is too delicate for me to enter upon fully -suffice it to say, that I thought, with two such powerful advocates, my scheme was safe.

When

When it came up for discussion, which it did after a delay of three months, I found out my mistake; the fanatic old Moslem, who had already reported favorably for my opponents, and against me, and whom I have described as incorruptible, was now intriguing to become Grand Vizier himself, and his policy was to thwart the existing incumbent by every means in his power, and, by showing his impotence to carry out everything, to discredit his administration. He had a faction in the cabinet, who from some cause or other were enemies of the chief of the Government, and it was thus split into two camps. my scheme was proposed by the Grand Vizier, and supported by the President of the Council, it was opposed by the old Moslem and his faction, not openly, but in true Turkish style; I received an accurate report of what took place afterward; it seems that the old fox commenced by speaking of it in the highest terms, and in fact gave his consent, subject to the consideration of a trifling point which required further investigation, and he proposed a postponement for this purpose. Before I heard this I had seen the Grand Vizier and asked him how the meeting of the cabinet had gone off, and what were the prospects. Instead of saying honestly that the scheme was opposed and postponed, he assured me it was dans une bonne voie." And here I may remark that, no matter how certain a Turk may be that your success is hopeless, he never tells you so, but, on the contrary, deludes you with promises and assurances until your patience is worn out. This man was too weak on his perch to carry a measure in the face of the covert opposition of his rival, and he knew that the delicate way of adjourning the consideration of my scheme meant shelving it altogether. Yet he was ashamed of admitting his weakness, and was profuse in his encouragement and in fine phrases. Had I not heard the real facts of the case afterward from my friend the minister, I should have remained for weeks in a fool's paradise. As it was, the difficulty of overcoming the opposi

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tion of the incorruptible old rival was most serious. All argued that it was hopeless to try money; this is curious in Turkey, but it occasionally happens. The fertile brain of the commander-inchief, however, proved equal to the occasion. At that time there was a certain individual at the palace who exercised an almost controlling influence over the mind of an exalted personage. I will not say whether he was a eunuch, or a pipe-bearer, or a chamberlain, or a secretary, or a doctor, as here again I must deal in generalities, and leave a good deal to the reader's imagination; but it was upon this person's influence that my old enemy chiefly depended in order to become Grand Vizier, and his enmity would be fatal to his chances. This man was also very venal personage, and his terms were high; but it was evident that if we could secure him he might make his support of the old Turk conditional upon the latter withdrawing all opposition to my scheme, for really he was only objecting to it out of a species of “cussedness," and not for any good reason. This involved an expenditure of £ic,000, partly in money down, partly in prospective engagements. In fact I found the palace very expensive; but it answered a double purpose, for not only did it overcome opposition in the cabinet, but when at last the scheme was favorably reported upon there, and it was sent up to the palace for the final Trade, I had already secured my friends, and there was comparatively little difficulty in obtaining.it.

My troubles, which had lasted considerably more than a year, were now over. I had succeeded, for a little over £20,000 all told, in obtaining a valuable concession; and it was generally admitted by connoisseurs that I had done the thing quickly and economically. It did not turn out much of a success afterward, and I believe the shareholders are to this day discontented; but that is not my fault. I have narrated my experiences somewhat in detail, because it would not otherwise be possible to convey an accurate idea of the venality of the administration we have undertaken to reform, and of the hopelessness of the task upon which we have entered.-Macmillan's Magazine.

TOWARD August or September any man who has once been in the woods will begin to feel stirring within him a restless craving for the forest-an intense desire to escape from civilization, a yearning to kick off his boots, and with them all the restraints, social and material, of ordinary life; and to revel once again in the luxury of moccasons, loose garments, absolute freedom of mind and body, and a complete escape from all the petty moral bondages and physical bandages of society. To a man who has once tasted of the woods, the instinct to return thither is as strong as that of the salmon to seek the sea. Let us, then, go into the woods. I will ask permission to skip all preliminary travelling and consider that we have arrived at the last house, where Indians and canoes are waiting for us. Old John Williams, the Indian, beaming with smiles, shakes hands, and says, "My soul and body, sir, I am glad to see you back again in New Brunswick. How have you been, sir? Pretty smart, I hope." Oh, first-rate, thank you, John; and how are you, and how did you get through the winter, and how is the farm getting on?" Pretty well, sir. I killed a fine fat cow moose last December, that kept me in meat most all winter; farm is getting on splendid. I was just cutting my oats when I got your telegram, and dropped the scythe right there in the swarth, and left. I hear there's a sight of folks going in the woods this fall; more callers than moose, I guess. And so, after a little conversation with the other Indians, in the course of which we discover that though they have been there three days, they have never thought of patching up the canoes, and have left the bakingpowder or frying-pan or some equally essential article behind, we enter the settler's house, and so to supper and bed.

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The first day is not pleasant. The canoes have to be carted ten miles to the head of the stream we propose descending, and the hay wagon wants mending, or the oxen have gone astray. Patience

and perseverance, however, overcome all these and similar difficulties, and at last we are deposited on the margin of a tiny stream; the settler starts his patient, stolid oxen over the scarcely perceptible track, saying, "Well, good-day, gents; I hope you will make out all right," and we are left alone in the forest.

The first thing to be done is to make a little fire, and then with a hot brand melt the gum on the seams of the canoes where it may have been cracked by the jolting of the wagon, and to patch up with resin and pieces of calico, brought for the purpose, any holes in the bark. An Indian ascertains that his canoe is water-tight by the simple method of applying his lips to every seam that appears leaky, and seeing whether the air sucks through. This ceremony he religiously performs every morning before launching his canoe, and every evening when he takes her out of the water. It looks as though he were embracing her with much affection, and it sounds like it; but in reality it must be an osculatory process more useful than agreeable, for a canoe, like an Indian squaw, though excellent for carrying burdens, cannot be particularly pleasant to kiss. Our canoes having successfully passed through this ordeal, they are carefully placed upon the water, brush is cut and laid along the bottom, the baggage carefully stowed, and away we start at last, three canoes with a white man in the bow and a red man in the stern of each. Civilization, with all its worries, anxieties, disappointments, heat, dust, restraint, luxury, and discomfort are left behind; before us are the grand old woods, the open barrens, stream, lake, and riverperfect freedom, lovely cool autumnal weather, three weeks' provisions, plenty of ammunition, the forest and the stream to supply food, and the fishing-rod and rifle with which to procure it.

Down we go, very slowly and carefully, wading half the time, lifting stones out of the way, tenderly lifting the canoes over shallows, for the stream scarcely trickles over its pebbly bed. After a while the water deepens and be

comes still.

We take to the paddles and make rapid progress.

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'Guess there's a dam pretty handy," says John, and so it turns out to be, for after a mile of dead water we are brought up by a beaver-dam, showing an almost dry river-bed below it. Canoes are drawn up and the dam is demolished in a few minutes, giving a couple of nights' hard labor to the industrious families whose houses we had passed a little way above the dam. Then we have to wait for half an hour to give the water a start of us, and then off again, poling, wading, paddling down the stream, until the sinking sun indicates time to camp.

In a few minutes-for all hands are used to the work-canoes are unladen, two tents pitched, soft beds of fir-tops spread evenly within them, wood cut, and bright fires burning, more for cheerfulness than warmth. A box of hard bread is opened, tea brewed, and ham set frizzling in the pan. Tea is a great thing in the woods. Indians are very fond of it; their plan is to put as much tea as they can get hold of into a kettle, and boil it until it is nearly strong enough to stand a spoon upright in. Of this bitter decoction they drink enormous quantities for supper, and immediately fall fast asleep, having nothing about them that answers to civilized

nerves.

Sunrise finds us up; breakfast is soon over, tents are struck, canoes loaded, and we are on our way down the deepening stream. It is a river now, with lots of trout in the shallows, and salmon in the deep pools. About noon we turn sharp off to the eastward up a little brawling brook, forcing our way with some difficulty up its shallow rapids till it gets too dry, and we are compelled to go ashore and to carry" over to the lake whither we are bound. One of us stops behind to make a fire, boil the kettle, and prepare the dinner, while the Indians swing each a canoe on to his shoulders and start through the woods. In three trips everything is carried across, and we embark again upon a lovely lake.

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The "carry" was not long, only about half a mile, and there was a good blazed trail, so that it was a comparatively easy job; but under the most favorable circumstances this portaging,

or carrying, is very hard work. It is hard enough to have to lift eighty or one hundred pounds on your back. It is worse when you have to carry the burden half a mile, and get back as quickly as you can for another load; and when you have to crawl under fallen limbs, climb over prostrate logs, balance yourself on slippery tree trunks, flounder through bogs, get tangled up in alder swamps, force yourself through branches which slap you viciously in the face, with a big load on your back, a hot sun overhead, and several mosquitoes on your nose, I know of nothing more calculated to cause an eruption of bad language, a considerable gain in animal heat, and a corresponding loss of temper. But it has to be done, and the best way is to take it coolly, and, if you cannot do that, to take it as coolly as you can.

Out on the lake it was blowing a gale, and right against us. We had to kneel in the bottom of the canoes, instead of sitting on the thwarts, and vigorously ply our paddles. The heavily laden craft plunged into the waves, shipping water at every jump, and sending the spray flying into our faces. Sometimes we would make good way, and then, in a squall, we would not gain an inch, and be almost driven on shore; but after much labor we gained the shelter of a projecting point, and late in the evening reached our destination, and drew up our canoes for the last time.

While others make camp, old John wanders off with head stooped, and eyes fixed on the ground, according to his custom. The old man always looks as if he had lost something and was searching for it. Indeed, this is very often the case. I remember, after watching him one day prying and wandering about an old lumber camp, asking him what on earth he was doing. "Oh, nothing, sir,' he answered; "I hid a clay pipe here, somewhere-let me see, about thirty-five years ago, and I was looking for it." After dark he comes quietly in, sits down by the fire and lights his pipe, and after smoking a little while observes,

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Moose been here, sir, not long ago. I saw fresh tracks, a cow and a calf close handy just around that little point of woods.' Another silence, and then he looks up with a smile of the most indescribable cunning and satisfaction, and

adds "I think, mebbe, get a moose pretty soon if we have a fine night.

Well, I hope so, John," say I. "Yes, sir, I see where he rub his horn, sir; you know the little meadow just across the hard wood ridge? why, where we saw the big cariboo track three years ago. He's been fighting the bushes there. My soul and body, a big bull, sir, great works, tracks seven inches long." And so we fall to talking about former hunting excursions till bedtime, or rather sleepy time, comes, and we curl up in our blankets, full of hopes for the future, which may or may not be disappointed.

Moose-calling commences about the 1st of September and ends about the 15th of October. A full moon occurring between the middle and end of September is the best of all times. The best plan in calling is to fix upon a permanent camp and make little expeditions of two or three days' duration from it, returning to rest and get fresh supplies. Then you enjoy the true luxury of hunting. Then you feel really and thoroughly independent and free. The Indian carries your blanket, your coat, a little tea, sugar, and bread, a kettle, and two tin pannikins. The hunter has enough to do to carry himself, his rifle, ammunition, a small axe, hunting-knife, and a pair of field-glasses. Thus accoutred, clad in a flannel shirt and homespun continuations, moose-hide moccasons on you feet, your trousers tucked into woollen socks, your arms unencumbered with that useless article, a coat, you plunge into the woods, the sun your guide in clear weather, your pocketcompass if it is cloudy, the beasts and birds and fishes your companions; and wander through the woods at will, sleeping where the fancy seizes you,"calling" if the nights are calm, or still hunting on a windy day. Calling is the most fascinating, disappointing, exciting of all sports. You may be lucky at once and kill your moose the first night you go out, perhaps at the very first call you make. You may be weeks and weeks, perhaps the whole calling season, without getting a shot. Moose-calling is simple enough in theory; in practice it is immensely difficult of application. It consists in imitating the cry of the animal with a hollow cone made of birch

bark, and endeavoring by this means to call up a moose near enough to get a shot at him by moonlight or in the early morning. He will come straight up to you, within a few yards-walk right over you almost-answering, "speaking," as the Indians term it, as he comes along, if nothing happens to scare him; but that is a great if. So many unavoidable accidents occur. The great advantage of moose-calling is, that it takes one out in the woods during the most beautiful period of the whole year; when Nature, tired with the labor of spring and summer, puts on her holiday garments, and rests luxuriously before falling into the deep sleep of winter. The great heats are past, though the days are still warm and sunny; the nights are calm and peaceful, the mornings cool, the evenings so rich in coloring that they seem to dye the whole woodland with sunset hues, for the maple, oak, birch, and beach trees glow with a gorgeousness unknown to similar trees in this country. If the day is windy you can track the moose and cariboo, or perchance a bear, through the deep shady recesses of the forest. On a still day you may steal noiselessly over the mooth surface of some lake, or along a quiet reach of still river water, fringed with alder, winding tortuously through natural meadows, or beneath a ridge crowned with birch and maples, whose feathery branches and crimson leaves are so clearly reflected on a surface perfectly placid that you seem to be gliding over a forest of submerged trees. Or you may indulge to perfection in that most luxurious pastime-doing nothing. I know a lovely place for that, on a hunting-ground I used to frequent, a little island of woods about a quarter of a mile from camp, with a tall pine tree in the middle, which was kind enough to arrange its branches in such a way that it was very easy to climb. Thither I would go on lazy days, when tired with hunting, with my gun and a book, and leaning against its friendly trunk, read till I was tired of literature, and then climb up in the breezy branches and look out far and wide over the barrens on either side. Many a cariboo have I seen from thence, and shot him after an exciting stalk out on the plain.

Let us imagine a party of three men

to burst out of the thick woods on to a little open space, or barren, hot and tired, about four o'clock on a fine October day. Before them lies a still deep reach of a little river, fringed on the near side with brown alders; on the opposite side lies a piled-up ragged heap of loose gray granite blocks, with one solitary dead pine tree, stretching out its gaunt, bare, shrivelled limbs against the clear sky. Just beyond is a little clump of pines, and all around a gray meadow, quite open for some fifty yards or so, then dotted with occasional unhappy-looking firs, sad and forlorn, with long tresses of gray moss hanging from their stunted limbs. The trees grow closer and closer together, and become more vigorous in appearance till they merge into the unbroken forest beyond. Supposing that I formed one of the party, I should immediately take measures to make myself comfortable for the night, for I am of a luxurious habit. I should set one Indian, say John Williams, to look for water, which he would find by scooping a hole in the moss with his hands, into which cavity a black and muddy liquid would presently flow, not inviting to look at, but in an hour's time it will have settled clear enough to drink-in the dark. I and the other Indian, say Noel Glode, would turn to and make camp. That is easily done when you know how-so is making a watch. You clear away a space beneath some tree, making it nice and level, and set up a shelter on whichever side you apprehend the wind will come from. You stick some poles or young fir-trees into the ground, prop them up with other trees, lash a pole horizontally along them, with a bit of string if you have it, or the flexible root of a fir if you have not. Cut down a lot of pine branches, and thatch the framework with them till you have formed a little lean-to, which will keep off a good deal of wind and all the dew. Then you strew the ground thickly with firtops or bracken, gather a lot of dry wood in case you want to make a fire, and all is ready for the night.

In a scene very like that I spent the last two nights of the calling season not a hundred years ago. It was nearly sundown before our work was over, and, leaving Nuel to finish camp, I sent John

to a tree-top to look out, and sat down myself on a rock at a little distance to smoke the calumet of peace. These "barrens" are very melancholy at the decline of day, intensely sad, yet in their own way beautiful, full of delicate coloring. The gray, dead tufted grass lies matted by the margin of the stream, over which brown alders droop, looking at their own images in the water, perfectly still, save when some otter, beaver, or musk-rat plunges sullenly in and disturbs it for a moment. The ground, carpeted with cariboo moss, white as ivory but with purple roots, is smooth, save for a few detached rugged masses of granite covered with gray or black lichens. An occasional dwarfed pine, incumbered with hanging festoons of moss, strives to grow in the wet soil; and on dryer spots, two or three tall, naked, dead firs that have been burned in some bygone fire, look pale, like ghosts of trees in the deepening twilight. Beyond all, the forest rises, gloomy, black, mysterious. Nature looks sad, worn-out, dying; as though lamenting the ancient days and the inevitable approach of the white man's axe. in harmony with her melancholy mood are the birds and beasts that roam those solitudes, and haunt the woods and streams. The hooting owl, the loon or great northern diver, that startles the night with its unearthly scream, are weird, uncanny creatures; the cariboo or reindeer, which was contemporary with many extinct animals on this globe

mammoths, cave bears, and othersand which has seen curious sights among aboriginal men, has a strange look as if belonging to some older world and some other time, with his fantastic antlers and great white main; and so, too, has the huge ungainly moose, that shares with him the forest and the swamps.

I had not, however, much time to indulge in reverie, for scarcely had I sat down before I heard old John call gently like a moose to attract my attention. Now it must be borne in mind that when hunting you never call to any one like a human being, for to do so might scare away game; but you grunt like a moose, or, if you prefer it, hoot like an owl, or make any other sound emitted by one of the brute creation. I crept up quickly, and, in obedience to John's