✦he boats, and by the divers when they are at the bottom of the sea, but an accident rarely occurs. Many fisheries have been completed without one diver being hurt; and perhaps not more than one instance is to be found in the course of twenty years.

The prejudices of the natives, however, are not to be combated with impunity; and any infringement on their established customs would be impolitic, if it were practicable. Their superstition in this particular is favourable to the interests of government, as, from their terror at diving without the protection of the charms, it prevents many attempts being made to plunder the oyster-banks.

The boats in use for the pearl-fishery are roughly built; they are about one ton burden, draw little water, and have only one sail. Those oysters which are not sold immediately on the arrival of the boats are thrown into enclosures, which are paved, the floors having a slope towards a shallow reservoir. Some of these places are also occupied by the most extensive purchasers; and in their enclosures the oysters are piled in great heaps, and allowed to die. After going through the usual process of decay, which, in so warm a climate, is particularly rapid, the fleshy part having been completely decomposed, the pearls are found amongst the sand and refuse. In general, however, the oysters are purchased and divided amongst the speculators, who immediately open them, and if lucky, sell their prizes, and continue their speculations upon a larger scale. Where thefts are so easily made, and a valuable article like a pearl is so easily secreted, incessant watchfulness is necessary on the part of those who employ others to open oysters; but their utmost efforts are ineffectual, as the moral character of most of those assembled at Kondatchie affords no check to their inclinations or interests. They have been attracted, many of them from a distance, and at great risk and exertion, by avarice, and their only principle and pursuit is how to make money, and if successful, the end to them would sufficiently sanctify the means.

The persons employed to survey the pearl-banks having ascertained the position of those on which the oysters are of the proper age, proceed to mark out the limits by placing buoys previous to the commencement of the fishery. If the oysters are too young, the pearls are small;

and if allowed to be too old, the oysters die, the shells open, the pearls are irrecoverably lost to man, and 'known but to genii of the deep.' Portions of sand taken from the banks on which the oysters have died (their shells detached from the bottom having been washed away) contain no appearance of pearls.

The space over which the oyster-banks which are fished extend is from twenty-five to thirty miles square, situated in the lower part of the Gulf of Manar. Although some are much deeper, the average depth of water on the best pearl-banks may be taken at forty feet. The pearl-oyster, although neither palatable nor wholesome, has no poisonous quality, and is said to be sometimes eaten by the poorest of those people who frequent the fishery.

In digging anywhere near Kondatchie, the extraordinary depth of oyster-shells vouches for the number of ages which have successfully witnessed the same persevering, difficult, dexterous, and eager pursuit of these delicate baubles. The greatest number of oysters brought in by one boat in a day was 38,000; the greatest number of boats employed in one day was 162; and the greatest length of time any diver remains under water is seventy seconds.

WHY AUNT ALICE NEVER
MARRIED.

'Come now, dear Aunt Alice, you will tell me all about it, won't you?' said bright-eyed Lilla May.

Yes, do, dear aunty mine,' chimed in half-a-dozen youthful voices. 'Why are you an old maid? You promised to tell us to-night

Now, Aunt Alice is a rare and precious specimen of the wickedly-slandered genus 'old maid.' She is but a few years on the sunny side of fifty, yet still youthful in feeling and kindly sympathies. bright sunshiny heart is hers, full of the gushing music of warm, intense affections, yet in guilelessness a very child.

A

Blessing and blessed wherever she goes,' Aunt Alice is a universal favourite among a score of nieces and nephews, and is constantly surrounded by an enthusiastic circle of us, eager to listen to her dear, simple tales of 'When I was young.'

It was a frosty night in the latter part of December, when we were all cosily huddled round the blazing fire in grandma's snug, old-fashioned parlour. Aunt Alice was at her work-table, busily en

gaged in finishing off some fine needlework for the 'new baby' which had come with our youngest aunt, Fanny, to spend Christmas with grandma.

'Come now, Aunt Alice,' said little Ella, placing one arm affectionately over the old lady's shoulder, while she playfully took her work from her, 'tell us, as you promised, why you never got married, as mother, and Aunt Susan, and Aunt Fanny, and all the others, did.'

'Pshaw, children! you are such teases,' said the old lady, and smiling, she carefully wiped her spectacles, and put them away in their morocco-case. 'Come, be quiet now, all of you, and I will tell you why Aunt Alice never married.'

'As mute as little mice, aunty,' said we, all crowding round her chair.

Many years ago, when I was quite young, and your mother Susie was a tiny babe, we lived in a part of Virginia where railroads and even stage-coaches were unknown; where, in fact, the only vehicles which could safely pass the rough mountain roads, were those lumbering, unsightly waggons, which, even when empty, were a burden for the powerful teams that dragged them slowly along. At that time the mails were carried on horseback, and it rarely happened that any letters found their way to our backwood settlement. Our mail-carrier was an old, almost infirm person, who for years had crossed the mountains on his little grey mare, bringing in his saddlebags the newspapers of the neighbouring city, and the few letters of business or friendship which constituted the mail for the village of S

Rarely, if ever, did any stranger visit our little nest, hidden among the rugged mountains. You may judge then what an excitement was created one morning by the arrival of a fine-looking young man, who came into the village riding along by the side of old Wilson, the mailcarrier. The tavern was soon thronged by a crowd of curious persons, eager to catch a glimpse of the handsome stranger, or find out his name and profession. He registered himself as Captain Vernon, of the U. S. Navy, and made known his intention of travelling through, and obtaining some knowledge of, the wild and beautiful country west of the Blue Ridge. His manners were so prepossessing, that he was soon upon the most friendly terms with our prominent citizens, and was considered quite an acquisition to our so

ciety, especially by us young damsels, who scorned the humbler village beaux when Captain Vernon was near

Now it's getting interesting,' said our mischievous cousin Harry. 'Yes, this is certainly Aunt Allie's hero of romance.'

'Be quiet, my dear, or I shall never finish my story. Well, the young captain loitered about the village.'

'And did you fall in love with him, aunty dear?' persisted Harry.

'Nonsense, boy! Do I look like one who had ever fallen in love? But, as I said, we had begun to look upon Captain Vernon as quite an intimate friend, when he one evening announced his intention of going the next day to the neighbouring town. In spite of the protestations of the girls, who were well pleased with his polite attentions, and much to the relief of the rustic beaux, who envied his city-bred air and style, our newly-found friend, promising soon to return, departed again, in company with old Wilson, the mail-carrier. About daybreak next morning, Wilson was seen riding slowly through the street. Like wildfire the news spread throughout the length and breadth of the village that Wilson had been waylaid and robbed of the mail. A crowd soon collected at the little post-office. In a few words the old man told his piteous tale. Having been left about dusk by his companion, who took a bypath through the woods, in order, as he said, to see a friend whose acquaintance he had made while hunting, he was soon after thrown from his horse, and the mail taken from him by a man whom he could not plainly distinguish, but who resembled greatly the self-styled Captain Vernon, U. S. N. The mail contained a large remittance from one of our merchants, who had imprudently spoken in public of sending it. This no doubt led to the robbery.'

And so your lover turned out a mailrobber, Aunt Allie; no wonder you have never trusted us men since,' said cousin Willie.

'Hush, child; I did not say he was my lover; nor did I ever hear of the renowned captain again. Well, about a year after the robbery, when the occurrence was nearly forgotten by all, Uncle Simon, an old negro, who had been hauling wood from the neighbouring plantation, came rushing into the house one day, with eyes stretched until the whites alone were visible, and gesticulating violently

with his coarse, ebony hands. "What is the matter, Uncle Simon?" exclaimed I. "La, Miss Alice, I fine 'em!" "Find what, Uncle Simon? are you talking about?"

What

"Laws bless your soul, honey, I diskivered 'em. 'Way down dar pas' whar dem big ches'nut-trees is, I was a-loadin' de waggin, an' I hearn Suap a barkin' an' scratchin' way in de bushes, an' I thought 'twant onlikely dat he treed a coon or suthin', so I run down dar monsus quick like, an' I see him scratchin' at some curous-lookin' animal, an' I was sorter 'fraid to tech it. Howsever, I cut a long pole, an' I fetch de critter a lick, and laws save you, honey, he never move-den I 'cluded he must ha 'parted dis life, so I jist ketch right holt his tail an' haul him out; and wat yer tink he were, honey?" ""Dear bless me, Uncle Simon, how should I know? "Twant a coon-was it?" "No 'need, my precious baby, 'twas ole Joe Wilson's saddlebags, wat dat slick rascal stole more'n a year gone. An' dar was all de letters bro' open, an' den stuft in de bags again, an' hid under de ole stump."

"Bless my life! Uncle Simon-what did you do with them?"

"Oh, I fetch 'em 'long home wid me, an' tote 'em right straight to de pos'office, cos' I sorter 'fraid de mail-bags any way."

'While Uncle Simon was still talking, the postmaster's little son came running in, breathless with excitement. "Oh, Miss Alice, Miss Alice, the missin' mail's found, and father says here's a letter that was for you in it.”

'I jumped up in amazement, for I had never had any correspondents, seized the letter which was already opened, and growing red and pale by turns as I read it. What do you think it was, children?' Oh, do tell us, Aunt Alice; quick, quick!' exclaimed all.

'It was a proposal from a friend whom I had not seen for years. He required an immediate answer, as he was about leaving for the west, whither he hoped to carry Aunt Alice—but fate and Captain Vernon decreed otherwise. So you see, if that mail had not been stolen, that letter would have been answered, and I should now be the Hon. Mrs

from

Ohio, instead of Aunt Alice, the old maid. But, as that was the only offer I ever had, you now know "why Aunt Alice never married."'

A LIBRARY ARMY. Gilbert De Poree was a man of great learning, and in matters of literature, a man of refined taste and sentiment for the age in which he lived. The general current of scholastic lore and disputation had not chilled his nature, nor made him insensible to the more lively sallies of fancy and imagination. In his letters, which have recently been discovered in Paris, there are some charming pieces of writing on miscellaneous matters connected with the secluded life he led in some religious establishment in the south of France. The following refers to his having been left nearly alone in his residence, by the annual migration of his associates to some sea-bathing retreat in the neighbourhood: -Our residence is empty, save only myself, and the rats and the mice, that nibble in solitary hunger. There is no voice in the hall, no tramp on the stairs, no racket in the chambers, nor trembling and noise below. The kitchen clock has stopped. The pump creaks no more, and nothing sounds as it did, except the splash of the river under the windows, the dull and ceaseless roar of the distant city, and the frontdoor-bell. Travelling people amuse themselves with that yet. But the camp is moved. The whole tribe are in the country, ankle-wet in dewy grass every morning; chopping, hoeing, planting, fishing, or exploring nooks and strange new places by the sea-side. But I sit here with no company but books and some bright-faced friends upon the wall, musing upon things past and things to come; reading a little, falling off into a reverie, waking to look out on the ever-charming beauty of the landscape, dipping again into some dainty honeycomb of literature, wandering from author to author to catch the echoes which fly from book to book, and by silent suggestions or similarities connect the widely-separated men in time and nature closely together. All minds in the world's past history find their focal point in a library. This is that pinnacle from which we might see all the kingdoms of the world, and the glory of them. I keep Egypt and the Holy Land in the closet next the window. On this side of them is Athens and the empire of Rome. Never was such an army mustered as a library army. No general ever had such soldiers as I have. Let the military world call its roll, and I will call mine. The privates in my army would have made even