prey do seek their meat by night."

So too, according to one book, omitting the roaring, do salamanders in their natural state. If this does not happen to be the case with my salamanders-which seem to eat when they are hungry, to drink when they are thirsty, to sleep when they are gorged, and to take exercise when the spirit moves them,-I am quite prepared to believe that, as in my own case, their natural instincts and capacities have deteriorated under stress of education and confinement, and that, finding food ready to hand at any hour of day or night, they simply take advantage of adventitious circumstances. That in daylight, at all events, they hunt by sound rather than either by sight or by scent, I am absolutely certain. Satan, for instance, hears the rustle of a worm, and his attitude of attention at once shows that he is on the qui vive. Presently he advances very cautiously in the direction of the sound, and gropes about-possibly then employing his powers of scent till his nose touches the moving object. Then he raises his head, makes a momentary pause, and strikes sharply. If- and this will be the case, perhaps, once in six times-he happens to strike short and knocks the worm off the stone or the leaf on which he had heard it rustling, he looks surprised for a second, and then remains on the alert listening for new developments. That is a wise worm which then remains quiescent. For

if he hears no fresh sound, Satan presently concludes that he has made a mistake and walks away. But the worm which moves prematurely is a gone coon: the hunt will be renewed, and Satan rarely makes a second bad shot.

That there is in there is in daylight something defective in the sight of those beautiful eyes, which sparkle like black beads, cannot but appeal even to the limited intelligence of their watcher. For were it otherwise, why should the salamander ever miss his strike?

None of my salamanders pays any attention to a dead worm, and it is apparently a breach of etiquette to touch a worm that is swimming in the water. Many a worm has saved its bacon by reason of the presence in the aquarium of a large round polished shell, which was sent as a present to Schiller by a lady who, I believe, has some poetical aspirations. It is a clear case of "Timeo Danaos, et dona ferentes." For that which is an ornament to many a cottage mantelpiece is a veritable stumbling-block to my salamanders, which can neither walk over it, nor obtain purchase for seizing a worm which is crawling on it, foot and nose alike slipping on the polished surface in the attempt. And the worm which, having been knocked off the top of the shell, is cunning enough to take refuge inside, is as safe as the homicide in the City of Refuge. My own observation would inoline me to suggest that the hours of sunset and sunrise are the periods of most marked

activity with salamanders. It is so certainly in their artificial surroundings. Probably in natural surroundings also.

With Satan I am on the most easy terms. Hardly a day passes without my taking him out, and putting him on a piece of white blotting-paper while I examine his various points. That he is in excellent condition the glossiness of his skin, which shines like the surface of a well-polished boot, is a convincing proof. There is something singularly human about the hands, which are beautifully shaped, the joints and tips of the delicate fingers being clearly defined. The hand has three fingers and a thumb, but the foot is better equipped, there being a fifth though very small toe. Satan

looks at his best when standing in an attitude of expectancy, with straightened elbows, and his attention fixed on some object below him. Then, as the prominent yellow eyebrows viewed from behind give the appearance of erect ears, he looks exactly like a cat uncertain whether or not to make a spring at a bird. The tail, generally straightened when the salamander is walking, but coiled round when the creature is at rest, is at once strong, elastic, and prehensile. In his early attempts to escape from the aquarium Lucifer seemed to try to stand literally on the top of his tail, and came several egregious croppers in the attempt. But, judging from the strong grasp which he has more than once taken with the organ on my finger, I should

be quite prepared to see him hanging like a monkey from the bough of a tree by the tail only, in the act of descent.

To the best of my belief, salamanders are absolutely mute. Perfectly gentle and tame with myself, in their relation to each other my salamanders are the most tolerant and easy-tempered of creatures. I have seen Lucifer, in one of his periodical fits of restlessness, walk over every other salamander in turn, squeezing a passage between Satan and the glass, planting an unceremonious foot on the end of Schiller's nose, and stopping to take a short nap with his head resting on Goethe's portly waist, and the tip of his tail almost in Schiller's eye. But none of the defendants in the action has entered the slightest protest. Not even food seems to suggest itself as a bone of contention, the distinction between "meum" and "tuum" being by tacit consent recognised.

In fine, the salamander is at once a very beautiful, a very cleanly, and a very interesting pet, easily fed, and—so at least some naturalists say-a very useful as well as ornamental inmate of either fernery or greenhouse. The former seems to be more adapted to his habits, and if I ever have the good fortune to settle down again, and have a garden with a fernery, there my salamanders shall have a happy home and resting-place, and evil betide either gardener or stoat who attempts to meddle with them.

FOUR years have brought many changes to Belgrade. When I was last in the little peasant capital the Regicides were in the zenith of their fame. They swaggered down the sidewalks while more honest men took the wall. Their insufferable arrogance made the public cafés unbearable. Strange as it may seem, the sympathies of the people were with them. Never shall I forget the scared face of the Englishman I met in my hotel. He was to have been received by the hapless monarch the very morning that the latter's lifeless body lay oold and scarred beneath the window of the Konak. All ignorant of the crime that had been committed in the shadow of the night, my friend called the hotel valet to bring his clothes quickly, as he was due to have an audience of the King. "Sleep on," said the valet, "the King is dead!" "Impossible," answered the Englishman.

"If your excellency does not believe me," smirked the man, "pray look out of the window; you will see that the flags and decorations are up. Surely the King is dead!"

What a grim paradox! The King and his fair Queen lying dead in the garden of the Konak and their capital decorated to applaud the miserable event. But now the Konak has gone. It was pulled down to efface the morbid memories it evoked. Many other landmarks have also disappeared.

As I turned into the snow

piled street I fought my way in the face of the blizzard that was sweeping through this bleakest of promoted villages to the café where I knew that old Blank should be found. Here also the surroundings were completely changed. A new proprietor had taken the café in hand. A cheap imitation of Vienna opulence now held sway. I hardly recognised the place. But at last I beheld a familiar face. It belonged to "Boots" of the hotel above the café. He thought a moment and then remembered that old Blank had joined the great majority six months, perhaps a year, ago. Poor old Blank! He was a strange figure. None knew his history. Englishman he was without a doubt. An Englishman with a past. But long residence in that which, in his time, was semi-civilised Europe had so moulded the exterior of the old man that few among the foreigners guessed his nationality. Alien life, alien marriage, alien habits, disappointments, miserable adversities, perhaps also disgrace, had completely metamorphosed the husk. But the kernel I know was British.

Poor old Blank! He could tell more stories of the Balkans than any living man. He told them well, and as in those days it was comparatively a rare thing for him to meet a countryman, he was at his best when this chance presented itself. As long as he lived his stories were his own property.

Now that he is dead I am taking it upon myself to appropriate one of them. It is perhaps the best-at least it is the one which made the greatest impression upon me. Being back here again in Belgrade stirs the memory. The story is centred in Belgrade, in the very hotel in which I now sit writing. The narrative goes back many years. It was when the railway reached no farther than Vienna, or at most to Pesth; when those who would reach Constantinople by land had to follow in the footsteps of the Crusaders and traverse the valley of the Maritza by carriage or on horseback. In those days it was no strange thing to see the officers from the Austrian garrison at Zemlin, across the Save, rollicking away the evening in the cafés of Belgrade. The Servian maidens had a penchant for the swaggering bloods from Vienna, who, expiating some youthful folly in the metropolis, were exiled to the frontier.

It may be that the period was that of the Crimean War, for it was when many fleet couriers passed between London and Constantinople. They came hot-foot from Pesth and, resting the night at Belgrade, pressed on again the following morning. What old Blank had to do with this service he never told me. He may have been an acting Consul or diplomatic agent, but no Foreign Office list that I have ransacked has ever shown his name. He was, however, certainly employed in the forwarding of these despatches, or the couriers carrying the docu

ments. At the period of which he told the story there was not much love lost between Austria and England. It is upon this the story turns.

The couriers poured through. Sometimes they came at the rate of two or three in the week. They were of every kind.

Soft-skinned aristocrats whom old Blank expected to die by the wayside; bluff soldiers whose impetuosity almost broke the agent's heart. Some even seemed to be but schoolboys, others no better than lackeys. Old Blank never knew whom he might find at his door. To-day it was 8 peer's son, to-morrow a nondescript. They rarely came twice. Some he saw upon the return journey. But the majority stayed in the Crimea.

One day old Blank was surprised by a tall, well-shaped youth who presented the wellknown cartel. Blank remembered his name; but that does not matter here, for there is a chance that he may still be living. This youth needed assistance: a carriage for the stage on the following morning, advice for the road, and a change of money. Having supplied all these needs, Blank took the youth to the hotel, and together they sat in the open court of the café. Blank had sized up his companion as a young Irish officer, whose desire to get to the near East found him in the guise of Queen's Messenger. The café was crowded, and a party of Austrian Dragoons, over from Zemlin, were making merry near the vacant table which Blank selected for himself and friend. It was quite