LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, No. ,, ~ 4 Vol. CXCIX. Volume LXXXIV. f 2570. October 17 1OAO ~ From Beginning CONTENTS. I. THE FALL OF THE ANcIEN REGIME, II. AN EASTERN CADET. By L. B. Wal- ford ILL IN THE VALLEY OF THE VEZERE. By E. Harrison Barker,. . IV. MEDIAIVAL MEDICINE. By E. A. King, V. EVENINGS WITH MADAME MOHL, VI. SOME PORTUGUESE SKETCHES, VII. EMILY BRONTE. By A. N. Williams, AKIN, Too MANY STARS, Quarterly Review, Lonymans Magazine, Temple Bar, Nineteenth Century, Blackwoods Magazine, (Jornhill Magazine, Temple Bar, POET H Y. I THE LAST SERENADE, To THE SEA, MISCELLANY, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY LITTELL & CO., BOSTON. TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for- warded for a year,free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single copies of the LIVING AGE, 18 cents. .3 15 33 40 45 52 59 .2 .2 64 2 Akin, etc. AKIN. GREAT thoughts of mighty minds that crown~d run The applauding ages circle, and that blaze In the long glow of immemorial praise, Oft leave the heart, when customs trib- ute s done, Cold as high snows unvisited by sun; While some small singers half-forgotten lays Unknown, unhonored all his obscure days, Voicing our secret souls, have entrance won. So to the dweller of the plains appear Majestic mountain shapes that awful rear Strange far-off splendors that his gaze~ oppress; Dearer the dim low reaches of a land By sluggish streams and shivering poplars spanned The charm of a familiar homeliness Cornhull Magazine. TOO MANY STARS. Iv is the stars, of old men said, And still astrologers aver The stars control the paths we tread, Our very characters confer. For weal or woe our fates must be Linked to their unrelenting cars. It is the stars. For luckless me, Alas ! it is too many stars Id like a planet of my own, A steadfast planet calm and clear, To tell me what to leave alone And in what course to persevere. Ah, when the truth Id ascertain, So hopelessly their orbits mix I think in my bewildered brain There never can be less than six If Mercury my spirit fires With art, with eloquence or song, Or Jupiter my will inspires With purpose and ambition strong, Then darts the moon a chilling beam The cadent moon, my deadly foe Or Saturn, with his evil gleam, Enters my house to work me woe. All peaceful moments to disperse That one mild planet seeks to sway, They come, my stellar arbiters, Some new conjunction to display. My fate each hastens to decide; They scent the battle from afar: Im sure not one is satisfied. I wish I had a single star! Oh, if the stars would smoothly run, And still among themselves agree, Their peaceful aim a common one, How different the world would be! Man with a single star may cope A Venus, Mercury, or Mars But luckless is the horoscope Determined by too many stars! Longmans Magazine. MAY KENDALL. THE LAST SERENADE. THE moonlight sleeps upon the lake, And music on my heart. O lady mine, awake, awake, For love is where thou art. The ripple sobs below the boat, The swan sleeps on the castle moat, The water-lilies round me float, And yet we are apart. The stars are out, the love-bird calls, Men sleep, the hour is late; The shadow of the castle falls Across my heart like fate. The wind awakes among the woods, And murmurs from the solitudes, The heart-sick owl in the ivy broods, And I am here and wait. EVELYN DOUGLAS. TO THE SEA. IATHY art thou grieving evermore, 0 sea? Lo, throu, h the long night-watches, I, awake, Have heard thee cry. Hast thou a heart to break, A human heart to suffer just as we? What is the trouble that unceasingly Maketh thy cry go up? Is it for sake Of the dark secrets that the rivers take From the great cities, bearing them to thee? White faces thou hast rocked upon thy breast With crooning song, like mothers lullaby; And thou hast bound with seaweed many a tress Of hair most golden in its loveliness Ah, should it seem a marvel unto me That thou shouldst grieve and grieve, and know not rest? Chambers Journal. MARY FURLONG. The Fall of the Ancien B6gime. From The Quarterly Review. THE FALL OF THE ANCIEN REGIME. THOUGH SO much has been written about the French Revolution, its his- tory has, every now and then, to be carefully re-stu(lie(l from a novel point of view ; either on account of newly discovered facts, or owing to the publi- cation of fresh and luminous views, by some distino-uished writer. Such was the case when De Tocqueville sho~ved how much of what had been deemed novel in that movement was but the carrying still further of the principles and practices of the despotic monarchy. The works of M. Tame have also neces- sitated the careful reviewing of that complex social transformation, in the light furnished us l)y his claboiate labors. The first of the three works men- tione(l above will, we are persuaded, have a permanent effect on the worlds judgment. it describes many facts hitherto unknown ; and it demonstrates an important factor in the movement which has hitherto been little noticed. Unhappily, M. Aim6 Cherest did not live to finish his valuable work, and its last chapter breaks off abruptly where his hand was arrested by death. The Revolution of France still re- mains very incompletely understood in England, owing to an insufficient ap- preciation of the vast administrative differences between the two countries which existed towaid~ the close of the eighteenth century. In spite (perhaps somewhat in conse- quence) of the despotic character and excessive centralization of the French kings government, diver~ ences existed between the political organization and administration of the various French provinces such as had not existed in England since the Heptarchy. Dif- ferent provinces having been succes- sively annexed at different epochs and 1 1. La chute de 1Ancien R6gime. Par Aimd Cherest. 3 vols. Paris, 1886. 2. Histoire de Marie-Antoinette. Par Maxime de la Rocheterie. Second Edition. 2 vols. Paris, 1882. 3. LEsprit rdvoiutiounaire avant la Rdvolution. Par Felix Rocquamo. Paris, 1878. 3 on different conditions (although these conditions had often been set aside), many curious anomalies occuri-ed. The loca.l legislatures (les ~tats p~ovin- ciaax) of Hainault, Dauphiny, Franche Comt~, Provence, and Languedoc had been suppressed by Riclielien or Louis XIV., and numbers of municipal fran- chises had been abolished. Yet in Provence a democratic assembly still survived, and B~armi sh owed admninis- trative relics of the kingdom of Na- varre. The most striking difference between France and England at the accession of Louis XVI. in 1774 was in the tenure of landed property, and in the position held by men of the most distinguished class. Instead of large estates let out for definite periods to farmers ail(l others on rents agreed upon, an im- mense numl)er of the nobility possessed 110 freehold property (beyond a chateau with its mill, wine-press, or public oven), but they had vexatious rights ~vitli respect to dovecots and sporting, various claims on labor, and soiPe re- ceipts anti privileges in respect of the just mentioned ovens, mills, and wine- presses. The rise of a class of non- noble land-owners was, except in the case of tile very rich, effectually barred by the mode of levelling the land-tax. The nobles who possessed estates paid no such charge ; but if they sold any of their landed property to purchasers who were not noble, then the land be- came immediately subject to heavy taxation. Notwithstanding the writings of De Tocqueville, it is still widely believed that peasant proprietorship and the great sub-division of landed property in France are a consequence of the Revolution. Such a belief is quite erroneous. The peasan try somewhat resembled our copyholders, but the claims of French lords of manors (seigneurs) were oppressive, though the l)rol)1ietorship of tile soil by such copyholders was distinctly recognized. They regarded themselves as the own- ers of the soil, subject to certain oppres- sive customs, claims, and dues; and the seigneurs, though generally exacting The Fall of the Ancien 1?~gime. the latter (often their only source of revenue), never claimed the absolute proprietorship of the soil. But the great subdivision of the land existed even in the Middle Ages. The land so famous for the production of Chablis was, as early as the year 1328, divided among no less than four hun- dred and fifty small proprietors of both sexes; all inhabitants of a single par- ish. It is doubtful whether that land is as much subdivided in the present day. There were only two large pro- prietors. One was the Chapter of St. Martin of Tours, and the other was the Abbey of Pontigny. M. Cherest himself has carefully studied the rent- roll of the Abbey of Vezelay as it existed towards the end of the fifteenth century. In a volume of nearly eight hundred pages, bearing date 1464, he found 1 that the abbey possessed the freehold of but a small part of the ara- bIc land, all the rest being divided among small, or very small, proprie- tors. Even the humblest inhabitant held something. On the list are to be seen the plots belonging to the shoe- maker, the barber, etc.; and of the part which formed the vineyards there were ahnost as many proprietors as inhabitants. During the sixteenth and seven- teenth centuries the multitude of peas- ant proprietors increased, as a larger quantity of land was brought under cultivation. The attachment to the soil which the peasantry seem to have felt for ages, no doubt constantly in- creased, and during the eighteenth century, owing to the increasing luxury and expense of life, many nobles were glad to sell their lands and even their manors ; and they could, for the most part, sell them only to the peasantry, the middle class being restrained from doing so by the before-mentioned system of taxation. Thus on the eve of 1789 multitudes of the French peasantry had become proprietors, and the desire for the pos- session of land became a passion. At the same time their natural dislike to Vol. ii., p. 536. feudal burthens developed into a hatred of the whole system of which those bnrthens formed a part. This feeling made the peasantry bad laborers even when paid for their labor, though they were never tired of cultivating their own parcels of land; for they were continually called upon to labor for nothing by their seigneur for reasons which, however just originally, had long lapsed from the memory of their generation. In the eighteenth century, while many of tile nobility had little land, all of them had lost their ancient func- tions. Royalty had deprived the seign- eurs of powers which might interfere with and inconvenience tile direct local action of the central government ; and it had perverted such powers as it had permitted to survive. Origin ally the seigneur was a little king in his seigneurie, which he gov- erned with the help of his court of jus- tice. In the eighteenth century he no longer governed anything; and though his local court continued to exist, it was but a vexatious survival, superflu- ous beside the royal courts of justice. The seigneur had become merely a troublesome creditor, possessing certain vexatious claims, made doubly offen- sive by a proud su~)eriority of caste. The nobility were no longer a political power, but to the enormous majority of Frenchmen merely a source of social vexation. The term lancieu regime is used by M. Cherest in a special sense; namely, to denote the period which elapsed be- tween the death of Louis XIV. and the Revolution. In fact the social and political state which existed from 1715 to 1789 was in many respects different from that which prevailed during the long reign of the Grand Monarque; aild, of course, from that of medheval France, when a multitude of local franchises existed, when nobles and ecclesiastical dignities fulfilled many important political as well as social functions, and when the States-Gen- eral, however inefficient and irregu- larly convoked, were a recognized and still living institution. That period 4 [like Fall of the Ancien Begime. a period of relative freedom may be times. They came to the throne at a distinguished as the medi~val r4fime; moment which gave them wonderful and this led, th rough the Valois and opportunities. Henri IV., to the period of despotism, On the 24th of January, 1771, three or the especially regal r~girne, made years before his death, Louis XV. had up of the reigns of Louis XIII. and prepared the way for his successor by Louis XIV. During the remaining the memorable coup detat of his Chan- period of the old monarchy the royal cellor Maupeon, by which the Great omnipotence continued to be asserted, Council was created, in the place of and was, till towards its close, theo- that ancient court, alternately the ally retically admitted. Privileges and ex- and the opponent of royal despotism emptions were maintained, and even the often factious Parlement of Paris; became exaggerated. It was a period and by the end of the year the various during which a prolonged struggle took Provincial Parlements were also sup- place between a more or less insurgent pressed. In spite of the excitement nobility, a feeble regal absolutism vainly which ensued, France, from a habit of striving to maintain itself, and the obedience during two centuries, was gradual awakening of the modern spirit still so docile that her discontent for of equality before the law, and of the most part only showed itself in political and social freedom. This state witty sayings in the salons, and in some of things is, as we have sa.id, what M. pamphlets ; so that till the death of his Cherest means by lancien r~girne. Its master the chancellor was confident end may be considered as having taken and triumphant. place in November, 1789, when the an- The condition of France was then in cient (livision of the French people into many respects admirable ; and if only the three estates of clergy, nobility, that which was good could have been and the tiers ~tat was formally ended, retained, while crying abuses were re- Its spimit, however, survived during the formed, a solid advance in civilization Emigration, and was still vigorous un- might have been secured, and might (ler the Restoration, nor can it be said possibly have been imitated by the to have entirely vanished till the death whole of Europe. The refinement of of the Count de Chambord. Versailles and of the salons of Paris M. Cherest assures us that he began was such as the world had never seen, his researchies full of prejudice in favor and probably will never see again. Tal- of the system, the fall of which he de- leyrand said that he who had not known picts. As a strong Conservative, he society before 1789 had not known the would have been glad to vindicate it sweetness of life. In spite of the dis- from the blame so generally heaped orders of the court, of the regent and upon it. Nevertheless, at thie end of Louis XV., and of the worldliness, cor- his studies he felt bound to declare ruption, and infidelity of fashionable himself in the words of Mirabeau abb6s and some other ecclesiastical dig~ A Conservative indeed, but a Con- nitaries, the great mass of the cler~v servative of that whichi the Revolution and laity were essentially sound in has created, not of that whichi it justly faith and morals. IDe Tocqueville has destroyed. Though the sufferings of shown the general excellence of the Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette mnust clergy, both as parish priests and citi- induce a reluctance to judge them se- zeus ; and the troubles of the Revoln- verely, even pity should not blind us to tion served afterwards abundantly to the fact that they were guilty of grave demonstrate their sincerity and devo- faults and of actions impossible to jus- tion. As to the laity, a singular proof tify. Yet it is no less certain that, had of the moral sentiments of the middle their faults been far greater and their and artisan classes has been curiously morality and weakness much less, they 1 It is better to use the French name for French might have become the most powerful judicial bodies. Parliament, with all its English and despotic sovereigns of modern associations, seems a singularly unsuitable term. The Fall of the Ancien 1?6qime. demonstrated by the leltres de cachet found in the Bastille. But moral corruption and impiety were rank amongst the highest classes, whose hostility to Christianity was no doubt largely due to the writers of the Encyclop~die and their allies. But this hostility had also its aristocratic side as a sign of culture and of social (listinction from the vulgar, for whom religion was good and useful. Thus the Duc de Beaumont said of himself 1 I attend Christian worship on account of my belief in its political utility. The grandfather of the now president of. the French Republic is declared to have had his anti-aristocratic feelings first roused by military ridicule directed against his pi~t~ de bourgeois. Never- theless such sentiments were far from universal; while their evil effects were mitigated by a widely diffused interest ill social progress and an increa,sino passion for scientific knowledge. Tile chemist Foureroy had twice to seek a larger theatre, so great was the crowd of gentlemen and elegant women who attended his lectures. Antoine Petits course of anatomy was so popular that even the bases of the windows were used as seats. Geology and zoology were taught by Buffon, electricity by Koller, astronomy by Lalande, and tile doctrines taught were discussed round many an elegant and fashionable sup- per table. Deparcieux was invited each year to the Chateau of Brienne, where he found a collection of natural history and physical instruments for his use during tile course of lectures given by him to the ladies who passed the summer with the archbishop. The names, too, of Coulomb, Malus, Lavoi- sier, Berthoilet, Guyton de Morveau, iDaubenton, Bichat, and Lamarck must not be omitted, nor those of Antoine de Jussieu and IRomn6 de Lisle. Very important politically was tile society of Economists, which began in 1767,2 and had tile minister Turgot for one of their most celebrated repre- sentatives. Their most ardent desire 1 See Fornerons Histoire Gendrale des Emigrds, vol. i., p. 23. 2 Rocquain, p. 263. was to put an end to abuses, by which they meant the inequality of taxation and the oppressive feudal dues. The (lisorder of the finances im- peratively called for a remedy which should guarantee the future; and such a remedy coul(l plainly be alone attained by a fair taxation of the priv- ileged classes. Those classes them- selves denounced abuses, thougll as a rule each one demanded the abolition of those by which lie did not benefit, and was extremely tenacious with re- spect to tilose wilich were of advantaoe to him. Thus though the privileged orders had much jealousy amongst themselves jealousy on tile part ol: the provincial nobility against that of the court, and jealousies of cassock, sword, and gown there was never- theless a geileral readiness to coalesce against any assault from citizens who were unprivileged. Still liberal aspira- tions were very widely (liffused, and the friends of progress were full of ilope on the advent of a young kino known to be good aiid well disposed; so that his accession was celebrated far an(l wide with trallsports of emotion. The first acts of the young sovereign encouraged tilese hopes. Tile king dispensed with Ilis riolIt of joyous accession, which meant an economy of forty thousand hivres, while tile queen renounced 11cr right to the royal girdle, acts wilich were fol- lowed by the writing by an unknown iland of the word resiorexit on tile pedestal of Henry IV.s statue.3 The kiilg further delighted tile nation by dismissing tile despotic chancellor Maupeon (when Paris was spontaneously illuminated and tile min- ister burnt in effigy), and summoning the celebrated Turgot. Turgot was universally esteemed as an honest man, and Ilad been adored in Limousin, where lie had served as royal intend- ant. His first act was to do away with provincial corn-taxes and establisil free trade in grain tilroughout tile interior of France; his next was to abolish the system of forced labor known as cor- Ibid., p. 317. 6 vies. He was nevertheless a strong advocate for absolute power, and what he desired was a patriot king. He joined Maupeon and various bishops in urging the king not to restore the Par- lements, and he yias also strongly op- posed to any elective assemblies. He wished to establish a universal sys- tem, a hierarchy, of municipalities (the menibers of which should be nominated by the king), with a grand national municipality in the place of the States- General. To any convocation of the latter he was strongly opposed, as tend- ing to deprive the king of his absolute legislative power. his object was that Louis should reform abuses an(l re- or~anize the nation by his own spon- taneous acts. It was in the kings full power so to do, and lie was encouraged in the path he should have pursued by the words of that great empress and queen whose daughter he had espoused. On May 30, 1774, Marie Th~rbse wrote to Marie Antoinette France has immense resources; there are also enormous abuses, but these latter are themselves a resource, since by their abolition the king will obtain the bene- diction of his people. The prospect is indeed fair and noble. There was yet time. Thirteen years later nearly the same words were repeated to the Assembly of the Notables by the kings minister Calonne. But it was then too late. Indeed, as we have already observed, Louis XVI. had the opportunity, had lie also possessed the requisite intelli- ~ence and firmness of will, to acquire more power than had been possessed even by Louis XIV., and to become a sort of legitimate and peaceful Nape- leon ; yet with a. far more stable au- thority, since the traditional loyalty to, and reverence for, its kings had not then been weakened in the French na- tion, and indeed amounted to a passion which it needed but a judicious course ef conduct to intensify. To gain that absolute power which Louis XVI. might have secured, two 1 Correspondence, published by MM. dArnetb and Geifroy, vol. ii., p. 155, quoted by Cherest, vol. i.. p. 4. 7, preliminary measures were necessary. One was the promotion to the magis- tracy of many men belonging to the tiers ~tat; the other was reform in the army. Much improvement in the treatment of the rank and file, espe- cially as regards their nourishment, was needed ; an improvement which would have secured its discipline and fidelity under all circumstances. But another reform was 110 less needful, and this was the throwing open of all commands to competent men who did not belong to the nobility. We have no right to expect that Louis should not Ilave been a man of his own times. Yet a French monarch might have been more, for Mirabean was much more than this ; and, as we have seen. Marie Th~rbse understood the opportunity. The king, however, had no clear mental grasp of the situa- tion ; he was indolent and weak, and so intirm of purpose that Monsieur (after- wards Louis XVIII.), declared it to be as difficult to make him adhere to a resolution, as to hold together billiard l)alls which have been dipped in oil. Moreover, the king, while strongly im- pressed with his rights as an absolute monarch rights lie had no disposition to surren(ler had, as was natural, great sympathy with the class to which all his intimate friends belonged. He doubtless shared in that mode of re- garding privileges which was coin 111011 to the society of which he was the head and summit. Moreover, the very scrupulousness of his character helped to disable him from acting the great part which was open to him. He was averse to any interference with prop- erty ; an(l the feudal rights and dues of the nobles were in his eyes, as in the eyes of almost all tile Iligher classes, only one form of property. Thus it was, unhappily for tile king and far more unhappily for France, that this ~reat cilance of a peaceful transformna- tion of the anciem r~ginie was finally lost. Turgot was far from being allowed to arrange matters in his own way. Unfortunately the king hind called to Ilis aid the elderly and frivolous Count The Fall of the Aucien R6gime. 8 de Maurepas a man whose sympa- thies were entirely with the abuses and corruptions of the old system. Thus, in spite of Turgot, the Parlements were restored. Louis XVI. caused letters to be written to all the exiled magistrates, ordering them to appear in their places at the Parlement on November 12, 1774. There and then the king held a bed of justice, whereby he restored the old state of things and undid the work done by Louis XV. and his chan- cellor Maupeon. What Turgot had foreseen soon hap- pened. The restored Parlement re- fused to register the kings beneficent edicts. It openly declared itself in opposition to Turgot, and sent a depu- tation to ask the king to retract his decrees, declaring that the occupa- tion of the nobility is to defend the country against its enemies, that of the clergy is to edify and instruct the people, while the duty of the rest of the nation (incapable of performing such lofty services) is to pay taxes, promote industry, and carry on manual labor. It seems to have been after these representations that Louis XVI. said I see very well that there is no one but Turgot and I who really care for the people. For a time the king persevered, and on March 12, 1776, held a bed of jus- tice and forced the Parlement to register ; to the delight of the masses, who were transi)orted with joy. But very few, save the lower classes, sup- ported the minister. He was Criticise(l and ridiculed in the salons. Of all this he took small heed, relying too mu~h on reasoning and frigid demonstration, and not taking sufficient account of the far more influential action of sentiment and prejudice. He was neither con- siderate nor conciliating, and did not try to manage even the king him- self. Gustavus III. wrote of him two days after the bed of justice : M. Turgot has opposed to him a most for- midable league, consisting of all the great personages of the kingdom, all the Parlements, all the financiers, all 1 ltocquain, p. 345. the women of the court, and all the religious world. The queen must have felt the in- fluence of such hostility among her entourage; but, as our readers will remember, it was a personal feeling of her own which led her to a fatal act. Turgot caused the recall from London of the Count de Guines, who was one of her favorites, and she determined to be revenged on him. She obtained for De Guines the title of Duke ; and though she could not, as she wished,2 consign Turgot to the Bastille, she se- cured his dismissal, on May 12. Then, after a brief interval, came the first ministry of Necker, followed by that war with England for sustaining the Revolution in America, to which so terrible a Nemesis succeeded. But after the fall of Necker, five years later, a period of frank and determined reaction commenced, towards the end of which the first movements of revolt were set going by the greed and ambi- tion of the privileged orders. The re- action began under Maurepas and Joly de Fleury. Then, instead of insuring the fidelity of the army by popularizing it, a regulation was made (in 1781) to the effect that any one seeking to be- come an officer must produce a formal proof of four degrees of nobility, with- out counting the applicants own. There was to be but one exception in favor of sons of Knights of St. Louis. Thus a special section of the privileged orders secured a yet further increase in their privileges, and this but eight years before the assembling of the States-General, which was the begin- ning of the end! When Louis XV. came to the throne, no such restriction existed. Any man could become an officer without proving even one degree of nobility. In 1750, so far from clos- ing the door against the just emulation of the Third Estate, the king not only kept the door open, but promised to bestow on commoners who were officers of distinguished merit, the much cov- eted recompense of hereditary nobility.3 The irritation which the regulation of. 2 Hist. de Marie-Antoinette, vol. i., p. 22~ ~ cherest, vol. i., p. 19. The Fall of the Aucien 1?~gime. The Fall of the Ancien B~gime. 1781 excited among the less ancient nobility and the members of the Third Estate was 1)rofound, while it did not secure the fidelity of the officers to the kings government. The reaction was not confined to matters military. Whereas formerly very distinguished members of the higher clergy aad the niagistracy had been members of the Third Estate, no members thereof were any longer to be tolerated in either of those bodies. Bishoprics were reserved for persons of quality, and it was settled at court that none but nobles should be made abbots or other superiors of religious houses. The holders of flefs, from one end of France to the other, began to examine into their feudal claims, with a view to the restoration of any of them which might have fallen into desuetude a restoration to which the Pane- ment was ever ready to lend a helping hand. In Provence the feudal reac- tion had gone so far that the seigneur of the village du Pennes insisted on his vassals coming to do homage in the ancient form ; namely, on their knees, bare-headed, and so swearing alle- giance with their hands on the Gospels. The feudal r~gime had never been felt to be so detestable as after the fall of Turgot and Necker. Mciis hearts be- came sick with hope deferred. The king and his government had promised much and raised great expectations after ~vliich evils that had for a moment been put an end to, were not only re- stored, but aggravated. At the very same time royalty vis- ibly enfeebled itself ; the king undoing the work of Turgot and of Necker, as he had previously undone the work of Maupeon. Nevertheless, the king re- tained great popularity, and on the birth of the dauphin 2 was received with loud acclamations on his road to Notre Dame, while at the Opera there were loud cries of Vive le Boi! Five la Reine! Five Monseigneur le Dau- phin! Nevertheless, some persons were sent to the Bastille for distribut- ing writings hostile to the queen. But 1 cherest, vol. i., p. 72. 2 Rocquain, p. 397. 9 there was much disapprobation of the fetes announced to take place on Janii- ary 21, and a placard was discovered posted up, on which it was written that on that day the king an(l queen would be escorted to the H~tel de Yule to confess their crimes, arid then burnt alive at the Place de Gr~ve! The Parlement of Paris continued docile during this period of reaction, but some provincial courts be~an to resist the imposition of taxes, and that of Besan~on called for the resuscitation of the provincial estates of Franche Comt~, and for tile convocation of the States-General. This was on the 17th of July, 1783. By the intervention of the Count dArtois, Calonne was appointed min- ister towards the end of the same year. Under his dexterous management, though the finances were not really im- proved, the public were dazzled with an appearance of prosperity, and his own friends and supporters were grat- ified ; lie paid the debts of the kings brothers, and bought the palace of St. Cloud for the queen. The harvests of 1784 and 1785 were very good. It was a period of enchantment, when all seemed prosperous and flourishing, and when society at Paris was brilliant and animated. Time kin~, ignorant of the true state of his finances, was proudly rejoicing in the termination of a con- test which had hiunlihiated England, and seemed to have restored France to the rank it held before tile misfortunes of the Seven Years War. The coun- try, un(ier the sway of a gracious prince, seeme(l given up to the enjoy- ment of time charms of a civilization softened by the progress of ideas. Privileges indeed continued; but, when not contested, their possessors, under tile sway of the prevailing sentiment, very generally made them forgotten by a refined graciousness. But what directly concerns us here is tue bursting of the bubble of apparent prosperity through the forced declara- tions of Calonne himself. This led to a renewed, and henceforth unceasing, attack on the exemptions of the privi- leged orders, with a consequent up- 10 fLYte Fall of the Ancien B~gime. rising of those orders against royal than about the welfare of the entire absolutism, and appeals to revolt and nation. military disaffection on their part. This animus was soon made snifi- They thus set going that revolutionary ciently evident. Oa the 6th of August, disorder from which they themselves 1787, a bed of justice was held at suffered so quickly and so cruelly. Ca- Vcrsailles, whereat M. dAligre, the lonne, forced at last to disclose the real president of the Parlement, in protest- state of the finances, and feeling sure ing against the proposed laws, affirmed that the only possible salvation the that they tended to engender discord taxation of the clergy and nobility between different members of the same would be opposed by the Parlement, family, and between seigneurs and resolved to call together an Assembly vassals. This indicated what their of Notables, hoping that by the moral feelings really were, and what was the force of such a gathering he could over- real gravamen of the changes they ob- come the Parlements resistance. The jected to. The proposed laws not only failure of this Assembly is well known, taxed the seigneurs, but allowed their and the Parlement of Paris struck the vassals, assembled in parish meetings, key-note of revolution by itself repudi- to see that the charges were distributed atiag the powers it had so long and equitably. On the 13th of the same strenuously asserted. It began by a month the Parlement met, and there vexatious opposition to the first at- and then affirmed once more that the tempts of the government to extend king could not lawfully impose a tax somewhat the area of taxation by means without having previously convoked of a land tax and a stamp act. On and consulted the States-General. In the 16th of July, 1787, it assembled to the preamble to this affirmation the prepare an address to the king, begging Inagistracy again showed plainly what him to withdraw these two edicts. It was their real object in urging on the also requested that an account of the convocation of the States. Therein states of receipts and disbursements they declared 1 it to be contrary to might be communicated to them. All the principles and primitive constitu- of a sudden a voice was heard to ex- tion of the nation, which would be ad- claim : It is not states of accounts hered to by the States-General, that we want, gentlemen, but the States- the clergy and nobility should pay ter- General ! The idea met with a ritorial taxes in common with the tiers modified acceptance. The Parlement stat adding that it had been reserved did not refuse the stamp edict, but for their (lays to see suchi a system rather excused itself from either ac- even proposed. The Parlement thought cepting or rejecting it, a.n(l adopted a that, thanks to an adherence to ancient formula carrying with it grave coii- custom (as announced by them), the sequences. Its words were: Thi~ clergy and nobility having two votes to nation alone, as represemited in the the one of the tiers ~tat, would easily States-Genera.l of the realm, can give maintain their existing privileges, even assent to taxation. The Parlement has if they could iiot acquire new ones. no such power. . . . Charged by the Little by little the Parlement. began to soveleign to announce his will to the court popular favor. It had always people, it has never been charged by been the rule for the magistrates to the people to act as its representative. keep their proceedings secret, but now This act of self-abnegation indeed of they accustomed the public to be told self-stultification has a patriotic as- their resolutions as soon as passed, and pect. But subsequent events showed a crowd was encouraged to wait within clearly that the Parlement of Paris the halls of the building and applaud and all the other parlements were far the members as they issued. forth from more concerned about maintaining the their great chamber. The people came dignity and au~mentino the power an(l wealth of the privileged classes, 1 Cherest, vol. 1., p. 276. The Fall of the Ancien B~gime. to regard as a right the immediate com- munication to them of what had been done, and the Archbishop of Paris was insulted for refusing to reply to such questions. Thus a precedent was es- tablished for those tumultuous demon- strations whereby the mob influenced and sometimes intimidated members of subsequent governing assemblies. It is unnecessary here to portray or discuss the struggles which ensued be- tween the government and the Pane- ment. Great and important changes had taken place in the provincial or- ganization and administration of France changes which served to show, on the one hand, the persistence of the higher orders in seeking to maintain their privileges ; and on the other the fruitful and beneficent results of more moderate and patriotic conduct on their part, as in the province of Danphiny. The idea put forth by Turgot of giving Provincial Assemblies to the whole of France, had been modified and submit- ted to the Assembly of Notables by Calonne in February, 1787. His prop- osition was that a local assembly should be instituted in every province which had not preserved its ancient Provin- cial Estates. In these new Provincial Assemblies, though there were to be members of all the three orders, they were to deliberate in common, and votes were to be taken, not by order, but by counting heads. The history of these provincial assemblies has been more accurately examined by M. Che- rest than by preceding writers, and therefore deserves a fuller considera- tion than we have given to the previous events, which are better known. The clergy and noblesse were very well disposed to welcome provincial estates which might enable them to 1101(1 in check the intendant of each province, who was appointed by the king. They also desired the convoca- tion of the States-General, that they might be enabled effectually to over- come the despotism of the government. But the estates or assemblies they wished for were bodies organized in the traditional fashion, so as to olve a preponderance of two to one to tile privileged orders. It was small won~ der, then, that the newly devised as- semblies were opposed by the notables, and also by tile Parlement of Paris, which only registered by compulsion the decree establishing them. They also encountered a strenuous local opposition. Thus Hainault protested against the decree, and demanded the restoration of their ancient provincial estates, which had been arbitrarily sup- pressed. If, they said, Louis XVI. wished to undo the faults of his prede- cessors, it would be best to restore the old order. The prayer was acceded to, and on the 8th of February, 1788, a royal declaration was registered by the Parlement of Donay, restoring the es- tates, but ordering them to deliberate in common and vote by counting heads, tile members of the Third Estate being also made to equal in number tile two higher orders taken together. Tile province of Guyenne never pos- sessed estates, but the Parlement of Bordeaux none tile less opposed the institution of tile new Provincial As- semi)ly, as a violation of their privi- leges. Though exile(l, it defied tile government, refused to register the royal decree, and invoked an Assembly of the States-General. Nevertheless, towards the end of 1787, the Provincial Assemblies began to uleet in those provinces in which tileir union had not been prevented by opposition on the part of the local Parlements. The ar- rangement was that Ilaif the members silould, at first, be nominated by the king, and these were to elect tile otiler half. Then, every year, one quarter of tile members were to retire, to be re- placed by others chosen according to a very complex system of elections. But tile system of royal nomination disappointed its autilors. It was not from members of the Third Estate that any special opposition caine. It was tile clergy and noblesse that offered op- position on tile ground of the power exercised by the royal intendant of each province. Thus tile I)uc dAyen, from Haute-Guyenne, and the arch- bishop and IDuc of IRheims, protested veilemently against the presence of the 11 12 The Fall of the Ancien JMyime. intendant, which excited the disgust of proprietors fears of arbitrary taxation, its members. Often aristocratic infin- and secondly, assembling in great force ence succeeded in overcoming that of within the city. They were quickly the J)rime minister. Thus the royal followed by bands of mountaineers. intendant of Lyons, having become en- who seized the guns, l)roke open the gaged in an acrimonious dispute with court of justice; and loudly demanded the Assembly of that province, the the restoration of the Parleinent. ~reat lords and prelates made such use Thereupon the syndic entered in state, of their influence at Versailles that he and bionglit with him a decree of the was coml)elled to submit, nobility of B~arn, declaring infamous The most interesting and instruc- whoever should obey the newly regis- tive local conflicts between the waning tered laws, and asking the king to re- royal power, the aggressive aristocratic yoke them. The nobility had no legal domination, and the nascent modern right so to meet or to pass any decree. spirit, were those which took place in It was a purely revolutionary proceed- Beam, Brittany, Danphiiny, Franche mo. Comt~, Lan guedoc, and Provenee. The king, who passed his days in The provincial nobility of the more re- hunting, and abandoned the task of mote provinces were especially united governing to his ministers, on condi- in spirit; and amongst them the dis- tion that he was not called on for Un- tinction between the sword and the congenial efforts, recoiled, as usual, gown, which was jealously maintained from enforcing a command which met at Versailles, was very much less with resistance. So it was that the marked, while they agreed in a feeling Due de Guiche, of the house of Gram- of hostility to the favoied circle of the mont, one of the nobility of the prov- court and the despotism of the ministry. ince of B6arn, was despatehied on a That such sentiments should be felt mission of conciliation. But the na- very strongly at Bdarn, was the more ture of his mission was not suspected, natural, since it constituted a larger and accordingly, when he arrived at part of that kingdom which formed a Pan on the 13th of July, 1788, he was separate part of the sovereigns title met by a dense and sullen crowd, fr6m Louis XVI., like his predecessors since which not one cry of Vice le roi pro- Henry IV., being king of France and ceeded. Then lie at once explained te of Navarre. In 1788, that province the people that lie had told the king lie still enjoyed a written constitution, to would have no part in any act of rigor, the maintenance intact of which each and that his mission was entirely successive king had sworn at his ac- pacific. Thereupon aeclamations broke cession. Having been unofficially in- forth as lie was escorted to his lodgings, formed of the royal decree establishing and, in true French fashion, the cradle the iiew Provincial Assemblies, the of Henry IV. was taken from the Parlement of Navarre made haste to castle, surrounded with garlands, and protest beforehand against any change borne to hiimn in triumph. in the ancient constitution. This done, The next day he attended a meeting they quietly awaited the action of the of the Parlement, and, in the kings central power. That action soon took name, surrendered all the points de-~ place ; registratioii was enforced, and manded, on the sole condition that a the Parlement was compelled to evac- formal pretence of submission should nate the court of justice. be made. This sole condition was that Yet the city of Pau remained calm; somne persons should be sent to Ver- the bulk of the middle class there, as sailles to ask the kings pardon, while in Paris, remaining but passive speeta- thie Parlement should suspend its action tors. But the nobility acted energet- till the royal authorization for a coiivo- icaily, first by exciting in the peasant eatiomi of the Provincial Estates was re- ceive(I. But even this concession was 1 cherest, vol. i., p. 505. refused, and the duke, after employing The Fall of the Ancien Rei,ime. in vain the most conciliatory and flat- tering expressions, was forced to return absolutely unsuccessful. There was nothing left for the ministry to do but to command the Parlement to come to Versailles. The long journey of the magistrates across France was taken only to find Brienne replaced by Necker, and all the local parlements restored to the plenitude of their powers. Thus the aristocracy and peasantry of B~arn gained a complete victory over the kings government. Meantime analogous events were oc- curring in Brittany. That province was almost fanatically attached to its ancient institutions, and all classes were, save for a single disputed point, exceptionally united. Fully aware of this, the government had provided a considerable number of troops. They were, however, worse than useless, owing to the character of the military commander of the province, the Count de Thiard. Devoted to society, and full of sympathy for the errors and even the violence of men of his own class, he detested the work lie had to (10, and desired to get through it as quickly as possible. Bertrand de Molle- ville, who was second in ~ommand, was more independent of social influences, though lie also disliked the position given to him. On the 5th of May the Parlement of Brittany met, and protested in advance (like that of B~arn) against any inva- sion of the ancient provincial customs, invoking the treaty by virtue of which Brittany had passed under the sway of Francis 1. That evening leading mem- bers of the nobility, headed by their dean, went to M. Thiard to express their confident hope that the king would withdraw his edict concerning the new Provincial Assemblies. The movement quickly spread, dignified ecciesiastics (such as the canons of the Chapter of Rennes) joined it, and even such mern- bers of the tiers stat as were in touch with the two higher orders. Thus en- couraged, the Parlement declared itself en permanence, while the nobility met and passed a decree declaring any one infamous who should accept a post under the new royal ordinances, and the capital of the province became in a state of incipient insurrection. The times had in(leed changed; under Louis XV., in 1771, similar decrees were carried out with difficulty. M. de Thiard called out his troops, but not only forbade firing, but ordered them to show the people, ~vith their ramrods, that the muskets were not loaded. Thereupon not a few of them were snatched away from the soldiers hands and broken. On May 10th Thiard and Dc Molle- ville went to the Parlement, and had the decrees registered, but were in- sulted on their return home, and then for a time kept prisoners in their quarters. Encouraged by their power- lessness an(l inactivity, the disorder in- creased, soldiers were assaulted, and a caricature of a bed of justice was paraded. The house of the Parlement being meantime occupied by the soldiery, the magistrates met elsewhere, and passed a decree (leclaring the e diets registered to be void and of no effect. On receiv- ing, however, lettres de cachet ordering them to go into exile, they obeyed; but disorder still continued. These disorders were fomented by the nobil- ity, the middle class generally holding itself aloof. So incense(l were the nobles with M. Thiard for even the feeble action he had taken against them, that on the pretence of his hav- ing threatened one of their number with his cane, he and other officers were forced to fight a succession of duels. Evidently they considered that the first duty of an officer (necessarily a noble) was to his class, not to his colors. When the common soldiers, later on, acted against discipline, and sided with their class, they only fol- lowed the example which had been set them by their social superiors. The soldiers had been abused by M. de Caradeuc as vile satellites of despot- ism, little thinking how soon he would wish in vain for such satel- litesto save his class from the horrors of Jacobinism. At last the central government lost patience, and Thiard 13 14 r lihe Fall of the Ancien B& jirne. was replaced by Mar~chal de Stainville In this somewhat critical state of a much more resolute nian. Soon affairs the nobility had the extreme im- the mob learned that this time the prudence to hold a preliminary meeting, muskets were loaded, and would be wherein it was resolved that no prece- used against the first tumultuous as- dence should be given to any demand semblage. Then order was at once of the commons. At the opening of restored. This well shows how true it the Estates, the nobility assembled to is that the first thing necessary in deal- the number of twelve hundred (each 11mg with a mob is to show no fear, and with a right to vote), with a crowd of the second, to make It evident that enthusiastic youths belonging to their authority is firm and determined, class. The commons were bnt forty- Meantime liom~mmie de Brienime fell, two in number, but by their dogged and Necker assumed power, with time (leterminatioli to persist in an attitude result that time old Provincial Estates of absolute passivity they frustrated all were restore(l. Those of Brittany were the efforts of their opponents. There- convoked for time 29th of December. upoii time Estates were prorogued till But now a very long standing grievaimce February 3rd, but time decree of proro- cropped up ; nanmely, that shingle dis- gation was, in its terms, so sympathetic puted point before referred to as mar- with time commomms, that it was received ring the harmony between the commons with loud cries of Vice le roi! and and the two higher orders. the city of Rennes illuminated. But Since tIme year 1541 tIme Provincial time members of tIme two privileged or- Estates mad, without any royal assent, ders refused to adjourn, resolving to imposed a tax upon time nmenmbers of time prolong time sittiming niglmt and day till third order, known as extraordimmary time 3rd of February. forage. TIme proceeds of this cimarge, TIme commons havhmg appealed to borime exclusively by time tiers ~tat, Versailles, Necker sent a (lecree per- serve(l to defray the general expenses mitting time doubling of time commoims, of the province. This injustice imad should time clergy amid nobility consent been brought to the mmotice of time king, thereto. The decree was doubly vain, who charged imis conimissaries to de- seeing that even were such consent ac- muand its repeal in favor of a charge corded they would still be enormously levied on all three orders milike. At outvoted by time higher orders. But this time commons were naturally d~- those orders did miot confine them- lighted, but the suggestion was pas- selves to refusing coimsent, timey initi- sionately repelled by time imobihity. The ated an al)l)eal to force. By their excitemetit occasioned by this dispute instigatiomi two thousand peol)le, for had been so great that a decision was time most part directly or iimdirectly deferred till time next assemblage of the timeir dependants, assembled outside estate thinat, namely, which was now the city, amid thien marched iii proces about to take place. But the chance of sion to time Pamlenment, whiere they were carrying througim time reformu success- gravely received and listened to. So fully was small, seeing that the com- encouraged, and inflamed with drink, mons were so very sparsely represented they noisihy traversed the streets in the estates of Brittany. On this and violently assanited and seriously account the mummicipahity of Rennes wounded a number of students. Then charged its deputies on no accoumit to members of the clergy and nobility take part in any other dehiberation till mini to I)revent further outrage, but it this rectification had been effected, and was too hate to effect more than a mo- a demand was made, far and wide, that mentary pacification. Time youths of the nuninber of time deputies of time tiers the middle class sympatimized with time stat should be made equal to that of tIme students, and planned retaliation, while clergy and nobies combined, according many of their sires became tired of to the new royal decree about Provin- seeing the priviheged orders in contin- cial Assemblies. uous session in spite of the prohibition of the king. They attempted to stop the noblesse from going to their hall. The latter then drew their swords, but the students were provided with fire- arms, and two of the nobles fell. The members of the higher orders were then besieged in their place of meeting, which the students threatened to set fire to ; and it was only through the intervention of M. Thiard that the clergy and nobles were able to retire in safety. When the 3rd of February ap- proached, the nobility again began to assemble. But a royal decree defini- tivelv closing the Estates was read, and such stringent orders were given to M. Thiard that the meeting was effectually dispersed, though not without a display of artillery and a serious threat of its employment. Thus the imprudence and selfishness of the privileged orders excited revolu- tionary passions, in what had been a most patient province, and one excep- tionally attached to both Chuich and king. The resistance of these orders in Brittany to all liberal modifications continued to the last. Both clergy and nobility refused to attend the kings summons to elect deputies to the States-General, whereby were lost thirty-one votes, which might have supported the moderate party. It was a similar abstention in the province of Artois which led to the election there of Charles de Lamotte and Robespierre. Dauphiny had preserved its Provin- cial Estates till 1628, when they were supl)ressed by Richelien. In 1787 the Duke of Orleans (afterwards Philippe Egalit~) was governor, and wrote to the prime minister in support of their restoration with some modifications, but in vain. On May 20th, the hall of the Parlement at Grenoble being oceti- pied by soldiers, the magistrates met at the house of their president, M. de B~rulle, and passed a resolution con- demning the ministerial edicts and all who should act on them. For this they received letties de cachet exiling them, and thcy prepared to depart on the morning of June 7th. But an insurrec- tion broke out, the tocsin sounded; a crow(l unloaded the magistrates car- 5 riages, and then rushed towards the house of the Duke of Clerinont-Ton- nerre, commandant of the province. On their way they encountered some troops, whose commander forbade them to fire on the citizens, with whom the soldiers then fraternized. One officer alone sternly held aloof it was Berna- dotte, the future king of Sweden. The Duke of Clerm ont-Tonnerre, whose feebleness had allowed the revolt to begin, gained nothing by his weakness. Though defended by three hundred inca, the insurgents effected an en- trance, and forced him, with an axe held over his head, to nullify the letters of exile, and to confide the task of re- storing order to M. de Bdrulle and his brother magistrates. A few days later a permanent com- mittee of the nobility, who remained at the head of affairs, invited the (ligni- fled clergy, the municipality, and the most distinguished citizens to a con- sultation, with a view to themselves solemnly convoking the three orders of the Estates of Dauphiny. The meet- ing took place at the HOtel (le Yille at Grenoble, and refused to dissolve at a summons from a royal officer. The commons foe a time held aloof till, at another meeting, one of the nobility, in the name of his order, declared it to be well understood that the Third Estate should have a double number of repre- sentatives, and that votes should be taken by counting heads. Then all dif liculties vanished, and it was resolved to convoke the Estates for the 21st of July. The Assembly met at eight oclock at Vizille in the castle of the ancient Dauphins. There were fifty dignified clergy, one hundred and sixty-five nobles, and four hundred commons, amongst whom were many parish priests. Dauphiny thus presented a happy contrast to the rest of France in the union between its orders. At the conclusion of this meeting, one of the commons complimented the members of the two higher orders on the loyalty with which, putting aside ancient prej- udices, they had by justice maintained the union of all classes. The Fall of the Aucien ]?egime. The Fall of the Ancien B6gime. Up to the middle of 1788, the prov- ince of Franche Comt~ had taken no part in these disputes, but after the kings decrees had been forcibly regis- tere(l at Besan9on, a hundred nobles met and sent a letter to the king, ask- lug for a restoration of the Provincial Estates. The petition was rejected, and the newly instituted Assembly in- sisted on, which was hateful to the nobility, because of the voting by num- hers and not by orders,. thereia com- manded. On the fall of Brienne the nobles met again (on the 10th of Sep- tember), and imprudently swore never to adopt any form of assembly save that of the ancient estates the abuses of which were monstrous; and they were energetically supported by thc dignified members of the clergy. Thereupon opposition ~.rose on the part of the commons, encouraged by the lower clergy and a few liberal nobles. With Neckers tacit permission the Estates met on November 27th, in the same form as when last assembled in 1666, but the tiers ~tat protested in favor of such a modification of the Provincial Estates as had been agreed on in ]~auphiny. Meantime appeared tile famous de- cree of the government, which ordained that in the great States-General of the whole kingdom, tile members of the tiers stat were to equal in number the representatives of both the first and second orders. Against this tile higher orders of Franche Comt~ protested vio- lently, and the Parlement co-operating, the exemptions and feudal claims of the privileged classes were declared immutable and incapable of diminution by either the king or the States-Gen- eral. There was but one authQrity in which they recognized any such power. Strange to say,~ this authority was the whole population consulted by univer- sal suffrage, for the express purpose of constituting a national or~anization. Little did they dream that, three days before, such an appeal had been deter- mined on by the government itself. The province of Lan~uedoc had in- herited from preceding aces a very pe- culiar constitution. Its estates, though consisting of the usual three orders, met in one chamber and voted by counting heads. Its organization had been much admired by F~nelon, and been taken as a model by the govern- Inent in decreeing the Provincial Assemblies. Therefore it was that under the influence of the aristocratic reaction, begun in 1781, tIle nobles be- gan to protest and claim their separate chamber, and voting by orders. This showed how little they really cared for antiquity and tradition, and how willing they were to welcome rad- ical changes, provided such changes favored their interests. Meetings were held,the king was applied to, and agitation spread over the province, arousing at last the opposition of the commons. Then the disturbance be- came so great that Necker dissolved the Estates till such time as their con- stitution should be (lefinitely settled by the States-General of France. Provence was a part of France which had long been administered in a very singular manner. Before IRichehien it had enjoyed its Provincial Estates, composed of the usual three orders, aild these (as in Languedoc) met in a single chamber and voted by counting heads. Nevertheless the members of the Third Estate formed such an insig- nificant minority tllat they were con- stantly outvoted, and quite powerless. The suppression of the Estates, there- fore, caused no regret to the commons, and all the less because they possessed another institution which gave them a great advantage. The latter (which was in full activity in 1788) was called the General Assembly of Communities, and it met every year for some days at Lambese. The Archbishop of Aix was its president, and there were six official members, but thirty-six were freely chosen by the municipalities ; and so tile commons enjoyed in it an effective supremacy; it was a very popular body, which kept the taxes low, and saw that they were equitably distributed. Thus, when the government instituted its new Provincial Assemblies, it was gen- erally expected that the institution would be maintained. The Fall of the Ancien R~,ime. But the privileged orders protested against it, and called for the re-institu- tion of the old aristocratic Estates of Provence as they were in Richelieus time, when the commons had practi- cally no vote. Their demand, marvel- lous to say, was granted, and the Estates held their first sitting on De- cember 31, 1787. The first order was composed of the bishops, nears-general, deans, chapters, and abbots. The no- Uesse were represented by one hundred and twenty-eight members, while the tiers ~tat had but fifty-six, a]most half of whom also were really nobles. Accustomed as the inhabitants of Provence had been to the equitable ad- ministration of their General Assembly of Communities, the commons loudly demanded the doubling of their repre- sentatives, and equality of taxation. The former demand was conceded, but the nobles would not grant the second, further than by consenting to bear a share in the repair of roads, and to pay four thousand livres towards the sup- port of bastard children. The clergy were less generous still, being only willin~ to agree to half of what the nobles offered. Thereupon the com- mons began a vigorous opposition to the Estates, appealing to the king. As the privileged orders had demanded the suppression of the popular General Assembly, and the convocation of the antiquated Estates which gave them the advantage ,so the commons in turn, profiting by their example, sought, and after many contentions and much vio- lence at last obtained, the restoration of their beloved General Assembly, which gave them, once more, the upper band. The brief account here given con- cerning the alternately revolutionary and reactionary conduct of the priv- ileged orders, may suffice to bring home to our readers the profoundly different character and conduct of the higher classes in England and in France. In our own country, peers and landed LIVING AGL VOL. LXXXIV. 4314 17 gentry enjoyed no doubt a considerable predominance; but it was one to which their qualities and conduct had largely entitled them. They always worked energetically for and with the people, bore their fair share of taxation, and possessed few privileges, and none which violently outraged the popular sentiment, while above all they formed no caste. In France the noblesse not only, as every one knows, did form a caste, but one almost exclusively dis- tinguished by odious privileges. They watched with avidity the decay and ruin of the royal power, not as an op- portunity for founding a truly national and vigorous polity, but as an oppor- tunity whereby they might themselves benefit exclusively, by augmenting their own privileges, and giving a firm and unalteinble basis for those feudal claims which the peasantry throughout France so passionately detested. They did not hesitate, as we have seen, again and again to stimulate a revolutionary passion and positive re- volt, in the supposed interest of their order, and they were even ready to tamper with that military discipline which should have been, from their traditions, above all sacred in their eyes. The pathetic history of the ter- rible evils they had afterwards to en- dure, the monstrous injustice of which they became the victims, and the ad- mirable way in which so many men and women of the most refined culture nobly bore in exile the pressure of ter- rible privations, must not blind our eyes to the faults of the class to which they belonged. Historic equity compels us to bear witness to faults so graphically described by M. Aim~ Cherest. But justice being thus satisfied, we may all the more freely accord to their many merits the esteem they deserve ; with deep compassion for those sufferings and calamities which constitute one of the greatest tragedies that human his- tory can offer to our sympathetic con- templation. Am Eastern Cadet. From Lougmans Magazine. AN EASTERN CADET. Through wish, resolve, and act, our will Is moved by undreamed forces still; And no man measures in advance His strength with untried circumstance. WHITTIER. CA~ you see what tile names are? I am a bit short-sighted, and they are beyond my range. The scene was within tile quadrangle of Burlington house, where Ofl the wall had been posted, a few minutes before, a sheet of paper inscribed with a few names a very few names only three in all, wliicls, belonging to tile successful candidates in the Ceylon Civil Examination, were thus to be an- nounced to all whom it might concern. The contest had been even more severe than usual, for there were but three vacancies, and between seventy and ei~hty young men had entered the lists. Week after week had passed since the closin~ day, and still no sign had been vouchsafed by tile authorities but at last there had been some signs of life within the grim walls, and a young man who had made inquiry daily, and daily been informed that tile result was as yet unknown, had been bidden return within the hour on pre- senting himself at Burlington House on tile morning in question. lie had done so, and it was lie who 110W be- sought tile good offices of another, on the plea of short-sightedness. Barton Manninghani Allerton, first, read the person thus applied to, with slow distinctness, for lie could only just decipher the characters himself ; John George Merewether, second ; John Wil- kinson, third. Then lie turned and looked at his interrogator. A quick flush had mounted to the young mans face, and the mask of careless curiosity had dropped from it. Yet he strove not to betray too much. Au thank you xvould you mind what did you say was the first name, exactly? he stammered, his breath catching a little. Barton Manniugham Alier- ton, repeated his informant, with a pause between each word. Much obliged. Barton Manning- ham Alierton dropped his cane upon the pavement, and, picking it up, walked away. Altilough thle month was December, lie fancied himself blinded by the sun- shine which flared into his eyes. lie also fancied he had not a very firm grip of the paving-stones beneath his feet, and was obli~ed to be very careful in order not to knock against people nor to jostle them. In crossing the streets lie was most particular not to be run over ; insomuch that once a crossino~ 0 sweeper, in stature up to his elbow, jeeringly proffered his services Now dont you be afeard. You jist kitch old o me, and Ill see that nobody does you any thamage. The urchins voice sounded strange and far off in Barton Manninghain Al- lertons ears. He did not feel inclined to laugh, nor did lie put his fin0ers in his pocket for a penny. Instead, he turned upon the youthful satirist a pair of soulless orbs, whose expression was so Ilelpiess, so mystified, so strange altogether, that impish Dick Castaway never forgot it, and related the tale to his mates with peals of shrill laughter at the close of the day. Having carefully picked his way across, halting upon the refuge in the centre, until lie was taken in tow by a policeman piloting a covey of fe- males, this peculiarly timid stranger a fine, athletic young fellow, who looked the very man to enjoy a wild chaos of horses noses and hoofs solemnly stalked along Piccadilly for about a third of a mile, tliemi recrossed with equal precision, amid ~)resently found himself at the spot whence lie had be- fore started. As a fact, ile did not know where ile was going, and only as much as a semi-drunken man does of what lie was doing. 1-Je was walking about in Londomi; and to safely walk about in London with half ones wits asleep, requires the other ilaif to be very wide awake indeed. Hence all this circumlocution on the part of our wool-gatherer. Finally, he got into an omnibus bound for a north London station, and 18 An Eastern Cadet. sat there with a faint smile on his face, elicited by the relief of having at last reached a place where it was safe to sit down. This was how Barty Allerton took the news of Ifis success a success which to him meant almost everything the world could give. He was young, strong, handsome, clever ; he longed to be in the thick of the battle-fray of life ; to wring from it not only its rewards arid prizes, but its experience, its deep (Iraughts of knowledge, its stores of strange and mystic wisdom. There was so much to be seen and done there was such in- numerable paths to be trodden such hundreds of worlds to conquer, if only lie could be up and at them Hitherto he had made his mark on every little by-way he had passed along; he had been head boy of the grammar school, and medalhist of the public school; he had won an Oxford scholar- ship, and taken an Oxford degree. Yet, with it all, his future was not clear before him. This may seem strange; but some- how such strange things do happen. All goes along well in life up to a certain point; and then comes a dead- lock. Perhaps there is no opening? Per- haps when the opening comes, there is not money to take advantage of it? Perhaps there is no family influence? Perhaps the talents which have carried all before them, when all meant laurels won by dint of concentrated res influence, the want of a projectile in any shape was beginning to make itself most keenly felt. Of late everybody who came to his fathers house had said, Why dont you try for this? or Why dont you go in for that ? But when inquiries had been made anent the suggestion, it had been pretty sure to turn out that the business or profession either necessitated some spe cific education which he had not got, or that the knowledge he had would be thrown away. Oceasionnlly there had been an omi- nous hint let fall. lie had been asked how 01(1 he was. Three-and-twenty is not a great age; but our young man was perfectly aware that his Jobs com- forters knew what they were talking about, when they shook their heads over it, and wondered whether or not he were past the age. In these (lays the bough has to be bent in the given direction so very soon. So that there were plenty of people found to prophesy that in spite of Barty Ahlertons (louble row of school prizes, his Oxford scholarship ailil Ox- ford degree, lie would find himself out in the cold one of these days if he did not get something to do pretty sharp. He did not mean to be a parson? He detested medicine ? He shied at the bar? Pray, what (lid he want? If he had thought sooner about the armybut after all, it would have been rather a come (lown for the wonderful scion of the Allerton family (and here it must be owned the gos- olution and steadfast application in a sips were somewhat inclined to curl certain and limited groove, fail to be their hips) to have been gazetted into a negotiable when brought into the great regiment of the line, and thenceforth market of the world? vanish from the paths of scholarship. Be that is it may, Barty Allerton What on earth Barty Allerton had left the university, and knew not still hanging on at home? Got noth- whither he was bound. He was poor, ing to do yet? one would say to the and work hie must. Nay, he loved other and eyebrows had begun to be work for its own sake ; but just when raised, and shoulders shrugged. There it was absolutely necessary to be earn- had even been a terrible whisper in the ing his own livelihood, he had realized air. Hasnt that young Ahlerton been with surprise that there was nothing somewhat over-rated, eli ? Did such for him to do. wonders at school Supported himself Then, all at one e, came his opportu at college I And now eli ? And nity, and that at the precise moment if the speakers chanced to have sons of when the want of fortune, the want of their own, it is conceivable that a 19 20 An Eastern cadet. secret and involuntary joy occasionally tion there. It had been Any news, entered into the conversation at this Barty? every morning and evening, juncture, when it was remembered after he had strolled to the garden gate, how Bartys parents had gloried in the about the time the postman went by. prowess of their first-born, believing When he had taken to running up to that he had no equal in all the length town, and haunting the precincts of ~nd l)readth of the land. Burlington House, there had been the It was, I think, an intuitive percep- same ordeal to face on his return about lion of this which, as much as anything six oclock. He had been irritated, else, made the young mans head swim and had returned many a cross an- and his pulses throb, as he walked away swer. Why could they not let him from Burlington House with the words alone ? Barton Manningham Allerton ring- But it all added up in the sum total ing in his ears. of his present bliss. Kitty would be at Not merely had he won his laurels the gate looking for him. Eva, who he had escaped from the edge of a had a reserved disposition more akin to precipice. He had vindicated himself. his own, and who in consequence un- There would no longer be the half- derstood and respected his reticence at smile he had been accustomed to see this trying episode, would be watching accompanying the greeting, Hullo, from some retreat, in order to form Barty, you still about Got nothing t.o her own conclusions from his step and do yet, cli ? He would no longer air (he had cau~lit a glimpse of her have to reply vaguely, as lie had got dress behind the thick stem of the ilex- into the habit of doing, that lie had tree more than once of late, and guessed heard of something and was mak- why it vanished on his approach), while ing inquiries. lIe would now face his his mothers voice would hail him from tormentors on every Side. a window; and lie would see his old He would take care to be met and father stop clipping the laurels and interrogated. Then it would l)e,in an- look round at this point Barty felt a swer to the old question, Oh yes, I sensation he hardly knew how to deal shall be off to the East directly. I with. He almost wished the great mo- have come out first in the Ceylon Civil ment were over Examination. How people would Strange to tell, everything fell out stare ! exactly as depicted. How rarely this The poor lad was not vain. In pros- happens, we all know ; but it did occur perity lie had been modest enough. in the present case. Our young man But lie had been so badgered and caught his train down from town, and baited he had so dreaded the mcvi- stepped out on the well-known plat- table formula, and felt so keenly the form, and the station-master nodded to truth of each well-meant hint, as well him a little too familiarly, he thought. as of each innuendo that lie was really Smiles did not know that Barty had to be pardoned if lie did, in the first come out first in the list of the flush of victory, long to turn the tables. Ceylon Civil. Living in a small country town, As he walked homeward, lie almost where reserve on the part of any in- wondered that lie was not accosted and habitant is neither expected nor possi- congratulated then caught himself l)le, lie had often felt as if lie and his up, and hugged his secret to his heart. affairs were common talk as indeed Outwardly, lie looked so stern and un- to a certain extent they were. He communicative, that one or two whom thought lie would rather like to be lie passed on the way saluted him with common talk now. a glance half interrogative, half sympa- And then what joy. what rapture, thictic, not feeling quite sure that some- would there not be in the poor, oyer- thing had not come to pass the wrong stocked home ! For some weeks every way. Then, far ahead, lie cau~hit sight one had been on the tiptoe of expecta- of Kittys peeping face. Should he An Eastern Cadet. wave to her, shake his stick, or his hat, or his handkerchief? She would understand such a signal, and either dart forward to make assurance sure, or backward to spread the good news like wildfire. A curious shyness held him back from making the signal. A pair of dogs fought in the road in front of him, and he dallied to watch which had the best of it. Poor Barty ! As usual, he has heard nothing said Kitty to herself. Then, as the highway was fairly empty, she strolled forward to meet her brother, with an air of studied uncon- cern ; for taught by Eva, she was learning not to intrude upon his anx- iety. Come down by the three-ten train, Barty? Yes. Just managed to catch it. There was nothing to keep you in town till the later train, I suppose ? Nothing. B arty patted the win- ning dog his own and looked away from her. I suppose the names will be out some day, Barty? The girl could not resist a wistful sigh. It cant go on forever, you know. Barty laughed nervously. The laugh had an unnatural sound, and in an instant her quick ear de- tecte(l a new emotion behind it. You you hare heard something? she cried, with a breathless suspicion. I know you have! Oh, Barty, is it all over? And you have lost? Well, never mind, Barty; you did your best, and there are other things to try for, and you are sure to get something. Father says you must begin sooner an- other time, thats all. You did not give yourself time enough ; take more time _____ I shant have the time to take. Her loquacity made things all at once easier. I shall have precious little time for anything now, lie went on, his eyes beginning to sparkle. It will pretty well take up all my time getting ready my outfit. What ? My outfit for the East. Hush as her lips parted for a scream. Hush ! cried her brother, seizing her arm. Yes, thats about it I It is indeed. Im not joking. And First, too, Kitty, in a husky whis- per. First, by Jove I I can hardly yet believe it myself ; but its true. Stop a moment here, and Ill tell you how I saw detaining her outside the holly hedge which bounded his par- ents small (lomain, and narrating the circumstances already known to our readers. By Jove! I hardly know where I am, or what I am doing! And I dare say I ought to have rushed home long ago, and told you all; but somehow I couldnt, he summed up in conclusion, I felt so queer and sort of dazed, you know. But, oh I let us come quick and tell now I cried Kitty, mad with ex- citement. Theres Eva, watching from behind the ilextree. Oh, Eva, Eva! running forward. Eva, what do you think? Its first I First, Eva Oh, theres mother I Mother, Hurrah Hooray! Bartys first, mother! The names are out to-day. Father, do you hear, father ? calling loudly, and in a few moments they were all running from every quarter, and Barty was the aim, the object, the centre, the apex of the crowd. Happy? He was happy. In the first great shock of joy, lie had been unable to realize his own sensations but the homely outcry, the gleeful vociferations, the questions, comments, and conjectures which now whirled through the air on every side, speedily dissipated all remaining sense of un- reality, and lie was able to talk and laugh with any one. A glorious time for Barty now fol- loved. Within a few days, every one in and arouli(l the village of Summnerton had learned the fact of his success; had heard the number of candidates (trebled in Mrs. Allertons iniagination) over xvlioni he had triumphed ; and the whole neighborhood had, with chiarac teristie ~hiabihity, shaken hands with and proudly appropriated to itself the boy over whom so many ~vise heads had recently been shaken. 21 An Eastern Cadet. Barty had more invitations than lie knew what to do with. All at. oiice lie must lunch or dine at every house within reach. No party was complete without him. During the autumn months lie had been glad enough to fill the place of a guest who had failed, or had willingly made a fourteenth at the last moment, to avoid the dreaded illhlfl ber at a dinner table. Get Barty Allerton, if you cant think of any one better, had l)assed between host and hostess many a time when projecting an entertainment. Now, parties were got up for Barty literally gathered together for his especial benefit As for the letters and telegrams, they poured in from every quarter of the kingdom. Day after day his mother, and Kitty, and Eva sat delightedly an- swering and thanking ; while his father brushed up his old suits, bought a new umbrella, had his hair cut, and, taking his son by the arm , strntted off to hook up halfforgotten cronies of former times, and to show liiniself at a club which now hardly kiiew his face. And in spite of fits of bashfulness and the occasional necessity for an imploring Oh, I say, I wish you wouldnt ~ when the family exu- berance overstepped all bounds Barty enjoyed it all. It would have palled upon him in time, no doubt. He could not long have endured the ciidless reiteration of the same theme, with the (hisconcertilig accompaniment of maternal inaccuracy and exaggeration; but, knowing as lie (lid that the thne was short (for lie received almost immediately his or- ders for an early departure), he ~encr- ously overlooked small drawbacks, aiid neither permitted himself open remon- strance, nor gave way to twinges of secret annoyance. Eva, Who knew her brother best, affirmed that Barty was an angel during this trying epoch ; while more critical folks went so far as to allow that young Allerton bore hiinisclf well, with a frankly acknowledged, yet withal mod- est pleasure in his own success, which disarmed all beholders. In the bustle of preparation and the earnest endeavor to save the scanty family purse, Barty also shone. He would not have one half the articles his parents wanted. He hastened from one spot to another , getting estimates aiid lists, doiiig his own shopping, and doiiig it as cheaply as lie could. He haunted the Army and Navy Stores. One could hardly go there, morning, noon, or night, without seeing Barty Allertons face on one or other of the landings, or encountering him in the lift. He carried parcels home under his arm. At the station he would find others awaiting him. At last it be- came a daily habit for one or more of the younger brothers or sisters to meet the train by which lie was expected, in order to assist him with his freight.. It is just as if one of us were going to be married, quoth Kitty, with the imagination of eighteen. Barty was to sail on the 10th of Jan- uary, so all this activity was in full swing durino the Christmas week. It was the merriest Christmas his old home hind ever kno~vn. If now and again a tender sigh did escape the breasts of either parent, if one or other would occasionally steal a pensive glance at the joyous youthful band, wondering if the hard lessons they had learnt must needs be taught these dear ones also, at any rate no selfish regrets or fears were ever suffered to mar Bartvs hour of triumph. Yes, he may not come back for eight or ten years, quoth Mrs. Ahler- ton, turning her face to smile at her boy, and wishiing the neighbors who had dropped in would not gaze at Barty with so solemn an air ; but there is quite a chance he may run over in five and five years soon pass. Amy will be a big girl by that time, to be sure, and Carrie and Florrie too. And lie will hardly know Joey and the baby, I dare say. And she ran on in a cheerful strain, which made even Barty think his mother took the parting easily. She has such a lot to think of, he nodded to himself. For at the present time Joey and the baby, to say nothing of the other innu- merable little ones, were very contiii 22 An Eastern Cadet. 23 nally and somewhat aggressively en coupled with a tempting pro~ram.me. & ~idence. It seemed to Barty, after be- A l)all in the house; tableaux in the ing at other houses, as if they really neighborhood, a hunt breakfast, and need not swarm into every room, an(l several minor festivities were about to passage, and landing as they did ; as if take place, and if Barty could spare there need not invariably be such a time to run north and say good-bye, bobbing of sniall heads from every win- he would come in for them all. As dow whenever he turned in at his own we shall not see anything of you for so gate. In bitter moments, xvhereof he long a time to come, we hopa you will would not now willingly think, lie manage to give us a few days, con had even told himself that these were eluded Lady Allerton, feeling that she so many dead weights dragging him was very w arm and gracious in so word- do~vn, and that but for them a career ing her invitation ; and Really she would have opene(l for him easily writes uncommonly kindly! cried enough long before. Even now, in his Bartys mother on receiving it. day of prosperity, he could not but feel There was no question about Bartys a taint self-gratulation tha.t the irre- going. He had nearly completed his pressil)le brood would, according to his arrangements ; all his orders had been mother, be grown qui4e out of memory given ; aiid he hind been actually con- ere lie sa~v them again. Fromii a dis sidering what lie should do with the tance he would feel quite affectionate clear space in froiit, when the summons towards Amy, Carrie, Florry, Tottie, came. He dashed up to town, and re- and the four little boys who wound turned bearing in one hand his new up the bakers dozen, but lie had portmanteau, in the other his bag. By niuchi ado to bear and forbear with good luck, the initials B. MI. A. had them umider present conditions. beeii l)ut on each only the day before. All, however, went smoothly; and How delightful it was to use some of ten (lays before Barty sailed for the the new articles of the trousseau as East lie received a summons which lie Kitty called it! He had had several hind been somewhat surprised at not little preseiits too new sleeve-links ; a getting before. Sir Barton Allerton, diamnond stud; a pair of ivory brushes, his fathers cousin, and the head of the with his monogram on the back ; a case family, had indeed scrawled a rapid of razors in short, quite a small pam- notea gm~eat thing for him to (10 l)hernahia, of which a few weeks pre- congratulating and enclosing a cheque ; vioushy lie would have been utterly but though the expressions contaimied (hevoid. His boots and shoes were all in the former were cordial and the face new and fashionable ; lie thought he of the latter satisfactory, there had would take them all. Not that lie beeii no invitation to pay a farewell would need so maiiy, but then he visit to North Allerton Manor. might ; and, at any rate, the servants No doubt he thinks you have no would see thiemn about in his room. time to go, suggested Barty s mother With his sticks lie strapped in hiis new comufortably. She was fingering the silver-mounted umbrella. And when cheque as she sl)oke. And, of course, he stepped forward to take his railway it is a long journey to take. Still, I ticket he was equipped in a long drab thought they would have asked you. overcoat of the latest pattern, had on Barty had thought so too. He had his head a regulation travelling-hat, felt a momiwntary chill ; hut then so held a pair of dogskin gloves in his many l)eople had asked him, and he hand, and was altogether a very well was being so mnuchi thought of and turned-out, trim, smart-looking fellow sought after, and was so entirely the indeed. hero of the hour, that the feeling had The excitement, the fun of the whole passed ; and he had forgotten all about thing, made his eyes sparkle and his the matter, when a second note from cheeks glow. He hind wrested all this the muanor contained an invitation fromn Fortune ; and Fortune, lie felt, An Eastern Cadet. now bowed before him. This visit to his relations was the coping-stone to all that had transpired before. The flat- tery and jocosity of his own small world was beginning to stale upon his senses; he had experienced a longing to get away for a breathing space before the final wrench came; and to be going to a l)lace where he was not to be A 1, and yet where he would, of course, be of some importance (so he put it mod- estly to himself), was just the right thing. All the way down he chatted good- humoredly with his fellow-travellers. They did not know, lie felt, what a great man they were conversing with. He would not tell them not lie He was pleased to think how easy, and friendly, and unconstrained he was. When he jumped into Sir Bartons dogcart after leaving the train, lie opencd fire on the old coachman who chanced to drive him up, an(l whom he had known from boyhood, with a host of questions anent the family affairs, involuntarily considering that it would 1)e pleasant for old Jenkins to see that he was still as much interested in these as formerly. Jenkins, of course, knew that he was going out to the East directly? Jenkins had heard so, and hoped Master Barty would not find it very hot. Barty laughed, and by and by let himself be drawn out, being, in truth, so full of this one subject, that it was almost impossible for him to stick long to any other. Thea he was shown into a (lrawing- room full of people, and his reception there was all he could have desired for his host came forward with a hearty Hullo, Barty, my boy. Well done, old fellow ! Exams seem to agree with you, eli ? accompanie(l by a slap on the back, and a roar of jovial, congrat- ulatory laughter; and next lie was con- ducted up to her ladyship, who made haste to pour forth a pretty speech, and remark, as her husband had (lone, on his good looks, in spite of those dreadJPt cruet examinations, and as he ttirned away he heard his prowess ye- I counted for the benefit of the surround- ing ladies, who with one accord turned their heads his way and exclaimed, how interesting Five oclock tea was going on, and a group of young people, most of them cousins of some sort or other, were eat- ing and drinking and chattering round the teacups, which were arranged on small tables at the far end of the room. Some of the girls were pretty; some o~ the men were handsome ; and all were, or seemed, good-natured. In partic- ular Walter, his cousin Walter, th~ eldest of the party, was very good-na- tured. Walter was not strong enough, lie averred, to be any good in the world himself. He had such a beastly bad head, and was so beastly nervous, h~ was sure he should never get through a beastly exam; he could only fall down and worship any fellow who did. Hadnt Barty had an awful time of it? Could lie sleep at nights ? Could h~ eat his meals? Barty rather wondered why every- body laughed at this. Walter was sit- ting on the edge of a chair eating muffins he did not know what he had said that was funny, lie alleged ; and reached forward his hand for another quarter of a muffin as he spoke. Well, Reggie got through his exam well enou~ h, said another brother. Of course, he did not come out first, as Barty has. iRather not. It was the narrowest squeak, from Walter. At any rate, he got through. Barty, how long is it since you saw Reggie ? lie is here, you know. Here, on leave, and we shant get rid of him for another month. It seems to me that fellow is always on leave ; and when lie isnt, he is in splendid quar- ters. At York, you know. The most run after quarters in England. Ah, here lie comes ! aii(h Barty had an- other cheery greeting from another friendly voice, and thought he had never before done justice to th~ claims of Captain Reginald Ahlerton, the gay- est, smartest, most notable all round man of the Allerton family. In short, the boys cup wa~ full, and 24 Au Eastern Cadet. his heart overflowed with gratitude and affection towards everybody. With what pleasure he made his evening toilet All his little accoutre- ments had been carefully laid out, and he derived fresh satisfaction from each new article worn for the first time. He had gone off rather early to dress, and, as nothing went amiss, was down be- fore any one else, and half inclined to back out of the great lamp-lit drawing- room, and retreat up-stairs again to wait the second summons of the gong, when he was conscious of a rustle of skirts behind him. One of his new friends of the tea- table, no doubt? That was all right. The girls had all been as jolly to him as the men, and when the little party had broken up, he had been so entirely at ease with them all that he turned round with a sensation of relief, prepared to take up the ball and carry it on where it had been left off. The next moment he had his breath taken away I Who was this? He knew indeed that there were more people in the house than he had yet seen. He had heard allusions made to one and another, inquiries and asides which had reference to guests not pres- ent, but he had set down these absen- tees in his own mind as older folks, contemporaries of Sir Barton and Lady Allerton, people who had to rest in the afternoon and take care of themselves and notably a certain Lady Evelyn of whom he had heard Captain Allerton remark that she had gone to lie down, and was having her tea sent up-stairs, he had dismissed from his imagination as an absolutely certain member of the feeble contingent. Several queries regarding this Lady Evelyn had been made upon the en- trance of Reggie. It appeared that he had been driving her in his l)haeton, and was thus the latest authority ; and Barty had for a moment vaguely felt that it was an instance of good nature on the part of the dashing soldier to tool about an old woman who had to go and lie down after her (irive. He understood Captain Allerton s good nature now. For he saw before him the lovely charming face, of a girl in the first flush of youth, and in the involuntary halt and hesitation of her light step which betrayed that he was as much a stranger to her as she to him, lie dis- cerned the Lady Evelyn whom he had pictured so different. Was it the stupidity of so egregious an error which made him now thrill to his finger-tips? Of course. One does not like to have made a fool of oneself~ even in secret. It is enough to make one feel confused and uncomfortable. Barty was struggling to recover self possession when Fate helped him. Two childre ii rushed tumultuously into the room ; then stopped short, staring; and the whole quartette were so obviously at a deadlock that the case was desperate; the case indeed was so desperate that the little boy, a gallant little fellow of seven, rose to the occasion. How do you do, sir? said he, manfully holding out his hand, and stepping up to Barty. I know who you are. Cissy doesnt, castin ga withering glance at her, but then,, you see, shes younger. She doesnt know much. You are the gentleman who won the me(lal wasnt that it ? We were talking about you in the nursery. Your name is Barton Man- ningham Allerton. I wish mine was. And, I say, have you brought the medal with you? Let Cissy and me see it, eagerly pressing closer. Cis sy, shake hands. Were Percival and Cissy Manningham, and were stopping here like youand- And will you present me to that lady also? said Barty, coloring very much, but feeling it must be done ; for the young lady, who was even younger than himself, was looking at him with a shy interest which betokened her ap proachable. You are quite right about me, but and he tried to talk easily, arid to look politely and in(hifferently interrogative. Oh, thats Lady Evelyn, replied the little boy proniptly. I say, I (lont know your other name, to her~ We always call you Lady Evelyn, but 25 Art Eastern Cadet. you can tell him the rest of it if you like, with a patronizing wave of the hand. Hi, Cissy, theres the second goi~g going to be sounded ; and away the two dashed to a new excitement. Ak, well it ill behoves a third per- son to speak of the brief quarter of an hour which followed. Only fifteen minutes ! Awl in fifteen minutes the mischief was done. How it came about, Barty Allerton never knew, although every tone and move- ment in that little trivial scene became burnt into his memory, branded as it were with a hot iron, presently ; but at the moment he was only conscious of a confused sensation of delight, and all was over. The boy within him was a boy no longer. He had tasted of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and his head swam with the intoxicating draught. And what was it all ? Wherein lay the spell ? This was pretty much all that passed. You arrived when I was out this afternoon ? in feminine accents. I believe so. I came about five oclock. You are going to stay for the ball ? Yes I believe so. I can only stay a few (lays. I know; you are going to Ceylon. What day do you sail ? A few explanations. Then, shyly, Lady Evelyn We heard of your great success. Sir Barton and Lady Allerton were so pleased. We drank your health at dinner. I was here the (lay the news came. How pleased you must have been; and your parents, and all. But I 5U1)P050 they are are rather unhappy about about your go- ing.? Barty smiled. I had once a brother who went to Ceylon, Lady Evelyns tone lowered he looked at her and saw her eyes were glistening. He was glad to go, but tor us it was dreadful. Barty smiled no more. I am so sorry for your father and mother, murmured she softly. Thank you. Oh, II dont think Forgive me, she whispered ; and they mind, you know, Barty hastened the next moment hurriedly burst from to reassure her. There are such a lot of us, dont you know. Im only one of thirteen. They have twelve left, and in spite of himself a faint bitterness was perceptible in the young mans tone. He was saying aloud what lie had often told himself. Lady Evelyn made no reply. Is what part of Ceylon is your brother in? inquired Barty, gazing at her with a new hope. What if he should meet the brother? Make friends ~vitli the brother? Do the brother a good turn? He (lied there a few months after lie went out. In the silence which followed, the quick, short breathing of each was dis- tinctly audible. They might have kno~vn each other all their lives ; such a strange, invisible bond hind sprung up on the instant between them. Not a word did Barty say. Instead, he let his eyes rest with one long, de- vourin~ ~ upon ~ ing face before him, an(l at length, lifting her eyes, she met his. For an instant she felt inclined to turn away; to move to another part of the room; have no more such confi- dences and such results ; but somehow she did not. She just stood still, and Barty stood beside her. But., womanlike, Evelyn was the first to recover herself. It was not kind of me to say that, she murmured gently. It was very thoughtless, just when you are going out, and have come to say good-bye and all. I dont know how I could. But it all came back to me. He was so delighted about ~oing, too, in broken sentences and he was was so very like you. I thought of him the moment I saw you. Do you min(l my sayin~ that? He was my favorite brother; we were just every- thing to each other. Of course I forget him sometimes, but when I think of him and the lovely lips trembled and the voice sanh away. She held out her hand ; neither he nor she quite knew why, but Barty took it, and held it fast. 26 An Eastern Cadet. him, her eyes full of tears, her veins tingling. This was the story of the mauvais quart dheure Barty Allerton once passe(l through ,and which left its deeply en graven traces on all his after life. When the other people came in, lie did not feel fit to talk to them, or to any one. He wanted to be let alone to think. Mechanically lie took up a book, and feigiied absorption in it; and luckily the guests who now came troop- ing iii had a great deal to say to each other, and were full of some scheme which had just been started, and about which lie as yet knew nothing ; so that he was l)ermitted to bury himself os- tensibly in his reading, in reality in a delicious dream. The hand which had been so honored slightly trembled. Lady Evelyn did not reappear till after dinner was announced. By that time Barty had begun to watch for her, and listen for her. Ills heart gave a great throb as she came in, lialfliiding behind an ample dowager, whose skirts stretched far and wide ; and lie fan- cied she kept away from him, and ma- iweuvred to be out of his sight duri% the long, stately meal. But what did that signify ? Had she not said lie was like her brother her favorite brother the brother who was just everything to her ? All through the meal he heard the tender thrill with which the acknowi e(hgment was made ; as he gazed blindly in front of him, he saw the drooping eyelids, the flushed cheek, the tremulous lip ; and when others laughed and bantered daily, lie never once heard the sound of her laugh and when he now and again could steal a glimpse (lown the board, lie never saw her brows lit up with merriment. Indeed, she was once reproached openly for her pensive mood, and Bartv, hearing the charge, caught his breath, but was too far off to note the effect it produced ; indeed the glitter- ing repast to which lie had looked for- ward, and which was to others a gay, mirthful feast was to him a perio(l of feverish suspense, almost maddening in its lengthy duration. In the end he had a trifling reward. Lady Evelyn Sauterne, passing by Barty Allertons chair, dropped her faii, and received it again from his hands, and her low-toned Thank ~~ou lingered with him and supported himii until release came, and lie hind once more the burning hope of getting near her, looking, listening, gathering up the humblest crumbs of notice that fell his way. He sprang up as though a chain had snapped when the gentlemen rose to rejoin the ladies after dinner. But, oh, cruel disappointment Lady Evelyn was nowhere visible when lie entered the drawing-room. Had she vanished already? Was lie to see her no more that night ? Perhaps she was not strong ? She had had to rest after her drive in the afternoon, lie remembered. Mr. Allerton, will you let me show you these photographs? They may interest you as you are going to the East. A few minutes before Evelyn had excused herself from joinin~ in the round game which was being set on foot, on the plea that she wished to show her collection of Eastern phioto- graphs to Mr. Allerton, who was likely to be interested in thiem. This had been assented to immedi- atehy. She is ahways mad about the East, you know, the girls whispered to each other. Ever since her brothier died there. Hum, ah said Sir Barton, when lie came in, showing poor Rahphis l)hiotographis, is she ? Poor girl Barty knows to be carefuh, (hoes he? Hell not say anything to hurt her feel- ings? eying the pair from a distance. Oh, I should let them alone, in an sxver to a suggestion from his wife. They seem getting on all right, and if its any pleasure to her I thiought she seemed mopish at dinnerit was that she was thinking of, no doubt she has never got over poor Ralphs death. It will do her good to be heft to Barty for a bit, as she seems to have taken a fancy to him. It never occurred to Sir Barton to reflect that there was one to whom 27 28 such intercourse might not do good. He and his were rather in awe of Lady Evelyn, a maiden of high degree, with whom a family alliance was desirable, but who was somewhat difficult of management. A mettlesome filly, a thoroughbred in every fibre ! the old man termed her; and he was wont to caution young and old who had any- thing to do with Lady Evelyn to be- ware of rubbing her up the wrong way. Eighteen months previously the young girl had endured her first great sorrow, and this was the first occasion on which she had visited North Aller- t~ Manor since; wherefore every- thing was to be done to soothe and cheer her spirits, and woe betide any unfortunate speaker who in the opin- ion of host or hostess made an ill-timed allusion or flippant jest. Captain Ahlerton said the governor was absurd upon the point. Really they could not all be expected to re- member that every word beginning with a C might have reference to Cey- ion. And as for Evelyn Sauterne, she was a nice enough girl, and pretty, and all that, but he did wish the governor would not make such a confounded fuss about her. Even when out of Sir Bartons sight, the young man avowed that he felt hot and cold when conversation would turn upon spicy breezes, and that sort of thing. It had not been his (loing that lie had driven Lady Evelyn in the phaeton, though he had acquiesced in the arrangement. He admired the young lady; her appearance, her rank, her fortune, were all that lie could de- sire, ergo, he meant to go in for her, in his owii phrase ; but he dis- celne(l in the sudden and complete prostration of Barty Allerton an excel- lent means of escape from a certain amount of thraldom. Evelyn was so young, so serious, so terribly in earnest about everything. It was a bore to have to take life, even for the time being, as she took it. She would improve ; as his wife she would learn that she must do as others did, and feel as they felt ; but at pres ent he was as well aware as his father could be that he must bend to th~ humor of his fair oneT not expect her to bend to his. This, we say, was a bore. Now it woidd be just the thing if this young cadet, WhO had obviously been struck all of a heap at first sight, would take Lady Evelyn off his hands every now and then, and leave him free to have his jokes with gayer folks. I-Ic wanted to laugh and chaff, and keep everybody iii a roar. That wa~ his rOle. It irked him to be forced to moon in a comei, paying his homago to a chit of a girl who, he half sus- pected, would as soon have been alone; especially when in the distance he could hear echoes of fun into which lie could readily have entered. Several of the girls were much better sport than Eve- lyn Sauterne ; much more amusing com- panions, easier to get on with ; and if lie might only relax with them at inter- vals, he would be ready to pursue hi~ coLirtship in the main. Accordingly, Captaiii Allerton warmly seconded his fathers notioiis on tho sul)ject. As you say, sir, Barty is the very man for her. Poor iii! She cant help it, aiid its awfully cre(hitable to her and all that, to be so tender- hearted ; but Im not particularly good at the serious dodge myself. Now, if she gets it all out with Barty, and talks axvay to him about Ralphs dying, and exhibits his tomb (nice, cheerful sub- ject for Barty, aint it ? especially at the present moment), shell be ready for me when shes in what the poets call the lighter vein. Eli ? Oh, yes, of course, assented Sir Barton. Let her talk to Barty by all means. It wont matter on. his account, I suppose, doubtfully.. Theres no time for anything to hap pen; lie sails on Friday week. And~ besides, lies too full of himself ; oh, let her talk to Barty by all means. We have no space to (Iwell on the brief Ehysium which eiisned. To our poor boy it was (hivided into two pe-. nods, those in which lie was iii the presence of Lady Evelyn, and those in. which lie was not. Apart from her lie was feverish, restless, filled with a wild An Eastern Cadet. An Eastern Cadet. 29 tumult of hopes and fears, conscious middle of the ball. Quite romantic, by only of one passionate longing to be Jove! Just when the dancing is at its again by her side ; when there he was height, dresses flying, music clashing, held fast as though by a spell, soothed, hey! presto! begon e! and you are charmed, and pacified, past and future seen no more! Away you sail for the forgotten, living only in the present. East, leaving all of us humdrum folks Other people looked placidly on. in statu quo! Thats what you young Dont you think it is rather a shame? fellows like. Going off with a dash one would say occasionally. But the and a splash. Puts some spirit into answer was nearly sure to be after this the thing, hey? fashion, Pooh! hes but a boy. Its I hope you will have everything all in the days work with him. He packed before the ball begins, B arty, may as well hax e his little flirtation, said Lady Allerton. You wont mind poor fellow, if he enjoys it, considering my saying so, but the truth is, your how soon it will be over. It is only room will have another occupant after making the days pass. the ball. Major Mansbridge is to sleep Making the (lays pass ! Oh, the irony here he is to dress in Reggies room of the phrase if they had but known! and his things will be taken along to The days that were flying, melting, yours after you are gone. vanishing, as it was ! The days that It shall be ready for him, Cousin were to be forever beheld in the retro- Frances. Lady Allertons name was spect as beneath a burning magnifying Frances. glass ! The days that found this poor, You know how glad we should have infatuated fool madly pursuing one end been to keep you longer, Barty. and aim, deaf and blind to all besides, Thank you, I know. and that left him as mad, as deaf, But as you have to go as blind as before. Barty rose up. By day he moved and walked, rode I think if you dont mind it would and drove by Evelyns side. At night simplify matters for the housemaids if he hung on her skirts ,gaz ed upon her you would see to your things being when she sang, claimed her as his part- packed now, hinted the hostess. ner in the dance. Thonias or William will do the actual Captain Allerton laughed and looked work, but young men are particular; on. lie had no fear; was not Barty you would like to know where each to sail on Friday? thing is, particularly with a long voy- The same reflection quieted his father age before you and only one night at and contented his mother. They all home. wished Barty well. It would be some- His face was turned from her, his thing for him to know that the future eyes were fastened on the door. bride of his cousin was his very good Ab, here you come, exclaimed the friend, when by and by Heggies mar- speaker gaily, as it opened. Evelyn, riage should be aunounced. As for my dear, I want you for a moment. Evelyn? Of course it was only be- Come with me cause of the real or fancied resemblance No, said a deep, hoarse voice be- to her lost brother that she permitted side her, come with me. Lady Eve- the open and obvious worship, the lyn, please, Lady Evelyn for the last adoration which made every one smile ; time come with me. There was for although to her no one smiled, or no mistaking the impassioned bitter- hinted, she could hardly help knowing ness of the prayer, the significance of what they all thought. for the last time. The days waned. The girls face crimsoned. You ~1 say, old fellow, youll go off in a want to show me something? Oh, halo of glory, exclaimed Sir Bartons certainly, she murmured as lightly as jolly voice. Its a glorious idea that she could. Lady Allerton will, I of yours, taking yourself off in the know, excuse aa traveller faintly. An Eastern Cadet. If I can be of any use, but as she spoke a gay party burst in, and even Barty saw that the moment was inau- spicious. Never mind, never mind, he whispered hurriedly. It was nothing particular. It will do any time. Then in her ear, Only let me have some time to-night between the dances before I go. You will, wont you ? Just a moment, because it is my last day she broke from him and rushed out of the room. Happily the room was nearly dark; no one saw. Yet, afterwards, some alleged that they had felt a curious sensation. Lady Ahlertons bail was the best that had taken place in the neighbor- hood for years. Not only was it at- tended by all whom she most (lesired to welcome, but specially large parties had been assembled for it in the differ- ent country seats, and somehow every- body wished to go, and there were no backsliders. By eleven oclock dancing was in full swing. The great saloons, the corri- dors, the galleries and landings were all alive with gaily dressed revellers, and light tread and lighter jest and laugh- ter resounded through the perfumed air. In the eyes of Barty Ahlerton it was a scene of strange, weird beauty. He was a good (lancer, and had looked eagerly forward to the ball. As Sir Barton said, he had rather pleased himself with the idea of vanishing from the midst of it, when it turned out that he would have to leave by the night train a few hours sooner than was at first supposed, but now an unut- terable heaviness of spirit changed all. Instead of its being merely a joyous frolic to which something of zest was added by his own inner excitement aiid agitation, it was in his eyes a species of Paradise from which he was about to be ejected. Many and many a time might those around him thus meet in mirth and jollity ; but he ?ah, never again would his feet tread a measure in those gay halls, never more would his ears listen to the clash of sweet music from that gallery, never more would his arms encircle that sparkling form He danced, knowing not with whom, unless one and one alone were his partner. When compelled to yield her up, he followed her with his eyes, neglecting all, besides, till recalled by others to his duty and even these by and by let him alone. Dont bully him, poor devil I Reggie Allerton ~vas heard to mutter. Let him go hang in peace I I am afraid we have carried this too far a~ it is ; for he had caught a vision of a haggard face and white lips, and it had made him momentarily uncomfortable - When Barty came up to claim Lady Evelyn from Captain Allertons arm he assented hastily, and glanced with something of apprehension into the others face. As the pair withdrew, he muttered again to himself, Poor devil I I ought not to have said all this, but I could not help it. Far away behind piles of green in the dim conservatory a boy and a girl they were little more were sitting. He was holding her hand; she was weeping. I am going so soon, and perhaps we shall never meet again; I thought I might just let you know nothing more. I dont want anything from you. You have been so kind to me as it is. Now, good-bye. He bent over her for a moment. Whether she raised her face to his or not he never knew, but it was not turned aside. He had one kiss. All his life long he vowed he would reinin(l him- self lie had had that one kiss. It satis- fied him. The next day but one an Eastern cadet sailed for Ceylon. Whether the life which had seeme(l all rose color to Barty Allerton in the first moment of success and anticipa- tion, wOIil(l have realized his dreams had nothing intervened, it is iiot for any one to say. He could not with any precision have ascertained even for himself. He might, lie probably would, have enjoyed the voyage out ; he might and probably would have taken kindly 30 An Eastern Cadet. 311 to the life, especially during the first two years, spent as they were in the society of other young men of his own age, all busily employed in learn- ing the different languages which were to be of use, and when not thus en- gaged, in pastimes and amusements he might not even have minded the monotony which followed, when he had been sent off to administer justice in a remote village where lonely days, months, and years glided by almost un- relieved by any variety. But that one week in England had changed the aspect of all. As many will understand, it was not so much the reality, as the hot glamour cast over it by the boys own excited imagination, which played such havoc with his blood. We know how it had all worked out. We can divine the rest. In lonely mountain tracks, on long, solitary expeditions, in the hush of night, in the first gleams of breaking day, he would see it all again the last scene oftenest. Often and often he woke with the light waltz tune throb- bing in his ears. He saw himself pass- ing down the broad staircase, felt the touch of a hand upon his shoulder his cousin Reggies, Reggie had volun- teered to see him off he heard the gay music striking up afresh, and saw the couples pouring in from gallery and corridor. He wondered where Evelyn was. Again, he was with Evelyn in the faintly glimmering conservatory. He heard the sobbing, and felt the little hand in his drenched with tears. She gave him the flowers she wore (here he would take them from his bosom and press them to his lips), he poured forth his heart, unchecked, undis- turbed, and lie kissed her wet cheek. Sometimes he wondered how an overruling Providence could have dealt so cruelly with him as to have let his fresh-won laurels be thus crushed so quickly and unsparingly; for Barty was a religiously brought-up young man, and believed in God, after a simple. straightforward fashion. He had thanked God on his knees for his success on the night which followed the announcement of it; he had desired and still desired to lead a life worthy of a man born to immortality ; but in moments of bitterness lie would feel that lie could have done his duty better had lie never met Lady Evelyn Sau- terne. And yet he knew in the depths of his soul that lie could not. He had learned what hind lie not learned from that one deep draught of pure love? It softened and mellowed every rugged point in his resolute nature ; it im- planted purer and nobler aspirations. in his breast; it pointed to another goal than that of mere worldly success for his ambition ; it added years to his. youth. No one in his own home ever kiiew what made Bartys letters so different from those which it had been expected he would write. Instead of rattling ac- counts of gaieties, belles, flirtations or of what was l)eihaps more in Bar- tys line, fresh scores, as the result of indomitable energy and hard work there was a quiet, matter-of-fact sobriety and an underlying earnestness of tone in the details of his daily life, which sometimes caused the narrative to be voted slow~ by his volatile young brothers and sisters ; Barty con- tent with simply doing his duty, and not aiming at brilliancy or distinction, was a new thing. Those, however, who went to see young Allerton in his novel sphere lie was at a remote station, far away from any city or town, but still he did occasionally have a visitor those, we say, who now and then looked him up, and partook of his hospitality, were wonderfully charmed with their host, and lie made more friends than lie had ever done before. He had not been particularly popular in boyhood; lie had been too self-engrossed; too keen on pressing forward and upward; too certain that all which was worth the winning iii life was to be hind, provided fame and fortune were won. But one and all went away from th~ solitary little station thinking what a good fellow Barty Allerton was! How awfully kind, and friendly, and unas An Eastern Cadet. 82 suming! How anxious to make things tude, and also to face another quarter pleasant! It was rather rough on him not that in which his companion sat. surely to be planted down in such a I am a great chum of a chum of hers beastly hole! fact is, Im going to be married to a Yet no one ever heard a complaint girl you never heard of, but who is the of the beastly hole. Only after a bosom friend of Lady Evelyn Sauterne. light-hearted traveller had departed, What do you think this girl of mine and Barty had seen him off, and said to me the other day? She said, watched him riding briskly back to Go and fetch Barty Allerton home. happier hunting-grounds, he would Tell him to pack up his traps and sometimes turn round with a sigh, and tramp for England. Dye take me? think for a moment of the day when N no, faintly. he saw his name posted up First on No? ill put it plainer then. The the walls of Burlington House. Allertons at home cant make anything Five, six, seven years passe(l. of that job you wot of. Evelyn San- A friend arrived one day unexpect- terne is her own mistress now, and can edly at the station. He had been there do as she pleases, and marry whom she not very long before, and had taken a chooses; and she wont have I{eggie fancy to Barty, and Barty to him ; at any price ; says hes a drivelling wherefore the solitary resident re- idiot or as good as says it. Says joiced, made a little feast, brightened theres only one man of the Allerton up his spirits which were at a low ebb family she well you can guess the at the moment, and asked for English rest. You know pretty much who the news. one man is; and you can divine I can tell you one piece of English what that man had better do news, observed his friend, looking Eli ? looking round. Eh ~ Oh, I somewhat keenly at him, that will say! Poor fellow ! This comes of put a little color into those thin cheeks living alone, you know. I told you of yours, or I am mistaken. I think you had better go home. And the long Ill keep it till after dinner. What and the short of it is I am come to take have you been doing to yourself? You you. I am not going to let you out of dont look half as fit as when I was my sight till I see you on the shores of here before and you were nothing to Old England. Couldnt face Muriel if boast of then. I did. She gave me the tip, and I tell Oh I I suppose I have run you she got it straight from hieadquar- down a bit, said Barty quietly. Its ters. My orders were to find you out, the hot weather. And I have been and if you were still of the same mind seedy. I shall be all right again by iii regard to Lady Evelyn as when you and by. came outand of course I knew you You wont, if you stop here much were, for hadnt you told me ? I was longer, said his friend abruptly. to take you by the shoulder and say, A faint sniile oii Bartys part; he Right about face ; home by the next had ~ot to stop ; what was the use of steamer! So now, old chap, pull saying more ? yourself together; do theres a good You dont ask for my news, pur- chap! And if we havent two wed- sued the speaker. I must give it dings this spring without demand, then. Look here, And they had. when I was here last you told me about And Barty began to grow young some one, you know. again; and his life was once more all Barty nodded. He had. In a mo- flooded with suiishine; but in the ment of great and sore hunger for sym- depths of his humble, happy heart he pathy he had let his secret be drawn never grudged the experience which he from him. was wont to think had taught him all Its about her, said his friend, he ever knew. turning round to secure a fresh atti- L. B. WALFORD. In the Valley of the V6zre. From Temple Bar. IN THE VALLEY OF THE V~Z1RE. I PASS from one valley to another in this sunny P~rigord land of memory- haunted ruins, captivating romance, and still more captivating truffles ; but wherever I wander I have the rocks near me, flashing their entire naked- ness under the blue sky, or drawing about their flanks a draping of foliage, which is light or sombre as the leaves of oak or ilex, box or hazel, juniper or sumach, may dwell upon the note that rules both color and feeling. I am now at Les Eyzies, in the val- ley of the VYzbre ; a paradise of excep- tional richness to the scientific bone and flint grubber on account of the very marked predilection shown for it by the men of the Stone Age, polished and unpolished. It is about five in the morning, and the woods along the cliffs are just beginning to catch the pale fire of the rising sun. Just outside my open window are about twenty chick- ens in the charge of two mother hens, and as they have not been long awake they do their utmost to make a noise in the world like other creatures that are empty. As soon as the neighbors door is open they enter in a body, and march towards the kitchen. A female voice is heard to address something sharply to them in p tois ; there is a scuffle in the passage, and all the chick- ens scream together as they rush be- fore the broom into the road. This is how the village day opens. I am waiting for a man who has un- dertaken to show me some caverns in the neighboring rocks. Meanwhile, another comes along and makes myste- rious signs to me from the road. He is barefoot and ranged, and does not look as if lie had a taste for regular work, but rather as if he belonged to the somewhat numerous class who live by expedients and have representatives in all ranks of society. He has a small sack in his hand, to which he points while he addresses me in patois. I tell him to come in. The sack contains crayfish, and now I know the reason of his mysterious air, for all fishing is pro- mitted of this ; but it must have been hibited at this time, and lie is runnin~ very conveniently situated for the ra- LIVING AGE. VOL. LXXXIV. 4315 the gauntlet of the yco~cle-p~che, who lives close by. The poor ragamuffin has been out all night, wading in the streams, and his wife, who looks, if possible, more eager a.nd hungry than himself, is waiting near, keeping watch. lie offers his crayfish for three sons the dozen, and I buy them of him without feeling that respect for the law and the spawning season which I know I ought to have. Bnt I have suffered a good deal from bad example. There was a procureur de Ia r~pubhique not far from here the other day, and the first thing he asked for at the hotel was fish. Presently the other manthe one I am waiting for shows himself. He is a lean old soldier of the Empire, with a white moustache, kept short and stiff like a nail-brush. He is still active, and if he has any disease lie is in happy ignorance of it; nevertheless, he con- fides to me that it is in the legs that lie begins to feel his seventy-two years. His face has a very startling appear- ance. It is so scratched and torn that it makes me think of the man of the nursery rhyme who jumped into the qnickset-hedge; and as it turns out, this one was just such another, only his movement was involuntary. He tells me how lie came to be so disfig- ured. He was coming hionie with some cronies, at a late hour, from one of those Friendly Society meetings which in France, as in England, move the bottle as well as the soul, when, owing to an irregularity of the road for which he was in no way to blame, he took an unintentional dive dowii a very steep bank, at the bottom of which was a dense forest of brambles. As lie was quite unable to extricate hiinlself, his companions, after a consultation, de- cided to haul him up by the legs ; and it was to this manner of being rescued that he attributed most of the damage done to his ears. We passed under the ruined castle of Les Eyzies, which was never very large~, because the shelf of rock on which it was built would not have ad- 33 34 In the Valley of the V6z~re. pacious noble who, according to the feels at such mutilation of the waters tradition, at one time lived there beautiful work destroys the pleasure and tormented the inhabitants of the that one would otherwise derive from surrounding region. Architecturally these caves in the limestone. the ruin is unimportant ; but it is very A visit, hoWever, to the now cele- picturesque, with the overleaniug rock brated cavern known as the Grotte de above, and the clustered roofs below. Granville repaid me for the trouble of The village is continued up the marshy reaching it. It lies a few miles to the valley of the Betine, which here joins north of Les Eyzies, in the midst of that of the Y~zl~re. In the face of very wild and barren country. From the overleaning rocks are orifices that any one of the heights the landscape strike the attention at once by their on every side is seen to be composed of shape, which distinguishes them from hills covered with dark forest and sep- natural caverns. They have been all arated by narrow valleys. Here and fashioned like common doors or win- there the white rock stands out from dows on the rectangular principle, the enveloping woods of oak, ilex, and which proves that they are the artificial chestnut, or the arid slope sho~vs its openings of human dwellings. The waste of stones, whose nakedness the men who made their homes in the side dry lavender vainly tries to cover with of the precipice, aud who cut the rock a light mantle of blue-grey tufts. It Is to suit their needs, must have let them- these sterile places which yield the selves down from the top by means of best truffles of P~rigord. One has to a rope. To what age these Troglodytes climb or descend a steep wooded lull to belonged, nobody knows, but it is not reach the cavern, for the entrance is doubted that they came after the flint- on the side of it. The m~tayer acts as working savages, whose implements guide, and his services are indispen are found in the natural caverns and sable, for there are few subterranean shelters near the ground. labyrinths so extensive and so puzzling We continued up the valley of the as this. Beilne. The banks under the rocks Although the principal gallery is were starred with primros es, and from barely a mile in length, there are so the rocks themselves there hung with many ramifications that one may walk cotoneaster the large and graceful white for hours without making a complete blossoms of that limestone-loving shrub exploration of the dedahian corridors, the amelanchier. In thue centre of the even witlu the help of the guide. With valley stretched the marsh, flaming sufficient string to lay down and candles gold with flags and caitha, and (lotted to liglut huim, a stranger might enter with white valerian. The green frogs these depths alone and come to no leaped into the pools and runnels, bury- harm, but if hue despised the string and in(r themselves in thue mud at the shock trusted to his memory hue would soon of a footstep ; but the tadpoles sported have reason to wislu thuat lie had re- recklessly iii the sunny water, for as mained on the surface of the earth, yet thucir legs as well as their troubles whuere, if hue lost luimself, there would were to come. I confess that thuis long be fellow-creatures to huelp him. Now morass by the sparkling Beilne, fre- witlu the sticky and tenacious clay try- qucuted by tlue heron, thue snipe, thue ing to pull off his boots at every step, water-heiu, and other creatures that seek now walking like a monkey on hands the solitude, interested me more than and feet to keep luis head from contact the caverns which I luad set out to see. witlu thue rock, he would ~row weary I nevertheless followed the old man after an hour or so and begin to wish into them, and tried to admire all that to go home, or, at any rate, to the he showed me; but there was not a hotel; but the more luis desire to see stalactite six inclues long the end of dayhighut again took shape and clearness, whiclu had not been knocked off withu a thue more bewildered he would become, stick or stone. Thue anger that one and fartluer and farther hue would prob In the Valley of the V6z~re. 35 ably wander from the small opening in action of air, frost, a ad water. While the side of the hill. Thus lie might at members of learned societies discuss length hear the moan of water, and if such questions with upturned noses, a it did not scare him lie would see by rock above them will sometimes be the glimmer of his solitary candle the unable to keep its own countenance, gleam of a stream rushing madly along, but, simulating without flattery one of then plunging deeper into the earth, to the human visages below, will wear an reappear nobody knows where. This expression of humor fiendish enough cavern offers little of the beauty of to startle thie least superstitious of stalactite and stalagmite ; but the roof men. in many places has a very curious and Upon the lower part of my rock is fantastic appearance derived from lay- hanging the wild rose in flower, and ers of flints embedded in the solid above it is a patch of grass that is limestone and exposed to view by the already brown, although we are in the disintegration of the rock or the wash- first week of May ; then upon a higher lug action of water. They can be best grass-grown steep is a solitary ilex, likened to the gnarled and brown roots looking more worthy of a classic repu- of old trees, but they take all manner tation than many others of its race. of fanciful forms. Its trunk appears to rise above thie The little house in which I am living uppermost ridge of bare rock, an dthe stands almost on the spot where some outsprea(l branches with the sombre pai~ticularly precious skeletons, attrib - yet glittering foliage are marked against uted to prehistoric men and women, the sky that is blue like the bluebell, were dug up about twenty years ago, as motionless as if they had been fixed when the late Mr. Christy was here there by heat, like a painted tree on busily disturbing the soil that had been porcelain. allowed to remain unmoved for ages. On the other side of the house is a The over-leaning rock, w hicli is sep- small balcony that looks upon the road, arated from my temporary home only the peaceful valley, and the darkly by a few yards, probably afforded shel- wooded cliffs just beyond the V~z~re. ter to generations of those degraded During the brief twilight the twilight human beings from whom the anthiro- of the South, that lays suddenly and pologist whio puts no bridle on his hobby- almost without warning a rosy kiss horse is l)leased to claim descent. Near upon the river and the reedy poolI the base is one of those symmetrically sometimes watch from the balcony the scooped-out hollows whichi are such a barefooted children of the neighbors striking peculiarity of the formatiou playing upon the white road. Poor here, and which suggest to the irrev- village children I As soon as a wan- erent that a chicese-taster of prehistoric derer gets to know them, he leaves dimensions must have been brought to them never to see them again. Living bear upon the rocks when their con- in a great city is apt to dull the sensi sistency was about the same as that of bihity, and to close men up in them- fresh gruybre. According to one theory selves. In a vihha~e you becon~e they were washed out by the sea, that forcibly interested in surrounding h~- retired from the interior of Aquitaine inanity, and enter into the lives and long before the interesting savages feelings of others. A young woman who made arrow-heads and skin-scrapers died yesterday in child-birth and was out of flints, and needles out of bone, buried to-day. Everybody felt as if thie came to this valley and worked for M. awful shadow that descended upon the Lartet and Mr. Christy. Others say lonehy house across the river had passed that the sea had nothing to do with close to him and her and left a chill in the fashioning of these hollows, but the heart. When the uncovered wagon that they were made by the breaking bearing the deal coffin wrapped in a and crumbling away of the more fri- sheet, and having at the head aii up- able parts of the limestone under the right cross of flowers and leaves that 36 shook and swayed with the jolting of this rustic hearse, moved towards the church, nearly the whole of the popU- lation followed. Only the day before another woman was carried along the same white road towards the little cem- etery, but the coffin then was borne upon the shoulders of four persons of her own sex. Now and again fatigue brought the bearers to a standstill; then they would change shoulders by changing places. And the white coffin moving up and down as a waif on the swell of the sea, passed on towards the glowing west, where presently the purple-tinted wings of evening covered it. few old vineyards which, after being stricken nearly unto death by the phylloxera, have revived, and by some unknown virtue have recovered the sap and spirit of life. The ancient stocks gnarled and knotted. and as thick as a mans arm, together with the fresh green leaves and the hanging bunches of buds that promise wine, wear a color that cannot be rightly named a trans- parent, subtle, vaporous tint of golden pink or purple, which is the gift of this warm and wonderful light. A cricket that has climbed up one of the tender shoots, strikes a low note, which is like the drowsy chirrup of a roosting bird. It is the first touch of a fiddler in the nights orchestra, and will soon be taken up by thousands of other crick- ets, bell-tinkling toads, and creaking frogs in the valley, and the solitary owl that hoots from the hills. Below, how But the peasants are not sentimen- talists ; far from it. Always practical, they are very quick to perceive the futility of nursing grief, and especially the unreasonableness of wishing people back in the world who were no longer the river seems to sleep under the able to do their share of its work. A dusky wings of gathering dreams where young man came into the village with a the white bridge spans it ! Beyond, donkey and cart to fetch a coffin for his where the blue-green sky is cut by a father who had just died. broken line of hill and tree, the rocks Ape! I dare say he was old,~ was become animated in the clear obscure, the reflection of our servant a Quer- and the apparently dead matter, rous- cynoise. If it had been the old father in~ from its apathy, takes awful forms who had come to fetch a coffin for the and expressions of life. young man, she would have found My small boat had been lying on the something more sympathetic to say V~z~re several days doing nothing than that. when I decided upon a little water- Sometimes at sunset I climb the faring as far as Le Moustier. This boat rugged hill behind the house. Then had no pretensions to beauty. It had the stony soil no longer dazzles by its been knocked together with a few deal white glitter, but takes a soft tint of boards, and it had, as a matter of orange, or rose, or lilac, according to course, a flat bottom, for a boat with a the stain of the sky, and there is no keel would be quite unsuitable for light in the rocky South that so ten- travelling long distances on rivers derly touches the soul as this. Here where, if you cannot float in four the spurge drinks of the wine of heaven inches of water, you must hold your- with golden lips wide open; but the self in constant readiness to get out and hiellebore, which has already lost all drag or push your craft over the stones. its vernal greenness, and is parched by This exercise is very amusing at the the drought, ri pens its drooping seeds age of twenty, but the fun grows feeble sullenly on the shadowy side of the as time goes on. My boat was not jutting crag, and seems to hate the sun. made to be rowed, but to be paddled, Higher and. yet far below the plateau either with the short, single-bladed is a little field where the lately cut paddle which is used by the fishermen grass has been thrown into mounds. of the Dordogne, and which they call a Here the light seems to gain a deeper shovel, or by the one that is dipped feeling, and the small vineyard by the on both sides of the canoe alternately. side holds it too. It is one of the very I There being rapids about every half In the Valley of the V~z~re. mile on the Wz~re, and the current in places being very strong, I realized that no paddler would be able to get up the stream without help, and so I induced my landlord to accompany me and to bring a pole. He was a good-tempered man, somewhat adventurous, with plenty of information, and a full-fla- vored local accent that often gave to what he said a point of humour that was not intended. The voyage, there- fore, commenced under circumstances that promised nothing but pleasant- ness. It was a perfectly beautiful May afternoon, with a fresh north breeze blowing that tempered the ardor of the sun. The water changed like the moods of a child who has only to choose the form and manner of his pleasure. Now it pictured in its large eye, whose depth seemed to meet eternity, the lights and forms and colors of the sky, the rocks, and the trees ; now it leapt from the shaded quietude and, splitting into two or more currents, separated by willowy islets or banks of pebbles, rushed with an eager and joyous cry a hundred yards or so ; then it stopped to take breath, and moved dreamily on again. Where the water was shallow was many a broad patch of blooming ranunculus; so that it seemed as if the fairies had been holding a great battle of white flowers upon the river. We glided by the si(le of meadows where all the waving grass was full of sunshine. On the bank stood purple torches of dames violet, and the dog-rose climb- ing u pomi the guelder rose was pictured with it in the water. On the opposite bank stood the great rocks which have caused this part of the river to be called the Gorge of Hell. Here, too, human beings in perpetual terror of their own kind cut themselves holes in the face of the precipice and lived where now the jackdaw, the hawk, the owl, and the bat are the only inhabi- tants. In the Middle A~es the En~lish companies turned the side of the preci- pice into a stronghold which was the terror of the surrounding district. The rock shows some curious traces of their work. 37 Having passed the first rapids easily, we talked, and the conversation turned upon cockehafers! My companion had been much impressed by the strange doings of a party of gypsy children whom he had lately passed on the highroad. One of them had climbed up a tree, the foliage of which had attracted a multitude of cockehaf- ers, and lie was shaking down the insects for the others to collect. But it was not this that made the teller of the story stop an(l gaze with astonishment~ it was the use to which the cockehafers were put. As they were picked up they were crammed into the childrens mouths and devoured, legs, wings, and all. At first he thought the small gypsies were feasting on cherries. He declared that the sight disgusted him, and spoilt his appetite for the rest of the day. In this I thought his stomach somewhat inconsistent, for I knew of a little weakness that he had for raw snails, which, to my mind, are scarcely less revolting as food than live cock- chafers. He would take advantage of a rainy day or a shower to catch his favorite prey upon his fruit-trees and cabbages. Having relieved them of their shells and given them a rinse in some water, he would swallow them as people eat oysters. lie had a firm belief in their invaluable medicinal ac- tion upon the throat and lungs. His brother, he said, would have died at twenty-three instead of at fifty-three had it not been for snails. I have met niany others in France with the same faith and the same admirable disposi~ tion to make the most of the Creators bounty. That any of them should criticise gypsies for eating cockehiafers shows what creatures of prejudice we all are. After passing the Nine Brothers a name given to nine rocks of rounded outline standing by the water like towers of a fortress built by demigods we had our worst fight with the ral)ids, an(i were nearly beaten. It was the last push of the pole from the man behind me when lie had no more breath in his body that saved us from being whirled round and carried In the Valley of the V6z~re. 38 back. Before one gets used to it, the sensation of struggling up a river where it descends a rocky channel at a rather steep gradient is a little bewil- dering. The flash of the water dazzles, and its rapid movement makes one giddy. There is no excitement, how- ever, so exhilarating as that which conies of a hard battle with one of the forces of nature, especially when na- ture does not get the best of it. This tug-of-war over, we were going along smoothly upon rather deep water when I heard a splash behind me, and on looking round saw my companion in a l)osition that did not afford him much opportunity for gesticulation. He wa.s up to his middle in the water, bnt hitched on to the side of the boat: with his heels and hands. He had given a vigorous push with his pole upon a stone that rolled, and he rolled too. Now the boat being very light and nar- row, an effort on his l)art to return to his former position xvould have filled it with water ; so he remained still while I, bringing my weight to bear on the other 5i(le, managed to haul him up by the arms. After this experience he was restless and apparently uncomnfort- able, and we had not gone much far- ther before lie expresse(l a wish to land on the edge of a field. Here he took off the garments which he now felt we me superfluous, vigorously wrung the water out of them, and spread them in the sun to dry. I left him there fight- ing with the flies, whose curiosity and enterl)rise were naturally excited by such rare good luck, and went to dream a while in the shadow of the rock on the very edge of which are the ramparts of the ruined castle of La Madeleine. This is the most pictur- esque bit of the valley of the V~zl~re but to feel all the romance of it, and all the poetry of a perfect union of rocks and ruin, trees and water, one must glide upon the river that here is deep and calm, and is full of that mystery of infinitely intermingled shadow and reflection which is the hope and the despair of the landscape painter. Now in this month of May the shrubs that clung to the furrowed face of the white rock were freshly green, and the low plaint of the nightingale and the joc- un(l cry of the more distant cuckoo broke the sameness of the great chorus of ~rasshioppers in the sunny mead- ows. When I returned to my companion, I found that lie was clothed again, but not in a contented frame of mind. He accompanied me as far as Tursac, and then started off home on foot. He had had enough of the river. There was still sufficient daylight for me to con- tinue the voyage to Le Moustier, but apart from the fact that I could not get up the rapids alone, I was quite willing to pass the night at Tursac. Having chained the boat to a willow, I walked through the meadows towards a group of houses, in the midst of which stood a church, easily distinguished by its walls and tower. When I had ar- ranged matters for the night, I passed through the doorway of this little church, under whose vault the same human story that begins with the chris- tening, receives a new impetus from niarriage, and is brought to an end by the funeral, had been repeated by so many sons after their fathers. The air was heavy with the fragrance of roses from the Lady Chapel, where a little lamp gleamed on the ground beside the altar. As the sun went down, the roses an(l leaves began to brighten with the shine of the lamp, like a garden corner in the early moonlight. At the inn I met one of those com- mercial travellers who work about in the rural districts of France, driving from village to village with their sam- ples, fiercely competing for the favors of the rustic shopkeeper, doing their utmost to get before one another, and be the first bee that sucks the flower, taking advantage of one anothers er- rors and accidents, but always good friends and excellent table companions when they meet. I learnt that my new acquaintance was in the dra- pery. We were comparing notes of our experience in the rough country of the Corr~ze, when lie, as lie rolled up another cigarette, said I had learnt to put up with a good In the Valley of the Viiztre. In the Valley of the Wz~re. deal in the Corr~ze, but oue day II had a surprise which was too much for me. I had dined at one of those auberges that you have been speaking of, and then asked for some coffee. It was an 01(1 man who made it, and he straine(l it through guess what he strained it through ? Ii guessed it was something not very appropriate, but was too discreet to give it a name. Eh bien ! It was the heel of an old woollen stocking. And did you (irink the coffee ? No. I said that I had changed my mind. We did not take any coffee that evening. We had something less likely to set the fancy exploring the secrets of the kitchen, where through the open doorway we could see our old peasant hostess seated on her little bench in the ingle and nodding her head over the dying embers of her hearth. Her husband was induced by the traveller to bring up from the cherished corner of his cellar a bottle of the 01(1 wine of Tursac, made from the patriarchal vines before the pestilential insect drew the life out of them. The hillsides above the Vdz~re are growing green again with vineyards, and again the juice of the grape is beginning to flow abundantly; but years must pass be- fore it will l)e worthy of being put into the same cellar with the few bottles of the 01(1 wine which has been treasnre(l Up here and there by the grower, but which he thinks it a sacrilege to drink on occasions less solemn than mar- riages or christenings in the family. You can often coax the old wine from them, sai(l my knowing compan- ion, if you go the right way to work. Amid what is the secret? Flattery ; there is nothing like it. Flatter the peasant and you will be almost sure to move hini. Say, Ab, what a time that was when you had the old wine in your cellars He will say, Nest-ce pas, monsieur ! and brighten up at the thought of it. Then you will continue: Yes,indeed, that was a wine worth drinking. There was nothing like it to be found within fifty kilomnbtres. What a bouquet I What a fine goftt cia terroir! He will not be able to bear much more of this if he has any of the wine. Unless you are pretty sure that he has some, it is not worth while talking about it. Ex- pect him to disappear, and to come back presently with a dirty-looking bottle, which he will handle as tenderly as if it were a new baby. Those whose travelling in France is carried out according to the directions given in guide-books the writers of which nurse the readers respectability with the fondest care will of course conclude that the best hotels in the wine districts are those in which the best wine of the country is to be had. This is an error. The xvine in the larger hotels is almost invariably the wine of commerce ; that is to say, a mix- ture of different sorts more or less doctored with sulphate of lime, to overcome a natural aversion to trayel- hug. The hotel keeper in order to keep on good terms with the representa- tives of the wine merchants all mix- ers who stop at his house, distributes his custom amongst them. Those who set value on a pure yin da pays with a specific flavor belonging to the soil should look for it in the little out-of the-way auberge lying amongst the vineyards. There it is probable that some of the old stock is still left, and if the vigneron-inakeeper says it is the 01(1 wine, tIme traveller may confidently believe him. I have miever known in such cases any attempt at deception. The next morning I reached Le Mon- stier. Here the valley is broad, but the rocks, which are like the footstools of the hills, shut in the landscape all aroun(l. These naked, perpendicular masses of limestone, yellow like ochre or as white as chalk, an(1 reflecting the brilliance of the sun, must have afforded sheltqr to quite a dense population in the days when man made his weapons and implements from flints, and is suppose(l to have lived contemporane- ously with the reindeer. Notwithstand- ing all the digging and searching that has gone on of late years on this spot, the soil in the neighborhood of the in- 39 llifediawal iViledicine. habited caverns and shelters is still full of the traces of prehistoric man. Shortly before, my coming, a savant everybody is called a savant here who goes about like a chiffonnier with his nose towards the ground gave a man two francs to be allowed to d~g for a few hours in a corner of his gar- den. The man was willing enough to have his ground cleared of stones on these terms. The savant therefore went to work, and when he left in the even- ing he took with him half a sackful of flints and bones. In a side valley close to Le Moustier is a line of high vertical or overleaning rocks. A ledge accessible from the ground runs along the face, and nearly in the centre, and at the back of it, are numerous hollows in the calcareous stone, some natural, and others partly scooped out with the aid of metal im- l)lernents whose marks can still be seen. Each of these shelters was in- habited. Iloles and recesses have been cut in the walls to serve for various domestic purposes, and on the ground are traces of fireplaces, reservoirs for water, etc. The original inhabitants of these hollows may have been savages no more advanced in the arts than those who worked flints, but it is cer- tain that the latest occupiers were much more civilized. Rows of holes roughly cut in the limestone show where the ends of beams once rested, and the use of these timbers was evidently to support a roof that covered much of the ledge. It is quite certain that peo- ple lived here in the Middle Ages, and they might do so now but for the diffi- culty of bringing up water. The se- curity which the position afforded could hardly have been lost sight of in the days when the inhabitants of Guyenne were separated into two chief cate- gories robbers and those who were continually being robbed. One must therefore be guarded against wild talk about prehistoric man in connection with these rock dwellings, which in many cases ~yere used as fortresses during the three hundred years strug- gle between the English axul French in Aquitaine. My water-faring back to Les Eyzies was far easier than the voyage up- stream. Nevertheless, there was some excitement in it, for when the rapids were reached, the current snatched the boat, as it were, from me, but carried me with it, by little reefs each marked out as an islet as white as snow, by the floating flowers of the water ranun- culus ; but when its strength failed, it left me to drift where in the dark shadow of rock and tree the water rested from its race. Presently the rapids were seen again dancing in the sun, and the boat, gliding on to just where the smooth surface curved and the current took its leap without a rip- ple, darted forward like a startled water- bird. Once a back current whirled my fragile boat completely round. Then I remembered the good advice of the friendly Otter at Beynac with ref- erence to going down these streams, where the water has to be watched with some attention if one does not wish to get capsized Teuez-vous toujours dans Ic plus fort du coura.nt. Again in calm water, I recognized, beyond the still grass and the scattered flame of the scarlet poppies, the high walls of the fortress-like church of Tayac with the light of the sinking sun upon them. Then a little lower down at the ford, which was my stop- ping-place, a pair of bullocks were crossing the river with a wa~on-load of hay ; so that the picturesque, the idyl- lic, and the sentiment of peace were all blended so perfectly as to make me feel that the pen was powerless, and that the painters brush alone could save the scene from passing away for- ever. E. HARRIsON BARKER. From The Nineteenth Century. MEDL}EVAL MEDICINE. IT has been said that nothing is any- thing except relatively. It is an epi- gram pregnant with truth and worthy of being pondered. In the present paper we propose to consider what med.~ ical science and practice were in the IMiddle Ages, to the end that we may 40 3fediawal Medicine. 41 take comfort by seeing what they are brated another triumph of orthodoxy relatively in the present year of and authority. Authority was the grace. It is common enough at the Juggernaut beneath whose car all the present day to hear sneers at doctors, best and boldest spirits were crushed more particularly when the sneerer is in the sacred name of Religion. in no immediate need of one. Nor can In almoste al places of studie [wrote Cor their most devout disciples maintain nelius Agrippa] a damnable custom i& that they are infallible. Perhaps they growen, in that they binde with an othe never will be, until such time as the the schollers which they receive, never t~ human race shall, in process of evoin- speak against Aristotle, Boetius, Albert, or tion, develop a sliding (loor beneath the any other of their Schollers being accompted fifth rib, by means of which its interior a God, from whom if a man differ a fingers derangements may be studied with breadth in thought, immediately they will accuracy. But it may in all truth be call him Heretike and worthy to be burned. said that our physicians and surgeons, Montaigne, too, adds his protest t~ as compared with those of classic and the same effect inediteval days, are as gods, knowing The opinions of men [he says] are re all things. ceived, according to ancient belief, by Nor has the growth of their higher authority and upon trust, as if it were reli- knowledge been a very gradual one. gion and law, and thus the world cometh t& It has come by leaps and bounds within be filled with lyes and fopperies. It is not the last two centuries, after remaining enquired whether Galen has said anything stationary for more than sixteen hun- to the purpose, but whether he has said so dred years. The nineteenth century and so; and tis irrehigion to question any especially has been a period of activity of Aristotles decrees. and progress in the various branches of The old Frenchman adds quaintly science such as the world has never Whoever should bundle up a lusty faggot seen before. Nor could it have been of the fooleries of human wisdom would seen before. The full light of liberty produce wonders. liberty of action and liberty of So long as it was considered impious thought was necessary for any great to pry into the mysteries that surround forward movement, and the world was us, or to risk making any discovery lying in the bonds of darkness and that might prove to be at variance with superstition. The tree of liberty is a some ~)re-existing belief, what progress plant of show growth, that has fought was possible in any direction ? The its upward way painfully, bowing its difficulties under which medical science head often beneath the blasts of perse- labored may be estimated from time fact cution, and often broken beneath the that dissection was forbidden by the foot of the oppressor. Like Igdrasil, clergy of the Middle Ages, on the the Tree of Life, it has its roots deep ground that it was impious to mutilate below in the Kingdom of the Dead. a form made in the image of God. We It was not till this century that it had do not find this pious objection inter- attained such growth as to burst into fering within such mutilation when the blossom which is everywhere bring- effected by means of the rack and the ing forth noble fruit for the service of wheel and such other clerical rather man. Had Hahnemann and Stephen- than medical instruments. But in the son, Herschel and Edison lived in the reign of Philip the Second of Spain a Middle Ages their genius would have famous Spanish doctor was actually availed mankind nothing. The slow condemned by the Inquisition to be is it did Galileo and manx anothe favo~ th t he was permitted instead tQ ~ tune expC~~~ ~ to be Miediceval Medicine. This being the attitude of the all- and the left upon the left. . . . If you powerful Church towards medical prog- would have a man become bold or impu- ress, it is not surprising that medical dent let him carry about him the skin or science should have stagnated, and eyes of a Lion or a Cock, and he will be fearless of his enemies, nay, he will be very that Galen and Dioscorides were per- terrible unto them. If you would have him nutted to lay down the law in the six talkative, give him ton,,nes, and seek out teenth century as they had done since those of water frogs and ducks and such the beginning of the Christian era. creatures notorious for their continuall noise Some light is thrown upon the state of makin~. things herefrom resulting by a work On the same principle we find it pre- translated from the German in the year scribed as a cure for the quartane ague 1561, and entitled A most excellent to lay the fourth book of Homers Iliad and perfecte homish apothecarye or under the patients head; a remedy physicke booke, for all the grefes and which had at least the iiegative merit diseases of the bodye. of not being nauseous. The first chapter is Concerning the Our homish apotliecarye tells us that Head and his partes. if a man be greved wyth the fallinge sick- Galen sayth, the head is divided into nesse, let lilni take a he-Wolves harte and foure partes: in the fore part hath blood make it to ponder and use it but if it be a the dominion; Colera in the ryght syde, woman, let her take a she Wolves harte. Melancholy in the left syde, and Fle~ma beareth rule in the hindermost part. If the For those who are very weak and fee- head doth ake so sore by reason of a run- ble, nin~e that he cannot snoffe hys nose, bath Ilartes fete, Does fete, Bulles fete, or any hys fete in a depe tnb untill the knees and ruder beastes fete should ofte be eaten ; the give him this medicine . . . which riseth same comfort the sinewes. The elder these into hys head and dryeth hys moyst braynes. beastes be, the more they strengthen. Galen sayth He that hath payne in the It is strange that, of all these rude hindermost part of liys head, the same beasts, none should now have their must be let blood under the chynne, spe- feet recommended, and that the youth- daily on the ri~ht side ; also were it & od ofte to burne the heyre of a man before liys ful calfs alone should be held in esti- niation. nose. The braynes are greved many wayes many there are whom the head whyrleth so sore that he thinketh the earth turneth upsyde donne: Cummin refraineth the whyrlin~, comforteth the braynes and mak- eth them to growe agayne: or he may take the braynes of a hogge, rost the same upon a grede yron and cut slices thereof and lay to the greved parts. This doctrine of like helping like was _ of universal application, and in medical works of the Middle Ages we meet constantly with such prescriptions as these Take the right eye of a Frogg, lap it in a peece of russet cloth and hang it about the neck; it cureth the right eye if it bee en- ilamed or bleared. And if the left eye be greved, do the like by the left eye of the said Frogg. Again : Somtyme is the cause of the palsye that the two stringes comminge doune from the brayne through the backbone into the fete through the one ~oethi the naturahl hete, and through the other the colde that the same stringes I sayc, are stopped, either the one or both. The author proceeds to give directions for providino a vapor bath in this sin- gular case, and adds that such a bath is good for them that will not gladhye wet their fete, of whom, doubtless, there were many not only in his day but in succeeding centuries, otherwise there would have been no point in Ida Pfeiffers famous retort, anent the prej- udice entertained against eating foxes. The following advice falls with comic effect on our ears, but is given with quaintly delightful gravity The skin of a Ravens heel is good against If a man have a sounding or a piping in the gout, but the right heel skin must be hys cares, let him put oyle of llempsede laid upon the right foot if that be gouty, warm into hys eares, and after that let him 42 21ifedic~val Medicine. leape upon his one legge, upon that side where the disease is ; then let him bowe doune hys eare of that syde, if haply any moysture would issue out. . . . if a mannis nose bleede, beat egges shales to pouder and sift them through a linnen cloth and blew them into hys nose: if the shales were of egges whereout yonge chickens are hatched it were so much the better. For sore throat a drinke of Lye- oris is prescribed, and the patient is enjoined to bold it a little in the mouth and wambel it roundabout. For weak eyes the patient is to take the tounge of a foxe, and hange the same about his necke, and so long it hangeth there his sight shall not wax feeble, as sayth Pliny. The hanging of such amulets round the neck was very frequently prescribed, and the effi- cacy of them is a thing curiously well attested. Elias Ashmole in his diary for 1681 has entered the following: I tooke this morning a good dose of elixir, and hung three spiders about my neck, and they drove my ague,away. Deo gratmas. A baked toad hung in a silk bag about the neck was also held in high esteem, as was a toad, either alive or dried, laid upon the back of the neck as a means of stopping a bleeding at the nose ; and again, either fro~,g or toade, the nails whereof have been clipped, hanged about one that is sick of quartane ague, riddeth away the disease for ever, as saytli Pliny. We have even a striking instance of the benefit derived from an amulet by a horse, who could not be suspected of having helped forward the cure by the strength of his faith in it. The .root of cut Malowe hanged about the neck driveth away blemishes of the eyen, whether it be in a man or a horse, as I, Jerome of Brunsweig, have seene myselfe. I have myselfe done it to a blind horse that I bought for X crounes, and was sold agayn of XL crounes a trick distinctly worth knowing. A good pouder for the jaundis is as fol- lowes: take earthwormes and cut them small, and braye them wyth a litle wyne so that he may swalow it : drincke the same fasting. Worms were also said by Paracelsus to be good for the purpose of removing whitlows, used as follo~vs : Take a Worm and winde him, being alive, about your finger, and there hold him till lie be dead, which will be within an hour; The pain will presently cease, and the matter dry away. I do not know a more admirable remedy. For toothache many recipes are given : Seeth as many litle greene frogges sitting upon trees as thou canst get, in water: take the fat fiowyn~e from them, and when nede is, anoynt the teth therwytli. The ~raye wormes breathing under wood or stones, having many fete, these perced through with a bodken and then put into the toth, alayeth the payne. Jerome of Brunsweig gives admirable advice respecting temperance in drink- mo wine : Dronkennesse [he says and it might be written in letters of gold] doth weaken the wytt and the memorie so sore that a man knowethi no iiiore what he doth than an unreasonable beast. . . . If a man be in a hot place, and much noyse, to which he is not accostumed, the drynck doth swetely overcomme hyin; but he that knoweth he is greved wyth that inipedinient, the same ought so muche the more to take heede, for it maketh feeble every mannis body and sonic, hys understandynge, witte, and hon- estie. In a chapter headed thus, To knowe whether a man be possessed wyth an cviii spirit, it is advised to take the harte and liver of a fysshe called a Pyck, and put them into a pott wyth glowynge hot coles, and hold the same to the patient so that the smoke may entre into hym. If lie is possessed he cannot abyde that smoke, but rageth and is angry. It is to be feared that possession by evil spirits would prove to be sadly common if this test were widely ap- plied. It is bood also to make a fyre in hys chamber of Juniper wood, and caste into the fire Frankincense and S. Johns wort, for the evill spirits cannot abyde thys sent, and waxe angry, wherby may be perceived whether a man be possessed or not. The author goes on to describe many 43 Mediceval Medicine. distinct kinds of madness proceeding from various sources, and the best methods of dealing with them He that is become madde with sadness, ought to be fayre spoken, and ~nanye things should be promised him, and some be given. If it cometh of Flegma, then are hys braynes corrupt, and to suche an one doth the dcviii gladly accompany: hys beste meates were old hennes or ccokes well sodden. If a man becommeth madde of colde, it were good forthwyth to take a black henne, quicke, and open her npon the backe and laye the same warme to hys head, for the same doth warm his heade and braynes very well. If a mannes wittes were spred abroad, and thou wilt gather agayn the scattered wittes, then take a greate brasse basin and set it sidelin,s to the wall so that it do leane wholly upon the wall, and take a layer wyth a cock, full of water; set that hygh upon a cupborde, and open the cock a litle, so that the water drop by litle and litle upon the basin, and make a ringin~e, and run out of the basin agayne. Into this chamber lay the patient so that he cannot see this ; then doth he muse so muche upon that drop- pinge and ringinge, what it may be, that at the jast he fastneth his wittes and gathereth them agayne. These were all strikingly mild and gentle measures towards mad people, in an age when the most famous physi- cians prescribed for treatment the cast- ing of them into the sea, or immersing them in water until nearly (irowned. We find the memory of this practice in France perpetuated in the name given to part of the shore at Biarritz which is known as the COte des Fous, by reason that formerly mad people were brought there and held down while the Atlantic rollers broke over them. In Cornwall it ~va~ the soothing practice to seat the patient on the brink of a certain pool, when the unsuspecting victim was, by a sudden blow on the breast, tumbled into the pooi, where he was tossed up and down by certain strong persons, till, being quite debilitated, his fury forsook him. Autres temps, autres m~urs, is a truth of blissful significance to all those who are afflicted in mind or body. The mixture of childish superstition and inhuman cruelty which dictated many of the remedies prescribed is as- tonishing in its ingenuity, even for an age when humanity to animals was not so much as dreamt of. The efficacy of the remedy seemed, indeed, to depend largely upon the amount of suffering it entailed on the animal whose medicinal virtue was called into operation. Th~ heart of a snake, of a seagull, or an owl, was constantly prescribed, but was to be torn from the living animal. S~ tbo were the eyes and tongues of many ~nimals, as also the prettie hitie sn ut of a mou5e; but it was specially added that the creatnre thus mutilated was not to be put out of its misery, but was afterwards to be set free. Frogs and toads in particular were singled out for barbarous treatment, and were deemed sovereign remedies for many ailments if impaled or flayed or ripped open. Hares and other animals be- came of much esteem when drowned in oil or wine ; and even honey was said to be of higher efficacy if it were honey in which runny bees had been killed. Mens hearts being thus wholly hard- ened to the sufferings of dumb ani- mals, it is no great matter for surpris& if their treatment of their fellow-men was not marked by any great tender- ness or gentleness. Their remedies. were often of a highly heroic char~cter.. In one case it is advised to take a. paving-stone and hold it upon the sore place, adding that, though this does. not wholly nyde, yet doth it not hurt. One would have thought that such very~ qualified commendation might equally have been given to some less ponderous remedy than a paving-stone. When. treating of asthma the author pre- scribes a singular remedy, which would. so startle a l)atient of Sir Andrew Clarks that it might even be the: means of effecting a miraculous cure. Another experience for him that cannot: wel take breth, which I have often shewed poore people, namely, to pull the patient sore by the earlap upwardly, and inconti- nently he shall be healed. Again, in cases of fainting, the gentle. doctor says : 44 Evenings with Madame Kohl. 45 If the harte be faint by reason of the who look with distrust and fear on the superfluous emptynesse of the body, then liberalism of thou~ht and action which let his face be cooled with water, put him now is making such rapid advances in by the nose, and scratch him about the pit all directions, may surely take heart of the stomach. when they look back at the relative state of things which existed during those long, long centuries when con- servatism and authority held a practi- cally un(listurbed sway in the world of thought, aiid admit that, if light and liberty be attended with danger in the ?uture so also were their opposites in he past. E. A. KING. Enough has, I think, been said to prove that our forefathers must have suffered much of physicians, ~nd we can only suppose that they had re- course to them as rarely as was possi- ble. Agrippa, writing in 1530, said with pleasant irony that Physic was a certaine Arte of manslaughter, and that well neare aiwnies there is more daunger in the Physition and the Med- icine than in the sicknesse itselfe. He gives us a lively picture of a fash- ionable doctor of those times clad in brave apparaile, having ringes on his fingers glimmering~ with pretious stoanes and which hath gotten fame and credence for having been in farre countries, or for having an obstinate manner of vaunting with stiffe lies that he bath great remedies, and for having continually in his mouth many wordes halfe Greeke and barbarous. But this will prove to be true, that Physitians moste commonlyc be naught. They have one common honor with the hangman, that is to saye, to kill menne and to be recompensed therefore. Montaigne ha(l an hereditary and very intelligible detestation of doctors, and i~ said to have been very obsti- nate in his hatred and contempt of their prescriptions ; nor can we feel surprise. Many of them were of a nature too disgusting to allude to ; yet because they bore the Hall mark of authority and dated from classic times it would have been heresy and ruin for a doctor avowedly to contema them, whatever his own private convictions may have been. Who is there now living who cannot sympathize with the more intellectual minority of those days in their long, unequal struggle to shake off the gall- ing, crushing yoke of authority and tradition under which all departments of knowledge groaned? Or who is there now living who can honestly wish that his lot on earth had been cast in those good old days, as they are fondly, if ignorantly, criled? Those From l3lackwoods Magazine. EVENINGS WITH MADAME MOHL. ON turning over the leaves of an old note-book which has been unopened for years, we come upon the name of Madame Mohl. To her we were in- debted for great kindness, and the mere mention of her name presents vividly to ones mind that remarkable personality that quaint, gifted little woman, who so many years presided over the brilliant gatherings at 120 Rue du Bac. Although our recollections of one who filled so prominent a position in Paris society are very fragmentary, they may not be unacceptable to those who never enjoyed the privilege of her friendship. And to her friends and they were many perhaps we may be able to recall some trait of our warm- hearted countrywoman, who was so highly original, so full of kindness, and who exercised a magnetic attraction for all who came in contact with her. The name also revives the memory of M. Jules Mohi, the husband of Madame Mohi, as one who was on brotherly terms sometimes jokingly ad- dressed him, and who can never be forgotten by those who had the honor of calling him friend. Sainte-Beuves description of hini was so true A man who was the very embodiment of learning and of inquiry; the Oriental savant more than a savant, a sage with a mind clear, ioyal, and vast; a German mind passed through an En- glish filter a cloudless, unruffled mir- ror, open and limpid ; of pure and Evenings with Madame Jifohi. frank morality ; early disenchanted with all thinrs with a grain of irony ~ , devoid of all bitterness, the laugh of a child under a bald head, a Goethe- like intelligence, but free from all prejudice. German by birth, and one of a band of brothers, all of whom rose to distinction, the great-hearted, thoughtful student was a pillar of strength to his more mercurial wife. Strange that the unpretending home of two foreigners on a third floor in a Paris thoroughfare should have been so brilliant a centre for all that was intellectual. Men who were foremost in science, in literature, and in polit- ical life, were habitn~s of Madame Mohis salon, where they caine in con- tact with men and women who had risen to fame as dramatists or artists. Rank and fortune were themselves in her estimation of no account ; only individual merit or personal distinction gave the entree to her drawinhroom, with the exception that to her own and her husbands old friends, whether distinguished or not, a warm welcome was always accorded. In the one work we have from Ma- dame MoMs pen Madame Rica- ufier, with a Sketch of the History of Society in France the words in which she describes the salon of Ma- dame de Rambonillet exactly apply to her own: She did not inquire into the pedigree of those whose society she preferred ; wit and intellect en- sured a perfect welcome. The most illustrious persons in every line met in her rooms, and each gained by contact with the others) Again : She had that independence of mind that led her to prefer merit and intellect to all other distinctions, added to great dis- elimination in finding them out. Mary Clarke was a child of three when taken with her elder sister by their widowed mother to France. With the exception of occasional visits to England, to Italy, and to Germany, her life was spent in France, and the purity of her French was wont to ex- cite the admiration of those who spoke it as their mother tongue, and who were the best judges. She handled the language as she did everything else, in her own quaint, original way. With her mother she lived in the world of letters, so that the salon, after her marria e with Mr. Mohi, was only a continuation on an extended scale of the social evenings at the Abbaye-aux- l3ois, w here they lived for several years. It was there that Chatenubri-~ and, Fauriel, and Amp~re frequented their drawing-room, as also later when mother and (laughter moved to the Rue du Bac, Madame R6camier being a constant guest. T he vivacity of L jeime Anglaise, as Mary Clarke was usually termed long after that she could lay no claim to youth, delighted them all. Her biographer remarks Chateaubriand said of her, La jeans Anglaise is like none else in the world. Her sayings were so auda- cious, so trenchant, and so witty. Where she entered dulness and ennui fled. Her fathers family was said to be of Irish extraction ; her mothers was Scottish ; and she might have been defined as a mixture of Scottish sagacity with a superabundance of Irish vivacity. My first introduction to Madame Mohi was early in November, 1858, when on the way to Sicily with my uncle, Dr. Hugh Falconer, the pal~on- tologist. We stayed several (lays in Paris in order to pick up an Italian maid whom Madame Mohi had taken infinite trouble to find for us. M. Jules MoM, his friend, was then absent from Paris, but madame received us with the greatest kindness. Calling on her directly after break- fast, we were shown into the outer drawing-room that communicated with the inner and larger by a glass door, which, on our names being announced, was instantly thrown open, and a brisk little lady tripped forward to welcome us. With the sprightliness and quick movements of a young girl, sh emust then have been nearly threescore and ten. I had heard so much about her that various pictures had been formed in my mind all very different from the little lady before us. She was attired, not in dressing-gown and curl- 46 Evenings with Madame Jifohi. 47, papers, as when occasionally at other black dress, and could not appear in times we were received by her, but in that. I know you will kindly excuse a dress just clear of the ground, of inc. bronze-colored silk, with a tiny pattern You will do very well in that, my made after a fashion of her own, a little dear. I take no refusal. And stay, Ol)~fl at the throat. Her gown was Ill tell you what Ill do. I shall write simple and suitable, but her headdress and tell the friends I invite not to took us both aback, and we could not dress. refrain from smiling at it, and the So it was agreed, and I was inconsid- cage mess of her welcome, crate enough to allow her to take this Well, youve come at last. I began troublc. Also, I was to go to the Huc to think that you would never come (In Bac next morning but onc, so as to was thc exclamation ; and while she meet the Italian maid. expressed regret at Mr. MohIs ab- That second interview was very sence, we had tune to notc the small funny and also satisfactory, as it led features, the saucy, upturned nose, and to Carolinas immediate engagement; the round, bright eyes so suggestive of but it was not half so droll as a visit I keen sagacity. But the eyes looked made to Madame Mohi a few days through a dishevelled maze of little later, when Carolina was with me. curls, which were in layers one above We found her in the ante-room, cx- another, and completely covered her pressing her opinion of some badly forehead. She reminded inc (as I once done work to a Paris working uphol- sent word to her biographer, Miss sterer. The man stood like a statue OMeara, who was desirous of collect- and neither flinched nor winked, while ing materials for the memoirs) of a the irate little lady shook her clenched little Skye terrier that had been out in fist close to his nose ! I was astounded, a gale of wind, and with difficulty kept my counte- Never shall I forgct her childlike cry nance. But, alas ! the scene was too of delight when, after my uncle had much for Carolina, who tried to screen told her of our (letention at Abbeville herself behind me. A half-suppressed so as to see M. Boucher de Perthess titter betrayed her, and Madame Mohi collection of paheolithic flint imple- looking round, angrily caught sight of ments (a day memorable in their his- the girl in vain striving to stifle her tory, since before that time their being laughter. Much time and trouble had of human workmanship had been dis- been expended in finding a family who credited in France and in England), would undertake to leave the orphan she made some observation upon his Carolina in Rome, her birthplace, and travelling suit. The rough outfit had I fear that Madame Mohl did not for-~ been made specially for geological give this mirthful explosion. work, and was certainly out of the The dinner-party preceding her Fri common. The coat contained so many day evening reception was limited to pockets, outside and inside, as to be seven, Lady Augusta Bruce (afterwards. embarrassing and bewildering to the the wife of Dean Stanley) being pre wearer. vented by the illness of her mother. Why, you are made of pockets An intimate friend of Mr. Mohls took she exclaimed, when he had unbut- his place ; Lady Williamri Russell and~ toned his coat and displayed the inte- her two sons, Mr. Odo Russell (after- nor easing. She was evidently charmed wards Lord Arnpthill) and his brother,. with the coat and its wearer, and in- then Mr. Arthur Russell, made up the sisted on our going to dine with her on number. We sat at a round table, the the following Friday; but having no conversation, in deference to the Paris suitable dress, I begged to be excused, savant, being in French. I was placed I had to take as little luggage as between the brothers Russell, and blun- possible, and have no evening dress, dered on in very Scottish French, until Madamc Mohl. I have only a high with a quiet smile Mr. Odo Russell. 48 suggested, Had we not better speak in English? The dinner was served ~ la Busse, a fashion which was at that (late by no means usual in England; and the dishes, which were few in number, were the best of their kind, such as only a French chef could send to table. It was a lively little party, and our hostcss indulged in occasional witty and merry sallies. Lady William Rus- sell had great conversational powers, and we were charmed with her. The ease with which she expressed herself in French, and her clear enunciation, were admirable. She was quite what Lord iloughton described her, a grande dame to the tips of her fin- gers. Across these four-and-thirty years even the little items of her dress come to ones remembrance the dark stone-colored silk, the cape of tine old lace on her shoulders, and the flashing of gems on her fingers. One could not but see how our sprightly hostess effaced herself, and, like a skilful pilot, led the conversation into channels which were familiar to her guests, and where they uncon- sciously displayed their best powers. In her work on Madame R~camier we again come on an observation which exactly defines the writer: If she knew an anecdote ~ propos of something, she would call on any one else who knew it also to relate it, though no one related it better than herself. No one ever understood more thoroughly how to show off others to the best advantage; if she was able to fathom their minds, she would always endeavor to draw up what was valuable. This was one of her great charms and as the spirits of the speaker were raised by his success, he became really more animated, and his ideas and words flowed, on more rapidly. When we adjourned to the inner drawing-room, the evening guests were beginning to arrive. The two rooms were spacious but not lofty, plainly yet most comfortably furnished with wall- divans, covered, as were the easiest of easy-chairs, which were of all sizes, with crimson woollen damask, the window-hangings being of the same Evertinqs with Madame Mold. material. There were few ornaments, little gilding, and no glare. A subdued light was thrown from green-shaded lamps in corners on account of Mr. Mohis eps, an(l this softened light added to the pervading atmosphere of repose. Amongst the first arrivals were Thackeray and his two young daugh- ters, the latter in pretty light blue dresses. As they were being an- nounced, Madame Mohi called out from the other end of the drawing-room, My dears, (lidnt Ii tell you that you were not to (Iress ! Thackeray was very animated, and talked as perhaps only Thackeray could talk. Like others, he came under the spell of Lady William Russells fasci- nation, and was at once monopolized by her. Gradually, however, a group gathered round them, and soon the author of Vanity Fair found him- self surrounded and discoursing to an admiring little audience. Madame Mohis salon that evening was as usual crowded, many of the ~uests bearing names familiar to us from hearsay. Among other celeb- rities we noted Elie de Beaumont, the geologist and perpetual secretary of the Institute ; M. Milne-Edwards, the naturalist; M. de Quatrefages, the an- thropologist; M. de St. Hilaire, and a host of members of the Institute. There was no cumbersome preparation for the guests ; the only refreshments were tea and cake on a table in a cor- ner of the inner drawing-room, tea being poured out by the hostess her- self. How often, in the hum and babel of talk, that high voice rang out shrilly and merrily, as she apostrophized some of her guests, tickling the ears of all who wanted to hear more and lose nothing! Our old note-book records: No music, no cards, no games in the salon, only conversation; but the ease and grace of French manners struck us particularly. We had to leave Paris before the return of M. Jules Mohi, his wife, with characteristic kindness, loading us, un- solicited, with letters of introduction to her friends in Italy. It was Madame Evenings with Madame JJifohl. 49 Molds habit to pay an annual visit to being fifty-seven and he forty-seven, to her English. friends, and, late in the point out that if they were to continue summer of 1859, M. Mohi followed his to spend their evenings together, the wife to England. In going throu0h convenanees must be observed. us some old letters I find one addressed to simple rejoinder was staggering, Qaoi his friend. fairs? Was there ever a liner coin- PARIS, 120 Ruu nu BAC, edy! The celebration of their mar- 26th July, 1859. ria~e was at the time kept a profound M~ DEAR FALcONER, I hope to be lil secret, and only the two witnesses were London on the 8th of August, or a few present Jules Mold inviting a friend days later. If I cannot finish some things ~ in the time I calculate, will you be so kind a the previous evenino to come to as to solicit my admission to the Athen~uin him next day and act as t~moin. The from that time for a month, if it can be friend was punctual, but went under done, and the number of foreigners who tile impression that he was to serve as can be admitted allows of it? You know witness at a duel! We read that the what a pleasure it is to me to enjoy the ceremony was performed in the pres- hospitality of the Club. ence of the t~rnoins, and the newly I have read a great deal since of your married couple parted at the church cave, your bone knives, and all these old- door, and ret to their respective world remains, and am anxious to hear homes. Two days later they met again from you the sequel of the story. I talked at a restaurant near the railway station, to Elie de Beaumont about it, who is most dined there with their witnesses, and obdurately incredulous, set off on a wedding tour to Switzer- But we will talk of this and many other land. matters in London. Yours very sin- After an interval of several years, cerely, J. INIour~. and in the spring of 1867, I again saw The attachment that had long ex- Madame Mohi. Being then with my isted between Jules Mohi and Hugh sister for several weeks in Paris, we Falconer was fostered by the frequent received the old affectionate welcome, autumnal visits of the former to Lon- and went frequently to her Friday re- don; so at a season when society was c eptions. It was then for the first time scarce, and tile visiting world out of that we made acquaintance with the town, the two friends saw much of husband of Madame Mohi, and our each other at the Athenteum Club, great pleasure was to have a seat by where on consecutive days they dined his side during the evenings, which he and spent their evenings together. made most interesting by pointing out With his great erudition, Jules Mohi the celebrities, and telling us the names had the singleness and simplicity of a of the guests. He always joined us child, and a sense of humor that made sisters, and kept by us during the even- his companionship delightful. To my ing, for the dear sake, we believe, of uncle lie more than once described his friend, who, alas I was no more the circumstances of his engagement with us, and from whom he was not to to Miss Mary Clarke, and they were be very long separated. inconceivably comical. DuPing Mrs. On one Friday the salon was nun- Clarkes life lie had been for sonic snally crowded. Ladies in full toilet twenty years a daily visitor, and spent edged into a company where there was nearly every evening with mother and little space for display, and after show- daughter for that daughters sake ; yet ing themselves, made room for others, on the death of the former it did not and withdrew to later parties, where occur to our philosopher that a certain fashions and dress would be more ap- step was necessary to ensure to him a preciated. But there was always a continuance of that daily companion- happy mixture of dress and undress at ship which was essential to his happi- Madame Molds. On that particular ness. He was obtuse, and it fell to the evening, we happened to be near lady, who was ten years his senior, she enough to Lord Houghton to hicam him LtViN~* AGE. VOL. LXXXIV. 4316 Evenings with Jlfadame Kohl. say on entering that he had only ar- One Friday evening, at the Rae du Ba; rived an hour before from England, M. Guizot came in, and related the follow- and the remembrance of this tritling ing story that he had just heard circumstance was curiously verified the A relation of the Duchess de la R other day, when in reading Lord had married one of those sapp& ts de Satan 1-Loughtons Life, we came upon the (her term for any one in imperial employ), and had further degraded herself by living following passage under the date 186k under the roof with Celui-ci. The un- ~ I left London two inches deep in happy lady had become from that time snow, and found here the warmth of forth naturally as one dead to her kith and spring. The change was quite comical. kin in the noble faubourg; but she was I went to Madame Molils in the even- now ill, dying it was believed, and it was a lug, and found myself talking to Re- fit occasion for the exercise of mercy. The nan, etc., as if I had been in Paris a family therefore resolved to send her to month. Cornme la vie est facile ici! judgment absolved, at least, by the Fan- I{enans appearance was striking. I~ bourg St. Germain. The duchess herself may be prejudice, but I was always generously volunteered to take this rnes- unpleasantly impressed by him. He sage of pardon to her dying relative. She was stout, broad, and short-necked; ordered her carriage, and said to the foot- man, Aux Tuileries ! The man stared, his large, projecting eyes were placed but carried the order to the coachman; far apart, and wit-li the wide mouth whereupon that venerable functionary, who were the reverse of attractive. Yet had driven three generations of the de la his face was undoubtedly massive and Rs, got down from his seat, and pre- expressive of power, and we were often senting himself at the carriage window, assured that the charm df his speech at said, Madame la Duchesse, I cannot have once dispelled the impression made by the honor of conducting your grace to the his unprepossessing appearance. Ma- Tuileries; my horses do not know the way dame de Witt, the daughter of Guizot, there. Madame Mohi clapped her hands in de- was a frequent guest, as were the Tourguenieffs, etc. ; but on the even- light, exclaiming, And the duchess kissed the old coachman? lug in question the individual who No said M. Guizot; but she got out terested us most after Renami was the of her carriage and sent for a cab. young wido~ved Duchess Colonna, who Madame Mohi lived on this story for & had achieved great success as a scuip- week, and so did her friends. tress. In a low dress of black velvet, whieli threw her snowy shoulders into strong contrast, her swan-like neck without any ornament, amid her profu- sion of fair hair in masses of short curls, she was the ideal of eleganfie. What a little court she held, and how graceful were her movements I Political opinions were so openly cx- piTessed and so adverse to the imperial r6gime at Madame Mohis, that I often wOn(lered that the government did not interfere and order the doors of the salon to be closed. She carried her dislike to the emperor Louis Napoleon, whom she always spoke of as Celui- ci, to such a pitch, that she persisted when travelling to use her old Louis Philippe passport under her maiden name of Mary Clarke. On this lieatl I Her definition of de lesprit was that cannot resist quoting an anecdote re- it does not mean great wit, it is corded in her Life rather that quick perception which More than once her opinion is re- corded of conversation as it is generally - practised in England We are scarcely aware in England how seldom we practise that form of talk which alone can be called conversation, in which what we really think is brought out, and. which flows the quicker from the pleasure of seeing it excite thoughts in others conversation to which both reason and fancy pay their tribute. . . . Conversation is the mingling of mind with mind, and is the most complete exercise of the social faculty; but the general barter of common- places we choose to call conversation is as far removed from its reality as the signs of Caspar ilauser were from the talking of ordinary men. bO Evenings with Madame JJfohl. seizes the ideas of others and returns change for them. As a specimen of Madame Mohis style in English, which was said not to equal her writing in French, we give one more quotation from Madame R~camier, and the History of Society in France. In the latter part of this work she traces the influence of the old ballads and Provenqal traditions on chivalry in the eleventh century That these stories originated in real facts belonging to these localities which the border ballads first commemorated, and by degrees altered, can scarcely be doubted. . . We find to this day the Breche de Roland made by the sword Durandal when the hero was dying ; the story was recorded in one of the old ballads, and this trace remains of it. It is equally impossible to doubt from the quantity of Proven~al ro- mances founded on Charlemagnes passage into Spain, that these traditions delighted both poets and people long before chivalry was thought of; but when the Proven~al poets and chivalry did appear. this became their heroic age; they looked back upon it as the Greeks must have looked upon the days of Orpheus and Theseus. Nor was their reverence for it such a mere matter of fancy as might at first sight appear; for out of these mysterious thickets of history a spirit came forth just as spontaneous and fresh as a spring sparkling out of the ground in some deep glen, and like the same little rill after murmuring a long time in dark, solitary woods, it emerged into sight, became broader and deeper, and poured down like a river, bringing to us the majestic civilization that overspread the country. How many curious and active spirits have endeavored to trace a river to its source; but can any stream, however beneficent, be compared to the poetry which was the source of our modern civilization, whose infancy was concealed in these un- known regions of history? It cannot relate its own birth, nor how it was nourished; but when this young muse, all charming with unconsciousness, began to speak, it was in a new tongue, so soft, so full of ten- derness and grace, and the sentiments she expressed in this musical Proven~al were so refined and enchanting, that all around were enthralled. As Miss Mary Clarke, she was the literary executor of M. Fauriel, the 51 author of the Histoire de in Po~sic Proven9ale, etc. ; and with fidelity and care she fulfilled the trust Jules Mohi, who was also Fauriels friend, generously aiding her in what was a labor of love. Our last interview with her was early in 1870, when, being in Paris for a day or two with my husband on our way to Italy, we went to the Rue (In Bac and made an early call. Madame Mohi received us in the traditional dressing- gown and curl-papers, the latter of very varied and brilliant lines, being red, green, an(l blue circulars utilized for this purpose. I imagined that she would make a little apology to my hus- band for appearing in this costume ,as he was a complete stranger to her ; but she made no allusion to this, and was quite unconscious of there being any- thing remarkable in her appearance, she getting as usual to the kernel of the subjects discussed. 11cr attractive niece, Miss Mohl, who afterwards be- came Madame Helmholtz, was with her, busily engaged with her painting The use of the circulars as curl-papers was one of the small economies which amused her friends, who knew of her frequent deeds of generosity and be- nevolence. For example, we read of Madame Mohl running about Paris one morning to induce buyers to go to the forced sale of a poor old friends fur- niture, she attending herself and ex- pending nearly two thousand francs in buying out what would be most useful, and presenting the same to the poor widow. Would that we had preserved the quaint little notes that at long intervals were received from her! One only I can find undated as usual written from the Deanery of Westminster in June, 1871. It was in reply to an invi- tation. She was unable to accept it definitely, and said If not, I shall certainly go some morning to see you. But we were on the point of leaving London, and saw her face no more. More touching than her own death- bed, as recorded by the biographer, was that of Jules Mohi, whose death took place several years before that of his Some Portuguese Sketches. wife. When power of speech was lost to the dying man, and while struggling for breath, his hand was put out to stroke her poor face a mute expres- sion of consciousness that she was by his side. To her his death was desolation. Faithful friends rallied round her and kept by her to the last, but the aged woman was often found by them in floods of tears, and her only pleasure was in talking of Mr. Mohl, and in bringing out editions of his transla- tions from Persian and Chinese and ether works. Her own summons came when she had attained the age of ]flnety-two. She used her gifts in brightening the lives of others, and the memory of Mary Mohl will be cherished in many hearts as it is in ours. From The cornhull Magazine. SOME PORTUGUESE SKETcHES. THE Portuguese arc not wholly offensive. In politics, or when they hunger after African territory we fancy needed for our own people, they may seem so. When a rebuff excites them a(Yainst the English, Lisbon may not be pleasant for Englishmen. But in such cases would London commend itself to a triumphant foreigner? For my own part, I found a kind of gentle, unobtru- sive politeness even among those Por- tuguese who knew I was English. Occasionally, on being taken for nil American, I did not correct the mis- take, for having no quarrel with Amer- icans they sometimes confided to me the bitterness of their hearts against the English. I staved in Lisbon at the Hotel Universal in the Run Nova da Almeda, a purely Portuguese house where only stray Englishmen came. At the table ci hdte I one night had a conversation with a mild-mannered Portuguese which showed the curious ignorance and almost childish vanity of the race. I asked him in French if he spoke English. Doing so badly we mingled the two lanoua~es and at last talked vivaciously. He was an ardent politician, and hated the English vim- lently, telling me so with curious cir- cumlocutions. He was of opinion, he said, that though the English were un- fortunately powerful on the sea, on land his nation was a match for us. As for the English in Africa, he de- clared the Portuguese able to sweep them into the sea. But though he hated the English, his admiration for Queen Victoria was as unbounded as our own earth-hunger. She was, lie told me, entirely on the side of the Portuguese in the sad troubles which English politicians were then causing. He detailed, as particularly as if he had been present, a strange scene reported to have taken place between Soveral, their ambassador, and Lord Salisbury, in which discussion grew heated. It seemed as if they would part in anger. At last Soveral arose and exclaimed with much dignity: You must now excuse me, my Lord Salisbury, I have to dine with the queen to-night. My Lord Salisbury started, looked incredu- lous, and said coldly, You are playing with me. This cannot be. In- deed, said the ambassador, producing a telegram from Windsor, it is as I say. And then Salisbury turned pale, fell back in his chair, and gasped for breath. And after that, said my informant, things went well. Sev- eral people at the table listened to this story and seemed to believe it. With much difficulty I preserved a grave countenance, and congratulated him on the possession of an ambassador who was more than a match for our foreign minister. Before the end of dinner he informed me that the En- glish were as a general rule savages, while the Portuguese were civilized. Having lived in London lie knew this to be so. Finding that he knew the East End of our gig antic city, I found it difficult to contradict him. Certainly Lisbon, as far as visible poverty is concerned, is far better than London. I saw few very miserable people; beggars were not at all numer- ous. In a week I was only asked twice for alms. One constantly hears that Lisbon is dirty, and as Luli of foul 52 e Portuauese Sketches. odors as Coleridges Cologne. I did mighty parcels upon their heads ; men not find it so, and the bright sunshine great baskets. Fish is carried iU spread- and the fine color of the houses might ing flat baskets by girls. They look well compensate for some drawbacks, afar off like gigantic hats ; further The houses of this regular town are still, like quaint odd toadstools in mo- white, and pale yellow, and fine worn- tion. All household furniture remov- out pink, with narrow, green painted ing among the poor is clone by hand. verandabs which soon lose crn(leness Two or four men load up a kind of flat in the intense light. The windows of hand-barrow without wheels till it is the larger blocks are numerous and set pyramidal and colossal with piled gear. in long, regular lines ; the streets if Then passing poles through the loop narrow run into open squares blazing of ropes, with a slow effort they raise with white, unsoihed monuments. All it up and advance at a funereal and day long the ways are full of people solemn pace. The slowness with which who are fairly but unostentatiously they move is pathetic. It is suggestive polite. They do not stare one out of of a dead burden or of some street countenance however one may be accident. But of these latter there dressed. In Antwerp a man who ob- must be very few; there is not nincli jects to being won(lere(l at may not vehicular traffic in Lisbon. It is cOrn- wear a light suit. Lisbon is more cos- paratively rare to see anything hike mopohitan. But the beauty of the town cruelty to horses. The mules which of Lisbon is not added to by the beauty draw the l)rimitive, ramshackhe trains of its inhabitants. The women are have the worst time of it, and are curiously the reverse of lovely. Onhy obliged to pull their load every now occasionally I saw a face which was and again off one line on to another, attractive by the odd conjuncture of an being urged thereto with some brutal- olive skin and light grey eyes. They ity. But these trains do not run up do not wear mautilhas. The lower the very hiilhy parts of the city ; the classes use a shawl. Those who are of main lines run along the Tagus east the bourgeois class or above it differ and west of the great Square of the little from Londoners. The working Black horse. And by the river the or loafing men, for they laugh and loaf, city is flat. and work and chaff and chatter at every Only a little way up, in my street corner, are more distinct in costume, for instance, it rapidly becomes hilly. wearing the flat felt sombrero with On entering the hotel, to my surprise I turned-up edges that one knows from went down-stairs to my bedroom. On pictures, while the long coat which has looking out of the window a street was displaced the cloak still retains a smack even then sixty feet below me. The of it in the way they disregard the floor underneath me did not make part sleeves and hang it from their shoul- of the hotel, but was a portion of a ders. These men are decidedly not so great building occupied by the poorer ugly as the women, and vary wonder- people and let out in flats. During the fully in size, color, and complexion, day, as I sat by the window working, though a big Portuguese is a rarity. the noise was not intolerable, but at The strong point in both sexes is their night when the Lisbonensians took to natural gift for wearing color, for amusing themselves they roused me choosing and blending or matching from a well-earned sleep. They shouted tints, and sang and made mingled and in These Portuguese men and women distinguishable uproars which rose work hard when they do not loaf and wildly through the narrow, cheep space chatter. The porters, who stand in and burst into my open window. After knots with cords upon their shoulders, long endurance I rose and shut it, pre- hear huge loads ; a characteristic of ferring heat to insomnia. But in the the place is this load-hearing and the day, after that discord, I always had size of the burdens. Women carry the harmonious compensations of true 54 color. Even when the sun shone bril- liantly I could not distinguish the grey blue of the deep shadows, so much 1)lue was in the painted or distempered outer walls. It was in Lisbon that I first began to discern the mental effect of color, and to see that it comes truly and of necessity from a peoples tem- perament. Can a busy race be true colorists? In some parts of the town, the east- ern quarters, one cannot help notic- ing the still remaining influence of the Moors. There are even some true rel- ics ; l)ut certainly the influence sur- vives in fiat-sided houses with small windows and Moorish ornament high up just under the edge of the flat roof. One day being tired of the more noisy western town, I went east and climbed up and lip and turned round by a barrack, where 5ome soldiers eyed me as a possible Englishman, being alternately in deep shadow and burning sunlight. I hoped to see the Tagus at last, for here the houses are not so lofty, and presently, being on very high ground, I caught a view of it darkly dotted with steamers over some flat roofs. Towards the sea it narrows, but above Lisbon it widens out like a lake. On the far side was a white town, beyond that again hills blue with lucid atmosphere. At my feet (I leant against a low wall) was a terraced gar- den with a big vine spread on a trellis, making or promising to make in the later spring a long, shady arbor, for as yet the leaves were scanty ahd freshly green. Every house was faint blue, or varied pink, or wornout, washed-out, sun-dried green. All the tones were beautiful and modest, fit- hug the sun yet not competing with it. In London the color would break the level of dull tints and angrily protest, growing scarlet and vivid and wrathful. And just as I looked away from the river and the vine-clad terrace there was a scurrying rush of little school- boys from a steep side street. They ran down the slope, and passed me, going quickly like black blots on the road, yet their laughter was sunlight on the ripple of waters. The Portuguese are always children and are not som- bre. Only in their graveyards stand solemn cypresses which rise darkly on the hillside where they bury their dead; but in life they laugh and are merry even after they have children of their own. Though little al)t to (10 what is sup- posed to be a travellers duty in visiting certain obvious places of interest~, I one day hunted for the English cemetery in which Fielding lies buried, and found it at last just at the back of a little open park or garden where children were playing. On going in I found myself alone save for a gardener who was cut- ting down some rank grass with a scythe. This cemetery is the quietest and most beautiful I ever saw. One might imagine the dead were all friends. They are at any rate stran- gers in a far land, an English party with one great man among them. I found his tomb easily, for it is made of massive blocks of stone. Having brought from home his little Voyage to Lisbon, written just before he died, I took it out, sat down on the stone, and read a page or two. He says fare- well at the very end. As I sat the strange and melancholy suggestion of the dead man speaking out of that great kind heart of his, now dust, the strong contrast between the brilliant sunlight and the heavy sombreness of the cypresses of death, the song of spring birds and the sound of childrens voices, were strangely pathetic. I rose up and paced that little deadmans ground which was still and quiet. And on another grave I read but a name, the name of some woman, Eleanor. After life, and work, and love, this is the end. Yet we do remember Fielding. On the following day I went to Cm- tra out of sheer eronti, for my inability to talk Portuguese made me silent and solitary perforce. And at Cintra I evaded my obvious duty, and only looked at the lofty rock on which the Moorish castle stands. For one thing the hill was swathed in mists, it rained at intervals, a kind of bitter tramontaiia was blowing. And after running the gauntlet of a crowd of vociferous don- Some Portuguese Sketches. Some Portu~,mese Sketches. key-boys I was anxious to get out of the town. I made acquaintance with a friendly Cintran (log an(l went for a walk. My companion did not object to my nationality or my iual)il ity to ex- press myself in fluent Portuguese, and unused himself by tearing the leaves of the Australian gumtrees, which flourish very well in Portugal. But at last, in cold (lisgust at the nucharitabie puritanic weather which destroyed all beauty in the landscape, I returned to the town. Here I passed the prison. On spying me the prisoners crow(le(l to the barred windows ; those on the lower floor protruded their hands, those on the upper story sent down a basket by a long string; I emptie(l my pockets of their coppers. It seemed not unlike giving nuts to our human cousins at the Zoo. Surely Darwin is the prince of ped i (tree-makers. Before him the daring of the bravest herald never went l)eyond Adam. He has opened great possibilities to the college dealing with inherited (lignity of an- cient fame. This Cintra is a town on a hill and in a hole, a kind of halffunnel opening on a long plain which is (lotted by small villages and farms. If the don- key-boys were extirl)ated it might be fine on a fine day. Returning to the station, I ensconced myself in a carriage out of the way of the cutting wind, and talked fluent bad French with a kindly 01(1 Portuguese who looked like a Quaker. T~vo others came in and entered into a lively con- versation in which Charing Cross and London Bridge occurred at intervals. It took an hour and a quarter to (10 the fifteen miles between Cintra and Lis- bon. I was told it was considered by no meflus a very slow train. Travel- ling in Portu~al may (10 something to reconcile one to the trains in the south- east of England. The last place I visited in Lisbon was the market. Outside the glare of the hot sun was nearly blinding. Just in that neighborhood all the main build- ings are purely white, even the shadows make ones eyes ache. In the open spaces of the squares even brilliantly 55 clad women seemed black against white. Inside, in a half shade under glass, a dense crowd moved and clint- tere(l and stirredi to and fro. The womeii wore all the colors of flowers andI fruit, but chiefly orange. And on the stone floor great flat baskets of oranges, each with a leaf of green at- tached to it, shone like pure gold. Then there were red apples, and red handkerchiefs twisted over dark hair. Milder looking in tint was the pale Jal)anese apple, with an artistic refine- ment of paler color. The crowd, the goo(l humor the noise even the o(lor which was not so offensive as in our English Covent Garden, made a strik- ing and brilliant impression. Return- ing to the hotel, I was met by a scarlet procession of priests and acolytes who l)ore the Host. The passers-by mostly bared their heads. Perhaps but a little while ago every one might have been worldly wise to follow their example, for the Inquisition lasted till 1508 in Spain. In the afternoon of that day I went on boardi the Dunottar Castle, and in the evening sailed for Madeira. A weeks odd moments of study and enforced intercourse with waiters and male chambermaids, whose French was even more primitive than my own, had taught me a little Portuguese, that cor- rupt, un beautiful, bastard Spanish, and I found it useful even on board the steamer. At any rate, I was able to interpret for a Funchal lawyer who sat by me at table, and afterwards invited n~e to see him. This smattering of Portuguese I found more useful still at Madeira, or at Funchal - its capital for I stayed in native hotels. It is the only possible way of learning anything about the people in a short visit. Moreover, the English hotels are full of invalids. It is curious to note the l)resent prevalence of consumption among the natives of Funchal. It is a good enough proof on the first face of it that consumption is catching. There is a large hospital here for Portuguese patients, though the disease was un- known before the English made a health resort of it. ~orne Portuguese Sketches, Funchal has been a thousand times described, and is well worthy of it. Lying as it does in a long curve with the whole town visible from the sea, as the houses grow fewer and fewer upon the slopes of the lofty mountain back- ground, it is curiously theatrical and scenic in effect. It is artistically ar- ranged, well placed a brilliant jewel in a dark~green setting, and the sea is amethyst and turquoise. I stayed in an hotel whose prol)rietor was an ardent Republican. One even- ing he mentioned the fact in broken En~lish, anti I told him that in theory I also was of that creed. He grew tre- mendously excited, opened a bottle of Madeira, shared it with me and two Portuguese, and insisted on singing the Marseillaise until a crowd collected in front of the house, whose open win- dows looked on an irregular square. Then he and his friends shouted Viva a parti(la dos Republicanos The charges at this hotel were ridiculously small only three and fourpence a day for board and lodging. And it was by no means bad ; at any rate it was always possible to get fruit, including loquats, strawberries, custar(l apples, bananas, oranges, and the l)assion- flower fruit, which is not enticing on a first acquaintance, and resembles an an~mic pomegranate. Eggs, too, were twenty-eight for ten-pence ; fish was at nominal priecs. But there is nothing to do in Funchal save eat and swim or ride. The cli- mate is enervating, and when the east wind blows from the African coast it is impossible to move save in the most spiritless and languid way. It may make an invalid comparatively strong, but I am sure it might re(luce a strong man .to a state of confirmed laziness little removed from actual illness. I was glad one day to get horses, in coin- pany with an acquaintance, and ride over the mountains to Fayni, on the north side of the island. And it was curious to see the obstinate incredulity of the natives when we declared we meant going there and back in one day. The double journey was only a little over twenty-six yet it was de- miles, dared impossibk. Our landlord drew ghastly pictures of the state we should be in, declaring we (lid not know what we were doing; he called in his wife who lifted up her hands against our rashness and crossed herself piously when we were unmoved; he sum- moned the owner of the horses, who said the thing could not be done. But my friend was not to be persuaded, declaring that Englishmen could do anything, and that he would show them. I-Ic explained that we were both very much more than admirable horsemen, and only minimized his own feats in the colonies by kindly exagger- ating mine in America, and finally it was settled gravely tha.t we were to be at liberty to kill ourselves and ruin the horses for a lump sum of two pounds ten, provided we found food and wine for the two men who were to be our guides. In the morning, at six oclock, we set out in a heavy shower of rain. Before we had gone up the bill a thou- sand feet we were wet through, but a thousand more brought us into bright sunlight. Belo~v lay Funchal, under- neath a white sheet of rain-cloud ; the sea beyond it was darkened here and there ; it was at first difficult to distin guish the outlying Deserta Islands fmom sombre fog-banks. But as we still went up and up the day brightened more and more, and when Funchal wa~ behind and under the first bills the sea began to gloxv and glitter. Here and theic it shone like watered silk. The Desertas sho~ved plainly as rocky masses a distant steamer trailed a. thin ribbon of smoke above the water. Close at hand a few sheep and goats~ ran from us; now and again a horse or two stared solenrnly at us ; and we all grew cheerful and laughed. For the air was keen and bracing; we were on the plateau, nearly four thousand feet above the sea, and in a climate quite other than that which choked the dis- tant, low-lying town. Then we began to go down. All the main roads of the Ilba da Madeira are paved with close-set kid- ney pebbles, to save them from being washed out and destroyed by the sud 56 Some ?o~tuyuese Sketches. den violent semi-tropical rains. Even on this mountain it was so, and our horses, with their rough-shod feet, rat- tled down the pass without faltering. The road zigzagged after the manner of mountain roads. When we reached the bottom of a deep ravine it seemed impossible that we could have got there, and getting out seemed equally impossible. The slopes of the hills were about seventy degrees. Every- where was a thick growth of brush and trees. At times the road ran almost dangerously close to a precipice. But at last, about eleven oclock, we began to get out of the thick entanglement of mountains, and in the distance could see the ocean on the north side of the island. Fayni is there, said our guide, pointing, as it seemed, but a little way off. Yet it took two hours hard riding to reach it. Our path lay at first along the back of a great spur of the main mountain it narrowed till there was a precipice on either side on the right hand some seven or eight hundred feet, on the left more than a thousand. I had not looked down the like since I crossed the Jackass Moun- tain on the Fraser River in British Columbia. Underneath us were vil- lages scattered huts, built like bee- hives. The piece of level ground beneath was dotted with them. The place looked like some gigantic apiary. The dots of people were little larger than bees. And soon we came to the same stack-like houses close to our path. It was Sunday, an(l these vil- lage folks were dressed in their best clothes. They were curiously respect- ful, for were we not geate de gracate people who wore cravats gentle- men, in a word? So they rose up and uncovered. We saluted theta in pass- ing. It was a primitive sight. As we came where the huts were thicker, small crowds came to see us. Now on the right hand we saw a ridge with pines on it, suggesting, from the shape of the hill, a bristly boars back ; on the left the valley widened ; in front loomed up a gigantic mass of rock, the Eagles Cliff, in shape like Gibraltar. It was nineteen hundred feet high, 57 and even y& t it was far below us. But now the path pitched suddenly down- wards ; there were no paving-pebbles here, only the native hummocks of rock and the harder clay not yet washed away. The road was like a torrent-bed, for indeed it was a torrent when it rained; but still our horses were absolute in faith and stumbled not. And the Eagles Cliff grew big- ger and bigger still as we plunged down the last of the spur to a river then scanty of stream, and we were on the flat again not far from the sea. But to reach Fayni it was necessary to climb again, turning to the left. here we found a path which, with all my experience of western America mountain travels seemed very hard to beat in point of rockiness and steep- ness. We had to lead our horses and climb most carefully. But when a. quarter of a mile had been (lone in this. way it was possible to mount again,. and we were close to Fayah. I had thought all the time that it was a small town, but it appeared to me no more than the scattered huts we had passed, or those we had noted from the lofty spur. Our object was a certain house belonging to a Portuguese landowner who occupied the position of an En- glish squire in the ohdeii days. Both my friend and I had met him several times in Funchal, and, by the aid of an interpreter, had carried on a conversa- tion. But my Portuguese was dinner- table talk of the purely necessary order, and my companions was more exiguous than my own. So we decided to camp. before reaching his house, and eat our lunch undisturbed by the trouble of being polite without words. We told our gui(le this, and as lie was supposed to understand English we took it for granted that lie did so when we ordered him to pick some spot to camp a good way from the landowners house. But in spite of our laborious explanations lie took us on to the very estate, and plumped us down not fifty yards from the house. As we were ignorant of the fact that this was the house, we sent the l)Oy there for hot water to make coffee, and theti to our horror 58 we sa~xr the very man whom we just then wanted to avoid. We all talked together and gesticulated violently. I tried French vainly ; my little Portu- gu ese grew less an(l less, and disap- peared from my tongue; and then in despair we hailed the cause of the whole misfortune, and commanded him to explain. What lie explained I know not, but finally our friend seemed less hurt than lie had been, and lie returned to his house on our promising to go there as soon as our lunch was finished. The whole feeling of this sceneof this incident, of the place, the moun- tains, the primitive peol)le were so curious that it was difficult to think we were only fonr days from England. Though the people were gentle and kind and polite, they seemed no more civilized, from our point of view, than many Indians I have seen. Indeed, there are Indian communities in Amer- ica which are far ahead of them in culture. I seemed once more in a wild country. But our host (for, being on his ground, we were his guests) was most amiable and polite, it certainly was rather irksome to sit solemnly in his best room and stare at each other without a word. Below the open win- dow stood our guide, so when it be- came absolutely necessary for me to make our friend understand, or for me to die of supl)ression of urgent speech, I called to Joao and bade him inter- pret. Then calm ensued again until wine was brought. Then his (laughter, almost the only nice-looking PortuguesQ or Madeirian girl I ever saw, came in. We were introduced, and, in default of the correct thing in her native lan- guage, I informed her, in a polite Span- ish phrase I happened to recollect, that I was at her feet. Then, as I knew Some Portu~yuese Sketches. vociferous expostulation came from our host. lie talked fast, waved his hands, shook his head, and was evidently bent on keeping us all night. We again called in the interpreter, explaining that our reputation as Englishmen, as horsemen, as men, rested on our get- ting back to Funchal that night, and, seeing the point as a man of honor, lie most regretfully gave way, and, having his own horse saddled, accompanied us some miles on the road. We rode up another spur and came to a kind of wayside hut where three or four paths joined. here was congregated a brightly clad crowd of nearly a hun- dred men, women, and children. They rose and saluted us we turned and took off our hats. I noticed particularly that this luau who owne(l so much land and was such a magnate there did the same. I faiicied that these people had gathered there as much to see us pass as for Sunday chatter. For English travellers on the north side of the island are not very common, and I dare say we were something in the nature of an event. Turning at this point to the left, we plunged sharply downwards towards a bridge over a torrent, and here parted from our landowning friend. We began to climb an impos- sible-hooking hill, which my horse strongly objected to. On being urged lie tried to back off the road, and I had sonic difficulty in persuading him that lie could not kill tue without killing himself. But a slower pace reconciled lilni to the road, and as I was in no great hurry I allowed him to choose his own. Certainly the animahs had had a hard day of it even so far, and we had much to do before night. We were all of us glad to reach the Divide, and stay for a while at the Pouso, or Govern- her brother in Funclial, I called for the nient House, which was about half-way. interpreter and told her so as an inter- One gets tolerable Madeira there. esting piece of information. She gave It was eight or half past when we me a rose, and, looking out of the camiie down into Funchial under a moon window, she taught mue the correct which seemned to cast as strongly marked Portu~uese for Eagles Cliff Penhia shadows as the very sun itself. The daguila. We were quite friends, rain of the morning had long ago passed It was then time for us to return if away, and the air was warm indeed, we meant to keep to our word and do alniost close after the last part of the double journey in one day. But a the ride on the plateau, which began Emily Bront1~. at night-time to grow dim with ragged wreaths of mist. Our horses were so glad to accomplish the journey that they trotted down the steep, stony streets, which rang loudly to their iron hoofs. When we stopped at the stable I think I was almost as glad as they for, after all, even to an Englishinan with his countrys reputation to sup- port, twelve or thirteen hours in the saddle are somewhat tiring. And though I was much pleased to have seen more of the Ilha da Madeira than most visitors, I remembered that I had not been on horseback for nearly five years. From Temple Bar. EMILY BRONTE. WHEN Mrs. Gaskell wrote her Life of Charlotte Bront~, general opinion justified her, as it would still justify l~er,in regarding Charlotte as undoubt- edly the most gifted of the three sisters Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Bront~. But the position thus assigned by the many to the elder sister has not been approved by the critics, and would not have been accepted by Charlotte her- self, who was fully alive to Emilys extraordinary powers, and keenly sen- sitive to any recognition of them. Of Emily she writes that under an unso- phisticated culture, inartificial tastes, and an unpretending outside lay a se- cret power and fire that might have informed the brain and kindled the veins of a hero, and a regret ever with her was that, with rare excep- tions, critics failed to recognize the greatness that Emily revealed in the few compositions swift-coming death permitted. With eager gratitude, the re- fore, did she accept Sydney Pobells praise of Wuthering Heights. It cheered and revived her, although by the time the words were written Emily was chill to praise or blame. She would have rejoiced greatly if she could have so forecast the years as to know what of praise for Emily the future held in store. In emphatic lan- guage Mr. Swinburne has declared that Charlotte and Emily Bront~ and Mrs. Browning make up the perfect trinity for England of highest female fame. Mr. Bayne pronounces Emily Bront~ one of the most extraordinary women that ever lived, and acids that many grounds might be shown for believing her genius more poxverful, her prom- ise more rich than those of her sister Charlotte. His examination of the l)OCI~5 written by the three sisters leads him to a conclusion proclaimed by Charlotte herself, and now accepted by competent critics, that Emilys are beyond measure the best. In his Life of Charlotte Broutfi Mr. Wemyss Reid passes the same judg- ment on Emilys poetry, while its abso- lute merits are attested by its finding a place in Wards anthology of English verse. Charlotte Bront~ would have joyed over such testimony to her sis- ters kinship with the breed of noble bloods. Emily Broutfi was born at Hartshead- cum-Clifton, near Leeds, in 1819. In 1820 her father removed to Haworth, an(l in the parsona~e there Emily spent nearly her whole life. Mrs. Gaskehl has used all her artistic skill to deepen the impression of the gloom that hung over Haworth parsonage. In the open- ing chapter of the life, as she takes her reader with her on the way from Keighiley to Haworth, she is careful to strike the key-note of the composition a note of utter sadness. The neigh- borhood of Haworthi is so described as to induce a feeling of depression that never leaves the reader. The pic- ture of Haworth parsonage confirms the mournful impression made by the landscape. That cold, grey house, overlooking the terribly crowded churchyard, seems a fit habitation for the nervous, timid woman Mrs. Gaskell presents to us as Charlotte Brontfi a woman suffering from ill health, troubled by depression of spirits, haunted by superstitious fancies all aggravate(l by the intolerable burden of her unhappy brothers misdoings ; but this is not the Charlotte Bront~ of her novels the fastidious, painstaking artist, the fearless, selfreliant woman. 59 60 At the same time the story of the Bront~ family is full of a pathos not to be mitigated by any merely human consolations. The three sisters passed through a motherless childhood, un- cheered by any large amount of kindly sympathy. Their father, to whom they might naturally have looked for some compensation for their great loss, was a cold, selfish man, who, even in his wifes lifetime, took his meals apart from his family. Their aunt, who came to Hawortli after Mrs. Bront~ died, did her duty nobly, so far as concerned everything connected with housekeeping; but she had no power of entering into or even conceiving the workings of the active minds around her. Tabby, the faithful servant, was probably the most appreciative and sympathetic of the grown-up people in that Yorkshire parsonage. And so the girls grew to womanhood, drawn ever nearer to each other by similarity of pursuits and aspirations, and by a strong family affection. The shatter- ing of the family circle was terribly sudden and complete. Their brother Patrick, whose conduct had so dis- gra ee(l and pained his friends and rela- tives, died in September, 1848, Emily in December of the same year, Anne in May, 1849. Thus, in the short space of eight months Charlotte Bront~ was left the sole survivor of the Bront~ family, the lonely occupant of the room where in days gone by she and her sisters, their duties done, discussed their plans and ambitions, as they l)aced backwards and forwards in the flickering firelight. Only a few short years were to pass before Charlotte herself was called away, and laid By the lone church that stands amid the moors. Yet it was not always winter on these sweeping moors. The girlhood of the three sisters was not without happiness quiet, doubtless, but real and whole- some. They found deep joy in the moors ; they loved them when the snow lay deep, and the winter winds rushed from the hills ; they loved them when the kindly warmth of summer lured out blossoms ; they loved them most of all when autumn brought the dusky glow of the heather. Their af- fection for each other was a source of intense happiness ; it proved, indeed~ a source of deep anguish when first Emily and then Anne was wrapped from lovim)g eyes in deaths chill mist but not (leath itself could destroy the memory of loving intercourse. Their intellectual pursuits were another source of delight ; they found real and abiding pleasure in writing their poems and novels, and in discussing with each other the subjects and the plans of their compositions. Emilys earliest education was got at home from her aunt, Miss Branwell, and from her father. Miss Branwell was an excellent housekeeper, and she succeeded in passing on her skill to her nieces. Chamlotte Brontd and her friend Harriet Martinean refute the popular generalization that intellectual women are poor housekeepers. Every woman that strays beyond the limits of housewifery is not necessarily a Mrs. Jellyby. The Rev. Patrick Brontd gave his children lessons, and at the same time looked after their physical well-being accor(ling to principles strictly Spartan. Not least important, as a mind-forming influence, were the amusement.s of these precocious chil- dren. From a very early age they read indiscriminately, wrote, and got up plays ; the interaction of minds so keen and so early active was bound to be highly formative. Of school education Emily had exceedingly little. Her home yearning was such that frequent or prolonged absence from Haworth was a physical impossibility only on the open, breezy Yorkshire moors could her wild spirit find a con~enial atmosphere. Charlotte has told what an effort it cost Emily to spen(l some time with her at a Continental school. She was never happy till she carried her hard-won knowledge back to the remote English village, the old parson- age house, and (lesolate Yorkshire hills. The records of her schooldays testify to her strength of intellect, her stubborn tenacity of will, her strong, Emily Bront~ Emily BroutJ. wild imagination. The Brussels visit was her last absence from the parson- age. The few years that remained were spent quietly at home, for a pri- vate school scheme long cherished by the sisters never came to anything. her last days have been described by her elder sister in words that reveal to us her stern, unbending character. A notable fact not, however, recorded by Charlotte is that, like her brother, Emily died standing. Emily I3ront~ is described as having had, like Charlotte, a bad complexion; but she was tall and well-formed, while her eyes were of remarkable beauty. Her mental gifts were of a high order. In spite of her imperfect culture, this is abundantly proved by her writings, few as they are. Her temperament was such that to strangers she rarely if ever unbent, while even her own rela- tives stood in some awe of her. At the same time she was capable of strong affection. She was deeply attached to her sisters, and passionately fond of dumb animals, insects, and flowers. As might be supposed, Emily did not favorably impress outsiders. Mrs. Gaskell says that all she could learn about Emily tended to give an unpleas- ant impression of her; but, as she properly points out, Emily has been portrayed for us in Shirley, by her sister Charlotte, who knew her as no stranger could ever have known her. In Shirleys character we find not only such traits as other observers have noted in Emilys, but also character- istics hid from the outer world joy- ousness of heart, kindly, womanly sympathy, warm, deep emotions. From the sketch given of Emily Bront~s life, one can readily see that she could have owed little to influences outside Haworth, and little more to reading; for, situated as she was, she could have had access to only a com- paratively small number of books. The question then is, whence came the influences that helped to form the powerful character that confronts us in her writings? One potent influence was the moors. They were to her more than objects of sensuous enjoy- 61 meat. She loved them with a deep, passionate love ; they informed her with their own strong, wild nature their dreariest, gloomiest aspects found harmonies in her stern spirit ; their purple heather glowing in the autumn sun stirred her with full, rich joy. Charlotte has written of her sisters love for the moors, and in Emilys novel, Wuthering Heights, a s trik- lug passage reveals the pleasure Emily derived from the scenery about Ha- worth. lie said the pleasantest man- ner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming busily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily an(I cloudlessly. That was his most perfect i(leal of heavens happiness mine was rocking in a rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright, white clouds flitting rapidly above, and not only larks, but thros- tles, and blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos, pouring out music on every side, and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool, dusky dells ; but close by great swells of long grass undulat- ing in waves to the breezes, and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with joy. The same feeling finds expression in her poems, as in The Bluebell, an din the l)iece beginning, Loud without the wind was roaring. Another pow- erful influence was her father. He is described as a passionate, self-willed, vain, cold, and distant man, stern and determined, ever eager to maintain his opinions, whether or not they har- monized with the popular judgment a man, indeed, whose instincts were soldierly rather than priestly. This description is so far supported by Char- lottes presentment of him in the Mr. Helstone of Shirley. Mr. Bront~ had many wild stories and traditions of his native Ireland, and he delighted, by means of them, to excite terror in his children. We may be sure that, de- spite their terrifying effect, these tales of danger and dread appealed strongly 62 Emily BrontJ. to Emilys bold and fearless mind, incarnation of cruelty, when he is ray Similar stories were told to the children ing in the very delirium of passionate by their aunt, Miss Branwell, who had love for Catherine Earnshaw, when he brought from Cornwall a goodly store is wandering by midnight among the of such weird narratives as Mr. Hunt graves out on the moors, haunted by a has brought together in his Romances feeling of the presence of the dead Cath and Drolls of the West of England. erine, when he is calling on her spirit Tabby was an authority on Yorkshire with wailings of intensest agonY, or traditions, and had strange things to when in the last days he moves like one tell of old-world doings in the county. in a dream, seeing some vision that The effect of all this was early seen. gladdens him and yet robs him of all While still in tbe nursery the little power to live, till the morning comes Bront~s were writing romances, and when he is fonnd dead, with fierce and all Emilys stories reflected the wild, staring eyes. A repulsive creation, and creepy tales she had become familiar yet it may safely be said that the imag with. ination that conjured up a monster like On a larger scale the same influence Ileathehiff, and developed his character is at work in Emilys extraordinary with such force, was equal to high crc novel, Wuthering Heights. For ative work. But there is more than extraordinary it is, whether we regard potential merit of character-drawing. the forni or the substance. There are The younger Catherine has some charm- faults of expression and of treatment ; ing traits ; her light-heartedness and but in Wutliering Heights we have fearlessness, if at times they seem to the first novel of a young woman with verge on recklessness and careless de- little knowledge either of literature or spair, are at other times exceedingly of life, and yet the story is told with attractive. Isabella Linton, though an compactness and force, scenery is de- inconsistent and somewhat sketchy scribed with marvellous vividness and conception, shows glimpses of a noble sympathy, characters are represented dignity when face to face with the with amazing individuality, while, dreadful life she has to lead at Wuther thongh incidents and characters are at ing Heights. Edgar Linton, if cast in times so appalling that many readers too weak a mould, is yet in many re- turn from the book in horror, there is spects well drawn. Gentleness, cour- such power, both of personality and of tesy, deep and true affection, and treatment, as positively fascinates even scholarly tastes, make him a strong while it terrifies. But it should be contrast to the wild and uncultured noted Emily Broatfi had no conscious I-Jeathchiff, that arid wilderness of intention of exciting terror. It is true furze and whinstone ; and if at times that, as Heatheliff reveals himself in all his character is allowed to become ig his savagery, one stands aghast at hi~ nobly unmanly, enough of excellence wolfish ferocity; yet one can plainly remains to show that Emily Bront~ see that the author is not seeking for could conceive a refined and cultured means of affecting her readers, but, mind. Probably the strongest assur- heedless of readers, is working out her ance that her genius was capable of altogether astounding conception, careful, steady work as well as of wild The promise of the book is found not flights is to be found in the two ser- in the story (though what story there is vauts, Nelly Dean and Joseph. Both is clearly told) but in the delineation of characters are well conceived, but Jo- character. Heathehiff is a wonderful, sepli is admirable. His faithfulness if repulsive, creation. His wife asks to the family he had served so long, questions that the reader often asks: his rugged nature, his unbending and Is Mr. Heatheliff a man? If so, is repellent Calvinism, his certainty as to he mad? And,if not,is he a devil? his own sanctity and his doubt as to It is difficult to say when he is most every other bodys all these are well terrible when he is behaving like the set forth. Joseph is interesting in Emily Bront~ another way: he gives Emily Bront~ opportunities of showing that she can handle the ludicrous with considerable effect. There is genuine humor in some of Josephs appearances, all the more that his efforts as a humorist are quite unconscious. In strong contrast to the gloom cast over the story by Heatheliff is the beauty of those passages that tell how Catherine Linton does all she can to soften the ruggedness in Hareton Earn- shaws disposition, and to raise him above the degraded level to which Heatheliff had depressed him, and of those that reveal the authors suscepti- bility to nature under all aspects. She is alive to the beauty of darkening moors and bright blue skies, of bare hillside and wooded valley, of carolling l)irds and whispering trees and mur inuring streams. Her love of nature carries her into veins of thought that recall the imaginings of Shelley. Lock- wood had gone to visit the lonely churchyard where lay 1-Icatheliff, Ed- gar Linton, and Catherine Earushaw, and he thus concludes the story of Wuthering 1-leights : ~ I lingered round them un(ler that benign sky watched the moths fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever imagine unquiet slumbers for sleepers in that quiet earth. Charlotte Bront~ compares her sis- ters novel to a figure rudely carved from a granite block : There it stands, colossal, dark, and frowning half statue, half rock ; in the former sense terrible and gol)hin-like, in the latter almost beautiful, for its coloring is of mellow grey, and moorland moss clothes it, and heath, with its blooming bells and balmy fragrance, grows faithfully close to the giants foot. Rude Wuthering Heights is, but it has power and it has beauty, and when its author died our literature lost a novel- ist of great promise. Emily Bront& s poetry is equally full of power, but is perhaps equally un- likely to find readers. This is not because of anything in it so repellent as xx hat is to be found in Wuthering Heights. On the contrary, its feel- ing for nature, its pensiveness, above all the grandeur of thought and the strength of soul in the finest passages, are in themselves attractive. The fatal defect is the want of form ; only now and again is the expression worthy of the conception. Something, too, might be said against a certain gloom in the poems, due to their renunciation of hope and love and joy, were this not fully redeemed by their passion for na- ture and their lofty resolution. If joy leaves us, never to return, we are not to dlespair. There should be no despair for you While nightly stars are burning; While evening pours its silent dew, And sunshine gilds the morniu~. There should be no despair though tears May flow down like a river: Are not the best beloved of years Around your heart forever? They weep, you weep, it must be so; Winds sigh as you are si~hing, And Winter sheds its grief in snow Where Autumns leaves are lying: Yet, these revive, and from their fate, Your fate cannot be parted Then, journey on, if not elate, Still, never broken-hearted Of Emily Bront~ it may be truly said she was never broken-hearted. Even sorrow and deadly sickness could not subdue the unbending firmness of her soul. When death was coming very near, she wrote in her wonderful last lines : o God within my breast, Almighty, ever-present Deity I Life that in me has rest, As 1umidying Lifehave power in thee There is no room for Death, Nor atom that his might could render void Thou Thou art Being and Breath, And what Thou art may never be destroyed. Here is what supremely fascinates the admirers of Emily Bront& s poems the brave, strong spirit that, even when cabined and confined by conven- tional verse-forms, flames and dances in its bounds. 434 Ill walk where my own nature would be leading; It vexeth me to choose another guide, she cries in prou(l independence, and echoes the prayer of The Old Stoic. Riches I hold in light esteem, And Love I laugh to scorn; And lust of fame was but a dream, That vanished with the morn: And if I pray, the only prayer That moves my lips for me Is, Leave the heart that now I bear, And give me liberty ! Yes, as my swift days near their goal, Tis all that I implore; In life and death a chainless soul, With courage to endure. In this there is the very abandon of self-reliance, the uncontrolled utter- ance of fearlessness. The softer qualities of the poems are seen in compositions like Remem- brance (though it contains a charac- teristic note of strength), The Outcast Mother, A Death Scene, The Wanderer from the Fold. What the author had achieved in the way of pure melody is fairly represented in these lines : Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer streams There is no need of other sound To soothe my ladys dreams. Careful reading of Emily Brouths poetry deepens the regret that, after perusing Wuthering Heights, one feels for her early death. She passed away before her rare powers had time fully to reveal themselves, though not before she had written enough to in- dicate the richness of her promise. How rich was not recognized in her lifetime, though of this she never complained. She complained, indeed, of nothing. Yet appreciation would doubtless have given her pleasure, self- controlled and self-reliant as she was. Praise of the highest kind has been freely bestowed on her work, but too late to gratify her, for, in her own fine words : The dweller in the land of death Is chan~,ed and careless too. A. M. WILLIAlVIs. A MuscuLAii CHRIsTIAN. Burton had been transferred from Fernando Po to the consulate at Santos and Sao Paulo, where there was a seminary of Capuchins, French- men, and Italians, which contained some curious specimens of muscular Christianity. For example: One of the monks was, a tall, magnificent, and very powerful man, an ex-cavairy officer, Count Somebody, whose name I forget, then Fray G Before he arrived there was a bully in the town, rather of a free-thinking class, so he used to go and swagger up and down be- fore the seminary and call out, Come out, you miserable petticoated monks come out and have a free fight! For God or the Devil! When Frey G arrived, he heard of this and it so happened he had had an English friend, when he was with his regiment, who had taught him the use of his fists. He found that his brother monks were dreadfully distressed at this unseemly challenge, so he said, The next time he comes, dont open the gate, but let the porter call me. So the next time the bully appeared, it was so arranged that the gate was opened by Fray G (the usual crowd had collected in the road to see the fun), who looked at him laughingly and said, Surely, brother, we will fight for God or the Devil, if you please. So saying, the friar tucked up his sleeves and gown, and told his adversary to come on, which he did, and he was immediately knocked into a cocked hat. Come, get up, said the friar. No lying there and whimpering; the Devil wont win that way. The man stood three rounds, at the end of which he whimpered and holloaed for mercy, and amidst the jeers and bravos of a large crowd the village cock retired, a mass of jelly and pulp, to his own duaghill, and was never seen more within half a mile of the seminary. Richard rejoiced in it, and used to say What is that bull-priest doing in that gali~re? The Life of Captain Sir Richard F. Burton, K.C.M.G., EROS. By his Wife, Isahel Burton. Chapman and Hall. ]Jmily ]3ront~

LITTELLS LIVING AGE. Fifth Series, Volume LXXXIV. No. 2571. Qotober 14, 189~3, From Beginning { Vol. CXCIX. CONTENTS. LA FONTAINE. By J. C. Bailey, M~ SISTER KATE. By Mary S. Hancock, THE LIMITS OF ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE. By C. Lloyd Morgan DOROTHY SIDNEY IN ORCADIA ON LEOPARDS. By C. T. Buckland, FIN DE SIECLE MEDICINE. By A. Sy- mons Eccies BATTAMBONG AND ANGROR LOVE AND EARTHS ECHOES, To CORREGGIOS HOLY SEBASTIAN (DRESDEN) Temple Bar, Gentlemans Magazine, Fortnightly Review, Church Quarterly Review, Blackwoods Magazine, Longmans Magazine, National Review, Globe, 67 78 89 101 109 116 122 127 P OR TRY. 66 IM OUT WITH ALL THE WORLD TO- 661 I AM ATHIRST, BUT NOT FOR WINE, PUBLISHED EVERY SATURDAY BY CO., BOSTON. LITTELL & 66 66 TERMS OF SUBSCRIPTION. For EIGHT DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually for- warded for a year,free of postage. Remittances should be made by bauk draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELL & Co. Single copies of the LIVING AGE, 18 cents. L II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. 66 LOVE AND EARTHS ECHOES. 1 Lover. LOVE that is spoken often dies Quick as the light in evening skies, Or as a song upon the ear, And leaves no answering spirit near. Wilt thou be true? Shall I neer rue My plighted faith? Wilt thou be true? Echo. Wilt thou be true? 2 Lover. That doubt, 0 maiden, do not name; Changeless as yon eternal flame My spirit evermore shall be In its full worshipping of thee. I will be true! Thou shalt not rue Thy plighted faith. I will be true I Echo. will be true. 1 Lover. O Love, I mourned thy broken faith, And now I live to mourn thy death, And, like the echo ringing clear, Thy voice was false within my ear. I will be true. 0 echo earth, Are these things only for your mirth? Echo. Only for mirth. Longmans Magazine. TO CORREGGLOS HOLY SEBASTIAN (DRESDEN). BOUND by thy hands, but with respect unto thine eyes how free Fixed on Madonna, seeing that they were born to see! The Child thine upward face hath sighted, Still and delighted; Oh, bliss when with mute rites two souls are plighted I As the young aspen-leaves rejoice, though to the stem held tight, in the soft visit of the air, the current of the light, Thou hast the peril of a captives chances, Thy spirit dances, Caught in the play of Heavens divine advances. While cherubs straggle on the clouds of luminous, curled fire, The Babe looks through them, far below, on thee with soft desire. Love and Earths Echoes, etc. Most clear of bond must they be reck- oned No joy is second To theirs whose eyes by other eyes are beckoned. Though arrows rain on breast and throat they have no power to hurt, While thy tenacious face they fail an in- stant to avert. Oh might my eyes, so without meas- ure, Feed on their treasure, The world with thong and dart might do its pleasure Academy. MICHAEL FIELD. IM out with all the world to-day, So all the world to me is grey, Ah me! the bonny world. Glad birds are building in the tree, For them I have no sympathy; From out the grove a thrush pipes clear, I have no wish his song to hear; From tangled boughs that young buds share With last years leaves, a startled hare A moment peeps and then away; I have no laughter for his play, For all the sunny sky is grey, The weariest I am to-day In all the weary world. Perchance to-morrows hidden store May bring my hearts content once more; Tbe sweet young spring comes very fair With summers breath and golden air. Im out thouah with the world to-day, So all the world to me is grey, Ah me! the bdnny world DORA SIGERSON. I AM athirst, but not for wine; The drink I long for is divine, Poured only from your eyes in mine. I hunger, but the bread I want, Of which my blood and brain are scant, Is your sweet speech, for which I pant. I am a-cold and lagging lame, Life creeps along my languid frame, Your love will fan it into flame. MATIIILDE BLIND. La Fontaine. From Temple Bar. LA FONTAINE. WHO shall express the charm of La Fontaine? It is easy to say what one means about the bottomless depth of Moli~res knowledge of human folly, and his boundless power of putting that knowledge to effective purpose on a stage, or about Boileans admirable wit, and still more admirable good sense ; or again about Racines formal perfections, or De Mussets force of passion ; l)ut charm, such charm as every one who possesses a sense of humor and a little French, has felt in La Fontaine, is another thing alto- gether, and one far more difficult to define. Brilliancy, eloquence, passion, wit, are all things definitely felt things of which, rightly or wrongly, we fancy ourselves to be easily able to give a clear account; but that quality by virtue of which a mans books make us wish to know him, and think of him as a delightful person to meet strolling in the Elysian fields, is a far less visible thing, less tangible, less easy to get hold of. And it is also a far rarer thing. He- rodotus has it, alone among the Greeks, I think, unless Plato should be added. Horace has it more than any one among the Romans; La Fontaine more than any one who ever lived. It may come more easily to the French than to other people, for several of their great writ- ers, Moli~re and Montaigne, for in- stance, have at least a touch of it. But there is nothing it is so much afraid of as rhetoric, and the tendency to rhet- oric is the besetting sin of French liter- ature ; so that it is only the very elect that can be saved. They are by no means necessarily the greatest men. The greatest, in fact, can hardly stoop to possess charm. Who could think of being familiar with Dante or Milton, or dare to break in lightly upon the Olympian dignity of Goethe ? Our place in their presence would be at their feet ; our feelings before them would be reverence and awe, and, if also love, the humble, grateful, half- fearful love of the pupil for the mas 67 ter; and if we had to confess ourselves to them, and lay out before them all our weaknesses and worse than weak- nesses exactly as they are, it would be with a shy if not with a guilty shrink- ing that we should do it. But ilerod otns, we are sure, woul(l only smile at us, Horace would still find a place for us at supper, La Fontaine would at worst laugh at us in a fable. And it is men of this sort that possess charm. They do not need an intellect of the very highest order, but their intelli- gence must be intensely alive, full of curiosity, receptive of influences from every side, instinct with sympathy for the most varied characters, and for forms of life the most unlike their own. Everything interests them, nothing absorbs them. They are lookers-on at the great games of religion, and poli~ tics, and fortune played by other men, and they watch each rise and fall with amused curiosity, chronicle it, point its moral, and pass by. Herodotus puts them all alike down in his note-book: the Thracians who make lamentations when their children are born, the Per- sians who hold their state conneils first in the evening when drunk, and then again when sober in the morning; Cr~sus, who misunderstands wise say- ings, and obstinately inclines, to think himself happy although not dead; and Xerxes impiously and recklessly re- fusin~ to turn back from his expedition into Greece, although warned by so clear a portent as that of a mare being delivered of a hare; and no doubt he would have added, if he had known of them, that delightful people the Celts., who, according to Aristotle, pushed their courage beyond the due mean, being afraid neither of earthquakes nor of breakers ; all in his eyes simply cnrious items in the long list of human eccentricities. That is the mood it comes out one way of course in a histo- rian, and another in a poet ; but it is the same spirit, the same cast of mind, large and tolerant, and above all, per- haps, gifted with a sense of humor. It sounds strange at first to find La Fon- tame sayin~ 68 On cherche les rieurs; et mol je les ~vite Cet art veut, sur tout autre, un supreme m~rite: Dieu ne. cr~a que pour les sots Les m~chants diseurs de bons mots. but there is nothing that spoils pleasant company so much as the presence of a bore who is always wanting to say somethin good; and the man of gen- uine humor is the first to resent a nui- sauce of that sort. One may be quite sure that no one enjoyed a really good lihing more than La Fontaine. But it must be perfectly natural and simple; there must be absolutely nothing like attitudinizing. That is why the French, whose national brightness and amiabil- ity take them half-way to the posses- sion of charm, have not produced more writers possessing it. They have been t6o like the bull in La Fontaines fable of The Man and the Serpent Faisons taire Cet ennuyeux d~clamateur: LI cherche de grand mots. That has been a weak point in French literature, and in the character of the French nation, from Corneille to Victor Hugo. And I suppose nowhere but in France could that theatrical flourish of M. Carnots Jembrasse la Russie, at which Punch and everybody else was laughing the other day, have been perpetrated. Things of that sort are quite fatal to charm ; but the simple fact that a man, without going so far as that, never lets himself be seen in his books, except in a sort of court dress, is nearly equally fatal. We can- not pretend to know Corneille, or Ra- cine, or Bossuet. They are voices from behind a curtain which is never raised. Even the ever-delightful Moli~re, like Shakespeare, very rarely betrays to us which of his hundred voices is his own. But with the men of whom I am speaking it is just the opposite. The face is always peering from be- hind the curtain. Bornons ici cette carrR~re: Les longs ouvrages me font peur, says La Fontaine at the end of the first half of his fables, and we think at once of the easy-going bonhomme, who early in life found theological studies a weariness of the flesh, gave them up without hesitation, and lived happily ever afterwards, like a prin- cess in a fairy tale. And the beautiful ending of the fable of The Two Pigeons is not only fuller of poetry than much of La Fontaine, but also, we cannot help feeling it, a heart con- fession from a man who was nearly always in love after one fashion or another Amants, heureux amants, voulez-vous voyager? Que ce soit aux rives prochaines. Soyez-vous lun ii lautre un monde ton- jours beau, Toujours divers, toujours nouveau: Tenez-vons lieu de tout, comptez pour rien le reste. Jai quelqnefois aim6; je naurais pas alors, Contre le Louvre et ses tr~sors, Contre le firmament et sa voilte c~leste, Change les bois, chang6 les licux IIonor& ~s par les pas, 6clair~s par les yenx IDe laimable et jeune berg~re Pour qul, sons le fils de Cyth~re, Je servis, engage par mes premiers ser- ments. Wlas! quand reviendront de semblables moments? Faut-il que tant dobjets si donx et si charmants Me laissent vivre an gr6 de mon & me in- qnii~te? Ah! si mon cmur osait encore se ren- flammer! Ne sentirai-je plus de charme qul marr~te? Al-je passe le temps daimer? Who can miss the personal note here? and who can refuse to be charmed by it? And yet we too often treat this book of fables, the most perfect thing perhaps in French poetry, as nothing more than a story-book for children, and leave it to the tender mercies of the schoolroom and the French gov- erness ! The fact is that La Fontaine is the true French Homer, as I think Sainte Beuve first called him. More than any other of the great French classics except Molibre, he speaks to all the world, and it is only the fact that his best-known work is called Fables that has stood in the way La Fontaine. of his being recognized as what he is. No one is more human than La Fon- taine. If he can hardly be said to be one of those rarely gifted men who see life whole, he at least sees a lar~e part of it, and his criticism of life, if it lays no claim to the profundity of the greatest men, is at least everywhere large, tolerant, shrewd, kindly, and touched with a delightful humor. His wisdom may be worldly wisdom, but it is the best sort of worldly wisdom genial and epicurean, without a touch of cunning or greed. He takes the world as he finds it, and makes the best of it ; which is, after all, exactly what most of us have to do ; and if we want to learn how to do it, we cannot go to a l)leasanter school than La Fon- taines. And there is another thing. He has a unique place in French literary his- tory. He stands between the old and the new, andi has learned the clearness and order of the age of Louis XIV., without unlearning the freedom and humor of the French of the Renais- sance. Above all, though he lived chiefly in Paris, he still breathes in his writings the fresh air of the country, which his contemporaries and succes- sors were exchanging for the close at- mosphere of the court and the capital. He still knows the French peasant, and his curd, and his seigneur, and all the varied population of the fields. And that is a help to his popularity ; the land and the people who live on it are the same from generation to genera- tion, while the town life of one century is unintelligible or ridiculous to the next. And so for all these reasons La Fon- taine has a place in our hearts such as no other French poet can claim. We love him, and laugh with him, even at him sometimes, and, as I sai(l, should like some day to come across him in the Elysian fields. That is how people have always felt towards him, and we cannot help believing that the serx ant girl was right when she said that God would never have the heart to send him to hell. Even in the days of the Terror the mere name of La Fontaine La Fontaine. 69 saved his great-gran(l daughter from the guillotine. And yet, if you ask what makes every one so fond of him, I can hardly say ; not his virtues, certainly, for he bad very few; there is very little in his life that we can grow en tliusiastic about, and a good deal ,Iamn afraid, which we had better leave alone. lie is anything but a hero, and if I were pressed to say why we almost love him, I could only fall back npon my first answer and say, for his charm. The truth is that his life was the pleasant, easy-going life natural to an epicurean l)Orn with enough to live on, and in (lays before people thought there was any crime in being comfort- able. His father had a place in the for- estry department at Chateau Thierry, a town on the Maine, about fifty or sixty miles from Paris. He seems to have done two important thin~s for his son, besides his part in bringing him into the world. When La Fontaine was about twenty-six, he handed over his place to him, and presented him with a girl of fifteen for his wife. Neither gift can be said to have been very successful, for La Fontaine neg- lected the forests, and deserted his wife. There was no public scandal, an(1 certainly no divorce ; they lived some years together, alI(l had a son, and for a lon~ time after that they occasionally corresponded and even met; but Madame La Fontaine was a frivolous and unpractical woman ,just the sort of wife to be impossible for a helplessly unbusiness-like man of the ~tamp of La Fontaine, who wanted a wife who could look atter him, and see that lie did not forget his dinner or put his clothes on inside out. And in fact something of this sort became neces- sary for him in the end ; and after the death of the Duchess of Orleans, in whose household be had had a place, his friend Madame de Ia Sabli~re took him to live in her house, and he. lived there for twenty years, remaining even when she broke up her establishment: ( Jai renvoy~ tout mon monde, she said, je nai gard6 que mon chien, mon chat, et La Fontaine); and indeed staying there even after she 70 herself had left it to devote herself entirely to hospital nursing, and when lie left it at her death, it was only to go to his friend DHervart, in whose house he (lied. Every one knows the story of M. dHervart meeting him in the street after Madame de in Sablibres death, and saying, My dear La Fon- taine, I was just looking for you to ask you to come and live with me ; and La Fontaines answer, I was on my way there (jy alleis). It is often sai(l that we can show nothing like the ancient friendships ; but what Roman friendship is so complete as this ? Born in 1621, and married in 1647, La Fontaine continued to live with his wife at Chfiteau Thierry, and discharge his official duties after a fashion no (loubt his own fashion till about 1654 when one Jannart, a relation of his wifes, who held some post under Touquet, the all-powerful controller of the finances, took him to Paris and l)resente~I him to Fouquet, who a.t once added La Fontaine to the crowd of men of letters under his patronage, an(l gave him a pension of a thousand francs. From that time Paris was La Fontaines home, though for many ycars he paid an annual visit to Chin.- tean Thierry, generally accompanied by Boilean and Racine. His relations with Fouquet do him as much honor as anything in his life ; for when Fouquet fell in 1661, struck down in a moment by Louis X1Y.s sudden outbreak of furious suspicion as by a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, La Fontaine did no~ desert him, as his political partisans did, but (lid all the little lie could for him wrote letters to friends, and an ode to the king asking for his pardon, and. finally that lament over his pa- trons fall which is among the finest of French elegies. Cest ~tre initocent que d~tre rnalheu- reu was a doctrine certain to com accompanied him on his journey, of which lie has left us a charming picture in the letters lie wrote to his wife on the way. Perhaps some wives would be content to be deserted by their lius- baiids if their absence were productive of such letters as La Fontaine~ s. Translation does not improve them, but I suppose I must translate. He enjoyed himself immensely, iii spite of their rather melancholy circumstances Really, lie says, with the naivete of a child, it is a pleasure to travel ; one always conies across something worth seeing. I cant tell you how good the butter we have here is. First it is a fine garden that delights him, more thaii any luxury or grandeur, lie says De quol sert tant de d~pense? Les grands out beau sen vanter: Yive la magnificence Qui ne coftte qu ii planter! Auid then a few days later, with ami- able inconsistency, lie is loud iii his praises of the great cardinals splendid palace at Ricliehien Altogether he seems to have enjoyed himself very macli, and gives us pleas- ant enough pictures of himself and his party, worth quoting, as there are very few of his letters left. Here is what lie writes from Aniboise : Your uncles occupations and niine at Clamart were very different. He did noth- ing worth speaking of, only such amusing things as expeditions to this place and that, lawsuits and other business. It was just the opposite with me I strolled about and went to sheep, and spent my tinie with the ladies who caine to see us. We left very early on Sunday. Madame C and our aunt went with us as far as Bourg-la-Iteine. We waited there nearly three hours ; and to make the time pass quicker, or to make it pass slower (I dont know which I ought to say), we heard the village mass. There was nothing wanting, procession, holy water, hymn and the rest. mend itself to the goodnatured La Luckily for us, time cure was an ignoramus Fontaine, who had not a grain of via- and did not preach. At last, by Gods grace, came the coach the kings servant (lictiveness in his compositiomi, and was was there; there were no monks, but to besides in favor of every one enjoying make up for them, three women, a commer- lilniseif. La Fontaines frieiid Jannart cial traveller, who never said a word, and a shared Fouquets disgrace, and had to lawyer who never stopped singing, and sang metire to Linioges ; and La Fontaine very badly he was carrying home four La Fontaine. La Fontaine. volumes of songs. Among the three women was one from Poitou, who said she was a countess; she seemed young enough. and of a tolerable figure, appeared bright and lively, kept her name to herself, and had just been to law to get a separation from her husband; all qualities of good augury; and I should have found my way to a flirta- tion if only she had been pretty, but with- out that nothing attracts me ; its the chief thing, in my opinion, and I defy you to find me a particle of wit in a plain woman. After these alarming revelations, it is no wonder that he thought it best to blow his marital trumpet, which he does in the next letter. See how good I am; it is just midnight, and we have to be up before the sun, in spite of the fact that he promised before he Went to bed to be on the move extremely early. And yet here am I, child of sleep and idleness as I am, employing these hours which are so precious to me, in telling you all about our doings. Let people talk to me after this of husbands who have sacri- ficed themselves to their wives. I consider I beat them all. Later on when they got into a dull country, they took to religious contro- versy to keep themselves awake. La dispute est dun grand secours: Sans elle on dormirait toujours. The Huguenots were still in the laud in those days, and the Poitou lady was one, while the kings footman, who travelled with them, was a fervent son of Holy Church, as became a footman of Louis XIV. He undertook to show the lady that her religion was worth nothing for many reasons amongst others because Luther had had a quantity of illegitimate children, and because Huguenots never go to mass; he advised her to be converted, unless she wished to go to hell, for purgatory was too good for people of that sort. The lady betook herself to the Bible, and asked where it spoke of purgatory; meanwhile the lawyer sang, and M. Jannart and I slept. With one eye, or at least one ear open, one may suppose, by the account he gives of the argument. He never had the taste of his time for theological controversy, from his 71 days in the seminary onwards; and when all Paris was exciting itself about the Molinist question, he astounded every one by saying simply that he thought it a nuisance. There is a story, too, of a saying of his about St. Augustine, which amus- ingly illustrates his theological attitude. He and iRacine and some others were spending one afternoon with Boilean, and Boileans brother, a doctor of the Sorbonne, was holding forth rather pompously and professionally upon the merits of the great Bishop of Hippo. La Fontaine appeared to be dreaming in his usual absent-minded way, and nobody thought lie was listening, when to the surprise of every one he looked up, and with an air of great interest asked him, sil croyait que St. Augus- tin efit plus desprit que Rabelais. (I would translate if only esprit were translatable.) The learned doctor, I am bound to add, saved the saints dig- nity and his own surprisingly well. lie turned to La Fontaine, examined him critically from head to foot, and then said, Are you aware, M. de ha Fontaine, that you have got one of your stockings on inside out? Ce qul ~tait vrai, adds the chronicler. One more picture of him. This time he is not asleep or not altogether but strolling by distraction in the gar- den of an hotel, which he had mistaken for his own, and so buried in the inter- esting author, whom the French call by that deliciously absurd name Tite-Live, that he forgets his dinner altogether, ahd would have been too late for it, if a servant had not come to arouse him from his Roman reveries. What a pic- ture, not only of La Fontaine, but of his day! How many people nowadays find Livy exciting enough to make them forget dinner? It was worth giving a few stories of this sort, be cause there is nothing else in La Fontaines life but little things of this kind. He has no history, and after Fouquets fall there are no events to mark his years by, except the publica- tion of his various works ; his election to the Academy, in spite of Louis La Fontaine. XIV.s opposition; his illness in 1692; his final and sincere regrets for all that had given cause of scandal in his life, and still more in some of his writings his public profession before the Acad- emy of his repentance ; his strict and serious life during his closing years, and his death in April, 1695. No man of his time had won more universal love and admiration ; Moli~re, Racine, Boilean, La B ruy~re the moralist, Ma- dame de S~vign6 the woman of the world, and last, perhaps also best, F~nelon, saintliest of men who have lived in courts since the days of Marcus Aurelius, all praised the poet with em- phatic enthusiasm, and, if all did not know the man well enough to love him, those who did made up for the rest by the loyalty and warmth of their affec- tion. La Fontaines fame must rest mainly upon his Fables. The occasional pieces have charming things in them, humorous touches, delightful bits of selfrevelation, and, here and there, exquisite little songs. The Contes have only one demerit, but that is a serious one they cannot be read aloud in any decent society. Nothing gives us a clearer picture of the morals of the seventeenth century than the sim- ple fact that the ladies of La Fon- taines day, and the best of them too, women like Madame de S6vign6, read and enjoyed his Contes ;~ and, what is much more, confessed to doing so. Times have changed, and that is im- possible now. It is a thousand pities, for every reason, that there is this blemish, for there never was a better story-teller than La Fontaine. But happily this charming gift of his is not exhibited only in the Contes. A mans special talent, like his sins, is sure to find him out, and the result is that nearly all the Fables are well- told stories, and a good many are noth- ing else. In fact, it is just this which distinguishes La Fontaines fables from other peoples. ~sop, Ph~drus, Ba- brius, Marie de France, Haudent, Flo- nan, or what other fabulist you will, will give you the bare facts and the moral just as well as La Fontaine. But none of them unless, here and there, Haudent have more than a touch, if they have that, of his ease, his grace, his arch asides, his sly humor, his ~catholie good-nature, his amusing self-revelation in a word, again, his charm. The morality of his rivals may be irreproachable, but their stories are too often bare and dull. La Fontaine takes them and fills in a hun- dred little details, often of an irre- sistible drollery, which complete the picture, and give personality to the actors. A detailed comparison with any one of his rivals would show La Fontaines superiority. As we cannot take all, we will try it with Ph~drus, as to whose supposed superiority over himself La Fontaine keeps up an ab- surd superstition of humility.~ The fact, of course, is lust the other way, and this is the more remarkable, as the fables which cover the same ground as those of Ph~drus are most often in La Fontaines first six books, which are very inferior to the seventh, eighth, ninth, and tenth books, simply be- cause lie followed his originals more closely at first, and gave the rein far less freely to hi~ own delightful fancy. Here is Ph~drnss fable of ~ The Fox and the Goat When a crafty man gets into a diffi- culty, he at once tries to find his way out at the expense of some one else. A fox had fallen into a well un- awares, and could not get o~t again for the high wall round it, when a thirsty goat came up and asked whether there was plenty of water, and whether it was good. The fox had his trick ready. Come down and try for yourself, my dear friend; the water is so good, and the taste so delicious, that I cant get enough to satisfy me. Down went our bearded friend; whereupon the little rascal sprang at once on his lofty horns, and got out of the well, leaving the goat stuck fast in his watery prison. This is a very fair specimen of Ph~u drus. Now hear La Fontaine, and re- member that the fable is in his third book, that is to say, one of those writ- ten before he had fully learned his own secret 72 Capitaine renard allait de compagnie Avec son ami bouc des plus haut encorn~s; Celul-ci ne voyalt pas plus loin que son nez; Lautre & ~tait pass6 maitre en fait de trom- perie. La soif les obligea de descendre en un puits Lk, chacun d eux se d~salt~re. Apr~s qu abondamment tons deux en eurent pris, Le renard dit an bone: Que ferons-nous, coinp~re? Ce nest pas tout de boire, ii fant sortir dici. L~ve tes pieds en hant, et tes comes aussi: Mets-les contre le mur: le long de ton ~chine Je grimperai premierement Puis sur tes comes m~levant, A laide de cette machine, iDe ce lieu-cl je sortirai, Apr~s quoi je t en tirerai. Par ma barbe, dit lantre, ii est bon; et je lone Des gens bien senses comme toi. Je naurais jamais, quand k moi, Trouv6 ce secret, je lavoue. Le renard sort du pnits, laisse son corn- pagnon, Et vous mi fait un beau sermon Pour 1 exhorter k patience. Si le ciel teCit, dit-il, donna par excellence Antant de jugement, que de barbe au men- ton Tn naurais pas, k Ia h~g~re, Descenda dans ce puits. Or, adieu; jen snis hors T~che de ten tirer, et fais tous tes efforts: Car, pour moi, jai certaine affaire Qui ne me permet pas d arr~ter en chemin. En tonte chose ii fant consid~rer la fin. The fable is not quite in La Fon- taines best manner, and he has not improved on the story as Ph~dras had it. lie has copied from Haudent (for it is certain, in spite of Sainte Beuve, that he was acquainted with the early French fabulists) his inferior version, which makes the animals get into the well together; and some of the foxs remarks were also suggested by Han- dent; but the admirable speech of the goat is La Fontaines idea, and his whole fable is infinitely more alive than his predecessors. And, if he has improved on Han- dents fable, who can fail to see his 73 superiority to Ph~drus ? His picture is far more complete, and he human- izes his actors far more cleverly. His fox is not the fox whom we should find in a dictionary of animals; that is never La Fontaines way ; and just as in his fable of The Fox and the Grapes, his fox is a particular indi- vidual about whom he has made inqui- ries, certain renard gascon, dautres disent normand, and his monkey, in The Leopard and the Monkey, is a person of rank, prou(l of his family : Cousin et gendre de Bertrand, Singe du Pape en son vivant: so here from the very first line we are dealing with Captain Fox, a friend of ours, although unfortunately passe maItre en fait de tromperie. We think we see him coining along the road with his friend of the long horns. And then how admirable is his polite, leisurely, well-arranged logic! And the goat swearing by his beard to the pleasure he finds in being in such clever society; how exactly he gives us the picture of the rustic of La Fon- taines day, and indeed of our day,. and of every day, lost in admiration of the cleverness of the itinerant cheat, who is all the while pocketing his money And the beau sermon,too, with its de- lightful conclusion, in which La Fon- taine is absolutely himself Pour moi, jai certaine affaire Qui ne me permet pas darr~ter en chemin. I will give one more instance, the well-known one of The Ant and the Cicada. here is Phiredruss fable : An ant in winter-time drew out of her hole the grain which, like a wise creature, she had collected in the sum- iner, and was drying it, when a hungry cicada asked her to give her some. What were you doing in the sum- mer? says the ant to her. I had no time to think about the future, she replied ; I was always wandering about, and singing my song from hedge to hedge and meadow to meadow. The ant laughed, and put back the grain, saying, You sang in the sum- mer, and now the cold is come you can dance~ La Fontaine. 74 La Fontaine. Let the lazy man set to work in the contrast of the mocking dance of time, or, when he has nothing, lie may this last line with the heavy, cautious find that asking will not get him any- rhythm of what the ant says when she thing. speaks in her own character Contrast this with La Fontaine. ~ Que faisicz-vous an temps chaud? is his first, and one of his best-known fables : is not the least striking thing in this La Cigale, ayant chant~ way. Tout l~t~ But the talent of the story-teller is Sc tronva fort d~pourvue there quite as much as that of the artist Quand la bise fut venue: in metrical effect. The poet is painter Pas nn seul petit morcean as well as musician, and can make us Dc monche on de vermissean. see as well as hear. What personality Elle alla crier famine, and picturesqueness is thrown round Chcz la fourmi sa voisine, those comparatively uninteresting crea- La priant de lui pr~tcr tures, the Formica prudeis and the Qnelqne grain pour subsister Cicada esurie9ls of Phtedrus The Jnsqn~ la saison nonvelle. esuriens becomes se trouva fort Je vons paleral, ml dit-cile, d6pourvue, and we find her making Avant loOt, foi danimal, the inconvenient and surprising and La fourmi ncst pas pr6tcuse : g discovery that there is noth- Cest l~ son moindre d~fant. ing in the larder, not one single little Que faisiez-vons an temps chand? bit of a grub or a fly; and then instead Dit-clic i~ cctte cmprunteuse. of mere asking, she goes off to crier Nnit et jour a tout venant famine ; and the ant is not just any Je chantais, ne vous d~plaise ant, but her neighbor ; and the grain Vous chantiez jen snis fort aise, is to be lent, not given ; and not merely Eh bien! danscz maintenant. returned, but repaid, foi daniinal, I-low the naked story and the bare iut6r~t et principal. morality of Ph~drus is transformed ! And the ant instead of being solely Every line, every word is alive with the gifted with prudence, is a complete touch of the artist, both poet and picture, and so human, like an old painter Every detail is made to tell ; maiden lady severely questioning a the quick returning rhyme of the sec- pretty be ~gar girl ; and the poor girl cad line, hopes to propitiate her with a smile and ayant chant~ a curtsey ( ne vous d6plaise !); but Tout lete, improvident youth and beauty get no seeming to make us hear the monot- mercy from spectacled spinsterdom, onous song of the cicada in the heat and are left to dance before a severely of the long summer day ; the bisc strik- closed front door, that frowns in stolid ing in in the third line, hissing and rejection of every appeal. whistling, till we hear the east wind Well may La Fontaine say himself sweeping round a cold corner ; and that what makes the success of these then the simple sin~ing motion of that things is simply la mani~re de les delightful verse : conter. He says it indeed of his Nuit et jour a tout venant, Contes ;~ but, happily for us, there and the last line, stepping like a are very few of his fables with which the coateur did not have as much to do minuet as the fabulist. And it is the presence Eh bien! dansez maintenant. everywhere of the born story-teller Humming this last line, I found that, which makes his fables what no other suite unconsciously, I had set it to the fables are. It may even be, perhaps, only minuet air that I know. Lan- that his unique gifts in this direction guage and metre have been used with have obscured his purely poetic gift. telling effect in almost every line ; and We foreigners are not inclined to re La Fontaine. gard poetry as among the arts in which Les for~ts, les eaux, les prairies, the French have beeii conspicuously are in l~is eyes successful. Too much of their poetry M~res des douces reveries is, for an Englishman or a German, indistinguishable from rhetorical prose, language which makes us think of Co- and indeed the French imagination rot. seems to us to have always tended He liked to indulge his Wanderino- rather in the rhetorical than in the gen- fancy in the fresh air, especially in ninely poetical direction. Many again woods ; and there is a story of the of the men who have written French Duchesse de Bouillon noticing him l)oetry, including Moli~rc, the greatest dreaming under a tree one morning as of them all, and Boileau, who was a she drove to Versailles, and being as- lawgiver to French poets for a century tonished to find him still there when and more, used verse, as far as we can she drove back in the evening. And a see, merely to give pointed and telling hundred touches show that lie could expression to thoughts which belonged observe as well as dream, and observe in themselves to prose ; so that what with the eye not merely of a naturalist they have written, although it may be, hut of a poet. What can be more per- as in Moli~res case, a treasure and fect than his picture of a river more than a treasure for all time, is Image dun sommeil doux, paisible, et 1)oetry only in form and not in essence. tranquille! But however all this may be, and what- We seem when we read it to breathe ever allowances must be made, it is at once the delicious stillness of a sum- still a great thing to be the greatest mci afternoon on thie banks of the poet of a great nation ; and good judges Seine. Or hear him on that eternal have given La Fontaine the first place theme of poets, the beauty of the first among Frenchi poets. I-Ic was not such buds in spring. how he seems to feel a poet by nature as Aadrd Ch6nier or for them as he tells how the na.sty IDe Musset or Hugo but it is possible schoolboy, breaking them off as he that his completer success in his o~vn clambers about the tree, sphere may give him a longer life than may fall to any of them. A l)oet whose G ~tait jusquaux boutons, douce et fr~le theme is the fundamental facts of hu- esp~rance. man nature, which do not change, and Touches of this sort occur often who treats that theme at once with con- enough in La Fomitaine, delicate and summate knowledge and with a more fragile, and, if you will, even slight, but than Homeric simplicity, is sure of a perfect in their kind. The world he 1)lace among that scanty band, not a lived in and the natnmc of his life, if not dozen perhaps, and certainly not a the nature of the man himself, were score in all the world, of whoma we can ag~iinst the growth of the larger imagi- safely prophesy that the lapse of a nation ; still there are touches here and thousand years will still find men learn there which suggest what might have ing the ma by heart. A humble place been under other circumstances. There his may be, for he does not look at life is something splendidly imaginative, for from the highest point of view, and lie instance, as it seemns to me, in the last cannot stir us or inspire us ; but of a line of his description of the lost seek- place of some sort lie seems to mue to ers of new worlds in the fable of Le be secure. And he has given us a fair Rieur et les Poissons ~ __ number of glimpses into his real poetic Tons les noms des chercheurs de mondes temperament. La Fontaine loved the inconnus ~l)~ii air, an(l lox-ed it, not merely as Qul nen dtaient pas revenus the sportsman loves it, as the place of Et que depuis cent ans sons labime avalent his healthiest enjoyment, but as some- vus thing more, as a world of strange and Les anciens du vaste empire. beautiful dreams. But it is, of course, as the genial, 76 La Fontaine. good-natured satirist xvho knew his world, which is also our world, so as- tonishingly well, and could put his finger, with gentle irony, or sometimes with quiet malice, on all its weaknesses it is as a man of all-embracing sym- pathies and abounding, never-failing humor, and, for those of us at least who really care for poetry, as the artist of almost unerring touch, that he is and will be always best remembered. His fables are among the few things that can be rea(l, and re-read, and read again, with new pleasure every time. And what a mine of pictures of his day and the world lie lived in ! There are the monks of Orbais, in the Epistle to Fouquet, who complained in winter that the short days left them no time to get through their meals! There are the dean ( personne fort pm- dente ), and the chapter of the rats, who found talking so easy and doing so difficult; the little princes, whom he advises to settle their dispates among themselves, and not call the kings in to help them, like the silly peasant who called in his landlord and his dogs to drive a troublesome hare out of his garden ; the courtiers, whom it is best not to change, because the old ones have already grown fat on the public purse, whereas new ones will arrive Ican and hungry; the gout, which poor ~, a peasant, an(l lodged, thiu~ with was much shaken and disturbcd by his stoopin~s and stretchings and goings and comings, and had no peace till it went to live with a bishop, whom it was quite possible to keep snug in bed all day ; the roads in i3asse Bretagne, where fate sends people whom it wants to see out of temper, and which make La. Fontaine say, Dien nous pr6serve du voyage ; the court which he calls, pletely true of any as of that of Louis XIV., who, as Saint Simon shows, re- quired all about bun to appear to enjoy immensely whatever he told them to do. Even the king himself, one may say, appears there, for who could fail to think of Louis X1V. when he read La Fontaines moralizing over man wishing for the impossible Combien fait-il de vamx? combien perd-il de pas Soutrant pour acquirir des biens on de la gloire! Si jarrondissais mes & ats Si je pouvais remplir mes coifres de ducats l or again, wheu he says Rien ne remplit Les vastes app~tits d un faiseur de con- quotes. Truly did lie call his fables ane ample com6die ~t cent actes divers. They are the pictures of his own time first of all, but also of our tune, and of every time. He saw life for himself and at first hand, and sketches it with a freshness and force which belong only to original personalities. No wonder Louis XIV. did not like him. The man who car- ried political and social make-believe to an unapproached and indeed unap- proachable point could not like the clear-eyed satirist, with his awkward turn for seeing things as they really were. There are fifty things in La Fontaine that one would like to linger over; but, in this imperfect world, we are obliged to be the obedient servants of those inexorable masters, time and space. I should like to go into the charm of his style, and what I think its special merit I mean the element of unexpected- ness which is everywhere present in it, and which is perhaps the first of vir- tues in a light style. I should like to Un pays oh les gens, try to analyze his treatment of the ani- Tristes, gais, pr~ts h tout, h tout indiff& mal world, and find out why all other rents, . . animals seem dull and (lead by the side Sont cc qnil plait an prince, ou sils ne of his; but I can only say that his peuvent 1 ~tre, Thehent an moms de he paraitre: secret seems to me to be that, far more Peuple cam~l~on, peuple singe dn maitre; than any other fabulist, he endows his creatures with humanity and person- a description true, no doubt, to some ality, giving them human thoughts and extent of all courts, but never so com- feelings and fancies, without touching La Fontaine. 77 a hair of their animal bodies; and, if little Do07 The Two Pigeons, I am tempted to illustrate once more Death and the Dying Man, and what I mean, I do it in fear of editorial there are so many, that I have no room scissors. The rat who has retired from to give the names of a tenth part of the world will show something of what them, much more quote them; so that I mean. The place in which he found I must let it alone and only say one repose from the cares of the world thing more, and that is this. I was was a Dutch cheese. There he found speaking just now of La Fontaines board an(l lodging, and lie even grew charm, and saying that one note of the fat and full-bodied so good is God many that make up that charm was to those who vow themselves to his that of frank self-revelation. Well, service. One day some ambassadors there is nothing more conspicuous who were journeying from Ratopolis, everywhere in La Fontaine. His real then besieged by the cats, to seek help life, the real man, is writ large in every from a distant people, and were very page of his works. He pours himself short of money, caine to ask our holy out everywhere, and we see every side hermit (divot personnage) for alms. of the man: his kindliness and feeling Mes amis, dit le solitaire, for the poor : - Les choses d ici bas ne me regardent plus: Wlas! on volt que de tout temps En quoi peut un pauvre reclus Les petits oat p& ti des sottises des grands; Vous assister? que pent-il faire, h Que de prier le del quil vous aide en ceci? is praises of quiet and solitude, and J esp~re qu il aura de vous quelque souci. his love of friendship and his friends, Ayant parl6 de cette sorte which occur again and again: Le nouveau saint ferma sa porte. Quun ami veritable est une douce chose! And La Fontaines charming note of his delight in life, in the world and all conclusion : pleasant things, and consequent dislike Que d~sign& je, ~ votre avis, of stoical persons who would have us Par ce rat si pen secourable? stop living before we are dead, and of Un moine? Non, mais un dervis: misers whose insane craving for accu- Je suppose quun moine est toujours chari- mulation will not let them listen to his table. wise advice : I have been obliged to omit several delightful touches. And the piece is not properly a fable ; but how perfect it is ! The balance here certainly leans to the human side ; but the rat is still a real rat, using his feet and teeth, we are told, to make board and lodging out of the cheese, and it is just that which makes him so amusing as a monk. And then how stinging the satire is, lightly as lie lays it on ! A monk could hardly wince more under the lash of Erasmus, especially where lie came to the final explanation so characteristic of La Fontaine ,thatof course he was only thinking of a der- vish after all. But if I were to let myself quote I should never have done. I should be giving ali my favorites in full : The Man and the Serpent, The Banker and the Cobbler, The Women and the Secret, The Donkey and the Cest assez, jonissons. And then the sense of the shortness of life which must be always breaking in upon every one who feels its sweet- ness : Quittez he long espoir et hes vastes pens~es. He is over and over again regretfully obliged to say to himself : H~las ! hes belles destin~es Ye devalent aller que he pas. There is of course one grave defect, to which I have alluded before, in what he shows us of himself, and there is one lesser defect too. Lover of the country, of rivers and trees, and birds and beasts, lie is not what he ought to have been, a lover also of children. He never alludes to theni but with dis- like. Strange that he, himself all his life a child, who would quite have en- tered into the wondering question of 78 Mr. Stevensons childhood, 0 why can we not all be happy and devote ourselves to play! should have let himself catch from that seventeenth- century Parisian society, which often hardly knew its own children, a dislike of those whom he of all men ought to have recognized as the most delightful creatures in all Gods world. Yet somehow that is how things were. He hardly knew his own son when he met him. Racines daughters remembered him only as tiresome and dull; and when he speaks of a boy in his fables, it is as, Certain enfant qul sentait son colh~ge Doublement sot et doublement fripon Par le jeune ~ge et par le privih~ge Qu ont les p~dants de g~ter la raison. And he adds, in giving his moral Je ne sais b~te au monde pire Que l~colier, si cc n est le pedant. Le meilleur de ces deux pour voisin, ~i vrai dire, Ne me plairait aucunement. other people talk of it ; and when we reati such stories we are not surprised that he tells Pliredruss fable in such a way as to win all our sympathies not for the wise ant, but for the careless cicada. His is by no means a great or imposing figure, but, if we will forget to be severe moralists, it is one of the most lovable we know. He is never angry, he is never insincere, he is never prosy, he is never dull. If it constitutes a great claim on our grati- tude to have written a book to which we can always turn when worried or depressed with unfailing certainty of being cheered and brightened, then there can be no doubt that we ought to think of La Fontaine only less grate- fully, only less affectionately than we think of Molibre and Cervantes. J. C. BAILEY. From The Gentlemans Magazine. MY SISTER KATE. BY MARY 5. hANCOCK. CHAPTER I. INTERESTJNG people have tem- pers. It was my sister Kate who made that remark in a calm and even tone of voice which nettled me. I had been nettled all that morning, and I knew it. So did she, which made her utterances more pointed. She was leaning back in a very comfortable easy- chair, the most comfortable one in my possession, and she was darning at the timne. I cannot say darning is a very grace- ful act at any time, but with Kate it is aggressively ungraceful, it is almost defiantly so. And she knows this also. She was darning my socks, for these, I grieve to say, have a perpetual knack of running into holes in an undignified manner. It is clearly not my fault; I think the wool of modern times is de- cidedly inferior to that of our fore- fathers. I say so to Kate, who receives the information with a toss of the head, and a little Umph ! I watch Kate with interest when she But we can none of us be perfect, and if La Fontaine had loved children he would have been perfect in all the lesser virtues. And, with all deduc- tions made, he is, as I said, one of the pleasantest figures to think of in literary history. Tiresome as Mademoiselle Ra- cine found it, we should like to have been present when he would not talk of anything but Plato; and we find it characteristic enough that he greatly disliked Aristotle. And we are amused to think of him going to present Ills book to Louis XIV., and finding when he got to Versailles that he had left the book at home, and then crowning the days adventures by losing on his way back the purse the king had given him ; or being sent a horse that he might ride at once to Paris to see about a lawsuit, and meeting a friend a few miles outside the city, and get- ting into such interesting talk about books that he forgets his business and stays the night with his friend, and, when he arrives too late next day, says he is very glad at bottom that he did forget all about it, for he neither likes darns. It is nice to know she is useful. talking of business himself nor hearing I am at an interesting a0e myself. My My Sister Kate. ~Jfy Sister Kate. and I cannot say I approve of this part of her conduct. We had an altercation about it just now, which led to the sin- gular remark I have recorded before. Kates remarks have a peculiar flavor about them, and can be, at times, more vigorous than pleasant. Some of these oracular utterances have worked disastrously for me ; they have arrested the flow of slippers~ smoking-caps, and pen-wipers, and have materially affected the jam-pots, cakes, and creature comforts that filled my cupboard shelves. My land- lady is not infatuated with Kate. On the contrary, she takes good care to tell me as it were vastly diffurunt in th late cooerats daay. Well, here my sister is, and here she must stay, I suppose, for the present. I have distinguished myself. I have fallen in love. It is not the first time, or the second, that 1 have performed that feat; but this time I have done it, with a vengeance. I am three-and-twenty, the proud possessor of one hun(lred and twenty pounds per annum, and no prospects to speak of. Yet I have persuaded one young woman to take inc on tick, as it were, and to believe in me. This i~ a feather in my cap. It came about in this way. My voice is a deep, sonorous bass ; it echoes, through the building when I read prayers, and when I preach it rings through the rafters in the most mellow of melodious accents. I sing too not lively little ditties that melt one to t~ars, but stirring, powerful lays, like Ruddier than the cherry, and the~ recitative, in which I rage, I burn, in such overwhelming tones. Clara is musical ; she sings and plays toopretty little pieces, which please the ears of my parishioners, and are very acceptable at our local assem- blies. They afford a fine cover for conversation, chiefly tit-bits of a scan- dalous character, which are confiden- tially whispered into sympathetic ears durin~ the performance. The dear girl plays away conscien- comfort, but she has choked off my tiously, as if conscious that she is doing admirers in a most distinct manner; her duty; and so I dare say she is.. sister occasionally believes in me ; the other young women of the township do so at all times; and I may candidly state at once that I believe in myself. Holding the important curacy of St. Anne the Martyr, I feel myself a per- son of importance, and that my advent into the place is calculated to raise the town in the opinion of the whole county. I am neither tall nor short, neither stout nor thin, but a happy mid- way between extremes, vhich is a con- venient arrangement on the part of nature. The people whose opinions I value say I am good-looking, but, being very modest, I decline to believe that in its entirety, and Kate, who abhors flat- tery, says composedly that I am not. It is better to speak the truth, she says bluntly. I am not sure that she always does so herself. Kate has many faults. She lives with me by the judicious desires of my parents. My vicar, who is unmarried, lives in the old vicarage across the road. He lives alone, is very self-contained, abrupt, and impei- ative. I am not sure that I like him. Kate said once that she had never given him a second look, she had come here to look after me. I feel duly grateful, but think I could have man- aged very comfortably without her. Kate is small, and, some say, pretty, but I am no judge of my sisters looks. This parish is large, well-populated, and semi-rural; it contains many young womenthey are under my care. I have no time to look at Kate. She believes in me with certain rescr- vations She is not an ardent admirer of young men, as a class. She is seven-and-twenty, slight, and fair; I am dark, and twenty-three. That, I find, is the most interesting age at which a curate can place himself. It is an age that commends itself to all minds. All ones faults are condoned, all ones excellencies are over-estimated. It is so in the case of Jenkins of St. Edmunds, as I can say from personal knowledge. Kate has darned my stockings, sewn on my buttons, and looked after my 79 80 Kate, who says disagreeable things, remarks that duty is a much-abused word, and that different people judge of it from different standpoints. I dont accept her as an authority. She has no soul for music like that, she adds, with a finely curved sneer; but then, Kates soul is rarely stirred by local events, and so, it may be, she is not moved in the same way as others by the strains of harmony. Clara de Grey Stranton is the daugh- ter of Mr. and Mrs. de Grey Stranton, the parental authority being solely vested in Mrs. de Grey Stranton, as her husband rests in peace in the church- yard if his bones have not been dis- turbed at the recent restoration. It does not matter if they have, or have not. In his lifetime he is said to have played second-fiddle to Mrs. de Grey Stranton, and his death has made no change in her domestic arrangements. Clara is named after a certain ab- bess who inhabited these parts about a thousand years ago. It is considered quite a delicate way of showing piety and respect, by naming all the little girls who arrive after this lady, of whom we know little or nothing; while the boys worse luckcontinue to be Johns, and Georges, and Josephs until the penny novelette alters public opinion. They will in future be Yin- cents, Geralds, St. Clairs, and Athel- stans. The penny novelette is a public benefactor. The reigning family has done its share of good in influencing the nomenclature of the people. But Edward is old-fashioned, and Albert is of no use ; and for the rest, they ring the changes too much upon the same names in those exalted circles. The leading aristocrat of our district is no good. She is plain, unvarnished Lady Jane a prosaic matter - of - factness about that which commends itself to no one and her daughter rejoices in being Ellen GreytownEllen, mark you, not Helen, or Elinor, or Helena Ellen. It is almost a defiance bran- dished by the noble house of Greytown in the eyes of the hoi polloi. Clara de Grey Stranton may not ride in a carriage, or boast a footman, or flourish a coronet; but her name is music, and rolls on the ear like a sweet strain. Kate put her hands over her ears when I discoursed in this style. For goodness sake, said she ener~eti- cally, think of your sermons, think of your work, think of your next exam, and dont torment me with your elo- quence! I am not in love with Miss Stranton. Then I became disturbed in my mind, and gave Kate a lecture which naturally upset her, and pro- voked a storm. And after this she was good enough to say apologetically, All interesting people have tem- pers. I did not consider this an apol- ogy; instead of soothing, it irritated me still more. I went to finish the evening at the house of Mrs. de Grey Stranton, being admitted by the sooty hands of Je- mima, and ushered by her with unnec- essary giggles into the presence of my beloved. Why do some people always giggle? It is a most annoying piece of mistaken mirthfulness, and I dont admire it. Whenever this miserable Jemima gig- gles I grow wrathful, and frown. And thus I appear in the bosom of my Claras family with so forbidding an expression on my countenance, that the young De Grey Strantons turn tail and fly incontinently without wasting too many words on me. There are two young Dc Grey Stran- tons two only. One is Vincent MaP travers de Grey Stranton, and the other is Octavius Stanley Cornwallis, etc. These names being somewhat long for daily wear and tear, their unfeeling schoolfellows have shortened them into Trotters and Tommy. Trotters repre- sents Vincent, etc., and Tommy stands for Octavius and the rest. Mrs. de Grey Stranton, it is needless to add, uses no abbreviations; she ignores them. My godfathers and godmothers, as represented by my mothers judicious taste and state of feeling, bestowed on me the simple old Saxon appellation of Edwin. It suits me, and, thank good- ness, it suits Mrs. de Grey Stranton. M~q Sister Kate. .ZJfy Sister Kate. If it did not, I feel sure she would re- christen me on the spot. Edwin Graham, says my beloved, is sweetly pretty ; dont you think so, Kate ? But Kate Kate looks furious. Of course it is nice, because my iiiother chose it, she says abruptly but, for myself, I think Edwin is an uncommonly soft kind of thing to call a boy. Whereupon I vow undying enmity to Kate,or should do so if I were not a parson. II think a good deal of this fact. If it were not so, would I ~,o in for such expensive suits of clothes? That is quite sufficient evidence in my eyes ; if others dont agree with me the fault is theirs, not mine. I am at least re- solved to be an ornament to my profes- sion, and Clara dear girl says I am certainly that. How well she understands me ! The two other girls to whom I plighted my troth I like that phrase they also professed to understand me, but one of them was auCaeio us enough to hint at a want of backbone one day. I havent the faintest notion what she meant, but Kate got angry and inter- fered, and succeeded in breaking off my engagement. She nearly broke my heart. The other young ladys parents objected to my youthfulness and pau- city of prospects, so she cried off too. But Clara, who understands me, has no scruples about preferment and all the other bogie-men, so we are supremely happy. The evening when the unlucky Jemima ushered me in upon the do- mestic group with a giggle remains un- printed on my mind. When the boys flew away, Clara and I sat alone, and I did my best to make my hat go round at a rapid rate in my chilly hands. Clara took pity on me. ~Oh, Mr. Graham, she began, let me relieve you of this ; and her hands seized my headgear with gentle force. I often think I wish I corild relieve you from all care. It is the sort of speech that always touches my heart, so I began to thaw. LIYING AGE. VOL. LXXXIV. 4318 81 Mother and I admire your sermons so much. We tell the boys to copy you ; oh, if they only would! She clasped her hands, and the tears rose in her eyes. I had admired her from afar for a long time, and now I broke down. Clara, I whispered, Clara, I love you. I whispered the words in ex- actly the right tone of voice, with the correct thrill and expressiveness, and the most enthralling intonation. I un- derstood the exact amount needful to be used, and at the right moment Clara gave in. Her head was reposing on my shoulder, her hands clasped in mine, when Mrs. de Grey Stranton en- tered the room, and, melted into tears and blessings at the sight , giving the inestimable Clara to me almost before I had opened my mouth to ask for the treasure. I have never told this to Kate, mind you. When I came home that night and announced my engage- ment, my angelic sister laid down the stocking upon which she was at work, and let her thimble roll to the other end of the table as she exclaimed with wholly unnecessary energy Youre a fool for your pains, my boy! I am proud, so I said never a word in contradiction; only I began to spend more time with the De Grey Strantons, in order, as I said pathetically, that we might learn to know one another better. Some wise man has written, For people to live happily togeth~r, the real secret is that they should not live too much together. Being, in spite of my sisters opinion, fully aware of this, I took good care to follow this sage counsel, and to retire from the society of my bride-elects family when- ever the members of it began to make themselves unnecessarily prominent. These pleasant recreations filled up most of my time, much to my own en- joyment and that of Clara de Grey Stranton; and I forgot I positively and earnestly forgot that my sister Kate had many long and unoccupied hours at her own disposal, when she was not engaged in mending my gar- ments, and that mischief aWaits the lily Sister Kate. unemployed. So it came to pass that another little episode was going on, of which I her legal protector, guar- dian. defender, and all the rest of it was entirely ignorant, and purposely kept in the dark besides. It is another bone to pick with Miss Kate, and some day I would gladly set- tie up old scores ; but whenever this occurs to me another and far more awful idea puts it to flight, and post- pones the time of reckoning. I will tell you all about it. CHAPTER II. KATE, my sister, is slight and small. She is considered very pretty, too, by her friends ; I do not say beautiful, or handsome, or imposing. I simply say pretty ; but it is a prettiness that does not fade. I may say this is a charac- teristic of our family we wear well. She is twenty-seven, which, while be- ing a sensible age of progression for a man, is considered down-hill for a woman. Kate, that reminds me, is no longer a girl she is a woman. We expect a good deal from our women. The vicarage stands in its own grounds with high walls and a tall gate ; the gate swings to and fro all day long, assisted by the movements of the children from the houses opposite, who like swinging when they can get the chance. There is nothing captivating about the house, the grounds, or the m~age. The house is bare, with a fine sprin- kling of soots from the neighboring coal-mine. I did not tell you this was a colliery place, did I? If it had not been, I should not have been here and that not because I have an undue partiality for collieries, but because my vicar has no partiality for curates. He says so openly, so I violate no confi- dence by repeating his words. The grounds afford a fine playground for the neighboring cats, and the vicars parrot understands the varying shades of modulation in each particular feline voice. He can give you a grand con- cert on the shortest notice. garden, sending fractional parts of speech in all directions as beneficently an(l as widely as even Mr. Mundella or the local School Boards could desire. Saturday nights give the vicar a choice of hats, all made on the newest principle of ventilation, and none of the in likely to be affected by wind and weather; those playful elements hav- ing done all the affecting long ago, in some dim, mysterious past of their earthly history. The vicarage is a quiet, secluded oasis in the parochial wilderness, affec- tionately nicknamed the almshouse by the appreciative people, who, to show their appreciation, make presents tn the inmates of broken pipes, old milk tins, and other impedimenta, which they no longer need themselves. It is a fine thing to be vicar of En- derby. He lives alone ; he is tall, elderly, and vigorous, a man of tre- mendous energy. When I say elderly, I speak from the platform of three-and- twenty ; but Kate says, Rubbish I the man is only forty-three; twenty years older than yourself, thank Heaven. I dont see much to thank Heaven for in that fact; but apparently Kate does ; so I will leave the subject of age, only saying in passing that my sister has no tolerance for young men, and, therefore, her opinions must be taken curn graao. Kate never darkened the doors of the vicarage. Why should I? she would retort sharply, when the vicar gave his annual fftes; and as she was so persistent I left her alone. Being out a good deal myself at the IDe Grey St4tons, I saw very little of my sister during the day. We met at breakfast, at dinner, at a meeting per- haps, and in the evening just before bedtime. Kate always insisted on sit- ting up for me. Clara de Grey Stranton did not go to many meetings. She is too tender a flower, said her mother, and I agreed with her. Besides this, the newspapers ~ener- Kate Graham was of coarser mould ally tear themselves to tatters in the she would take no harm. So I did not 82 My Sister Kate. know, until it came to me as a sort of revelation, how closely enwrought into the life of the place was my quiet, humdrum sister. She taught the babies in the Sunday- school; it was hard, dry work, but she managed to get a laugh out of the odd things those children sai(l to her and she taught the 01(1 men in the night- school, letter by letter much harder, (irier work, and very little fun could be got out of their prosaic, matter-of-fact, worn-out old bra.ins. Worst of all, she had a class of hoydens I cannot call them anything else great, romping, rough girls, who came from the factory over the bridge, and who knew a great many things which it were better for women not to know, and xvii o sai(l and did those things. But not before Kate. Rather riot! I must confess Kate was a picture at those meetings. I saw her once at one ; and positively, if she had not been my sister, I could have found it in my heart to admire her, she looked so bonnie and bright. She had on a soft white dress, fresh and clean, made of nuns veiling, or serge, or some such stuff, an(l it fell in folds all round her. At the throat she wore a dark crimson rose, and a few of the same flowers at her waist. They were plucked that (lay from a bush in our back garden, which the landlady keeps for Miss Graham, she says. All her light, curling hair was gath- ered into heavy coils on her head, but a few tendrils had escaped, and wreathed in low clusters on her fore- head; while her bright eyes looked fearlessly into their faces, and gave back smile for smile. She had taken off her cloak and hat, and hung them up behind her; for the room often became hot and stifling, and she could not stand that. When I saw her, she was singing while the girls worked. She had taught them to sew, taught them with the gentlest patience in the world, I know, and had succeeded. Kate was a rare one for training, be sure of that. liter head was high in the air, and the glorious tones of her voice filled the room, ringing out over the atmo- sphere all laden with frivolity and sin as it might be, and she sang on and on unwearyingly until many of the girls were quietly wiping away the tears that. rose unbid(len to their eyes, of which they would have been heartily ashame(1 outside. When they were more than usually on the rampage, or the warpath, Kate would stand forth an(l call out Girls, I am going to sing. It was euon{~h. Every strong-armed young woman, by virtue of her strength, bore (lown upon her neighbors, and carrie(1 the day by force of arms ; then a great silence would fall upon the place, and Kates voice would reign supreme. I tell you sister of mine though she may be I shall not soon forget the impression she made upon me when I heard her. They tell me she had other auditors sometimes, of whom she knew nothing. I heard, for instance, how one night a gang of carousers from a public house near by came along joyously to make a swoop upon the damsels and upset the decorum of the assembly. But when they neared the door Kate was singing. The lads gathered round the half- open doorway. Not a man of them dare venture Th- side. As for their bravado, it died away in liar mless smoke they stood, and gazed, and stared. Some slunk away ; they had heard enough. Others remained to the end, and sighed when her songs were over. But no one ever thought of disturb- ing Kate after that. Once or twice I met the vicar near the turning to the schoolroom; ahd bowed as I passed him. He returned the greeting, and pursued the ope:n road. I never connected him with Kates work. It was Clara de Grey Stranton herself Who startled me. What a gift your sister has ! 7 she remarked. And what a peculiar girl she is ! She will not come here, and yet she sings by the hour to those half- civilized ~irls in St. Annes Lane. It is for the sake of the old vicar, no doubt. 84 My Sister Kate. ChAPTER iii. widows and spinsters who attended our THE dear girl tossed her pretty little church to be singularly handsome. I head, with those ti~htly crimped curlets did not share that opinion ; but old that I knew so well, as she said these maids are peculiarly sensitive to looks words, and I stood aghast. on the part of their clergy, and not too so, Clara, my darling, I mur discriminating either. inured softly, my arm stealing round It is true that he carefully abstained her waist. No, Clara, my beloved, from more than the merest passing ac- Kate has 110 liking for old men; Kate quaintance with them, never presenting is useful to me ; she has her brothers himself at any of the little tea-drink- interests at heart, her brothers wel- ings which were so common amongst fare. These demand all her time, and us, and never by any chance putting in all her attention. She has no eyes for an appearance at Mrs. de Grey Stran- elderly gentlemen. tons, even when a big spread was And young ones have none for under way. her, retorted my betrothed quickly. Mrs. de Grey Stranton liked a little But oh, Edwin, must shie always live party. She aired 11cr best china and with us ? I mean I mean her antique electro-plate on those occa- Here the dear girl buried her head on sions, for which the household was in my shoulder, and was overcome by her purgatory for a whole week, while feelings for a few seconds, while I Jemnimnas tears were frequent, and her endeavored to calm her agitated emno- grimyness greater than usual during tions. the mysterious processes of preparation. Tile subject of Kate, I began in It would have gratified Mrs. de Grey my most clerical tones the subject Stranton if she could have enticed the of my sisters residence here is unfortu- vicar to grace her tea-table and eat her nately beyond my control. My parents cakes. seem to consider that their business. But it was not to be. He was blessed But when whien we arrange matters, or cursed, which you prefer with a darling (here I dropped the cleric digestion, and hence was obliged to and becamne humnan), then I will live carefully, an expression whichi I take the reins into my own hands and have since learned to believe was a iKate can return homne once mnore. pious fib invented to save appearances. This pacified Clara, I am sure I do not The vicars abstention was not my know wIly. I never can understand loss. It was distinctly my gain. If he how it is that mnarria0 e generally causes had a digestion, I II ad no qualms about such upsets in famnilies. We are told mine. Three-and-twenty is a glorious tilat a man mnust cleave to his wife ; age. A man has tile digestion of an but why that SilOlild mean that he ostricil and the vigor of a Hercules or should deliberately set himself, in so ought to Ilave, if he be managed prop- many cases, dead against Ills own erly. And I was in my element at our friends and relatives, is really beyond local tea-drinkings. It is, even now, a my csmprehension. part of mny parocilial duty wllich I un- However, Clara is not in that posi- derstand to perfection and enjoy, and in lion as yet, so slle was taking time by those early days of my work it was just the forelock, so to say, in the attitude exactly what I delighted in. Perllaps I she was assuming towards Kate. My~should not have enjoyed tllese gather- sister was a very decided convenience mgs so much had my vicar been there. to me, one I declined to part witil until In the tender years of a curates life I had tile opportunity of replacing her. Ile does not hunger and thirst for his So, while I tenderly appeased Clara, I vicars bodily presence wherever he still held my own way witll regard to appears. He likes to float before the Kate, upon wllom I intended to keep a, popular gaze by Ilimself, to pirouette, strict watell in future. as it were, upon a platformn all by himn- My vicar was said by tile numerous self, and to display his new clericals lily Sister Kate. nnabashed by any other priestly pres- saw Kate going out, walked with her to ence. The girls admire hiiii unre- the mission, and consulte(l her instead. strainedly, and he is al)le to exhibit Hurrying back to ask her something he himself to more purpose in his supe- had forgotten, he heard her singing, nors absence, and her voice arrested him. He was Kate, too, kept aloof from these passionately fond of singing. Natu- social gatherings. Kate had plenty on rally, he became passionately fond of ~ her hands with the babies, and the old hearing Kate. As she went nowhere, men, and the rou~h girls. I took care he could only hear her at the mission that she had something to do ; occupa- and to the mission, consequently, lie tion, as I have said before, is good for contrived to go, passing no further than young women of Kates age. the swinging doors, or the lobby, or, at But, after Claras remark, I kept a times, the little ante-room within. sharper lookout at home. It was a curious affair, after all. He Mrs. Malony, said I to my land- often met Kate on the way down, and lady the very next morning, did any sometimes walked back with her ; that one call last evening? Nivir a was all. No one talked about them. blissid sowl, was the instant reply. Kate was felt to be beneath notice by The blissid young lady, yer nivrences the authorized gossips. But sisther, whom the saints presarve she was alone hersilf all the night; an me CHAPTER IV. sittin by the kitchin foire th whole KATE GRAHAM sat by the or~an in toime whativir. Mrs. Malony is a the dini and dusky twilight. The old great talker, so I did not hear half she church of St. Anne the Martyr was full sai(l. I have reason to believe she did of shadows mysterious shadows not tell the truth ; and if I had only that came and went like curious em- seen her five minutes later in her blems of past congregations that had kitchen I should have beeii quite sure wept, and prayed, and sung in the of the fact, for this is what she did, I dusty aisles below. was told long afterwards. She flung The girl had been singing by herself herself down on her low chair in front in the organ-loft above the rood-screen. of the fire, and, tossing the corner of A strange fancy had seized her to leave her huge white apron over her head, the organ and come to the front of the gave vent to a series of chuckles and loft and sing; throwing her voice into laughs that scared her niece who lived the far recesses of those wondrous pas~ with lien, sages and openings of the cherestory Shure, an its meself thats the through which processions of white- clivir won to-day, fur I nivir let on, robed monks and friars had passed in I3ridgit, me gurl, that twas the vicars chanting ranks many a hundred years own self that browt the swatest o before. Do you know the church of young ladies home; non yit did I tell St. Anne the Martyr at Endenby? that his nivrences feet walked the No ? Then let me tell yon that it is whole way wid the young leddy ten th very old an ancient abbey-church, meetin. Twould ha made hilm mad ; built somewhere in the misty ages, full an its meself that keppit the saycret. of twelfth-century work and thirteenth- Then she rocked, and laughed, and century tombs; full, too, of odd and rocked again. It was a good joke to quaint bits of Saxon masonry, and Ho- lier, man toil, and Norman architecture. It This was how it all came about. is a complex medley, of course. A My vicar, the Rev. Oscar Vaughan, is Saxon sanctuary-chair stands within an industrious old fellow, who likes to the altar-rails ; the relics of Wilfrids keep his thumb on most parochial or- earlier church are below us in the nar- ganizations. I wish he didnt. He now crypt, and Roman tombstones came to consult me one evening, found stand sentinel in the solemn tnansepts, I had gone to the De Grey Strantons, below the wide sweeping flight of stone 86 My Sister Kate. steps that led formerly to the stately Vaughan fought out a little battle by rooms of abbot, monk, and austere himself. A strange revelation had brother. come to him in these days. He, who The roof is lofty, and the proportions had passed unscathed through the of the church are noble and grand. It fierce perils of his early college and is full of a thousand memories, which curate days, had fallen ignominiously touch even the most casual beholder. beneath the spell of a wondrous-voiced lie cannot help it. siren. He knew it. Oddly enough, he The pavement he treads to-day was did not resent it. trodden years an(1 years ago by other The only thing that troubled him was feet that have been dust for centuries ; this should lie speak, or should he the aisles lie paces were paced by other iiot? forms that passed into the shadows of He had learnt to know this girl pretty the silent land long before his advent well. She was the right hand of the on the scene. The air vibrates with parish, if not his own r~ht hand ; and, the haunting strains of harmony, of as far as he was concerned, nothing passion, of pleading, that fell upon it could have gone on without her. But centnries gone l)y. And, in those this did not enter into the considera- l)ews, broken hearts and streaming eyes tion. He loved her, little as he knew murmured vows which changed to mist her. There was a charm about Kate l)efore the stronger wiles of the enemy. Graham which endeared her infln~tely This old church has seen bloodshed, to the lonely man, who had had but and storm, and fury ; ay, it has seen little association with women for many many an awful scene in its day. years of his life. But with a strange blending of the The question he debated long and finite with the infinite, there still rise anxiously within himself was the one the hymn of praise, the holy chant, the of age. I-Ic was forty, at least ; she voice of prayer, within these sacred was twenty-seven. There is a wide walls. gap between these two a es, a gap Something of this swept over Kates which is not only of years, but involves mind as she stood there and sang, with tastes, opinions, habits the hundred the twilight gathering fast over pillar, and one things which go to make up and tracery, and carving below. the details of a lifetime, for such his She sang, as perhaps she had never existence seemed to Oscar Vaughan as sung before, a curious, half-dreamy lie looked back. Pro and co~ he de- nicasure to words she had heard some- bated the subject during many a walk where, in some dream-land of her own. to and from that mission-room with And, over the star-lighted aisles be- Kate Graham ; and sometimes she low, the beauty of the notes rang clear wondered at his frequent silences and and sweet as they rose and fell on the abstractions, thinking her liveliness heavy air. offended and disturbed him. One listener, lingering in the south- If she had only known it, this but em transept amid the tombs, stayed his endeared her the more to him. It was steps to hear her. He drew nearer a fierce battle, which absorbed many nearer nearer very gently, fearing hours of the sleepless nights and dreary lest a movement might disturb or days through which lie passed before startle the singer ; and, standing at last arriving at a decision. in the folds of the rich tapestry that They met frequently, for Enderby is hung over the entrance to the choir, a small place, and most of the streets b& neath the rood-screen, lie felt the lead to one common centre, the great melody floating over him like some market-square, in which stands the wonderful seraphic measure which lie grey old church, with the ancient gate- wasnuwilhing to disturb by the faintest tower the sole relic of the days when breath or movement. Enderby was a walled town opposite. While she sang, the Rev. Oscar All the leading shops cluster round the lily Sister Kate. church in the market-place, where once a week the faimers carts come rattlin~ over the stones to (1mw up at the Kings Head, and be turned shafts doxvu in rows, while their inmates sell butter and eggs, and chaffer and gossip in the booths, which are a strong feature of our open-air market. The mission-room is close beside the old gate-tower ; the vicarage is reached by the lane beyond St. Annes. The walk thither is pleasant in summer, but dull in the dark evenings of winter ; and to arrive at the bate-tower the churchyard must be passed, where the high walls and the tall trees throw gloomy shad- ows across the narrow pathway. Every one knows everyl)ody else in Enderby. Even the pitmen at our col- hiery have worked there long enough to be able to recognize the townsfolk, and treat them with proper respect. It goes without saying that every one knew Kate Graham our young lady, as she was called by the folk round about. But it is a fact that in even the best- regulated circles there still may, and do, creep ill-conditioned creatures who have no business of their own there, but who interfere with that of others. Such a being met Kate one night as she hurried homewards. She was alone for once. I-Icr hands were filled with books ; her long, fur-lined cloak for it was winterhung down over her dress, heavy with the night dews. She walked rapidly, for the hour was late, and she was anxious to get home; and it was only when a dark shadow came in the path and obstructed her way that she stopped suddenly and looked up, with a vague sense of alarm. Not so fast, miss, if ye please, said a thick, coarse voice the voice of a man who had been imbibing somewhat too freely. Hold on a minnit, and see if ye hasnt summut as ye can spare for a pore man as hasnt broke hisn fast this day. There was a good deal that was ob- jectionable in the mans manner. He ~whined, it is true ; but he whined un- pleasantly, and there was even a dis- tinct undertone of ireat and defiance in what lie said as well as in his man- ner. Standing still for an instant, Kates first thought was of Oscar Vaughan. Oh, if lie were but near ! she said mentally. If lie could only appear! She gave a quick glance to right and to left, but there was not a soul in sight. The man noted her look, and leered horribly. Ye may look, my pretty lady; but nivir a creatur will ye see, I bet. Now then, he said boldly, how much longer will ye be? Yeve got a tidy watch hand it over. Itll sell, I sup- pose warranted to go and all the rest of it, eh ? Well, Ill see that it goes, anyhow. He laughed loudly. Kate never moved. She stood per- fectly still before him; neither offering to give him the watch, nor making one movement with her hands, which re- mained clasped upon the books she carried. She was afraid, of course. Not a being within call. A lonely spotno one likely to pass at that hour, and a ruffian in possession of the scene. These are not the things one naturally cares to enjoy on a peaceful walk home from work. Nevertheless, here they were ; and here, too, was she. What should she (10 ? Her nerves were perfectly under control and she was cool and self- possessed no one more so. But the moment was unpropitious. Flight was useless ; the long cloak would, of itself, impede her progress; and the man was, doubtless, as fleet of fbot as was she. A show of fight would be but a poor thing, too, for a single glance told her keen eyes that her dainty umbrella would snap like a twig in the hands of this demon of strength who stood be- fore her. What should she do? The moment was terrible. The sit- uation was one of the deepest peril. One instant only stood Kate Graham irresolute waiting. There was no human help near. None to save none to protect. Pow- erless, defenceless, she felt herself. 87 88 Thenswift as a winged arrow from the Unseen, to whoiii she appealed she took her resolve. This man, she murmured breath- lessly, was once a little child some- where; some one may have taught him purer things. She flung back her head fearlessly, and, lifting her solemn, clear eyes to the wonderful deep blue vault of heaven above, in which the stars were coming out with minute distinctness, in the same attitude and with the same voice that had charmed men as rude and women almost as rough as this being before her, she sang one of those sim- ple, touching little strains by which mothers lull their children to sleep and soothe them when in pain or trouble. It was very simple as to words and tune, just a quaint little measure that the man who formed the unwilling audience would be sure to know, and to know well, and she sang as she had never done before or since. Not a tremor, not a quiver, in the magnificently trained voice; not an echo in it of the haunting terror that filled her soul. She was at his mercy. Good! She would hold him now at hers. She was singing for life, for time, for honor. She was sin ~ in g with her heart in her mouth,~~ as our country folks put it; but never, surely, did Kate eclipse herself as she did then. She sang for more than this wretch to hear. She sang as a direct appeal to Heaven. And every note as it rushed out upon the cold night wind cried, Help! Help ! 0 Eternal Un- changeable! Help for thy child! The dead were sleeping in the church- yard near the quiet dead, who turn not, move not, trou})le not, though their nearest and dearest may be in extremest agony. The cattle were feeding on the plain beyond. They raised sleepy eyes full of wonder at the unwonted sounds. Startled and pleased, they bent down again to feed in quiet content. The singing suited their moods ; it was part M~ Sister Kate. of nature, no doubt. They grazed in munch delight, unconscious that a human soul was crying in its a~onyas it best knew how fighting a lone battle, at fearful odds, with sin, and evil, and danger. The lane was a deserted spot so late as this ; for there lingers a tradition that the prior of well-known memory, who resisted the marauding intruders and was hanged by them at his own gate, still walks at intervals upon the ruined archway that led formerly to the ancient priory; and few and brave are the townsfolk, be they lovers or staid persons, who will venture so far after nightfall nlon~ the ~ path. had ~hosts Kate never been nervous. Prob- ably, not being Enderby-born, she was less afraid of the ghost than the people of the place. But the reality of her danger was far greater than the mere fictitious one of meeting any visionary foe. At first the man stared blankly at her in astonishment. The thought came quickly to him that she had gone mad with fright. The next moment he swore under his breath, for she was singing a little mel- ody his mother had sung to him years and years gone by. It seemed to sting him for a moment. The strong words froze on his lips. So, had not that mother taught him? He stood appalled ; then a sort of mes- meric entrancement came over him. The music began to appeal to him in a manner he recognized. All wrong and sin seemed to drop away from his heart, and a sort of yearning awoke there within for something nobler, for something higher and purer. On his part, he stood irresolute, yet partially subdued. The girl sang on; she knew- how much depended on it. The man stood waiting yielding fascinated. How would it end? One moment passed one second longer. Then, a side gate in the wall near them opened, as if by magic, and from it there stepped a tall,, strong The Limits of Animal Intelliqence. man, his face set, his hands clenched. He took in the scene at once. The singing girl the waiting man the dark lane the graves beyond the starhit heaven above. All, all, he saw, but with all the terrible, definite sharp- ness of the two prominent figures, lie heard the girl who sang; lie knew the whole force of that awful interval through which she bad been passing. She saw him as he came with striding step towards them. Saw him with eyes blinded by the sudden passion of tears that started in thankfulness to meet them. And, springing towards his out- stretched arni, she cried, with one long bursting cry of gladness, I am safe as she was folded in his strong arms and sheltered there forever. Apr~s? What became of the man? I am sure I do not know. He came out of the darkness. He vanished into the (larkness. It is to be hoped she had done him some good. My sister will reign at the vicarage now. Ill-natured people already call her the vicaress. She does not mind. I am changing my curacy, if you must know. Clara de Grey Stranton, when she becomes Mrs. de Grey Gra- ham, wont care to sit down under my sisters beck and call, she says. So I am on the wing. I shall miss Kate. My collars and cuffs to say nothing of my buttons and stockings were always so unex- ceptionably nice and comfortable, and my parochial duties so light. Ab, yes; I shall miss her. I look upon the vicar as my natural enemy. Curates sometimes are apt to do so, you know ; and in my case, of course, the provocations are ~~reat as any one will grant. Mrs. de Grey Stranton has some strong opinions on the subject. She thinks the vicar has doi~e the l)arish a signal injustice ; first, in marrying at all ; secondly, in marrying a stranger; and thirdly, in not marrying her. Privately I dont really mind. I 89 confess this as I am ~oing away. Kate as vicaress will be a great mistake, in my opinion ; but Mrs. de Grey Stranton xvould be a ten-thonsand times greater one for all concerned, especially for the vicar, wh& mii I pity. But, there lie is quite old enough to look after himself. Kate says she is already very happy. Perhaps she is. From The Fortnightly Review. THE LIMITS OF ANIMAL INTELLIGENCE. SOME fifty years ago Sydney Smith summed up clearly and tersely the pre- vailing views of his time with regard t~ the (hifference between the mental proc cesses of men and of animals. ~ The most common notion now prevalent with respect to animals, he says, is that they are guided by iustinct; that the discriminating circumstance be tween the minds of animals and of men is, that the former do what they do from instinct, the latter from reason. Now the question is, he continues~ is there any meaning to the word ir stinet? What is that meaning ? and what is the distinction between instinct and reason? If I desire to do a certain thing, adopt certain means to effect it~ and have a clear and precise notion that those means are directly subser- vient to that end there I act from reason; but if I adopt means subser- vient to the end, and am uniformly found to do so, and am not in the lease degree conscious that these means ar~ subservient to the end there I cer- tainly do act from some principle very different froni reason; and to that prin- ciple it is as convenient to give the name of instinct as any other name. I would draw particular attention t~ one phrase that concerning the uni- formity of the action in this very lucid. description of instinct ; first, because it is the aspect of instinctive actions which has of late years been specially insisted on ; and, secondly, because i~ was on this rock of uniformity that the~ view according to which all the activ- ities of animals are merely instinctive 90 was destined to suffer shipwreck. Syd- ney Smith says, in effect, that animals acting from instinct adopt means sub- servient to the ends to be attained, and are uniformly found to do so, but are not in the least degree conscious that these means are subservient to the en(ls. Now with regard to this last clause, that concernin~ the conscious- ness of the means as means to the end, I shall have more to say presently. It is clearly very difficult, to say the least of it, to see into the animals mind and ascertain the nature of its conscious state. But with regard to the uni- formity of performance, which of us that has watched animals with any care can subscribe to this uniformity clause? The activities of any one of the higher animals are neither uniform throughout its own individual life for it cannot be doubted that they learn and profit by experience nor are they uniform in all the members of the same kind or species. Among dogs, for example, as among men ,some are born fools, while some have good natural capacities. Some years ago I was out with a gen- tleman who was teaching two Scotch Lerrier pups to carry sticks. Each ha.d a light cane in his mouth. After a while we came to a ate, at the side of which was a gap for foot-passengers between two uprights. We passed through and watched the pnppies. I3oth blundered against the uprights, which caught the ends of the canes. There was a little scrimmaging and some further ineffectual struggles, and then both dropped the sticks and came through. Their master sent them back to fetch. The first to arrive at the gap just put his head through, seized a cane by the end and dragged it aft~r him. The other ran through the gap, picked np the cane as usual by the middle, and blundered as before. Again he dropped it and came throu_h. I then went back and placel the stick so that he could put his head through and seize the end as the other had done. But again he went through l)odily, picked up the cane as before, and blundered. Then his master taught him how to do it. On our re The Limits of Amimal Intelligence. turn an hour or so afterwards I held the cleverer pup, so that it might be seen how far the other had learnt his lesson. He blundered, however, as before. Then we called him off, and allowed the other pup to have his turn. lIe, too, blundered for a little, and then came back to us. We passed through the gap and called him after us. Again he blundered; but then, dropping the cane, came through, and, turning, seized the cane by the middle, and tried to pull it after him. Of course it caught, and fell out of his mouth. He then seized it nearer the end. Even so it caught; but, by turning his head about, after some little scrambling, he eventually pulled it through. These pups, then, did not act alike both had to learn by experience how to meet new circumstances. Their ac- tions were certainly not instinctive, if unifoiimi ty of performance is a charac- teristic of instinct. Whether the pups were conscious of certain means as subservient to the end in view, is a point on which there is likely to be difference of opinion. It is remark- able, however, that the mor~ intelli- gent pup when sent back in the first instance seized the cane at once by the end and dragged it through; and if the observations had been carried no fur- tlier, one might have supposed that he clearly perceived the best means to effect the desired result. But the sec- ond time he did not seize the end of the stick, and this may well lead one to supp6se that it was rather good fortune than clear perception which made him successful before. If, therefore, these performances of the puppies, and a thousand such ac- tions of the higher animals, are ex- cluded from the class of instincts by their want of uniformity and by their more or less a(lequate adaptation to meet special and unusual circum- stances, how are we to place them? It is clear that if we adopt the broad division of all activities into instinctive on the one hand and rational on the other hand, we must term them ra- tional. And this is the view advocated The Limits of Animal Intelligence. 1w one of the most distinguished writers on this subject, Mr. Jiomanes. I ven- ture to think, however, that there is between the uniform performance of instinct, on the one hand, and the con- smons knowledge of reason on the other, a vast field of animal and human activity which I would distinguish from both by the application of the term intelligence. I am well aware that the term intelligence is by the usage I advocate somewhat narrowed down. I am well aware that Mr. Romanes and others use the word intelligence as synonymous with reason ; but there is no one conven- ient word that can take its place. Aiid siiice Mr. Romanes has collected a most interesting body of facts and observa- tions in a volume under the title Ani- mal Intelligence, it has seemed to me that the word intelli~e nce is, in this field of inquiry, that best fitted to express the wide region of mental ac- tivity which lies between instinct and reason. In place, then, of the twofold division ii)tO instinct an(l reason, I ad- vocate a threefold division into instinct, intelligence, and reason ; and it is my present purpose to endeavor to (lefihie and illustrate the limits of the middle term of these three, namely intelli- n ce. This, be it note(l, is a separate *juestion from that which inquires whether animals have the faculty of reason. I shall incidentally express an opinion on that question ; l)ut it is, I repeat, a matter which is (histiuct from the immediate subject of this article. It will be well, first, to pay some at- tention to the difference between intel- ligence and instinct, and since concrete examples are more interesting than ab- stract definitions, I will describe some of the experiments and observations I have lately made on young clucks. The eggs from which in due course they emerged were taken from the hen two or three days before the time of hatching was fulfilled, and were placed in an incubator. The little birds, which were of a good crossed breed with strains of Plymouth rock, Pork- lug, and game, had therefore no mater- nal help in gaining some experience of 91 the world. I first directed my atten- tion to their powers of seizing and swallowing. Selecting one about eigh- teen hours 01(1 for definite experiment, I placed before him three small pieces of white of egg, moving them about a little in froiit of him with a long pin to draw his attention to them. He soon pecked at one of these and seized it at the fifth attempt, swallowing it a little awk~vardly. The next he struck at the second attempt, but not fairly, so that it was thrust aside. Transferring his attention, therefore, to the third piece. lie seized it and swallowed it at the third attempt. An hour later I tried him again with egg and crumb of bread. He generally struck the morsel at the second or third peck, though lie sometimes failed to seize it. Once lie struck and seized at the first attempt. Later in the day I caused a small fly to walk across my experimental poultry- yard, iii front of the chicks ; most of them took no notice, but one, whom I will call Blackie, followed and pecked. at it. He caught it at the seventh at- tempt and ate it ; an hour later lie caught another at the fourth peck, nnd~ subsequently a blue-bottle after twelve shots. This, however, lie dropped and left uneaten. The other chicks still. took iio notice whatever of flies. These experiments and observations seem therefore to show that the skill in seizing is not perfect at birth, and that some practice is necessary. I have spoken only of morsels of food ; but I soon found that they would peck at almost any sniall object I placed before. them, and if small enough almost any-. thing was eaten , grain, sand, crumbs, or little bits of a chopped-up wax match. Still later, w lien they were from two to five days old, they would peck at, but showed niore discrim- ination as to swallowing, all sorts of things, pellets of paper, buttons, beads, bits of limestone, cigarette ash, their own and their neighbors toes repeat- edly, each others eyes occasionally,. the black-beaded head of a pin, the end of a match, the point of a penknife, a gold seal, my ring, and so forth. All were pecked at and examined, bu tthe. The Limits of Animal Intelligence. larger objects xvith some timidity. An or(linary Bryant andi May wooden match, for example, was for some time too fearsome an object for any but Blackie to tackle. On the third day four of them pecked at a burning ciga- rette end more than once, but some- times were stopped by a whiff of the smoke and then shook their heads and wiped their bills in an exceedingly comical fashion. After a minute o.r two they went off, but returned occa- sionally. Wheii the cigarette was out and cold they came and looked at it, and in one case the chick, after looking but not pecking, wiped its bill. I did not give them water till the morning of the second day, when they were from twenty to thirty hours old. I then placed a shallow tin of water among them; of this they took no no- tice. Several chanced to run through it, but still took no notice, which sur- prised me. Then one chanced, as lie stood in it, to peck at his toes. He at once lifted his head in the character- istic way and drank repeatedly ; the others still took no notice; but pres- ently Blackie stood at the side and pecked at a bubble near the brim; he then drank. It seemed as if the stim- nins of water on the bill at once sug- gested the action of drinking. As lie stood an(l (lrank others came up and pecked at the troubled water, and then they too drank. All this seems to show how necessary experience, be it never so little, is to the young chicks. They have to find out the nature of things, but they learn rapidly and surely. They certainly seem to have no instinctive knowledge of things. Mr. Spalding describes the instinctive terror of young turkeys when they heard the cry of a hawk. I do not question the fact that they showed fear, but I am disposed to question whether they had any instinc- tive knowledge that it was a hawk. In any case my own chicks gave the very characteristic danger chnrr, a most marked and peculiar note, at any loud, strapge, and unusual sound, or on sight of any alarming object. It was not a little amusing to see them, now stand- ing and cliurring and now scuttling away in terror, when I introduced to their notice a large Carabus beetle. If I threw a piece of screwed-up paper among them they sounded the danger chiurr ami ran off. When I sneezed, or clapped my hands, or l)layed a sharp chord on the violin, off they went; and I do not think they had any instinctive acquaintance with violins. I will further illustrate their want of innate knowledge of the things of this world by one or two more examples. I had fed them occasionally on small worms an inch or so iii length.~ I then took similar sized pieces of worsted wool of a rich red-brown color and threw them aniong my chicks. The avidity with which they were seized was remarkable, and most exciting were the chases after the fortunate birdhing who had secured a worsted worm. I could not succeed in satisfy~ ing them with worsted, and eventually desisted lest my experiments should lead to serious indigestion. Some hours later I cut off a piece six inches long and threw it among them. In- stantly there was the danger churr, and to a chick they feared to tackle that monstrous woi~m. Then I gave them a somewhat smaller piece, four inches long; this they regarded doubt- fully, but one (not Blackie this time) picked it up an(l ran off with it. There was much pulling of it one from an- other, but soon it was dropped. Occa- sionally it was picked up again and run off with, but eventually it was left unnoticed. The pleasures of eating worsted began to pall. I threw in smaller pieces but they excited little interest one was run off with and soon droppedi, but eventually eaten. Two others were allowed to remain untouched. I left the four-inch piece. Presently I was roused from my writ- ing l)y sounds of excitenient and little pattering feet. Blackie had seized the piece and was being chased for the prize. Escaping from the yard in which the chicks were confinedh by leaping over the fender, lie ran to the corner of my study, and after extreme efforts swallowed it. 92 The Limits of Animal Intelligence. It may be said that to supply worm- like worsted was a piece of base and unnatural deception. I will give one more case in which therc was no de- ception. In special reference to certain oft-quoted observations of Mr. Spal- dings I was desirous of ascertaining whether my chicks had an instinctive knowledge of the difference between a blue-bottle and a bee. Now Blackie was intimately acquainted with blue- bottles and liked them well. When I placed a bee in my experimental poul- try-yard most of the chicks were afraid of it, as indeed they were of blue- bottles; but Blackie without hesitation snapped it UI) and ran off with it, then he dropped it, shook his head much and wiped his bill repeatedly. I do not think he had been stung, if so he ~juickly got over any ill effects and was happy and eager about other things in a few minutes; more probably he had tasted the poison. In any case he no longer took any interest in that bee. Some hours later on the same day (his fifth) I placed beneath a glass tuinblei in my yard a blue-bottle and a small humble-bee, from both of which a por- tion of the wings had been (of course painlessly) removed. Blackie and one other pecked at both, seen through the glass. I then let the bee escape Blackie snapped it up, ran off with it, and soon swallowed it. Another small humble-bee he went for at once, (us- abled it by dashing it against the ground with his bill, and swallowed it. Both of these humble-bees had stings. I was rather surprised at the results of these experiments, but give them as they are recorded in my notes taken down at the time. Now, how shall we describe instinct? I go back to my little chick in its early efforts at pecking. Here we have a motor response to a certain stimulus. And there can be very little question that the motor response is, as we are apt to say, purely mechanical, or as we should more correctly say, purely or- ganic. It is of the nature of a reflex act, like onr own winking, or the clos- ure of the hand of a sleeping child on your finger l)lacc(l within its palm. But it is a reflex act, the performance of which is accompanied by conscious- ness, if we use the word consciousness in its broadest sense to describe any sort of feeling, dim or clear, vague or distinct. And the rOle of conscious- ness on the matter of pecking is to select the adequate responses and to steady the muscular mechanism to its work. Let us describe the organic motor reflexes as due to innate capacity for motor response. Then in the an- inial kingdom we find that the responses which are the outcome of this innate capacity are variable in their adequacy. My chicks, for example, at first made bad shots as well as occasional good shots. Now the greater the variability and the greater the initial percentage of inadequacy, the more necessity is there for acquisition of skill by the individual. On the other hand, the less the variability and the smaller the initial percentage of inadequate re- sponse, the less the necessity for any individual acquisition of skill. And now we can give a good working definition of instinct in its objective aspect. Instinctive activities, in their theoretical perfection, are those in which there is no variability, in which the percentage of inadequacy is nil, and in which, therefore, there is no necessity for any intelligent acquisition of skill. If my chicks had pecked per- fectly from the first they would have had this instinct in perfection. As it was they required a little intelligence, acting by and through experience, to perfect their activities. The instincts were very nearly; but not quite, per- fect. So much in illustration of the distine- tion between instinct and intelligence. I shall have a harder task in drawing the distinction between intelligence and reason; not because, as I believe, the distinction is a less real and valid one, but because it is more subtle, and involves a somewhat closer analysis of the activities of the mind. Let us endeavor to build up, stage by stage, from the foundations we have already laid. Animals and men come into the woPld endowed with an The Limits of Animal Intelligence. innate capacity for active response to certain stimuli. rI~his is part of their organic inheritance. The response may be from the first an accurate and ade- quate response ; in such eases we term it instinctive. But more frequently the responses have a variable amount of inaccuracy and inadequacy ; iii such cases the animal, as a matter of ob- served fact, has a power of selective control over the responses ; and this power of selective control in the activi- ties which are essential to daily life, is the first stage of intelligence. Now why do I say intelligence and not rea- son? Well, let us go back to Sydney Smiths description of the reasoned act If I desire to do a certain thing, he says, adopt certain means to effect it, and have a clear and pre- cise notion that those means are sub- servient to that end, then I act from reason. But have we any ground for supposing that a chick, a few hours old, has a clear and precise notion that those means are subservient to that end ? Is it probable that the baby who is learning to put a crust into his mouth and not into his eye has any precise notions of the relation of means to ends ? If not, then here we have a class of activities, and a very impor- tant class, those, namely, which are essential to daily life, which are per- fected by means of a faculty which is not reason, and which I would term intelligence. To paraphrase Sydney Smith I would say, If I adopt certain means to effect a given end, but have no clear and precise notion of the rela- tion of meamis to en(l, then I act not from reason but from intelligence. And to modify a well-known statement of Mr. Romanes, I would say that, unlike reason, intelligence implies no conscious knowledge of the relation between the means employed and the ends attained, though it may be exer- cised in selective adaptation to circum- stances novel alike to the experience of the individual and to that of the spe- cies. How far then does this intelligent adaptation to circumstances, as opposed to the truly rational perception of the relation of means to ends how far, in a word, does intelligence, as distin- guished from reason, extend ? Let us,. in endeavoring to answer this question,. continue to build u l)wards from the basis of the innate capacity for re spouse. It is clear that my little chicks coul(l not peck xvith more or less initial accuracy at morsels of food without seeing them. But the seeing, in the first instance, is probably rather an organic ti mn a mental act. Neverthe- less, it is presumably, from the first, at least, accompanied by consciousness. And it is remarkable that the you n~: chick does not peck at morsels which are beyond its reach. It is thus in ad vance of the proverbial baby tha.t cries for the moon. What does this imply ? It does not imply, as some would tell us, that the chick has an accurate knowledge of (histance. It is we who~ have the knowledge of distance, not the duck. It does imply, however,. that, in fairly accurate co-ordination with certain movements of the eye and head, there are those complex actions which are involved in pecking; and that these responses are only evoked when the object is within certain limits~ of distance. Moreover, on the second day, if not on the first, the chick will walk several inches towards pieces of egg placed beyond its reach. And this~ involves yet further co-ordination. There can be very little question that the whole of this chain of events, turn- ing the head, pecking, walking, is of the nature of a complex organic re- ~pon~e to stimulus ; that the sight of the small white morsel is just the touch of the trigger that, so to speak, fires off this complicated train of activities,. the ability to perform which is innate. But we have every reason to suppose that the performance of these actions is. accompanied by feeling or conscious- ness. So that in these early days of life the consciousness of time chick is, if one may so say, entering into and tak- ing possession of its organic inherit-- ance. And consciousness, like a wise heir, at once proceeds to set its estate in order and to remedy such imperfec-- tions as it finds therein. In the case 94 The Limits of Animal Intelligence. 9~i of the chick the inheritance is already what keeii appreciation of the nice re- so well organizcd tha.t it requires very lation of means to cuds Not so, I little individual control of conscious- think. No knowledge, no appreciation. ness to put things in excellent working That would involve reason ; and the trim. In the case of the human infant, chick is guided by intelligence, not by however, there are noteworthy (lifter- reason. ences. In the first place, the heir comes into possession when lie is, as compared with the chick, far younger and less mature ; in the second place, his inheritance is of vastly greater extent, with commercial relations of far greater range and complexity; and in the third place, it has been the cus- tom for generations of his ancestors that during his minority he should be aided in the administration of his es- tate by faithful stewards, and should be instructed therein by wise tutors. Still, notwithstanding these differences, it remains true that the infant con- sciousness, like the chick conscious- ness, has, more gradually, no doubt, and with more external aid, to enter into and take possession of its organic inheritance ; and, no matter how much he is aided and instructed, he has to do so individually and for himself. None can share this task with him, or per- form it for him. With this inher- itance, moreover, he must make the best of life. No kindly uncle or aunt can bequeath to him a new estate. The inheritance is his to (leal with as lie may and can, within the assigned limits, for his very power of dealing with the inheritance is part of the in- heritance itself. We are getting, however, too far from our foundations, and must return to the stage up to which we have, I trust, securely built. The chick, or the child, in the early hours or days of life acquires skill in the management of that part of organic inheritance which we call its bodily organs. And this skill involves what we adult human beings, who have knowledge of these things, call relations in space and time, relations of cause and effect, relations of means to ends. The chick of a week old will pick a fly off your fingers and not so much as touch the finger itself. What accurate knowledge, some will say, of position and distance The distinction between the two is still, no doubt, wanting in clearness. It is one not easy to establish without entering into questions of technical psychology, which would here be out of place. It may, however, be illus- trated from human experience. When we look out upon the world we see around us a number of familiar objects, on any one of which we can fix our attention. As I look up from my page I see, for example, my cat asleep upon the hearth-rug. Fixing my eyes upon her, I have a (lefinite impression, which is in the focus, so to speak, of my consciousness. But besides the cat, I see much else, dimly and indefi- nitely the fender, the fireplace, and so forth. These are not in the focus of my vision or my consciousness ; they form the setting of the visual picture of the cat, and we may conveniently call them marginal in conscious- ness. At some future time I may very probably be reminded of this trivial in- cident in my experience. I shall then have in my minds eve an idea of the cat. This will occupy the focus of my consciousness, and around the focus there will be a more or less hazy mar- 011 There can be very little question that the higher animals have impressions and ideas analogous to ours. When a dog sees before him a nice meaty bone, I have no doubt that lie has a quite clear-cut and definite impression. And when lie comes home hungry, after a long walk, and going clown into the kitchen, looks up wistfully at the cook, I, for one, should not feel disposed to question that lie has in his minds eye a more or less definite idea of a bone. So much for the impressions and ideas themselves. They are both mat- ters of the focus of vision, or of the focal region of that wider field of vision. which is embraced by the minds eye. But in our own experience, and I think 96 we may say with tolerable certainty, in that of the higher animals also, the focus, though of central importance, is rot everything. When the dog sees a bone held above him by the kindly cook, just beyond his reach, he has not only a definite impression of the bone in the focus of his hungry conscious- ness, but he is aware also of much besides the cook, the dresser, the kitchen ceiling, and so forth, all of which is, indeed, of wholly subsidiary interest to him, but is none the less present to his consciousness. More than this. The important point is that in certain respects the nature of the impression itself is determined by these marginal surroundings. What we call the position of the bone, its distance from him and from other objects, is largely thus determined. But surely, it may be said, the bone is one thing and its position in space is quite another thing. For you, reader, and for rue, doubtless ; but not, I think, for the dog. We have learnt to analyze what is given to us in experi- ence, and to disentangle the elements of what is presented in complex asso- ciation. The dog and the little child do not attempt this disentanglement. They have no separate conception of position and distance. For them there is, as for us, a different impression according as what we call the object is cnear or far, in this position or in that. But they have not analyzed this differ- ence, nor thrown the light of reflection upon its determining cause. Nor, in- deed, do we, in our practical, every-day life, trouble ourselves to perform this analysis, though the power of doing so is with us always held in reserve, and can be employed at will. As I look at my cat I am aware that she is at a cer- tain distance from me, and occupies a definite position in space. This is a very familiar and commonplace experi1 ence. But I do not, under ordinary circumstances, trouble my head about her distance or her position in space~ I am dimly aware of it, and that is alL I can, if I like, however, form in my minds eve a quite definite impression of her distance from me or from you- The Limits of Animal Intelligence. der fossil Ichthyosaurmis. But when I do so, what is in the focus of my thought is not the cat nor the fossil, but the relation of these objects in space. And how is it presumably with the dog who is patiently waiting for his bone at the hands of the kindly cook? He sees the juicy morsel, and is aware that it is out of his reach. But he is aware of the distance, I imagine, just in the same way as I was aware of my distance from the cat before I began to think of the relationship in space. The distance is not in his mind disso- ciated from the distant object. For there is a marked distinction between perceiving a distant object and perceiv- ing the distance of the object. And I conceive the dogs attention to be much too firmly focussed on the bone to leave it for anything so dry and un- interesting as an impression of relation. With the object in the focus of his consciousness in that particular way, and with that particular margin of sur- rounding circumstances, it is for him a bone just there, and just out of his reach. He feels this quite clearly ; it is the result of a good deal of expe- rience gained in that kitchen and else- where; but it has never occurred to him, nor, as I think probable, to any of his kind, to unhitch his consciousness from the interesting bone, and fix it upon its relation to him or to anything else in space. Let us next suppose that our kindly cook gradually lowers the bone until it is within reach of the dogs jaws. He is I need hardly say, a well-bred beast, and does not attempt to snap; but when the bone is well within reach, he quite gently takes it from the cooks fln~, ers, and goes out with it into the yard. He here employs certain defi- nite means to reach certain definite ends; but he has probably no notion of the relation of means to ends as such his consciousness is quite otherwise occupied. When I stretch out my hand to dip the pen into the ink I have no thought of means and ends. I feel sure that the old gentleman I met yes- terday at diiiner, who filled his glass to The Limits of Animal Intelligence. was getting late, and my chicks were rather sleepy, I felt it my duty, as their acting foster-mother, to put them to bed. Xext morning, when they were fresh and vigorous, I repeated the ex- periment. Again both objects, the worm and the cinnabar caterpillar, were pecked at timidly, and eventually taken up in the bill and run off with. But the caterpillar, which is known to be distasteful to most birds was dropped at once, while the worm was, after some comical efforts, bolted. Subse- quently the caterpillar was occasionally pecked at, and more often merely looked at; but soon it was left quite unnoticed. Fresh small worms, on the other hand, were at once, and with confidence, snapped up and carried off, causing a most exciting chasc, the for- tunate possessor being allowed no peace for the (lehightful efforts necessary for swallowing the worm. Iii these experiments and observa- tions the points to be noticed are, first, the absence of any instinctive knowl- edge of the difference between a nice worm and a nasty caterpillar; secondly, rapid profiting by experience after a few practical trials ; thirdly, arising out of this, the discriminating by sight be- tween the two objects ; fourthly, the association of a nasty taste in the mouth, or perhaps a disagreeable odor, with one of the objects, and pleasant gusta- tory results with the other ; and fifthly, guidance of subsequent action in ac- cordance with the results of experience. In the last two points we have in an elementary form the basis of intelli- gent adaptation to circumstances. It is founded on experience ; it involves the association of impressions and ideas and it implies a power of control over the niotor responses. Let us next take a case illustrative of a rather more advanced stage of intelli- gence. I kept the chicks in my study near the gas-stove, so that I might regulate the temperature. I made for them a sort of yard, paved with newspaper, and with newspaper walls propped against the fender, rugs, and what-not. At one side the turned up 97 the brim with port, and after holding it to the light lifted it to his lips without spilling a drop on his ample shirt-front, did not trouble his head about ends and means. I am not hinting that he was incapable of doing so; Ii merely record my belief that lie did not do so. And when the dog rises on his hind legs and gently takes the bone from the cooks hands, lie pays, I imagine, no more attention to the means employed to attain his end than the cook does in the movement of her arm and hand in giving it to him. The movements of both are conscious actions ; in each case they involve much accurate inns- cular co-ordination, but the motor feel- ings, though undoubtedly marginal, probably in neither case come to the focus of consciousness. Even if they do, the true relationship between these means and the end in view is not per- ceived as a distinct impression or idea. The difference, then, between intel- ligent actions and their rational inter- pretation lies in the fact that for intelligence it is sufficient that what we call the relationships of natural objects should be felt on the margin of con- sciousness, inalienably associated with the objects themselves, while for rea- son it is necessary that relationships should be so far dissociated from the objects as to occupy the focus of con- sciousness. Such being the distiuc- tion, let us now consider a few cases of animal intelligence of progressive com- plexity in the light thereof. We may begin with a very simple case. On the evening of their fourth day of active life I placed before my little chicks two objects new to their experience, a small worm and a yellow and black caterpillar that of the cin- nabar moth, so common, in the sum- mer, on ragwort. The birds looked a little timidly and suspiciously at both of them. So far as I could judge, they were not more suspicious of one than of the other ; they were probably sus- picious of both, because the objects were rather larger than those the chicks were accustomed to peck at, and be- cause they moved. They pecked at them timidly once or twice ; but as it newspaper rested against a chair. LIYJN~ AGE. VOL. LXXXIV. 4319 98 Blackie was a week 01(1, and seemed particularly biight and fresh, 1)erhaps in consequence of his hearty meal of worste(l. He was standing near the edge of the yard, pecking vigorously and persistently at something, which I discovered to be the number of the page of the newspaper. He then trans- ferred his attention and his efforts to the somewhat turned-in corner of the newspaper, which was just within his reach. Seizing this, he pulled at it, bending the newspaper down, and thus making a breach in the wall of my yard. Through this breach he stepped out into the wider world of my study. I put the paper back as before, caught the errant Blackie, and placed him in the yard, near the scene of his former efforts, He again pecked at the corner of the paper, again pulled it down ,and again escaped. I then put him back as far off as possil)le from this weak place in my l)oultry-yard. Presently, I think after about three or four minutes, he sauntered round to the corner, repeated his previous procedure, and again made his escape. Unquestionably this is a more coin- plex case of intelligence than that which I gave before. But it is of the same order. It is founded on experi- ence; it involves the association of impressions and ideas ; and it implies a power of profiting by the experience through the association. The chick found that a certain action, performed in the first instance, it would seem, without any view to any particular re- sults, produced certain effects ; those effects were pleasurable ; and associa- tion was formed between the idea of pecking at that corner and the idea of walking out into the room. And sub- sequently the action of pulling down the newspaper was repeated for pre- cisely the same reason that the action of picking up the worm was repeated namely, because it had become asso- ciated through experience with pleasur- able consequences. But can we fairly snppose the chick had a clear and precise notion that those means were subservient to that end~ ? I, for one think not. I go back to what I endeav like Limits of Animal Intel/igehce. ore(l to establish above with regard to the animals appreciation of distance as a, to him inseparable, adjunct uf certain impressions. I tried to show that it is quite possible, and indeed, a familiar fact in experience, to feel or be aware tha.t an object is distant with- out having perceived the relation of distance between two objects ; that it is quite possible, and a fact of daily occurrence, to perceive things in their natural relationships without having pierced to a knowledge of the relation- ships themselves as such. So now I would say that it is quite possible to perceive the natural sequence of events as given in experience without l)iercing to a knowledge of time causal or other relation which underlies the sequence that it is quite possible to consciously employ means to the attainment of a given end without having anything like a notion, vague or precise, of the relation between means and end. A subtle distinction, perhaps, but, I am convinced, a real one; and a distinc~ tion which differentiates reasomm from intelligence as I have used these words. For reason involves, as a preliminary step, the definite perception of rela- tions. I will now proceed to some yet more complex examples of intelligence, which I freely admit may involve reason and the perception of relations, but which, I suggest, may be interpreted as the outcome of intelligence. Dr. Andrew Wilson describes the case of a dog which hunted a rabbit several times down a curved shrubbery, and, each time ran it into a drain at the end. The dog then appears to have come to the conclusion ~ I quote Dr. Wil- sons words that the chord of a circle is shorter than its arc, for he raised the rabbit again, and, instead of following him through the shrubbery as usual, he took the short cut to the drain, and was ready and in waiting on the rabbit when lie arrive(l, and caught him. Now I admit that the dog may have perceived the relation between the chord and its arc, of course in a very rudimentary way, and uot definitely, as a mnathematician does, but, on the other hand, I submit that he may not. Do we not again and again see our dogs racing round after each other, and cutting off corners as they do so? Is there not here a sufli- cient basis in experience for a (lirect association between what we call a short cut and more rapid transit ? The dog had admittedly run the rabbit into that particular drain several times. May not this experience have led to the association of the rabbit an(1 the drain ? And the drain being thus sug- gested, may not the dog have at once run there? In a word, may not the dogs conduct be explained as the out- come of direct experience and asso- ciation, and not as the result of the perception of a relation, that between the chord and the arc of a circle, over which lodge, the farmers lad, finds no little difficulty ? I am not attempt- ing to decide this case ; I use it to illustrate the distinction between intel- ligence an(l reason. If the action was the result of practical experience and the consequent association of impres- sions and ideas, it was an intelligent one; if, on the other hand, the dog really perceived the relation as such, his action was a reasoned one. Take next a somewhat different case. Mr. iRomanes records an interesting observation, of which one of his own dogs was the subject. This dog was cowed by the sound of apples being shot on to the floor of a loft above the stable; but when Mr. Romanes took the dog up into the loft, and let him see what was going on, he ceased to be disquieted by the noise. In his index, Mr. Romanes enters this under this beading, Appreciation of canse by the dog. Now here, again, two in- terpretations are possible. If the dog really perceived the relation of causa- tion as such, he had rational grounds for ceasing to be disquieted ; but if it was merely a matter of association of impressions and ideas, his satisfaction was simply intelligence. Let me illus- trate what I mean by a somewhat par- allel ease. Some years ago my cat was asleep on a chair, an(l my little boy was blowing a toy horn. The cat, 99 without moving, mewe(l uneasily. I told my boy to go on blowing. The cat grew more uneasy, got up, stretched herself, and turned towards the source of (liscoinfort. She stood looking at my boy for a minute as he blew ; then, curling herself up, she went to sleep again, and no amount of blowing dis- turbed her further. With regard to my cats procedure, and Mr. Romaness dog, I suggest the following explana- tion. For animals, I take it, commnoik and familiar sounds soon have their normal associations. An unusual sound without such normal associations leads, if loud and sudden, to undefined fear (for example, with my chicks when I l)layed a sharp chord on the violin) if the sound be merely (listurbing, to discomfort or uneasiness ; if simply unfamiliar, to curiosity. There is also a normal association of sound with some object, and, in the case of an un- usual unfamiliar sound, an almost irre- sistible tendency to make the source of the sound focal to consciousness and to vision. Hence numberless cases of animals being attracted to objects of which they show signs of fear. Mi. Romaness dog and my cat were both disturbed by unfamiliar sounds ; when they were allowed to see the source of the sound, and found nothing further disquieting about it, nor suffered any unpleasant con seque uces, they were satisfied. And subsequently the sound suggested that which neither inspired fear nor pro(luced uneasiness. That is the explanation on the hypothesis of intelligence. I am merely giving my own view, and am not attempting to decide the matter. If the dog and the cat respectively really perceived the relation of cause and effect, as a rela~ tion, they were rational beings. I must briefly consider one yet more complex case of animal conduct ,since it is typical of its kind, and since it is explicable, I think, on either hypothe- sins. In his work on the human mind, Professor Sully writes as follows, in a footnote One of the clearest exam- ples of canine conscience I have met with, he says, was given me by a friend, the owner of the dog, and the [[he Limits of Animal Intelligence. 100 RAe Limits of Animal Intelligence. witness of the action. The animal, a right because he knew it to be right, variety of terrier, was left in the dining- that is a very different matter. I do room, where were the remains of a cold not dogmatically deny it; but I con- supper. He got on the table, and se- ceive that it was not so. For what is cured a piece of cold tongue, but, with- involved when we say that he knew out eating a morsel of it, he carried it that it was right? There is involved into the drawing-room, deposited it a more or less definite perception of at the feet ot his mistress, and then the relation of the given act to an ideal crawled out of sight, looking the picture standard. No action can be perceived of abject misery. I have no wish to to be moral or immoral without reflec- say one word which shall detract from tion. The action is compared with a the moral excellence, if any one likes standard, and found either to reach or so to call it, of that terrier; but I may, to fall short of that standard. What perhaps, be allowed to analyze his case. the standard is does not matter a jot, so We may suppose he was hungry, poor far as the moral judgment is concerned. fellow, but the natural impulse to My standard of right may be altogether appease that hunger was checked in wrong from my neighbors point of presence of that loyal feeling of subser- view. But in expressing a moral judg- vience to the niistress which is the out- ment concerning an action I view the come of the dogs mode of life as the act in reference to my standard, and companioa of man, and which has say that it either approaches thereto or probably been developed from certain falls short thereof. This, then, is what innate social tendencies of the canid~, I mean when I say that I think it prob- which, like wolves and jackals, hunt in able that animals are incapable of packs. Note, in passing, that the moral judgment. I mean that they do checking of this impulse was incom- not frame a moral standard and per- iAete. Had it been complete, lie would ceive the relation of a given action, never have stolen the tongue at all, and performed by themselves or others, would have remained unknown to to that standard. What is sometimes fame. His is not the only case in called the morality of feeling they which our sympathies go out towards have; the morality of judgment they the imperfectly moral more freely than have not. At least such is my opinion. towards those who are beyond reproach. So, too, with regard to matters of In the case of the terrier, then, the beauty. I do not think that any one prompting of what we should call a who knows how the bower-bird decks lower impulse, the satisfaction of hun- its home, collecting flowers and fruits ger, for the moment got the better of of bright and varied colors, removing what we should call the higher im- everythilug unsightly and strewing the pulse, obedience to the mistress ; but ground with tender moss ; or how the only for a moment; the higher impulse humming-birds decorate their nests prevailed, and the dog crept abjectly to with the utmost taste, as Dr. Gould his mistress. No one is likely to ques- observes weaving into their structure tion at any rate, no one who knows beautiful pieces of flat lichen I say dogs is likely to question the exist- that I do not think any one who knows ence of the higher trait in canine his facts can deny that some animals character, that of subservience and obe- have a sense of beauty and derive dience to the master or mistress. And pleasure from objects which to them few are likely to question the probability and to us are delightful to the eye. of the fact that there was in the dogs But there is a great difference between, mind a painful conflict of impulses, re- on the one hand, having pleasurable sulting in the victory of what we call feeling at the sight of beautiful objects the higher. All this may be granted. and gratifying that feeling by either But if some one says, what it should going to them or bringing them to you, be observed Mr. Sully does not say, and, on the other hand, perceiving that the terrier did what he knew to be ~sthetic relations. The ~sthetics of feeling the animals may possess, if by this phrase is meant no more than mere pleasure at the sight of certain objects the ~sthetics of judgment is beyond them. And so once more, with the third member of the great triad or trinity that rich chord to the ear of reason, the distinguishable but inseparable notes of which are ri0ht, beauty, and truth. As the animal has, in my view, no power of judging actions in relation to a standard of right, no power of ap- praising objects in relation to a stand- ard of beauty, so also it has, I conceive, no power of ganging its perceptions and conceptions in relation to a stand- ard of truth. For truth is a matter of intellectual knowledge, and such knowl- edge the brutes have not. It lies be- yond the limits of animal intelligence. I have now, so far as is possible without entering into technical details, illustrated the distinction between in- telligence and reason. Intelligence is the faculty by which, through expe- rience and association, activities are adapted to, or, more strictly, moulded l)y, new circumstances; while reason is the faculty which has its inception in the true grasping of relationships as such. Intelligence is ever on the watch for fortunate variations of activ- ity and happy hits of motor response; it feels that they are suitable, though it knows not how and why, and controls future activities in their direction. It proceeds by trial and error, and selects the successes from among the failures. Reason explains the suitability it shows wherein lies the success or the error, and adapts conduct through a clear perception of the relationships involved. Individual experience, asso- ciation, and imitation are the main fac- tors of intelligence; explanation and intentional adaptation are the goal of reason. Incidentally I have expressed my opinion that, in the activities of the higher animals, marvellously intelligent as they often are, there is no evidence of that true perception of relationships which is essential to reason. But this is merely an opinion, and not a settled 101 conviction. I shall not be the least ashamed of myself if I change this view before the close of the present year. And the distinction between in- telligence and reason will remain pre- cisely the same if animals are proved to be rational beings the day after to- morrow. For the distinction holds good between human intelligence and human reason, just as much as between animal intelligence and the possible reason of animals. It is no line of di- vision which separates animals from men ; but a distinction between fac- ulties, one of which, at least (and perhaps both, though this I doubt), is common to animals and men. C. LLOYD MORGAN. From The church Quarterly Review. DOROTHY SIDNEY. THERE is a perennial charm con- nected with the family of Sidney. Those who know least of English his- tory and literature know and honor the name of Sir Philip Sidney, and have some dim respect for that of Algernon. The name of Sidney stands for all that is most honorable and chivalrous in the idea of an English gentleman, and is associated forever with two self-sacri- ficing deaths ; for if the death on the scaffold on Tower Hill was less glori6us than that on the field of Zutphen, it was at least a death of sacrifice for an ideal, mistaken, indeed, but pure. And. those who know in fuller detail the history of the century which begins with Philip and ends with Algernon, know that other members of the house of Sidney were contributing their share to the honorable record of their family. Sir Henry Sidney, lord-deputy of Ire- land, held that supremely difficult post for thirteen years, with honor to him- self and advantage to the people whom he governed. Robert Sidney, Lord Leicester, grandson of Sir Henry, nephew of Sir Philip, father of Dor- 1 Sacharissa: Some Account of Dorothy Sidney, countess of Sunderlaud, her Family arid Friends, 1617-1684. By Julia cartwright (Mrs. Henry Ady). London, 1893. Dorothy Sidney. 102 Dorothy Sidney. othy and Algernon, served Charles I. No new light is thrown by her biog- as ambassador in Paris from 1636 to raphy on the history either of Charles 1641, and all that we hear of him leaves I. or of Charles II. ,and the graver stu- behind a high opinion of the charm dent may safely pass it by. But those and rectitude of his character, if not of who like at times to step hack from the the strength of his abilities. Neither bustle of our own day and the familiar Sir Henry nor Lord Leicester was well accents of our contemporary literature requited by the sovereinn whom he to the contemplation of other days and served, and, indeed, the Sidney family other manners, may xvell spend a few throughout the century owe(l little to hours in turning over the pages of the favor of the crown. history has, this book. We cannot, in(lced, restore however, made amends. It records the atmosphere of the seventeenth many names more splendid, more con- century as we can the days of The spicuous for strength and for great Tatler and The Spectator, or of achievements, but none more stainless. Wraxall and Hervey and Walpole ; but And literature too is in their (lel)t, for we know the leading men and women though neither Sir Philip Sidney nor of the reigns of Charles I. and Charles Edmund Waller are in the front rank II. only less well thami we know those of English writers, yet to have written of Queen Anne and the Georges, and Astrophel and Stella and to have their company is sometimes brh~hiter inspired the songs to Sacharissa, are and pleasanter. In the company of not the least among the honors of the Dorothy Sidney one may well be con- house of Sidney. tent to linger for a little while. The distinction just mentioned be- The home that is associated with all longs to the lady whose name stands at the Sidneys is Penshurst in Kent. The the head of this article, and who is the terms in which it is described by Ben subject of a very readable and pleasant Jonson and Sir Philip Sidney show biography by Mrs. Ady, more familiarly that, like the family to which it be- known to many readers as Miss Julia longed, it possessed a charm greatly in Ca.rtmvright. Dorothy Sidney does, in- excess of its splendor. Jonson devotes deed, only form a centre for a picture one of the poems of his Forest to of the Sidney family (luring the seven- describing its delights and-sixty years of her life ; but Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious although not much is known of her, show and but few of her letters remain, yet Of touch or marble, nor caust boast a row there is enough to show this central Of polished pillars or a roof of gold figure to be one of unusual grace and Thou hast no lantern of which tales are charm, a lady distinguished in her told, youth as the reigning beauty of the Or stair or courts ; but standst an ancient age, in her maturer years as the mother pile, And these grudged at, art reverenced the of Sunderland, the niothier-in-law and intimate corresl)ondent of Halifax and while. her life as one who And Sir Philip is unquestionably think throughout was both lovable and loved, who had many mug of Penshurst when lie describes the friends and admirers, amid few enemies. house in his Arcadia, built of fair To read her life is to surrender oneself and strong stone, not affecting so much to the contemplation of the culture of any extraordinary kind of fineness, as seventeenth century in its best as- an honorable representing of a firm the stateliness. 2 The Sidneys were, as pect, the culture which is reflected in George Herbert and Lovelace aiid Jonson indicates at the end of his WaIler, and it is only from such a poimit poem, a hionie-loving family, and at of view that it is worth while to read Penshurst Dorothy Sidney passed the it at all. Lady Sunderland was very greater part of her girlhood. She was near the political muovemeuts of that Quoted by Mrs. Ady, Sacharissa, p. 20. troubled timne, but she was not of them. 2 ibid., 1). 19. Dorothy Sidney. born in October, 1617, the eldest daugh- ter of Robert Sidney, then Lord Lisle, and Lady Dorothy Percy, daughter of the Earl of Northumberland. Of these 1)arents one receives a very pleasant impression. Of Lord Leicester, as Dorothys father became in 1626, Clar- endon says that he was a man of great parts, very conversant in books, and much addicted to the mathe- matics, and though he had been a soldier, and was afterwards employed in several embassies, as in Denmark and in France, was in truth rather a speculative than a practical man. . . . He was a man of honor and fidelity to the king, and his greatest misfortunes proceeded from the staggering and irresolution of his nature. His letters show 1)0th good sense arid good feeling. He was not of the stuff out of which leaders are made in a time of revolution, but he was thor- oughly loyal, and served his sovereign often at his own expense (which lie could ill afford) and in spite of very scant acknowledgment of his services. He had a worthy partner in his wife, as loyal and as zealous as himself, and devoted to the interests both of her husband and of her children. Many of her letters to the former during his embassy in Paris are preserved, and prove her to have been a good corre- spondent and a good wife. The fol- lowing end of one of them is charming Mr. Seladine comes in with your letter, whom I am engaged to entertain a little; besides, it is supper time, or else I should bestow one side of this paper in making love to you! and since I may with modesty express it, I will say that if it be love to think on you sleeping and waking, to dis- course of nothing with pleasure but what concerns you, to wish myself every hour with you, and to pray for you with as much devotion as for mine own soul; then cer- tainly it may be said that I am in love ; and this is all that you shall at this time hear from your D. LEYCESTER. Kiss my boy [Algernon] for me, who sent me a very prettie French letter. Clearly twenty years of married life had not proved love a failure. 1 Sacharissa, p. 54. 103 Of Dorothy we hear little until she had reached the age of seventeen, when suitors, or at least admirers, be- gan to make their appearance. Her beauty and the charm of her manner cannot have bean merely imaginary, when they inspired a writer in Tire Tatler, seventy years afterwards, to compare her thus with the reignin~ beauties of that day. The fine women they show me nowadays are at best but pretty girls to me, who have seen Sacharissa, when all the world re- peated the poems she inspired; and Vila- na when a youthful king was her subject. The things you follow and make songs on now should be sent to knit or sit down to bobbins or bone-lace. They are indeed neat, and so are their sempstresses ; they are pretty and so are their handmaids. But that graceful motion, that awful mien, and that winning attraction, which grew upon em from the thoughts and conversations they met with in my time, are now no more seen. They tell me I am old; I am glad I am so; for I dont like your present young ladies.2 It was indeed as Sachanissa that Dorothy Sidney achieved most fame for under that name she was sung by Mr. Edmund Waller, then a brilliant young widower of twenty-nine. It is worth while to turn to WaIlers works and read the score or so of songs la which he celebrated his flame, if only on account of the position which he holds in the history of English verse. In his use of time heroic couplet, in his conventional diction and imagery, lie is the first of tIre precursors of Pope, while in his conceits and gallantries he is the contemporary of Hernick arid Cowley. It is hardly credible that the following lines can have been com- p05C(l when Charles I. was kino and Webster and Shirley had scarcely ceased to write : Thyrsis, a youth of the inspired train, Fair Sacharissa lovd, but hovd in vain: Like Pho~bus sung the no less amrous boy; Like Daphne she, as lovely, and as coy ! 8 2 Tatler, No. Si; partly quoted on Mrs. Adys title-page. Walier, Phcebus and Daphne. 104 In metrical smoothness Wailer cer- tainly made a considerable advance upon his predecessors, and a few of his poems still deserve readiu~. The author of the stately lines on the souls dark cottage, battered and de- cayed, which conclude his Divine Poems, was not without considerable merit; but they are too remote from the present subject, and also too gener- ally known, to be quoted here. It is better to give a poem which, although the name of Sacharissa does not oc- cur in it, was probably addressed to her That which her slender waist confin d Shall now my joyful temples bind; No monarch but would give his crown, His arms might do what this has done. It was my heav ns extremest sphere, The pale that held that lovely deer; My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move! A narrow compass ! and yet there Dwelt all thats good, and all thats fair. Give me but what this ribband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.1 It was about 1634 that Wailer com- menced his adoration of Lady Dorothy Sidney, and for some four years she seems to have had the honor of being his principal flame. But at no time can there have been any question of his suit being successful. He came of a good county family, it is true, but Lady Leicester looked much higher for a husband for her daughter, and there is not the slightest reason to suppose that Dorothy herself ever regarded him with favor. His verses might be graceful, and his compliments were unquestion- ably well turned, but his character was not above reproach, and tile ardor of his devotion might be suspected of being at least as much ornamental as real. His heart was in no danger of breaking when his suit was rejected, and tile occasion of his goddesss wed- ding to another man gave Ilim an op- portunity, which he was careful not to miss, of writing an elegant and witty epistle to her sister. He could then betake himself to Amoret or Phyllis or 1 Wailer, On a Girdle. Chloris or Flavia, or some other of the. ladies who inspired his susceptible heart, and could with some justice de- dare tilat by the success of his poems the muse had more than compensated him for his failure in his courtship of Venus. Yet what he sung in his immortal strain, Tho unsuccessful, was not sung in vain; All but the nymph who should redress his wrong Attend his passion, and approve his song. Like Phnibus thus, acquiring unsought. praise, He catch d at love, and fill d his arms with bays.2 The five years 1634 to 1639 represent tile period of Dorothy Sidneys career as tile reigning unmarried beauty of the day, a beauty not less charming because not much exposed to the glare and excitements of town. During tili~ time Lady Leicesters correspondence with 11cr ilusband is Ilaturally much occupied with the question of their daughters marriage and the eligibility of the various suitors who present themselves. At olle time it appeared likely that she would be married to the young Lord Devonshire, wilose sister had been one of her most intimate friends. Proposals were made by Lord Devonshires family, and Lady Leices ter was willing, and more than willing, to accept them. Negotiations were continued for some time, but without effect. At one time Lady Leicester believed that the young mans parents were secretly trying to bring off a matell with a great French lieiress~ at anotiler that her own sister, Lady Car- lisle, was seeking to frustrate 11cr plans. Dorothys own views ~n the matter, being of minor importance, are not recorded. But tile real obstacle seems to ilave come from the young man ilimself, who was in no hurry to oct married; and, on discovering tile back- wardness of the selected swain, Lady Leicester not unnaturally withdrew from her position. Other suitors were forthcoming in plenty. Lord Russell was spoken of at one time, but the idea~ 2 Plicebus and Daphne~ Dorothy Sidney. Dorothy Sidney. went no further. A more serious can- didate was Lord Lovelace, whose suit was warmly pressed by Lady Leicesters brother, Henry Percy, and in this case there was no doubt of the good-will of the suitor himself. His worldly posi- tion, moreover, was unexceptionable. Unfortunately, however, for the success of the scheme, his character was very much the reverse; and when heap- peared at Penshurst in the character of a suitor, it is evident that both Lady Dorothy herself and her mother took a strong dislike to his manners. Henry Percy urged in vain, and the plan, after some expenditure of temper, fell to the ground before the opposition of the two ladies. The name of Lord Devonshire was again mooted by friends of the family, but without result, and in the course of 1639 the right man presented himself in the person of Henry Lord Spencer (afterwards Lord Sunderland), of the great family of the Spencers of Althorp. He was younger than Dor- othy, being barely nineteen, but his character was stainless, his birth and position beyond cavil, and this time there was no holding back on the part of the intended bride. To him Dorothy Sidney was married in June, 1639, and another chapter of her life is opened. So far the life of Sacharissa had been undisturbed, or disturbed only in the smallest degree, by the state of public affairs ; but the date of her wedding may serve to remind one of the storm which was then impending, and which was destined to involve in its destruc- tion the fortunes of the newly mar- ried couple. In 1640 the Scots crossed the frontier, and in November of the same year the Long Parliament held its first sitting. In May of the following year Strafford was executed, and Lord Leicester, on Straffords own recoin- mendation, as it is said, was recalled from France to succeed him as lord- lieutenant of Ireland. He was not, however, allowed to depart to take up his duties, but was retained in the neighborhood of the kings person, where the moderation, if not the irreso- lution, of his counsels caused him soon to lose the royal favor which for a mo mnent had been shown to him. His moderation may have caused some to doubt his loyalty, and the doubt would be intensified by the conduct of his son-in-law, since Lord Spencer was one of the peers who were on the side of liberty, and was regarded by the Par- liamentary leaders as one of their supporters. Like Falkiand and Hyde, however, Lord Spencer was driven to the kings side by the violence of the Parliaments attacks, and when the final rupture came he drew his sword with the Royalists. With the outbreak of war peace de- parted from the house of Sidney too. While Dorothys father stood for the king, her uncle, Lord Northumberland, and her brothers, Philip and Algernon, were for the Parliament; and her hus- band, though with the royal army, was one of those whose hearts were least in. the struggle, and who longed most ear- nestly for peace. Five letters written by him to his wife during the war have been preserved, and give us our only means of becoming acquainted with his character, apart from the brief but favorable notice of Clarendon. He writes muostly of the aspect of public affairs, and does not disguise his sick- ness of heart. how much I am un- satisfied with time proceedings here I have at large expressed in several let- ters. . . . If there could be any expe- dient found to save the punctilio of honor I would not continue here an hour. The discontent that I, and many other honest men, receive daily is be y~nd expression. 1 If time kings, or rather the queens, party prevail, we. are in sad condition, for they will be insupportable to all, but most to us who have opposed them ; so that if the king prevails by force I must not live at. home, which is grievous to me, but more to you. 2 These fears did not prevent his doing his duty manfully at Edgebill, where he charged with the Kings Guards. Part of the following winter he was able to spend with his wife at Penshurst, but when he left her in the spring of 1643, he left her 1 Sacharissa, p. 88. 2 Ibid., p. 89. 1o~ 106 never to return. In June of that year he was created Earl of Sunderland, but on the 20th of September he fell charg- ing up to the pikes of the London trained bands, in the hotly contested battle of Newbury. So ended Dorothy Sidneys short married life. Four days before Sunder- land had signed himself in his last letter to her most passionately and perfeetly yours, and the pathetie let- ter in which Mr. Robert Sudbury, then tutor at Penshurst, describes the arrival ef the sad news, leaves no doubt of the genuineness of the love which united this well-matched husband and wife. I know you lived happily, and so as iiobody but yourself could measure the contentment of it, writes Lord Leices- ter in his admirable and iuost touching letter of consolation, adding, that now is past, and I will not hatter you so much as to say I think you can ever be so happy in this life again ; but this comfort you owe me, that I may see you bear this change and your misfor- tunes patiently. I 11cr life of married happiness had lasted little more than four years, and now she was left, at twentysix, a widow with four cliii dren, the last born a fortnight after her husbands death. This child, named henry, died while still quite youn0 but the others grew up, and two of them are heard of again in history. The eldest, a son, is well known as Robert, Lord Sunderland. The other two were girls, of whom Dorothy, the eldest, afterwards became the wife of Lord hlahif ax, Sunderlands conte ni- pcrary and rival ; while Penelope, the youngest, died unmarried about 1668. With her widowhood a cloud settles down over Dorothy Sidneys life, and for many years we hear little of her. So far she has been the lovely and lovable girl and young wife, with the Sidney charm and the Sidney beauty. In the years that follow we find her still charming, still beautiful, in the eyes of those who knew her, but pass- ing out of the brilliant splendor of youth to the more sober charm of ma- 1 Sacharissa, pp. 105, 106. ture life. To her neighbors around Penshurst, where she lived during the seven (listurbed years which followed her husbands death, she was an ideal of womanly virtue, and she seems to have been regarded as above the com- mon frailties and emotions of her sex. Certain it is that it was a shock and a disillusionment to them when she did what with many women would have been expected from the first, and mar- iied auain. That a beautiful and charm- ing widow of twenty-six should have a(lmirers was only to be expected; that in course of time she should accept one of them would certainly not have been regarded as strange in any one of whose character a less high opinion had been formed. Yet it is hard not to see in a second marriage a failure in devotion to the first. Is the remainder of the way so long Thou needst the little solace, thou the strong? Watch out thy watch, let weak ones doze and dream. Yet it is a failure which few will find it in their heart to blame severely. Lady Sunderland had been a widow for nine years, when, in July, 1652, she took compassion on the long devo- tion of Mr. (shortly afterwards Sir) Robert Smythe, or Smith, as his wife habitually spells his name. The family of the Smythes had a marriage con- nection two generations back with the Sidneys; they were neighbors and in- timate friends, and Robert Smythes admiration for Dorothy had long been notorious. Still Dorothy Osborne, then writing her delightful letters to her betrothed, Sir William Temple (him- self an ancient and ardent admirer of Sacharissa), feels very evidently that her lovers paragon has taken many steps nearer to common humanity by this second marriage, and shows a fine indignation at the saying, ascribed by general report to Lady Sunderland, that she had married her new husband out of pity. Temple, too, joins in the common regret at this step she has lost by it much of the repute which she had gained by keeping herself a Dorothy Sidney. Dorothy Sidney. Widow. It was then believed that wit and discretion were to be reconciled in her person that have seldom been per- suaded to meet in anybody else. But we are all mortal. 1 This is rather severe, but it must be remembered that Temple was writing a love-letter; and one feels that if Lady Sunderland wished to marry again, no one has a right to criticise her too harshly. It seems to have been admitted that tile marriage was a happy one, but we know no details of it, and, like her first union, it was but of short duration. Tile exact (late of Sir Robert Smythes death is unknown, but it is certain tilat witilin a few years Lady Sunderland was again a widow, with one infant son as the offspring of her second 1llarria~e. For all this l)eriod the story of Lady Sunderlands life is quite obscure. She seems to have lived mainly at Althorp until the coniing of age of her eldest son, the young Lord Sunderland, in 1662, and after that date at Boundes, near Pensliurst, the favorite home of her second husband. In 1659 her mother, Lady Leicester, died, her hus- band being with her to receive her last words of farewell to himself and of message to her absent son, Algernon, then an exile on the Continent, and her other cllildren, and the 01(1 servants of the house. The picture of the home life of the Sidney family reillains I)erfect to the end. Lord Leicester himself lived on until 1677, his later years rendered more lonely by the exile of one child and the marriages of oth- ers; and of him we hear little more. We part with him in all kindness, as one who had been a ~vise and good father, even as Lady Leicester had been a careful and loving mother. With the reign of Charles II. Lady Sunderlands life enters on its second part. We have known her as daughter and wife; we now see her as mother, mother-in-law, and grandmother, and as taking a keen interest in the course of political affairs. She had two strong links with them in the persons of her I Sacharissa, p. 135. 107 5011 and her son-in-law. On the one hand her son, Robert, Lord Sunder- land, was now of age and was learning to play the part to which his rank and abilities entitled him ill public life. On the other, her eldest daughter, Dorothy, had in 1656 been married to Sir George Savile, subsequently (1668) created Lord Halifax. During tile as- ceudency of Charendon and the min- istry of the Cabal, neither Sunderlaud nor Halifax appear pronlinently on the surface of polities ; but the exciting years whieh followed brought both to the front, and we are fortunate enough to possess part of Lady Sunderlands correspondence during this period. The virtues of the Sidneys (10 not seen~ to have descended in the female line. Certainly it is hard to realize that Sunderland, the sneak, the traitor, the renegade, was the son of Dorothy Sidney, and of the blood of Sir Philip~ He was not laeking in abilities; on the contrary he had only too great a facility for dealing in politics, but lie was utterly wanting ill principle. lie courted the favor of each of the kings mistresses in turn. He was suspected of Popish leanings ill Charless reign, and lie became a pervert to Romanism under James, and yet lie voted for the Exelusion Bill in obedience to the pop- ular pressure of the alonlent. Halifax, at least equally able, was of very differ- ent moral temperament. Unpopularity was no deterrent to hiul, but rather the reverse, his leanings being habitually to the weaker side, wliiehever that might be for the moment. Unservice- able as a colleague, lie was of great service to the nation in those days of unsettled politics and indeterminate parties; and those who had the pleas- ure of his intimate acquaintance might well feel pride in his independence and disinterestedness of spirit. Hence it is not surprising that Lady Sunder- lands i~itercourse with her son-in-law was far closer than with her son; and the wife whom the latter took, as un- principled and as tortuous as himself, was not likely to promote increased friendliness between them. Halifax lost hAs wife in 1670, but the commnou .T)orothy Sidney.. sorrow seems only to have drawn him and her mother closer together. They were congenial in temper, and Lady Sunderland took a mothers pride in watching and assisting her son-in-laws brilliant career. Sunderland and Halifax both ad- vanced to a front rank in politics at the same moment. When, after the fall of Danby, Charles tried Temples scheme of a new Privy Council, or Cabinet, of thirty members, both were included in the number and both were of the inner nucleus with whom Temple most fre- quently consulted. The great question of the following years was that em- bodied in the Exclusion Bill. Sunder- land, convinced by the preponderance of national feeling in its favor, adhered to Shaftesbury and voted for the bill. Halifax, disliking the bill, and disliking still more the violence of those who supported it, threw his influence into the opposite scale, and, at a great crisis in the struggle, it was his eloquence alone that persuaded the Lords to reject the bill, after the Commons had passed it by large majorities. This is the most dramatic moment of the whole contest, and it is pleasant to see Lady Sunderlands pride and delight mu her son-in-laws triumph, even though her sons vote had been upon the other si(le an(l her warm indignation when the disappointed majority in the Com- mons proposed to impeach the too suc- cessful orator. Lady Sunderland was a good letter- writer, chiefly because she let her feel- ings run away with her. The warmth of her emotions overflows in her corre- spondence, and if we only had her letters for the whole of her life, we should possess a most vivacious com- mentary on the course of public affairs. Unfortunately we have them only for the single year 1680, thirteen of them written to her brilliant and unprin- cipled young brother, Henry Sidney, and the rest to her son-in-law, Halifax. From them we get an insight into her character which confirms all that we hear of her from other sources. She was quick and impulsive, ready alike with her joy and her indignation, but with a thoroughly warm and good heart at the bottom. At the age of sixty-three she writes with as fresh and lively interest in her friends and their affairs as if she was just entering on the enjoyment of life. The gossip of the town, political and personal, passes through her letters for the benefit of her correspondents, but it is when her deeper feelings are moved, whether by family matters, such as the marriage of her niece, or by political affairs relat- ing to those in whom she was most interested, that the warmness of her affections and keenness of her feelings are most evident. To quote at length from her correspondence would be overlong, and short citations would give no fair idea. The reader must be referred to Mrs. Adys book. With the cessation of Lady Sunder- lands correspondence, as preserved to us, a curtain is let down over the short remainder of her life. We would have given much to know how she spoke of the trial and execution which ended the life of her high-minded, though impracticable brother Algernon, and to have heard her comments on the efforts. which her beloved son-in-law made to save him, as he had done previously at the equally unjust condemnations of Stafford and Russell. It can hardly be a coincidence that her own death fol-. lowed within little more than two months after that of her brother. On December 7, 1683, Algernon Sidneys. head fell on Tower Hill. On February 25, 1684, Dorothy Sidney, Countess. dowager of Sunderhand, was buried in the family chapel of the Spencers at Brington. Her second marriage and the long years of her widowhood are wiped out, and her heart rests once more beside that of the husband of her youth, the father of the children whose careers she had watched in her age. In this short narrative of Dorothy Sidneys life we have followed Mrs. Adys most pleasant and attractive book. We have not cared to examine it from the standpoint of general his- tory, but rather to treat it as a sketch of the persons and characters of the Sidneys of two generations. A con- 108 In Orcadia. trast has recently been drawn between the personal and scientific aspects of history, between history as an accurate presentation of facts and history as a vivid delineation of character. In the ideal history both aspects are no doubt combined, but at a time when stress is especially laid on precise accuracy of detail, Professor Froudes reminder of the importance of the other side of the shield is not untimely. To most of us, the details of constitutional history are of no vital importance, but to all of us it is of importance that great and good characters should be brought vividly before us. After all, to the world in general, Plutarch is more valuable as a historian than Aristotle. Therefore, we have not attempted to check the references to general history with which Mrs. Adys book is full. The main outlines are correct, and that is ~dl that is required as a background to the real work which she has in hand, the portraiture of Dorothy Sidney and her friends. We may feel at the end that, after all, we know very little of Dorothy. A few poems in her honor, ~ few letters from her hand, and ex- tracts from family pedigrees, sum up the whole tale, and yet we feel that somehow the charm is there, the charm which made Sacharissa the divinity before whom poets like Weller and ~statesmen like Temple bowed in her youth, and the memory of which haunted the old writer in The Tat- ler twenty years after her death, and made him feel that by her side the beauties of a later day were nought, comparable to her neither in person nor in mind. From l3lackwoods Magazine. IN ORCADIA. SOMETIMES of an evening when run- ning noiselessly through the channels that separate the low, sandy islands of the Orcadian group, I could have fan- cied that I was on the Lagoon. And the approach to the capital by Scapa iFlow is not unlike the approach to Yenice. After the turmoil of the 109 Pentland Firth, after the breathless struggle with the wild tides that meet at Dunnet Head, we have reached, as it seems, an inland lake, where never wind blows loudly ; clusters of sad secluded islands lie about us ; while, across the belt of sandy bent straight ahead, the sunset strikes on tower and steeple. And the impression deepens when, landing in the magical twilight of the North, we wander through curi- ously narrow and crooked lanes till we enter the vast cathedral, where solid pillars, that almost rival St. Marks, rise solemnly into the darkness over- head. What is the meaning of it all? we ask ourselves later on. Might not these ocean-bound and wind-beaten rocks have been fitly left to seal and sea-gull? Why should sane men, who had heard no doubt of happier climes, have elected to pass their lives upon barren islands, where no tree will grow, where the sun is rarely visible through the Atlantic fogs, where the sea is bleak and inhospitable? It was a hard and strenuous life they were forced to lead to keep the breath in their bodies, and theii scanty harvests were won by ceaseless toil. And yet they found leisure to raise a mighty minster, to pile vast mounds over the chambers where their dead were laid, to drag huge boulders from hillside and valley, an(l plant them in stately circles for worship or sacrifice. In such a race there must have been a good deal, not only of the heroic element in general, but of the dogged obstinacy that will not admit that it can be beaten. Nay, indeed, of something more. They dreamt not of a perishable home Who thus could build. Thus it is that the true lover of Orcadia lives, if I may use the phrase, a double life. The sportsman, if he be a naturalist to boot, discovers enough, and more than enough, to interest him. The ornithologist especially will find the summer day too short. The plaintive creatures who pity themselves on moor- lands (thank you, Mr. Butler!) are 110 In Orcadia. never far off. Morning and evening, the ocean in this network of islands, through the open window which looks you are pretty sure to come to grief. out upon the })ay, he hears wail of cur- For round many of them it runs like a hew and pipe of plover. While he is mill-race. Between by and Stennis, smoking his pipe ia the twilight, the for instance, the ebb is simply a foam snipe high overhead are winging their ing and swirling torrent, against which way to fresh fields 1 and pastures new. sail and even steam are powerless. (Why they thus suddenly change their That vast body of water pouring into feeding-grounds no man can tell; it the Atlantic is as irresistible as a Ca- has something to do with the wind pos- nadian rapid. But if you study the sibly, something with coming storm.) tides, you can seek out secluded nooks What with ducks and geese in the where the seals are basking on the what with wadin~-birds (lu mosses ; ~ , n tangle, and the wild duck are wheeling un and whimbrel and greenshank, on round the bay, and the blue-rocks are the shore ; what with tile gannet and darting out of tile caves, and tile grouse the skua and the Maux sileerwater on are crowing among tile heatiler, and tIle open sea; what with grouse on the where for ten months out of the twelve moors ; what with trout in the lochs ; the peace is absolute, and silence un- wilat witil such rare plants as the ad- broken save by the shepherds dog. ders-tongue, and the horned pond- Tills l5 Orcadia from the outside, s& weed, and the Prirnula scotica, and the to speak; but beneatil a thin layer of Care~v fulva, the sportsman who is turf or peat there is tile ilistoric or pre not intent on killing only need never historic Orcadia. It is a history of pass an idle hlourA immense antiquity, a ilistory, in the And for tIle artist tilere are the vast stately words of an old writer, not t& spaces of sea and sky; the shining be computed by years of annual mag- sands ; the glories of the sunset ; and istrates, but by great conjunctions and above and beyond all, the pageantry the fatal periods of kingdoms. Mac- of tue storm. For each day a fresh showe and the Stones of Stennis stood drama is transacted upon the heavens. wilere they stand before tile vikings The morning Ilours are often brilliantly came ; and older than Stennis or Mae- brigilt; but e re midday the sun is sud- showe are the weapons and implements. denly obscured ; the storm-cloud rises in flint and bronze and iron which are out of the Atlantic ; sometimes the dug np every day in bog and moss, and wind and rain lash the panes for hours ; forwarded to the indefatigable Mr. sometimes the cloud breaks upon tile Cursiter. The ghost of many a pri- hills of boy, and passes away like a meval Orcadian, xvhose long sleep has dream. The d6nofimeat of the drama been rudely disturbed by spade or is always obscure ; you cannot pre(Iict plough, must hanllt tile pleasant and wilat the end xviii be ; and so the inter- Ilospitable dwelling where all that re- est never flags. mains of 1Pm and his tempestuous life And among the landlocked bays and has been safely put away under lock througil tile narrow channels there is and key each restless spirit of the excellent boating for those who can storm on his own silelf. cir~umvent the tides. Unless, lade ed, We hInd seen tile Stones of Stennis von know something of the obscure and the I3roclls, and Macsilowe, and laws which govern the ebb and flow of the Church of St. Magnus, and the 1 J know, of course, that Milton wrote woods; castles of bishop and earl; and when but we have none, at length we went in our friends yacht 2 But the sportsman who is intent on killing to visit the Old Man of boy imaoina~ only should be warned that grouse (and snipe eveii) ,,, ~ are dying out, and that in another year or two tion was still busy with the pale gilosts tliece will be few if any, left. ungenial springs, of the buried and unburied dead whose overshooting, the mania for eggs, the extension of rest we had dared to break. The tu small holdings into the moorland, untimely and ulultuous rush of tile ebb had carried indiscriminate burning of heather, are the causes assigned by those who know best, US through the narrow sound into th~ In Orcadia. wide western ocean; and before the wind went down we had passed the Kaim of Hoy, and St. Johns Head, and the long buttress of cliff which was raised no doubt to prevent the islands from being swept bodily away by the Atlantic rollers. We had not counted, however, upon an absolute calm, and had meant to return with the tide. But when we were told after our even- ing meal that we must wait where we were for the morning breeze, it did not occur to us to complain. The night was too exquisite for sleep for sleep at least under a slated roof. The balmy air of the Gulf Stream was about us. Wrapped in our rugs, we could scan the mighty crags and watch for the moon to rise. Too exquisite for sleep; and yet I must have dozed; for when I looked again the moon was high in heaven. rugs I lazily regarded this titanic pile of weather-beaten stone, I was aware of a mystic change. Like the smoke that issued from the vase when Solo- mons seal was, broken, the gigantic l)illar at our side slowly assumed the semblancenor yet the semblance only of a human form. I was not surprised ; it seemed only right and fitting that the Titan who, during the primeval conflict of elemental forces, had been turned into stone, should be permitted to converse with the rep- resentative of a later race. In that illusive light, indeed, nothing was in- credible, nothing too weird and ex- travagant for belief. Certain eel qaia impossibile est, I said to myself, as Sims Thomas Browne had said before me, and Tertullian before Sir Thomas Browne. The voice was low and placid and passionless, serene with the se- renity of an immeasurable past. I did There was not a breath of air in the not dare at first to interrupt the men- sky or on the water. The ocean was ologue, which began in a speech as flooded with pallid moonlight ; the heat unknown to me as the gurgle of the of the day had been converted into a guillemots. For lie did not notice us transparent mist a mist of ghostly for a time ; he was looking across the transfiguration through which, as in sea, straight across to Newfoundland, a dream or through a veil, we saw the whence the sunset hind struck age after solid earth. There was no sound save age upon his upturlie(l face ; and the that of the moving waters at their large utterance of the early gods, priest-like task, the tide that softly which had grown quite archaic before lapped the iron bases of the hills. At Homer was born, was doubtless his na- times, indeed, a murmur canie from tive tongue. The Gaelic of the Garden the rocks where in solid ranks thou- of Eden, the Norse of Odins Walhialla, sands of parrots and marrots sat beside can still be construed by scholars ; but their nests. It was the first watch of Thea and Saturn are dumb. It could night; but midnight was at hand. All not well be otherwise, perhaps ; for on board were asleep except myself to judge from what I heard that night and one seaman at the stern who idly the language they nsed must have handled the tiller. We were drifting had more affinity with the sough of the slowly with the tide, no doubt; but the wind and the ripple of the stream than progress was inappreciable. A phian- with articulate words. tom ship upon a phantom ocean! But after a while lie appeared to be- Mighty precipices hundreds of feet in come conscious that lie was no longer height rose out of the water a bow- alone, and that a monologue in a dead shot from us on our right. The moon- language was out of place, and indeed light did not touch them ; did not at barely civil. It may be true that Titans least pierce the gloom of the dark fis- are not naturally communicative ; but sures and caverns into which the seals for ten or twelve thousand years lie stole noiselessly as we passed. Only hind led a life of extreme seclusion the Old Man of Hoy stood out clear and the sociable instinct is deeply against the sky clean-cut as by a seated. How it came about I cannot knife. But even while wrapped in my exactly undertake to explain; but ere 111 In Orcadia. many minutes had passed I found my- self, as matter of fact, engaged in am- icable conversation with my gigantic neighbor, a conversation devoted mainly to the more striking incidents of his long, if not varied, career. Much of the conversation is lost irrevocably lost ; but a few fragments cling to the memory. The interchange of the customary civilities was followed by the usual re- marks upon the inclemency of the weather. By niutual consent, implied rather than expressed, anything in the nature of political controversy was avoided, and Mr. Gladstones name was not even mentioned. The conver- sation might consequently have flagged had we not accidentally discovered a topic of common interest. We were both naturalists and the seabirds with whom he had cultivated friendly rela- tions, and who treated him with the most absolute confidence, had been my special study. He had known the great auk intimately, and regretted his untimely end. (I promised, by the way, to let him have ilarvie Browns monograph.) But the king was never, he said, the same bird after his wifes death, and hnd told him, indeed, that he did not care to live. He could not honestly say that lie missed the white- tailed eagle (who had deserted his eyrie a year ago) ; for, though a gentlemanly bird of good family, he was a bit of a glutton, and his relations with the lesser gulls were strained, and led to constant unpleasantness. What amazes me most, he went on, is the freshness of interest which the numberless generations of marrots and parrots I have known contrive to maintain. My brisk little neighbors nev6r lose heart. They continue to lay their eggs summer after summer with an intrepid faith in the future that never fails them. One would have fancied that by this time they might have come to see that the game was not worth the tandle. The father and mother birds have seldom opportunity to hatch more than a brood or two before they arc cut off; and how many of the chicks sur- vive ? The perils of the deep are incalculable ; and yet no experience will convince the overxvhehmning ma- jority that the life of storm and stress on which they have entered, and from which they~ cannot escape, is not worth living. Whence comes that seed of day which forces them to persevere, and which the most bitter frost cannot kill? I looked at him anxiously; Ii was afraid that his observations, ostensibly confined though they were to the par- rots and marrots, mu ight have a wider application. But there was no irony in his tone, no cynicism on his lip ; and I ventured to remark that when the breeding season was over, and the birds had scattered, lie had possibly had leisure to observe what his fellow- creatures (if I might without impro- priety use the word) were about. Yes, he continued thoughtfully, I have seen something of them. The races of men that make haste to de- struction ! But they do not interest tue much as little indeed as the mo- notonous procession of the seasons. I have, however, more than once talked over their prospects with my good friend and neighbor, the Dragon of Maeshowe, who is a shrewd judge of character, though his field of observa- tion, no doubt, has been comparatively limited. When I first came here, he went on, some ~ons ago, the scrath and the phoca had the islands pretty much to themselves. They led an easy life, fish were plentiful, and the weather was fine. We have no such summers now as we had then, and salmon and sea-trout have become comparatively scarce. Indeed the sal- mon, I hear, has left us for good. That golden age of peace and plenty came to an end when the first boatload of bearded rovers was driven by stress of weather upon our shores. These sailed away and brought back others men and women who bred and mul- tiplied yea, multiplied exceedingly. That, lie concluded, is the whole story a story as tedious as it is trivial. But, I interrupted, consider the progress that has been made I 112 In Orcadia. What is progress? he responded. As it does not occur in the vocabu- laries I have consulted, it is a word, II presume, that has been only recently coined. May I ask you to be good enough to define what it embraces? Oh progress progress why, my dear sir, every one knows what progress means. Progress is the tele- graph, the telephone, the half-penny paper, the right to vote as you please, sixty miles an hour by express That will do, he replied gravely I shall not trouble you further. I find that in effect the phrase must have been in use ever since I can remem- ber anything. Even in these remote islands it is a household word. You have seen my friend Cursiters museum of Orcadian antiquities? So you know something of our history. We have had the flint age, and the bronze age, and the age of Maeshowe and the Stones of Stennis, and the devout medi- ~val age which built the great church at St. Olaf, and the modern secular age which built the squalid little barn in which, if I am not mistaken, you sat last Sunday. But what has come of it all? iDo you mean to tell me that you are happier or handier or wiser all round than the men who shaped the flints and hammered the bronze ? Only consider what invention and inge- nuity were required to light the first fire, to wing the first arrow, to fashion the first frying-pan, to boil the first leg of mutton. Ge nest que le premier pas qui cotite; when the initial difficulty has been overcome, you are within measur- able distance of the printing-press and the spinning-jenny. True, Ii answered; but on the ethical side you must surely admit (if you are not an absolute pagan) I could see that he winced at the impli- cation that we have outstripped our fathers. The rapacious instinct has been subdued. The wolf who worried the sheep has been tamed into the sheep-dog. That is what Professor Huxley maintains. expected to recognize and appreciate as That, too, was the contention of I do the essential truth of what one of Zeus and the younger gods when they your own poets has said LIVING AGE. VOL. LXXXIV. 4320 turned us out of heaven. But you know how Zeus behaved himself, and what kind of place Olympus became? Be sure that the sheep-dog is still a wolf at heart. With the least encour- agement the native savageness will assert itself. Paris, they tell me, is the centre of your civilization, and yet you will hardly deny that the Parisian petroleuse is just the wild-cat over again. The puzzle, my ingenuous young friend, is as old as the hills. Evolution can only evolve; it does not create. How are you to get out of yourself? Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots ? What you call progress is merely the change of manners due to bit and bridle, to the scavenger and the police- man ; the essential element, the domi- nant and determining factor, remains the same. The tide of mortal affairs is like the tide of the ocean ; by an in- variable law the flood is followed by the ebb. Huxley if it be the Hux- ley I knew when speech was pellucid as the mountain spring, and logic cut like a sword will tell you as much; for Huxley, like myself, is a survival. Has he not confessed indeed that you have reached the stage the fatal stage in national life when the duties of the individual to the State are for- gotten, and his tendencies to self-as- sertion are dignified by the name of rights ? But Mr. Huxley admits that the ethical force will prove superior to the cosmic, and that the return to the ruth- less and unscrupulous struggle for ex- istence which we call barbarism He shrugged his shoulders (or was it only an optical delusion ?), and I fan- cied that I heard a contemptuous whistle, which, however, may have come from a half-awakened curlew, for the dawn was at hand. Even your most lucid thinker can- not escape from his ~ he answered; and then he added Neither you nor he, indeed, can be 113 Ir/, Orcadia. He might not No, though a primeval God; The Sacred Seasons might not be dis- turbed. He was exasperatingly cool, and I was rather nettled; so I said slowly, looking him straight in the face, Do you mean to assure me, my venerable friend, on your word of honor, as a Titan and a philosopher, that there is nothing new under the sun? Well, said the Old Man, after a prolonged pause (it may be that he was wearied by my pertinacity), iLls pos- sible that I am doing you less than justice. I beg your pardon. But it is only of late years only the other day, indeed that my attention has been directed to a practice for which in my experience no precedent can be found. The art is distinctively modern, if not characteristically English. In this re- spect I am ready to admit that you have not been anticipated. Look there ! he exclaimed, pointing to the opposite bluff, on which in monstrous characters a facile but audacious brush had inscribed these words Pratts Little Liver Pills. BUNTINES POWDER FOR BIJGS. Thornss Soft Soap IS THE BEST. TRY OUR CASTOR OIL. The day was breaking ere I had spelt out the last word, and when I turned to the Old Man, - There is a breeze in the offing, said the skipper, touching his cap. We shall have it directly. We did not care to waken you, Mr. Shirley; but, now that the tide has turned, we shall be at Stromness in an hour. That Sabbath day was long memora- ble to us. The breeze that wafted us slowly along the coast had come with the Gulf Stream from tropical islands, and was soft and mellow. Stromness was only half-awake when we passed into Scapa Flow ; a purple haze rested on the hills of by; and though now and again we saw a group of country people on their way to church, anti though far off there was a clamor of sea-gulls, the peace was absolute audi unbroken. The beatific hush of tile seventh day had fallen upon us. Na- ture, like man, was at rest from her labors. Even the shy wild birds knew that they were safe safe while the brief truce lasted. Eiderduck and black guillemot, too lazy to fly, too confident to dive, looked the auld enemy fear- lessly ill tile face. It was growing dark before we dropped our anchor besid& the Chapel of tile Rock. Tile service was closiun ; they were singing tlleir evening hymn. It is a hymn made solely for pastoral and seafarinn people who are sorely tried by wind and evil weather, and has no place in the authorized mainland version. The Een brings a Hame, they call it (after the beautiful old proverb), and it is set to Mendelssohns music 2 __ Mr. H. Gardner said that, speaking from the usthetic standpoint only, he shared the views of the honorable member in regard to the inartisti results of the practice in question; but he had no power to interfere. He could not say he was sur- prised to find the owners and occupiers of agricul- tural land should, under existing circumstances~ be unable to resist the temptation held out to them by advertising contractors. (Laughter.) Mr. Boulnois asked whether, if farmers took to cultivating crops of pictorial and other advertise- ments, the right honorable gentleman would con- sider the advisability of introducing a controlling and regulating bill in order that the amenities of rural districts might be preserved? Mr. H. Gardner said he was not prepared to ad- mit that the authority of the Board of Agriculture extended over the face of the country. Nor was be quite sure that the duties of the Board involved the restraining of advertisements of this kind. (Laughter.) 1 We may gather from the report of a conversa- Mr. Huxley does not doubt that some day we tion in the House of Commons the other day, that shall arrive at an understanding of the evolution the art to which the Old Man of Hoy referred is of the~ sthetic faculty; it is to be regretted that cultivated over a wide area that understanding has not yet been officially Mr. Boulnois asked the president of the Board arrived at, and that the minister of agriculture of Agriculture whether be could take any steps to in the mean time powerless to interfere. prevent the face of the country being disfigured by 2 Adagio non troppo in IE major, from the Lie- the advertisements of vendors of quack medicines? der ohue worte.~ 114 In Orcadia. iJpon the hills the wind is sharp and cold, The sweet young grasses wither on the wold, And we, 0 Lord, have wandered from thy fold; But evening brings us home. Among the mists we stumbled, and the rocks Where the brown lichen whitens, and the fox Watches the straggler from the scattered flocks; But evening brings us home. The sharp thorns prick us, and our tender feet Are cut and bleeding, and the lambs repeat Their pitiful complaints, oh, rest is sweet, When evening brings us home. We have been wounded by the hunters darts. Our eyes are very heavy, and our hearts Search for thy coming, when the light departs At evening, bring us home. The darkness gathers. Through the gloom no star Rises to guide us. We have wandered far. Without thy lamp we know not where we are. At evening bring us home. The clouds are round us, and the snow- drifts thicken. O thou dear Shepherd, leave us not to sicken In the waste night, our tardy footsteps quicken; At evening bring us home. It was only a coincidence, no doubt; but I said to myself, as we pulled the dingy ashore, that I had somehow found an answer to the gloomy vatici- nations of the Titan. SHIRLEY o~ BALMAWHAPPLE. P.S. It has been insinuated, I know, thut the conversation, which I have endeavored to record to the best of my ability, did not in point of fact take place, and that the existence of the delusion (delusion, forsooth!) may be traced to a more or less hazy remi- niscence of a reported interview with a mummy. But if you can converse with a mummy who has been dead for thou- sands of years, why not with the Old Man of by, who is certainly still there? Though there have been malicious rumors to the contrary, I am bound to say that our G. 0. M. (as we came to call him in the freedom of family inter- course) was scrupulously polite. The vexed question of bracing air, which has been the cause of so much domes- tic dissension, was the only one oii which we seriously disagreed ; and the slight misunderstanding was speedily composed. You are still at the Hermitage ? he said. I admitted that we were. Dont you find it damp ? he in- quired, in the tone one employs when addressing the victim of chronic rheu- matism. I was tempted to point out that his own position (in ten fathoms of water) could hardly be called dry ; but I forbore. Yes, he continued,it is rather in a hole; and for my own part I pre- fer a free current of airsuch as we have on this coast; but 1 presume it suits you. The retort that a succes- sion of Atlantic gales would try the soundest constitution was obvious ; but I said only that for minds innocent and quiet the most sheltered monastic re- treat (celibacy not being imperative) might have charms of its own The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees. It is only fair to add that the Qid Mans familiarity with modern English literature was highly creditable. Cheap editious of our standard poets circulate in these northern parts, and to the in he may have had access; but by what route an early copy of Mr. Huxleys re- cent discourse on evolution and ethics had reached him, I am unable to ex- plain. lie is obviously a warm admirer of that pre - eminently lucid writer though he is mistaken, I fancy, in holding that Mr. Huxley is nothing if not critical. One who is a critic only could not have written such a sentence as this I venture to count it an improbable sug- gestion tbat any such person a man, let 115 116 us say, who has well-nigh reached his three- score years and ten, and has graduated in all the faculties of human relationships; who has taken his share in all the deep joys and deeper anxieties which cling about them; who has felt the burden of young lives intrusted to his care, and has stood alone with his dead before the abyss of the Eternal, has never had a thought beyond negative criticism. It seems to me incredible that such an one can have done hi~ days work, always with a light heart, with no sense of responsibility, no terror of that which may appear when the factitious veil of Isis the thick web of fiction man has woven round Nature is stripped off. It mny be observed, in conclusion, that our very latest school of thought does not appear to look forward with implicit confidence to the future of Progress. Thus Mr. Leslie Ste- plien Popular writers are fond of describing Utopias in which mans power over Nature has indefinitely increased, and machinery been employed to hitherto unimaginable results. An imaginative writer might, I fancy, employ himself to equally good pur- pose in describing a state of things in which some mechanical discoveries should remain, but serve only as a memorial of a distant past, their principles forgotten, their use only known by tradition; in which the power of discovery should have perished, and a steam-engine be the object of super- stitious reverence like a gun in the hands of a savage as a mysterious survival from the days of the ancient demigods. To bring about such a result it would only be neces- sary so far to emasculate the intellect that men should be reluctant to encounter the labor necessary for extending the borders of science. There are abundant precedents for decay as well as for progress, and re- gions enough in which authority has suc- ceeded in shifting the impulse to active thought. Why should we regard such an ellipse of intellectual energy as henceforth impossible? Such warnings coming from our most strenuous thinkers may profitably be laid to heart by those who fancy that manhood suffrage on the one hand, and sixpenny telegrams on the other, mean the Millennium. S. OF B. 1 An Agnostics Apology, and other Essays. By Leslie Stephen. London, 1893. From Longmans Magazine. ON LEOPARDS. THE leopard is not a very well-known wild beast. It has occupied only a comparatively small space in the pop- ular literature of natural history. It is only casually mentioned in Frank Bucklands Curiosities of Natural History. The late Mr. Wood gave a very meagre account of it in his favor- ite book. It is probable that there may be some authentic explanation how and why the leopard found such a prominent place in the armorial bear- ings of England, but I cannot lay hands on it. It is true that national emblems are not always happily selected~ as, for instance, the fearful fowl that does duty in America for an eagle; or the imaginary creature with two necks and two heads that is found on the standard of Austria as the typical eagle of that country. In England we have set up three leopards on the royal flag, and perhaps the number or quantity is supposed to make up for the quality of the beast. The leopard is, in my opin- ion, rat her a vulgar animal. It is vul- gar in two senses. It is very common in many parts of Asia and Africa, and its neneral habits are low, cowardly, n and sneaking. Its redeeming quality is that it has considerable beauty of form and fur. So, for that matter, has almost every one of the cat tribe. During a long residence in India I becanie tolerably familiar with leop- ards. I once kept two little cubs about three months old, but when in my inexperience I had them washed with soap and water to get rid of their fleas, they resented the insult and died. I never really liked leopards. Mr. Wood, the naturalist, describes them as crea- tures of almost inoffensive habits, but enemies to poultry and fatal to fowls. On the other hand, I have recently seen an account in an Indian paper of a leopard that killed in tile course of eighteen months more than one hun- dred and fifty human beings. Such a murderous beast never came within my cognizance, thou~ h I fear that the story was true. I will now try to put to- gether a few reminiscences of my own On Leopards. On Leopards. experiences with leopards for a period extending over twenty years and more in Lower Bengal. The first time that I saw a wild leop- ard in the jungle might have been easily the last time for my seeing any wild leopards. I was creeping along nuder the trees on the slope of one of the little hills at Chittagong, just in- side the tangled fringe of briars and grasses at the edge of the covert. I was stalking, or rather sneaking, after one of those beautiful pheasants which we used to call the mathoora (iEuploca- mus Hor~fleldi), and listening for its footfall on the dry leaves, for this pheasant rather disregards the precau- tion of moving silently. Suddenly there was a slight noise of a broken twig on the projecting branch of a tree almost overhead in front of me. A glance showed to me a leopard stretched out along the branch and gazing ear- nestly into the bushes below it. The leopard was hunting the mathoora after his fashion, hoping to pounce on it from the tree. He was so intent on his work that he seemed not to have heard, or smelt, or seen me. In a moment I raise(l my gun and fired a charge of No. 5 shot into his head just behind the ear. The leopard fell dead almost at my feet, nearly all the shot having penetrated the brain. But if I had not been so lucky as to see the leopard, and also to kill it dead, it might perhaps have jumped down on me and broken my neck, or in its dying struggles it might have bitten and mauled me. It was great luck for me, but bad luck for the leopard. It was a very handsome young beast, apparently full-grown, though leopards vary so much in size and length that it is not easy to say when one of them has reached maturity. This adventure happened many years ago. I still have the animals skin, but it looks rather dingy and dirty now. Some persons are of opinion that the skin of a leopard is one of the most beautiful productions of nature. No two skins are exactly alike in the size and position of the spots, and almost every spot differs slightly from another. If any one wishes to judge for him- self, let him walk down Regent Street and look at the leopard skins hanging in the fur-shops there. It seems a rather hard saying, but the people who cure and preserve these skins make some of them look more beautiful than when they are on the live animal. Let any one go to the Zoo and look at the living creatures and admire their graceful forms, and the infinite variety of their spotted skins. But they need to have sunshine on them, and sun- shine cannot be brought directly to bear on the leopards in the Lion House. On the few summer days on which they can be let out into the large iron- barred enclosures behind the Lion House they look much better, but still the skins are more or less dirty, and they want the gloss that they ought to have. The best living leopard that I ever saw in captivity was in the Zoo- logical Gardens at Marseilles, where a large cave has been so artfully dug out of the hillside that a projecting point of rock stretches out into the sunshine, and the leopards delight to lie on it. As we passed by there was a leopard lying basking in the sun, and his skin was a picture of natural beauty. Any visitor to Marseilles will do well to go and see the Zoo there, if it be only for the sake of the leopards. It may be rather a surprise to learn that there are not a few people who deny the existence of a leopard. They call it a panther, and profess not to know what is meant by a leopard. It is, however, desirable to consider their arguments respectfully. horace wrote the line, Diversum confusa genus panthera camelo, and to the best of my recollection this is one of the ear- liest instances in which the animal is mentioned as a panther by a classic writer. But this is not the whole of the case against the leopard. A friend of mine is the fortunate possessor of the large folio entitled Area Noe, written in medheval Latin by Dr.~ Atha- nasius Kircher and published at Am- sterdam A.D. 1675. In this work, IDr. Kircher, who was a very learned man in his time, has given separate pictures 117 118 of all the animals that went into the ark, and he has also presented to us the portraits of the animals that were not taken into the ark. Amongst these excluded animals he places the leopard, or leopardus. The reason given by him is this that the leopard is a hybrid animal, a. compound of the lion and the I)ard or panther. On the same princi- pIe Noah is said to have excluded the camelopard, as a hybrid combination of the camel and the pard. Other ani- inals, such as mules, were not admitted for similar reasons and it seems to follow that Dr. Kirelier believed that Noah called the animals in his time by their Greek names. It is only fair to add that Noah did not take with him what are called the amphibious ani- mals, such as the hippopotamus and the crocodile and the otter, who, as the showman said, cant live upon laud and die in the water. Dr. Kir eher has also supplie(l the likeness of the mermaid, for whom there was no admission into the ark. She is decid- edly, as Horace wrote, mulier formosa superne. Presumably she was looked on by Noah as a hybrid, a very unde- sirable combination of woman and fish. Be this as it may, it apparently did not much signify to mermaids in general. Doubtless there have been just as many mermaids since the Flood as there were before the Flood. To return to the leopard, Dr. Kir- chers theory regarding the animal was undoubtedly in accordance with the general opinion of his time. Dr. John Anderson, one of our best, but not best-known naturalists writes thus in a book published by him in 1883: The felis parcius, like the lion and tiger, was well known to the ancients, who had a curious superstition regard- ing it, that survives more or less to the present day, and gives rise to frequent discussions as to the supposed differ- ence between the pai~tlier or pard, and the leopard. It was thought not to be actually the same animal as the pan- ther or par(l, but to be a mongrel or hybrid between the male pard and the lioness ; hence it was called the lion- l)antlier or leopardus. This error, as Archbishop Trench tells us, has lasted into modern times. Thus Fuller says, Leopards and mules are properly no creatures. In reality, however, the names pard, panther, and leopard have reference to ~ue and the same animal. I believe that all scientific zoologists are of the same opinion as Dr. Ander- son. But in India there are some En- glish sportsmen who still imagine that there is a difference between a panther and a leopard. In Madras and Bom- bay the animal is almost invariably called a panther. The Bengal presi- dency, in its military jurisdiction, is so extensive, reaching from the borders of Afghanistan to the eastern limits of Assam, that it would be unsafe to pred- icate that the name panther is not rec- ognized in any part of Bengal, but in the province known as Lower Bengal the name leopard is almost invariably used by English sportsmen. It would be of little use to discuss the names applied by the natives of each province to the leopard or panther. According to my own experience, the natives adopt the name which they think most suitable to the colloquial proficiency of their master. They would sometimes call it a little tiger and sometlines a spotted tiger in speaking to their mas- ter ; whilst among themselves, o~ving to their superstitious notions, they would not venture to talk of the animal by its proper name. Thus I have heard them use the word jackal as apl)licable to both a leopard and a tiger. This superstition is curious, but almost universal. The strict Mahomedans, fromu their aversion to the unclean ani- mal the hog, do not speak of it as the soor, a name familiar to every English- man, but they call it the kala harirt, or black deer as a conscience-saving euh)he mism. It is probable that many residents in India, especially in the lar~e towns, know little about the habits of leopards. Mv own acquaintance with them, as the subjects of sport, extended over many years. When I was an assistant magistrate at Chittagong, of the mature age of twenty-one, my friend Captain Swatman, who was in charge of the On Leopards. On Leopards. 119 elephant kheddas, tried hard to intro- domestic use, in fighting amongst them- duce me to a leopard. There were selves or with their neighbors, in dis- some little hills covered with bushes putes about land or women, a blow and grass, just behind the cantonments, from one of them on a leopards head or military lines, where the native or loins would be almost certain to dis- Sepoy regiment dwelt. The neighbor- able or kill the beast. At all events, ing villagers used to turn out their the sepoys killed the leopard, and for cattle to graze on these hills, and from that year an end was put to our small time to time some predatory animal, hunting expeditions with the elephants.. either a tiger or a leopard, would kill As a rule, a man does not go out one of the cows or calves. The owner leopard - shooting as he goes snipe- of the slain animal would rush off to shooting or tiger-shooting. Usually tell Captain Swatman of his loss, and the news is brought by some excited Swatman immediately ordered out some and aifrighted native that a leopard of his elephants, and kindly sent off an has entered his premises, and, after elephant and howdah to my house or killing a child, or a goat, or a fowl, has office to fetch me. If I was in office hid itself in some shed or outhouse. the business of the day was adjourned On such an appeal it is usual to go out to the morrow, a~i~d I went off with my to try to kill that leopard. If a com guns to meet Swatman at the edge of panion can be found, it is better for two the jungle on the hills. How hard we men to go together than for one man to used to work in the hot sun to try to go alone with only native followers. find the tiger or the leopard! But our Almost the first case that I remember tactics were not very brilliant, for first to which we were called, we found that we had to find the body of the cow or the leopard was ensconced in a mat and calf, in order to ascertain froni its thatch cow-shied, of which the door had wounds whether the assailant had been been closed on him. We rather rashly a tiger or a leopard. Whilst we were opened the (loor in order to peep in. disturbing the jungle, the leopard (and There was a rush and a scuffle, as the the marks were usually those of a leop- leopard tore the door open wider and ~rd) stole away and hid itself in the jumped out to escape. We were lucky ravines betweeii the little hills ; or it iii not being knocked down or even may be that it went right away to scratched. But the leopard did not thicker cover on the larger hills, about get right away. It foolishly entered half a mile distant. Of course, as we another shed, which was promptly hunted about among the bushes there closed on him, and we had to begin would be frequent false alarms that the again. My comnpanion climbed on to leopard had beeii seen. One day a the roof with his gun, and an active young mahiout, anxious to distinguishi native got up with hilni to tear open a himself br zeal, cried out thiat lie had hole in the thatch of the roof. I stood seen a large red animal that must be a on the ground with a clear space before tiger. It turned out to be an old red me, in case tIme leopard should turn out cow that had 1)0 fear of a leopard, and in my (hirection. The eager crowd of had not left the jungle. As for mnyself, natives, who had come, regardless of I am sure that I never saw even the tip danger, was induced to retire to a dis- of the leopards tail. But we went out tance, whilst the most nimble of them again and again, almost once a week, in climbed up into trees or on to the roofs the vain hope that our labors would be of the adjacent huts. It takes longer rewarded. At last the end came about to write this thian to give an idea of in this way. The sepoys managed one what actually happened. The native morning to cut off the leopard from the who was tearing a hole in the thatch jungle, audi to surroumi(l it, and attack it of the shied had rashly tried to hook with their iron-bound bamboo chubs ; in to see where the leopard was. In a these chubs are very formidable weap- momnent the leopard sl)rang at him, uns, and, though intended chiefly for amid its head appeared through the 120 On Leopards. thatch. My companion put his gun go the hand and bolted. A somewhat to the beasts head and sent a bullet analogous story is told by Mr. Edward through its brain so that it dropped Baker, once a well-known sportsman in dead into the hut. But there were Lower Bengal. He says that he wa~ loud cries from the native on the roof, watching for a tiger one morning, when for the bullet, after passing through the animal c~tme out on the other side the leopards skull, had grazed the of the jungle and seized a villager whe mans body, so that he was bleeding was squatted down cutting grass. The profusely and crying out that he was tiger, having got easy l)ossession of his killed. He was quickly brought down victim, did not at once proceed to kill from the roof of the shed, and his or eat the man, but lay upon him as if wound was washed, and found to be meditating on the pleasure awaiting it. little more than skin-deep. A pres- Its meditations were cut short by a cut of a few rupees soon comforted bullet from Mr. Bakers rifle, and the him, and he became, not undeservedly, villager was found almost uninjured. the hero of the day among his fellow- Mr. Baker then describes what the vii- villa~ ers. The carcase of the leopard lager told him about his sensations and was slung from a bamboo and brought apprehensions when he thought that~ to our house, and the skin became the his life was forfeited, and that only property of my companion. death awaited him, in whatever man- Leopards are sometimes very bold ner the tiger might select. But Mr. and inquisitive. One night I was Bakers stories are sometimes a little sleeping on a narrow camp-bed in the embroidered, and there is some reason verandah of a small indigo factory, to believe that in this instance his where we had a select party assembled own imagination supplied most of the for shooting. I awoke suddenly on thoughts of the villager, especially as hearing a sort of sighing, growling the story was not published by him noise, and the next moment I could until many years after the occurrence. just see by the moonlight the form of a As a rule, it is best to shoot leopards leopard as it climbed on to the verandah on foot, the alternative being to shoot and approached my bed. Fortunately them from a howdah on the back of an I had mosquito curtains, which seemed elephant. There are several reasons a sort of protection, but I shouted and for this. In the first place, when a~ yelled as loudly as 1 could, and some of man is on foot, and can post himself the native servants beginning to move, judiciously so as to get a clear shot, the the leopard thought it expedient to leopard is more likely to come out, as depart, and was seen no more. Far it is wanted to come, as soon as the different was the experience of the beaters begin to try to drive it, with tea-planter in Assam, who was visited their sticks and clubs and shouts, in by a tiger under somewhat similar cir- the direction indicated. The leopard cumstances. He was lying asleep on either comes sneaking out, ha if stop- his cot in the verandah of his bunga- ping to listen to the noises behind low, and one of his hands was hanging him, or he may come out at full speed, outside his mosquito curtains. The making his way to another patch of tiger seized him by the hand and liter- bushes. My friend Mr. F. B. Simson, ally pulled him out of bed. He man- by far the best shot and sportsman of aged to alight on his feet, and then he his time in Lower Bengal, has written found himself being led along by the in his book that lie used to flatter tiger, from whose jaws he could not himself that he could put a ball pretty release his hand. his feelings must nearly exactly where he liked into a have been very unpleasant. Fortn- leopard at from twenty-five to forty nately an alarm was raised, and an- yards distance. It was not my good other gentleman, rushing out with a fortune to be able to do anything like loaded gun, fired a couple of shots that. The leopard is not a large ani which probably hit the tiger, as it let mal, and its vulnerable parts, especially On Leopards. 121 the head and neck, are small. It about a mile off. There was no cover bounds along very fast, and the pace is for a tiger anywhere in the immediate always deceptive. I have made some neighborhood, and no tiger had been lucky shots and rolled over several seen there for years. I thought that it leopards by a bullet just behind the might be a roving leopard. At all shoulder. I have missed, or merely events we had the elephants out, and slightly wounded, others. Still it is went to see. We found a large and better to be on foot than on an dc- thriving native village, but there was phant. I have shot leopards from an no sign of any wild animal. There elephant, but my recollections of leop- was just one strip of rushes along the ards in connection with the howdah are edge of some water, and we took the not altogether pleasant. One day, after elephants into it. We put up some a long and weary beat for tigers for black partridges, and I had merely a several hours with old Pundit Grant in charge of shot in my gun. When we Dinagepore, we at last disturbed a leop- had gone about one hundred yards after ard. It quickly hid itself, and with our the partridges I saw the head of a large twelve elephants we searched for it for animal looking at me just over the nearly an hour amongst bushes that rushes. I fired a charge of shot into would hardly have hidden a hare. In the beasts face and blinded it in either front of us was a large tank full of one or both eyes. It turned out to be water, which the leopard could not a young tiger. Then there was great have swum across without being seen. excitement. The tiger could not see My elephant was rather in front, and where to go, and was probably in a had reached the top of the bank of the country quite strange to it, so that we tank. The mahout, disgusted and had little difficulty in killing it. If its tired, was sitting loosely with his feet sight had not been destroyed, I fear out of the stirrups ; and I was standing that it would have escaped from us, as carelessly leaning forward in the how- some of our party had never seen a dah, with my gun in my hand. Sud- wild tiger, and men become ludicrously denly, the leopard jumped up right nervous at the mere sight of their first under the elephants trunk, and the tiger. elephant started back, nearly throwing There is another way of hunting the mahout off, whilst I was pitched leopards, which is not often practised, against the front panel of the howdah as the leopard does not take to it very with a blow that knocked the wind out kindly. When men are fond of hog- of me, and hit me so hard on the chest hunting, and hogs are not always forth- that I was black and blue for several coming, they sometimes try to beat days. Of course the leopard escaped. out a leopard and spear it as they would Another day, when out with the lieu- spear a wild boar. The leopard does tenant-governor of Bengal, we found a not readily quit the jungle. It is not leopard, which ran and hid itself in a accustomed to take long and rapid gal- small patch of thatching grass not two lops across open fields. If it does feet high. More than a dozen dc- break cover it is easy to overtake it l)hants were brought up to trample on horseback; but when overtaken it down the grass and turn out the leop- jinks, and turns so rapidly that it is ard, and for more than an hour we not very easy to spear it. Its body is pounded away, but never saw the leop- so small that it is difficult to spear it in ard. At last, when we all had our the right place. A Danish gentleman backs turned to it, the leopard crept named Holm, a very good and fearless out and got amongst the huts and rider, one day speared a leopard, but houses of the village, and we saw it the spear only passed along underneath no more. On another occasion I mis- the skin, so that he had, as it were, took a tiger for a leopard. News was skewered the animal on to himself. brought in to the lieutenant-governors llolm always rode in his old top-boots camp that there was a tiger in a village in fact he almost lived in hls top- Fin de Si~cle Jlfedicine. boots and it was his custom to stuff a news paper or two inside the tops, so as to enable him to read the news when there was no game near at hand. This newspaper arrangement was lucky for him, for the wounded leopard seized the top of the boot and found its teeth embedded in a newspaper instead of in my friends leg. At last Hoim let go his spear, as he could not otherwise get rid of the leopard, which was soon despatched by some other members of the party. There is a~ good picture of leopard-spearin~ in the frontispiece to Mr. Simsons book on sport in I3engal. The spear of the successful rider is being thrust down the leopards month, which is almost sure to inflict a fatal wound. In the background there is a sketch of a gentleman pursuing his runaway horse. That is the portrait of the writer of this paper, who had parted company with his steed, from want of sufficient adhesive power in battling with the thorny bushes of the jungle. I must tell one other tale of leopard- sliootiuir. Not far from the station called Sylhet, the little hills covered with trees and shrubs afforded shelter to many leopards. We used to set live- traps to catch the leopards. Towards mghtfail a live goat was put into the trap. and when a leopard crept into the trap to seize the goat, the doors at each end of the tral) dropped, so that, when the leopard had done his cruel business with the goat, he found that he could not get out. In the morning the sportsmen of the station used to go out to the trap with their guns, and when the leopard was let out they shot it as it tried to escape to the hills. One day a leopard thus imprisoned in From The National Review. the trap declined to come out. My FIN DE SIECLE MEDICINE. friend Mr. Levien, an exceedingly ac- IF there is one feature more than five and nimble little man, went to the another which may be fairly regarded trap and got on the top of it, and tried as characteristic of the world we live in to drive the leopard out. The leopard to-day, it is the development of combi- YIid at last come out, but it quickly nations among individuals interested in turned round and tried to jump on to the same objects, engaged in like pur- ihe top of the trap to catch Levien. suits, or eager for tile attainment of a \~Titli marvellous quickness Levien common desire. This tendency to popped off the trap and got inside and unite their forces on the part of those shut the door, so that the hunter be- who already possess community of came the hunted. The other sportsmen closed in and soon shot the leopard, but any man less active than Levien might have been caught and mauled. I might perhaps add much about tame leopard~, or leopards in captivity. But I never liked pet tame leopards, and I will only warn young officers in India against keeping them as pets. They may be very well behaved to their own master, but when a visitor comes to call, not knowing anything about the existence of a leopard in the house, it is very unpleasant to him to find a huge beast coming sniffing up to him, and raising its head as if to lick his face. The visitor is probably seated in the darkened drawingroom, and the servant who introduced him has gone off to call his master, w ho is sai(l to be dressing or bathino Ire- meml)er an exceedingly bad quarter of an hour that I spent in a certain sub- alterns bungalow with a strange leop- ard as my only companion, for the native servant did not come back to the drawing-room, as he had a holy horror of the leopard on his own ac- count. When at last my young friend appeared he could hardly believe that any one could be afraid of such a harniless, playful animal as his leopard. I thought otherwise, and (lid not repeat my call. Before the end of a mouth this leopard bit his own master of course in play ; l)ut the warning was taken, and the master had the skull and skin very handsomely set up as a souvenir of his old pet. C. T. BUCKLAND. 122 Fin de Si~cle Medicine. thought or action has very naturally begotten the desire to endow the bodies so formed with functions which shall demonstrate their vitality ; and one of the most remarkable evidences of the l)irth, growth, and development of great associations,is afforded by the multi- plication of congresses en gaged in the discussion of subjects as varied as the hues of the rainbow, ranging from biol- ogy to bi-metallism, and fraught with more or less interest to the community in general, as well as to the particular society which meets to l)romulgate the views entert.aine(l by its members. Of the meeting of congresses there is no en(1, and perhaps there are some persons who are beginning to doubt the utility of such meetings, and to regard their increased frequency merely as a means to the somewhat dubious end of affording a pious excuse for indulging in a liolida.y under the cloak of pseudo-laborious discussions which gather an assumption of gravity from the portentous titles affixed to the contributions offered by those who take part in the l)rocee(lings. But, in spite of the fair criticism to which soma congresses have been exposed, there are certain n]eetings whose utility caii- not be gainsaid, and whose influence on the welfare of mankind is not alto- gether unfelt. Among these may be included two which will shortly take place in the field of medicine. The British Medical Association meets in Newcastle on Au- gust 1, and at the end of September the International Medical Congress will be sitting in Rome. A glance at the pro- r1amme of the former suffices to indi- cate the (lirection in which medical ~)ractice is running ; and it may not be altogether uninteresting to the non- professional reader if the progress of medical thought and action since the meeting of the International Congress of Medicine three years ago in Berlin is briefly cousidered. It will be remem- bered that the curiosity of the medical world was stimulated on that occasion by the announcement of a great Ger- man bacteriologist that he would shortly place at the (1i51)osal of his col leagues a remedy which should prove potent against one of the most terrible and widespread diseases afflicting the human race. Hopes were raised in the breasts of those who hitherto had been condemned to death. Berlin was be- sieged by sufferers from consumption, and the reservations of the scientist, who claimed neither omnipotence nor infallibility, were rendered null and void by the almost hysterical adver- tisemnent of the lay press. Doctors and patients alike strove to be possessed of the miraculous liquid which, when in- jected in doses of a few milligrammes, was to drive out the demon bacillus of phithisis. I will cleanse the foul body of th infected world If they will patiently receive my medicine1 was the flat which had gone forth from the savant of imperial Germany accord- ing to the exaggerated telegrams en- cumbering the wires of the whole worl(l for a short space. In vain the modest investigator, who was hailed as the saviour of consumptives, sought to stem the ti(le of turbulent credulity which overwhelmed him and his disci- ples ; and it was not until practice and experience had tried and found want- ing the promised prophylactic that the injection of tuberculin was undeserv- edly relegated to the realms of failure, when the few who had carefully noted its effects and gauged its limitations, following the indications of the in- ventor, employed it with success, and continue to do so, for the arrest of sul)erhcial manifestations of tubercu- losis. The alleged mode of action of the much-vaunted remedy for consumption was exceedingly fascinating to those who looked for the brilliant results prophesied. The organism recognized as the cause of consumption (and of other forms of tuberculosis affecting tissues apart from the lungs, which from tlme prevalence of phithisis are commonly associated with the popular term consumption), having invaded the organ affording a con0enial resting- 1 As You Like It. Act ii., Sc. 1. 123 Fin de Si~cle JUiedicine. place, colonizes the affected tissue, and multiplies, rapidly surrounding itself the while with its own off-scourings. The active ingredient of tuberculin is the waste product or off-scouring of the tubercie bacillus, and the ingenious idea of its adaption to the cure of con- sumption resembled very closely the historical episode of the horrible Black Hole of Calcutta. The wretched pris- oners were destroyed by the accumula- tion of their own exhalations in the confined space into which they were huddled by the vindicative ferocity of Surajah iDowlah; but the German pro- fessor was more merciless to the bacil- lary invaders of human lungs than the Eastern miscreant proved to be to the victims of the Black Hole, though the results of his behavior to human pris- oners were more effectively fatal than the treatment meted out to intrusive microbes in the cases of pulmonary tuberculosis injected by the Koch method. The prisoners of Calcutta were left to die by the poisons generated by their own respirations; the organisms in- festing consumptive lungs were poi- soned by the deliberate addition made to their own off-scourings of the waste products from the cultivated members of their own race, bred in captivity on purpose to supply sufficient material to render the situation of any vigorous 1)acillus untenable within the precincts of the home made in the organs of the host so invaded. But here the compar- ison ceases to be parallel; for whereas the Indian provided against the escape of his prisoners, the German could not take similar precautions, so that the tubercie bacillus, being compelled to quit its nest by the obnoxiou~ addition to it~ midden-heap, sought for more pleasant surroundings, and, frustrating the hopes of the bacteriologist that it would be expectorated, roamed to other parts of the lung previously uninvaded. Thus the effect of the hoped-for cure in some cases resulted in aii extension of the disease, and the injection of tuberculin as a remedy for consumption has been abandoned, though its value and unquestionable usefulness in cer tam affections of the skin has been proved and recorded. Meanwhile the researches of an emi- nent French physiologist, undertaken some years ago, proved that the die- tum of St. Paul in his exhortations to the Corinthians was very remarkably fraught with truth in regard to certain glands whose function even now is not fully understood Nay, much more those members of the body, which seem to be more feeble, are neces- sary. 1 And in pursuing his investi- gations lie was able to show that the healthy condition of organs whose pre- cise use may not be demonstrable was necessary to the well-being of the indi- vidual and the proper elaboration of the blood circulating through the body for the nutrition of tile tissues. The fact that all the various organs which together nlake U~ tile whole body are necessary to each other has long been recognized ; but the due exercise of all tile various fuiictions of time different tissues has not been sufficiently in- sisted on, with tile result that many nlaladies of the presemlt day are prob- ably attributable, not so much in the first instance to disease in the sense of an alteration in structure, as to disuse of certain organs which have been suf- fered to remain idle, or whose easily recognizable use has been minimized because the conditions of civilization tend to foster disuse rather than activ- ity. Probably tIme most potent factor of present-day ailments is tile abeyance into which the muscular system is per- mitted to fall by dwellers in cities, who are daily becoming mo re and more de- pendent on artificial means of locomo- tion and on labor-saving apparatus~ until disorders of digestioml and nervous maladies are now as common among the comparatively poor members of tile community as they are among those who are wealthy ; indeed, while the rich mnan endeavors to overcome the miscllief wrought by his sedentary life l)y riding in the Park or playing golf, the poorer miman, who is unable to afford these pleasurable exercises, neglects. 124 Fin de Si~cle M~dicine. his muscular development, and invari- ably mounts his omnibus or tumbles into his train rather than waste the time necessary for a brisk walk or a half-hour in the gymnasium. The Vol- unteer movement and the popularity of the bicycle have tended to counter- act the disuse of muscles engendered in a large proportion of town residents; but there are still numbers of persons of both sexes who require vigorous muscular exercise in order to maintain health. The centralization of many domestic industries may have improved the character of the products thus man- ufactured or of the work performed; but when bread was made, and wash- ing was done, at home, the female members of many families fairly well off, but not too richly endowed with this worlds goods, were profitably em- ployed in kneading the dough and iron- ing the linen. Healthy exercise of the muscles being in many cases no longer regarded as a necessity for the mainte- nance of well-being, the latter end of this century has produced the revival of a practice which is recorded in the earliest medical papyrus in the British Museum, verifying the old adage that there is nothing new under the sun. But just as the multiplication of con- gres ses may be in a measure due to the increased facilities now afforded by rapid means of locomotion, so the in- troduction of massage may be regarded as evidence of the tendency in these latter days to the neglect of muscular exercise ; and if it be true that the abeyance of function in certain glands is productive of diseases which can be cured by the injection of organic liquids derived from a similar source much more is it evidently true that the failure to employ the great bulk of mus- cular tissue, which is so large a portion of the huma~i frame, will and invari- ably does give rise to disordered func- tion and altered structure in the other organs and tissues of the body which are interdependent on the activity of the muscles and each other. Mental and nervous overstrain are rarely dis- sociated from muscular disuse and flac- cidity. The interchange between the blood and the various tissues of the body is necessary to the healthy vitality of the human beiao; but, in order to facilitate such mutual exchange, there must be activity on the, part of every organ, and in view of the fact that the muscles are greatly in excess in bulk and weight of any other organs, it follows that their activity is essential to the well- being of the whole body. Muscular exercises induce acceleration of the blood stream and serve to pump effete material out of their interstices so as to make room for fresh supplies brought by the blood-vessels ramifying through and around them. Fin de si~cle medi- cine, recognizing the deficiency of mus- cular activity as a fruitful source of maladies resulting from the want of combustion and elimination of mate- rial used up or vitiated by the dispro- portionate action of other organs and tissues, has been compelled to revive the ancient practices pursued by the Egyptians, and later by Hippocrates and his successors in the earlier ages of the worlds history, which thus re- peats itself in these latter days. Reverting to the imitation of methods which are gravely proposed by the pio- neers of these therapeutic means, even to the extent of supplying defective organs by the injection of materials derived from the same sources in ani- mals, e.g., extracts of bone marrow, spinal marrow, sweetbread, etc., it is interesting to note that, according to French authorities, and in some in- stances with the verification of ob- ~ervers in this country also, distinct benefit has been derived from these new methods of treating disease: nota- bly in the employment of the juice of the thyroid gland in cases of a disease in which this organ is found to be atrophied, and again in the employ- ment of other organic liquids for the cure of neurasthenia, a term, which being translated into the vulgar tongue simply means nervous weakness or exhaustion. Sleeplessness is a very common and distressing symptom of neurasthenia. But here again we are confronted by what appears to be the 125 126 Fin de Si~cle Medicine. cause or one of the causes of sleepless- the entrance of the products of diges ness. A xvell-known French scientist tion into the general circulation, t~ has shown that certain matters which turn back such as would prove dde- are formed during sleep are stimulants terious, to alter and elaborate those to the nervous system, and as the tide which in a crude state might be obuox- of their production rises they finally ious, and to regulate the admission of wake the sleeping brain cells, and stim- fit and proper materials ; and when ulate them into activity. On the other the function of the liver is not suffi hand, the matters formed while the ciently active, or is overtaxed by the individual is active and awake, when excessive duty imposed on it under the sufficiently accumulated in the body, circumstances of over-indulgence iii tend to produce sleep. But it is more the pleasures of the table, or a vitia- than probable that inactivity, especially tion of the digestive processes not so muscular disuse, interferes with the immediately under the control of the due production of the soporific matters individual, it follows that the blood be- in the blood and tissues, so that in- comes overcharged with matters which somnia often results from the want of are not nutritive as they should be,, a fair amount of muscular exercise, but poisonous, so that the body, instead Perhaps the most remarkable advance of being refreshed and invigorated, is. in the investigation of the action of or- impoverished and weakened, all the ganic liquids, as means for the cure or organs and functions being upset in modification of disease, is the alleged consequence. Headaches, lassitude~ discovery, by a Russian savant, that all nervous irritability, all the thousand- the organic liquids derived from differ- and-one ills of which the so-called ner- ent sources, and whose use has been vous invalid complains, may be directly advocated by his French colleagues, traceab he to the ingestion of poisonous depend for their efficiency on a con- materials replacing the properly elab- stituent which is common to them all; orated nutritious matter which should and it is maintained that all the bene- serve to build up the organism. Now, licial effects produced by the injection it is suggested that the elimination of of diverse organic extracts may be these poisonous substances may be equally (lerived from a much smaller greatly facilitated by the injection of quantity of a solution containing the a ferment which shall so alter their active ingredient which is stated may chemical composition as to render theni; be found in every tissue of the body, easy of excretion by the organs whose but is more easily isolated from some particular function is to get rid of mat- than from others. The theory that ters for which the body has no further functional disorders of the Thervous use. That the substance introduced by system depend in great part on errors the Russian scientist is endowed with of digestion and on the accumulation properties which effect certain well of waste products and effete mattei7s recognized chemical changes under acting as poisons on the nerve cells, certain conditions outside the body has which the writer has frequently had been demonstrated. Experience of the reason to believe is abundantly proved remedy in the native country of its to be unquestionably correct, would inventor has led to its employment in appear to be supported by the experi- (hisor(lers of the nervous system, be- mental evidence afforded by the dis- hieved to be dependent on poisonous coverer of the substance which is conditions of the blood, with alleged asserted to be the active principle and beneficial results. It is on trial in this essential ingredient of the older prep- country, and hopes are expressed that arations. The matters which are formed a good record of utility may follow its in the digestion of food-stuffs escape employment, for it appears to rest the protective function of the liver, upon an intelligible basis. French. whose duty it is to mount guard over advocates of these remedies have en- Battambong and An~jkor. deavored to claim for them some vital properties, and the use of such sugges- tions has been regarded with eyes askance by the majority of practition-