Perhaps now that Philip Marston has passed into another world he may see the faces of those he loved on earth.

Madox-Brown and his gifted son are dead; Dante Rossetti lies in the pretty churchyard at Birchington-on-Sea; the lovely Adelaide Neilson died suddenly and alone in Paris; the chief of the house, Dr. Westland Marston, is also gone, and the genial, whimsical, talented W. G. Wills has breathed his last in a London hospital. And yet it is not so many years ago that they filled that drawing-room in Regent's Park Road with their vivid intelligence. As I recall their voices, gestures, play of features, it is difficult to realize that they are now mere handfuls of dust. But their memory lives, bright and sharp, far more living than many of the figures that move about in the conventional drawing-rooms of so-called fashionable society. HENRIETTE CORKRAN.

From The Gentleman's Magazine.
HENRY.

"You may know," says a writer of London, "the men with a million of money, or thereabouts, by their being ordinarily very shabby, and by their wearing shocking bad hats, which have seemingly never been brushed, on the backs of their heads." This is a case in which extremes meet, for you may know the men and boys, with no money at all, by the very same tokens. The whole individuality of the youth to whom this sketch is dedicated centred in his veritably-"shocking bad" hat, which had been seemingly never brushed, and which he wore on the back of his head. Why the men with a million of money affect this style of headgear, this manner of treating it, and this mode of wearing it Mr. George Augustus Sala may have known it; it is not known to me, but I know, or think I know, why the youth who walked before me up North End Road, Kensington, one day last week affected these things. He wore a "shocking bad" hat, because he had not money to purchase a better one; he did not

brush it, because the conception of dirt as matter in the wrong place was unknown to him, and soil on his hat displeased him no more than soil under his foot; and he wore it on the back of his head, intending to challenge, as thereby he did challenge, attention, with the result that his hat was no less than three times in the course of his walk up this London road tilted by passers-by. This thing, it was evident, tickled agreeably his sense of the comical, and presumably to add to the amusement thus obtained, he lifted his hat to every lady-as there is strong reason to believe-not of his acquaintance, met by him. In a word, this youth's singularity was wholly and solely bound up with his hat. If this article could have been pinned or otherwise fastened to his hair, he would have presented an entirely normal appearance as seen from behind. As seen from in front, his appearance was -is-so singular that considerable curiosity is felt concerning him. It is with the aim of appeasing, if only in a measure, that curiosity that what follows is made public.

To impress upon the world the idea that he is a sort of Mephistopheles has long been the chief object in life of Henry. He rejoices in this appropriate name, being called by the Cockney form of it, which undergoes vowel change with elision of the aspirate and suppression of the n. As befitting this assumed character, he assiduously cultivates certain facial peculiarities, among them a wide, set gaze and a curious straightness of the lips. The grimace thus achieved is considered by Henry to impart to him a wholly Satanic air; and when, as pretty often, there comes to him an irresistible impulse to do a kind act, these mannerisms and others similar are strongly emphasized, lest any one should conceive that the act in question has had its origin in anything nobler than freak. In fine, Henry is, what Napoleon, with all due deference to Thomas Carlyle, was not-a portentous mixture of quack and hero.

His weekly walk through the North

End Road takes him to a kinswoman who is blind, and whom, for that reason, he pilots to chapel morning and evening. He has done this since early childhood, and he still receives the reward which was meted out to him on the first day of doing it, to wit, a bag of sweets apportioned in two halves, one being given to him in the morning, and one being given to him in the evening. In that great darkness in which his kinswoman lives, that the times have changed, and that Henry has changed with them, is a fact which apparently has passed unnoticed. For a youth with Byronic proclivities to be made the recipient of a half-filled bag of sweets at a chapel door twice on every Sunday of the year must be something of an ordeal. It is probably the greatest ordeal to which Henry is ever subjected.

The calling which this youth follows is one which seems to be peculiar to these islands he is a cats'-meat hawker. It will nave been noticed by some, if not, perhaps, by all readers of this, that the cats'-meat man is a person not to be looked for in the grandest, and also not to be looked for in the lowliest, places-that is, in his professional capacity. In his private character he may be met anywhere, even in the old court suburb of London. If any cats'-meat man here plies his trade, however, it is only with moderate success; the great field of action for this commercial body is in more northerly regions. There is one North London suburb where the calling of cats'-meat man could probably not be overstocked. The reason of this is that there, more than in any other region of London, there is a delightful preponderance of the class which is not rich and is not poor, but is an intermediate English thing for which there is, unfortunately -and unaccountably-no name. This class is the one which gives out its washing and buys cats'-meat, and which, on the score of being able to do this, considers itself-and, mayhap, rightly considers itself—a credit to England and the whole earth. Henry, who is gifted with business talents of

no mean order, plies his calling among this class, and that he does not make his fortune by so doing, but remains bitterly poor, can only be explained on the ground of his large philanthropy. Not only is he to all his friends that friend indeed who is friend in need, and that, when at all possible, in a very practical way, but at twenty years of age he wholly supports two persons besides himself. One is his blind kinswoman, the other is a kinswoman in the possession of all her senses, except when, as on one or two days of every week, she goes on what he calls euphemistically, "visits to her friends." That way madness lies, and she becomes for that time a mad woman. Inquiries concerning her made by persons of plainer speech are usually made in the formula, "Maria on the drink again?" a formula this which does not offend Henry, though he is sufficiently attached to Maria to hold his home open to her. It also does not offend him when the facetious among his familiars ask after his blind kinswoman in the words, "How is the Old Hundredth?" words containing an allusion either to her great age or great piety. Levity never displeases him, yet so little is his soul a clod that he has visions. In these visions he sees himself the happy man that he will be when these two women are gathered to their foregoers, for then he means to marry a young lady to whom he is warmly attached. This young lady is one of twelve damsels in the employ of a collar-dresser, who takes out their work and disposes of it, for he does not work himself, being a sweater. She is paid miserably, howbeit she refuses to allow Henry to contribute an iota towards her sustenance while she is a maid. One could not say that all this is sweet and commendable in her nature, but this in it is sweet and commendable-she loves Henry to ecstasy, and by a curious defect of mental vision sees in him not a hero, which in some respects he is, but a thing which he is really in no respect, a brilliant and fascinating "gentleman."

ELSA D'ESTERRE-KEELING.

From The Spectator. BIRDS AT THE AMSTERDAM ZOO. Visitors to the London Zoo must often

be struck with the difference in condition and plumage of the various species of birds in the collection. Some, such as the waterfowl, pheasants, and parrots, are usually in good health and fine plumage; others, more particularly the hawks, eagles, and vultures, are too often moping and unhealthy. Among the birds in the Zoological Gardens of Amsterdam the standard of health is maintained among all species indifferently, and those remarkable for fine plumage or brilliant hues are exhibited with as much regard to effect as if they were pictures. The parrots and macaws take the place of the tulipbeds of the London Zoo, and are used for decorative purposes out of doors. In front of each of the trees in the main avenue is a handsome pendent perch, provided with a swing, and on these sit alternately red and blue macaws, or lories and cockatoos. The effect of these long lines of brilliant color, broken by the whites and creams of the cockatoos, is admirable, and the beauty of the individual birds, moving freely in their open-air quarters, not less remarkable. Each of the hundred birds is in perfect condition, and the greater number are as tame as household pets. Even the macaws allow themselves to be stroked, and the cockatoos in nearly every case return the common parrot salutation of "kapper krau," and put down their heads to be rubbed. spring moult in these tropical birds finishes late, and most of the salmon and sulphur crested cockatoos were growing new feathers in their crests. These sprout, covered with yellow or salmon covered sheaths, between the older feathers, like a crop of pink crocuses, growing through a featherbed. The long light chains by which these birds are tethered enable them to use their wings and show in some degree the beauty of the large parrots in flight. Others swing vigorously on their perches, which are so contrived that the bird can convert them into a

The

pendulum at will. This is a highly popular amusement with all the kinds, some of the cockatoos throwing their weight and using their wings with such just appreciation of balance that the perch travels through the whole possible limits of its arc, the bird shrieking in exact time to the rise and fall of the swing.

Quite as beautiful, and perhaps more interesting from the strangeness of its surroundings, is the colony of nesting cormorants on one of the small canals which cross the lower portion of the gardens. The domestic side of cormorant life can here be seen at close quarters, for the birds carry on their daily work of fishing, nest-building, sitting on eggs, rearing the young, quarrelling for "stands" for future nests, or basking in the sun, within a couple of yards of the path. At the time of the writer's visit there were five nests built close to the water. The nests were made of large sticks piled to a height of from two to three feet. One held a pair of young cormorants, covered with close, black down. In a second were three young birds of rather larger growth. On a third nest an old hen-bird was still sitting on her eggs, while the cock kept guard on the ground in front. The compact and glossy plumage of both shone with gleams of black and purple lustre, set off by the pale yellow skin on the cheek and bill. The cormorant is not usually credited with beauty, but, like the starling, it is a lovely bird in the breedingseason, when the sight of the old cock rushing to battle with all intruders, exchanging rapier-like thrusts of the beak with his enemies, croaking, swelling his throat, and even throwing himself on the ground to prevent access to the nest, makes a pretty illustration of bird courage. All this fuss and excitement is confined entirely to the male birds. The hens are quite ready to see a little company when sitting; and two were seen sitting side by side on eggs laid in a joint nest.

The collection of storks, herons, and cranes at Amsterdam is among the best in Europe. But these, unlike the cor

morants, are exhibited in entirely artificial surroundings. Dutch taste is right in this decision, for the birds are so decorative both in form and plumage that conventional surroundings set off their beauty, and they appear to far greater advantage than in the sections of a meadow, railed off by wire, in which they are kept in Regent's Park. They inhabit a double line of square courts, paved with deep, dry sand, and faced with widely spaced bars. A miniature canal of running water travels through each of the courts, from end to end of the line. In the centre of each row is the fountain which supplies the stream, arched over by chestnut-trees, and surrounded by groups of solemn flamingoes. Standing on the warm, dry sand, by the splashing stream, the groups of crimson-headed cranes, grey, white, and purple herons, scarlet or bronze ibises, egrets and their kin, are in plumage and condition as perfect as it is possible for birds to be. The cranes are in such spirits that they dance all the morning, and even the adjutant-storks forget to look miserable. The “figures” in an Amsterdam crane's dance are probably those which have always been the fashion among cranes since they lived on the Mæander. First they spread their wings and leap lightly forward, then turn and retire at the slow march, bowing as each foot is placed on the ground, and complete the figure by the "goosestep." The pheasantries are admirably designed for exhibiting the beauty of the rare and gorgeous birds from the Dutch East Indian colonies. Each pair of birds lives in a spacious court, the sides and front of the enclosure being bound with trimmed ivy, making a frame to the picture. Among the less known species is Diard's pheasant, which should be studied by modistes in search of ideas for winter dresses. It has a crimson head, a back of smokegrey, red, and black, and the breast dark green, which color is continued to the tip of the tail; but each feather above the tail is "shot" with crimson.

Judged by the difficulties experienced in other zoological gardens where the

larger rapacious birds are kept in confinement, the greatest triumph of the keepers of the Amsterdam Zoo is the condition of the eagles, hawks, and vultures. In every other collection which the writer has visited these birds are clearly suffering in captivity. Their flight and tail feathers are, as a rule, broken and dirty, and the whole bearing of the birds shows that they are in poor health and bad spirits. The first indication to the writer that the contrary was the case at Amsterdam was the back view of a huge black condor, sitting upright upon his perch, with his wing and tail spread out to catch the whole effect of the hot May sun. Every feather in wing and tail was perfect and in its place, each of the great flight feathers showing distinctly, just as Darwin saw them against the sky as he lay on his back and watched them soaring over the plains of Chili. To our delight and surprise every occupant of the cages was in equally good case as the condor. The whole com. pany were taking a sun-bath, either on the sand, for the eagles and vultures are desert birds and love heat and dryness, or sitting on the perches with their backs to the sun, in the attitude of the condor. A lämmergeier- the fierce bearded vulture of the Alps and Caucasus-the reputed murderer of Alpine babies and convicted robber of Alpine flocks, was neighbor to the giant vulture of the Andes, not draggled and miserable, but upright, full-feathered, bright-eyed, and as smart as a Lancer. He too spread his wings for our edification, and showed the immense length of flight feathers and the exquisite beauty of the plumage. From head to tail the lämmergeier is pencilled grey on white, the tail, unlike that of all the eagles and vultures, being long and pointed, and adding greatly to the apparent height of the bird. The fierce, light eye is set in a patch of scarlet skin which shines like sealing-wax, and the whole appearance of this fine specimen of the largest bird of prey of Europe was in the highest degree noble and impressive. Blue Chilian falcons with plumage like a fresh-gathered plum, sea-eagles with

eyes like brown translucent stones and beaks and claws yellow and smooth as wax, king-vultures gorgeous with necks and heads like scarlet and salmon colored satin, all told the same story of perfect health and happiness in confinement, and delighted the eye with the spectacle at close quarters of what are probably the most perfectly equipped creatures in nature, in the acme of physical condition.

The causes of this success are only obvious in part. Proper feeding is in all probability the main reason for the health of the carnivorous birds. But it is in part due to the warmth and dryness of their houses and enclosures. These are in every case paved with deep dry sand, like that in which the tulips and potatoes are grown in the "dunes." Every bird revels in this sand. They "wash" in it, bask on it,

sleep on it, and mix it with their food. Even the sea-eagles will dust in it like a hen on an ash heap. At Regent's Park an eagle or vulture has a floor of cold concrete,-non-absorbent, wet in rain, icy in frost, and decorated with a shallow puddle in the centre, in which the bird's feathers are draggled and spoilt. With good food and dry lodgings the bird's health is preserved and its feathers grow. That they are not broken later is due to the strict rules against frightening or even feeding the animals, for which a fine of five gulden may be recovered. Thus the birds are so tame that they never dash their wings against the bars, and exhibit the same composure and care when taking a short flight across their cage as do all birds when launching themselves for flight in the open.

The Home of the Satans.-The greatest natural wonder in Java, if not in the entire world, is the justly celebrated "Gheko Kamdka Gumko," or "Home of the Hot Devils," known to the world as the "Island of Fire." This geological singularity is really a lake of boiling mud, situated at about the centre of the plains of Grobogana, and is called an island because the great emerald sea of vegetation which surrounds it gives it that appearance. The "island" is about two miles in circumference, and is situated at a distance of almost exactly fifty miles from Solo. Near the centre of this geological freak immense columns of soft, hot mud may be seen continually rising and falling like great timbers thrust through the boiling substratum by giant hands and then again quickly withdrawn. Besides the phenomenon of the boiling mud columns there are scores of gigantic bubbles of hot slime that fill up like huge balloons and keep up a series of constant explosions, the intensity of the detonations varying with the size of the bubble. In times past, so the Javanese authorities say, there was a tall, spirelike column of baked mud on the west edge of the lake which constantly belched a pure stream of cold water, but this has long been obliterated, and everything is now ૧

seething mass of bubbling mud and slime, a marvel to the visitors who come from great distances to see it.

Blacklight. Such is the name given by M. Gustave Le Bon to certain dark and mysterious rays which are capable of penetrating opaque bodies as do the "X rays" of Professor Röntgen's vacuum tube, but which are found in ordinary sunlight and lamplight. M. Le Bon has no difficulty in taking photographs with these rays when the sensitive plate is covered by a metal plate, preferably of iron or copper, provided the exposure is sufficiently long-say, three hours. A better effect is got by placing the sensitive plate on a sheet of lead and putting the negative photograph to be copied over it, then laying an iron plate over all and bending up the edges of the lead plate so as to overlap the iron and form a closed box of iron on the top and lead on the bottom and sides. When this box with the sensitive plate inside is exposed for three hours to the light of a petroleum lamp or to sunlight, a distinct image of the negative will be found on the plate. M. Le Bon is of opinion that if our eyes were but slightly modified, we should be able to see through a brick wall.