in soaking them in a decoction of tobacco after
slightly heating them. Pipes coloured by this
means are quite as much perfumed as by the
old process, and are coloured with greater
regularity; above all, they are cleaner, which is
a special recommendation.

Some years ago attempts were made in Paris
to unite material and mental aliment in various
ingenious ways. There were proprietors of
reading-rooms who presented their subscribers
with so many tickets for dinner at particular
restaurants with which they had entered into
arrangements, and there were one or two
publications which followed the example. The
Figaro, on its part, gave a case of oranges to
every subscriber for twelve months, and so
recently as last Christmas the Etendard, a grave
political journal, sought to attract its readers
by bribing them with boxes of bonbons. The
restaurants, in their turn, tried to secure
regular customers by serving with the hors
d'Å“uvres an instalment of some exciting
romance by a popular writer, thereby enabling
their patrons to gratify their literary and
gastronomic tastes at the same moment, and
acquire a perfect library of fiction in the course
of the year. The idea found an imitator in the
proprietor of a wine shop, who promised to
clothe his customers from head to foot, in the
very latest fashion, free of charge. This was a
"reform of tailors' bills" not to be disregarded
by  thirsty souls," at any rate, who, by
purchasing right off a "piece" of wine, or a few
litres of brandy, could obtain a coat or a pair
of trousers, while even an ordinary "nip"—a
"velvet on the stomach," as the Parisians term
it—if repeated often enough, brought its
reward. Taking a "canon" of wine, or a
"demisetier" of brandy every morning, and an
"absinthe" in the afternoon, for a couple of months,
procured you an extra superfine hat, while an
additional month's consumption would entitle you
to a pair of boots instead. Bibulous individuals,
who preferred receiving their bonuses right off,
could, after the requisite amount of consumption,
secure a showy necktie or an electro-gilt
ring before quitting the counter.

Not the least odd way—not of getting a
living, for the slack seasons are too frequent
for this, but of picking up francs in Paris—
is that pursued by some of the wine-shop
keepers in the neighbourhood of the Place de
la Roquette, where all the executions take
place. Our French neighbours have not yet
followed the good example we have set them
of erecting the scaffold within the prison walls;
still the authorities, with a sort of instinct of
the demoralizing effect of these exhibitions, are
particularly careful to keep the days fixed for
execution secret till the very latest moment.
With the view that those who have a craving
for these displays may not be disappointed,
the neighbouring wine-shop keepers undertake
for a stated sum, to telegraph to their
respective clients the moment preparations for
erecting the guillotine have commenced. Were
executions more frequent, the Parisians, with
their spirit of enterprise in all that relates to
spectacular matters, would no doubt establish
a regular agency on the boulevards similar to
those in connexion with the theatres, where a
plan of the "place" would be visible, and
reserved seats might be engaged.

     MORE OF WILLS AND WILL MAKING.

THE COCLOUGH BATTLE. IN TWO PARTS.
                                PART I.

IN the county of Wexf ord are the ruins of a
fine old abbey, converted into a country-house,
with a wall, here and there many feet thick, and
a little window or two so deeply embayed, that
the stranger opening them fancies he is plunging
his arm into some deep hole. Round it economic
modernisers have crusted little rooms and
additions, but the abbey portion was held a
sad drawback, the country gentlemen about
considering it a sort of "rat-hole." It was full
of curious panelling, recesses, &c., on the
existence of which the present owners might well
congratulate themselves. It is called Tintern
Abbey. The rental was about ten thousand a
year, and towards the end of the last century
it was enjoyed by a Sir Vesey Coclough, a
dissipated gentleman of the old Irish school. He
had three relations, one named Cæsar, known
among the people there as "The Barrister,"
or, more correctly, as "The Counshillor,"
who later became Chief Justice of a colony;
Dudley, a clergyman; and Sarsfield. Sir
Vesey was exactly the "bold, bad man" that
figures in melodramas—a true roysterer, and
so partial to the society of ladies other than
his wife, and so scandalously noisy in the
enjoyment of their company, that the lady was
driven from the house, and obliged to live
in a neighbouring country-town with barely
the necessaries of life, where she struggled to
bring up her children. But for friends, she would
literally have starved. Meanwhlle the brothers
and other relations held carnival at the family
mansion, and succeeded in obtaining from Sir
Vesey advantageous leases and other benefits,
keeping his mind all the time duly inflamed.
The career of most members of his family was
in keeping. Every one was in difficulties.
The Rev. Dudley's "necessities," as they were
called, were always pressing; and the Chief
Justice became speedily much embarrassed in
his circumstances. "His salary as Chief
Justice," says the brief, gently enough, "being
inadequate to support the dignity of his office;
as it would appear that a Colonial Chief Justiceship
was at that time regarded with more
consideration than at present." The later career
of this gentleman was very trying to him, as
he had to live in retirement in London.

The "Counsellor" was cousin to the owner
of Tintern Abbey, and both were called Cæsar
— a favorite family name. By and by, the two
cousins had a falling out, and as it was always
handsomely understood that near relationship
should be no bar to an arrangement, they went
out and fought a duel. This, instead of
producing "satisfaction," strange to say,
completely estranged the relations; a permanent