eived his power. "I'm very happy where I am. I can't go back
except on certain conditions."

"Name them, dearest."

"I'm to smoke as many cigars as I please."

"Granted."

"Not to carry any more bandboxes or tomcats."

"Granted."

"To give a dinner party to the 'boys' once in a while."

"Granted--granted. And I've paid your note, and opened a cash account
for you at the bank."

"You are an angel," said Cleveland; "and now it's all over--that note
was given Madame St. Germain for tuition of a young girl, Miss Julia
Vining, whom I educated with the romantic notion of making her my
wife, when she should arrive at a suitable age, at which period she
ran off with a one-eyed French fiddler, and is now taking in sewing at
191st Street, New York."

The happy pair went home in their carriage, and we never heard of any
differences between them. Mrs. Cleveland wears very well, and Mr.
Cleveland is now an alderman, remarkable chiefly for the ponderosity
of his person, and the heaviness of his municipal harangues. "Sich is
life."

THE EMIGRANT SHIP.

On a summer's day, some years ago, business brought me to one of the
wharves of this city, at the moment when a ship from Liverpool had
just arrived, with some two hundred and fifty emigrants, men, women,
and children, chiefly Irish. Much as I had heard and read of the
condition of many of the poor passengers, I never fully realized their
distresses until I personally witnessed them.

Under the most favorable circumstances, the removal of families from
the land of their birth is attended by many painful incidents. About
to embark upon a long and perilous voyage, to seek the untried
hospitalities of a stranger soil, the old landmarks and associations
which the heartstrings grasp with a cruel tenacity are viewed through
the mist of tears and agony.

The old church--the weather-worn homestead--the ancient school house,
the familiar play ground, and more sadly dear than all, the green
graveyard, offer a mute appeal "more eloquent than words." But when to
these afflictions of the heart are added the pangs of physical
suffering and privation; when emigrants, in embarking, embark their
all in the expenses of the voyage, and have no hope, even for
existence, but in a happy combination of possible chances; when near
and dear ones must be left behind, certainly to suffer, and probably
to die,--the pangs of separation embrace all that can be conceived of
agony and distre