have not yet employed it, are invited to
make a trial of it; there is no doubt as to
their being convinced of its excellent properties
by the advantages they will derive from
it, especially to consignments to beyond the
seas. [Much obliged to the philanthropic
House of Trasforest.] A great number of
retail dealers owe the preference which they
enjoy, to this aromatic liquor, which is an
agent proper for the preservation of wine, at
the same time that it imparts to it a very
superior quality and value by the delicate
bouquet which it communicates.

"To employ the Liqueur Transforest
properly, you ought in the first place to whip up
the wine; let it remain about fifteen days;
and not add the Liqueur until the wine is
drawn off, so that its mixture with the wine
may be perfect. After several days of rest
it may be put in bottle; the aroma keeps
indefinitely. [That may mean for an
indefinitely short period.] Twenty years'
experience and success prove that the high
reputation of this excellent production is
incontestably merited. A flask suffices to
perfume, bonify, and age, a hogshead
(barrique) of wine. Price one franc fifty centimes.
An allowance of twenty per cent, to wholesale
dealers. Orders attended to for ready-money
payment. Beware of imitations.

"General entrepôt and special manufacture:
Maison Trasforest, Rue Dauphine, 35,
and Rue Saint-Martin, 56, opposite the Cours
d'Albrest, Bourdeaux. (Prepay orders and
their answers.) Sole depôt in Oran at the
office of the journal L'Editeur. At the same
depôt may be had the Gelatinous Powder,
for the complete, absolute, and instantaneous
clarification of white and red wines, vinegars,
eaux-de-vie, and liqueurs."

THREE WIVES.

I HAVE besides my town residence in Cecil
Street—which is confined to a suite of two
apartments on the second-floor—a very
pleasant country-house belonging to a friend
of mine in Devonshire; this latter is my
favourite seat, and the abode which I prefer
to call my home. I like it well when its
encircling glens are loud with rooks, and
their great nests are being set up high in the
rocking branches; I like it when the butter-flies,
those courtly ushers of the summer, are
doing their noiseless mission in its southern
garden, or on the shaven lawn before its
front; I like it when its balustraded roof
looks down upon a sea of golden corn and
islands of green orchards flushed with fruit;
but most it pleases me when logs are roaring
in its mighty chimneys, and Christmas time is
come. Six abreast the witches might ride up
them, let their broomsticks prance and curvet
as they would. If you entered the hall by the
great doors while Robert Chetwood and myself
were at our game of billiards at its further
end, you could not recognise our features.

The galleries are studies of perspective, and
the bare, shining staircases as broad as
carriage ways. The library, set round from the
thick carpet to the sculptured ceiling with
ancient books, with brazen clasps, and
old-world types, and worm-drilled bindings. The
chapel, with its blazoned saints on the dim
windows, and the mighty corridors with
floors of oak and sides of tapestry, are
pictures of the past, and teach whole chapters
of the book of history: Red Rose and White
Rose, Cavalier and Roundhead, Papist and
Protestant, Orangeman and Jacobite have
each had their day in Old Tremadyn House.
When the great doors slam together, as they
sometimes will, to the inexpressible terror of
the London butler, they awake a series of
thunderclaps which roll from basement to
garret: many a warning have they given, in
the good old times, to Tremadyns hiding for
their lives, and many an arras has been raised
and mirror slipped to right or left at that
menacing sound. To this day, Robert Chetwood
often comes anew upon some hold in
which those who ruled before him have
skulked—sometimes in his own reception-rooms,
but more commonly in the great chambers
where he puts his guests. These chambers
are colossal, with huge carved pillars
bearing up a firmament of needlework, and
dressing-closets large enough for dining
rooms. Every person of note who could
or could not by possibility of date or circumstance
have slept therein have had the credit
of passing a night within Tremadyn House,
from the Wandering Jew, Shakespeare, Queen
Elizabeth, down to Charles the First, Peter
the Great, and the late Emperor Nicholas.
There has been more than one murder in
the Red room, several suicides in the Blue,
and one ghost still haunts those spots in
expiation. Tremadyns in lace cuffs and wigs;
in scarlet and ermine; in armour from top
to toe, line both the galleries—sold by the
last Charles Surface of a dissolute race for
ten pounds ten shillings a head. One great
Tremadyn dynasty has passed away; Robert
Chetwood, late banker in the City of London,
not so long ago banker's clerk, now reigneth
in their stead. The Tremadyns came in at
the time of the siege of Jericho, or
thereabouts, and the Chetwoods about ten years
before the siege of Sebastopol; but there
the advantage ceases. There is no man
kinder to the poor, no man more courteous
to all men, no man, whatever his
quarterings, in all Devonshire with a better heart
than Robert Chetwood. Tremadyn House
is open to the county, as it ever was, and his
old London friends are not forgotten; a hale
and hearty gentleman indeed he is, but he has
had many troubles; he ia as happy as any
man bereaved of children can be, and it was
the loss of them that made him buy the house
and give up his old haunts and busy way—

    He saw the nursery windows wide open to the air,
    But the faces of the children they were no longer there;