"Oh, yer honor," said Nan, speaking up in her fresh voice, "if the Lord had kep' away in disgust from all sinners, what'd ha' become of the world ?"

"Nan, Nan!" said her mother, quickly, "yer tongue's too free."

It was now dark, with that clear darkness of the mountain world on a summer's night. The moon came floating up from the lower world, swimming in faint gold through the black-purple atmosphere. The party broke up, and the various figures moved about like pleasant shadows in the luminous twilight. The fire-light began to glow through the cabin doorway. Counsels were

"I know something of him," said Paul. "You do?" cried Bid. 66 Oh, thin, I'll make bould to send a word till him, if yer honor'll take the charge o't."

66

Willingly," said Paul; "I promise he shall surely hear your message."

"First tell him to come, for the love o' God an' the poor. It would rise cratures' hearts to hear a bit o' a promise from him, an' he might stop some harm, an' do many's the good turn. An' thin if that doesn't touch, just tell him that if he doesn't come soon there'll be a poor fool body put stannin' in his shoes!"

"How?" asked Paul. "Who is that ?" "Yondher!" said Bid, pointing to Con, who had fallen sound asleep on the heather at Nan's feet.

"Tell me what you mean," said Paul. "There's wan Tibbie, an' she calls hersel' Misther Finiston's housekeeper, an' she lives there an' houlds the grip o' him. An' she says she's Con's aunt. An' she gives out that her sisther, Con's mother, was married on Simon's brother, an' she calls Con the heir o' Tobereevil. An' there's a lawyer comes here, the agint―may the curse o' the counthry

"Stop, Bid!" cried the house-mother. "Ay, sure!" said Bid. "I needn't sin my soul on him; God forgive him, an'

me!"

"Go on, please," said Paul.

"Well, this lawyer knows the way o' makin' wills, an' some fine mornin' Simon'll die, lavin' all he has to Con. And Tibbie and the lawyer'll have Tobereevil betune them. What would Paul Finiston say to that, yer honor ?"

Paul had turned pale. "I think," said he, "that if he wouldn't come for the first part of your message he would not for the second."

"But don't ye see it's the same thing?" cried the house-mother, passionately. "Oh Lord! What way will it be wid the people in this counthry at all?"

"I did not say he would not come," said Paul, gently.

the guest of the night. The women spread new straw in an out-house, where they all meant to sleep, leaving the cabin to his honor. Paul frustrated their intentions, however, by taking possession of the outhouse, with Con for a companion. Soon all was silent on the mountain-side. Paul slept soundly on his bed of straw. Once during the night he awoke. Through a breach in the wall he could see the moon still hovering over the hills. In her wake he saw a face floating; May's face, with that look which it had worn as she clasped her black cross.

"What a coward I have been !" he said.

A CUBAN WEDDING.

I PACE, like a sentinel on guard, the spacious market-place which stands more than forty feet above the hilly streets of a Cuban town. Occasionally I pause to lean over the iron rail which encloses the market, and to contemplate a certain singlestoried habitation beneath me. A covered balcony, as roomy as a small chamber, stands before the blue and white painted house; the windows and door of which are so lofty and wide that the interior of the dwelling being brilliantly illuminated with gas, I can see into every apartment which faces the street. A couple of ladies, attired in light muslin, are swaying and fanning themselves in cane rocking-chairs, and are apparently entertaining, or being entertained by, two gentlemen visitors who are seated before them, also in rockingchairs, and with fans and cigarettes in their hands. Anon a third gentleman and then a fourth, both attired in spotless white drill starched to the stiffness of cardboard, step into the balcony from the street, enter by the open door, and without a word occupy two of the twelve rocking-chairs, which are arranged in rows in the centre of the apartment, like seats in a railway carriage. The conversation does not seem very animated; but it is varied by the younger lady, who presently rises in the most languid manner

possible, and crawling towards a grand piano, placed on glass pedestals as a nonconductor of moisture from the brick floor, proceeds to play a Danza Criolla. When she has finished her performance, and a little more conversation, or Tertulia as it is called, has been disposed of, the visitors rise in military fashion, and saluting the ladies withdraw, and betake themselves to a neighbouring house, where the same formalities belonging to an evening visit in Cuba are observed.

Still reclining upon my iron support, I watch my señoras in muslin as they issue forth upon the wide balcony. One of them, a stout old lady with a plump, good-natured face, summons one of her black domestics, who presently appears with a couple of rocking-chairs, which he leaves on the balcony. It is a sultry evening (though the month is January), and the night air is inviting.

I am intimately acquainted with the ladies before me, and in one of them I am deeply interested, for her name is Cachita, and she is fresh from a certain convent where she has been incarcerated six months for making love without her father's approval.* That gentleman has lately departed for North America, in order to recruit his health, which had been greatly shattered by an accident which he met with while inspecting some machinery in use at his sugar estate. It is considered a great event when a Cuban leaves his island for a foreign country, and until news of his safe arrival reaches his friends at home, his absence is deplored, as though he had left both the old world as well as the new. In consideration of this, together with the fact that my inamorata has by her father's grace been restored to her home and family, it is scarcely befitting, as Cuban customs go, that her lover should renew thus early his visits at her parental roof. So, until assured that my reappearance will not be thought ill-timed, I prudently retire. But the scene of my retirement is at present far from remote, and from it I now take a very pardonable survey of my prospects.

Cachita and her amiable mother are airing a subject which deeply concerns my happiness, so I may be excused if in the stillness of the night I pause to overhear their dialogue. That portion of it which interests me most is when the older lady observes:

*See ALL THE YEAR ROUND, New Series, vol. vii.,

p. 33.

"Your father is stubborn and unreasonable, and deserves any disappointment which may await him. Besides, you have been severely and unjustly punished for no fault that I can see. And now if happiness is in store for you, it will be only a wellearned reward for much patience and suffering."

66

Ay! madre mia," sighs the younger lady, "then you find nothing to prevent our speedy union?"

66

Nothing. And as for means, why your father owes his position and fortune to his alliance with me, and although he has the disposal and management of the sugar estate, I have still a private purse of my own out of which I will assist you both if Gualterito has not sufficient."

"Papacito pretended to object to him on the grounds of his respectability and honour, but now we have received from his country and his friends here ample testimony on those points, and also on that which you, mamá mia, prize more than all."

66

Yes, Gualterito is a genuine white, which, in this country of doubtful colour, is, you know, a great recommendation. Your own father's mother was anything but"

"No importa, mamacita; I am going to wed now after your own heart."

"Your father would have you married to young Amador, about whose dark origin there is very little doubt. But then Don Catasús, his parent, is a rich old coffeeplanter, and that is enough for Don Severiano.

Cachita gazes upwards into the obscurity of the market-place, from whence in happier times she has often looked for me to emerge.

"I think some one is standing there," she observes.

Perhaps it is your lover, who is punctilious about visiting us until he is assured of my hearty welcome."

I cough twice.

Somebody is there, sure enough," says Cachita. May I send Gumersinda, the negress, with a message, mamacita ?"

Doña Belen gives her consent, and then signifying her intention to retire for the night, bids her daughter follow her in half an hour.

Soon the pattering of naked feet ascending the stone steps which lead to the market, announces the approach of Gumersinda. That faithful vassal comes with an invitation for me from her fair mistress,

and I am not long in obeying her sum

mons.

We meet. We embrace; and though we have much to tell since our separation, some time elapses ere we can give expression to our sentiments. When we have become sufficiently accustomed to one another's society, we calmly discuss our pending marriage. Mamma has given her consent, papa is away, and we are to be shortly united with all the ceremony attending a Cuban wedding.

Some weeks pass, however, before that happy event can be celebrated. My creed differs somewhat from that of my intended, and I have to submit to certain formalities required by the Catholic priest who is to marry us; the most important of these being the production of a certificate proving my birth, parentage, and origin. We must wait until this can be procured from my native country, and, meanwhile, other obstacles to our union are surmounted. Foremost among these is the question of my confession. Cachita confesses; and that is nothing new to her; but I cannot be induced to follow her example. Not that I have anything to confess about which I need be ashamed; but I withdraw from this obligation on principle. Besides, I have authority for my objection in certain British subjects who have wedded in Cuba under similar circumstances to my own. Prompted by Her Majesty's British consul, and a native lawyer, I gain my point.

In my new capacity of accepted lover I am bound to submit to many hardships. I may not meet my intended alone under any circumstances, and I am privileged to enjoy her society only in the presence of the numerous relatives and friends, who visit her at all hours of the day and evening. Then I am expected to return these same visits in company with my future bride and her nearest relatives. In short, the long period of my courtship is made so irksome that I would gladly relinquish two years of my married life for half an hour of the old secret love-making at Cachita's grated window.

The wearisome ordeal at length comes to an end-the nuptial day arrives. The ceremony, such as it is, takes place very late in the night; indeed, it is early morning before I and my male friends reach the cathedral, where the event is to be celebrated. A single bell tolls like a funeral knell as we enter a small chapel connected

with the sacred edifice. It is a dreary apartment, dismally lighted with two long wax candles. Nobody is present save myself, the male friends already mentioned, and the sacristan, who enlivens us by trying (and failing) to decorate, with false flowers and false candles, a miserable altarpiece at one extremity of the chapel. My importance as a bridegroom is not at present appreciated either by myself or by my friends, with whom I converse upon indifferent subjects, and who, like myself, are attired in ordinary walking costume.

Presently a kitrin, or gig on enormous wheels, drawn by a couple of mules, with a black postilion in jack-boots, halts without. The bride, accompanied by her mother and a friend, alight, and without taking notice of anybody in particular, pass silently into the chapel. The importance of my position does not reveal itself by this act, nor is it considerably improved when the ecclesiastic who is to marry us emerges from a dark corner, smiles artificially around him, and exhausts the rest of his amiability with the ladies. But the priest is not so unconscious of me as I suppose. Soon he singles me out from the group of males near him, and bids me follow him, my bride, and my future mother-in-law, into an adjacent chamber. But little is required of me here besides affixing my signature to a paper which I do not read; and when the holy man has addressed something or other to me in the Latin language, I am politely requested to withdraw. Shortly after my retirement the bride and her escort issue from the mysterious chamber, and after saluting us all round, take their departure and drive away. My distinguished position seems to be scarcely increased by these proceedings; but when my friends congratulate me, the lights of the chapel are extinguished, and the decorations on the miserable altar-piece are stowed away, I endeavour to realise the feelings of a married man. I follow my friends as they lead the way to the bride's parental roof, consoling myself with newly-rolled cigarettes as I walk along.

It is nearly two A.M. before we reach the scene of the festivities, where most of the guests are already assembled. A long table has been tastefully arranged with sweetmeats, cakes, fruit, wine, and other luxuries, and some of the guests, whose appetites could not be restrained, have already inaugurated the festivities. Much confusion, uproar, and struggling after dainties peculiar to a Cuban banquet pre

light, sticks up "No thoroughfare" in the face of electricity. Hence it curbs, contains, and stores electricity, thereby rendering enormous service to the workers in electrical discovery or application. Glass has made all the difference in the condition of a science which can foretel future events with greater certainty than all the oracles of old-which can now predict, to a second, years beforehand, an eclipse of the sun or moon, or the occultation of a star-and the same science as known to Chaldean shepherds by what their unassisted eyes could tell them while watching the glories of a starlight night. And the unknown worlds revealed by the microscope, what knowledge should we have of them but for glass? The singular phenomena of locomotive plants, the curiosities of ciliary motion as seen on the heads of rotifers and elsewhere, the masses of animated jelly which take any shape and are constantly changing their protean forms, the proofs of design exhibited by the spiracles or breathing holes in the sides of insects, the multifarious crowds of life, activity, and ambiguous organism contained in a drop less than the head of a pin, would for us, without glass, be non-existent. He who has never used a microscope has but a limited cognisance of the marvels of nature. It is his own fault if the student remains without that knowledge; for it is placed within his easy reach by glass.

At every step we take in the domain of science, we meet with glass, glass again, and ever glass, applied to all sorts of purposes, obedient to the philosopher's will, assuming the most strange and improbable forms. Here it helps the modern Jupiter Tonans to grasp the elements of thunder -that is to say, of lightning, the producer of thunder-in his hand. There it helps the chemist, in his laboratory, to ask Matter the rules and reasons of its wilful conduct. Elsewhere it enables the anatomist, whether of self-conscious animals or of unconscious plants, to unravel the pattern according to which each special tissue is woven, to trace the mode and progress of organic growth, and to discover life, order, and beauty in apparently shapeless dirt and dust. Is it, then, too much to say that physical science owes much of its recent rapid development to glass? Modern science is founded on observation, and the whole universe, inviting inspection, lies before it. The wider the field of observation, the grander and the surer are the conclusions grasped. Glass enables us to

make an enormous advance (without holding out the slightest hope of our ever approaching there) in the direction of the two opposite poles of immensity-the infinitely great and the infinitely small.

However general, now, may be the use of panes of glass, to allow the inhabitants to look out and the kindly sun to look into a house, we should be wrong in fancying that privilege to date from a very ancient past. Long after its discovery, glass was still rare, and, consequently, precious. In spite of what Strabo and Pliny have said respecting the glass-houses of Sidon and Memphis, it is nevertheless true that Athens and the other cities of Greece, at the height of their prosperity, had no conception of such a novelty as a glazed window. But in the year 79 before the Christian era, the date of Herculaneum's and Pompeii's destruction by Vesuvius, certain Romans, probably very rich patricians, fitted their windows with panes of glass. Sashes furnished with bluish-green glass have been found in disinterring Pompeian houses, and an analysis by M. Claudet shows its composition to be analogous to the glass of the present day.

During the reign of Tiberius, a considerable impulse was given to the manufacture of glass, which still continued extremely dear, preventing its frequent employment for windows. Glazed windows, however, for the people of the South, who had never been accustomed to that comfort, were things of minor necessity. Their lodgings consisted of little chambers, with scarcely any furniture in them, which they occupied only at night and a very small portion of the day, the greater part of their existence being spent in the streets and the public places. Small openings in the walls, near the ceiling of their apartments, allowed air and a modicum of light to enter. The houses of rich patricians only, or the imperial palaces, could boast of windows glazed-if we may say so-with thin slices of diaphanous alabaster, or with light plates of semi-transparent gypsum. Certain windows had neither translucid plates nor glass. They consisted of narrow slips of marble with open intervals between them. From this state of things the passage is long to the Crystal Palace, the new Kew palm-house, and glass-roofed railway stations.

Churches were the first buildings to patronise the re-application of glass to architectural purposes. Those of Brioude and Tours towards the close of the sixth