a riddle which I defy any mortal tongue to guess."

There are some disagreeables in life of which one can see the benefit. Courting is one of them. When Janet and Max were first engaged, I could not bear the thought of the wedding, and the loss of my girl. I said that the marriage ought to be put off for a year. After a month of the courting, I agreed that the young couple should be married as soon as the return of Mr. Sparkes from India enabled me to complete the tlement.

TABLE TALK.

MOST of us have visited the now famous

Dr.

marine aquarium at the Crystal Palace, and we have all been pleased with the success of the experiment. But, according to a scientific contemporary, Dr. Anton Dohrn, in a letter to Professor Agassiz, writes that he has matured a plan which has for many years been in the minds of many zoologists-namely, that of establishing a large laboratory for marine zoology in the Mediterranean. He has obtained permission of the authorities of the city of Naples to construct a large building, at his own expense, in the Villa Reale at Naples, close to the sea, containing a large aquarium for the public, and extensive rooms for naturalists of every country. Dohrn, with two or three other German zoologists, will settle there, and conduct the administration of both the aquarium and the laboratories. He wishes information regarding this proposed laboratory to be widely extended, and earnestly invites all who may visit Naples to visit the aquarium. An annual report of the work done and progress made at the zoological station will be published. A committee has already been formed to give further dignity and importance to this project, consisting of Messrs. Helmholtz, Dubois-Reymond, Huxley, Darwin, Van Beneden, &c.; and, in America, Professor Agassiz,

SOME MODERN actors, especially one luminary of the stage who bears a Teutonic name, have been accused of taking occasional liberties with the Queen's English, as it is conventionally pronounced. But who would have ever dreamt that the immortal David Garrick could have been guilty of such heresy? Yet such was the case, if we may believe the statements con

"If 'tis true, as you say, that I've injured a letter, I'll change my notes soon, and I hope for the better.

May the just right of letters, as well as of men, Hereafter be fixed by the tongue and the pen: Most devoutly I wish that they both have their due,

And that I may be rever mistaken for U."

A CORRESPONDENT: Having passed most of a long life in courts of law, and felt their great inconvenience, I naturally take considerable interest in the question of their reconstruction. In my opinion, a court of justice should be circular; and valuable hints could be obtained from the building of theatres in reference to the internal arrangements, the stage to be appropriated to the judge, with retiring-rooms at the back, and a side entrance, like the stage door, for the judge; the pit for the attorneys and barristers, witnesses with a separate entrance, and a gallery over the entrance for the mere spectators. Will Mr. Street consider the propriety of constructing his courts on this principle?

IT IS CURIOUS to notice how toothache gradually abates as you get nearer and nearer to the dentist's door. It seems almost as if your tooth was an intelligent being which turned coward when threatened, as bullies generally do. And, indeed, it would not be far from the mark to say, that in such a case the tooth had been made to understand that it was menaced, and had been frightened by a process of telegraphy between the mental and physical nerve.

READY-MONEY MORTIBOY.-This Novel was commenced in No. 210, and can be obtained through all Booksellers, or by post, from the Office direct on receipt of stamps.

Terms of Subscription for ONCE A WEEK, free by post:-Weekly Numbers for Six Months, 5s. 5d.; Monthly Parts, 5s. 8d.

READY-MONEY MORTIBOY.

A MATTER-OF-FACT STORY.

OR CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.

STREET, as Frank stepped into it from Dick's hotel, was alive with people, for the night was warm and fine. He had bidden his rich cousin good night, in his easy and pleasant way. He had never hinted at the sore straits to which he was reduced. Dick was rather inclined to believe, from what little information he was able to elicit from Frank, that Art paid;-that Frank got a living at it, at all events, and was too proud to be helped when he saw the chance of doing well without help. Now, Dick rather admired this phase of Frank's character-as who would not? Yet he resolved that, when he saw him the next day, he would compel him to disclose the state of his finances and his prospects. While one cousin thought this, the other hesitated a moment in front of the hotel, remembering suddenly that he had no bed to go to. It was a curious sensation, the most novel he had ever experienced. No bed. Nowhere to go to. No money, or next to none, in his pocket. Nothing at all resembling a home. Even a portable tent, or a Rob Roy canoe, would have been something. He shook himself all over, like a dog. Then he laughed, for he had had a capital day, and a good dinner; and he was only five and twenty.

"Hang it," he said, "a night in the open won't kill one, I suppose. Dick Mortiboy

VOL. IX.

Price 2d.

must have slept out often in his travelling days."

Then he lit a cigar. Dick had forced a dozen upon him-which, with that curious feeling that permits a man to take anything except money from another, Frank accepted with real gratitude. With his hands in his pockets, and his hat well back on his head, as all old Eton boys wear it, he strolled westward, turning things over in his mind in that resignedly amused frame of mind which comes upon the most unhappy wight after a bottle and a-half of claret. Our ancestors, in their kindly brutality, permitted condemned criminals to have a long drink on the way to Tyburn. The punch-bowl was brought out somewhere near the site of the Marble Arch; and the condamné, fortified and brightened up by the drink, ascended the ladder with a jaunty air, and kicked off his shoes before an admiring populace ;-just as well, it seems to me, as keeping the poor man low, and making him feel all his misery up to the very last. Frank, having had his bowl of punch, was about to embark upon that wild and hopeless voyage of despair, which consists in sailing from port to port, looking for employment. There are certain ships to be met with in the different havens of the world, which are from time to time to be found putting in, "seeking." They never find. From Valparaiso they go to Rio; from Pernambuco to Port Louis; from Calcutta to Kingston; from Havana to Shanghae. They are always roving about the ocean, always "seeking," and always in ballast. Who are their owners; how the grizzled old skipper keeps his crew together; how they pay for the pickled pork and rum, in which they delight; how they have credit for repairs to rigging and sails; how the ship is docked, and scraped, and kept afloat-all these things are a profound mystery. After a time, as I have reason for believing, they disappear; but this must be when there is no longer any credit possible, and all the

NO. 223.

ports in the world are closed to them. Then the skipper calls together his men, makes the weather-beaten tars a speech, tells them that their long and happy voyages must now terminate, because there is no more pickled pork and no more rum, and discloses to them his long-hidden secret. They cheer feebly, set the sails once more, turn her head due North, and steer away to that warm, windless, iceless ocean at the North Pole, where all vagrom ships betake themselves at last, and live together in peace and harmony far from the storms of the world.

Which things are an allegory. Ships are but as men. The North Pole ocean is as that hidden deep where dwell the men who have " gone under." They "go under" every day, falling off at each reverse more and more from the paths of honesty. One of them called on me a week ago. I had met him once at Oxford, years since. He shook hands with me as with his oldest and best friend; he sat down; he drank my sherry; he called me old fellow; and presently, when he thought my heart was open to the soft influence of pity, he told me his tale, and-borrowed thirty shillings. He went away. Of course, I found that his tale was all false. He is welcome to his thirty shillings, with which I have earned the right of shutting my door in the face of a man who has gone under.

Was Frank thinking of all this as he walked through the squares that clear, bright night, among the houses lit up for balls, and the carriages bearing their precious treasures of dainty women? I know not. The thoughts of a man who has but six and sixpence in his pocket, and no bed to go to, are like a child's. They are long, long thoughts. If it is cold and rainy, if he is hungry or ill, he despairs and blasphemes. If it is bright and warm, if he is well-fed and young, he laughs and sings, with a secret, half-felt sinking of the heart, and looking forward to evil times close at hand.

Along the squares, outside the great houses where the rich, and therefore happy, were dancing and feasting, thinking little enough (why should they?) about the poor, and therefore miserable, outside-beggars came up to Frank. One old man, who looked as if he had been a gentleman, stood in front of him suddenly.

"Give me something," he said, bringing his clenched fists down at his sides in a

gesture of despair. "Give me something. I am desperately poor."

Frank put sixpence into his hand, and passed on.

"Only six bob now," he thought. Women-those dreadful women, all alike, who belong to certain districts of London, and appear only late at night-begged of him. These women must form a class peculiar to themselves. They are neither old nor young. They carry a baby. They are dressed in rusty black. They bear in one hand three boxes of cigar lights. They address you as "good gentleman," and claim to have six starving babies at home, and nothing to put in their mouths. Then the boys with cigar lights ran after him; and then more sturdy beggars, more women, and more boys. He walked on. It struck ten. Frank's cigar was finished. Just then he passed— it was in one of those dingy, characterless streets, near the great squares a lowbrowed, retiring-looking public house. From its doors issued the refrain of a song, the clinking of glasses, and stamping of feet. Frank stopped.

-

"I've got exactly six shillings," he said. "I may surely have a glass of beer out of that."

He went in, and drank his glass. As he drank it, another song, horribly sung, began in the room behind the bar.

"Like to go in, sir?" asked the barmaid. "It's quite full.. We hold it every Monday evening."

Frank thought he might as well sit down, and see what was going on-particularly as there appeared to be no charge for admission.

It was a long, low room at the back, filled with about thirty men, chiefly petty tradesmen of the neighbourhood. Every man was smoking a long clay pipe, and had a tumbler before him. Every man was perfectly sober, and wore an air of solemnity exceedingly comic. One of the men-the most solemn and the most comic-occupied the chair. By his right stood a piano, where a palefaced boy of eighteen or so was playing accompaniments to the songs. A gentleman with a red face and white hair was sitting well back in his chair, holding his pipe straight out before him, chanting with tremendous emphasis and some difficulty-because he was short of breath. This, and not an imperfect education, caused him to ac

"Ho! the ma-haids of me-herry Hengle-land, How be-hew-ti-ful hare they!"

Somewhat apart from the rest, not at the table-as if he did not belong to themsat a man of entirely different appearance. He was gorgeously attired in a brown velvet coat and white waistcoat, with a great profusion of gold chain and studs. He was about five and forty years of age. His features were highly Jewish, with the full lips and large nose of that Semitic race. His hair, full and black, lay in massive rolls on an enormous great head-the biggest head, Frank thought, that he had ever seen. his hand, big in proportion, was a tumbler of iced soda and brandy. He was smoking a cigar, and beating time impatiently on the arm of his chair.

In

The "Maids of Merry England" died away in the last bars which those who were behind time added to the original melody; and the chairman, taking up his tumbler, bowed to the singer, and said solemnly

"Mr. Pipkin, sir, your health and song." The company all did the same. Mr. Pipkin wiped his brow, and took a long pull at his gin and water.

"Now," said the chairman, persuasively, "who is going to oblige the company with the next song?"

Dead silence. "Perhaps one of the visitors "-here he looked at Frank-" will oblige us ?"

"If you can sing, do," growled Bighead. "Really," said Frank, "I am afraid I hardly know any song that would please; but, if you like, I will sing a little thing I made myself once, words and music too."

"Hear, hear!" said the chair. "Silence, if you please, gentlemen, for the gentleman's song. Gentlemen, he's written it himself."

Frank took the place of the pale-cheeked musician, and played his prelude. He was going to sing a song which he made at

suppers.

"It's only a very little thing," he said, addressing the audience generally. "If you don't like it, pray stop me at the first verse. It never had a name."

"There was Kate, with an eye like a hawk;

There was Blanche, with an eye like a fawn; There was Lotty, as fresh as the rose on its stalk; And Lucy, as bright as the dawn.

There were Polly, and Dolly, and Jessie, and Rose, They were fair, they were dark, they were short,

they were tall;

I changed like a weathercock when the wind blows, For I loved them all-and I loved them all. "Like the showers and sunshine of spring, The quarrels and kisses I had; Like a forest-bird fledgeling trying its wing, Is the flight of the heart of a lad. Oh! Rosie and Lotty, and Jessie and Kate, How love vows perish, and promises fall! You were all pledged to me, and I wasn't your fate;

But I loved you all-and I loved you all.

"Twas Jessie I kissed in the wood,

And Lotty kissed me in the lane; But Rosie held out, as a young maiden should, Till she found I'd not ask her again. Now they're married, and mothers, and all, And 'tis Lucy clings close to my breast; And we never tell her, what we never recallFor I love my wife-how I loved the rest." "Bravo!" growled the man with the big head. "Bravo! young fellow. Devilish well sung."

"Sir," said the chairman, "your health and song."

"Don't get up," said Bighead; "sing another. Look here, sing that. Mr. Chairman, the gentleman's going to sing another song."

It was "Adelaïde," that supreme tenor song-the song of songs-that the man handed to Frank. He took it from a portfolio which was standing beside him.

"Yes," he said, nodding, "I'm a sort of professional, and I know a good voice when I hear it. Can you play the accompaniment? If not, I will."

Frank yielded him the seat, and took the music. Yes, he could sing "Adelaïde." But how long since he sang it last! And-ah me!-in what altered circumstances!

But he sang. With all the sweetness and power of his voice he filled the room-laden with the air of so many pipes and reeking tumblers-with the yearnings of passion, which have never found such utterance as in that great song. The honest folk behind their pipes sat in amazement, half compre

hending but only half. The barmaid crept from behind the counter to the door, and listened: when the song was finished, she went back with tears in her eyes, and a throbbing heart. She was not too old to feel the yearning after love. The pale-faced young musician listened till his cheeks glowed and his eyes brightened: the poor boy had dreams beyond his miserable surroundings. The player-the big-headed man -as he played, wagged his head, and shook his curls, and let the tears roll down his great big nose, and drop upon the keys. For Frank, forgetting where he was, and remembering his love, and how he sang that song last to her, poured out his heart into the notes, and sang as one inspired.

"Come with me," said Bighead, seizing him by the arm as soon as he had finished. "Come away. Let us talk, you and I-let us talk."

He dragged him into the street. The clocks were striking twelve.

"Which is your way?"

"Which is yours?" said Frank.

The man moved his fat forefinger slowly round his head in a complete circle.

"All ways," he said. "Let me walk part of your way.'

Frank turned to the left. It mattered nothing.

"Are you rich? you are a gentleman, see-but are you rich, happy, satisfied, contented, money in your pocket, money in the bank, therefore virtuous and respected?"

"No-I am none of these things." "Then make yourself all these. Sing for money. Go on the stage. Good God, man! Giuglini himself had not so sweet a voice. Give me your name and address." Frank hesitated. "Well, then, take mine." He gave him a card. "Will you come and see me? That can do you no harm, you know. Come."

got into a hole-whether it's money or what it is. On the boards, nobody cares much." "You are quite welcome to know everything, so far as I am concerned,” said Frank, proudly.

"So much the better. Then no offence. When will you come?"

"I will look for occupation to-morrow and next day. If I don't get it, I will call on you on the evening of that day."

"Wednesday evening. Good. Of course you won't get anything to do. How should you? Nobody ever gets anything to do. Good night, my dear sir. For heaven's sake, take care of your throat. Do wrap it up. Let me lend you a wrapper."

He took a clean red silk handkerchief out of his pocket, unfolded it, and wrapped it round Frank's throat, tenderly and softly. In the eyes of the big-headed man, Frank's voice was a fortune.

"Good heavens! if anything were to happen to an organ like that from exposure! Are you going to smoke again? Then take one of my cigars-they must be better than yours."

"Mine are good enough, I think," said Frank, laughing, offering him one.

And

"Candidly," said Frank, "I am looking for employment. But I would rather not sing for money."

"Rubbish! I've done it. I've sung second basso at the Italian Opera. Not sing for money! Why not? You'd write for money, I suppose? You'd paint for money? Why not sing? Now, come and pay me a visit, and talk it over."

"I must look about first. Are you really serious?"

"Quite. I don't care how it is you've

is close and stifling. The Mall, St. James's Park, is still crowded. No wonder; for the air of the park is fresh, and the moonlight lies soft and bright on the trees. Frank slowly descends the steps at the Duke of York's column, and proceeds to search for a resting-place. All the seats appear to be full, some of them occupied by men stretched at full length, others by women sitting two and three together. All the way to Buckingham Palace there is not a single chance even of sitting room.

"Very odd," said Frank, returning, "that the same idea should strike all these people as well as myself. What is to be done next?"