is the business of getting the soldiers here.
There is quite a feeling in the place about
it."

"But you have your two members.
Surely they are the proper people."

"My dear lady," said the Doctor, "they
are not worth a pinch of snuff between
them. Besides, they are of the wretched
screw-and-scrape sort, pledged to reduction,
wasteful expenditure, and all that. Ah,
Katey and Polly dears, I wish we had the
pair of you in; you'd see to the business
in a twinkling."

"Oh, Mrs. Leader," said Polly, eagerly,
"you will make Mr. Leader do it. We
are all dying to have the soldiers."

Mrs. Leader smiled at this intense
enthusiasm; pleased also at the implied
homage to her power.

"I am sure Mr. Leader will do what he
can." They were now at the carriage.
The bedizened lady got in; her face framed
in the window, with a smile meant to be
gracious, but altogether "ugly enough for
a show," as the Doctor said. The nominal
head of the family also got in, looking very
much, according to the same authority,
"as if he'd like to get up behind." The
young man of the party shook hands with
the young ladies, and had his own nearly
wrung off by Lord Shipton, with a "God
bless you."

A REMARKABLE CITY.

THE great and mighty city of which I
am about to transcribe a few particulars
is neither London nor Paris, nor New
York, nor Pekin, but a far more populous
city than either. London and its
suburbs may contain between three and
four millions of people, Paris half the
number, New York about a third, and
Pekin about as many as London, perhaps
a million or two more, for we can never
tell how the Orientals reckon, or whether
a million in their fervent imaginations may
not sometimes do duty for a tenth part of
the number. But my city, considering
the size of its inhabitants, is relatively
larger, and positively more populous than
either of them, or perhaps the whole of
them combined. Its inhabitants are
industrious and intelligent, and not only
know how to build cities, but how to
govern them. My city stands upon the
top of a hill, within twenty-five miles to
the south-west of London. Geographers
make no mention of it. The county
historians know it not. In vain would the
eye of a traveller seek to obtain a glimpse
of it from afar. Not a trace of it is to be
seen from the railway station that stands
within a mile of its multitudinous domes
(towers and steeples it has none), and he
who wants to pay it a visit must look very
carefully about him before he can discover
it. Around it are thick woods and plantations
of box, juniper, and beech, and on
the comparatively bare summit of the hill
on which it stands are acres of fern and
bracken, mingled with patches of purple
heather that would do no discredit to
the breezy slopes of Ben Lomond. The
domes constructed by the inhabitants range
from one to two feet in height, and look
like diminutive wigwams. Some of them
are of fresh earth, recently turned up,
and others are old and over-grown with
the short grass and moss of many
summers. Not a sound audible to human ears
is heard in these populous parishes, for
each dome may be considered a parish, or
a borough, of this very great city; and
during the winter months, from November
to April, not only is there no sound, but
no motion, or sign of life. Within it all
the busy millions compose themselves for
hybernation, as soon as the leaves begin to
fall from the trees, and sleep snugly and
comfortably without waking, or even turning
on their beds. But though beneath the
sod, and accessible to the influences of the
frost, the frost only makes their drowsiness
the more dense; and if by chance—but
there is no chance in these matters—they
were as deeply ensconced in the bosom of
mother earth as to be unsusceptible of the
winter's cold, they would also be
unsusceptible of the summer sunshine, and fail
to awake at the time appointed. This
never happens. When the soft, warm
rains of spring penetrate into the ground,
and the trees and flowers begin to spread
forth their tender shoots to the warm sun,
the teeming population of the city turn in
their beds, burst into renewed life and
activity, and begin to devote themselves
to their customary avocations—to marry
and be given in marriage, and, it must be
added, to develop schemes of ambition and
conquest, and to lay the foundations, just
as England is doing in a different way,
though with possibly the same animating
motives, of new colonies and empires.
These industrious creatures, who possess
some of the intelligence and a good deal of
the vices of humanity, for they are
exceedingly warlike and quarrelsome, are the