Island, in the middle of winter. As far as Shediae, the terminus of the New Brunswick and European Railway-for so I believe it is called-was plain sailing, but from thence the journey was the most uncomfortable one I ever performed. First of all, a cold and dreary drive in a one-horse sleigh to Cape Tormentive. From this place, a flat-bottomed skiff, tinned over and mounted on runners, alternately hauled over ice and paddled across patches of open water, carries mails and passengers to the island. From land to land, as a bird would fly, is only eight miles; but the distance traversed by the ice-boat is infinitely greater, as the tide runs strong; and when toiling over fields of rough ice, one is drifted many miles out of the direct course. When storms arise during the passage the consequences are serious; but the ice boatmen are clever navigators, and very cautious, never attempting to cross when the weather appears threatening. I cannot help thinking that, with a little enterprise, the navigation to the island might be kept open all the year round; at most there are but three or four weeks in each year in which properly rigged steamboats could not ply. I was unfortunate enough to find the iceboat at the other side, and had to put up at the Cape Tormentive Hotel-save the mark! The landlord of this vile den had lost all his toes and a few of his fingers in the ice, and spent his time in dignified repose. Rum and tobacco seemed to be his only sustenance. His mother-in-law happened to be on a visit to him. The dissensions caused by meddling mothers-in-law are proverbial, and this old lady, with the purest intentions, was the cause of a fracas which served to enliven my sojourn at Cape Tormentive. It seems that she had instigated her daughter to lock up the rum; and hence the disturbance. Our worthy landlord naturally resented this interference, and became grossly abusive; whereupon the old lady, assisted by her daughter and the servant girl, very properly proceeded to thrash him. The veteran belaboured the drunken ruffian with the tongs, whilst the younger women skirmished with plates, dishes, and firebrands. Everything breakable in the house was broken. It was late when peace was restored; and, supperless, I retired to rest amid the ruins, wrapped up in my blanket. This served as good training for the next day, when, after eight hours' as hard labour as ever I had-for passengers must work

their way I got safely across to Cape Traverse.

Politics are now convulsing Prince Edward Island. Every one talks Confederation by the yard: the ice boatmen to their passengers, the shopkeepers in the metropolis to their customers, the policemen to their prisoner: even the small boys assert, with manly oaths, that they are "Antis." A drunken man, engrossed in this all-absorbing topic, wanted to embrace me on the strength of it, and then wanted to fight me. I took a middle course, and liquored. Finally, when wearied of politics, and sick of Confederation, I tried to snatch a few moments' rest on a sofa in the hotel, my landlady stood over me with outstretched arms-like a gladiator about to give the finishing touch to his vanquished opponent and poured forth Confederation with horrid volubility. Goaded to madness, I dashed out of the house, and sought for peace in the forest primeval; but even there Confederation met me face to face in the form of a noble savage, in a tall, battered-in hat and mocassins. To me the native:

"What time of day, mister?"

I told him, thinking there could be no danger.

"Thank ye, sir-me Anti! Yes, sir! No Confederate, this Injun. Give me leetle bit baccy?"

Further resistance being useless, I gave in; and, (temporarily) a harmless idiot, returned to the society of the local politicians, talking Confederation as I went with the redskin, and blessing (?) the spread of civilization.

Judging by what I heard as a stranger, I came to the conclusion that Confederation is an unpopular measure. The islanders wish to remain as they were; but sooner than join the dominion of Canada-with whom they have no ties of interest, or affection, or trade-they would prefer to cast in their lot with the United States, with whom they have a considerable and growing trade. Their land is the most fertile of all the provinces, and their fisheries the richest. Within a few years a mine of wealth has been opened up close to their very doors; for the island is so indented with creeks and arms of the sea, that every settler is within reach of the tideway, and here are accumulated vast quantities of mussel-mud, socalled-an extremely rich and valuable manure, abounding in animal substances and

lime. Such are its fertilizing effects, that the hay crop is said to have been doubled on the island since its discovery-for so I may call it some three or four years ago. On every side, in winter, dredging machines may be seen at work scooping it up through holes in the ice, and loading it on sleighs.

There is much pleasure and much health in this long winter; but there is also, I must confess, much monotony. So when the first geese are heard flying over their ice-girt shores, there is joy among the Blue Noses. The geese arrive about the 20th of March, and are Nature's first messengers to tell us that spring is at hand-not that we see much sign of it as yet; still everything is clothed in white. Early in April we commence daily to scrutinize the ice in the harbours and rivers, and one fine morning the glad sound goes forth that the "ice has started." But it does not give in without a struggle. For days a fierce battle rages between the frozen and the unfrozen element. Sooner or later the ice must give way; and, with groans, masses of it are piled on the banks. Occasionally, it makes a sturdy stand, and then a "jam" ensues, behind which the water rises to a great height; and then, victorious, bursts forth with fury, carrying the ice along with it, and not unfrequently doing great damage to wharves and buildings. The almanacs say that a new year commences on the first day of January; but, let them say what they will, our year commences on the day the first steamer comes. On that day, and that day alone, the crowd on the wharf -talking, laughing, gesticulating, and handshaking-might be taken for a crowd of excitable Celts rather than of stolid Blue Noses. On that auspicious occasion, men turn up that you have not seen for a year before, and will not see again for another year. It is the first day of a new little life; kind words are exchanged, hatchets are buried, cheering drinks are in demand, and the new year

private school. He was associated with the late Charles Dickens in the celebrated amateur performances at Tavistock House. In 1859-60, his famous story of "The Woman in White" appeared in "All the Year Round."

Besides "The Woman in White," Mr. Collins is the author of the following works of fiction:-"The Queen of Hearts," "No Name," "The Moonstone," "My Miscellanies," "Mr. Wray's Cash Box; or, the Mask and the Mystery: a Christmas Sketch," "Man and Wife," "Poor Miss Finch," "Miss or Mrs.," " Hide and Seek," "The Dead Secret," "Basil: a Story of Modern Life," "Armadale," "Antonina; or, the Fall of Rome," "After Dark;" and he was, jointly with Charles Dickens, the author of two of the Christmas stories published as supplementary numbers of "All the Year Round."

He has written also a life of his father, Mr. W. Collins, R.A., published in 1848, entitled "Memoirs of the Life of William Collins, with Selections from his Journal and Correspondence"; and a book of sketches, called "Rambles beyond Railways; or, Notes in Cornwall taken a-Foot."

As a writer of fiction, Mr. Collins is remarkable for the ingenuity of his plots, and for the air of mystery that he contrives to throw over commonplace events. He-in striking contrast to many writers of much greater eminence and merit-devotes the greatest care to keeping his story "close together." Everything in his books has a bearing on the issue of the plot. Not a window is opened, a door shut, or a nose blown, but, depend upon it, the act will have something to do with the end of the book. Yet no book of Mr. Collins's can compare in this respect with Scott's "Bride of Lammermoor," where every chapter is necessary-not one is redundant; where every line contributes to the final and splendidly effective climax. And in this quality alone can Mr. Collins's novels be compared, with advantage to their author, with the greater works of greater men.

His plots are commonly intricate. Often it is too difficult for the reader to hold all the threads for it to be a pleasant task to peruse his books, for he has the trick of ending every chapter with a bang. He is admirably suited to supply the wants of periodicals to whose readers a sensational story is the one attraction-e.g.

"HELP!"

(To be continued in our next.) This habit is contrary to every true principle of art, and is dictated, probably, by the wants of periodical literature.

The characters in Mr. Collins's books are some of them very original and striking, being manifestly sketches from real life; but the situations in which these puppets are placed by the wire-puller are often wildly improbable. "Fact is stranger than fiction," Mr. Collins will reply. Indeed, he threatens us with a production which shall put the plot of "The Woman in White" in the shade, made from materials kindly sent him by various correspondents. These are, of course, narratives of fact.

His English is not drawn from the purest fount, nor is his literary style to be compared with that of several living writers. He is a manufacturer of interesting works of fiction, pure and simple. He has made it his business in life. And, under the circumstances, it is perhaps a little provoking that he should so often ring the changes on such phrases as "my art," "my purpose in writing the book," "the object I had in view," &c., &c., &c., as each of his later novels has probably brought him £4,000. And he is at present publishing books rather fast.

We should place "Man and Wife" among his best productions; but in literature he will be remembered as the author of "The Woman in White." That wonderful story made him famous.

GUMMER'S

GEN

FORTUNE.

BY JOHN BAKER HOPKINS.

CHAPTER II.

AT CORCYRA VILLA.

ENTILITY hates the East-end; and perhaps West-end and East-end are natural enemies, for they have always been sharp at spiting each other. The West sent her swell criminals to the Tower in the East; tit for tat, the East sent her worst criminals to be hanged at Tyburn in the West.

For a whole month I stuck to my "No;" and the Iron Duke, with Torres Vedras to back him, could not have been more firm. Nancy moped, Janet was pert, and mamma

cold, and Janet a headache.

"What can be expected when the poor dear girls are buried alive at Bow, with their blighted hopes blasted in their tender buds? What does their father care? Funerals are performed cheap. A family grave to hold three is only a matter of a few pounds; and the patent crape and the cloth hatband, which makes a shabby hat equal to wearing a new one, won't cost a week's income."

And this sort of aggravating groaning and moaning from morning till night for a whole month. There was nothing for it but caving in. Woman rules-unless she is a fool or the man is a brute.

"The treadmill may be bad-particularly when the corns are soft and the breath is short-but worse than house-hunting it cannot be. I have had none of it since marriage, Gummer, but a feast of it in singlehood. Poor pa was a regular quarterly mover. The fuss, the flurry, and the sitting on the stones whilst waiting for the van, and the sleeping on the floor, agreed with him. It would have been a little fortune to him to have kept his own van."

A day in Belgravia convinced Mrs. Gummer that it was above our mark.

"It's no use going anywhere to be only fiddling little mice among live lions, prouder than cart-horses stuffed with corn."

Mrs. Gummer searched every neighbourhood round London. The houses were so different to the descriptions in the advertisements. Agents give cards to view, and when you arrive you are told that the house was let the quarter before last. When a house seemed suitable the rent was a killer, or else there was a premium and the fixtures to be bought at a valuation.

"Mind you, Gummer, I won't listen to fixtures at a valuation, which are rubbish you can't sell again, as poor pa knew to the cost of his poor fleeced family."

The girls would not look at a house in a row. The persons in charge of empties were irritating and depressing. Here is a specimen of a conversation between one of those cantankerous creatures and Mrs. Gummer.

Mrs. G.-"Are you sure the house is not damp?"

Person. "Can't say as how I 'as suffered; though my husband as is in the Force is at times that there bad of his limbs as makes regulation boots a 'orrid torture and a hagony."

When our Nancy was at school, and just out of pot-hooks and hangers, she had this sentiment for a text-hand copy-"Everything is of use;" and being an inquisitive child, she was perpetually puzzling us before other people about the use of the queerest things she could think of.

"Pa, what is the use of ugly blackbeetles?"

I leaped that difficulty by replying— "My dear child, ugly black-beetles keep away uglier things."

"Then, pa, what is the use of the uglier things?"

I made no answer.

An inquisitive child is sometimes dreadfully aggravating.

Once, when Mrs. Gummer was favoured with a visit from quite a lady, who lived at Stratford, Nancy asked her

"Ma, what is the use of fleas?"

It quite upset Matilda; but, like the boy in Mangnall's "Greece," who looked serene as a dosing mackerel whilst the stolen fox was eating his inside, she did not show her upset, and replied

"My dear, fleas are sent to make lazy people wash under the beds every day in summer, and once a-week in winter."

I have met with persons who considered things useless because they did not know their use.

"What is the use of City companies? They do nothing but gorge," says the reformer, who hates anybody to have any enjoyment. Now, I happen to know that City companies are schools of useful knowledge. They educate the palate. A client of ours invited me to the Bowyers' feed, or I should have been as ignorant of the taste of real turtle as a waggon horse. No matter whether my ignorant stomach and my untaught palate shied at the lumps of green fat, or whether the turtle and the iced punch. obliged me to physic on Saturday night. What I say is, that if Tyler or Cromwell had put down the City companies, the taste of real turtle would have been a stranger to my palate. Take the case of pine apple. I had bought West Indians, which looked real, and which eat like a mash of apple and pear gone measly, and sweetened with strong molasses. Until I dined with the Bowyers, I had no idea of the flavour of a genuine British hothouse pine. It was not like

is life. We very seldom get what we expect, and when we do it is not like what we expected. To avoid being disappointed, never expect anything, and make up your mind that what you get will not be like what you think it will be. This may sound nonsensical, but it is the truth.

It was our experience at Corcyra Villa. Our hopes were disappointed, and gentility was the reverse of our expectations. The girls had no offers. We were cold-shouldered by the whole neighbourhood. At church, where we had a pew in the middle aisle, handsomely fitted up, the cushions and hassocks being the work of Mrs. Gummer, we were glared at with eyes which said"What you Gummers are we don't know, and we don't care, for you are not our species!" When James, the thin boy, with his buttons glittering like gold, followed us up the aisle, and handed in the books before he went to a free seat, some of the Green Laners sneered. Perhaps it was the fault of the men who moved us talking in the public where they beered about our being Eastenders, for we were stupid enough to engage a Bow van. We did our best to get into society; but, as Mrs. Gummer said, we might as well have sowed mustard and cress on a sheet of ice, and looked for a small salad. There was a bazaar for the benefit of the schools. The girls went to the rector's wife, offering to contribute and to take counters. The answer was that donations would be thankfully received, but the counters were full. Gentility does not refuse the money, though it scorns the society, of vulgarity. Mrs. Gummer stopped the single curate in the street, and asked him to call at Corcyra Villa. So he did-drank a glass of wine, appeared sweet on the girls, and promised to call again; but he did not. Nancy worked him a pair of slippers, and I suggested they should be made up.

"Your grandfather, who was in the line, used to say that it was no kindness to give worked slippers, because the shoemaker charges more for making up ladies' work than for a whole pair of the finest slippers."

Really, Gummer, you are provoking. If we were intended to be always looking back, our eyes would be behind and not in front. How can we get on if Bow is for ever to be flung at our heads? A flower need not be ashamed of its roots; but it would be a fool to pull them up and show them.”