in the individuals as to call them by their
own names instead of by the localities from
which they come. "Three to two on Langmire!
two to one! five to—— Langmire's
down! Robson's felled him! Bonnie
Robson!" And indeed it was so; very quiet,
but very grim, our giant looked. "It is the
best of three for the last round," quoth he,
as he took up earth in his hands to prevent
them slipping, reminding us of the preparatory
horn practice which the bull indulges
himself in on the turf before he charges.
This time it is two to one on Robson, who is
indeed a very good man, but he is felled
nevertheless, and the third time he is likewise
felled after a struggle such as the old
Greek gods were wont to delight in, sitting
above the thunder on Olympus top, or the
Roman Cæsars, little less divine, in that great
wrestler's ring by the Eternal City. So our
giant friend has won his one hundred and
seventy-fifth girdle, and is champion after
all.

How the twilight is falling in the long
valleys yonder, though the western hills wear
still their golden crowns, and how coolly
comes the lake wind through the island
trees as we embark in the huge ferry-boat,
and steer for the wooded promontory on the
other shore. It was from thence that in the
dark stormy night the evil voice called Boat,
which the poor ferryman obeyed so fatally.
No passenger was there, but some sight—
no one knows what—which sent him back with
bloodless face and dumb, to die next day.
(The owls call Boat there yet, but not the
fiend, who has been exorcised and laid in the
wood quarry by the priest of Chapel Isle
years and years ago.) Of all the feats at the
ferry that is the only one which we hope
will not yearly be repeated.

A WOMAN'S QUESTION.

BEFORE I trust my fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy future give
Colour and form to mine,—
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night, for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel
One shadow of regret:
Is there one link within the past
That holds thy spirit yet?
Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouched, unshared by mine?
If so, at any pain or cost, O tell me before all is lost!

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel
Within thy inmost soul
That thou hast kept a portion back,
While I have staked the whole,
Let no false pity spare the blow, but, in true mercy, tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfil?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?
Speak now, lest at some future day, my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there, within thy nature hid,
The demon-spirit, Change,
Shedding a passing glory still
On all things new and strange?
It may not be thy fault alone, but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day,
And answer to my claim
That fate, and that to-day's mistake,
Not thou, had been to blame?
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou—O surely thou, wilt warn me now!

WANDERINGS IN INDIA.

AT Almorah I parted company with my
foreign friends.* They intended crossing the
mountains—the snowy range—to pay a visit
to Kanawur. This was a journey for which
I had not much inclination; besides, I was
doubtful whether I could breathe at an
elevation of eighteen thousand feet above the
level of the sea. As it was, several of the
coolies died of cold, and the rarity of the
atmosphere. In fact, both of my friends
themselves had, as they informed me
afterwards, a very narrow escape. On several
occasions they were compelled to huddle
themselves amongst the coolies in their
tent, and the sheep which they were taking
with them for food, were kept alive for
the sake of the warmth they could
impart in the canvas abode. The grandeur of
the scenery, they said, would defy any
attempt at describing it. What they most
wondered at was the impudence of that
insect, man, in daring to climb up into such
regions.

* See page 148.

My friend, the assistant magistrate, had
still a fortnight of unexpired leave, and
proposed to me that we should pay a visit
to a friend of his at an out-of-the-way
station, called Bijnore. I had not the least
objection, and thither we went. We were
most hospitably received, partly out of regard
for ourselves in particular, but chiefly
because our host had not seen a white face for
five weeks.

The cutcherry, or court-house, was undergoing
repair, and the magistrate, therefore,
was obliged to administer the duties of his
office in his own abode, or rather in the
verandah; for, a large number of half-clad
natives, in a hot country, do not impart to a
confined space an agreeable perfume, by any
means. To me this scene—the native court
—was particularly interesting. There sat
the covenanted official in an arm-chair, with
his solah hat on and a cheroot in his mouth,
listening very attentively to the sheristadar,