boar and francolin, alike in the jungles of Chaldea, of the Tigris, and the Karun-as quite common on these plains. During the excavations at Niffah, fresh traces of their footsteps were seen almost daily among the ruins. Although the maneless lion abounds chiefly in Babylonia, he also informs us that he met with lions in the Karun with long black manes. The Arabs designate the former as Mussulmans, and the latter as Kaffirs, or infidels. By a proper remonstrance, and at the same time pronouncing the profession of faith, a true believer may induce the one to spare his life, but the unbelieving lion is inexorable.

Although the whole of Mesopotamia was in a state of revolt, Arabs fighting against one another, and all uniting to war against their Turkish oppressors, Mr. Layard placed himself under the protection of Sahiman, one of the Shamar Shaikhs, and resolved to return to Mosul by the western bank of the Tigris. His departure, however, was marked by an act of black treachery on the part of the Turks. The route taken, although not often travelled, has been so far described by Lynch, Ross, and others, as not to require repetition; and at Kalah Sharkat our author joined his own workmen. A singular incident, marking the high sense of honour of an Arab Shaikh, occurred during the journey. One night two of Layard's horses were stolen. Sahiman followed the thieves to Anah on the Euphrates, and ultimately recovering them, brought them back to Mosul; nor would he accept any reward.

Further interesting discoveries made by the excavators awaited Mr. Layard on his return to Mosul, which place he finally left on the 28th of April; and he devotes a cursory chapter to discussing how far these various discoveries tend to increase our acquaintance with the history of Assyria, and to illustrate the religion, the arts, and the manners of her inhabitants—a subject beyond our reach at the present moment. We cannot, however, but regret to find a sneer at a gentleman as well known for his amiable and modest character as for his zeal in Oriental archæology, and who had been led by an error, which was discovered almost as soon as committed, to include the Jibal Maklub among the ruins of Nineveh. Mr. Layard has adopted the mode of describing the sculptures, advocated in the very work he condemns; and he has appropriated Tartan, chief of tribute, in the house of Sennacherib, and his insignia, without acknowledging that the recognition was first made by the before-mentioned archæologist, whose labours he affects to disregard. We would not have said thus much, except in due exercise. of the law of Thar, the prerogative of critics as well as of Arabs: a little harmless ink-feud in the one case-a less harmless blood-feud in the other.

UN POISSON D'AVRIL; OR, NEVER WAIT FOR A WIDOW.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

I.

HOW MR. HIPGRAVE WANTED TO BETTER HIMSELF.

"THIS is a hodious life!" exclaimed Mr. Benjamin Hipgrave, butler to the Dean of Dronesford, as he was polishing a gravy-spoon in his pantry one morning" a hodious life;. not at all fit for a man of my figger and wiskers!"

Mr. Hipgrave sighed and set down the spoon.

6

"It may soot the clergy," he went on, "to berry theirselves in dull cathedrial towns-which they're well paid for doing of it—but it don't at all answer my book. The Very Rev'rent's wages is fairish, and paid reg'lar I'll say that-and his port-when a feller can get a glass-is ondeniable; but he keeps the key of the inner cellar his-self and can find his way to the bins blindfold--and, what's more, knows to a bottle how much there is in 'em. If I was a dignit'ry of the Church, I should scorn to be of such a prying nater. Then, what a check it is upon a chap's sperrits to have to be so sollem upon all occasions. I feel sometimes as if I was acterly turned into lead, like one of the clock-weights, always a sinking. The clergy, as a body, is dredile heavy; convacation' is the only thing that goes down now-except their dinners and silver lunchings which it's more than two pair of hands can do to clean the fawks and spoons after 'em, and I've only a page to help me. They're all for reviving of old practices, but there's one they forget, and that's giving vails. Much obleeged to you, Mr. Ipgrave, for my great coat,' says one; I'll thank you to be so good as fasten my goloshes, Mr. Ipgrave,' says another; Is it a fine night, Ipgrave?' asks a third, quite kind and femiliar, and feeling in his weskit pocket; and when I open the door to see, they all scurry out-the mean fellers-without so much as looking round at me."

6

Mr. Hipgrave ceased for a moment the recital of his grievances, and resumed the occupation which his soliloquy had interrupted. He held the spoon up before his face and looked hard at it, turned it sideways and did the same.

"It's of no use," he said; "I'm always a seeing of myself as I ain't. Spoons must have been invented o' purpose to distort the feeters! If I didn't reely know what I was like, them spoons would aggravate a feller into sooicide. People say the cuss of a man's life is shaving. I can't say I think so. On the contrairy, I find shaving pleasant, for then one can have a good look at oneself, without being beholden to anybody."

As Mr. Hipgrave seems to set some value on his personal appearance, let us describe it.

He was a man of about four or five-and-forty years of age, standing some five feet nine inches in his pumps, broad shouldered, portly, and otherwise massive in his figure: his head was round and solid, the sinciput bald and shining, his nose bumbly, his eyes small, and of so light a grey as to be nearly colourless; his face broad, and that breadth

increased by an ample pair of whiskers, in which there lurked a suspicious tinge of red; a wide mouth, that displayed a set of butter-teeth like a hippopotamus, and a substantial double chin, beneath which his white neckcloth was always collapsing, completed the list of Mr. Hipgrave's

attractions. 1

Pursuing the train of thought which his last observations had awakened, the Narcissus of the pantry continued:

1

"There's that young wooman, too, Soosan Sweeting; what's to be done about her? If I stay here she'll be expecting me to marry her, as if one's words was to be weighed and sifted, like the dust at the diggings, to see how much gold there is in 'em. But there's two objections in that quarter; first and foremost, the Very Rev'rent ain't partial to married men as butlers; and, in the next place, I'm not much disposed to it myself. Soosan's a pretty gal there's no denying it, and she's took with me, that's clear enough; but then she's got no money. What's a milliner's bisness in a cathedrial town? Absalootly nothink! Who's she to make for? The ladies here is too proud to wear anything that doesn't come from London; even the miner cannonses' wives gets their dresses down by the rail No, Soosam, coodn't afford it. My 'art's yours, but my 'and must be another's. You must bannish my himmidge from your buzzom, and I must better myself elsewheres.' I shall give the Very Rev'rent warning before I take away lunching to-day."

Mr. Hipgrave's next consideration was the precise course which was most desirable for him to follow. He had arrived at that period of life when men of his capacity begin to think that the matrimonial market is the one which offers the best return for self-investment. He was tired of what he called "servitude," and yearned for that comfort, combined with authority, which he believed was to be found in a judicious marriage. There was no opening for him in this line at Dronesford, and so he decided upon returning to the metropolis which he had only quitted a couple of years before, when, in consideration of the respectability of the parties," he consented to take a place in the country. Mr. Hipgrave was of a rather susceptible temperament, but that quality was more than balanced by cautiousness; and thus, though he would fain have remained to flirt with the fair milliner, self-interest beckoned him, more impera tively, another way, mosq bis mocarele limb & disa fal

He had for several months been meditating his Exodus to London that land of promise--and now resolved at once to carry it into execution. He, therefore, gave in his "resignation" so he termed it to the Dean, who wondered that a great, fat fellow like him," couldn't be content to stay where he was; and, not venturing to trust himself to an interview with "Soosan," when the time for his departure arrived, addressed heri the following letter, which he posted on his way to the railway station?

"B. Hipgrave is concerned to inform Miss Sweeting, that reasons which i cannot impart have altered the relations i once fondly oped might have scattered flowers upon B. Hipgrave's pathway threw life, and your's Soosan likewise. But there is some things which they cannot be controald, and B. Hipgrave's fewter has its dooties, that calls upon him to say farewell. B. Hipgrave trusts you will not take on at this letter which it is kindly meant Soosan, but find an Other to adore as you have adored me, and subscribes himself your well-wisher, B. H."

Miss Susan Sweeting was not so far gone in love as the vanity and conceit of Mr. Hipgrave had led him to imagine.

"Take on' about him, indeed," she said, as she jerked the letter into her shred-basket, "there's quite as good fish in the sea as ever was caught. It was rather hasty of me to quarrel with Tom Trundle the first afternoon I walked with Hipgrave in the cloisters. I shouldn't have done it if I hadn't thought old Hip was a marrying man; but I can get him back again any time, I know, though he did go away in a pet. Scatter your pathway with flowers, Mr. Hipgrave! Brambles is much more likely, and so you'll find if ever we meet again. Adore you! I should like to see myself adoring anything half so fat or half so ugly!"

Miss Sweeting made a few false stitches, and pricked her fingers more than once that evening, but on the following morning her countenance wore its accustomed serenity, and Mr. Hipgrave and his letter had passed into utter oblivion.

HOW MR. HIPGRAVE "HEARD OF SOMETHING TO HIS ADVANTAGE."

In the neighbourhood of Grosvenor-square there is a narrow street, which can scarcely be called a thoroughfare, though vehicles can enter at one end and find an exit at the other. But it is chiefly used by coachmen for their masters' private carriages, and by laundresses for their own carts, and is, indeed, more of a mews than a street, save when the pavement is "up" in Oxford-street, and omnibuses make it a short cut. As a matter of course there is a public-house at one corner, with " an ordinary at one,” “a harmony at eight," "a parlour," "purl," and "beds," at all hours, and apparently for all comers. Yet public as the house seems to be, it is only frequented by a particular class, the habitués being for the most part servants, either in or out of place. The name of this establishment is "The Cocoa-nut and Gridiron," one of those appropriate combinations which only the genius of a licensed-victualler can imagine. It was well known to Mr. Benjamin Hipgrave in former days, and hither he has found his way within a few hours of his arrival in London.

It is rather a dull afternoon, and the "parlour," which is but a dim kind of place at the best, wears rather an aspect of repose; suitable, however, to the frame of mind of Mr. Hipgrave, who, having consumed his steak and stout in solitude, and sipped the last of his cold gin-and-water, sits pondering over the advertisements in the Times and 'Tiser, of which he has just had, as he says to himself," a peroose." Mr. Hipgrave feels half-inclined to take a nap, and, therefore, ensconces himself in a corner of the dusky box to enjoy that luxury. He is just about to yield to the soothing influence, when strangers enter the parlour, and plump themselves down in the next compartment to that where he is sitting. Mr. Hipgrave pishes inwardly at the disturbance, but is too idle to make any audible objection, and the strangers remain ignorant of his presence. They call for some favourite beverage, and having obtained it, enter into a colloquy, or, rather, resume an interrupted one.

It may be observed, as a general rule, that there is always something particularly mysterious in the tone in which the gentlemen who officiate

in stable-yards are in the habit of conversing. They always appear to have something "dark" on their minds, as if they were perpetually engaged in some deep-laid conspiracy that would cost no end to human lives if it should happen to be revealed. They rarely allude to a common friend without saying "what'shisname" or "that 'ere tother," and what their friend did upon the special occasion to which they refer, is usually expressed in a hieroglyphic of which they alone possess the key. Something of this air of concealment may have been begotten by the occult knowledge which they are supposed to have acquired on all matters pertaining to the turf, the ring, and sporting in general, subjects congenial with mystery, but it is quite as likely that they would have been equally tongue-tied as a class-even if a "cross" at a race or fight had never been heard of. It is only when these worthies take the pen in hand to deliver their opinions, that you find how fully they possess the faculty of elaboration. Nothing then comes near them either for diffuseness of style or misplaced force of expression-not even the speeches of Mr. Wordy, the parliamentary agent for the colony of Molasses. This may arise, perhaps, from the accident that epistolary communication is infrequent amongst them, and that they, therefore, make the most of an opportunity when they have one; but, whatever the cause, such continues to be the

case.

Mr. Hipgrave does not trouble himself with any metaphysical disquisitions leading him to the conclusion that the new comers are, one of them, a gentleman's coachman, and the other, a groom out of place; he accepts the fact without any mental effort, and tries to compose himself to slumber. Why he does not succeed in this endeavour may be gathered from the following short-hand-dialogue.

"It's kind of you, Mr. Bagsher, to think about that thingumerry; but -you see-my mind ain't half made-up about it."

"You'd better, Tom," returns his friend, whose real name is Bagshaw.

"Do you think I could now?" inquires Tom.

"That I do," says the other.

Here there is a pause in the conversation, and the words "Towards your good health," leave no doubt about a "pull" at some liquid having

been taken.

The gruffer and more elderly voice resumes:

"Seventy pound a year, besides savings, ain't to be sneezed at.” "They ain't," replies Tom.

Mr. Hipgrave begins to feel rather less disposed to doze, and, slightly, pricks up his ears.

"What matters a few years more or less," argues Mr. Bagshaw, philosophically; "nobody can't remain young all their lives."

"That's true," rejoins Tom, who seems to be of a conceding nature. "Then, I say," continues Mr. Bagshaw, with a gentle rap of his fist on the table, "I say, Tom, you ought to go in and win."

"If I was sure of winning!" observes Tom, dubiously.

"Can't tell till you try," remarks Mr. Bagshaw, who adds: "D'ye think that 'ere bay oss would have carried off the whatd'yecallum, if he hadn't been run?"

"No," says Tom, firmly; "I don't."