gave him the air of a noble exile lately released from the Bench; and he habitually carried a huge cane with a German silver top and a faded brown tassel, which was all in a frizz. But still, whether leaning against a side scene, a gilt gin-barrel, or a property throne, Mr. Octavius Kemble Hargrove always kept up the high manner, and among gay, rattling creatures like Flitterby, strongly resembled a second-hand nobleman of the old régime condescending to a crowd of Soho Square denizens. This was perhaps the effect that he wished to produce; but the great manner becomes incongruous when a man cannot pay his bills, is shabby in taking his share of social expenses, or when in any way flavored by meanness, envy, hatred, or malice. Apart from these drawbacks, Mr. Octavius Kemble Hargrove was a companionable, agreeable sort of companion for a short walk on the shortest day.

It was a glorious breezy noon, and the great sky smiled so with its big blue eye on the playing waves, the freshening cliffs, the amber-colored sails, the bright green oars, and the laughing groups on the sands and in the boats, that it was enough to exorcise Evil Temper, and make him drown himself straightway in the Bottomless Pit. But blue day or black day, the Devil is always busy; and he was lurking then, wrapped up like a mummy, in that very cheap cigar with which the severe tragedian was grappling, and was whispering to him from the flame. The tragedian had been watching Flitterby for a long time malignly, rolling his cigar like a delicious morsel, in a horse-dealing kind of way, from larboard to starboard side; but at last his bile broke forth like a waterspout, as Flitterby, who had been chanting "Spring, Spring, beautiful Spring" in a way that would call up a mermaid, stopped and shouted to him to come and help pull in a "ripper."

"Flit," said the great man, "I am ashamed, sir, to see you engaged in that degrading amusement before the very eyes of the lowest of the Scarborough populace."

"It's no worse than skittles, Kemmy," said the incorrigible Flit, making a stage grimace, as he landed a whiting and baited for another: "and you know who won three tumblers at that aristocratic game last night; why, Kem, the governor could have given you twenty and licke you.'

"Old impostor!" said the tragedian, playing with a double eye-glass which hung from a broad, greasy black ribbon." He told me only an hour before he had never seen a skittle, and asked me to show him one."

"Jumping Jupiter, look at that!" said Flitterby, hauling in with the ardor of a life-boat man. "Why, he wanted to collar your last month's salary, by jingo if he did n't: tarnation sly old hoss he is. He did just the same with me at cribbage, when I first joined his scratch pack at Hull. Oh, he's a clevare fellow.""

"It makes me wild to think of the beggar," said Hargrove, pacing up and down the pier with one hand in the breast of his coat, like Napoleon at Elba (at St. Helena he walked with both hands behind him), "and of the humbugging way the whole company 's going on. Infernal shame to let that young conceited jackanapes "Merryweather?" struck in Flitterby with a grimace till he looked like a head on a knocker.

"Yes; have his benefit before me. I, the pupil of old Kemble, the Iago to Edmund Kean's Othello! Perdition catch me! but, gad, sir! if I had the fellow on the edge of a cliff and saw him stooping over – well, never mind." "Why, Hargy, old pal of mine, that's far finer than your face in Macbeth. That 'd bring it down. One touch of nature, as the Bard says. He and the girls, Patty Jessop and the sly little kitten who plays Bella so well, are going out for a sail. They'll be down here in a few minutes. They sent a boy to me just now to get 'em a boat." "Insolent young puppy," fumed the ex-tyrant. "He had the impudence to tell me last night in my dressing-room that he thought I was getting too stout for Romeo."

"Well, he is n't, young whipper snapper. I owe him one for telling the governor I was a mere mugger in comparison with some fool he'd seen at Manchester. What's a face for

if you can't screw some fun out of it, eh, Kemmy? Why, what are you thinking of? You look as blue all of a sudden as if a money-taker had bolted on your benefit night." "Flit, sir," said the tragedian, stalking up to Flitterby, and laying one beefy and rather dirty hand solemnly on his left shoulder, "when I mark a man for punishment it were as well for him that he threw himself at once to the Foul Fiend, for those who cross my path never thrive. Fortune may bar my way to greatness; but, Flit, sir, she always opens me a road to revenge, sir. You care not for this man?"

"Care for him! I can't abide him, a stuck-up young amateur with his swell's airs, his remarks on my English, and his snaps-up when I put in a little gag in the slow parts."

"Good! Now, mark you, sir. I'll spoil this young game-cock's benefit. I'll pay him out for telling me I was too fat for Romeo, and too glum for Falstaff. I'll cure him of sneering at depressed genius."

"Give him one for his nob. I'm your man; but mind, I don't like fighting. He knows a thing or two in sparring, and as for wrestling, why, in the skittle meadow just before you joined us he gave our head carpenter a flying mare, because he had been saucy about one of the traps, and offered to fight. He's got the pluck, I tell yer, but he's inserlent and wants a good setting-down, and no two words about it."

"I'll put a spoke in his wheel, mark my word, sir. All you have to do, Flit, is to pretend to be alarmed when I give you the sign. I wasn't son of a captain of a collier for nothing. Mark me, I'll frighten the very hair off his head, spoil his benefit, and prove him a coward to the girl. I know there's one of them he is spoony on, to use a plebeian expression, which you, Flit, sir, will pardon me.'

Just at this moment a pleasant toss of pink and blue feathers, and a flutter of gauzy fabrics at the very farther end of the pier, headed by a stout gentleman with a Jewish nose and a good deal of jewelry, indicated the arrival of the manager, several of the ladies, and the successful Arthur Beaufoy, alias Mr. Frank Merryweather.

"He does n't think very small beer of his noble self," remarked Mr. Flitterby, again whirling out his line for the last time.

"And here am I, a veteran, as I may say," remarked Mr. Octavius Kemble Hargrove, "who have won groves of laurels in my time, compelled to wait for this stripling to leave the stage before I can develop my views of the Immortal Bard. At the age of fifty-two, here am I, O. K. H., playing small parts in tea-cup comedies at a reduced salary, while a schoolboy amateur crowds the house every night. But I'll be even with him!"

"And what is my part in the little game, Kem?" said Flitterby, executing the first steps of a last breakdown as he wound up his reel.

"Never you mind. Run forward, Flitterby, my son, urge the sail, and recommend me as a yachtsman of experiI know this coast well. I'll BENEFIT him, sir, mark

ence. me!"

Thanks to the gallant manager's forethought, the smart little sailing boat, "The Fly-by-night," has been victualled for a three-hours' cruise, with a game-pie and several bottles of champagne. The success of Frank Merryweather, an ex-Government clerk of real dramatic genius, in "School" and " Ours," and of Miss Lilly Tresham, a young débutante from Sheffield, had been so great that the treasury could afford even this lavish outlay. The frank, chivalrous nature of Merryweather, with his easy grace and quiet, natural deportment, had astonished a public accustomed only to the stiff, bagman, overdone, smart politeness of the ordinary stage walking gentleman, while the freshness and sympathetic acting of the Sheffield débutante had delighted even a provincial audience, long inured to vulgar melodramatic heroines and the brazen effrontery of handsome but witless burlesque actresses, who could not even articulate nonsense-verses with spirit, and hid their incom

"Call me Frank, and I will tell you," said the young actor, with a look not to be mistaken.

"Is there, Mr.- well then, Frank, if it must be so?" "Yes, Lilly, there is. If the tide does not soon turn and let us off, the boat must swamp or break up in another ten minutes. But have hope, Lilly; I shall lash you to the mast if the danger increases. Worst come to the worst, I shall strike out for the shore. Think of me sometimes, Lilly, if you are saved and I am lost."

Lilly made no reply, but hot tears broke from her eyes in big drops; and when Frank clasped her hand and pressed her cheek she said nothing, but she did not withdraw her hand.

A strange revival now drew the attention of the lovers. Flitterby, aroused by the imminent danger of which he had become conscious, and revived by some dozen nips of Merryweather's flask, now crawled through the water and clung hold of Hargrove's legs.

"Hargrove," said he, "this is dreadful! We're all drowning-we 're all going down. Help! help!"

"You born idiot," croaked Hargrove, "there is no use in acting now. We are really going down. You fool! I'm caught in my own trap. If the tide does not turn directly, we shall be food for fishes, sir. I tell you, in half an hour the English stage will be thrown back twenty years. He who would have been the greatest Hamlet of the day will perish with a grinner through a horse-collar, a Jew money-lender, a young jackanapes, and three silly women. Lord forgive me for this!"

Flitterby turned white as the dead at this. Hitherto, though miserably ill, he had treated it as a joke. Now his fear turned into rage and repentance. He actually got on his legs, and, though the boat rolled heavily, struggled across to where the lovers sat, inseparable, careless even of death, no eye, no ear but for each other.

The miserable little creature came and lay down before them. “It's that villain did it," he said, pointing to Hargrove. "It was him, and all to spoil your benefit. He blethered about knowing the coast, and the reef, and how to get on and off it with only a little delay; and I was to pretend to be frightened when a sea broke, just to try your mettle, and now, oh! we're all going to be drowned. Forgive me Miss Lilly; forgive me, Merryweather, won't you? We shall be all drowned together, so let's die friends, let's be sociable, Mr. Frank and Miss Lilly, at the last hour. They'll talk of us in London. There'll be a leader on us in the Daily Tel. Oh, my poor old mother, what a loss to her!"

It was impossible not to smile at the poor creature's sorrow and repentance, his cowardice and vanity, with the one redeeming thought for the old mother he supported.

"Bear it like a man, Flitterby," said Merryweather, still clasping Lilly; "there may be hope yet. They may see us from the shore if the mist was only to lift. Keep some heart, man, for shame; at the worst it will all soon be over."

Mrs.

A great wave, as Frank turned to Lilly and pressed her closer to him, broke over the boat, struck down the manager and Hargrove, who wallowed together, and nearly washed Flitterby overboard. The end had come. Jessop fell on her knees and prayed; Lilly clung closer to Frank, unable at that last moment to conceal her love. Just then a wild scream and shout broke from the boy, who had been hanging head down over the head of the boat. "Hoorah! she's loosening, gents," he cried; "I can feel the sand boiling under the keel. We shall be off in a jiffey, gents, if the sea don't stave her in. We must all bale now to lighten her."

So saying, the delighted hobble-de-hoy seized hold of Flitterby's shiny new hat, and began splashing out the water for dear life.

"God be thanked!" said Hargrove with some real feeling, or a very fair assumption of it. "Then I shall shuffle off this mortal coil without foul murder on my soul."

Merryweather, who was squeezing Lilly's hands, and half wild with joy, laughed as he looked up and said, "No, no, Mr. Hargrove, you have n't done shuffling yet, take

my word for it; and as for murder, if you have n't succeeded in murdering us, you'll go on murdering Shakespeare, dare say, for many a year."

"Not on my stage," growled the manager, as the boat began to lift and disentangle itself; "not on my stageno, not in these boots- not if he would play Richard at call-boy's prices. A croaking impostor, to risk all our lives for a mean revenge. I'll have him drummed out of Scar borough, see if I won't. If it was n't murder, we'd throw him overboard now. Romeo, indeed! Why, he's only ft to come on as third murderer in Macbeth. Yah!"

As they passed Filey, the mist thinned, and sunlight broke out again on the white cliffs and the roofs and merry groups on the sand. Frank and Lilly had passed in a me ment from death unto life. Feebly and by degrees Mr. Jessop, Patty, and the dresser revived, ventured on some champagne, and began to laugh at their own fears. Flit terby came to also, and assumed a comic mariner tone, with many winks at poor, chapfallen, gloomy Hargrove, and with timid jocosities; for the manager was unappeas able as Achilles, and kept referring to his enormous gold repeater, as if remonstrating with Providence. Even the manager's friend grew more vivacious as the town of Scarborough hove in sight; Flitterby even broke out with "Merrily, merrily bounds the bark," followed by "Let's all go a-sailing."

The pier clock struck eight as the boat rounded the north cliffs, and at the sound the manager broke into a final hurricane. "Look here, sir," he said, going up to poor cowering Hargrove, who looked more like the Stranger on his last legs than ever, "mark me! By the fiery Flanbango I'll denounce you, sir, to every manager in Christendom, and you'll have to ship off your pettifogging talents to some extreme corner of the Antipodes. Cassio, be never more an officer of mine.'"

It was quite evident, even to the most ordinary gossips, by the time the "Fly-by-night "rounded the pier wall, that if Frank Merryweather had lost a benefit, he had that day won a wife.

MONEY-MAKING AT MONACO.

BY P. FENDALL.

BRADSHAW, or any other intelligent guide-book, will probably tell you that Monaco is a principality exquisitely situated on a large rock projecting into the beautiful blue Mediterranean; and will probably continue to prose about its natural beauties through two or three pages at least. That the intelligent guide-books are perfectly right in their description there can be no manner of doubt; but if any one were to take the trouble of watching the hundreds of visitors who daily flock there from the neighboring towns of Nice, Menton, Antibes, Cannes, etc., he would see how little attention is paid by them to the lovely landscape by which they are surrounded, and how, for the most part, they walk hastily to the one attraction of the place, namely, the gambling rooms, and only leave them when, to use a gambler's expression, they are completely cleaned out. It is only after this unpleasant operation has been performed by Monsieur Blanc's croupier that the beautiful scenery has any chance of being looked at, and even then it is not properly appreciated. After losing heavily, a man is not in the humor to be consoled by look. ing at a motionless blue sea and sky, or grand-looking mountains, or by inhaling the sweet perfume of innumer able orange and lemon groves. The whole thing seems stale, flat, and unprofitable; and what seems still more wonderful is, that after a good day at trente et quarante, or a few lucky shots at roulette, the regular gambler is in too excited a state of mind to care for gazing on the scene before him, and will turn more naturally to the good din. ner that awaits him at the Hôtel de Paris, or the evening's concert by M. Blanc's inimitable orchestra. Thus it is that the gardens and terraces of the Casino, so profusely

id out and stocked with the choicest plants- the cactus, alm-tree, aloes, and hedges of geraniums all growing bundantly—are comparatively deserted, save by two or ree officers from the Monaco army, and a few nurses nd children from the neighboring hotels. The fascinaon of gambling is far beyond any other attraction; and here was an amusing story told at Hombourg a few years go, that on one occasion when Patti was holding her hole audience spell-bound in the mad scene of Lucia, a can suddenly rushed in and exclaimed, “There is a run f twelve red;" and in one moment the theatre was mpty. That such a lovely place and heavenly climate hould be thrown away on its present frequenters seems very lamentable, and we cannot help wondering at the eckless extravagance which Blanc has lavished on his pandemonium, considering how little his generosity is appreciated by his victims. Nothing, however, is done by that gentleman in a mean or niggardly spirit; and it may be some consolation for ruined gamblers to know that "la famille Blanc" is renowned for its charitable gifts, not only in the environs of Monaco, but also in Paris, where Madame Blanc is most assiduous in promoting and sustaining charitable societies. When the pigeon has been plucked to its uttermost farthing, and has even played a fact which very often occurs the money put aside to take him to some purer spot on God's earth, he may apply to the bank for what is known in gambling slang as the “viatique," namely, the money to enable him to travel and leave "ce lieu de perdition." But this money is not forthcoming until the loser has been put through a severe cross-examination, and still more unpleasant inspection by all the croupiers; after which, a sum varying from three to five hundred francs will be accorded him. The latter sum, however, is only given in the case of very heavy losses, three hundred francs being considered sufficient to take a man comfortably to Paris, where every civilized person is supposed to have friends. After being paraded by the caissier through the salons, so that the croupiers and mouchards" who are there for the purpose may testify to the fact of your having really lost, you are conducted to "La Caisse," an apartment on the first floor, where you sign a receipt for the money, and go on your way rejoicing, never more, however, to enter the gambling rooms until those few hundred francs have been religiously and honorably returned to the bank. We asked the secretary whether they often lost the money thus advanced. Rarement," he replied dryly; "on revient toujours." This winter, after the slight excitement of "l'homme qui s'est brûlé la cervelle dans le ventre"-as that would-be suicide was laughingly denominated to me by one of the employés-had passed away, and the celebrated Maltese player had left, there was little in the play to interest the impartial looker-on.

There was a marked improvement in the character of the people frequenting the salons this year. Every one admitted had to procure a card of invitation from the "administration," which was only delivered by your giving your own name and address. Thus many of the demimonde who yearly flock to Monaco were denied admittance, and had to return disconsolate to Paris. It is a pity that this rule was not more impartially carried out, as many of these ladies hailing from the Vaterland were admitted, owing, we suppose, to Blanc's large German connection; whilst others, because they were French and well known, were refused the entrance to what is to them Elysium. The show of diamonds in a gambling salon is always remarkable, and this year the display at Monté Carlo surpassed anything of the kind we ever remember to have seen. Juliette Beau, with her solitaire ear-rings, valued at one hundred thousand francs, and Lassény, with the produce of six years' indifferent acting in Russia, were alone enough to dazzle any one, and when joined by Mlle. Delval (Silly's sister), who had a fresh parure for every dress she wore, were almost sufficient to light up the rooms without the aid of gas. Les grandes dames were naturally not behind in this exhibition of precious stones, la Princesse Souwarow, la Comtesse de Galve, la Princesse Corsokoff,

etc., all contributing largely to the " spectacle éblouissant;' but it is only " ces femmes," as the French contemptibly term their modern Aspasias, who dare appear in public with diamonds on their wrists, hands, heads, and even feet. The "bals de société" given by the "administration" at Monaco are the dullest as well as the most amusing things going. The ladies and gentlemen staying at the Hôtel de Paris are all duly invited; but as none of the former have ever been known to accept Monsieur Blanc's hospitality, the question arises as to who there is to dance with. In this predicament, the "administration" invites all the official ladies of Monaco-the wives of the lawyer, the judge, the general of the army, etc.; and if all these ladies can be united in one evening, there are perhaps six or eight couples to be seen dancing when the fête is at its height. At these solemn and strictly respectable entertainments there are generally a dozen men to one lady. Think what a paradise this would be for the Brighton or Cheltenham girls, where the proportion is so distractingly on the other side! A very good supper is provided free of expense, and refreshments handed round during the entr'actes of the dancing; but with all these luxuries, the beautiful room is nearly empty, and the magnificent orchestra plays Strauss's valses to empty benches and unappreciative feet. It is, however, when the pigeon-shooting matches come off that Monaco is really seen at its fullest glory; then no place is to be found, far or near, on which to lay your head at night, unless you have taken rooms weeks beforehand. Five gambling-tables are kept incessantly going from 11.30 A. M. till 11.30 P. M.; the click of the roulette ball is uninterrupted, the monotonous tones of the trente et quarante croupiers unceasing. You must use sheer force to gain a place at either table, and money is thrown frantically over the heads of the assembled multitude, so eager are the visitors to lose their money and have excitement at any cost. Taking all things into consideration, however, it is doubtful whether any place could possibly be more attractive than Monté Carlo. Given an unequalled climate, perpetual sunshine, complete shelter from the cold winds, an hotel which, though excessively expensive, gives you your money's worth, excellent music twice a day, operatic performances twice a week, and a man must be very hard to please who does not find time pass easily and pleasantly in the little principality on the Mediterra

nean.

THE FIVE COBBLERS OF BRESCIA.

RADIANT summer was reigning over the rugged and picturesque old city of Brescia L'Armata. Italian sunshine wrought its magic on everything. A blue elysian haze encircled the town, with gold-green acacias peering sleepily through it, olive-hued poplars piercing it, and the fairy-like towers of rock-borne fortresses shining rosily across it out of the sky. Red roofs and chimneys burned; tall, dingy houses lifted their painted brows out of black depths of shadow, and grew brilliant with gazing at the Narrowest vicoletti breaking the blocks of the dwellings looked like dark fissures in a mountain; fresco pictures on the fronts of the houses in the open streets blazed with-almost their original color, and oleanders in the rusty balconies flashed out pink and scarlet and crimson, making garlands of fire all down the time-darkened walls.

sun.

A young girl was entering the town by a hilly road on the outskirts, a solitary figure, threading the tall poplars, and surrounded by a background of scenery, like one of Titian's pictures. A blending of the gay, the fantastic, and the sombre were noticeable in the face and apparel of this maiden, making her peculiarly picturesque, as she advanced out of the ethereal blues and greens of the distance, and took her way through the deep-colored streets of the