means reassuring. Engineers have stated most emphatically that Buda-Pesth itself is endangered by the present system of rectifying the Danube just above and below Pesth. M. Revy, in his "Report on the Danube at Buda-Pesth," mentions that the river has in fact divided itself into branches forming the Csepel island below the capital, for "profound hydraulic reasons," affecting the "settled régime of the river;" and to cut off a branch like that of the Soroksár - which forms one arm of the Danube round this island is to disturb the "natural equilibrium." He goes on to say, that "to change the river's former régime in this reach of its course may involve ultimate consequences that nobody can foretell. The Danube misses her for mer channel of the Soroksár more and more. . . . What else is the embankment of the Soroksár than the artificial blocking of that branch, which permanently and annually anticipates the most unfortunate event which possibly might happen once in a generation?" M. Pulsky, in his recent pamphlet "The Crisis," has also called attention to the present system of regulation, which "fails utterly in preserving the capital from the danger of inundation, which threatens it every year." The danger is always, or nearly always, imminent in the spring, when the ice breaks up on the Danube. Any impediment to the onward flow of the stream by the blocking of ice-drifts has the effect of increasing tenfold the chance of inundation. I will now draw attention to what happened in 1876. The following extract from Mr. Crosse's work on Hungary, in which he describes the scene, will give some idea of how narrowly Pesth escaped the fate which has befallen Szegedin : There was a peculiarity in the thaw of this spring (1876) which told tremendously against us. It came westward - viz., down stream, instead of up stream, as it usually does. This state of things greatly increased the chances of flood in the middle Danube, as the descending volume of water and ice-blocks found the lower part of the river still frozen and inert. It seems that at Eresi, a few miles below Buda-Pesth, where the water is shallow, the ice had formed into a compact mass for the space of six miles, and at this point the downdrifting ice-blocks got regularly stacked, rising higher and higher, till the whole vast volume of water was bayed back upon the twin cities of Buda and Pesth, the latter place being Round about the Carpathians. By Andrew F. Crosse. William Blackwood & Sons, Edinburgh and London: 1878. ... specially endangered by its site on the edge of the great plain. The only news of the morning (25th February) was a despairing telegram from Eresi that the barrier of ice there was immovable: this meant there was no release for the pent-up waters in the ordinary course. The accumulated flood must swamp the capital, and that soon.... We never quitted the Corso, though this was the third night we had not taken off our clothes; it was impossible to think of rest now. The gravest anxiety was visible on the face of every soul of that vast multitude. . . . I think it must have been ten o'clock when the fortress on the Blocksberg again belched forth its terrible sound of warning. This time there were six shots fired; this was the signal of "Pesth in danger."... I heard distinctly above the murmur of voices the town clocks strike twelve. Just afterwards a man running at full speed broke through the crowd, shouting as he went, "The water is falling!" Thank God! he spoke words of truth. . . . It was a generally expressed opinion that something must have happened further down the river to relieve the pent-up waters. Very shortly official news arrived, and spread like wildfire, that the the island of Csepel into the Soroksár arm of Danube had made a way for itself right across the river. . . . The Danube, in reasserting its right of way to the sea, caused a terrible calamity to the villages on the Csepel island, but thereby Hungary's capital was saved. After the fate of Szegedin, the warning conveyed by this incident at Buda-Pesth in 1876 is surely not to be disregarded. Plans of river regulations, which, however beneficial they may be locally, are yet not conceived on general principles, or with reference to the whole river-system of the country, must be looked upon with jealous suspicion. It is a question for the engineers to decide whether the best relief for the flooded rivers of Hungary may not be obtained by deepening and generally improving the channel of the Danube at the Iron Gates. In the opinion of persons qualified to speak, it is the only efficacious means of relieving both the Theiss and the Danube. It is no new project. In the Treaty of Paris, in 1856, it was stipulated that Austria should be empowered to remove these obstacles to the free navigation of the Danube. The question was again brought forward at the conference in London in 1871. A plan, forming the basis of operations, was drawn up by the American engineer, M'Alpin, with the assistance of Austrian and Hungarian engithe rocks, and so form a navigable channel neers, whereby it was proposed to blast through the defile of Kasan. A commission sat at Orsova, and perhaps is still sitting, for the works of peace incubate but slowly. Little or nothing has been done Postscript. Since writing the above, an interesting pamphlet," Ueber die Ursachen der Katastrophe von Szegedin," has reached my hands. It is written by Major Stephanovich, whose name I have already quoted. The opinion of this distinguished engineer is, that the main cause of the Szegedin disaster must be attributed to the deficient channel for the outfall of the Danube waters at the Iron Gates. He asserts most emphatically that "not only the well-being, but the existence even of Hungary, is concerned in removing the obstructions in the defile of Plocsa and Kasan." The sun that shone so bravely elsewhere was seldom visible here; only in the early morning a few golden gleams found their way in, and gave faint encouragement to the two or three flowers that blossomed in pots on the window-sill. On such occasions Hans would pause in his work, knowing full well what was coming how the casement opposite would be flung open, and a girl's voice, singing a blithe little French song, would ring across the silent street to his listening ears; how a slim, pretty figure would for a moment stand framed in the blossoming scarletrunners, a pretty figure, with dark French eyes, and black hair, drawn up under a white cap, a beautiful contrast, so Hans thought, to his comely, yellow-haired countrywomen. As soon as this vision appeared, Hans would pause in his work, and turn his eyes towards it; would wait till the watering of the flowers and the singing of the song were alike ended, and then would approach his window. "Good morning," his neighbor would call across in that pretty foreign German that was so enchanting in his ears — "Good morning, Monsieur Gottlieb," and then with a nod and a smile the trim little figure would vanish into the dark shadows, and Hans return to his work. In reference to the special disaster of this spring in the Theiss valley, the writer remarks that the causes may be distinctly traced back to last autumn, when there was an excessive rainfall in the countries drained by the Save and the Drave. These rivers were in a state of overflow, and the channel of the Danube below Belgrade became surcharged, and remained in this condition the whole winter; and therefore the Theiss was unable to rid itself of its superfluous waters, which were, in fact, bayed back by the Danube. January of this year found the Theiss abnormally high, instead of being at its lowest level, usual at that season. In this condition of things the early thaw, as we know, melted the Carpathian snows, and the flood-site-a table covered with many brightwaters came down to find the river-bed already choked. Major Stephanovich does not mention it, but I believe it is a fact that the Danube has so strong an effect on the Theiss, that high water on the Danube causes a reflux on the current of its tributary as far up as Szegedin itself, a distance of one hundred and thirty-three kilometres. From Temple Bar. A SKETCH IN A NARROW STREET. It was so narrow, this little back street, in the quaint, old-fashioned German town, that Hans Gottlieb could, if he had so wished, have shaken hands out of his window with his opposite neighbor. But though life was too busy with these two, and bread difficult enough to win, even when one worked hard for it, so that neither could afford to idle away the minutes in talk, yet Hans as he worked, dreaming of the days when stone-carving should not mean daily bread, but honor and glory to those he loved, was pleasantly conscious all the time of a dark head bent over a table drawn close up to the window oppo colored scraps of muslin and paper which in due course, under those deft, small hands, became summer flowers; at this short distance seeming to the lookeron the spoils of a June garden. Thus they worked day after day, these two, so near together, yet so far apart, abstaining from all conversation which might have made the days pass more quickly; but then an hour's idleness might mean going supperless to bed, so that even Rose Cordier, dearly as she loved the sound of her own voice, refrained from making use of it, except for an occasional song. But when the day was over, when the coolness in the little close street, and the shadowy grey of the strip of sky overhead, gave notice that the long summer day was drawing to an end; when the small room grew dark, then Rose would rise and open the door, to interchange | home early, so as to be up and about on greetings and gossip with the neighbors - the morrow, to work, if possible, harder with the women sitting on their doorsteps, than ever, to make up for the wasted day. knitting in the peaceful twilight, their chil dren playing about them; with the fathers returning from their work; with the young men loitering about smoking, for Rose had always a bright word and look for every man, woman, and child she knew. And they were all fond of her; of this little foreigner who had come amongst them four years ago with an old mother, since dead, and who earned her daily bread honestly among them. Then as it grew even darker, Hans Gottlieb would become aware that the day and its work were over, and would lay aside his chisel, and also seek what little fresh air there was at the door of his dwelling. He did not laugh or gossip with his neighbors, as did Rose Cordier; it was not his way, and this fact was quite recognized by the dwellers in William Street. Beyond a "Good evening, neighbor," they did not seek to disturb him in the enjoyment of his evening pipe, only occasionally Rose would step across and ask him what he was at work upon, or if he had had a good order, and then poor Hans, flushing all over his fair face, would proceed to describe his work, his prospects, until Rose, with a pretty shrug of her shoulders, would tell him in her foreign German she could not understand him; he must speak slower, much slower; it was too late now, but to-morrow, yes to-morrow, he must try and explain it all again, for it was interesting, so interesting. But for now it must be good-night, "good-night to every one," and the slight, trim figure had disappeared, and the door was closed. The neighbors, watching Hans as he strolled up and down the little street afterwards, pipe in mouth, nodded and smiled to one another. "Ah, when there is enough for two over yonder, there will be a wedding!" Such was the form the whispering took. Even the hardest workers take a holiday now and again, and the feast of St. John the Baptist is esteemed in Friedrichburg the legitimate summer holiday of all its industrious inhabitants. The happy day is spent according to an old custom at a small village some three miles distant from the town, where a time-honored fair is held. Lion-tamers, fat women, dwarfs, giants, all the hundred and one shows that are the rightful property of a fair are to be found there, and later on there is a dancing under the soft evening sky, and after that, To Rose Cordier, with her quick French blood, her youth, her light-heartedness, this fête was one to which she looked forward for many weeks beforehand, and the little foreigner knew she was never likely to want a cavalier, and this was looked upon as almost a sine qua non of the entertainment. The neighbors smiled more than ever when they saw Rose come out of her door the morning of the 24th of June, looking as fresh and bright as the red roses in her belt, and Hans appear immediately afterwards, a companion rose in his buttonhole. They were all standing about in little groups, preparing to start themselves to the scene of festivity; many of them with babies in their arms, and little things clinging about their skirts, but they had time to give an admiring glance at this other couple first. 66 Before we start," said Hans, suddenly, a little constraint apparent in his voice, "would you come into my atelier, mademoiselle? I have been working at something I should like to show you." “Yes, truly, I should like it. I have never been there yet. Let us go." They turned back as she spoke, and he pushed open the door. "See," he said, "it is not finished yet, but it is to be a wreath of roses." He led her, as he said those words, to where on one side, out of the way of dust and dirt, it lay the half-completed circlet of carved flowers. "It is pretty," she said. And then, "Is it an order? What will you get for it?" "No, it is not an order," he said, a little sadly. "I have been doing it in the spare moments after my day's work." "It is pretty," she repeated, touching with her small fingers the delicate curled leaves, which surely had the stamp of genius upon them; "but it wants something," she added after a pause. "What?" he inquired eagerly. "I have looked at it so often that I cannot find out whether it is right or wrong." "I know," she exclaimed triumphantly. "Color! Ah, monsieur, if you could but see the wreath of roses I made last week for the Gräfinn von Adeldorf for a ball, you would know what I mean. "Oh " with a little clasp of her hands "it was perfect! Perfect as love!" Her thoughts had quite wandered away from the delicate flowers before her; indeed she did not remember them until they stood once more in the street, with the door closed behind them, when it came across her that she might have been rude. "They are very pretty," she said softly, "but you see they are not finished yet. When they are, perhaps, who knows, you might sell them." 66 keep one, what would be done if there was yet another. "It is selfish of me to ask you, Rose, when I have nothing to offer, but I am young, and strong, and willing to workand I love you, Rose." Hans stood still as he spoke, and his voice trembled as he clasped the girl's small hands in his. Rose was moved too. The tears stood in her bright eyes, her cheeks looked pale in the starlight. "Yes, dear Hans," she said timidly, in that sweet foreign tongue he had learnt to love, "but, you see "Perhaps," he said. "I could try, if you wish it; but when I made them I thought - the color swept up into his face "that you would like them." Yes, so I should, if you were rich enough to give presents, or if- Well, you will not mind my speaking the truth "Yes, I see. We could not live upon to you? You are rather a dreamer, are nothing. No, alas, no! But, Rose" you not? That is a bad thing," shaking the color flushing up into his face again as her pretty head. "It does not make a he said hesitatingly, we might be enfortune, and money, you know, one must gaged? Could you-oh, I know it is askhave. So take my advice, leave off carving a great deal, but could you wait for ing things no one cares to buy, and only do what you can sell. You are not angry?" 66 Angry," repeated Hans, "when you are so kind as to take an interest in me, and wish me well! Why But here they had reached the merry, laughing crowd, and the spot where the omnibus was awaiting them, and the rest of the sentence had perforce to await completion at some future time. And it was a sentence Hans had not intended to complete. Not yet. By-andby, when there was a little more money in his pocket, and a home worthy of offering to a wife, then it would be time enough to finish that sentence. But on this as on other occasions, it was a case of "Man proposes," at least so far as Hans was concerned, for the long, joyful day over, and tired holiday-seekers beginning to consider the quickest way home, he found himself under a soft, starry sky, walking townwards by the side of Rose Cordier. "It would be pleasanter to walk," he had said, standing by the crowded omnibus, filled with drowsy, crying children and wearied mothers. "Are you tired, mademoiselle" after a second's pause "would you rather drive?" "No, I will come with you," she had replied, "it will save the sous." So they had started homewards together. And ere very long Hans found himself reverting to those unfinished words of the morning. Love-making seemed so natural, so desirable under these circumstances, that it was difficult to think of waking up on the morrow to the hard day's work, and the knowledge that where it is so difficult to me?" 66 "Ah, Hans, you must not think me unkind, but it would be so long, and There was no mistaking the girl's tones, even if the words were a little vague. "And there is André Leroux ?" "He is from my country," cried the girl quickly, blushing a bright rosy red. "It is natural, amongst strangers, I should like to see and talk to a countryman of my own." "Yes, dear Rose, I am not blaming you. Do not think that. As you say, amongst strangers, it is pleasant to meet one who speaks your language. It must be often lonely for you? "Yes, Hans," Rose replied, brushing the tears out of her eyes. If it were not for you, I should find the little street but dull and sad since the poor mother died. And ah," as they entered the said street, "here we are at home! How quickly we have come! Good night, Hans." She stretched out her hand as she spoke, and again Hans took it in his, and looked down at the pretty face. "It is such a pity," she said softly, "that you have no money." "Such a pity," he echoed sadly, loosing her hand as he spoke. "And you are not angry with me?" she went on. "Always your friend, Rose. It does not | matter, you know, how poor a friend is." Thus they parted: Rose to weep a few tears, and then to fall asleep and dream of André Leroux; Hans to ponder over whether there was nothing to be done, nothing he could do, to better his posi tion. It was so difficult, more difficult in the prosaic light of day even, than when dreaming over it pipe in mouth, in the soft summer evenings. Carving the letters of a dead friend's name more often painting them on common black wood, for the customers who sought out the little atelier of Hans Gott lieb were not often well-to-do — is not a swift road to a fortune. And although he was not proud, and after Rose's remarks about the time wasted over the wreath of roses, which might perhaps have been turned to better account, he had done what little odd jobs he could after working hours, still even then the little heap of savings did not seem to increase much. And oftener and oftener now, Hans noted a certain M. André Leroux come up the narrow street of an evening, to walk up and down in the twilight with his opposite neighbor. Each time the sight of the spruce French flower-maker- for André's trade was the same as Rose's sent a throb of pain to the great honest heart of Hans Gottlieb. But he did not repine, did not blame Rose. It was one of the many misfortunes of not being rich, that was all. But not a cause for complaining, only a burden, like so many others that fall to the lot of the poor man- a part of his day's work. It was not so often now that Rose Cordier ran across in the gloaming to ask how his work progressed, and the neighbors ceased to gossip and nod their heads when they saw them speak to one another. "It was changed, all that, that they had thought likely to come to pass the wind was in another quarter now they could see, ah yes, it was not difficult to see what was coming." Only the children did not forsake Hans, but were just as eager to talk to him, and run after him, as in the days when there was no spruce Frenchman to share with him the honor of the narrow street. Then came a morning, when Hans as he worked saw a couple issue from the opposite house, followed by as many neighbors as could spare an hour's holiday; Rose with a late gloire de Dijon in her belt, a bright color on her cheeks, and her dark eyes shining with pride and happiness, her hand on André's arm. "Good morning, Hans," she cried in her sweet voice, as she passed his open door. "I am going to be married this morning, but we shall not take the wedding holiday till Sunday. If you can come, do." And then passed on before there was a chance of saying more than "A happy future." That evening, as Hans worked at the rosewreath-it was nearly completed nowhe chanced to look across to the window where he had so often seen the bent head, and the trim figure. But to-night the lamp was lit, for it soon grew dark now, too soon for work to be relinquished with the twilight, and on the blind was the reflection of two heads, of four busy hands. Hans did not look again; he drew down his own blind then, and with a sigh went back to the carving of his delicate roseleaves. But after that evening he gave up his little room, packed his few goods, and made up his mind to go away - to go to Rome, that haven of ambitious minds. Now that the little savings were not all to be hoarded against the day when they might be wanted for another, it was no use guarding them any more. Better, so Hans decided, use them in going away to where daily bread might perhaps be easier come by than in this narrow German town; where perhaps even the carving he was so fond of might gain him congenial work, and allow him to put on one side this other work that occupied him now. Besides, if the worst came to the worst, and he did drift into utter poverty, it did not so much matter now. And with that "now" Hans buried the past, and started forth on his travels. First, however, he went across the street, and for the first time entered Rose's domain, Madame Leroux, as he had to call her. "I have come to wish you good-bye, madame," he said. "And see, I have brought you as a parting present the little wreath. It is finished now." He laid it down as he spoke amongst the colored roses on the table, between monsieur and madame as they sat at work. "Oh, that is good of you, very good," cried Rose, the ever-ready tears coming into her eyes. "And so you are going away? Ah, my husband," turning towards spruce, neat-fingered M. Leroux, "thou must also wish Monsieur Hans 'Godspeed,' for in the old days before I was married, he was always a kind friend to |