the work & ducation, having ering of scie often abroad grave subject Hevelops habits novels are al charitable sc esses, require schools, com , mineralogy g. Every y receives journals Sent from principal volumes yer ingstone's s the mo .I. as on about him too. r, the other the George Hilton's Kitty" Lee for 10 died the other everybody calledperformer of the d Lee was aground. kept a gingerbreadperform them at a im "Maccomo ike poor Macarthy; s that nothing could inbearable. One day ying in front of the ato whose hands Hilhim that there was a vas a sailor just come t a job with the wild 1, struck a bargain, and the black man proved to beasts, so that the " 'ginnce, and the black man he bore until he died of go. Maccomo was the most rs I ever saw. He never ffee, but he always believed He was fearfully torn, over It was riskier for him than s they say, that the beasts mad after the flavor of his lion-kings I remember, but of less note. As a rule drink hem all, and you can hardly nave heard about lion-queens tell you all about them also. t in Joe Hilton's circus, at the to counterbalance the attraction and he proposed that Hilton's lion-queen, as she had lion. He proposed that f"Madame Pauline de e did. I remember her at Stepney fair, and in front of the menthis time Mr. Wombonds' management ts, and Miss Helen lunteered to perform wita e n an he he is u F of rge - In a erowd, and too much to do. The country-house is the true drawing-room, the place of greetings. 3. As an effect of domestic habits many children, many servants. well-appointed great house order and a certain reserve are indispensable; the habitual stoicism of characters and manners acts in the same sense. Then, the presence of a stranger does not have the result as among us, of interrupting acquaintanceship, stopping the general impulse, the gayety, the chit-chat, compelling people to be on their guard, to restrain their familiarity and their heedlessness. There is only another chair filled at table, in the drawingroom, nothing more; the tone has not changed. 4. By the arrangement of comfort and of service. The organization is perfect, and the machine in order; the domestics are punctual, the rooms ready, the hours fixed; there is nothing to undo or do over again; nor, above all, is there any makeshift required to entertain a visitor. 5. By kindliness, humanity, and even by conscience. To be useful is a duty, and a foreigner is so thoroughly lost, so little at his ease in the new country where he has landed! He ought to be helped. AN OLD HIMALAYAN TOWN. FROM immemorial times, certain wild tracks through the mountains have served as a highway between the bleak steppes of Tibet and the sunny slopes of the lower ranges of the Himalaya. The wild herdsmen of the dimly-known land beyond the snows, cross to-day, as they did before William the Conqueror landed in England, over the Niti Pass and the wild currents of the Sutlej, through the pretty villages of Nagkunda and Muthana, through the pine-forest of Fagu, and over the Mashobra Hills, to exchange their butter and bear-skins for grain and knives. On a mountain, warmly wrapped in pine and rhododendron, and honey-combed with deep valleys, stands a quaint little red wooden town, wandering up a hillside, and running for some distance along its crest. It stands about fifty miles deep in the mountains from the nearest plains: and to reach it, you have to climb many a hill and cross many a brawling torrent. It must have been the obscurest little city in the world, only known to the eagles and swallows who dance forever over the valleys. One would suppose that a traveller might have looked for it in vain among the thousand hills of the Himalaya, till his hair turned gray; and so, indeed, many a one might; but a different fate awaited it. An Englishman in search of a sanitarium found it, after it had hidden itself successfully for one does not like to say how many hundred years; ay, found it, and within a few years forced it to take a very prominent place among the pleasant places of the earth. The little town is now one of the capitals of the greatest empire in the world. Subject princes, mighty western nobles, and travellers from every country, are seen in its narrow bazaars. Long lines of camels, and caravans of oxen-carts, are unceasingly, for six months of every year, pouring into it the luxuries of Hindostan, ard the magnificent comforts of Europe. A thousand beautiful villas look down upon it from the surrounding hills; and on the splendid roads which lead from it in every direction may be seen, of a summer evening, a wonderful show of fashion and beauty- the crême de la crême of England in Asia. Amid all her greatness, however, Simla never forgets her origin, but still, as of old, barters with the simple shepherds of Tibet, supplying all the little luxuries they seek, and absorbing the primitive wares brought in exchange. Wild and unkempt-looking fellows are these Tibetans, with their long hair falling over their shoulders, and thin sheep-skins and woollen jackets hanging down a mass of rags and dirt. Their hairless faces, small squat noses, and upturned eyes, plainly denote their race, and contrast strangely with the delicate Aryan features of the Punjab hillmen. Always smoking long wooden pipes, like those of the lower classes in Germany, smiling and pleased at every thing, ever ready for any amount of conversation or food, they are great favorites with the mountaineers of the lower ranges; and, indeed, they have many very amiable and lovable qualities. They are eminently truthful, honest, and chaste, easily amused, easily satisfied, very sociable, and of great physical endurance. The women are not characterized by such strongly-marked Tart r features as the men, and many of them are exceedingly pretty, though sadly dirty always. A considerable number of these people remain in Simla during the whole summer, finding employment as wood-cutters and coolies. Strings of them are always to be seen carrying in enormous beams from the Fagu forest. They fasten them behind by ropes suspended over their shoulders, and go staggering along almost bowed to the ground with the weight. You sometimes see a slight young girl carrying one of these huge logs, the best part of a young pine-tree, perhaps, and, though bent double with the ponderous burden, looking quite contented and happy, and carrying in her hand a wooden pipe, to which she occasionally applies for comfort and solace. Or a whole family — papa and mamma, big brothers, little brothers and sisters are all seen struggling along in single file, with loads proportioned to their respective sizes, all smoking, talking, and looking merry enough. These great pieces of timber not only stretch across the whole breadth of the road, but frequently stretch out far over the side, and sometimes, indeed, are of such length that the unhappy coolie has to sidle along with them the whole way from Fagu to Simla, about eight or ten miles. When riding quickly along this winding road one sometimes comes very awkwardly upon these great timber barriers, stretching, one behind the other, across the path; and not unfrequently accidents have happened by this means; but, generally, the Tibetans manage, by a twist of the body, to bring their beams in line with the road with astonishing celerity. But enough of the wood-carriers. The reader must come and take a look at the principal bazaar or street of the little town. A long, narrow, winding road, between wooden houses, stained dull red, and two stories in height, runs up a slight incline on a sharp hill-crest, dividing two valleys. The lower story of every house has neither doors nor windows in front, but is a little cave merely, serving at once as warehouse and workshop. Passing through this busy little street, you see, in turn, every trade and occupation being carried on. There is a shop full of tailors, with high turbans on, busily at work; one of them is reading in a sing-song voice to the others some ancient tale of Mussulman prowess, or of the miraculous deeds of the prophet. In the little adjoining cell, or shop, as we may call it by courtesy, is an old gray bearded man, brooding over a little earthen stove, and blowing into flame a few lumps of charcoal, through a little brass tube, with all his might. Opposite to him is sitting another old fellow, who is picking and catching at something in the fire with a pair of tiny tongs. One or two large gold nose-rings are lying near on a little tray, beside a silver bangle or two, indicating the manufactory and dépôt of a goldsmith. After every few minutes of exertion, the two old gentlemen cease from their labors, to take a whiff from the tall hookahs standing near, and to exchange a friendly word with the carpenter who works in the little hole on the opposite side of the street. At present, this artisan is bending over a piece of wood he holds between his toes, and into which he is drilling an eyelet with an instrument that looks like a child's bow. Near him, his son, also sitting on his haunches, on the floor, and holding between his toes a half-made comb, is vigorously working with a tool, suggesting the idea of some horrible instrument of torture, but really acting in the capacity of a saw. Strewed about the floor are a plank or two; some unfinished pieces of work; a couple of long pipes; a small, naked, crawling child; and a piece of conscious of his monopoly, he does not trouble himself to bandy idle words, but, with all the patience of the Oriental, calmly waits till they have made up their minds to pay his price for whatever they may happen to want. In the opposite corner, an enormously obese old man is stretched out at full length, sound asleep. This is the shopkeeper's venerable parent, who has retired from active life, and pensioned himself on his son. But we must peep into a tiny little place about the size of a rabbit-hutch, next door to the grain-merchant's shop. An aged gentleman, with huge brass-rimmed spectacles, is fingering delicately with a wire forceps some hard, gray little particles collected in an iron dish. Presently, he picks out one, and applies it to a very small grindstone, the handle of which he turns with his great toe. This is a jeweller, as you can see by the little papers of green and yellow stones exposed on a board, lying beside him; and he is putting faces on rough garnets which have been brought to him by some of the neighboring villagers. His grandson, a fat little urchin, in summer costume, -a yard of string,-is sitting gravely in front of him, reading out of a very ancient-looking book in Hindi character. It is the whole library of the family, and the old man has known it well since the day he first read it to his grandpapa in the same ancestral little shop. But still he appears to be interested, and every now and then pauses in his work to exclaim "Wah! wah!" as an incident of peculiar interest is arrived at. To the Eastern mind novelty has no charms; and a book with which the reader is familiar is regarded as an old, tried friend, who will not disappoint by any unanticipated dulness, or disturb the mind by any unlooked-for brilliancy. We must visit one more shop in the bazaar, — the largest and one of the most important, the sweetmeat shop. We had better not enter, though, as the floor is honeycombed with numerous little clay ovens, and there would be no little danger of being precipitated into a caldron of liquid toffy. Four dreadfully unclad men, carefully oiled, to protect their skin against the great heat, are moving about with long iron spoons, stirring here and mixing there, or kneading into little fids various compounds of coarse sugar and rancid butter. The outcome of their labors is exposed to view on a broad board. Candies, rocks, and toffies of every shape, but all of the same lightbrown color, buried in flies and wasps, both dead and alive, are heaped up in brass dishes or little wooden platforms. A stray child, the color of the confections, has got mixed up with them, and is languidly sucking a column of "lump of delight" nearly as big as its leg. Less fortunate youngsters are seen hovering about, regaling themselves with the savory smells which issue forth. Now and then, some big hill-man purchases for a few little shells a block off one of the dishes, and straightway goes out into the road, seats himself on his heels, and devours it, to the great entertainment of a swarm of naked little urchins and a pariah dog or two. All over India, sweetmeats are consumed as a substantial article of food. A native when travelling seldom eats any thing else; and between the two great meals, at all times, he whiles away the long noon of the Indian summer day by sucking lollipops or candy between the whiff's of his hookah. Large dishes of sweetmeats are very common presents to make on religious festivals or domestic redletter days; and when a Hindu wants to be very merry or very dissipated, he never gets drunk, as a Scotchman does, but goes to a "mithai" shop, and makes himself ill with candied sugar. Now that we have shopped a little in the bazaar, let us take a stroll through it. It is thronged with natives, from the scarlet and golden messenger of the British government, to our old friends the wild, dirty Tibetans. Sauntering in a bazaar is the summum bonum of life to a Hindu. Standing chatting in the middle of the roadway, or smoking a pipe with some friends in a shop, or sitting on the edge of the gutter, quietly contemplating the passers-by, he is perfectly happy. Within twenty yards is one of the grandest scenes in the world. a splendid panorama of hill and valley, with the eternal snows as a background, on one on. side, while on the other the view melts away into the distant plains across which the great Sutlej is seen like a silver band. But to our brown friends such things possess no attraction. The bustle, the closeness, the smells, the flies, the pariah dogs, the unowned children of the kennel, and all the other attractions of the bazaar, are to them more pleasing than the majestic tranquillity of mountain and valley and far-off plain. But we ought not to be too severe on the bazaar; it has its spectacle and pretty objects now and again. See that long line of horsemen coming slowly along with the stout little gentleman riding in front. He is a mountain chieftain, whose home is a lonely castle on a hillside, overlooking a great rich valley which is his own. One cannot help observing how gallantly he is dressed; in gay, but well-matched colors, and cloth of the richest material. The horsemen behind are his suite. One is probably his commander-in-chief (for he is sure to have an army, however small), another the keeper of his privy purse, others lords in waiting, and so All fine little gentlemen in their way, and men in authority. Simla is "town" to them, the metropolis of civilization; the bazaar is Regent Street and Cheapside in As they pass, the shopkeepers come to their thresholds and make low salaams. The stout little prince who is passing is the representative of a family which for generations has been to their ancestors and themselves the ideal of greatness, the incarnation of power, the pink of nobility. Is it not recorded in their unwritten traditions how his grandfather, at the head of a great army, drove back the Goorkhas, who were hovering over the town, and then, out of mere light-heartedness, looted it himself, and carried away its female population, to a woman; and how, when the carpenter and goldsmith and sweetmeat-men went, as a deputation from the burghers, to expostulate with him, he relented, and wept on their necks, and promised to give them back one-half of their wives and daughters, on condition of receiving a sum of tribute-money yearly forever; and how they only got their grandmammas after all. With such legends living in their memory, how can they help honoring and fearing those of their rajahs who are still left to them? one. Look at those gayly-dressed, fair, and pretty women; they come from the valleys immediately under the snowy range, to buy the nose-rings and bangles which their souls love. Although some of them have two or three real husbands, they are good and happy women, and have pleasant homes among those giant mountains of the Himalaya beyond the Sutlej. Theirs is a cool fruit-growing land, abounding in peaches, strawberries, walnuts, and grapes; and their fair, pretty faces, and their merry, wholesome laughter, speak of the happy glens from which they come. To all these people, Simla is just what it was before the irrepressible English found it. It is their own town still; and if the English left India to-morrow, it would go on making its nose-rings and sweetmeats; and, beyond a passing remark, the simple dwellers among the mountains would never note the change. LIONS AND LION-TAMING. BY AN EX-LION-KING. AND so the beasts have savaged poor Jack Macarthy at last, have they? I expected it would come some time, sir, as soon as I heard poor Jack had forgotten the way to keep his little finger down. It's the drink that plays the mischief with us fellows, and yet how is a man to keep off it? He may be as bold and as sober as he pleases, till he gets once torn, and then his nerve begins to fail - wouldn't yours, sir, if you had half the flesh peeled off your side, or the side of your head torn off?-and he must have something to "steady himself" before he goes in. One steadier brings more, and there are plenty of people always ready to treat the daring fellow that plays with the lions as if they were kittens; and so he gets reckless, lets the dangerous animal, on which if he were sober he would know he must always keep his eye, get dodging round behind him, or hits a beast in which he ought to know that a blow rouses the sleeping devil, or makes a stagger and goes down, and then they set upon him. Don't I know the whole game from beginning to end? Look here, sir, and here, where the living flesh has been tore off me, till the bare bone was visible! I'm an old man now, but my hair was gray when I was comparatively young, and it was going into the den as did it. I was never meant for a lion-king, for I never had any nerve to speak of, only I was a big, broad-built man, and the management fancied me for the job. Old "Manchester Jack" had given notice, and there were the lions, and nobody to do any thing with them. I was a bill-sticker, out of work, when Bromsgrove spoke to me about the job. Mary Anne was down with twins, and s'help me, sir, if I had a way to get her a drop of comfort. Rather than see her starve I took the billet; but there never was a day when the time came for me to go in among the devils that I did not try a rough bit of a prayer, for that seemed somehow, for the first while, to drive away the nervousness. Then I found brandy took the shine out of the prayer, leastways such a prayer as I knew how to come, and I used always to have a tidy drop inside me before I ventured in. I knew the risk of the brandy. Didn't I get this tear down the left arm one evening when I had taken so much that I could not see that old of a lioness creeping round to my back? But I couldn't help it, and that's all about it. I had the delirium tremens once, and my blood runs cold when I think of that time. Other chaps as have had the deliriums have told me as how they saw serpents, and black tadpoles, and comical little devils, squatting all about them and making mouths at 'em. As for me, I was haunted by lions and tigers all the time. Sometimes it was the Royal Bengal tiger a standing just over my throat with that great paw on my chest, and his hot, strong breath blowing into my throat fit to choke me. Fancy after I got up again having to go into the den after such a spell as that. And then there was the wife at home, believing every night that I would be brought out to her a mangled corpse. I don't say as all the lion-kings funk on it so bad as I did. Some of them has more nerve, and take to the work kindlier; but there arn't ever a man going in the line as hasn't been torn or worried somehow since he began the game. Do I know the history of lion-taming, ask you? I ought to. Having been in the profession so long, I know most of those who were comrades in it with me; and then somehow I took a sort of morbid interest in hearing all the stories about tearing, and pluck, and what not, that might escape men who had less on their minds on the subject than I had. There are three kinds of lions come to this country. The greater number are fetched from the Cape; some come from Egypt, but are really Nubian lions, and they are the biggest and dangerousest; and another kind, the nameless sort, comes from Senegal. The man that imports nearly all the lions into this country is Jamrach, down in Ratcliff-highway. He has his agents out abroad, and also buys from stewards and captains of ships who bring the animals home on spec, and he sells them to the menageries and the zoological gardens. You get them from him well-nigh as wild as the day they were caught, for I believe he never allows any of his men to go into the cages, and if he wants to shift them he places one cage alongside another and drives the beasts in by setting fire to the straw in the den he wants them to quit, if no other way will do. But even with these precautions his men sometimes get torn. I am told he had a man badly hurt a short time ago. I reckon that at present there are about fifty lions altogether in England, but of these only a certain number have been imported. You see, they breed like cats, have a litter every eight months if you will let 'em, and three, four, five, or six at a litter. The confinement-bred lions seldom live very long, and are not to be compared for looks to the forest-bred beasts; but of course they are cheaper, and that has of late hurt the foreign market. The tigers come from India, and don't breed so free in captivity. The tiger is not so sullen in confine ment, but he is more treacherous, and when he once loses command of hisself, there is not a pin to choose between him and the lion. I think I would sooner on the whole have truck with the lion than the tiger. Some people will tell you that there is no vice about either. Then I ask them, how is it that men who have to do with 'em get so often torn? It is very easy to say that they let their talons out sometimes unwittingly into a chap's flesh, and that if he has presence of mind he will lift the paw and think nothing about it. But when you feel the claws going into the flesh, an inch and more, may I never if you can help dragging the limb away. Then the beast drags his way, and so you get torn, and the blood comes, and the animal, partly through the sight of blood, partly through a feeling of desperation at knowing he has done wrong, lets go anyhow; and the others in the cage with him catch the infection, and then you may say your prayers. The dangerousest time, ordinarily, to interfere with lions is when they are feeding, especially if they are gnawing a bone. It is pretty well certain death for a man to go without warning to an old lion or lioness and try to drag a bone away from it. You may switch them away, but it is very dangerous. Crockett used to take the most liberties with lions feeding of any man I ever saw. Then, there are seasons when if there be a lioness in a cage, both she and the lions that are with her are well-nigh mad with savageness, and daren't be interfered with if a man values his life a button. True, tamers have to go among them then, else business would be at a stand-still; but the chap that does so takes his life in his hand. I fancy that had something to do with the death of poor Jack Macarthy. They ought to have had the irons then; for, indeed, when lions are like this, is the only time I ever knew irons to be in the fire in case of accidents. The lion-tamer likes to get his beasts as young as he can, because then they are more easily brought into order, although, no doubt, there are many instances where a fullgrown forest lion has been trained to high perfection. Whatever is the reason, the forest lions are more intelligent and teachable than those bred in confinement. The liontamer begins by taking the feeding of them into his own hands, and so gets them to know him. He commences feeding them from the outside of the den, then ventures inside to one at a time, always carefully keeping his face to the animal and avoiding any violence, which is a mistake whenever it can be avoided, as it rouses the dormant devil in the beasts. Getting to handle the lion, the tamer begins by stroking him down the back, gradually working up to the head, which he begins to scratch, and the lion, which, like the cat, likes friction, begins to rub his head against the hand. When this familiarity is well established, a board is handed in to the trainer, which he places across the den and teaches the lion to jump over it, using a whip with a thong, but not for the purpose of punishment. Gradually this board is heightened, the lion jumping over it at every stage; and then come the hoops, &c., held on top of the board to quicken the beast's understanding. To teach the animal to jump over the trainer, the latter stoops alongside the board, so that when the lion clears one he clears the other; and half a dozen lessons are ordinarily about sufficient to teach this. To get a lion to lie down and allow the tamer to stand on him is more difficult. It is done by flicking the beast over the back with a sma!!" tickling" whip, and at the same time pressing him down with one hand. By raising his head and taking hold of the nostril with the right hand, and the under lip and lower jaw with the left, the lion, by this pressure on the nostril and lip, loses greatly the power of his jaws, so that a man can pull them open and put his head inside the beast's mouth, the feat with which Van Amburg's name was so much associated. The only danger is lest the animal should raise one of his fore-paws and stick his talons in, and if he does, the tamer must stand fast for his life till he has shifted the paw. Lion-hunting, for which Maccomo was so famous, is never to be attempted except with young animals. When the lion begins to get his mane, and becomes near full grown, he will not suffer himself to be so driven and bustled about; and so it is that the animals that are put through this performance are so often changed. But most men with strong nerves and high courage like an old lion best for ordinary performances. His training is sure to be better, and they take their chance of the temper; that always grows crustier with age. But there are comparatively few old lions in England. It takes a lion well into ten years to come to his full growth; and when this is once attained, confinement seems to bear uncommon hard upon them. Who was the first lion-king in this country? Well, sir, I can tell you all about them, and, in fact, the whole story about menageries. The first great menagerie proprietor I ever heard any thing on was old Wombwell, who was originally a shoemaker in the Commercial Road, and who first travelled about with a big serpent. Before ever Van Amburg was heard on, old "Manchester Jack was doing the lion-king in one of Wombwell's travelling menageries, well on to fifty year ago. The manager, I remember well his name, was Bromsgrove. He was a better man was Manchester Jack —than Van Amburg; they were to have had a regular competition once at Southampton, and lots of money was betted over the matter, but before the time came the American funked on it, and would not come on. Jack took to hotelkeeping in Taunton, with Bromsgrove for head-waiter, and died within the last seven years. Van Amburg, after having been killed on paper over and over again, his back broken twice at least, and his head once swallowed by a Royal Bengal tiger, died in his bed within the last three years; but he must have been fearfully scarred. Some of the old menagerie stories are funny enough, sir, although there is grewsomeness about them all. Long ago two men called Gilbert and Atkins had a joint menagerie, a lioness belonging to which got loose on Salisbury Plain, while the caravans were halted at a public-house called the Pheasant. Springing out of the ditch, she seized by the throat one of the leaders of the mail-coach and tore it very much before she let go her hold, after the guard of the coach had fired a shot into her with his pistol. Two men-one named Multer, the other Reader- went after her, and caught her cowering under a granary raised from the ground on arches. She was brought back, muzzled, and tied with ropes, and the proprietors bought the coach-horse, and drew great audiences in Salisbury to see the identical beast as the savage brute had torn so badly. Did you ever hear of old Wallace's fight with the dogs? George Wombwell was at very low water, and not knowing how to get his head up again, he thought of a fight between an old lion he had times called Wallace, sometimes Nero- and a dozen of mastiff dogs. Wallace was tame as a sheep, I knew him well — I wish all lions were like him. The prices of admission ranged from a guinea up to five guineas, and every seat was taken, and had the menagerie been three times as large it would have been full. It was a queer go and no mistake! Sometimes the old lion would scratch a lump out of a dog, and sometimes the dogs would make as if they were going to worry the old lion; but neither side showed any serious fight, and at length the patience of the audience got exhausted, and they went away in disgust. George's excuse was, "We can't make 'em fight, can we, if they won't?" There was no getting over this, and George cleared over £2000 by the night's work. some In later times Crockett made the greatest name for himself of any lion-tamer, not in England alone but also in France, Germany, and America. I remember well the time when the six lions were loose at one time in Astley's, when old Batty had the place. The Sangers had sent the beasts up from Edmonton the night before. Nobody to this day knows for certain how they got out of their dens, but it was thought at the time that some of the grooms with whom Batty never was popular, he used to fine them so mercilessly had let them loose maliciously that they might get at the horses. There they were, anyhow, loose and mad in the place, smelling the horses and mad to get at them. They had already killed a man and half eaten him, when Crockett arrived; without halting for an instant he dashed in among them single-handed, with only a switch in his hand, and I'm blest if he didn't manage to den them all single handed. That was nerve for you. At that time Crockett never drank. Crockett's history was a strange one. His mother was the finest woman I ever saw. She was exhibited for twenty years as "Miss Cross, the Nottinghamshire giantess." She stood six feet nine, and broad in proportion, with quite a beautiful face. His father was a musician as used to play the key-bugle, and the pair made a good deal of money. The way Crockett came to be a lionking was curious. He was a fine-looking, imposing man, a musician in Sangers' Circus, but with a bad chest, which playing affected. When Howes and Cushing came over from America with their circus about fifteen years ago, they proved to be too many for the home circuses of the day, and in search of novelty, the Sangers determined to try performing lions from a menagerie. Crockett, being a finelooking man, was offered the billet to perform them. Originally he was a man of no nerve for lion performing, or any other calling requiring determination; but, after seeing two or three others go into the den with impunity, he accepted the job, and followed the profession to the day of his death. Howes and Cushing took him to America at £20 a week, to perform the animals they had bought from the Sangers, and after being in the States for about two years, he fell down dead as he was "going on," about midway between the dressing-room and the circus. This was at Chicago. Crockett was born at Presteign, in Radnorshire, and several times was severely torn while performing lions. on You ask about Maccomo? I know all about him too. There were two Maccomos- -one a duffer, the other the genuine article. Some twenty years ago George Hilton's Menagerie was at Manchester fair, with" Kitty" Lee for manager, a brother of the Nelson Lee who died the other day. Kitty's" real name was Jem, but everybody called him " Kitty." Newsome, who was the performer of the lions, had left without an hour's notice, and Lee was aground. But a man named Jemmy Strand, who kept a gingerbreadstand, came forward, and volunteered to perform them at a moment's notice, and Lee christened him "Maccomo the spot. Strand was an Irishman, like poor Macarthy; and his head got so turned by success that nothing could be done with him, and his sauce was unbearable. One day at Greenwich fair, a musician, playing in front of the menagerie, came to Mr. Maunders, into whose hands Hilton's business had passed, and told him that there was a black man outside, who said he was a sailor just come home from sea, and would like to get a job with the wild beasts. Mr. Maunders sent for him, struck a bargain, and sent him into the den at once, and the black man proved to have a wonderful control over the beasts, so that the "gingerbread king" lost his crown at once, and the black man got his name of Maccomo, which he bore until he died of consumption about fifteen months ago. Maccomo was the most daring man among lions and tigers I ever saw. He never drank any thing stronger than coffee, but he always believed he would meet a violent death. He was fearfully torn, over and over again, but not killed. It was riskier for him than for a white man, if it be true, as they say, that the beasts can nose a black man and are mad after the flavor of his flesh. These are about the leading lion-kings I remember, but there have been many others of less note. As a rule drink is what plays the devil with them all, and you can hardly wonder at it. Ah! so you have heard about lion-queens too, have you? Well, I can tell you all about them also. The first lion-queen came out in Joe Hilton's circus, at the suggestion of "Kitty" Lee, to counterbalance the attraction of Crockett as a lion-king, and he proposed that Hilton's daughter should come out as the lion-queen, as she had previously been in the den with the lion. He proposed that she should appear under the name of "Madame Pauline de Vere, the Lady of Lions," and so she did. I remember her first appearance quite well. It was at Stepney fair, and didn't she cut a dash on the platform in front of the menagerie before going into the den! At this time Mr. Wombwell's menagerie as was under Edmonds' management had an excellent group of wild beasts, and Miss Helen Chapman (now Mrs. George Sanger) volunteered to perform |