back, seeming to rest his whole weight upon
his prostrate brother. The trick is not difficult
to fathom. They do not show the public
that the sabre is sharp; in fact, there is
nothing to prove that the edge is sharper
than the back, although the Arab who holds
it by the point affects to wrap it carefully
in a handkerchief, imitating thereby the
jugglers who pretend to have cut their fingers
with one of the daggers they are about to
make use of. Moreover, the Invulnerable
turns his back on the public; which allows
him to slip down his garment to serve as a
pad between his belly and the sword. Lastly,
when the fourth actor mounts on his back,
he rests his two hands on the shoulders of
the Arabs who hold the sword, in such a way
that, they are made to bear the whole weight
of his body. The fact is thus reduced to
the power of bearing a certain amount of
pressure upon the abdomen, which can be
done without the least danger and very little
pain.

An Aïssaoua may safely put his hand into
a sackful of serpents, when he knows that
the vipers have had all their fangs drawn;
or, perhaps that instead of vipers they are
only innocent snakes. His tricks with red-
hot iron fail to astonish those who have
studied the phenomena of the spheroidal state.
At a subsequent period, Robert-Houdin
repeated Monsieur Boutigny (d'Evreux's)
experiment of plunging his hands into melted
iron as it flowed from the furnace; it felt,
he says, like touching liquid velvet. The
Aïssaoua strike their arms till they make
blood flow, and then cure the wound
instantly; one would think that a small sponge
filled with a red liquid and concealed in the
hand which strikes, would suffice to produce
the prodigy. By simply wiping the arm, the
wound is naturally cured. It is possible to
make wine flow from a knife-blade, or from
a finger, by squeezing a little sponge properly
concealed. If, according to the proverb, it is
impossible to get blood out of a gate-post, it
is not impossible to seem to get it. Such
are the miracles on the faith of which fanatic
armies, at the bidding of their chief, have
marched to meet certain death with joy and
delight.

NAVY DRY-ROT.

THE moment Sir Leicester Shorthorn, M.P.,
was persuaded to join the ministry, by being
created First Lord of the Admiralty—which
was about five-and-twenty years ago—the
little town of Ramborough, which he
represented in Parliament, was almost intoxicated
with delight. It had been long felt amongst
the local politicians that every department of
the country had been gradually going to the
bad. But the navy! O dear, that was going
to the dogs uncommonly fast! Ramborough
had a canal, which communicated with a
river that ran thirty miles, and then dropped
quietly into the sea; and, once or twice
during the year, a few small but respectable,
craft came up this river, and along this canal,
for cargoes of hay. Therefore, if the people
of Ramborough did not know something
about naval affairs, who did?

Sir Leicester Shorthorn, M.P.—or, as he
was now called, the Right Honourable
L. Shorthorn—was an eminent agriculturist,
and one of the most renowned cattle breeders
in his county. He farmed upon scientific
principles, regardless of expense: but, an
examination of the farm accounts proved that
every individual strawberry cost about one
shilling and fourpence; and that many other
operations carried on upon Sir Leicester's
reclaimed land produced an equally profitable
result, with a similar expenditure of
capital.

As a breeder of cattle, Sir Leicester had
even a greater reputation; and it was his
boast that Ramborough had always carried
away the first prizes at the annual shows,
and that he had always carried away the
prizes from Ramborough. His great object
seemed to be to fatten bullocks into
hippopotami; to fatten sheep into hogs; to fatten
hogs into hogsheads; and it must be
confessed that he succeeded.

Sir Leicester's great aider and abettor in
these useful country arts was my honoured
father. A man of some property, and an
independent freehold farmer, he had no reason
to flatter Sir Leicester, or to sacrifice his
own fair fame as a cattle-breeder for Sir
Leicester's sake; but still he did both these
things, and prided himself upon his
independent shrewdness.

As soon as the news of Sir Leicester
Shorthorn's elevation as First Lord of the
Admiralty came down to Ramborough, I was
summoned before my father.

"Wull, lad," he said (for he always spoke
with a Ramborough twang), "I told 'ee the
government folks couldn't do wi'out a
Ramboro' mon, didn't I?"

"Yes, father," I said, dutifully submitting
to be bored.

"Ah," he continued, with a chuckle, "if he
wun't cross 'em, an' breed 'em, an' fatten 'em
oop, lad, I don't know who wull!"

"Fatten what up, father?" I inquired.

"Why, ships, lad," he answered; "art a
fule?"

"No," I said, rather indignantly, "but I
don't see what Sir Leicester can know about
the royal navy."

"Wull, wull," he replied, "thee'st got nowt
to do wi' that. Wou'd 'ee loike to be a
lootenant, lad?"

"You're joking," I returned.

"I tell 'ee what," he said, boiling over
with satisfaction, "it may be a good deal
nigher than thee think'st. Dost 'ee know
how Sir Leicester got his prize for the fat
bullock, last show?"

"No," I replied, "I can't say that I do."