saying anything, when letters would come and go continually from the one house to the other? And he would be compelled to put up with it, though nothing could be more unpleasant. If these girls had been boys, this would not have happened. It was perhaps the first time Waring had felt himself within reach of such a wish, for boys were far more objectionable to his fine tastes than girls, gave more trouble, and were less agreeable to have about one. In the present circumstances, however, he could not but feel they would have been less embarrassing. Constance might grow tired, indeed, of_that_unprofitable exercise of letter-writing. But Frances, he felt sure, would in all cases be dutiful, and would not grow tired. She would write to him perhaps (he shivered) every day; at least every week; and she would think it her duty to tell him everything that happened, and she would require that he should write. But this, except once or twice, perhaps, to let her down easily, he was resolved that nothing should induce him to do.

Constance was neither tired nor sleepy when she went to her room. She had never betrayed the consciousness in any way, being high-bred and courteous when it did not interfere with her comfort to be so; yet she had divined that Frances had given up her room to her. This would have touched the heart of many people, but to Constance it was almost an irritation. She could not think why her sister had done it, except with that intention of selfmartyrdom with which so many good people exasperate their neighbours. She would have been quite as comfortable in the blue room, and she would have liked it better. Now that Frances was safely gone and her feelings could not be hurt any more, Constance had set her heart upon altering it to her own pleasure, making it bear no longer the impress of Frances' mind, but of her own. She took down a number of the pictures which Frances had thought so much of, and softly pulled the things about, and changed it more than any one could have supposed a room could be changed. Then she sat down to think. The depression which had seized upon her when she had felt that all was over, that the door was closed upon her, and no place of repentance any longer possible, did not return at first. Her father's words, which she understood in a sense not intended by him, gave her a great deal of amusement as she thought them over. She did not conceal from herself the fact that there might ensue circumstances in which she should quote them to him to justify herself. Frances does not require so much amusement as you do. One individual requires more sleep, more food, more delight than another.' She laid this dangerous saying up in her mind with much glee, laughing to herself under her breath: 'If you cannot get what you want, you must take what you can get.' How astounded he would be if it should ever be necessary to put him in mind of these dogmas-which were so true! Her father's arguments, indeed, which were so well meant, did not suit the case of Constance. She had been in a better state of mind when she had felt her

self to awake, as it were, on the edge of this desert, into which, in her impatience, she had flung herself, and saw that there was no escape for her, that she had been taken at her word, that she was to be permitted to work out her own will, and that no one would forcibly interfere to restore all her delights, to smooth the way for her to return. She had expected this, if not consciously, yet with a strong unexpressed conviction. But when she had seen Markham's face disappear, and realised that he was gone, actually gone, and had left her to exist as she could in the wilderness to which she had flown, her young perverse soul had been swept as by a tempest.

After a while, when she had gone through that little interview with her father, when she had executed her little revolution, and had seated herself in the quiet of the early night to think again over the whole matter, the pang returned, as every pang does. It was not yet ten o'clock, the hour at which she might have been setting out to a succession of entertainments under her mother's wing; but she had nothing better to amuse her than to alter the arrangement of a few old chairs, to draw aside a faded curtain, and then to betake herself to bed, though it was too early to sleep. There were sounds of voices still audible without, people singing, gossiping, enjoying, on the stone benches on the Punto, just those same delights of society which happy people on the verge of a new season were beginning to enjoy. But Constance did not feel much sympathy with the villagers, who were foreigners, whom she felt to be annoying and intrusive, making a noise under her windows, when, as it so happened, she had nothing to do but to go to sleep. When she looked out from the window and saw the pale sky spreading clear over the sea, she could think of nothing but Frances rushing along through the night, with Markham taking such care of her, hastening to London, to all that was worth living for. No doubt that little thing was still crying in her corner, in her folly and ignorance regretting her village. Oh, if they could have but changed places! To think of sitting opposite to Markham, with the soft night-air blowing in her face, devouring the way, seeing the little towns flash past, the morning dawn upon France, the long levels of the flat country sweep along; then Paris, London, at last! She shut the persiani almost violently with a hand that trembled, and looked round the four walls which shut her in, with again an impulse almost of despair. She felt like a wild creature newly caged, shut in there, to be kept within bolts and bars, to pace up and down, and beat against the walls of her prison, and never more to go free.

But this fit being more violent, did not go so deep as the unspeakable sense of loneliness which had overwhelmed her soul at first. She sprang up from it with the buoyancy of her age, and said to herself what her father had said: 'If you cannot get what you want, you must take what you can get.' There was yet a little amusement to be had out of this arid place. She had her father's sanction for making use of her opportunities; anything was better than to mope; and for her it was a necessity to live. She laughed a little under her breath once more, as

she came back to this more reassuring thought, and so lay down in her sister's bed with a satisfaction in the thought that it had not taken her any trouble to supplant Frances, and a mischievous smile about the corners of her mouth; although, after all, the thought of the travellers came over her again as she closed her eyes, and she ended by crying herself to sleep.

(To be continued.)

THE BLACK MUSEUM. THE name at the head of this paper will be a puzzle to a good many of our readers. Even among Londoners born and bred, not one in a hundred perhaps has heard of the Black Museum. Whitaker's Almanac knows it not; and Dickens's Dictionary of London, that 'guide, philosopher, and friend' of the wanderer in the great metropolis, makes no mention of it. Mr Samuel Weller himself, 'extensive and peculiar' as his knowledge of London is admitted to have been, might | have had to plead guilty of ignorance in this one particular. And yet the Black Museum can show names of mark in its visitors' book. 'Counts a many, and dukes a few,' from Royal Highnesses downwards, have here inscribed their signatures. Literature and music are represented by Mr W. S. Gilbert and Sir Arthur Sullivan; the drama by Miss Minnie Palmer; the fire brigade by Captain Shaw; and the last offices of the law by Mr William Marwood, who, we are told, was a frequent visitor. Not to keep the reader in suspense, the Black Museum is a small back-room on the second floor of the offices of the Convict Supervision Department, Scotland Yard, and its curios consist exclusively of articles connected in one way or another with crime and criminals. The objects exhibited are about a hundred and fifty in number. They are carefully labelled, and are further described in a bulky catalogue, which, in addition to names, dates, and other particulars, contains a number of photographs and newspaper cuttings having relation to the various items.

The collection is so arranged as to allow free inspection of the various objects, and the curator, Sergeant Bradshaw, takes an evident pride in his charge, and furnishes the history of any given item with remarkable promptitude and accuracy. Round three sides of the room, on a high shelf, are ranged a number of plaster casts from Derby jail and York Castle, representing the heads of sundry criminals, who, for one offence or another, have suffered the last penalty of the law. If it were customary to hang people on the strength of their personal appearance, we should say that most of these gentry fully deserved their fate. They are not a pleasant sight, and for the most part have not even notoriety to recommend them. One of them, however, a big heavy head, ticketed as that of John Platts'-executed in 1847, for the murder of one George Collis, at Chesterfieldacquires a factitious interest from the fact that the identical rope which hanged the original is looped over the gas pendant in the centre of the room. The halters connected with the other casts are also preserved in the Museum, but this one chances to have the place of honour. The curator calls our attention to the thinness of the

rope-about five-eighths of an inch only-in comparison with that at present used, which is nearly or quite an inch in diameter. He further points out that the rope is much shorter than that now in use. Under the old régime, it was an even chance whether the criminal died by strangling or by dislocation of the neck; whereas, by the present more merciful 'long drop,' the neck is invariably dislocated, and death is practically instantaneous. Together with the halter are seen the cords-now replaced by a leather strap-for pinioning the arms of the condemned man, and the cap-a tall conical affair like a large cotton nightcap, but of double material-for drawing over his head at the supreme moment. These three items, the halter, the pinioning gear, and the cap, constitute the informs us, not without a touch of regret, that complete 'hangman's kit.' Sergeant Bradshaw Mr Marwood, on paying his last visit to the Museum, promised to present to it the ropes with which the murderers of Lord Frederick Cavendish and Mr Burke were executed, but died without having redeemed his promise.

From the appliances of the hangman, we pass by an easy transition to the last relics of the late Mr Charles Peace, which rank among the chief lions of the collection. Sergeant Bradshaw shows us, handling them 'tenderly, as if he loved them,' the working tools of the venerable miscreant: the neat little picklocks and skeleton-keys; the gimlet, muffled in an india-rubber casing; the handy little 'jemmy;' the crucible for melting down his spoils; and last, but not least, his ladder,' a simple wooden contrivance, folding into so small a compass as to go into an ordinary handbag, and yet, when extended, affording ample foothold for the cat-like 'prince of burglars, as he is called, to climb up to a first-floor window. So original is the contrivance, that until Peace himself revealed its object, the police were quite at a loss to imagine its use. Here, too, are the inventor's blue spectacles, and his artificial arm— a leather stump with a hook in it-worn for the purpose of disguise, the real arm lying snugly within the coat. The secret of Peace having so long kept out of the hands of the police is that he had no accomplices, but worked entirely alone. Under cover of his disguise, he collected the necessary information for his exploits; and after some daring burglary, wherein the activity of a practised gymnast had been displayed, the last person to be suspected was the little one-armed old man with the blue spectacles. Wonderful are the ways of hero-worshippers. Some eccentric relichunter has actually cut a piece out of the artificial arm, and in some obscure corner of the universe doubtless dazzles his kinsfolk and acquaintances by the exhibition of a veritable bit of leather formerly belonging to a deceased burglar and murderer. The reader may remember that Peace, after having escaped the consequences of many previous crimes, was convicted of attempting the life of a policeman, and of the actual murder of a Mr Dyson, at Bannercross, near Sheffield; and after a determined attempt to escape by jumping from a railway train, was executed at Leeds on the 25th of February 1879. A carte-de-visite of Peace, taken by the Stereoscopic Company, is preserved in the catalogue, and should be a valuable example to the student of physiognomy;

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