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(I. '3: ‘i l , {is .r: f’.‘ is, «m . u i; t m CHAPTER XXIII. i use airser a xxx or items. M y innocence had been, proved to the satisfaction of the Secretary of State ; but it twk him three'wmks to make up his mind before my discharge was sent down. In that interval 1 was treated as a first-class criminal, and my hair allowed to grow. On the day I quitted Dartmoor a new suit of clothes was given to me, together with three ounds. A warder conducted me to Berra idge, took a ticket for me, and waited to put me in the train. Discharged prisoners long so arated‘from the world are like children. ome will hang about the some place for several days, unable to determine what to do with their freedom. That was not my case. For six years I had been meditating what I should do when the time came, and now, impatient to put my scheme in execution, the delay of a few minutes was more intolerable than the lingering months of uncertainty. The wardcr yawan ; I was not an amusing charge. Suddenly struck with an idea which promised entertainment, he said.â€" ’ ‘Jome in here, old man, and I’ll show you what you've not seen for eleven years.” He led me into the little waiting room. anu confronted me with al waking-glass that stood over the tire-place. My surprise was as great as when six or seven years before I had seen my face in a pan of water; the change was even greater. Iliad lost flesh under the constant agita- tion I hth stillered. My face was emaciated to the degree of one who has left the sick licl after along illness; the bridge of my nose showed white through the skin; the nostrils were pinched and drawn down at the angles; my eyes were deep sunk ; they were no longer blueâ€"iris and pupil seemed merged in oneâ€"they looked black under the projecting brows, and had the quick, furtive movement of a hunted beast. There was nothing but cruelty in them, and every line of my face was seamed with hard, vindic- tive passion. What surprised me most was to find that my hair and short black beard were streaked with grey. “ N 0 one would think me but a little over thirty," I muttered with satisfaction. “ Why, no; you look more like as if you were in the fiftzes; but look how you’ve been aâ€"going it these six years. I wager people would take you to be more than me, and I’m eight-und-forty.” “ Would they? That’s good.” “ Well, you are a ram cove. I’ve seen old hands look in that glass and burst into tears to find they’re old men; but most of ’em had some one hanging on to them as they were hopeful of pleasing again.” " I haven’t.” “ No, and worse luck for you,” he said, shaking his head. (“EEYUNQ â€"â€"â€"-â€"..__.â€" J l 9-â€"-_.. gised fordoubting my identityfii'et even was made in a tone that showed his apology the doubt. yet lingered in his mind. “ You have received a pardon,” be said, with an effort, to change his idea. “ Pardon ! I am set at liberty because there is no longer any excuse for keeping me o in slavery." I told him what I had learned from the- A nobleman’s house in Scotland had been broken into and One of the burglars was taken. To save his own neck he gave inform~ ation that led to the apprehension of his ac- At the trial he accused him of had worked. tags that for, nearly twenty year§--andj amongst them of having shot a policeman at Ham in 1877, for which I was tried and con- victed. His account of the burglary, of his escape by the garden wall, his meeting with me, our going through the log together up park, and there hear- ing the shot fired thntkilled Sanders all so exactly tallied with my statement and the defence made at my trial, that it was no governor and the warders. his steward shot. complice. other crimesâ€"off and no they the hills towards the longer possible to consider me guilty. "Extraordinary!" exclaimed Mr; Ren- “ I have se’en'nothing about 'it in show. the papers.” d“ Do you real the Scotch papers?” I ask- ,3 . . . “Ah, I overlooked that. A Scotch trial be noticed in the London Just now there are horrors enough in our own coun~ try and in Ireland to occupy them. The Home Office is not likely hONDIIbIISh such a would scarcely papers, and I see none but them. terrible miscarriage of justice. It seems al- mosta sarcasm to congratulate you,” he added, after regarding me in silence for a minute. "‘ Yet Without this accident, Hea- ven knows how much ldnger you might have suficred l I Wth my dear friend were here to see you at liberty. I may tell youthat your chaplain was convinced of your innocence from the very first, and against the advice of the governor petition- ed the Home‘Secretary in your behalf not a month before he was killed. His represen- tations no doubt helped to obtain a speedy recognition of your claim to release and compensation. ” In a few savage words I told how I had been kept waiting three weeks for my dis- charge, and the amount of compensation that had been given me. He was shocked. “» When your case is made knownâ€"” he began. ‘ “ But it must not be made known,” I said interrupting him. “ I have made myself known to you because it was necessary; it is just as necessary that I should not be known to any one else. Can I depend on you to say no more about me than if I' had let you know nothing?” “ Certainly. Your manner led me to l lingered before the glass, trying to ]§“PP?5° “19" Y?“ Sif’ughb redress for your catch my profile, noticmg my look when I ‘ “Dunes Otllel‘WISBâ€"- spoke ; infatuated with my own appear- ance; delighted with the change in every feature. No young fellow going to see his sweetheart could flatter himself more. “ Come along; here‘s the train you were so anxious about just now. There’s your “ What do you know of my injuries?” “ Nothing beyond what 1 have learnt from you.” “'You have eyes. Look at me and say if the injuries you see stamped on my face are to be redrcssed by public sympathyâ€"if I ticket; take care of it. And. now I’ll say 30‘ it by Whining- If my wrongs “‘5 '39 be good-bye to you ; but I shan’t be surprised if I see you again beforelong.” avenged I shall find surer means than that.” “ Let me beg you as a friend, to proceed With this he hurried me into a compart- With Prudence and mOdel‘MiOD." he Said: ment and shut the door. The train filled up 3 93”“?qu at Exeter. Every one looked at me. No one spoke. That was significant. A discharged convict is always to be] known by the assertive newness of every- “ Moderation l You couldn’t ask more if you were my enemy.” He shifted uneasily in his chair. “ Well, Mr. Wyndham,” said he, “let me thing he has upon him, and generally by a I know What I can d0 {0“ you-3’ look of helplessness. On a long journey those peculiarities are sure to be observed, and then charitable or inquisitive people seek to engage him in conversation. I knew that my expression was forbidding, and it I I “Tell me if anything is coming to me from my inventions.” ” Ah 1 that is a more cheerful subject to talk about. I am happy to tell you that your engine is a. success. It lost nothing by the iriitable movement of has 5‘00‘1 the test 0f time, and its merits my long limbs and gaunt frame. I pushed past my fellow-passengers to the door, and was the first 0') the platform as the train ran in to \Vatciloo. It was half- psst two. I jumpedinto the first disengag- ed cab I came to, and gave the driver Mr. llcnshaw's address in Westminster. The clerk in the outer oflicc looked me up and down suspiciously when I asked to see his master. “ W hat is your business '3" he asked. “ Private business. " “ What's your name ‘2" \Vhilo I hesitated whether to give my real name or another, the door of the inner ollicc opened, and Mr. Renshaw himself ap- peared. I knew him at the first glance, though he too, had altered since I saw him first. “ l want to speak to you privately, Mr. Ronsho\v,’i I said. “ About what ?” he asked, looking at his watch, and then at me, with about the same amount. of interest. ” About Christopher Wyndham.” i l J I h I l are recognized. A thing of that kind takes time to work. However, we have rounded ’ the corner now ; orders are coming in ; we are turning them out with increased rapid- ity ; and the supply only just keeps abreast with the demand. The lamp has been a paying concern from the start, and the sales have gone steadily up year after year. If you would like to come with me into the works and see the practical working of your ideasâ€"” ' “ No, I don’t Want to see them. I only wish to know what money I am to receive for them. ” “ I cannot tell you exactly without. look- ing in the books; but, roughly speaking, the amount due to youâ€"by the way, yo_u are aware that I have paid nothing out on your accountâ€"failing to receive any instruc- tion from you as to the person whomâ€"” “ I know. I promised to send you the name and address of that person, and I didn’t." "I have written to you several times on the subject, but for some reason my letters “ 0h, certainly. Come in here," he said l were returned. And our friend the chaplain at once, in an altered tone. 1 followed him 3 being no more-J’ into his room, where he turned a chair for me, and seated himself on the opposite side of the table. “ I hope you have come to tell me some good news of that poor fellow.” " Do you know me 1” I asked. He looked at me intently, and, shaking his head, said “No.” interrogatively. “ You don't remember to have seen me before ‘3" “ Not to my knowledge," he said, after another penetrating look. “My name is Wyndham,” I said. He started in his chair. “ Not. Wyndham, theâ€"" “ Yes, Wyndham the convict.” lie was still incredulous. Knitting his brows, he murmured-- “lmpossible. I have a clear recollection of a young man certainly not more than thirty, thick set with a heavy, thoughtful facc' “ If you had known me eleven years ago you Wouldn‘t have recognized me then. I have lived two lifetimes in prison." “ But your voice evenâ€"~" “I haven‘t spoken a dozen words to. gather to an ' living creature for six years. We don’t to k in there. It hurts my throat to s teak." “ airing every allowance, such a change passes the, range of possibilityâ€"or, at least, of probability. I must have some proof of your indentity ; my memory gives me none." I threw down my discharge papers before him. “ Is that enough for you 2" "If that is not. enough, I will anon-er any question you like to put about my inventions or the interview we had at Dartmoor about them." I lie examined the papers and than apolo- z “ Never mind about that. Tell me what the amount is roughly.” “ I think I may say that there is about six or seven thousand pounds to your credit in the hooks." “ That’s enough l" cried I. rising in ex- ultutiou. “ That’s enough 1” “ Enough at any rate to keep you in easy circumstances while a still greater sum is acemnnlating." “ Easy circumstances !" It was not that prospect. which eiited me. I thought only of the means this sum of money afforded for carrying out my scheme of vengeance. “ When can I have some money 1'" I ask- ed. . “I can let you have a sum for your present requirements now." “ Do. Give me twenty pounds." 311'. Reushaw bowed, and taking a cash- box from the safe said-â€" “ We had better make an appointment for an early dateâ€"say this day week, if it suits youâ€"to meet here and settle up. At the same time'wo may come to' some ar- raugcment with regard to the future. That will give you time to consult with your friends, and engage a solicitor if you think proper. Shall we so this day week-t\vn o‘clock, here?" he asked, handing me the notes. “ Yes," said I :ond without a word of thanks or farewell I left him. He must have thought that misfortune had robbéd me of reason as well as youth ; per- haps he was not far out from the truth. OHAI‘I‘ER XXIV. vunrnru uvmzst‘i; MLUVST .ur \vin. There Q3: method in my madness though. o "train I had settledrhow much might be ac- ‘complished in thefirst day. One obiect was attained : I had money tosupply myineeds. The beginning sugared well. I had succeed- ed beyond to expectations. Whoever be- fore heard is of a man going into prison penniless and coming out a rich man 2 The next thing was to see Mr. Northcote. It was important to learn first of all whether the change in my looks would deceive one who knew me well ; and. secondly, whether my wife still lived at Sevenoaks. My feverish impatience made me prefer going to the Great Eastern on foot rather than by a cab ; I felt I could do the distance quicker. 4 I turned out of the \Vestminster Bridge Road down the Lower Marsh. Be- fore I had gone a hundred yards I felt my knees trembling and a qualm in my stomach; that reminded me that I had eaten nothing some live o'clock in the morning. A savory whiff of steam came out from a cookshop. I turned in there, and, seating myself in one of the boxes, waited in dull expectancy wonderng at the same time if I should find the old Vicar still alive. When a girl puta bill of fare before me‘ and asked what I would eat, I st ired at her in stupid wonder. It was the first time for eleven years that my taste had been consulted. . That meal did more than anything else to bring me to a sense ofmy new position. “I shall be suspected at once if I don’t behave like an ordinary man,” the zght I. Im rcssed with this new necessity, I force myself to say “ thank you” when the girl brought me change, and afterwards recollecting that it was customary to give a gratuity to the attendant, I called her back and gave her some coppers. I should not have felt more abashed in kissing the hand of a princess; but ‘I was very well satisfied with myself. It was half-past eight when I reached Feltenham ; but, despite the hour, I resolv- ed to go to the Vicarage. What else could I do? Sleep was out of the question, and an indescribable dread, like that one might feel on looking on the face ofa dead brother last seen in health and happiness, forbade me to revisit my old home and the scenes identified with the sweetest hopes of existence. A buxom young woman came to the gate when I rang. She told. me that Mr. North~ cote was at supper. Never mind; I’ll wait,” said I. “ He wouldn't like me to go away if he knew what I have come about.” “'hilc she was hesitating whether to shut me outside the gate or let me wait inside, an old woman came down from the porch. “ Surely that must be Jane,” thought I, recognising her , , by some undecipherable signs. She was a hale woman of fifty-two, and looking less, when I last saw her ; now, she was a bent toothless old woman of sixty- threc, and looked older. ' “A man wants to see master, mother," said the girl. - “ Mother,” said I to myself, with c. still greater shocfl; “ why, then, this young woman must be little Lucy whom I used to carry on my back.” ‘ “ The vicar has just- rung the bell to clear away ; you can ask if he is disengaged,” said the old woman. _ She stayed with me by the gate while her daughter ran into the house ; disguising the caution with which she guarded the entry by a few civil remarks about the length of the days, the fineness of the weather, and the prospect of a good hay crop. “ Yes,” said I, “ the days will begin to draw in soon ;” and then speaking as clear- ly as I could, and with as much of my old manner as I could assume, I added a distich that I had heard again and again from her in bygone days : “ A lover‘s vows and a nightingale's song, And the days of June are Just as long." “Ay, ay,” said she, with a chuckle, and looking hard at me; “ that’s what they sing in my country. I warrant you come. from Somerset.” “ Not. faraway from there,” said I, grim. 1y, thinking of the miserable moor in Dcvonshire. “ Well, spite of the fading light, I thought 'by your looks you must be a Westcountry- man." I had passed that test satisfactorily. The vicar came down the path from the house; a. little whiter, a little stoutcr, a little less firm on his feet; that was all the . change six years had wrought on him. “Well, my friend, do you wish to speak to me ‘5" he asked. “ Yes, sir ; I want to ask you a. question in private, if it is not too late. It is a young man you were very kind to at one timeâ€"â€" Kit \Vyndham." ‘ “ 0h, certainly. Come with me. Send the lamp into my study, if you please, Jane.” He led the way across the lawn, and we entered the room by the open French windows. “'0 sat down face to face in the twiligjit. There was not a Sign of recognitioii in iis manner. “ You know he has a wife,” I began. “ Perhaps you have seen her and see some likeness in me.” “ No, I have never seen his wifeâ€"to my l knowledge,” he replied. “ The secret has not come out, then,” thought I. It must be easy to her to client the world after eleven years of duplicity. “ May I ask who you are? ” said Mr. - Northcotc, as I did not break the silence. I “ Yes, Iain her brother. Do you want to know my name ‘3 ” “ No, no,” he replied, hastily. “ I would rather not know ; the poor fellow wished it to remain asecret. Still, I should be glad to learn that his wife is well ; that she wants for nothing.” I was silent, fear- ‘ ing to betray myself. I had, as it were, to feel my way along this new path. “ Do not hesitate tospcak openly on that point,” he continued ; If I can render any assis- tance of a pecuniary kindâ€"" “Oh, there is no need of that. She is Well enough provided for. But she’s anx- ious to kilow something about her husband, and as she can get no answer to her letters, and is not allowed to see him, she thought you might let us know about his Welfare.” " Unfortunately,” he said, “ I am in ex- actly the same position. All my efforts to communicate with the unhap 7' young man haw beenof no‘:aveil.' 'All “I can tell you is that he instill at-Dartinoor and in good health. ,rI-lsave made it a rule to apply for informs " a?» thy authorities every three"rnor‘ith " ' ‘ W" ‘ “ Whendid you apply last?" I asked. “ Only the week before last. I will write again ifâ€"-â€"" , s ' “ No; there is no necessity for that. M y sister can write now; it never occurred to us to enquire that way. She has written to l I It‘s no use. planswere é'leai-ly mapped out. In the him, and th; letters have come back. with; three months. Three moo anoto stating that Kit is under punish ment, and not allpwed to write or receive letters. Sci we knew he mustfbe alive.- but we couldn’t make out why dig was always underpunishment. \ _' s ‘ ' i . Lucy brought in the lamp, and I rose as" if to The vicar begged me to sit down, and ' nrposely took a chair elose by the table t at the light might fall on my facav‘ “ Now,” thought I, “ if I am to be known by any one I shall be recognized by this old man, who has known me from a boy, and is prepared for a change by the alters. tion that, astonished him five years ago." Holding my hat in my hind, I looked steadily at the lamp before me like one absorbed indespondentrel‘lections.» Suddenly , I turned round ; the vicar‘s eyes were u on my face; the only expression on his ace was embarrassed pity. “ I wish with all my heart I could be of service to your sister and her poor hus- band.” he said. ‘~ . “ we won't think of him any more sir. ” Then after dandling my hat. a moment in silence, I said, “ You know that my sister was in serviceâ€"in Mr. Thane’s house. My sister was much at- tached to Miss Hebe, but she hasn't dared to go and see her. You can understand that she wouldn‘t like to be known as' the Wife of a convict. She told me to ask you if you had heard lately from her 'youog lady,’ as she calls her." “ Yes, I heard quite lately. I have the letter here in my pocket.” While he was turning over a handful of letters to find that from my wife, he continued : . “She knows, I suppose that ,her late mistress is married.” “ Married ‘2 ” I said, feigning astopish~ ment as well as I could. . ' “ Oh, dear, yes. She had been married â€"why, let me see.”' He paused. holding, his head on one side. “Ah, it must be ten years. And I duresay your poor sister will. remember her present husband, Major Cleveden.” “ I think I have heard her speak of him,” I replied, trying to keep my feelings under restraint; and then, with still deeper byâ€" pocrisy, I said, “ The couple are well and happy, I hope, sir.” “ They seem to be perfectly happy, I am pleased to say ; but with regard to health, Mrs. Cleveden leaves something for us to desire. They have had to give up a very beautiful home they _had in Kent, where I had the pleasure of seeing them once, and spend the winter months in Italy." “Are they in Italy now? ” ' i r “ N o ; they returned the week before last,and are now atâ€"herc is the letter.” He laid dowu the letter. The sight of the well- knownand once-beloved hand writing seemed to burn my strained eyes. Having‘put on his spectacles, the old gentleman proceeded to open the letter. . ‘_‘ I may without iudiscretion, I believe, give you’her address, in case your sister might wish to write to Mrs. Clcveden. Here it is. ‘ The Hermitage,’ Hadleigh, near’ Torquay, Devonshire.’ W'ould you like me to write it down for you ‘2” “ No, I shall remember it.” There was no fear of tha‘l’. l “ I think she mentions your unhappy brother-iu-law’s name somewhere. 'In old days when she lived here, she was-very fond of seeing his workâ€"now, where is the line ‘2” I could have told him where to look for it : in a postscript. The letter was written to know if I were still in safe keeping, and her anxiety was masked under the indif« ferent aspect of an afterthought. _ “ Ah, here it is," said the vicar. “ F P. S. Have you heard anything lately of poor \Vyndham ‘3’.look my friend.” I pushed back the letter as if it~were a venomous thing. I “ I can't read," I said, hoarscly. “ You say she is not well ‘3” I added, gloating the thought that terror of discovery made her life a torture. _ “No, poor lady. I suppose it is the chest. \Vheu she is not in Italy, she stops, as you see, some where in the south of Eng- land. A terrible complaint, and the more distressing when there is a young family growing up about her.” This was a fresh blow. It had never entered my mind that she could have chil- dren. .It was too monstrous to imagine that she should perpetuate her infamy. The vicar was running his eyes affectionately over the page before himâ€"giving me now and then a scrap from it, about the climate of Italy, or such triilesâ€"or he must have seen the new hate and loathing that convul- sed my features. With an effort I conquer- ed my passion, and forced myself to speak calmly. "She has children '3" “ Yes, two ; a girl and a boy ; one not more than two years old.” As he spoke he closed the letter. “Quite a young woman, too ;uot more than eight- aud-twenty,” he said, sadly. Then he closed his eyes as he disengaged his spectacles. 1 turned my back on the lamp while he was thus occupied, for I felt the muscles of my face twitching, as if a knife were cut ting into my flesh inch by inch. I tried to reason myself into indifference, seeing the danger of betraying what I felt. Why had it not occurred to me before that my wife might haw: children, I asked myself, and why should I be so moved in discovering it now ? Did she not stand con- victed of even greater crime than this 5' Was there still some lingering folly, some unextinguished spark of that old love in me that this fresh fact about her should cause such a tumult in my breast? »\\'hat dif- ference could it make to me whether she was childless or a mother? Nay, did it not rather enlarge my scheme of vengeance and facilitate its accomplishment '3 Let her have as many children as Niobe, and by just as many should her sufferings be multiplied. Supposing that the maternal instinct sur- vived all liner feelingsâ€"supposing that she had a common mother's clinging to her broodâ€"might I not strike at her through them 2 If one by one they are taken" from her, those children, until she stands at last desolate and alone, as I stand now lâ€"- I meditated. The vicar called me back to myself by asking if I had anywhere to go for the nig t. . . "Yes, sir," said I, collecting my thoughts. “It’s about time I went. I was thinkin if Iliad forgotten anything. She'll be 3 to hear all the news. so pose you an- swered that letter, and sai you had in- quired lately about IVyndham 7” He replied that he had. “That is well,” thought I, as I went away ; "now there are not likely to be any inquiries made at the prison about me for ‘ , ~. be reva before then 1” A V ’ ' i (m annex-ruined) r??? When Wivss .wsas sotn. -~â€". Few Years in ' »- In 1877 a wife was sold for £40. and shat is more mmarkable the articles of sale were drawn up and signed at a solicitor‘s office, the money paid, and the chattel handed over with all the gravity of law. ‘ In the course of a county court case at Sheffield in May, ISSI, a mini named Moore stated that he was living with the wife of one ofhis friends, and that he had purchased her for a quart of beer. This transaction was brought under the notice of the Govern- ment b ' Mr. A. M. Sullivan, who request. ed the cum Secretary to take measures for preventing such reprehensible transactions. This had no effect evidently, for since that time many sales have been recorded.‘ During the hearing of a school board case in the course of 1831, at Ripon, a woman informed the bunch that she had been bought for 1.55., and had assumed the name of the purchaser. ‘ At Alfreton, in 1382, a husband sold his rib fora glass of beer in a public house, and the rib gladly deserted her legal lord. One cannot expect a wife for less than two~psnce halfpenny. Two years after this a bricklayer at Peasholmc Green, Yorkshire, sold his wife for ls. 6d, a “legal” document being drawn up to make the bargiun binding on all sides. In The Globe of May 6, 1837, there ap- peared an account of a well-to-do weaver, at Burnley, who was charged with having deserted his wife and three children. He admitted the soft impeachment at once, but the Custom In sigma accosted up to a, urged that. inasmuch as he had sold the ' whole family to another man before the alleged desertion, he be acquitted of all responsibility for their maintenance. It was nothing to him whether their purchaser rovided for their wants ; the law had otter see to that. For himself he had duly received three half-pence. the amount of the purchase money, and there his interest in the affair began and ended. During 1889 a paragraph went the round of the papers to the ellect that a man con- nected with a religious body in a village in the midlaud counties had disposed of his wife for the small sum of one shilling. â€"â€"-â€"â€"._-â€" Railroadinu in Judea. It is now two weeks since the Julia and Jerusalem railway was inaugurated amid great rejoicings, and the popular excite- ment has not yet ceased. Public sentiment is now in favor of the new enterprise, and no one dare make objection to it, although while the road was being constructed there were croakers and head shakers and critical tongues in abundance. This modest fifty. three miles of railway has probably awaken- ed more interest throughout the civilized world than any other half hundred miles of railway that was ever built. Enthusiasts look upon it as a kind of “ kingdom come " for Palestine, while the matter-of-fact class say ‘ ‘ it is a most comfortable and convenient method of getting to Jatfu and back.” But people in more favored countries can- not appreciatc what a railroad means. to the people of this land, backward as they are in all that pertains to civilization. Tens of thousands of men, women and children have within a few days past for the first time 'in their lives seen a railroad, a train of cars, and an “iron horse". They do not quite understand the significance of a time table, and come perhaps half an hour after the train has started, expecting to find it wait- ing at the station ; and to my certain knowl- edge persons who have expected friends from J afi'a by the afternoon train have gone to the station two hours before the time and waited for it, thinking it might arrive at any moment. Still further, they have not yet learned the necessity of getting off the truck, and only yesterday a poor camel and his driver lost their lives because the locomotive was too quick for them. But men and boasts of burden and everythingelse wilan doubt soon adjust themselves to the new order of things. 0 Many persons have made the trip to Julia and return “just to see how it seems," and they come back delighted as children at the strange experience of riding in cars which run on iron rails. Others make use of the road because it is such an improvement over the old. clumsy, henvy,'lulnbering vehicles called “ carriages,” which until now carried both rich and our between the seaport and the capital. ’ his journey, always memor- able for the bumping and bouncing which the poor traveler received on the imperfect,- ly built road, occupied the best part of a day in good weather and sixteen or more hours in bad weather,while by the new con- veyance three and a quarter hours are rc- quircd, with neither fatigue nor dust. Half an hour longer must be allowed for the re- turn from Jafio, for there is some rather heavy grading in the mountains of Julian, which at two or more polnls is as great as one hundred feet to the mils.-â€"â€"[Jcrusalcm Letter, New York Mail. -â€"â€"â€"-â€"-â€"-.' Bridging the English Channel. The question of constructing a bridge be- tween England and France instead of, or in addition to, a tunnel miy for the present, thinks the President of the Institution of Civil Engineers, be dismissed. The possibility, however, of the realisation in the more or less distant future of such a structure is probably, he says, not more visionary than would have been that of such a work as the Forth Brill c fifty years ago; and “who knows Wicther a future generation may not undertake a work which the present generation would. regard as too gigantic, both as rc'ards risk and. cost '.'â€"especially I may emp iasm costt for notwithstanding the strides made in bridge building, the cost of a Channel bridge be- tween Ln land and Franco would even now probably at least five times the can t of a submarine tunnel.” How to Increase the Circulation. “1 wish Ivconld strike some plan by which Iconld double my circulation,” remarked the editor of a small monthl . “There are several wayabéy which that can be accomplished,” nepli skied. “Name them." ‘ "Well, get married. Then, We. lieu-ll will beat as one, and consequently you’ll have doubled your circulation." Sixty thousand people in the Emerald Isle speak Irish only. I a. fins, 1 than, .5" l l l i i, l .