arrival of the messenger, a man named
Baudin presented himself at the office, bought
a certain number, paid, and disappeared. That
evening, Baudin had drawn a million. Napoleon
the Great was no easy man to cheat.
Such a wonderful coincidence of good fortune
seemed somewhat suspicious. He caused an
inquiry to be made; after some time he
discovered that Baudin had an accomplice at
Brussels, who sent him the number of the
lucky ticket on the neck of a carrier pigeon.
The carrier pigeon flew faster than the courier
rode, and Baudin gained his million for a
time. He lost that, and liberty, and life too,
at the Bagne at Brest.

Fichon, a forçat for life, condemned for
numberless audacious crimes, has a trick of
breaking loose, spite of double chains, the
bullet, guards, and stone walls. One day, he
is seen on the port, unironed, quietly looking
at his companions—not attempting to escape,
only taking a little liberal exercise on his
own account. Taken back to his bench (for
he was chained to a bench, apparently
immoveably), strictly watched, and trebly ironed,
the next day he is in his old place on the
port, watching his companions again, and
whistling Le Postilion de Longjumeau. The
commissary, a common man without sympathies,
orders M. Fichon to the cachot (the
dark underground cells). "Here, at least, he
will be safe," says the common man, sipping
his café noir. Two days afterwards, he espies M.
Fichon strolling through the town of Toulon,
his hands behind his back, whistling as
before, and looking in at the shop windows.

"What are you doing there, Fichon?"

"Why, my commissary, what you see. I
am taking a little walk. What do you wish
me to do? I will obey you. Must I go
back from whence I came?"

"As you please! " said the commissary
ironically, "since it seems a settled thing with
you not to obey me any longer."

Fichon, hurt at such an insinuation,
returned to his cell. An hour afterwards, the
guard found the door locked, and Fichon
re-ironed by his own hands; but, they never
could find the most trifling instrument capable
of filing or unriveting his chains.

André Fanfan was even as clever as, or more
clever than, Fichon. André's foot used to itch,
and then there was no holding him. He used
to attempt serious flight; Fichon only wanted
a little quiet stroll without irons. But, both
seemed to have secured the mandrake's power
over bolts and bars. No walls could hold them,
no chains bind them, no balls hit them. They
were vulnerable, only in their facility of losing
their liberty. They never could keep free
when they had got loose. Fanfan was sure
to be retaken, before twelve hours were out;
and, when Fichon had finished one sentence,
he was very certain to come to grief and
another. These two men gave the gardes
chiourmes many a day's outing. It was
almost as good fun as hunting a well-trained
stag, to hear the gun fired, and the news
spread that Fanfan or Fichon had escaped.
When they died, the guards felt as if half
the amusement of their wretched lives had
died too.

THE CAT.

AT last the cat has been promoted to the
literary honours which have so long been her
due, and so long been delayed. She has had
an entire book written about her, all to
herself, by the Honourable Lady Cust.

As to the origin of cats, Lady Cust is
silent—prudently so. When a domesticated
creature is no longer found in the wild state
anywhere, like the camel and the lama; or,
when a reasonable scepticism may be
entertained respecting the species assumed to be
its savage ancestor, as is the case with the
dog and the fowl, the steps of all our reasonings
march straight into a blind alley, from
which there is no issue except by turning
back. I believe that there never was such
an animal as a really wild pussy. The
supposition involves an absurdity. Whose legs
could she rub, in a state of nature? On
whose arrival could she set up her back, and
arch her tail, and daintily tread on the same
little spot? From what carpet—Kidderminster
or Brussels—could she gently pull
the threads with her claws? In what dairy
could she skim the cream? From what
larder could she steal cold roast pheasant?
And, if she did not do these things, or some
of them, would she be a genuine puss? No,
no; I believe that Adam and Eve had a
nice little tortoise-shell to purr between
them, as they sat chatting on a sunny bank;
and that a choice pair of tabbies
slumbered, with half-shut eyes and their feet
turned under them, before the fire which
was the centre of Noah's family circle on
board the Ark.

I may be told that our cherished Angora
tom is a development of some untamed feline
beast from that convenient region, the central
plains of Asia; in which theory I place as
much serious credit as that I myself am a
development of the Rana esculenta, or Edible
Frog. It will never do to afford the world
so plausible an excuse for cannibalism. That
is about the abstract of the matter. We
shall do well, however, to note that cats gone
wild are not wild cats, and cannot be
admitted to come into court to give evidence
on any genealogical lawsuit.

Of the origin of cats in places where they
had never been seen before, we have, in
various authors, many accounts, varying from
the dimly legendary to the recent historical.
Cats are very much at home on shipboard;
they do not object to make one even of a