under the influence of a definite expectation. They simply waited. At some distance an elderly, well-dressed man, carrying some papers in his hand, was met by an official of some kind, as might be inferred from his dress. The latter, lightly raising his hand to his kepi, said, "I did not see you at the trial." "No," replied the other, "I had no desire to be present. I wish I did not even know of it. How did it end?" "The men were imprisoned for fourteen years," was the answer, "and the women for a year each. And I," he added with a peculiar look, "have got the appointment." "I deeply regret you have not got it more honourably," replied the gentleman, "the whole matter has been a growing uneasiness to me from the moment you compelled me to share your secret." He moved as if to leave the spot, but suddenly turning, he asked, "What was your motive in acquainting me with your plans ?" "Well," said the other with a quiet smile, "we always wish in those affairs not to be alone in the possible case of discovery." The gentleman shook his head impatiently and went his way. As he drew near to where the tall man and dog were, the dog straightened his tail and the hairs rose on the ridge of his back. Just above where the man stood a faint musical tinkle was heard in the air. As if in reply to the sound the tall man uttered a word. The gentleman, who was passing at the instant, started as if from sleep, looked round in alarm, and paused. "Did you speak to me?" he asked, struggling vainly with a feeling that would have kept him silent. "I only spoke," answered the man; "there are words that we utter but address to no one. Their direction is decided by the ear and heart that hears them. You spoke to yourself." The gentleman hesitated, but overcame by a violent effort his desire to say something further, and proceeded onwards. It was evident that he was no longer perfectly conscious of surrounding objects. He turned into

a street that branched off the main one, and went on till he came to the open door of an office, which he entered. Two clerks were writing at a desk. He passed through without word or look. The strange sensation of going through some already experienced scene absorbed his consciousness. He pushed open an inner door that stood at the end of the short passage. As he opened it a dark object brushed by his feet and entered before him. He followed, and the door closed. He found himself in a dense crowd of persons intently listening. An officer in uniform approached and respectfully offered to conduct him to a scat. He walked after his guide mechanically, passed along a corridor, and was shown in through a baize-covered door to the bench of a court house. It was thronged with gentlemen, some of whom nodded to him and motioned him to a seat near where the presiding magistrate sat. But he was as one who saw them not. His eyes were fixed on the body of the court. Before him was the dock, and in it stood three strong looking men, all bearing marks of violence, one with his head heavily bandaged, another with his arm in a sling. Two women stood with them. One was unconcernedly gazing round at the crowd. The other, a young, graceful girl, was looking downwards, so that her hat quite covered her face from view. A gendarme was under examination. From his evidence it could be gathered that a gang of burglars had been struck down and captured while attempting to escape from a goldsmith's shop by an armed force, who, it was plain, were previously fully aware of their proceedings. One man had got off, and the gendarme was labouring under a manifest difficulty in explaining how this had occurred. He was the leader of the enterprise, and had brought the gang from a distant town to engage in it; in fact, had led them into a trap. So much one of the prisoners had conveyed in his questions to the gendarme,

or had elicited in the answers of the latter.

"How came it that with every door guarded by such a large body of men you let him escape?" asked the man with his arm in a sling in an angry tone. The girl in the hat here raised her head, and looked at the speaker with a smile of sad interest. The gentleman whose eyes had been for some moments fixed on her raised his hands towards his head, turned round, and groped for the door. Someone opened it for him, and he found himself in the narrow alley that led along the back premises of the street. He looked up, and at the end of the alley he saw the black head of a dog watching him from behind the corner. He tottered to the place, walked round into the street, made his way to the office which he had before entered, went in, passed through the inner door, sat on a chair before a table, and leaned his head on his arms. After a while a young man knocked, came in, and laid a letter on the table by his side. He took it up with an abstracted air, read it without any apparent interest, and listlessly replaced it on the table. He then leaned his head on his hands as before. He was found dead in this attitude by those who entered the room surprised at his unusual delay. The letter lay open where he had placed it. It contained these words: "The man found guilty of robbery at Dijon bears the name of the person with whom your daughter eloped. He may be able to give some account of her. As before, and more truly than ever, I sign myself— FORSAKEN." This was the word the owner of the dog had uttered. A few months after a notice appeared in the local newspapers that the young woman who had been convicted of aiding in a robbery had died in prison, refusing to the last to tell her name, or give any account of her family or friends.

From Dijon we went to Paris, where we saw the ruined Palace and trampled Gardens of the Tuilleries. The road

from Paris to Bologne is very flat. I wish I could say as much of the road from Bologne to Folkestone. Nevertheless, one of my earthly hopes is to gaze once more from Alp Grum on the valley of Poschiavo.

I presumed to say that I found the members of the Club ignorant of Swiss history. I fear I leave them so. The Swiss have a form of taking leave with which I conclude,

66

Farewell, and do not be angry with me."

JAMES LEACH, THE LANCASHIRE

SONG

COMPOSER.

BY THOMAS NEWBIGGING.

ONG-whether the word is employed to signify the poetry or the music, and whether sacred or secularholds a prominent place amongst all civilized communities, and exerts an ameliorating influence on our lives. Singular to say, music, which is the most luxurious of the arts, has a stimulating and invigorating effect on the animal spirits. This is true as regards both the singer and performer, and the mere listener, who at his ease enjoys the entrancing melody. Music Music is to the spirits what a breath of upland air is to the body-bracing and health-giving. The study and enjoyment of music are not only compatible with, but are an aid to hard daily labour.

In no part of England has the musical art been more cultivated, or even at the present day is music more appreciated, than in the two northern counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire. The interpretation of musical thought and expression, it is true, is now left more to the professional singer and performer, and people crowd to the concert hall to listen to the strains as rendered by the cultured exponent of musical language. In former days the practice of music was more of a subjective pursuit. The people themselves were to a greater extent than now the exponents of the art in which they delighted. Like the woven fabrics of the time, much