text:
Page:Folk-lore - A Quarterly Review. Volume 4, 1893.djvu/396

 REVIEW.

It is useless to do more than give a few specimens of the method and manner of this book, nor, since it is an honest but ineffectual attempt to treat a difficult subject, is it desirable to say more about it, save to warn students that they will not find their knowledge increased by reading it.

The following citations, chosen almost at hazard, are fair examples of its author's work:—

C.I.L., No. 1064 Addenda. Deo Marti tari Pirumestu. "Tares de ahd: tara ... cf. ahd: tamjan ... d'où Farnhut, tarn-kappe. Piru-mes-tumari, celui qui abuse de la poire, de pira poire, mës = missi, et ahd: tumari, histrion, comédien, aventurier."

C.I.L., xii. No. 248. L. Valerius Quartus Carpanto V.S.L.M. "Le nom celtique du dieu Carpantus me paraît deriver de car, cher, précieux, et de banneth, bennath, bennet (bénédiction): le cher bénisseur ou bienfaiteur, qui peut être difficilement un autre que Balder...."

C.I.L., xii. No. 5848. Alambrimae Seuerus Perpetui fil. exs. not.

"Une inscription celtique en honneur d'Idune de lamh main et brime correspondant au Grec βριμη colère, Alam-brima la courroucée prise par la main...."

C.I.L., vii. No. 140. Deus nodenti Silulanus, etc.

Nodentes is made the nominative = nodenter = nauðr, need, and entenðr from endjan to end. "Silulanus est sans


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Page:History of West Australia.djvu/571

Rh to-day famous not less for its beauty than for the magnificent crops which it produces. The estate is admirably managed by Mr. Duncan McLarty, brother of Mr. Edward McLarty, M.L.C., on behalf of his mother, to whom this superb domain was bequeathed on the death of Mr. John McLarty. It was here that Mr. Edward McLarty underwent a thorough course of training as a yeoman, and gained valuable experience in regard to stock, which bore good fruit and accelerated his progress in maturer life.

When he was a young man the value of the Kimberley district as a depasturing ground was only just beginning to attract attention, and having been brought up as a grazier he seized upon the opportunity that thus presented itself of greatly enlarging his interests and his sphere of operations. In 1882 he became one of the leading promoters of the first company that was formed to carry on pastoral pursuits in the magnificent fattening territory around Derby. A million acres were leased from the Crown, and cattle were sent up to stock the run which, under the management of Mr. Wiliiam McLarty, brother of Mr. Edward McLarty, is one of the largest stock raising ranches of the West. The property is still in the possession of the company, and the neat kine which are sent to the city every year are most favourably known to the butchering trade, which prefers, as a rule, the home grown beeves to those which have come from the eastern colonies. As was elicited at the Select Joint Committee of both Houses of Parliament, which sat in August, 1896, and of which Mr. Edward McLarty was a member, the pastoral industry was then in a more flourishing condition than it had enjoyed for several years, as there had been a generous rainfall, and the price of stock had greatly risen all over Australia, so that the Kimberley squatters have everything in their favour. In good years—that is to say when there is no drought—the rich herbage grows on their immense leaseholds with marvellous rapidity owing to the heat of the climate and the strength of the soil, and Parliament has always encouraged local enterprise by imposing a stock tax on imported stock or carcase meat. The Committee, in view of the large influx of population and the enormously increasing demand for food supplies, showed every disposition to subsidise steamers and to build jetties at northern ports to facilitate the sending of the herds to the metropolitan market, so that it will be seen that Mr. McLarty has a very valuable asset in the venture which his farsightedness induced him to make fifteen years ago. While the mammoth Kimberley station was prospering under the energetic superintendence of Mr. William McLarty, the squire of Pinjarra, and future representative of the district in the Legislative Council, was busy with his properties nearer home, and he added broad acres to broad acres in and around Pinjarra whenever less capable graziers were prepared to sell them, until to-day he is the owner of an expanse of country that it would be a long day's ride to travel over. Mr. McLarty is also a model yeoman in the sense of being a cultivator on a large scale. He is one of the landed proprietors whom the ex-Commissioner of Crown Lands (Hon. A. R. Richardson) aptly described in the Legislative Assembly last session as those who put money into their fields in order to take much more money out of them; while there were others, the Minister added, who starved their ground and then wondered why their ground nearly starved them. It is a pleasure for a tourist to be invited by Mr. McLarty to ride over his estates. The trees have been cleared or ringbarked, and the land has been cultivated with a liberal hand. In the matter of fertilisers Mr. McLarty, both by precept and example, is making Pinjarra conspicuous for the extent to which it is adopting these important aids to scientific farming. Last year, in an unostentatious way, he did a valuable service to his neighbours and to the district by advocating, as president of the Murray Farmers' Association, the adoption of the co-operative principle in sending to one of the largest importers of bonedust an order for a large shipment of this plant food and distributing it at his own cost, until those who are not so largely blessed with this world's goods could gather and sell their crops and repay the loan. A generous act of this kind in this selfish age reminds one of the good old days of Rome when, as the poet relates—" None were for party, but all were for the state; when the rich man helped the poor man, and the poor man loved the great." And it serves to explain the esteem in which Mr. McLarty is held.

The principal architectural features of Pinjarra are greatly indebted to him, for he has built not only the charming manor house of "Beaumalup" in which he resides, but also the Premier Hotel which deserves its name as being one of the most palatial houses of public entertainment which is to be found in any agricultural centre in the colony. For twenty years he has been a member of the local Roads Board, and was chairman for four years in succession, retiring from that post in 1891, when he was elected to the Legislative Council as one of the three members of the South-Western Province. In 1874 Mr. McLarty married Miss Campbell, daughter of the late Inspector Campbell, of Perth, and is the father of six sons and a daughter.

Mr. McLarty is essentially a man who does good in his day and generation. In his own district no one is better known or more respected, and all over the colony he enjoys the reputation of being a man whose lead it is safe to follow. On the public platform or from his place in the Legislative Council his style of address is typical of a mind that prefers methods to theories; in other words an ounce of practice is to him worth a pound of precept. He is a strong advocate for the development of the producing resources of the colony, and at the time of writing was using all his influence in the Council and out of it to get a branch line made from Pinjarra station to the Williams River, in order to place the harvests of the fertile corn lands of the Marradong Valley within easy reach of the market.

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title: Page:History of West Australia.djvu/571


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User talk:Ab merkin

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At the Fire-Light Reception

The little village of Alenza boasts thirty houses. It is divided into three neighborhoods, and in each one of these there is a perfect model of what I call a spinning-bee. Let us single out any one of the three, by chance; say the one in Uncle Selmo Lombío's house.

Selmo, or Anselmo, Lombío is a poor workingman, who has hard work to raise corn enough to last him through the year; consequently he is not so much as what is called a well-to-do person. But he has never known what it is to be in a bad temper, he has no vices nor anything of the kind, nor has he, much to his sorrow, any children to ask bread of him, although for more than thirty years he has been united in honorable marriage to Aunt Ramona Maizales. Her character is cut after the same pattern as his.

Both of them profess true and earnest faith in the saying that "human folks were made for intercourse and friendship;" and, in short, do not at all agree that the poor man, exhausted by his daily labor, should have no other comfort than to fall a-snoring upon a wretched bed at the hour when the chickens go to roost. And in proof that they do not say so for the mere pleasure of opening their mouths, no sooner is the corn harvested, and the fall grass cut, and the wheat threshed, and no sooner do the thatched roofs begin to weep down drop by drop in the morning the dew that has fallen in the night, than you find them inviting to their kitchen every neighbor who may choose to favor it with his presence. And the people round about, exceedingly careful not to slight the invitation, eagerly accept it, and even make it the fashion to do so in that rustic society.

If you ask about Uncle Selmo's spinning-bees, his neighbors will tell you, one after another, or all together if you prefer it,

"Magnificent! The very best!"

In that hospitable kitchen were infallibly to be found every night throughout the winter, besides chance visitors, the following notabilities:

Tanasio Mirojos. He is a man well along in years, of a tall figure, though not of a very elegant bearing, only a middling workman, but a most excellent carter. He likes very much to be posted as to all that is going on in the world, and he is a perfect storehouse of stories and tales.

Pólito Redondo. He is a square-shouldered fellow, with a narrow forehead, shaggy hair and beard, a complexion like a lemon, and an understanding of the thickest.

Lencio, Cencio, Delencio, or Endilencio, whichever you choose, for he will answer to any name except the one he was baptized with, namely, Indalecio. He is hardly forty-five years old, never smokes, nor votes, nor gets angry. His forte is oratory, and as he is also a man of great learning, he answers off-hand all the scientific, historical, orthographical, and etymological questions about which he is consulted. He can wield the pen like a school-master, and no problem can balk him, from simple and long division up to fractions and partnership inclusive.

Gorio Tejares. An ex-soldier of the national army, he has knocked about extensively, and allows no one to make fun of him. He was intimate, while he was in the service, with all the Generals you can ask him about.

Polido. Short, with flabby and crooked legs and protruding lips, badly dressed and worse fed. His passion is to make others believe, at all hours of the day, that he has just dined, and that he is bursting with satiety.

Uncle Ginojo. Older than the small-pox, stone-deaf in one ear and hard of hearing in the other, and without a glimmer of memory; he falls asleep as soon as he sits down.

Silguero. A forward young man, an irresistible gallant, an accomplished dancer, and above all a famous singer of Kyries, Glorias and Credos in high mass—a skill which is his greatest pride.

Aunt Cimiana. Tanasio's wife; she has "glory in her hands" for cutting petticoats and waists, and for that reason is the only dressmaker in the village.

Sabel. A strong and buxom girl, with broad shoulders and hips, laughing eyes and a ready tongue.

Chiscona. A worthy mate for Pólito, and there is no need of saying anything more about her.

Clavellina. The opposite of Sabel, tiny, blushing, very neat, and somewhat retiring.

Mari-Juana. A woman six feet tall, thin and faded, famous for her knack at salting pork and curing illness.

And Rijiosa. Polido's estimable better-half, with a dreadful temper, but with peculiar skill in sowing grain in furrows, and dressing flax.

That is to say, the choicest of the good society of the neighborhood.

The women go to the spinning-bee with distaffs and hanks of cleaned flax. The only exception is Aunt Cimiana, who usually takes along something for her needle and scissors to work at. The men carry nothing, or, at the most, pieces of wood from which to whittle out lynch-pins, or a bunch of twisted osiers to be turned into the rough leggins of the province. For the accommodation of the guests, there are three long oak benches in Uncle Selmo's kitchen, well smoke-stained, and they, together with the seat built into the wall, form a roomy rectangle, within which burns the fire right upon the floor.

Aunt Ramona's greatest happiness is to see the last of her guests arrive, and then to contemplate them filling the three benches in her kitchen. In order fittingly to celebrate such joyful moments, she takes from the heap of wood in the corner the best thorn-branch, and throws it upon the large brands which are beginning to kindle upon the earthen floor. The feeble, flickering flame seizes upon the dry thorns, and quickly a column of fire goes crackling up to the very flooring of the garret, lighting up the faces of the company against the dark, gleaming background of the smoky, walls, in a way that would delight Rembrandt, if he could come back from the dead to look upon the scene.

With this ceremony the reception is opened every night. The women take advantage of the light to get their skeins ready; the men, their games, knives, and bits of wood. The next thing is very often the reciting of the prayers of the rosary, winding up with a petition for every one who has died in the village. In any case, it is certain that, before a half-hour has passed, things will take about the following course:

"Now, Uncle Tanasio, one of your good ones!"

"Something to make us laugh!"

"Let it be about robbers and witchcraft, for that is the most interesting kind."

"Let it be whatever he wishes, you great teasers!"

"If you said it would be what I know, you would be nearer the truth."

Tanasio is a man who likes to be urged, in such cases, as he thinks that otherwise his talent will not be properly appreciated.

"Pshaw! Don't say that. You know more stories than anybody alive."

"But I have told them all to you already."

"All but those which you have left in your head."

"I am a good deal afraid there isn't one left. However, if I must, let us see if, by squeezing and squeezing, something or other won't come out."

A profound silence. Tanasio is meditating. After a bit, he says,

"Well, then, I will tell you the story of a shepherd. There was a shepherd in the land of the Gentiles; and being a shepherd——"

"What are Gentiles?" asks Pólito.

"Why, Gentiles," responds Tanasio, somewhat put to it, and looking at Cencio, "Gentiles, in my way of looking at it, must be—this way—as one would say—isn't that so, Cencio? What'll you bet Cencio doesn't know it, too?"

Cencio, with an air of the most inflated importance, unceremoniously thrusts in the following explanation:

"Gentiles, it is well known, are some people who live in aquatic islands, and are giants, very strong in their bodily appearance, and—and they have no churches nor priests either, and they eat each other, when they take a notion."

"Do you hear that, Pólito? Why, the very children in the school know as much as that."

"But I never went to school, and that's the reason I ask. Now I know all about it."

"Are you sure you do?"

"You needn't think I am so stupid! Why, the thing doesn't seem to me to need much study. The Gentiles are some bodily beings that live in churches and eat aquatic giants."

"Gracious Powers!"

"What, is not that it?"

"Oh, yes, man alive, yes!"

"I thought from your laughing so that I had got it wrong. And what is this aquatic—no offence meant by the question? I suppose it must be some kind of caramel or candy."

"Aquatic," responds Endilencio seriously, "comes from the great seas—for these islands of the Gentiles are in the midst of the waters of the seas——"

"So then, the islands are a sort of boats."

"Islands," adds the learned man, "are some places that are uncultivated, where there are many thickets; and there are almost as many aquatic as solid islands; only then they call them Philippines because they are in the land of the Moors."

The difficulty is thus settled, and Tanasio goes on:

"Being a shepherd in the land of the Gentiles, this shepherd they say knew all the plants that grow, and wrought cures with them in a way that you would like to see. If you have a pain anywhere, he just rubs you with the herb that is called for, and there you are, well. If that man there has a boil, well, sir, on goes the herb, and off with it in a minute. And so the fact was that everybody thought everything of the shepherd on account of his medicines, and for that reason all the surgeons and apothecaries for twenty leagues around couldn't bear him.

"Well, sir, you must know that this shepherd did not go down to the village except on Sundays, and as he was very good-looking and a splendid dancer, after the rosary he used to go to the dancing-ground, and there he used to dance all the afternoon with the same girl, on account of which the two got very fond of each other and agreed that, if he was not drafted, they would be married.

"Very good. My beloved friends, it happened one afternoon that my shepherd was on the mountain when a traveller came up to him who was as finely dressed as you could see. And he quickly says to the shepherd, 'I say, good friend, can you perhaps tell me where a shepherd is who they say lives around here and cures all sorts of diseases?' 'You are talking to him, good traveller,' says the shepherd. The other jumps when he hears that, and says, 'Do you want to come with me and earn as much money as you can think of?' 'If it is not far, I will go right away.' 'It is to the king's palaces.' 'Who is sick there?' 'A daughter of mine whom I love like the skin of my heart. Two years she has been in bed, all the best doctors have treated her, I have spent more than a hundred-and-fifty dollars on them, and the girl is only worse and worse and worse. A diviner told me that only you could cure her, and I have been looking for you all over.' 'And who are you?' then put in the shepherd. 'I am the king of the Gentiles,' replied the traveller, very like a king.

"Friends, when the shepherd heard that, he saw that his fortune was made, and he resolved to follow the king in the hope of earning at least three hundred dollars to hire a substitute in case he should be drafted. So they went off together, after the king had helped him get in his cattle so as to be ready sooner, and they walked and walked till after three days they reached the palaces. And when they reached the palaces, they went to see the sick girl, who they say was as beautiful as the sun, so beautiful she was, lying on that silver bed with its gilded mattress. The shepherd only looked at her, and, without touching her or anything, said: 'The girl has this and that. We'll give her such a herb in this way and the other, and in two weeks' time she will be as strong as she ever was.'

"While all this was going on, the good shepherd was lodged in a room beautifully furnished, had a flowing robe put on like those of the chief lords, had whatever he wanted to eat, with his stew of peas and meat every day, his wine at ten cents a bottle, and candy and cake just scattered over the floor, as you might say. With all this high living, the shepherd, who was good-looking anyway, got to be a fearfully handsome fellow, and as he used to go so often into the room of the king's daughter, she fell desperately in love with him. So much so that after a week she was hemming handkerchiefs for him and brushing his clothes.

"Well, beloved friends, the king's daughter kept getting better and better and better, until before the two weeks were up she went out to take the sun in a glass balcony which opened into the king's garden. And one day the girl says to the king, 'Father, I am in love with the one who has cured me, and if you please, I would like to marry him.' And the king says to her, for he was very good and thought the world of her, that he has no objection to it; only, the marriage must not take place till she is as sound as a bell, and if, supposing a case, she should die from a relapse, the shepherd was to be hung.

"Well, beloved friends, as the shepherd was very certain of the medicines he was giving, he signed the agreement before the notary, without once thinking of that poor girl who was waiting for him at home as anxiously as for the rain in May. This girl knew nothing about what was going on, but a witch who was a neighbor of hers called her in and told her all about it, whereupon she was dreadfully distressed. Seeing this, the wicked witch says to her that she has vengeance in her own hand if she wants it, and then she gives her a large pin and a figure like a wax saint, and says to her, 'Wherever you stick this pin into the figure, there the king's daughter will have a pain; only be very careful, for, if you stick it into the heart, she will die.'

"Well, my beloved friends, what did the girl do, as she wanted to put off that marriage, but begin to stick the pin here and there in the figure, and lo and behold at the same time the king's daughter begins to say, 'Oh, I've got a pain here, oh, it hurts me there,' until she had to take to her bed again. The shepherd went almost crazy looking for herbs out in the fields, and could not make out why the relapse had come. And while he was trying to cure her, two months passed by, and then two months more passed by, and the girl in the village seeing that her shepherd did not come, began to get very nervous with her sorrow, and going to prick the figure a little, her hand slipped and the pin touched the heart. At that moment the king's daughter died. And the same day that she was buried, the shepherd was hung in front of the City Hall.

"The news went about, and when the girl heard it, she went to the king's palaces to demand justice against the witch. And the constables went out in all directions, and caught the wicked creature, and burned her up with the wax figure. Thereupon the king, as he had no other daughter than the one who had died, took a great fancy to the afflicted girl who had demanded justice of him. And as he took a fancy to her, he carried her off to his palaces, and afterward married her. So when the girl was queen of the Gentiles, she called all her relations and made them great folks, and to the least of her neighbors she gave forty acres of land and a pair of oxen, and paid their taxes for two years. And as she was a Christian and very cunning, she converted all the Gentiles after a while, and lived in peace and happiness."

"So then," says Pólito, "all this is about a king who hung his daughter because a shepherd fell in love with a witch who cured him with herbs."

"Just so," he was answered, so as to have done with him.

"The story," observes Gorio Tejares, "is a very good one of its kind, though you will be thinking that the part about a king's daughter falling in love with a common man is hard to swallow. But that's a very ordinary thing, and if the man is a soldier, so much the better. In the lands through which I have travelled, I have had occasion to notice that; and if I had been like other people, tempted by covetousness or vanity, I might have got out of my uniform, I will not say a princess, but anyhow an Infanta—in short, something pretty fine."

After the stories are over, for Tanasio tells several, comes the turn for riddles. These are always propounded by the learned Cencio. This is the kind:

"Riddle me, riddle me, ree, he's sharp who guesses me. Goes on, and goes on, and never gets to Canton."

Uncle Ginojo just dies for riddles. He wakes up a little as he hears the first one, rubs his eyes, and asks,

"What did you say, Cencio?"

"Goes on and goes on, and never gets to Canton?"

"I tell you, that is a sticker! If you had said, stops and stops—why, then, supposing a case—but that about goes on and goes on!"

"Goes on and goes on," repeats Pólito, pounding his head; "what the mischief can it be? An ox!"

"It is not you, stupid ox!" says Cencio.

"Goes on and goes on," hums Gorio—"the Chiclana regiment of light infantry!"

"Wrong!"

"Goes on and goes on," sighs Polido, "it must be—pshaw! I'm so stuffed that I can't see into the thing at all."

"Goes on and goes on," murmurs Tanasio; "oh, if it is not wrong to ask, is it something to eat?"

"No."

"Is it an animal or a man?"

"It is something that moves all by itself, and is a piece of property upon which no local tax can be levied," answers Cencio, with his customary air of importance.

"It stops and stops and yet gets to the town," muttered the forgetful Uncle Ginojo.

"Not at all; it goes on and goes on and never gets to Canton."

"But who knows where Canton is?"

"That's so," says Sabel, "if it were Santander, we should know that better, and it might be——"

"The marketman," suggests Mari-Juana.

"Or the diligence," says Chiscona.

"I said that it is something that moves all by itself, and that a local tax cannot be levied upon it," repeats Cencio.

"Well, I give it up," exclaims Uncle Ginojo.

"So do I—and I—and I," add others.

"But I don't," says Pólito, striking his knees violently with his fist. "How does it begin?"

"With m," answers Cencio.

"M, m, m," repeats Uncle Gorio. "If it were n, now, supposing a case, why then—but m, m, that's a sticker."

"Emigrant!" shouts Pólito, as if the difficulty were settled at last.

"I said it began with m."

"Well, that's all the same."

"Does emigrant begin with m, stupid?"

"Well, if it doesn't I'd like to know——"

"Come, I'll make it a little plainer for you; mi, mi, mi——"

"Miller!" two voices cry out.

"You are getting near."

"Mill!" shouts the whole company.

"I declare! Isn't that funny?"

"Well, I am not satisfied," protests Pólito, "for you can get to the mill in four jumps, and you said that it never gets to Canton."

"Heavens! What sort of a mind has that man got! I said, goes on and goes on and never gets to Canton. Doesn't the mill turn and turn the whole day long without stirring from the spot?"

"Yes, that's so."

"Well, now you see how it can never get to Canton, or anywhere else."

"What an easy riddle that is!" growls Uncle Ginojo. "Waking one up for that!"

"Didn't you say it was such a sticker?"

"The way you gave it out, yes."

"Well, if you have got to have it all plain from the beginning, it wouldn't take any skill at all to guess it."

"Oh, don't tell me that! That sort of talk is not worth a pin."

So saying, Uncle Ginojo buries his feet in the warm ashes, and falls a-nodding again.

Two or three other riddles test the wits of the company, though not one is guessed until Cencio gives half the name of the thing in question.

Nor is there lack of badinage and repartee—for example, between Gorio and Sabel when he is holding the spindle so that she can reel off what she has spun.

"You are spinning very coarse yarn, Sabel."

"I'm doing it to suit myself, not you."

"You are bending over too much."

"It isn't because I want you to straighten me up."

"It wouldn't be a bad thing if I did."

"I might give you a knock."

"Don't squeeze the spindle so, you'll break the yarn!"

"It's because it tickles the palm of my hand."

"Your skin must be very tender."

"My heart is more so, for just from the displeasure of some one that I know, it is getting rougher than the leather covering of my old knapsack."

General laughter.

Tribute is also paid to the fashions. A bow of ribbon in Sabel's hair, a new gather in the sleeves of Clavellina's waist, which immediately catch Aunt Cimiana's attention, are enough and more than enough to excite the artistic enthusiasm of the rustic modiste.

"Well, if you girls nowadays don't beat all! After one has worn one's self out in cutting a dress, there you come out at the end with, this is lacking and the other is wrong, that isn't the style, this must be turned, and the other twisted. Good gracious! That used to be well liked; why, I tell you, a girl's pride and delight was a flannel skirt and a bombazine waist trimmed with corduroy. In two jerks you would cut out the skirt, baste up the breadths, put it under the straw bed, or better under the mattress if the bed had one, sleep on it three or four times, and then you would take it out and it would be a perfect wonder to see how it would hang!"

In like manner, excursions are made into the field of politics, and then Tanasio sets the pitch. As a carter, he is frequently in Santander, where he has two intimate friends in the guise of stevedores, who keep him informed, in their way, in regard to the most important events that they get news of. Besides, while he is in an office waiting for a bill, he doesn't lose a word of what is said, if the conversation is about politics. In this way, with his facts picked up here and there and from such different sources, the inquisitive carter works out the thread of his political discourses, which are the supreme delight of Selmo, Polido, and Gorio.

"Well, what do they say down yonder?" asks the former, taking advantage of a few moments' silence.

"Well, just now, it seems that they are very much stirred up about the wars."

"Whereabouts?" asks Polido.

"It must be abroad somewhere, from what they say."

"And which way is that, if I may ask?"

Here is the place for Cencio to come in.

"Abroad is in the land of France, and also among the Russians and Prussians."

"But what's the trouble?"

"Well, it seems like," Tanasio goes on, "it all comes from a quarrel between kings."

"What about?"

"Oh, about their whims and their fancies, whether this here is mine or isn't, or whether I want that or don't. It seems that the French one has offered to fight, but the other ones don't want to."

"But who are the other ones?"

"Well, the ones in England, on one side, and on the other the revolutionists who want to shut up all the churches."

"The Lord forbid, amen!" exclaim the women, crossing themselves.

"Why, they say that the Holy Pope in Rome had to go out one day and drive away a lot of heretics who were stoning the palace windows."

"And what's all this goings-on likely to cost the poor laboring man?"

"Well, most likely a few more pennies than he has to pay now."

"But won't they be drafting soldiers every month?"

"They think not, because, as far as that goes, as all the troops in Spain now obey the Queen, we have more than enough to fight all the abroad there is in the world. Of course, that's the reason no one on earth dares meddle with us—except those from the land of the Moors, and they got enough of that not long ago."

"I should say they did, Goodness!" bursts out Gorio, who guards as a sacred possession the cross of San Fernando which he won in the battle of Tetuan. "Just imagine——"

Sometimes those who are most fond of cards take a hand at the various games played among peasants. On the evenings of feast-days light refreshments are offered the guests, two quarts of red wine being enough to satisfy the whole company.

With these and other entertainments of the same sort, with sometimes a little song struck up by Silguero at the request of the gathering, the evening passes away, and before eleven each one has gone to his own house in a state of great peace and contentment, blessing the first one who ever thought of that way of passing such agreeable hours at the firelight reception.

Now then, impartial readers, it seems to me that after what you have seen and heard in Uncle Selmo Lembío's house, you cannot do less than admit that, if serving up literature and music and politics, indulging in quips and gallantry, having something to drink and playing games—that if these are the best ways of spending the long evenings in winter, the spinning-bees of the mountain region have nothing to learn of the soirées of "the great world," and nothing to envy them for—unless it be the elegant pen of the Jenkinses who sing their glories in the columns of the aristocratic press.

Al amor de los tizones

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Rh with a police officer in the discharge of his duty. I ask is his English law, the law we boast of? It is surprising that so many should take up their pens to encourage such bloody and cowardly deeds; but I am disposed to think the defenders are men one and all in the Native Police service to-day. From what has come within my own knowledge I am satisfied that the articles you have published referring to the atrocities committed are correct.

I will now mention a few outrages that have occurred in this district as a sample:—A few years ago I was travelling with a friend from the South Cook to Cardwell. We camped a night with two men that were employed repairing a washpool, sheep yards, &c., near Glendhu station. They informed us that a quiet mob of blacks had been camping for a week or two on the public roadside, about half a mile from said washpool, that they had often been in the camp, and were always treated kindly by the blacks; on one occasion they turned out of their camp in order to give one of these men shelter during a heavy shower of rain. A couple of evenings before we arrived the native Police came round, and in the dusk of the evening took observations of the camp, then went to the head station, returned again during the night, and at daydawn next morning opened fire upon the blacks, killing six or seven men. After hearing this tale we went to see what truth there was in the statement, and solemnly I declare I saw the dead bodies of three men not more than 200 yards from the public road; they were lying in a heap, and a few bushes thrown on top of then. At a later date, on the same road, there was a Government road party at work; they allowed the blacks to visit them and camp close by, but for some reasons best known to themselves they got afraid and sent for the police. A watch was kept for their arrival, and when close at hand, the blacks, twelve or thirteen in number, were invited into the hut, there surrounded, and dispersed in the usual way.

I will now pass over some fifty miles of blood-stained country, the blood barely dry, in order to bring another uncalled-for cowardly murder before public notice. In 1876 a Native Police officer went to patrol the Waterview run. He wended his way round to a quiet blacks' camp not far from the head station; the boys that occupied the camp were by name Tommy, Charley, and Billy, with their wives, all well known to the writer. They had arrived that day from Gairloch on which plantation they had been employed. Fearing no injury from men they knew, and who appeared to be friends, officer, troopers, and blacks camped together. There was another white man there also, who I know will not deny the fact. The evening passed away with a corroboree; all went well during the night. The morning came, all partook of breakfast, then the horses were saddled. The next order was to "disperse" the three boys. The troopers stood amazed and refused. Orders were again given to fire. This time they obeyed, and Tommy and Charley fell dead on the ground; Billy carried his bullets (three) some little distance and there succumbed. Two of the gins were taken by the police to the Herbert River, where one of them, "Kitty," can be seen to-day at the telegraph office. She can relate this dreadful tale in the English language, and could have done so the day it occurred, so you will observe they were not myalls. There were two boys carried away at sane time, one of whom was made a present of to a drover to go to the Palmer country. As I have entered on this subject I will mention another case of barbarity. A few months ago a detachment of police were in Cardwell; the officer in charge returned to barracks overland, and sent the troopers by boat viâ Dungeness. When they arrived a that port, a resident there in the Government employ sent them out after the blacks to abuse and murder any unfortunate aboriginal they might fall across. Like beagles let loose, they ran down the coast for miles, until at last found a camp in which there was a poor old man, by appearance over 60 years of age, unable to get out of their way. He lay down with his face on the ground, a trooper named Bromby stepped up to him and put a bullet through his head. I knew the old man well; I knew him to be as harmless as a child; I have seen him weeping over his daughter's grave. She was murdered by an ex-trooper named Simon, and was buried here on my selection. Five years ago he gave me his son, and ever after he made my place a kind of home. As a resident in the immediate neighborhood of where the above outrages were perpetrated, I conscientiously believe that one and all of the victims were wantonly murdered, and on each occasion by orders of a different officer or individual. Under such a state of things as I have shown to be prevalent, I ask the enlightened public is it possible for a friendly feeling to exist between the two races? Our legislators go to a great amount of trouble in making laws and regulations for the protection of Polynesians; why not give the first owners of this continent the same consideration? They are equally good men in many ways. I have never found them ungrateful to any person who

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 in all Europe who quoted Wordsworth so early as 1802. His friendship with Wordsworth decreased within a few years, and when in 1834 De Quincey published in Tait’s Magazine his reminiscences of the Grasmere circle, the indiscreet references to the Wordsworths contained in the article led to a complete cessation of intercourse. Here also he enjoyed the society and friendship of Coleridge, Southey and especially of Professor Wilson, as in London he had of Charles Lamb and his circle. He continued his classical and other studies, especially exploring the at that time almost unknown region of German literature, and indicating its riches to English readers. Here also, in 1816, he married Margaret Simpson, the “dear M——” of whom a charming glimpse is accorded to the reader of the Confessions; his family came to be five sons and three daughters.

For about a year and a half he edited the Westmoreland Gazette. He left Grasmere for London in the early part of 1820. The Lambs received him with great kindness and introduced him to the proprietors of the London Magazine. It was in this journal in 1821 that the Confessions appeared. De Quincey also contributed to Blackwood, to Knight’s Quarterly Magazine, and later to Tait’s Magazine. His connexion with Blackwood took him to Edinburgh in 1828, and he lived there for twelve years, contributing from time to time to the Edinburgh Literary Gazette. His wife died in 1837, and the family eventually settled at Lasswade, but from this time De Quincey spent his time in lodgings in various places, staying at one place until the accumulation of papers filled the rooms, when he left them in charge of the landlady and wandered elsewhere. After his wife’s death he gave way for the fourth time in his life to the opium habit, but in 1844 he reduced his daily quantity by a tremendous effort to six grains, and never again yielded. He died in Edinburgh on the 8th of December 1859, and is buried in the West Churchyard.

During nearly fifty years De Quincey lived mainly by his pen. His patrimony seems never to have been entirely exhausted, and his habits and tastes were simple and inexpensive; but he was reckless in the use of money, and had debts and pecuniary difficulties of all sorts. There was, indeed, his associates affirm, an element of romance even in his impecuniosity, as there was in everything about him; and the diplomatic and other devices by which he contrived to keep clear of clamant creditors, while scrupulously fulfilling many obligations, often disarmed animosity, and converted annoyance into amusement. The famous Confessions of an English Opium Eater was published in a small volume in 1822, and attracted a very remarkable degree of attention, not simply by its personal disclosures, but by the extraordinary power of its dream-painting. No other literary man of his time, it has been remarked, achieved so high and universal a reputation from such merely fugitive efforts. The only works published separately (not in periodicals) were a novel, Klosterheim (1832), and The Logic of Political Economy (1844). After his works were brought together, De Quincey’s reputation was not merely maintained, but extended. For range of thought and topic, within the limits of pure literature, no like amount of material of such equality of merit proceeded from any eminent writer of the day. However profuse and discursive, De Quincey is always polished, and generally exact—a scholar, a wit, a man of the world and a philosopher, as well as a genius. He looked upon letters as a noble and responsible calling; in his essay on Oliver Goldsmith he claims for literature the rank not only of a fine art, but of the highest and most potent of fine arts; and as such he himself regarded and practised it. He drew a broad distinction between “the literature of knowledge and the literature of power,” asserting that the function of the first is to teach, the function of the second to move,—maintaining that the meanest of authors who moves has pre-eminence over all who merely teach, that the literature of knowledge must perish by supersession, while the literature of power is “triumphant for ever as long as the language exists in which it speaks.” It is to this class of motive literature that De Quincey’s own works essentially belong; it is by virtue of that vital element of power that they have emerged from the rapid oblivion of periodicalism, and live in the minds of later generations. But their power is weakened by their volume.

De Quincey fully defined his own position and claim to distinction in the preface to his collected works. These he divides into three classes:—“first, that class which proposes primarily to amuse the reader,” such as the Narratives, Autobiographic Sketches, &c.; “second, papers which address themselves purely to the understanding as an insulated faculty, or do so primarily,” such as the essays on Essenism, the Caesars, Cicero, &c.; and finally, as a third class, “and, in virtue of their aim, as a far higher class of compositions,” he ranks those “modes of impassioned prose ranging under no precedents that I am aware of in any literature,” such as the Confessions and Suspiria de Profundis. The high claim here asserted has been questioned; and short and isolated examples of eloquent apostrophe, and highly wrought imaginative description, have been cited from Rousseau and other masters of style; but De Quincey’s power of sustaining a fascinating and elevated strain of “impassioned prose” is allowed to be entirely his own. Nor, in regard to his writings as a whole, will a minor general claim which he makes be disallowed, namely, that he “does not write without a thoughtful consideration of his subject,” and also with novelty and freshness of view. “Generally,” he says, “I claim (not arrogantly, but with firmness) the merit of rectification applied to absolute errors, or to injurious limitations of the truth.” Another obvious quality of all his genius is its overflowing fulness of allusion and illustration, recalling his own description of a great philosopher or scholar—“Not one who depends simply on an infinite memory, but also on an infinite and electrical power of combination, bringing together from the four winds, like the angel of the resurrection, what else were dust from dead men’s bones into the unity of breathing life.” It is useless to complain of his having lavished and diffused his talents and acquirements over so vast a variety of often comparatively trivial and passing topics. The world must accept gifts from men of genius as they offer them; circumstance and the hour often rule their form. Those influences, no less than the idiosyncrasy of the man, determined De Quincey to the illumination of such matter for speculation as seemed to lie before him; he was not careful to search out recondite or occult themes, though these he did not neglect,—a student, a scholar and a recluse, he was yet at the same time a man of the world, keenly interested in the movements of men and in the page of history that unrolled itself before him day by day. To the discussion of things new, as readily as of things old, aided by a capacious, retentive and ready memory, which dispensed with reference to printed pages, he brought also the exquisite keenness and subtlety of his highly analytic and imaginative intellect, the illustrative stores of his vast and varied erudition, and that large infusion of common sense which preserved him from becoming at any time a mere doctrinaire, or visionary. If he did not throw himself into any of the great popular controversies or agitations of the day, it was not from any want of sympathy with the struggles of humanity or the progress of the race, but rather because his vocation was to apply to such incidents of his own time, as to like incidents of all history, great philosophical principles and tests of truth and power. In politics, in the party sense of that term, he would probably have been classed as a Liberal Conservative or Conservative Liberal—at one period of his life perhaps the former, and at a later the latter. Originally, as we have seen, his surroundings were aristocratic, in his middle life his associates, notably Wordsworth, Southey and Wilson, were all Tories; but he seems never to have held the extreme and narrow views of that circle. Though a flavour of high breeding runs through his writings, he has no vulgar sneers at the vulgar. As he advanced in years his views became more and more decidedly liberal, but he was always as far removed from Radicalism as from Toryism, and may be described as a philosophical politician, capable of classification under no definite party name or colour. Of political economy he had been an early and earnest student, and projected, if he did not so far proceed with, an elaborate and systematic treatise on the science, of which all that appears, however, are his fragmentary Dialogues on the system of Ricardo, published in the London Magazine in 1824, and The Logic of Political Economy (1844). But political

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 and economic problems largely exercised his thoughts, and his historical sketches show that he is constantly alive to their interpenetrating influence. The same may be said of his biographies, notably of his remarkable sketch of Dr Parr. Neither politics nor economics, however, exercised an absorbing influence on his mind,—they were simply provinces in the vast domain of universal speculation through which he ranged “with unconfined wings.” How wide and varied was the region he traversed a glance at the titles of the papers which make up his collected—or more properly, selected—works (for there was much matter of evanescent interest not reprinted) sufficiently shows. Some things in his own line he has done perfectly; he has written many pages of magnificently mixed argument, irony, humour and eloquence, which, for sustained brilliancy, richness, subtle force and purity of style and effect, have simply no parallels; and he is without peer the prince of dreamers. The use of opium no doubt stimulated this remarkable faculty of reproducing in skilfully selected phrase the grotesque and shifting forms of that “cloudland, gorgeous land,” which opens to the sleep-closed eye.

To the appreciation of De Quincey the reader must bring an imaginative faculty somewhat akin to his own—a certain general culture, and large knowledge of books, and men and things. Otherwise much of that slight and delicate allusion that gives point and colour and charm to his writings will be missed; and on this account the full enjoyment and comprehension of De Quincey must always remain a luxury of the literary and intellectual. But his skill in narration, his rare pathos, his wide sympathies, the pomp of his dream-descriptions, the exquisite playfulness of his lighter dissertations, and his abounding though delicate and subtle humour, commend him to a larger class. Though far from being a professed humorist—a character he would have shrunk from—there is no more expert worker in a sort of half-veiled and elaborate humour and irony than De Quincey; but he employs those resources for the most part secondarily. Only in one instance has he given himself up to them unreservedly and of set purpose, namely, in the famous “Essay on Murder considered as one of the Fine Arts,” published in Blackwood,—an effort which, admired and admirable though it be, is also, it must be allowed, somewhat strained. His style, full and flexible, pure and polished, is peculiarly his own; yet it is not the style of a mannerist,—its charm is, so to speak, latent; the form never obtrudes; the secret is only discoverable by analysis and study. It consists simply in the reader’s assurance of the writer’s complete mastery over all the infinite applicability and resources of the English language. Hence involutions and parentheses, “cycle on epicycle,” evolve themselves into a stately clearness and harmony; and sentences and paragraphs, loaded with suggestion, roll on smoothly and musically, without either fatiguing or cloying—rather, indeed, to the surprise as well as delight of the reader; for De Quincey is always ready to indulge in feats of style, witching the world with that sort of noble horsemanship which is as graceful as it is daring.

It has been complained that, in spite of the apparently full confidences of the Confessions and Autobiographic Sketches, readers are left in comparative ignorance, biographically speaking, of the man De Quincey. Two passages in his Confessions afford sufficient clues to this mystery. In one he describes himself “as framed for love and all gentle affections,” and in another confesses to the “besetting infirmity” of being “too much of an eudaemonist.” “I hanker,” he says, “too much after a state of happiness, both for myself and others; I cannot face misery, whether my own or not, with an eye of sufficient firmness, and am little capable of surmounting present pain for the sake of any recessionary benefit.” His sensitive disposition dictated the ignoring in his writings of traits merely personal to himself, as well as his ever-recurrent resort to opium as a doorway of escape from present ill; and prompted those habits of seclusion, and that apparently capricious abstraction of himself from the society not only of his friends, but of his own family, in which he from time to time persisted. He confessed to occasional accesses of an almost irresistible impulse to flee to the labyrinthine shelter of some great city like London or Paris,—there to dwell solitary amid a multitude, buried by day in the cloister-like recesses of mighty libraries, and stealing away by night to some obscure lodging. Long indulgence in seclusion, and in habits of study the most lawless possible in respect of regular hours or any considerations of health or comfort,—the habit of working as pleased himself without regard to the divisions of night or day, of times of sleeping or waking, even of the slow procession of the seasons, had latterly so disinclined him to the restraints, however slight, of ordinary social intercourse, that he very seldom submitted to them. On such rare occasions, however, as he did appear, perhaps at some simple meal with a favoured friend, or in later years in his own small but refined domestic circle, he was the most charming of guests, hosts or companions. A short and fragile, but well-proportioned frame; a shapely and compact head; a face beaming with intellectual light, with rare, almost feminine beauty of feature and complexion; a fascinating courtesy of manner; and a fulness, swiftness and elegance of silvery speech,—such was the irresistible “mortal mixture of earth’s mould” that men named De Quincey. He possessed in a high degree what James Russell Lowell called “the grace of perfect breeding, everywhere persuasive, and nowhere emphatic”; and his whole aspect and manner exercised an undefinable attraction over every one, gentle or simple, who came within its influence; for shy as he was, he was never rudely shy, making good his boast that he had always made it his “pride to converse familiarly more socratico with all human beings—man, woman and child”—looking on himself as a catholic creature standing in an equal relation to high and low, to educated and uneducated. He would converse with a peasant lad or a servant girl in phrase as choice, and sentences as sweetly turned, as if his interlocutor were his equal both in position and intelligence; yet without a suspicion of pedantry, and with such complete adaptation of style and topic that his talk charmed the humblest as it did the highest that listened to it. His conversation was not a monologue; if he had the larger share, it was simply because his hearers were only too glad that it should be so; he would listen with something like deference to very ordinary talk, as if the mere fact of the speaker being one of the same company entitled him to all consideration and respect. The natural bent of his mind and disposition, and his lifelong devotion to letters, to say nothing of his opium eating, rendered him, it must be allowed, regardless of ordinary obligations in life—domestic and pecuniary—to a degree that would have been culpable in any less singularly constituted mind. It was impossible to deal with or judge De Quincey by ordinary standards—not even his publishers did so. Much no doubt was forgiven him, but all that needed forgiveness is covered by the kindly veil of time, while his merits as a master in English literature are still gratefully acknowledged.

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 AND

INTRODUCTION.

nature of the following work will be best understood by a brief account of how it came to be written. During many years I collected notes on the origin or descent of man, without any intention of publishing on the subject, but rather with the determination not to publish, as I thought that I should thus only add to the prejudices against my views. It seemed to me sufficient to indicate, in the first edition of my 'Origin of Species,' that by this work "light would be thrown on the origin of man and his history"; and this implies that man must be included with other organic beings in any general conclusion respecting his manner of appearance on this earth. Now the case wears a wholly different aspect. When a naturalist like Carl Vogt ventures to say in his address as President of the National Institution of Geneva (1869), "personne, en Europe au moins, n'ose plus soutenir la création indépendante et de toutes pièces, des espèces," it is manifest that at least a large number of naturalists must admit that species are the modified descendants of other species; and this especially holds good with the younger and rising naturalists. The greater number accept the agency of natural selection; though some urge, whether with justice the future must decide, that I have greatly overrated its importance. Of the older and honoured chiefs in natural science, many unfortunately are still opposed to evolution in every form.

In consequence of the views now adopted by most naturalists, and which will ultimately, as in every other case, be followed by

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2 others who are not scientific, I have been led to put together my notes, so as to see how far the general conclusions arrived at in my former works were applicable to man. This seemed all the more desirable, as I had never deliberately applied these views to a species taken singly. When we confine our attention to any one form, we are deprived of the weighty arguments derived from the nature of the affinities which connect together whole groups of organisms—their geographical distribution in past and present times, and their geological succession. The homological structure, embryological development, and rudimentary organs of a species remain to be considered, whether it be man or any other animal, to which our attention may be directed; but these great classes of facts afford, as it appears to me, ample and conclusive evidence in favour of the principle of gradual evolution. The strong support derived from the other arguments should, however, always be kept before the mind.

The sole object of this work is to consider, firstly, whether man, like every other species, is descended from some pre-existing form; secondly, the manner of his development; and thirdly, the value of the differences between the so-called races of man. As I shall confine myself to these points, it will not be necessary to describe in detail the differences between the several races—an enormous subject which has been fully discussed in many valuable works. The high antiquity of man has recently been demonstrated by the labours of a host of eminent men, beginning with M. Boucher de Perthes; and this is the indispensable basis for understanding his origin. I shall, therefore, take this conclusion for granted, and may refer my readers to the admirable treatises of Sir Charles Lyell, Sir John Lubbock, and others. Nor shall I have occasion to do more than to allude to the amount of difference between man and the anthropomorphous apes; for Prof. Huxley, in the opinion of most competent judges, has conclusively shewn that in every visible character man differs less from the higher apes, than these do from the lower members of the same order of primates.

This work contains hardly any original facts in regard to man; but as the conclusions at which I arrived, after drawing up a rough draft, appeared to me interesting, I thought that they might interest others. It has often and confidently been asserted, that man's origin can never be known: but ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge: it is those who know little, and not those who know much, who so positively assert that this or that problem will never be solved by science. The conclusion that man is the co-descendant with other species of some ancient, lower, and extinct form, is not in

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Rh any degree new. Lamarck long ago came to this conclusion, which has lately been maintained by several eminent naturalists and philosophers; for instance, by Wallace, Huxley, Lyell, Vogt, Lubbock, Büchner, Rolle, &c., and especially by Häckel. This last naturalist, besides his great work, 'Generelle Morphologie' (1866), has recently (1868, with a second edit. in 1870), published his 'Natürliche Schöpfungsgeschichte,' in which he fully discusses the genealogy of man. If this work had appeared before my essay had been written, I should probably never have completed it. Almost all the conclusions at which I have arrived I find confirmed by this naturalist, whose knowledge on many points is much fuller than mine. Wherever I have added any fact or view from Prof. Häckel's writings, I give his authority in the text; other statements I leave as they originally stood in my manuscript, occasionally giving in the foot-notes references to his works, as a confirmation of the more doubtful or interesting points.

During many years it has seemed to me highly probable that sexual selection has played an important part in differentiating the races of man; but in my 'Origin of Species' (fisrt edition, p. 199) I contented myself by merely alluding to this belief. When I came to apply this view to man, I found it indispensable to treat the whole subject in full detail. Consequently the second part of the present work, treating of sexual selection, has extended to an inordinate length, compared with the first part; but this could not be avoided.

I had intended adding to the present volumes an essay on the expression of the various emotions by man and the lower animals. My attention was called to this subject many years ago by Sir Charles Bell's admirable work. This illustrious anatomist

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4 maintains that man is endowed with certain muscles solely for the sake of expressing his emotions. As this view is obviously opposed to the belief that man is descended from some other and lower form, it was necessary for me to consider it. I likewise wished to ascertain how far the emotions are expressed in the same manner by the different races of man. But owing to the length of the present work, I have thought it better to reserve my essay for separate publication.

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 DERA GHAZI KHAN, a town and district of British India, in the Punjab. In 1901 the town had a population of 21,700. There are several handsome mosques in the native quarter. It commands the direct approaches to the Baluch highlands by Sakki Sarwar and Fort Monro. For many years past both the town and cantonment have been threatened by the erosion of the river Indus. The town was founded at the close of the 15th century and named after Ghazi Khan, son of Haji Khan, a Baluch chieftain, who after holding the country for the Langah sultans of Multan had made himself independent. Together with the two other deras (settlements), Dera Ismail Khan and Dera Fateh Khan, it gave its name to the territorial area locally and historically known as Derajat, which after many vicissitudes came into the possession of the British after the Sikh War, in 1849, and was divided into the two districts of Dera Ghazi Khan and Dera Ismail Khan.

The contains an area of 5306 sq. m. The district is a long narrow strip of country, 198 m. in length, sloping gradually from the hills which form its western boundary to the river Indus on the east. Below the hills the country is high and arid, generally level, but sometimes rolling in sandy undulations, and much intersected by hill torrents, 201 in number. With the exceptions of two, these streams dry up after the rains, and their influence is only felt for a few miles below the hills. The eastern portion of the district is at a level sufficiently low to benefit by the floods of the Indus. A barren tract intervenes between these zones, and is beyond the reach of the hill streams on the one hand and of the Indus on the other. Although liable to great extremes of temperature, and to a very scanty rainfall, the district is not unhealthy. The population in 1901 was 471,149, the great majority being Baluch Mahommedans. The principal exports are wheat and indigo. The only manufactures are for domestic use. There is no railway in the district, and only 29 m. of metalled road. The Indus, which is nowhere bridged within the district, is navigable by native boats. The geographical boundary between the Pathan and Baluch races in the hills nearly corresponds with the northern limit of the district. The frontier tribes on the Dera Ghazi Khan border include the Kasranis, Bozdars, Khosas, Lagharis, Khetvans, Gurchanis, Mazaris, Mariris and Bugtis. The chief of these are described under their separate names.

 DERA ISMAIL KHAN, a town and district in the Derajat division of the North-West Frontier Province of India. The town is situated near the right bank of the Indus, which is here crossed by a bridge of boats during half the year. In 1901 it had a population of 31,737. It takes its name from Ismail Khan, a Baluch chief who settled here towards the end of the 15th century, and whose descendants ruled for 300 years. The old town was swept away by a flood in 1823, and the present town stands 4 m. back from the permanent channel of the river. The native quarters are well laid out, with a large bazaar for Afghan traders. It is the residence of many Mahommedan gentry. The cantonment accommodates about a brigade of troops. There is considerable through trade with Afghanistan by the Gomal Pass, and there are local manufactures of cotton cloth scarves and inlaid wood-work.

The contains an area of 3403 sq. m. It was formerly divided into two almost equal portions by the Indus, which intersected it from north to south. To the west of the Indus the characteristics of the country resemble those of Dera Ghazi Khan. To the east of the present bed of the river there is a wide tract known as the Kachi, exposed to river action. Beyond this, the country rises abruptly, and a barren, almost desert plain stretches eastwards, sparsely cultivated, and inhabited only by nomadic tribes of herdsmen. In 1901 the trans-Indus tract was allotted to the newly formed North-West Frontier Province, the cis-Indus tract remaining in the Punjab jurisdiction. The cis-Indus portions of the Dera Ismail Khan and Bannu districts now comprise the new Punjab district of Mianiwali. In 1901 the population was 252,379. [sic] chiefly Pathan and Baluch Mahommedans. Wheat and wool are exported.

The Indus is navigable by native boats throughout its course of 120 m. within the district, which is the borderland of Pathan and Baluch tribes, the Pathan element predominating. The chief frontier tribes are the Sheranis and Ustaranas.

 DERBENT, or, a town of Russia, Caucasia, in the province of Daghestan, on the western shore of the Caspian, 153 m. by rail N.W. of Baku, in 42° 4′ N. and 48° 15′ E. Pop. (1873) 15,739; (1897) 14,821. It occupies a narrow strip of land beside the sea, from which it climbs up the steep heights inland to the citadel of Naryn-kaleh, and is on all sides except towards the east surrounded by walls built of porous limestone. Its general aspect is Oriental, owing to the flat roofs of its two-storeyed houses and its numerous mosques. The environs are occupied by vineyards, gardens and orchards, in which madder, saffron and tobacco, as well as figs, peaches, pears and other fruits, are cultivated. Earthenware, weapons and silk and cotton fabrics are the principal products of the manufacturing industry. To the north of the town is the monument of the Kirk-lar, or “forty heroes,” who fell defending Daghestan against the Arabs in 728; and to the south lies the seaward extremity of the Caucasian wall (50 m. long), otherwise known as Alexander’s wall, blocking the narrow pass of the Iron Gate or Caspian Gates (Portae Albanae or Portae Caspiae). This, when entire, had a height of 29 ft. and a thickness of about 10 ft., and with its iron gates and numerous watch-towers formed a valuable defence of the Persian frontier. Derbent is usually identified with Albana, the capital of the ancient Albania. The modern name, a Persian word meaning “iron gates,” came into use in the end of the 5th or the beginning of the 6th century, when the city was refounded by Kavadh of the Sassanian dynasty of Persia. The walls and the citadel are believed to belong to the time of Kavadh’s son, Khosrau (Chosroes) Anosharvan. In 728 the Arabs entered into possession, and established a principality in the city, which they called Bab-el-Abwab (“the principal gate”), Bab-el-Khadid (“the iron gate”), and Seraill-el-Dagab (“the golden throne”). The celebrated caliph, Harun-al-Rashid, lived in Derbent at different times, and brought it into great repute as a seat of the arts and commerce. In 1220 it was captured by the Mongols, and in the course of the succeeding centuries it frequently changed masters. In 1722 Peter the Great of Russia wrested the town from the Persians, but in 1736 the supremacy of Nadir Shah was again recognized. In 1796 Derbent was besieged by the Russians, and in 1813 incorporated with the Russian empire.

 DERBY, EARLS OF. The 1st earl of Derby was probably Robert de Ferrers (d. 1139), who is said by John of Hexham to have been made an earl by King Stephen after the battle of the Standard in 1138. Robert and his descendants retained the earldom until 1266, when Robert (c. 1240–c. 1279), probably the 6th earl, having taken a prominent part in the baronial rising against Henry III., was deprived of his lands and practically of his title. These earlier earls of Derby were also known as Earls Ferrers, or de Ferrers, from their surname; as earls of Tutbury from their residence; and as earls of Nottingham because this county was a lordship under their rule. The large estates which were taken from Earl Robert in 1266 were given by Henry III. in the same year to his son, Edmund, earl of Lancaster; and Edmund’s son, Thomas, earl of Lancaster, called himself Earl Ferrers. In 1337 Edmund’s grandson, Henry (c. 1299–1361), afterwards duke of Lancaster, was created earl of Derby, and this title was taken by Edward III.’s son, John of Gaunt, who had married Henry’s daughter, Blanche. John of Gaunt’s son and successor was Henry, earl of Derby, who became king as Henry IV. in 1399.

In October 1485 Thomas, Lord Stanley, was created earl of Derby, and the title has since been retained by the Stanleys, who, however, have little or no connexion with the county of Derby. Thomas also inherited the sovereign lordship of the Isle of Man, which had been granted by the crown in 1406 to his great-grandfather, Sir John Stanley; and this sovereignty remained in possession of the earls of Derby till 1736, when it passed to the duke of Atholl.

The earl of Derby is one of the three “catskin earls,” the others being the earls of Shrewsbury and Huntingdon. The term “catskin” is possibly a corruption of quatre-skin, derived from

title: Page:EB1911 - Volume 08.djvu/79


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Dera Ghazi Khan


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Dera Ismail Khan


text: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Derbent

title: 1911 Encyclopædia Britannica/Derbent


text: The American Journal of Sociology/Volume 01/Number 1/Christian Sociology


text:
Translation:Mikraot Gedolot/Psalms/1:3

Text
And he will be as a tree planted by streams of waters, which will give its fruit in its time, and its leaf will not wilt, and all that he shall do will succeed.

Rashi
Planted

Plonté in the foreign language.

Streams

Ruyséys in the foreign language.

And its leaf will not wilt

Even its castaway is for a purpose. The chat of scholars [literally, students of wise ones] is for a purpose, and needs study. Will not wilt

A language of withering; plestjjr in the foreign language.

Ibn Ezra
Streams

From the root of divide their language (Psalm 55:10) ...

מ"ג תהלים א ג

title: Translation:Mikraot Gedolot/Psalms/1:3


text:
Author:Standish Hayes O'Grady

Works

 * Silva Gadelica 2 vol.
 * The Bog of Stars, and other stories of Elizabethan Ireland (1893)
 * The Story of Ireland (1894)
 *  Lost on Du-Corrig or 'Twixt Earth and Ocean (1894)
 *  The Coming of Cuculain (1921)

title: Author:Standish Hayes O'Grady


text:
Author:Heinrich Zimmer

Works

 * The Irish Element in Mediæval Culture, (New York [etc.] G. P. Putnam's sons, (1891), by Heinrich Zimmer, translated from the German by Jane Loring Edmands

title: Author:Heinrich Zimmer


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Page:American Journal of Sociology Volume 1.djvu/194

 CHRISTIAN SOCIOLOGY. I.

MAN.

on many considerations it would be advisable to begin the examination of Christ's social philosophy with a study of the Kingdom of God, it is at once obvious that logically the doctrine of the individual precedes the doctrine of society. With Jesus, as with all thinkers, the possibilities of the component parts of a social whole must limit the possibilities of that whole. With him, to use the words of Ward, "Sociology as a whole rests primarily upon psychology." If in the thought of Jesus man is not a social being but rather is a repellant whole, his conception of society must be radically different from that of an organism. If, on the other hand, Jesus regards man as living not merely within the insulated limits of his own individuality, but as essentially a social being, reaching normality only in social life; and if it should appear that Jesus further regards this social personality of a man as distinctively human as is the egoistic, then it is evident that normal humanity may in some way resemble an organic whole, and its development the growth of an organism. Naturally, however, it is difficult and, indeed, impossible to separate the conceptions of man and mankind, and for this reason the results to be presented in a later paper will be presupposed in this in so far as they do not invalidate argument.

I.

It is at the outset necessary to set clear limits to expectations in regard to the character of the Christian anthropology. Incomplete data do not warrant complete systems. Even in Plato a physiological psychologist finds little worthy of serious consideration, and the psychologist proper is often obliged to content himself with pregnant analogies when he seeks definitions.


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 CHAPTER I.

who wishes to decide whether man is the modified descendant of some pre-existing form, would probably first enquire whether man varies, however slightly, in bodily structure and in mental faculties; and if so, whether the variations are transmitted to his offspring in accordance with the laws which prevail with the lower animals. Again, are the variations the result, as far as our ignorance permits us to judge, of the same general causes, and are they governed by the same general laws, as in the case of other organisms; for instance, by correlation, the inherited effects of use and disuse, &c.? Is man subject to similar malconformations, the result of arrested development, of reduplication of parts, &c., and does he display in any of his anomalies reversion to some former and ancient type of structure? It might also naturally be enquired whether man, like so many other animals, has given rise to varieties and sub-races, differing but slightly from each other, or to races differing so much that they must be classed as doubtful species? How are such races distributed over the world; and how, when crossed, do they react on each other in the first and succeeding generations? And so with many other points.

The enquirer would next come to the important point, whether man tends to increase at so rapid a rate, as to lead to occasional severe struggles for existence; and consequently to

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6 beneficial variations, whether in body or mind, being preserved, and injurious ones eliminated. Do the races or species of men, whichever term may be applied, encroach on and replace one another, so that some finally become extinct? We shall see that all these questions, as indeed is obvious in respect to most of them, must be answered in the affirmative, in the same manner as with the lower animals. But the several considerations just referred to may be conveniently deferred for a time: and we will first see how far the bodily structure of man shows traces, more or less plain, of his descent from some lower form. In succeeding chapters the mental powers of man, in comparison with those of the lower animals, will be considered.

The Bodily Structure of Man.—It is notorious that man is constructed on the same general type or model as other mammals. All the bones in his skeleton can be compared with corresponding bones in a monkey, bat, or seal. So it is with his muscles, nerves, blood-vessels and internal viscera. The brain, the most important of all the organs, follows the same law, as shewn by Huxley and other anatomists. Bischoff, who is a hostile witness, admits that every chief fissure and fold in the brain of man has its analogy in that of the orang; but he adds that at no period of development do their brains perfectly agree; nor could perfect agreement be expected, for otherwise their mental powers would have been the same. Vulpian remarks: "Les différences réelles qui existent entre l'encéphale de l'homme et celui des singes supérieurs, sont bien minimes. Il ne faut pas se faire d'illusions à cet égard. L'homme est bien plus près des singes anthropomorphes par les caractères anatomiques de son cerveau que ceux-ci ne le sont non-seulement des autres mammifères, mais même de certains quadrumanes, des guenons et des macaques." But it would be superfluous here to give further details on the correspondence between man and the higher mammals in the structure of the brain and all other parts of the body.

It may, however, be worth while to specify a few points, not directly or obviously connected with structure, by which this correspondence or relationship is well shewn.

Man is liable to receive from the lower animals, and to

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Rh to them, certain diseases, as hydrophobia, variola, the glanders, syphilis, cholera, herpes, &c.; and this fact proves the close similarity of their tissues and blood, both in minute structure and composition, far more plainly than does their comparison under the best microscope, or by the aid of the best chemical analysis. Monkeys are liable to many of the same non-contagious diseases as we are; thus Rengger, who carefully observed for a long time the Cebus Azaræ in its native land, found it liable to catarrh, with the usual symptoms, and which, when often recurrent, led to consumption. These monkeys suffered also from apoplexy, inflammation of the bowels, and cataract in the eye. The younger ones when shedding their milk-teeth often died from fever. Medicines produced the same effect on them as on us. Many kinds of monkeys have a strong taste for tea, coffee, and spirituous liquors: they will also, as I have myself seen, smoke tobacco with pleasure. Brehm asserts that the natives of north-eastern Africa catch the wild baboons by exposing vessels with strong beer, by which they are made drunk. He has seen some of these animals, which he kept in confinement, in this state; and he gives a laughable account of their behaviour and strange grimaces. On the following morning they were very cross and dismal; they held their aching heads with both hands, and wore a most pitiable expression: when beer or wine was offered them, they turned away with disgust, but relished the juice of lemons. An American monkey, an Ateles, after getting drunk on brandy, would never touch it again, and thus was wiser than many men. These trifling facts prove how similar the nerves of taste must be in monkeys and man, and how similarly their whole nervous system is affected.

Man is infested with internal parasites, sometimes causing

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8 fatal effects; and is plagued by external parasites, all of which belong to the same genera or families as those infesting other mammals, and in the case of scabies to the same species. Man is subject, like other mammals, birds, and even insects, to that mysterious law, which causes certain normal processes, such as gestation, as well as the maturation and duration of various diseases, to follow lunar periods. His wounds are repaired by the same process of healing; and the stumps left after the amputation of his limbs, especially during an early embryonic period, occasionally possess some power of regeneration, as in the lowest animals.

The whole process of that most important function, the reproduction of the species, is strikingly the same in all mammals, from the first act of courtship by the male, to the birth and nurturing of the young. Monkeys are born in almost as helpless a condition as our own infants; and in certain genera the young differ fully as much in appearance from the adults, as do our children from their full-grown parents. It has been urged by some writers, as an important distinction, that with man the young arrive at maturity at a much later age than with any other animal: but if we look to the races of mankind which inhabit tropical countries the difference is not great, for the orang is believed not to be adult till the age of from ten to fifteen years. Man differs from woman in size, bodily strength, hairiness, &c., as well as in mind, in the same manner as do the

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Rh two sexes of many mammals. So that the correspondence in general structure, in the minute structure of the tissues, in chemical composition and in constitution, between man and the higher animals, especially the anthropomorphous apes, is extremely close.

Embryonic Development.—Man is developed from an ovule, about the 125th of an inch in diameter, which differs in no respect from the ovules of other animals. The embryo itself at a very early period can hardly be distinguished from that of other members of the vertebrate kingdom. At this period the arteries run in arch-like branches, as if to carry the blood to branchiæ which are not present in the higher vertebrata, though the slits on the sides of the neck still remain (f, g, fig. 1), marking their former position. At a somewhat later period, when the extremities are developed, "the feet of lizards and mammals," as the illustrious Von Baer remarks, "the wings and feet of birds, no less than the hands and feet of man, all arise from the same fundamental form." It is, says Prof. Huxley, "quite in the later stages of development that the young human being presents marked differences from the young ape, while the latter departs as much from the dog in its developments, as the man does. Startling as this last assertion may appear to be, it is demonstrably true."

As some of my readers may never have seen a drawing of an embryo, I have given one of man and another of a dog, at about the same early stage of development, carefully copied from two works of undoubted accuracy.

After the foregoing statements made by such high authorities, it would be superfluous on my part to give a number of borrowed details, shewing that the embryo of man closely resembles that of other mammals. It may, however, be added, that the human embryo likewise resembles certain low forms when adult in various points of structure. For instance, the heart at first exists as a simple pulsating vessel; the excreta are voided through a cloacal passage; and the os coccyx projects

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10

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Rh like a true tail "extending considerably beyond the rudimentary legs." In the embryos of all air-breathing vertebrates, certain glands, called the corpora Wolffiana, correspond with, and act like the kidneys of mature fishes. Even at a later embryonic period, some striking resemblances between man and the lower animals may be observed. Bischoff says that the convolutions of the brain in a human fœtus at the end of the seventh month reach about the same stage of development as in a baboon when adult. The great toe, as Professor Owen remarks, "which forms the fulcrum when standing or walking, is perhaps the most characteristic peculiarity in the human structure;" but in an embryo, about an inch in length, Prof. Wyman found "that the great toe was shorter than the others; and, instead of being parallel to them, projected at an angle from the side of the foot, thus corresponding with the permanent condition of this part in the quadrumana." I will conclude with a quotation from Huxley, who, after asking, does man originate in a different way from a dog, bird, frog or fish? says, "the reply is not doubtful for a moment; without question, the mode of origin, and the early stages of the development of man, are identical with those of the animals immediately below him in the scale: without a doubt in these respects, he is far nearer to apes than the apes are to the dog."

Rudiments.—This subject, though not intrinsically more important than the two last, will for several reasons be treated here more fully. Not one of the higher animals can be named which does not bear some part in a rudimentary condition; and man forms no exception to the rule. Rudimentary organs must be distinguished from those that are nascent; though in some cases the distinction is not easy. The former are either absolutely useless, such as the mammæ of male quadrupeds, or the incisor teeth of ruminants which never cut through the gums; or they are of such slight service to their present possessors, that we can hardly suppose that they were developed under the

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12 conditions which now exist. Organs in this latter state are not strictly rudimentary, but they are tending in this direction. Nascent organs, on the other hand, though not fully developed, are of high service to their possessors, and are capable of further development. Rudimentary organs are eminently variable; and this is partly intelligible, as they are useless, or nearly useless, and consequently are no longer subjected to natural selection. They often become wholly suppressed. When this occurs, they are nevertheless liable to occasional reappearance through reversion—a circumstance well worthy of attention.

The chief agents in causing organs to become rudimentary seem to have been disuse at that period of life when the organ is chiefly used (and this is generally during maturity), and also inheritance at a corresponding period of life. The term "disuse" does not relate merely to the lessened action of muscles, but includes a diminished flow of blood to a part or organ, from being subjected to fewer alternations of pressure, or from becoming in any way less habitually active. Rudiments, however, may occur in one sex of those parts which are normally present in the other sex; and such rudiments, as we shall hereafter see, have often originated in a way distinct from those here referred to. In some cases, organs have been reduced by means of natural selection, from having become injurious to the species under changed habits of life. The process of reduction is probably often aided through the two principles of compensation and economy of growth; but the later stages of reduction, after disuse has done all that can fairly be attributed to it, and when the saving to be effected by the economy of growth would be very small, are difficult to understand. The final and complete suppression of a part, already useless and much reduced in size, in which case neither compensation or economy can come into play, is perhaps intelligible by the aid of the hypothesis of pangenesis. But as the whole subject of rudimentary organs has been discussed and illustrated in my former works, I need here say no more on this head.

Rudiments of various muscles have been observed in many parts of the human body; and not a few muscles, which are

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Rh regularly present in some of the lower animals can occasionally be detected in man in a greatly reduced condition. Every one must have noticed the power which many animals, especially horses, possess of moving or twitching their skin; and this is effected by the panniculus carnosus. Remnants of this muscle in an efficient state are found in various parts of our bodies; for instance, the muscle on the forehead, by which the eyebrows are raised. The platysma myoides, which is well developed on the neck, belongs to this system. Prof. Turner, of Edinburgh, has occasionally detected, as he informs me, muscular fasciculi in five different situations, namely in the axillæ, near the scapulæ, &c., all of which must be referred to the system of the panniculus. He has also shewn that the musculus sternalis or sternalis brutorum, which is not an extension of the rectus abdominalis, but is closely allied to the panniculus, occurred in the proportion of about three per cent. in upward of 600 bodies: he adds, that this muscle affords "an excellent illustration of the statement that occasional and rudimentary structures are especially liable to variation in arrangement."

Some few persons have the power of contracting the superficial muscles on their scalps; and these muscles are in a variable and partially rudimentary condition. M. A. de Candolle has communicated to me a curious instance of the long-continued persistence or inheritance of this power, as well as of its unusual development. He knows a family, in which one member, the present head of the family, could, when a youth, pitch several heavy books from his head by the movement of the scalp alone; and he won wagers by performing this feat. His father, uncle, grandfather, and his three children possess the same power to the same unusual degree. This family became divided eight generations ago into two branches; so that the head of the above-mentioned branch is cousin in the seventh degree to the head of the other branch. This distant cousin resides in another part of France; and on being asked whether he possessed the same faculty, immediately exhibited his power. This case offers a good illustration how persistent may be the transmission of an absolutely useless faculty, probably derived from our remote semi-human progenitors; since many monkeys have, and frequently use the power, of largely moving their scalps up and down.

The extrinsic muscles which serve to move the external ear, and the intrinsic muscles which move the different parts, are in a rudimentary condition in man, and they all belong to the system

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14 of the panniculus; they are also variable in development, or at least in function. I have seen one man who could draw the whole ear forwards; other men can draw it upwards; another who could draw it backwards; and from what one of these persons told me, it is probable that most of us, by often touching our ears, and thus directing our attention towards them, could recover some power of movement by repeated trials. The power of erecting and directing the shell of the ears to the various points of the compass, is no doubt of the highest service to many animals, as they thus perceive the direction of danger; but I have never heard, on sufficient evidence, of a man who possessed this power, the one which might be of use to him. The whole external shell may be considered a rudiment, together with the various folds and prominences (helix and anti-helix, tragus and anti-tragus, &c.) which in the lower animals strengthen and support the ear when erect, without adding much to its weight. Some authors, however, suppose that the cartilage of the shell serves to transmit vibrations to the acoustic nerve; but Mr. Toynbee, after collecting all the known evidence on this head, concludes that the external shell is of no distinct use. The ears of the chimpanzee and orang are curiously like those of man, and the proper muscles are likewise but very slightly developed. I am also assured by the keepers in the Zoological Gardens that these animals never move or erect their ears; so that they are in an equally rudimentary condition with those of man, as far as function is concerned. Why these animals, as well as the progenitors of man, should have lost the power of erecting their ears, we cannot say. It may be, though I am not satified with this view, that owing to their arboreal habits and great strength they were but little exposed to danger, and so during a lengthened period moved their ears but little, and thus gradually lost the power of moving them. This would be a parallel case with that of those large and heavy birds, which, from inhabiting oceanic islands, have not been exposed to the attacks of beasts of prey, and have consequently lost the power of using their wings for flight. The inability to move the ears in man and several apes is, however, partly compensated by the freedom with which they can move the head in

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Rh a horizontal plane, so as to catch sounds from all directions. It has been asserted that the ear of man alone possesses a lobule; but "a rudiment of it is found in the gorilla"; and, as I hear from Prof. Preyer, it is not rarely absent in the negro.

The celebrated sculptor, Mr. Woolner, informs me of one little peculiarity in the external ear, which he has often observed both in men and women, and of which he perceived the full significance. His attention was first called to the subject whilst at work on his figure of Puck, to which he had given pointed ears. He was thus led to examine the ears of various monkeys, and subsequently more carefully those of man. The peculiarity consists in a little blunt point, projecting from the inwardly folded margin, or helix. When present, it is developed at birth, and according to Prof. Ludwig Meyer, more frequently in man than in woman. Mr. Woolner made an exact model of one such case, and sent me the accompanying drawing (Fig. 2.) These points not only project inwards towards the centre of the ear, but often a little outwards from its plane, so as to be visible when the head is viewed from directly in front or behind. They are variable in size, and somewhat in position, standing either a little higher or lower; and they sometimes occur on one ear and not on the other. They are not confined to mankind, for I observed a case in one of the spider-monkeys (Ateles beelzebuth) in our Zoological Gardens; and Dr. E. Ray Lankester informs me of another case in a chimpanzee in the gardens at Hamburg. The helix obviously consists of the extreme margin of the ear folded inwards; and this folding appears to be in some manner connected with the whole external ear being permanently pressed backwards. In many monkeys, which do not stand high in the order, as baboons and some species of macacus, the upper portion of the ear is slightly pointed, and the margin is not at all folded inwards; but if the margin were to be thus folded, a slight point would necessarily project inwards towards the centre, and probably a little outwards from the plane of the ear; and this I believe to

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16 be their origin in many cases. On the other hand, Prof. L. Meyer, in an able paper recently published, maintains that the whole case is one of mere variability; and that the projections are not real ones, but are due to the internal cartilage on each side of the points not having been fully developed. I am quite ready to admit that this is the correct explanation in many instances, as in those figured by Prof. Meyer, in which there are several minute points, or the whole margin is sinuous. I have myself seen, through the kindness of Dr. L. Down, the ear of a microcephalus idiot, on which there is a projection on the outside of the helix, and not on the inward folded edge, so that this point can have no relation to a former apex of the ear. Nevertheless in some cases, my original view, that the points are vestiges of the tips of formerly erect and pointed ears, still seems to me probable. I think so from the frequency of their occurrence, and from the general correspondence in position with that of the tip of a pointed ear. In one case, of which a photograph has been sent me, the projection is so large, that supposing, in accordance with Prof. Meyer's view, the ear to be made perfect by the equal development of the cartilage throughout the whole extent of the margin, it would have covered fully one-third of the whole ear. Two cases have been communicated to me, one in North America, and the other in England, in which the upper margin is not at all folded inwards, but is pointed, so that it closely resembles the pointed ear of an ordinary quadruped in outline. In one of these cases, which was that of a young child, the father compared the ear with the drawing which I have given of the ear of a monkey, the Cynopithecus niger, and says that their outlines are closely similar. If, in these two cases, the margin had been folded inwards in the normal manner, an inward projection must have been formed. I may add that in two other cases the outline still remains somewhat pointed, although the margin of the upper part of the ear is normally folded inwards—in one of them, however, very narrowly. The following woodcut (No. 3) is an accurate copy of a photograph of the fœtus of an orang (kindly sent me by Dr. Nitsche), in which it may be seen how different the pointed outline of the ear is at this period from its adult condition, when it bears a close general resemblance to that of man. It is evident that the folding over of the tip of such an ear, unless it changed greatly during its further development, would give rise to a point projecting inwards. On the whole, it still seems to

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