A RETURNED OFFICER.

A few miles west of Saragossa we changed our train, the Blinker appearing with his carpet-bag, intensely disgusted that all the beggars were still asleep-a criminal offence, which obliged him to be his own porter. Again I was the sole occupant of a dirty compartment that consoled me for not being pecuniarily interested in Spanish railroads. Again I gazed upon sunburnt desolation, and when we stopped at a station, situated in the middle of nothing, there was a tumultuous appearance of nobody that made me tremble for dividends. However, I did see an officer get out at an impossible place, and be received by the entire population, consisting of four women, six men, and a boy. His wife threw her arms about his neck, laughing with all the joy of her impulsive heart, the little boy clung to his father's legs and screamed in Spanish, the father's father felt of his son to see whether he really had come back in one piece, while three women and five men slapped the hero on his back and shouted a hearty welcome. I may be mistaken about the relations existing between these happy people, but if they were not as I imagine, they ought to have been.-Ten Days in Spain.

AT BAYONNE.

The Consular Agent would be back directly; would I wait? Sitting beneath the widespread wings of the American Eagle, I overheard a conversation between an elderly Englishman and a Frenchman. The Englishman was a journalist. "I'm here in the interest of my paper," he observed, "but I'm not to be lured into Spain. 'If you want your head to remain on your shoulders, you'll keep out of Spain,' said the English Consul, and he's about right. Those Spaniards are always cutting and slashing one another. They never can be quiet. A good-for-nothing lot! Why, they are worse than the French!" This was truly British, and the decorous silence that followed was truly French. I envied the journal that possessed a correspondent whose courage was only equalled by his courtesy. At the close of this

remark, the Consular Agent appeared upon the scene of inaction. Would he give me a passport? No, he wouldn't, for the excellent reason that he couldn't. Only ministers could issue passports. Moreover, I had no need of a passport. I was a woman. It was satisfactory to be assured of my sex; nevertheless, in case of trouble, I wanted a certificate of American citizenship. Would the Consular Agent put that important fact down in writing, and stamp it with the seal of my country? The American Eagle almost flapped his wings and shrieked "E Pluribus Unum!" in his desire to protect me from Legitimist brigands. More suspicious, the Consular Agent, who did not speak English, and could not tell an American by the horrible nasal twang which, according to Englishmen, is peculiar to this country (but which I know prevails in several English counties), looked at me, studied my letter of credit, and then goodnaturedly complied with my request.

The Englishman who would not risk his precious life in Spain opened his mouth and eyes, and an elderly Frenchman followed me down stairs, making a profound bow as I entered the carriage. I was a heroine on such small capital as to be ashamed of myself. I began to feel as though I was drawing a hundred dollars' interest on an investment of fifty cents; nor did the banker modify this sensation, for it required twenty minutes to make him see that a woman could go to Spain. After seeing it, he entered into my plans with enthusiasm. Money? That, of course. Courier I must have, and he could secure one. In five minutes a telegram sped to Biarritz for the purpose of securing a man Friday. I shuddered at the thought, for couriers are-couriers ; but I did not dare fly in the face of public opinion, especially in the face of a genial banker who spoke English like a native, and took as much interest in my trip as though he had known me for years. Anything he could do for me he would, and I must write to him if I fell among thieves. I left Bayonne feeling the richer by one new friend.-Ten Days in Spain.

FIELDING, HENRY, an English novelist, dramatist, and essayist, born at Sharpham Park, near Glastonbury, Somersetshire, April 22, 1707; died at Lisbon, October 8, 1754. He was of an ancient family which could trace its descent from the same stock as the Imperial house of Hapsburg. After distinguishing himself at Eton, he was sent to the University of Leyden; but he led so expensive a life that his not over-rich father was obliged to recall him in his twentieth year. His father promised him an allowance of £200 a year," which," said Fielding, "anybody might pay who would." He took up his residence in London, and began writing for the stage, his first comedy, Love in Several Masks, being produced while he was yet a minor. In his twenty-seventh year he married Miss Craddock, who had a fortune of only £1,500. He retired to a small estate worth about £200 a year which he had inherited from his mother, resolving to amend his loose way of life. He gave up writing for the stage, and applied himself closely to literary studies. But his income was insufficient for his profuse expenses, and in three years he fell into bankruptcy. He went back to London, entered himself as a student at the Inner Temple, and in due time was called to the bar. But repeated attacks of gout prevented him from travelling the circuit, and compelled him to fall back to his pen for