spokesman who is deputed to detail the various grievances complained of, goes to work with much dignity and action amid the dead silence of the rest of his brethren, who sit like mutes. This, however, cannot last long. In threes and fours they soon begin to speak all together, till the noise becomes so deafening that the general quells them with difficulty, and proceeds either to redress the grievances or to give judgment in the case appealed to him. This tent scene amidst the Bedouin encampment seemed to me like a chapter in the Old Testament history, and I could easily imagine that I had been suddenly carried by Eastern magic into an encampment at the desert wells of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. From All The Year Round. THE CASTLE OF MIRAMAR. A RANGE of dreary limestone hills forms the northern boundary of the Adriatic, beyond the busy port of Trieste - the starting-point of the boat which conveys visitors to Miramar. The castle rises in solitary grandeur, between sea and sky, on the outlying rocks of a desolate creek in the iron-bound coast; and the mournful character of the surrounding scenery deepens the impression of intense loneliness conveyed by the solemn pile. Crenellated battlements above long rows of arched and mullioned windows surmount a broad stone rampart which fortifies the grey crags laved by the blue waters of the Adriatic. A soft breeze rustles the thick mantle of ivy and Virginia creeper on the bastions, and a shower of scarlet leaves flutters down to the sea. The Austrian flag droops at half-mast from a massive tower, for Miramar was once the home of the ill-fated Maximilian, emperor of Mexico, and the deserted castle is left unchanged, as a perpetual memorial of the murdered sovereign. The silence and solitude are unbroken, and the associations of a more distant past sink into comparative insig nificance, blotted out by the dark shadow of that terrible tragedy which touches us with the sense of recent loss. As there were still some three hours before sunset and much barley nearly ripe for cutting, not to mention acres of wild flowers, I started with the caïd's brother, a magnificent fellow and a well-reputed sportsman, to shoot quail. The scouts, who had been sent out early in the morning, returned, reporting that owing to the softness of the desert sand the gazelle we had hoped to find were up in the mountains. My prince's modus operandi was somewhat peculiar. In his long burnous he did not seem to care to do more walking than he could help, and he invariably rode his charger to and from the patches From the stone quay which forms the of covert. Dismounting, and handing his water-gate of the castle, marble steps lead horse to his horsemen, he proceeded to to the great terrace above the ramparts. work away with two mongrel yellow French The sculptured balustrades are wreathed pointers. Accustomed to the "creepy "with purple clematis, and a flame of geraways of quail, these chiens de la chasse had niums fills the marble vases with vivid lost whatever steadiness they may once color. have possessed. On they continually rushed with their noses in the long barley, and, finally, the whole affair became a regular "sauve qui peut." The prince pursuing the dogs, with his gun held before him "on the ready,” and adjuring Perdrix (one of his curs) to behave "doucement," and using other expletives which, from my ignorance of Arabic, I failed to understand, but which, I fear, were anything but "good words." When the bird was at last shoved up by the dogs the prince invariably blazed away (and on the whole with great success) at ten yards, though I found I often, at twenty-five yards, got my one barrel in after he had had his two shots at close range. After securing a capital bag and leaving many dead or wounded birds unfound in the long barley a prey to the snakes, we "ceased firing," but it will be long before I forget my daily "bursts" (I can call them nothing else) with this Arabian skekarry. Although Miramar rises on its rocky parapet sheer and straight from the water's edge, the gardens stretch backward in endless variety of leafy avenue and shady bower, green pleasaunce and terraced hill, until they merge into black pine woods beneath the barren mountains which close the prospect and add to the seclusion of the lonely scene. Aisles of white and crimson roses in full autumnal bloom form vistas of fragrant shade, and the trellised arches reveal a silvery glimpse of falling fountains. The aromatic scent of fir-trees mingles with the breath of a thousand flowers, while the lapsing water and the cooing of doves blend those associations of woodland and sea which add their poetical charms to the haunted spot. The carved stone porch of the grand entrance to this regal'dwelling is veiled by a luxuriant growth of bronze and crimson creepers, flinging wreaths and tendrils over turret and pinnacle, and brightening the gloom of the dark ivy which frames oriel window and sculptured balcony. Oaken doors with emblazoned shields open into a noble hall panelled with blackest oak, and lighted by lancets painted with heraldic bearings of the Austrian archdukes. Armor, weapons, antlers, and tattered banners line the walls and decorate the grand staircase which leads to a corridor filled with splendid family portraits of the royal house of Habsburg. The haughty face of Maria Theresa and the mournful beauty of Marie Antoinette, her ill-fated daughter, are conspicuous amidst the long line of Austrian princesses; and the joyous face of Carl von Löthringen, flushed with victory as he waves the banner of conquering Lorraine, occupies the foremost place in the rank of royal archdukes renowned for military prowess and knightly deeds. Although no reigning family in Europe numbers more tragedies in its annals than this famous house of Habsburg, the interest of the pictures culminates in the portraits of Maximilian and his stricken consort; and the tragic memories of Austrian sovereignty reach thelr climax in the mournful records of these two royal lives, the violent death of the one overthrowing the tottering reason of the other, so long undermined by agonies of suspense and dread. The soldierly figure and dignified bearing of the emperor are displayed to advantage in his crimson robes of state. The broad forehead denotes intellectual power, and the firm mouth, shaded, but not concealed, by the long, fair moustache, expresses the unflinching courage of a gallant race. In the melancholy blue eyes imaginative minds have often recognized the haunted expression sometimes observed in the faces of those doomed to an untimely end, as though the shadow of coming death fell across life even in its prime and flower. Whether this be fact or fancy, no doubt can be entertained as to the cloud of care and sadness which rests on Maximilian's face. The fair features of Charlotte of Mexico reflect something of this wistful anxiety, and the earnest gaze of the brilliant dark eyes almost contradicts the smile which plays round the sensitive mouth. A more pitiable spectacle than that of the poor distraught empress was never witnessed by the European courts from which she implored help, when her mind at length gave way beneath the terrible strain of anguish and despair. An oppressive weight of mournful memories broods over desolate Miramar, re plete with all that contributes to mental culture and physical enjoyment; but only reminding us the more vividly of that illstarred life which no human means could solace or save. In the oak-panelled library, the favorite books of the unfortunate emperor remain just as he left them; his music-score stands on the organ, and traces of daily occupations are seen in an unfinished sketch, a half-written letter on an open desk, and a collection of works on navigation - his favorite study - with notes pencilled on the margins in his own handwriting. The book shelves, with their copies of English poems, plays, and novels, interspersed with classical authors, and modern works in French and Italian, testify to the wide and liberal culture attained by Maximilian in days of leisure and liberty. These mementoes of his sacrificed life invest the story of the hapless monarch with a tangible reality. In the oriel window of a book-lined recess his favorite armchair stands by the open casement, where he loved to sit within sight and sound of the waves which still dash on the rocks a hundred feet below this ideal "castle by the sea." We are almost constrained to believe that the little German poem of that name, familiarized to us by Longfellow's translation, was suggested by a visit to Miramar, so exactly does it correspond with the poet's description of the castle which mirrors itself in the waves and soars upward into the crimson light of sunset. We pass through banqueting-hall and throne-room, gorgeous with emblazoned banners and fading tapestry, the Austrian eagle surmounting the throne and carved in high relief upon the oaken ceiling. Every saloon is enriched with treasures of art in marble, mosaic, and porcelain. Hirschvögel stoves, adorned with Scriptural scenes in blue and white faïence, stand in arched alcoves; and cabinets of exquisite Kronenthal china fill gilded recesses between the long windows which overlook the wide blue sea. The private apartments of the Empress Charlotte are also left untouched since her last sojourn at Miramar. A group of miniatures, framed in pearls, rests on an ebony work-table; a guitar, tied with a faded blue ribbon lies in an open velvet case; and a well-worn book of devotions remains on the back of a prie-dieu chair, beneath an ivory crucifix in a little oratory. The white-and-gold walls, painted with wreaths of flowers, are draped with pale blue satin; and the delicate coloring of these beautiful chambers contrasts sharply with the sombre grandeur which characterizes the greater part of the feudal castle. An arcaded cloister leads to the private chapel of the royal household. Shafts of ruby light from lancet windows pierce the dusky shadows of the dim interior, and emphasize, rather than illuminate, the solemn gloom. The tarnished silver of tabernacle and candlesticks gleams through the mysterious twilight, and a crimson stain falls across the marble altar, before which Maximilian so often knelt in prayer. How great was the change from the peaceful life of Miramar to the stormy reign in turbulent Mexico, whence the hearts of the imperial exiles must have turned with hopeless yearning towards their distant home, longing amid the cares of State for the happiness lost forever amid the strife and bloodshed of the new Western empire! From the days of the Spanish conquest of Mexico under Cortez, the history of the country has been a ceaseless record of anarchy and revolution. The union of Spaniard, Indian, and Negro from whence the modern Mexican traces his descent contains opposing elements which have ever retarded the advance of anything beyond a nominal civilization. Indian tribes and Creole settlers increased the difficulties of government. Successive revolts reduced Mexico to a condition of social ruin; and the affairs of the country became hopelessly involved. The president Juarez succeeded in divorcing Church and State, and the government annexed all ecclesiastical property. Foreign powers took advantage of the situation to aid the Church party, and sent forces to Mexico in order to secure reparation for losses sustained by their own subjects who had settled in the republic. English and Spanish claims were adjusted by negotiation, and their forces withdrawn. The French troops alone remained, and, after several defeats, occupied the city of Mexico in 1863. A regency was formed, and it was decided to establish hereditary government under a Roman Catholic emperor. The Archduke Maximilian of Austria accepted the proffered crown, but the peace which followed his arrival in Mexico was of short duration. The troops under Juarez, the deposed president, broke out into open revolt, and their victories were followed by the withdrawal of the French army. Maximilian was thus thrown entirely on his own resources, and contending factions rendered his position absolutely untenable. The clouds which had so long been gathering broke at length in darkest storm, and in May, 1867, the climax came, when the brave descendant of a hundred kings was captured and shot by his merciless subjects. As our little boat bears us away from the grand old castle, lancet and oriel gleam like jewels in the golden light of a radiant afterglow, the solemn towers throw dark shadows over the lustrous blue of the sleeping sea, and the plash of oars alone breaks the silence which lingers perpetually round lonely Miramar. No memorial chapel or stately tomb could so adequately enshrine the unfading memory of the murdered emperor as this home which he loved so well, wherein every room seems haunted by his presence or pervaded by his taste and culture. The stern page of contemporary history, which hitherto appeared confused and dim, is henceforth translated into a vivid reality, so deeply is every detail engraved on the mind by a visit to Miramar. Historical characters, when of royal lineage, often appear to us as a mere gallery of portraits, fenced off by a hedge of State ceremonial from that close intercourse which alone can reveal the common humanity which they share. As we wander through the halls of Maximilian's noble castle, with its wealth of pathetic memories, and trace the details of his daily life, the personality of the luckless monarch impresses itself upon the mind in clear and decided outlines. We learn to appreciate the dauntless courage which obeyed the call to a life and duty which must have been especially distasteful to one of his gentle, scholarly temperament. Consequences could neither be foreseen nor considered. It is an inspiriting thought, that even in the nineteenth century the days of chivalry have not quite passed away, and we can point with pride to the example of Maximilian of Mexico, who so nobly fulfilled the motto of ancient days: "Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra." Our little boat drifts through the rocky channel of the lonely creek, where Miramar stands on its solitary outpost at the water's edge, and the rising moon silvers the sea and throws a mournful radiance over turret and pinnacle, as we turn for a last look at the sacred monument of a lost cause and a sacrificed life. From Punch. seems to have had a life of considerable interest. This person obtained quite a number of diamonds, with the assistance of a huge bird called a roc. Then he had (From Miss Mary Logic to Miss Rosa much to say about a dwarf who defeated LETTER I. Blackbord.) MY DEAR ROSA, Coached Cottage. (in really gallant style) several men of abnormally large stature. He laughed when I had to confess that I had never heard of these people before. He gave me their names. The wife-slaughterer was called Bluebeard; the lady who slumbered for a hundred years the Sleeping Beauty (I suppose she preferred to keep her anonymity); the traveller's name was Sindbad, and the dwarf was Jack the GiantKiller. Have you heard of any of these people? Your affectionate cousin, MARY. I fancy I told you that my Uncle Jack was coming home from sea. I had not seen him for six years-in fact he left England when I was a child of four or so. As you know, I am now ten. I naturally was rather curious to meet him. Well he is here, and I am fairly puzzled. He is rather a nice fellow-partly educated. He is distinctly shaky with his classics, and has evidently forgotten half his mathematics. However we got on pretty well. He seemed to be interested in my lecture upon astronomy, and said "I seemed to be a hand at chemistry." Well so I am. As you know, when I was a mere child I was always fond of experiments of an analytical character. He asked me if I had a doll, and I suppose he referred to the old lay-figure that I was wont to sketch As you are many weeks my junior (to before I took to studying from the nude. be precise, exactly two months), I hasten And now you will ask, why I am writing to answer your letter. I have searched to you, when both you and I are so busy when we are both preparing for matriculation? When we have so little spare time at our disposal? LETTER II. (Reply to Same, from Miss Rosa Blackbord.) MY DEAR MARY, -- Algebra Lodge. all my biographical dictionaries, but cannot find the people of whom you are in search. As for myself, I have never heard of Bluebeard, know nothing of the I will tell you. The fact is, he accuses Sleeping Beauty, and am sceptical of the me of ignorance in the biographical sec-existence of Sindbad and Jack the Gianttion of my studies. He gave me the history of a gentleman who used a blue dye for his moustache and murdered his wives with impunity. Then he related the adventures of a lady who slept for a hundred years from the wound of a spinning needle. I had to confess (although a constant reader of the Lancet) I had never heard of the case before. Then he recounted the adventures of a traveller who Killer. Like Mrs. Prig, who doubted the existence of Mrs. Harris, "I don't believe there were no such persons." By the way, you ought to read Dickens. He is distinctly funny, and I can quite under. stand his amusing our grandmothers. I generally turn to his works after a long day with Homer or Euripides. Your affectionate cousin, ROSA. THE theft of electricity is a new crime which the progress of science has called into existence. A case recently came before a certain law-court in the United States in which a man with some knowledge of electricity caused the meter which registered the amount which he used for illuminating purposes to record less than he had consumed. The lawyer who defended him ingeniously argued that as electricity was an intangible something of which no one could really state the exact nature, and that as at common law it was actually unknown, his client could not be convicted of stealing it. But the lawyer met with his match on the other side in one who showed that gas was also unknown at common law, but was recognized as a thing that could be stolen. In the sequel the judge took advantage of a certain statute which makes fraud committed with a view to theft, a felony, and the man who stole the electricity is there. fore likely to meet with the reward of his misdeed. Chambers' Journa. For EIGHT DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. 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