in soaking them in a decoction of tobacco after slightly heating them. Pipes coloured by this means are quite as much perfumed as by the old process, and are coloured with greater regularity; above all, they are cleaner, which is a special recommendation.
Some years ago attempts were made in Paris to unite material and mental aliment in various ingenious ways. There were proprietors of reading-rooms who presented their subscribers with so many tickets for dinner at particular restaurants with which they had entered into arrangements, and there were one or two publications which followed the example. The Figaro, on its part, gave a case of oranges to every subscriber for twelve months, and so recently as last Christmas the Etendard, a grave political journal, sought to attract its readers by bribing them with boxes of bonbons. The restaurants, in their turn, tried to secure regular customers by serving with the hors d'œuvres an instalment of some exciting romance by a popular writer, thereby enabling their patrons to gratify their literary and gastronomic tastes at the same moment, and acquire a perfect library of fiction in the course of the year. The idea found an imitator in the proprietor of a wine shop, who promised to clothe his customers from head to foot, in the very latest fashion, free of charge. This was a "reform of tailors' bills" not to be disregarded by "thirsty souls," at any rate, who, by purchasing right off a "piece" of wine, or a few litres of brandy, could obtain a coat or a pair of trousers, while even an ordinary "nip"—a "velvet on the stomach," as the Parisians term it—if repeated often enough, brought its reward. Taking a "canon" of wine, or a "demi-setier" of brandy every morning, and an "absinthe" in the afternoon, for a couple of months, procured you an extra superfine hat, while an additional month's consumption would entitle you to a pair of boots instead. Bibulous individuals, who preferred receiving their bonuses right off, could, after the requisite amount of consumption, secure a showy necktie or an electro-gilt ring before quitting the counter.
Not the least odd way—not of getting a living, for the slack seasons are too frequent for this, but of picking up francs in Paris—is that pursued by some of the wine-shop keepers in the neighbourhood of the Place de la Roquette, where all the executions take place. Our French neighbours have not yet followed the good example we have set them of erecting the scaffold within the prison walls; still the authorities, with a sort of instinct of the demoralizing effect of these exhibitions, are particularly careful to keep the days fixed for execution secret till the very latest moment. With the view that those who have a craving for these displays may not be disappointed, the neighbouring wine-shop keepers undertake for a stated sum, to telegraph to their respective clients the moment preparations for erecting the guillotine have commenced. Were executions more frequent, the Parisians, with their spirit of enterprise in all that relates to spectacular matters, would no doubt establish a regular agency on the boulevards similar to those in connexion with the theatres, where a plan of the "place" would be visible, and reserved seats might be engaged.
MORE OF WILLS AND WILL MAKING.
THE COCLOUGH BATTLE. IN TWO PARTS.
Part I.
In the county of Wexford are the ruins of a fine old abbey, converted into a country-house, with a wall, here and there many feet thick, and a little window or two so deeply embayed, that the stranger opening them fancies he is plunging his arm into some deep hole. Round it economic modernisers have crusted little rooms and additions, but the abbey portion was held a sad drawback, the country gentlemen about considering it a sort of "rat-hole." It was full of curious panelling, recesses, &c., on the existence of which the present owners might well congratulate themselves. It is called Tintern Abbey. The rental was about ten thousand a year, and towards the end of the last century it was enjoyed by a Sir Vesey Coclough, a dissipated gentleman of the old Irish school. He had three relations, one named Cæsar, known among the people there as "The Barrister," or, more correctly, as "The Counshillor," who later became Chief Justice of a colony; Dudley, a clergyman; and Sarsfield. Sir Vesey was exactly the "bold, bad man" that figures in melodramas—a true roysterer, and so partial to the society of ladies other than his wife, and so scandalously noisy in the enjoyment of their company, that the lady was driven from the house, and obliged to live in a neighbouring country-town with barely the necessaries of life, where she struggled to bring up her children. But for friends, she would literally have starved. Meanwhile the brothers and other relations held carnival at the family mansion, and succeeded in obtaining from Sir Vesey advantageous leases and other benefits, keeping his mind all the time duly inflamed. The career of most members of his family was in keeping. Every one was in difficulties. The Rev. Dudley's "necessities," as they were called, were always pressing; and the Chief Justice became speedily much embarrassed in his circumstances. "His salary as Chief Justice," says the brief, gently enough, "being inadequate to support the dignity of his office; as it would appear that a Colonial Chief Justiceship was at that time regarded with more consideration than at present." The later career of this gentleman was very trying to him, as he had to live in retirement in London.
The "Counsellor" was cousin to the owner of Tintern Abbey, and both were called Cæsar—a favorite family name. By and by, the two cousins had a falling out, and as it was always handsomely understood that near relationship should be no bar to an arrangement, they went out and fought a duel. This, instead of producing "satisfaction," strange to say, completely estranged the relations; a permanent
