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 WORKS recently published by REST FENNER.

NEW TRANSLATION OF PASCAL's LETTERS.

PROVINCIAL LETTERS, containing an Exposure of the Reasoning and Morals of the Jesuits. By BLAISE PASCAL, ori-. ginally published under the name of Louis de Montalte. Translated from the French, To which is added, a View of the History of the Jesuits and the late Bull for the revival of the Order in Europe, 8vo. price 128. in boards.

"Abstracting from his (PASCAL's) great merits in Mathematies and in Physics, his reputation rests chiefly on the Provincial Letters, a work from which Voltaire dates the fixation of the French language, and of which he says, Moliere's Comedies do not excel them in wit, nor the compositions of Bossuet in sublimity."-DUGALD STEWART.

The fame and character of this work rendered it worthy of translation, and this task has now been so ably performed, that it might pass for an original English classic."—Monthly Mag. Feb. 1817.

Mr. JONES'S HISTORY OF THE WALDENSES.

The HISTORY of the WALDENSES, connected with a Sketch of the Christian Church, from the Birth of Christ to the Eighteenth Century. In two volumes. By WILLIAM JONES, 2d edition, corrected and greatly enlarged. 248. boards.

"The Work before us, contains a great variety of curious and highly interesting particulars. The Author states facts correctly, without the slightest attempt to misrepresent. The philosophic Priestley, as well as Messrs. Milner and Haweis, have each trod the same ground, but each comes far short of Mr. Jones in ingenuousness:-varions well written episodes add greatly to the value of the Work, which is enlivened by a number of very interesting auecdotes."-Monthly Review, June, 1814.

A NEW DICTIONARY OF RELIGIOUS OPINIONS.

A DICTIONARY of RELIGIOUS OPINIONS; or a brief Account of the varions Denominations into which the Profession of Christianity is divided; alphabetically arranged. By WILLIAME JONES, Author of a History of the Waldenses. 12mo. 5s. Bd. boards.

"The description of each sect is given with very tolerable accuracy and candour, and we can fairly say, that it is upon the whole the BEST BOOK of the kind which we have yet seen.". British Critic, June, 1815.

REPORT OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS ON EDUCATION.

REPORT from SELECT COMMITTEE of the House of Commons, appointed to enquire into the Education of the Lower Orders in the Metropolis: with the Minutes of Evidence taken before the Committee. Ordered by the House of Commons to be printed, 9th, 14th, 19th, and 20th June, 1816, With Addenda and a digested Index, thick 8vo. 15s. boards.


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 ON JANUARY 1, 1818, WILL BE PUBLISHED,

(To be continued regularly, at least once every Three Months)

VOL. I. PART 1.

OF THE

ENCYCLOPEDIA METROPOLITANA,

OR

Universal Dictionary of Knowledge,

ON AN ORIGINAL PLAN;

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With appropriate and entirely New Engravings.

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I. THIS Work will consist of 25 Volumes, 4to, in four principal divisions, the 25th being a Volume of Index to the whole Work. Two Parts to make a Volume.,

II. Of these divisions which may be called for distinction in this place, the Philosophical, the Scientific, the Biographical, and the Miscellaneous portions of the Work, the same proportion in point of quantity will be given in every Part as they bear to each other in the whole Work; the Volume of Index being published last.

III. The price of the Parts, in boards, will be One Guinea; the Work will be handsomely printed, and the Purchasers may be assored not only of the uniformity and punctuality of its appearance, but also of its completion within the PRESCRIBED LIMITS, on the entirely new ground of its digested PLAN: to which therefore particular attention is requested.

IV. Each part will contain on the average Twelve Engravings, and care will be taken that the plates and the correspondent text are published as much as possible together. Authenticated Portraits will accompany the Biographical part.

V. A few Copies will be printed on super royal paper, with proof impressions of the plates, price Two Guineas in boards.

A Prospectus which has been submitted to some of the first literary characters in the country is in circulation, and may be! confidently referred to, to prove the necessity of such a work.

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Author:Petrus Herbert

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 * Now God be with us, for the night is closing

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Author:William Bullock

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 * We love the place, God

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Author:Edward Denny

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 * What grace, Lord, and beauty shone

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 brightly with a strange phosphorescent radiance!

"After the inky blackness of the tunnel this mile upon mile of glowing land was dazzling. For a time we could not see clearly, because although we had been using our cabin-lights, their shaded softness was nothing like the light of the cave.

"While I stood there gazing at the endless glowing expanse of land ahead, Rusty suggested that we stop to eat a bite of lunch and to send a message back to headquarters before proceeding. This we decided to do; especially after Rusty said we'd get no coffee until we did stop, inasmuch as his attempts along this line while we were under way had resulted in a none too invigorating shower-bath, when the pot tipped over on him.

"While waiting for the eats I looked through the 'scope to see if I could find anything. Blazing rockets! I certainly did. Quite a way off and devilishly hard to distinguish in that hazy glow was a city! Yes, Smitty, a full-grown, wheel-shaped city. I'll bet you don't believe me; but, on my honour, I did see it.

"I strained my eyes, trying to make out the thing more clearly, but it was no use. It was too jumpy on account of that infernal glow. After awhile I gave up and started sending this message.

"That brings us up to date. Tell Dick—I mean Captain Starr—that I'm sorry we've been gone so long. We'll just take a peep at the city and then shoot back to the Station. I haven't told the gang about the city yet, because they'd be heading for it without waiting for lunch. Particularly Rusty. He'd argue that we'd be asked to dinner there anyway.

"Well, here comes my tray of sandwiches, so I'll sign off. I'll let you hear from me as soon as we get under way again. So long."

The rumbling voice of the loud-speaker died out.

"There is another message?" asked the dejected and miserable Captain Starr.

"Yes, sir; shall I run it through?"

Starr sat for a time as though he had not heard. Then, the blood came back to his face. His jaw came forward with a jerk. His eyes blazed.

"Yes, Smith, let's hear the other message," he gritted between clenched teeth. The table shook as he pounded his fist upon it. "I'll find that city and those beasts who have my brother, if I have to crawl there on my hands and knees! And when I get there—" He stopped and took hold of himself.

"All right, Smith. The other message," he finished more quietly.

MITH obediently turned up the tape by twisting the dial, then, at the sharp clicking from the speaker that precedes a message, dropped silently down again beside Starr.

"Click click click Meteor IV again, Smith. I'll dispense with the old formula because I've already given it once, and besides, this is an informal message.

"I've just told the boys, and were they excited! It was funny. Rusty had that fool helmet on his head. You know that thought-helmet he's always fooling around with, don't you? It's that metal thought-transference contraption that he's been trying to perfect and simplify. Up to now he's never been able to get it so that any one but himself can operate it, except on rare occasions. He claims that only certain people have the right type of mind for sending out strong thought impulses. If it could be made to work, that helmet would be a great invention, but as it is, it is merely a plaything.


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eorge Washington was feeling ill. George Washington had the rheumatiz. That was why he had not responded to his country's call with the alacrity that might have been expected from one with so valiant a name.

Martha Washington, his wife, gave him no sympathy in his misery.

"Why yo' all doan' amount to sumpin'?" she shrilled. "Why yo' all didn't go an' 'list in de ahmy an' come back f'um France a hero, like Mandy Johnson's man, so's I could be proud ob yo'? I'se plumb tired ob seein' de same ol' face, day aftah day, day aftah day. Ah sho wishes yo' had gone an' 'listed."

"Ah was dead sot on dat hero stuff," George opined, "but you knows ah couldn't nevah have gotten in no ahmy wif mah rheumatiz. Ef hit warn't fo' de misery in mah back, ah sholy woulda ben in France. Ah sholy would."

"Go long, yo' lazy good-fo'-nuffin' black trash! Yo' was jes' plumb scairt to death, dat's all. 'Coz ef yo' wasn't, yo'd frow back dem shoulders, an' all dat rheumatiz'd jes' dry up an' blow 'way."

"Huh!" snorted George Washington, scornfully. "Whah hit gwine go to, woman? Answer me dat! Ah nevah beared of sech ig'orance. How you specs mah misery gwine leave me, w'en hit ain't got no place fo' to go?"

He curled his lips in infinite contempt for the feeble mental powers of his spouse. But Martha Washington was not so easily put down.

"Ah hain't got no time to listen to no fool arguments," she said with decision. " Yo' hain't got no mo' rheumatiz dan a fresh-laid aig. Now yo' jes' hurry along an' take dis bundle o' close to Missis Jackson's house, an' come right back, 'coz ah'm gettin' out a big washin' an' ah gotta hab yo' heah to hep me. De good Lawd knows yo' hain't much hep, bein' all hunched ovah like a ol' man, but you'se de on'y hep ah got, an' ah has to make de bes' ob it."

George Washington shouldered the bundle of laundry. An expression of pain flitted across his face.

"Whah mah misery gwine go to?" he repeated as he went out. "Jes' figgah dat out, an' mebbe yo' kin tell me wen ah gets back. Pouf!"

He walked up the street with his shoulders a little less hunched together than usual, for he had subdued Martha Washington with an unanswerable argument. He delivered the clean clothes to Mrs. Jackson, and started back, to help his wife with the washing.

But his mind was troubled. He had pitied Martha Washington for her feeble intellect. But was his own intellect any stronger than hers? His misery must go somewhere, if it left him. He knew of 55


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{{rh|56|WEIRD TALES|} cases where rheumatism had disappeared. Tandy Williams had lost his, for instance. Where had it gone? George Washington's face became a puzzle, for he was unable to answer his own question, which he had propounded to Martha Washington with such finality. What if Martha should point to Tandy Williams as an example?

The smoke hung heavily over Chicago, and the smell of the stock yards, two miles away, lay like a blanket over the South Side. The heat weighed oppressively on George Washington, and he turned aside into the little park on Cottage Grove avenue near Thirty-fifth street, to solve the problem of where rheumatism goes when it disappears, before Martha Washington could vanquish him with his own argument.

The odor from the stock yards did not greatly distress him, for, truth to tell, he was used to it. But the prospect of being thrashed in an argument by Martha Washington was gall and wormwood to his proud spirit, for he believed firmly in the superiority of the masculine brain, and regarded man as the natural lord of creation. He dropped down, dispirited, on one of the benches which a kindly park commission allows to exist for the repose of wearied mortals, and proceeded to drink deep draughts of desperate thought. But the draughts were not cooling, for the day was hot, and his mind was not used to grappling with such tremendous problems.

Where, indeed, would his rheumatism go if it left him? Where could it go?

He lifted his eyes in distress. His gaze roved furtively over the little park, as if seeking an answer to his question. A passing Illinois Central train poured black smoke into his eyes, but this was hardly a drop in the infinite ocean of his misery. For he was about to be crushed by Martha Washington on the field of argument. It was too much.

Voices from the other bench (the park boasts of two) came to his ears. Having removed the cinders from his eye, he now removed his thumb, and looked irritably at the two speakers. But his irritation vanished immediately into thin air, and he forgot the cinders. There on the other bench, not fifteen feet away, was the man who could solve his problem for him, if anybody could. This was Dr. Elusha Jones, the most penetrating intellect (in George Washington's opinion) that had ever graced the South Side.

George had listened to him, awestruck, in several debates, and become a hero worshiper in the presence of that master mind. Why, only two weeks ago he had heard the doctor annihilate his adversary in a public debate as to whether baptism were absolutely essential to salvation, or whether it were merely an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual change. Dr. Jones had proved conclusively that without baptism there can be no inner change, and therefore the act itself, the application of the water, is necessary to the saving of the soul.

Having had this auricular proof of the surpassing power of the doctor's mentality, George Washington did not doubt that it would be but play for the gentleman to solve his problem of the ultimate destination of rheumatism when it leaves its abode in the human body. He would state his problem to the doctor, and return in triumph to Martha Washington with the solution.

Feeling much happier, now that he was about to prove to Martha the superiority of masculine brains over feminine, he slid softly to the other end of the bench, to be nearer Dr. Jones and his companion, and pick up any stray pearls


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Rh of thought that might fall from their lips. His change of position was not noticed by the two men. They continued their discussion, and their voices rose by degrees from the subdued murmur which had first come to the ears of George Washington.

The men had looked with disfavor on George's intrusion, when he first entered the park, but they had lost interest as they saw him slouch down, a drooping flower, on the park bench. They had lowered their voices, momentarily, but the excitement that was mastering them soon found its way into their speech, and became audible to the listener on the other bench.

George suddenly sat bolt upright, for be thought he heard Dr. Jones mention the Great Panjandrum. Now the Great Panjandrum, as everyone knew, was the high priest of voodoo. But was this mighty being a real person? And was he a friend of Dr. Jones and his companion?

His pulse beat faster, and he edged closer to the other bench. But his heart went into his mouth at what he heard, and he left his bench and crawled on hands and knees, until he was directly behind the two men. His tongue was dry, and he swallowed with difficulty. His eyes were starting from their sockets. All thought of propounding his problem to Dr. Elusha Jones had left him, for the man seemed no longer a great intellect. He was, rather, a sinister being, sent to destroy the colored race. For he was planning an African republic in Chicago, which would surely bring the fires of the white man's vengeance upon every colored man and woman on the South Side. The whole city, perhaps the nation, would be involved in a race war more terrible than anything ever known in the United States before.

A street address dropped from Dr. Jones' lips. George Washington's ears drank it in, and he fastened his mind on it, for it was the home of the Great Panjandrum, the fanatic whose chief instrument for spreading sedition was this doctor of philosophy there before him, Elusha Jones. The Great Panjandrum, then, was a living being, and not a mere myth.

"And do not write it down," Dr. Jones was saying to his companion, "for it there should be any miscarriage of our plans, no one must know where to find the master. If not today, then his dream must be realized at another date. For we shall try, again and again, until the African race comes into its own, as our superior abilities entitle us to do."

George Washington, flat on his face behind the two speakers, felt a Cold shiver run over him. Drops of cold sweat fell unheeded on the grass. A panic fear gnawed at his vitals.

"Everything is ready," continued the doctor of philosophy. "At 2 o'clock the uprising will start. But nothing must be done until the Great Panjandrum, himself gives the signal. Everything depends on that."

EORGE WASHINGTON, rose stealthily to his knees, and crept, backwards, to the bench he had first occupied. Once seated there, he yawned lackadaisically, attracting the momentary attention of the two conspirators. Then he strolled nonchalantly out of the park. Once on the street, he turned north and ran with all his speed to the Cottage Grove Avenue police station.

A florid-faced, desk sergeant, wearing with what dignity he could an aureole of flame-colored hair and a closely cropped mustache of the same color, stopped him in the midst of a breathless recital of the Great Panjandrum's plans.


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136 WOMAN IN INDIA. studied dispassionately, I am very far from being prepared to admit that the average Indian woman has any cause to envy her European sister.

Let me take two extreme cases. The Englishwoman in my mind, whom I have actually seen, is a woman aged before her time (for, relatively, child-marriage exists in our own country) and burdened with two or three young children to support. She lived in the East End of London, occupying one small room up a steep and rickety flight of stairs, for which she paid two shillings a week, and considered herself fortunate in being able to earn regularly five shillings and sixpence a week in a cardboard-box factory. And there are thousands of women in London whose weekly wage is not only no more, but often considerably less, as must be the case when ma.tchbox-making is paid at the rate of twopence -half penny a gross, the workers finding their own paste, or mantles with elaborate trimming at six- pence each. Out of wages as scanty as these, the English- woman in winter must find fuel enough to keep something of the cruelly penetrating fog and frost out of her poor apartment; her food, even in its elementary simplicity of tea and bread, is to be bought; her own and her chil- dren's clothes and boots have to be provided, some fur- niture and bedding are a necessity yet the slender pittance must suffice to purchase all. Then turn we to the other instance a poor widow whom I saw at Berhampore. With industrious labour she could earn at reeling the pierced cocoons of silk from half to three quarters of an anna a day, which far more than sufficed for the simple diet of rice, grain, and vegetables which satisfied her. There was a corner for her to sleep in the family hut ; she had nothing to provide towards the feeding and clothing of the children ; the cost of

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134 refer to. It is sufficient, though, for me to say that there is not the slightest foundation for the slander that I have more than once heard from missionary lips, that a Muslim can divorce his wife by repeating the word 'talag' three times! "

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58 Perspiring, panting from running, the excited negro breathlessly began again to stammer out fragmentary details of what he had heard about the uprising of blacks scheduled for that afternoon.

"Calm yerself, me boy," the arm of the law admonished him. emphasizing his words, by pulling an imaginary trigger oil the pencil stub which he held in his fat fingers. "Are yez gone clean crazy? Or is ut moonshine in ye that's talkin'? Slower, me lad. Now, phwat is ut ye want? Spake out."

"The Great Panjandrum!" George Washington blurted out.

Three or four coppers had strolled into the office. They listened with amused contempt to George Washington's recital.

"Phwat in the world are ye talkin' about?" continued the desk sergeant, implacably. "Has the Great Pan-what-ye-call-him shtolen anything from ye? Is he tryin' to murder ye? Hand us his name and we'll book him for ye, if ut's as serious as all that. Out with ut, mo boy. Phwat's bitin' ye? ' Who are ye, anyway?"

"Jawge Washin'ton," stammered the unhappy negro, and attempted to resume his narration.

The listeners broke into coarse laughter.

"My regards to your wife, Martha Washington, old top." said a tall, cadaverous copper, jocularly giving George a slap, on the back, that almost bowled him over.

"She's at home hangin' out the washin'," said George, meekly, interrupting his narrative, again.

The outburst that greeted this reply wounded his pride. He felt aggrieved. He was trying to help the forces of law and order, but they were giving him the horse laugh.

"Silence!" roared the desk sergeant, glaring at the disorderly coppers with outraged dignity. "Where d'ye think ye are, at home?"

The hilarity subsided into baritone giggles.

"Where do ye live?" obstinately continned the desk sergeant, holding the pencil as if it were a pistol, and taking careful aim with it at George's breast. "On Fo'tieth street, jes' off Cottage Grove avenue, your Honor," George replied.

The hilarity broke out afresh, with unprecedented violence, at the title George so innocently bestowed on the desk sergeant, and that dignitary shot glances of fierce anger at the recalcitrant policemen. If looks were daggers, the coppers would have died on the instant.

"Ah lives in de fo'th house f'um de corner, in de rear."

"Well, phwat do ye want? Why don't ye spake up? Who is this Great Panhandler; or what d'ye call him?"

"De Great Panjandrum," George corrected him. "He's a pusson, suh. Dey's a parade of soldyahs, suh, at 2 o'clock dis aftahnoon. Dey want a bonus or sumpin. An' dey's gwine be trouble."

"Trouble, is ut? Well, bejabers, them boys have a police permit to parade, and if anyone shtarts trouble—"

Here the sergeant took careful aim with his pencil, and again pulled the airy trigger, three times, as if shooting somebody.

"But phwat's all this got to do with the Great Panjabers? Out with ut, now. Phwat's wrong?"

"De Great Panjandrum done lib on Federal street," went on George Washington, desperately. "Two dohs no'th f'um Thirty-second, on de uppah story. An' he's gwine organize a cullud republic. Yes, suh, dat's jes' wot he's callatin' fo' to do. An' hit means


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Rh trouble. 'Coz ef he succeeds, or ef he doan' succeed, hit's all de same. Fo' de wite folks will sholy put dat republic down in blood, lots of it, an' hit means dat hundreds of po' cullud folks an' po' wite folks dat ain't nevah hahm'd nobody in dair lives is gwine git murdered. Dat's jes' wot hit means. Yes, suh."

"Say, nigger," retorted the sergeant with heat, "how do ye get that way? You leave that moonshine alone. It's whisky that's shpakin' in ye. If your Great Panjoobers is such a punkins that he thinks he can set up a nigger republic, why don't you help him? You're a fine nigger, you are!"

The coppers laughed again. George Washington felt sick at heart. But he threw back his shoulders and looked the desk sergeant squarely between the eyes.

"Yes, suh," he said, "I'se cullud. I'se black. Ah ain't no mulatto, neithah. But I'se an American citizen, an' ah ain't gwine stan' fo' no fumadiddles. Ah doan' want to see no race riots in dis yeer town, but I'se tellin' you right now, dat ef you doan' go an' get de Great Panjandrum an' lock him up in a good safe jail dat he cain't git out of, dey's gwine be de worstes' an' bloodies' race riot dat you evah heared tell of. Yes, suh. Fo' de Great Panjandrum done been gwine give de signal at 2 dis aftahnoon, an' den de po' fools dat believes in him is gwine attack de parade an' staht de fightin'. Dey aims to set up a republic an' kill de wite people. Yes, suh."

"D'ye get that?" asked the desk sergeant sarcastically, talking to the coppers, and screwing his fiery eyebrows into a fierce scowl. Then, turning his attention to George Washington again:

"Clear out o' this, now, with yer moonshine about the Great Pajamas, or I'll book ye fer bein' drunk. Why don't ye arrest him yerself, if ye can find him? The Great Pajamas! Ha, ha! That's good!"

"Dat's jes' wot ah'm fixin' fo' to do," retorted George Washington. "De good Lawd knows ah done tried mah bestes' to get you to stop dis race riot, an' now I 'se got to stop it all by mahse'f."

He beat a hasty retreat from the station, and wandered along the streets, his mind working at fever heat. The officers of the law had refused to aid him, and his race was in terrible danger. There were three million people in Chicago. What could the less than half-million negroes of the South Side do against all those white men? It would mean a bloody war, in which he visioned the extermination of his race, the death of Martha Washington (he shuddered at the suggestion), and the end of everything.

ORMENTED with these thoughts, and with his own helplessness, he walked for what seemed a very long time, tracing and retracing his steps. Martha Washington and his argument with her were both forgotten. Forgotten, also, was his rheumatism. The only thing that mattered was to stop the impending trouble.

He looked at the clock in a barber shop as he passed, and started in terrified alarm. He had been wandering for hours. It was already a quarter past one. For a minute he thought of appealing to the mayor, but there was no time for that. The Great Panjandrum would give the signal at 2 o'clock, and the uprising would be on.

George looked about him, and found himself at the corner of Federal street and Thirty-third. He was only one block away from the fountain-head of the revolt.

Hardly daring to express in definite form the resolve that flashed across his mind, for fear he would reject it if he


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 Some have also said it was in the 13th or 12th century B.C. Dhirendra Nath Pal, a writer of the present day, ably says that Sri Krishna lived between the 15th and the 16th century before Christ. I strongly recommend his book on "Sri Krishna, His Life and Teachings" to you all, and advise you to read it from the beginning to the end. The general Hindu belief is that Sri Krishna was born at the end of the Dwapara, or at the beginning of Kali Yuga, i.e., about 5,006 years ago. Anyhow he lived several thousands of years ago. All our Hindu Puranas were not written at one time nor by one person; They all begin their accounts from the suposed time of creation and very boldly end with predictions regarding the future even up to the end of the present Kali Yuga. Getting their materials from all available sources, these Puranas began to be written several hundreds of years after


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Crown Proceedings Act

 * Crown Proceedings Act 1947 (10 & 11 Geo. 6. c. 4.) (United Kingdom)
 * Crown Proceedings Act 1950 (1950 No 54) (New Zealand)
 * Crown Proceedings Act 1958 (Vic.)
 * Crown Proceedings Act (BC) (SBC 1974, c. 24, now RSBC 1996 c. 89)
 * Crown Proceedings Act 1980 (Qld.)
 * Crown Proceedings Act 1988 (NSW)
 * Crown Proceedings Act 1992 (SA)

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 the battle described in the Mahabharata. The Mahabharata itself begins as a story told to Janamejaya, the great grandson of Arjuna, by the Rishis of that day. The Bhagavata Purana is said to have been told to Parikshit, the grandson of Arjuna. The story of the Mahabharata may have been written in verse later on, long after it was originally told as a story. It is likely that then and later on several additions were made to the Mahabharata, as seems to be the case with every Purana.

Now turning to my present subject, there are four Puranas, i.e., legendary works, which are the chief works dealing with Sri Krishna. They are the Bhagavata, the Mahabharata, the Harivamsa, and the Vishnu Purana. Of these, again, the Bhagavata gives a general account of Vishnu, in twelve chapters, the tenth of which contains the account of Sri Krishna. It seems that it was written several hun- 22


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xiv or greater justice be laid at the door of Boethius, from whom he derives his picture of the Golden Age, when all things were common and laws needless, or at that of Geoffrey Chaucer, for his charming poem of “The Former Age,” drawn from the same source?

That Jean de Meun’s utterances in this regard were taken by his contemporaries rather poetically than didactically may fairly be inferred from the favour with which the book was certainly received by persons of royal and of noble estate. In considering the latter part of the “Romance of the Rose,” and what it was that spurred its author on to give expression to the exhortations contained in it, it will not be beside the purpose to keep in view another popular book of the day which can scarcely have failed to come under his notice.

Towards the conclusion of the “Romance” it will be seen how Nature introduces her high-priest Genius, who holds forth at considerable length in praise of fecundity, assuring those who follow and carry out Nature’s laws thereon, of a participation in the joys of heaven, in a manner somewhat startling.

But it seems by no means improbable that Jean de Meun intended this as a counterpoison to the doctrines which had just then been specially brought forward and enforced by the


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Rh Dominican monk Jacobus de Voragine, in his “Legenda Aurea, or Golden Legend.” Not only is celibacy exalted as being in itself a virtue, but the example is held up to special admiration of wedded couples who lived as celibates in despite of the laws of God and Nature.

M. Langlois, while pointing out certain defects that attach to the work, thus sums up the merits of its author: “Jean de Meun is not only a scholar and a man of letters, he is also a poet, the greatest perhaps of the thirteenth century. In this respect he has commonly been too little considered, inasmuch as other more strikingly brilliant qualities of his mind have absorbed the attention of the critics who have occupied themselves with him, and because, moreover, the numerous poems embedded in his ‘Romance’ are somewhat obscured by the setting. How fine a passage is that (Chapter XXXV.) in which he contrasts the careless happiness en joyed by the labourer with the perpetual anxieties of the banker or money-dealer, who never knows when he is rich enough; of the merchant whose desire for gain is likened to the thirst of a man who fain would drink up the volume of the Seine; of the lawyer or physician each desirous only of selling his services for filthy lucre; of the divine who preaches but for money, and of those heapers up of riches who are mere


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 Every plan relative to him being now arranged, and the day declining, St. Julian sat down to pen his letter to his father, whilst his agonized Madeline hung over him, and Lafroy retired to pack up a few necessaries for him.

The letter concluded, he devoted the little time he had to remain in the castle to the purpose of consoling his Madeline, and exhorting her to fortitude. She promised to exert herself, but it was a promise given in such a manner, with such tears and sobs, as gave her father little hope she would ever be able to fulfil it.

With streaming eyes she watched the last lingering beams of day, and fancied that darkness had never before been so quick in its approach. At length Lafroy appeared; he carried a glimmering light, which he laid upon a table, and told the Count, in a whispering voice, that it was time to depart. He instantly arose—"farewell! my child, (said he, straining his Madeline to his heart),


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 soul of my soul, life of my life—farewell!—Oh! for the sake of thy wandering and exiled father—Oh! to be enabled to give him future comfort, such comfort as shall repay him for past troubles, exert thyself!"

"I will, I will (cried Madeline); when the bitterness of this moment is over, I shall be better."

"Do not longer delay, my Lord (said Lafroy); I fear if you do, some interruption from the servants, who will soon be busy preparing for supper."

St. Julian gently withdrew his arms from his daughter. She did not attempt to detain him; and yet her very soul seemed fleeting after him as he turned from her. "Lafroy (cried she, following them to the gallery), the moment you return to the castle, you must come up to me."

"You may depend on my doing so," said he.

"And you, my father, (she resumed), must write to me without delay, if you wish to save me from distraction."


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 "The very minute I arrive at a place of safety, I will write to you," he replied, again embracing her.

Once more Lafroy conjured St. Julian to hasten with him; and, sighing out another adieu, the unhappy father turned from his weeping child. When she could no longer hear his steps from the gallery, she flew to her chamber, and, flinging up the sash, bent from the window to try if she could hear them in the forest; but a cold wind whistled through it, which prevented any other sound than that of its own murmurs from being distinguished; yet, though she could neither see nor hear him, she continued at the window till a sudden light flashing behind her, made her start from it; and, turning round, she beheld one of the female servants.

"I hope I have not frightened your Ladyship (said the girl, courtesying); I have brought you some refreshments from Mrs.


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 Beatrice; and she desired me to say that she would have sent something before, only she heard you were engaged with my Lord the Count, and also that she would have come herself only she was unwell."

"I am sorry to hear she is ill," cried Madeline, sinking into a chair.

"She is indeed; but bless me, your Ladyship looks very ill too; had you not better take something, for you seem quite faint?"

Madeline was quite overpowered by weakness, and gladly took a little bread and wine to try and support her sinking frame.

"The cold wind which comes through this window, is enough to pierce your Ladyship," said the maid.

"It does (cried Madeline to herself, and sighing heavily), it does indeed pierce me to the heart, because I know my father is exposed to it. Good night, my good girl, (said she, addressing her attendant), good night;


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 say nothing of my indisposition; I am sure I shall be better to-morrow."

"Your Ladyship will not then come down to-night."

"No;—who is with the Marquis?"

"Monsieur D'Alembert; my Lord the Count I understand is out. 'Tis very bold to be sure of me to speak on the subject, but I cannot help saying I wonder how he can like to ramble through the forest after it is dark."

Madeline rose in much agitation—"I suppose the Marquis (said she, wishing to change the conversation), will soon go to supper."

"Oh yes, Ma'am; you know, since my Lord the Count's custom of rambling has been known, the Marquis never waits for him after a certain hour."

"True," cried Madeline. She then repeated her good night, and the maid retired.

Alternately traversing her chamber, alternately looking from the window, Madeline


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xvi slaves to the wealth that they imprison in their coffers…. In a manner altogether different, we may remark, among other passages which bear the impress of real poetry, a magnificent description of a storm, with the return of fair weather (Chap. XCVIII)…. The parables, piled one upon another by the author to justify his attacks on the servitude of marriage and the isolation of the cloister, which represent in admirably natural and graceful miniatures the bird in the cage, the fish snared in a bag-net, the kitten that sees a mouse for the first time, and the filly that first catches sight of a horse (Chap. LXXV.).

“The episodes also of Venus and Adonis (Chapters LXXXVII.-VIII.) and of Pygmalion (Chapter CVI.) are charming idylls, which may worthily hold comparison with the pages of Ovid, whence they are imitated. We may further remark that no other author of the thirteenth century writes with such ease as Jean de Meun, his style being invariably on a level with the ideas he desires to express, now powerful and rugged, now graceful and gentle, but always clear, elegant, and picturesque; his verse is flowing and easy, and many of his couplets have become proverbial.”

But one of the finest qualities of the author is his quiet humour, which peeps out as continually and as delightfully as it does in the verse


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70 THE PHILOSOPHY OF THE BHAGAYAD-GITA exists ultimately is not the soul, nor the individual, however purified or exalted, but the one Parabrahmam, which has all along been existing, and that Parabrahmam itself is a sort of unknowable essence which has no idea of self, nor even an individual existence, but which is the one power, the one mysterious basis of the whole cosmos, In interpreting the Pranava, the Sankyas made the ardhamatra really mean this avyaktam and nothing more, In some Upanishats this ardhamatra is described as that which, appearing differentiated, is the soul of man. When this differentiation, which is mainly due to the upadhi, is destroyed, there is a layam of Atma in Parabrahmam. This is also the view of a considerable number of persons in India, who called themselves Adwaitis. It is also the view put forward as the correct Vedantic view. It was certainly the view of the. ancient Sankhyan philosophers, and is the view of all those Buddhists who consider Nirvana to be the layam of the soul in Parabrahmam.

After reaching karana sharira there are two paths, both of which lead to Parabrahmam. Karana sharira, you must know, is an upadhi; it is material, that is to say, it is derived from Mulaprakrti, but there is also acting in it, as its light and energy, the light from the Logos, or Daiviprakrti or Fohat. Now, as I have said, there are two paths. When you reach karana sharira you can either confine your

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''Though the old English version takes no account of chapters or sections, it is deemed better for the sake of clearness to summarise the 108 sections of which the work consists in their separate sequence, as they are given in the original text. ''

For convenience of reference, the lines of the French text are marked F. in the margin according to the text of the edition printed in the “Bibliothèque Elzevirienne,” Orléans, 1878. C. represents the lines of the old English version as far as it goes, though a portion only is Chaucer’s.

The question is raised as to the truth or falsity Cap. I. of dreams. The author affirms his belief in their fulfilment, and expresses his intention of relating a vision that befell him in the twentieth year of his age.

He entitles his narrative the “Romance of the Rose,” out of compliment to a lady, who worthily bears the name of that fragrant flower, and with whom he is deeply in love.

Five years ago, as he lay on his bed on a May morning, he dreamed that he leapt from his couch, washed his hands and face, and issued forth into the fresh air, that he might enjoy the matin song of the birds. He wanders Rh


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 passed two tedious hours ere Lafroy appeared. He then knocked gently at the door, which she eagerly opened, and as eagerly enquired about her father.

"He has begun his journey (said Lafroy); I readily procured the assistance of my friend, who will be his companion some part of the way."

"And can your friend really be depended on?" asked Madeline.

"I can as safely answer for his fidelity as my own (replied Lafroy); and mine I hope you do not doubt."

"No (cried Madeline), if I did, I should be completely wretched. Oh! Lafroy (she continued), how I dread to-morrow; I tremble to think of the interrogations of the Marquis; as long as it is possible to do so, postpone the delivery of the letter."

"You may be assured I shall not deliver it till there is an absolute necessity for doing so (he replied), and then I shall pretend I found it in the chamber of the Count."


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 "I shall keep out of the Marquis's way till he has read the letter," said Madeline.

"I think you will be right in doing so (cried Lafroy); you can plead indisposition, and confine yourself to your chamber entirely to-morrow; and depend on my ingenuity for devising some scheme to prevent your being disturbed either by the Marquis or the servants, even after the discovery of the Count's departure has taken place."

"Alas! (said Madeline), how trifling will be all I shall perhaps endure after this discovery, to what, in all probability, I shall suffer when the real cause of his departure is known!"

"You must only (cried Lafroy), as I said before, brave the storm, from a hope of having it soon over. The Marquis no doubt will be violent, and endeavour to wrest from you the secret of your father's residence; you must therefore deny your knowledge of it."

"No (exclaimed Madeline), I disdain a falsehood; to deny it would be to doubt


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 my own resolution of keeping it. After all (continued she), upon reflection I do not think the Marquis can be so violent as you imagine; he must be convinced, and that conviction must surely mollify his resentment, that, had interested motives caused the death of Lord Philippe, my father, instead of retiring to obscurity, would have made some effort to obtain his favour."

"But to refute that idea, may it not be said (cried Lafroy), that he remained in obscurity so many years but to avoid suspicion, which he feared might be excited if he sooner threw himself in the way of his father?"

"He never threw himself in the way of the Marquis," interrupted Madeline.

"No, but he threw you, which was just the same thing; that is, I mean it may be said he did; it may be said that design, not chance, brought you to the castle; D'Alembert is equal to any falsehood."

"Heaven defend us from his machinations!" cried Madeline.


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 "I will now leave you to repose (said Lafroy); I am sure you need it, for the events of this day must certainly have agitated you not a little."

Madeline conjured him to come to her as soon as he possibly could after the delivery of the letter, which he promised to do, and then retired.

Kneeling down, Madeline then implored the protection of Heaven for her father, and its support for herself through the numerous trials she feared she had to encounter; after which, faint and exhausted by the agitations she had experienced, she went to bed. Her mind was too much disturbed to permit her slumbers to be tranquil; and she arose unrefreshed at the dawn of day. At the usual hour, a servant (the same who had attended her the preceding night) appeared to inform her breakfast was ready. Madeline said she was too unwell to go down, and desired her's to be brought to her dressing-room. She


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 was accordingly obeyed; and, as the maid was laying the table—"The Count has gone out to ramble again this morning, Madam (said she); Lafroy went to call him to breakfast, and found his chamber-door locked on the outside."

The conversation her attendant was inclined to enter into was truly distressing to Madeline, and she soon dismissed her. In a state of perturbation which rendered her unable to read or work, or do any thing to try and amuse her thoughts, the heavy hours wore away without any creature coming near her till dinner time; Nannette then again appeared, and desired to know whether she would come down. Madeline replied in the negative, and dinner was brought to her.

Tis very extraordinary, Madam (cried Nannette as she stood behind the chair), very extraordinary indeed that the Count has not yet returned; don't you think so?"


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 "You may take away the things (said Madeline); and, Nannette, you need not come again till I ring for you."

"Very well, Madam. But dear heart! my Lady, you really have eaten no dinner; I am afraid you are fretting about the Count."

Madeline made no reply, but took up a book to signify her wish of being alone, and Nannette left her.

The moment she had retired, Madeline threw aside the book, and walked about the room in an agitation which shook her frame. "The hour approaches for the delivery of the letter (cried she); Oh! heaven forbid the Marquis should come to me after perusing it! this evening I could not summon sufficient spirits to support an interview."

She now every instant expected Lafroy; but two hours passed away without bringing him, during which she frequently stole to the gallery to try if she could hear him ap-


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 proaching. Tired at length of listening for him, she threw herself on a chair by the window, and gave way in tears to the oppression of her heart. Never had she before experienced such a degree of wretchedness; she felt neglected, abandoned by all! the gloom of closing day, the cold wind which rustled through the forest, bringing the leaves in showers from the trees, and bearing to her ear the dismal tolling of a distant convent bell, heightened if possible her melancholy.

"Oh! my father (she cried), to what misery have you left your Madeline!" The door creaked upon its rusty hinges; she started, and beheld Lafroy.

"Ah! (she exclaimed, rising to meet him), I thought you had forgotten me."

"Forgotten you!" he repeated as he cautiously closed the door.

"Has the Marquis received the letter?" eagerly interrupted Madeline.

"Yes."


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 "Well, and what (cried she, gasping for breath), does he say?"

"Ah! my dear young lady, I have bad news for you," exclaimed Lafroy.

"Bad news! what—does the Marquis suspect the truth? Has he sent to pursue my father?"

"He has not yet sent any one to pursue him (replied Lafroy), but he soon will; for—D'Alembert has discovered all."

The shock which those words gave to Madeline, was almost more than she could support, and she sunk, nearly fainting, against the shoulder of Lafroy.

"Do you think (cried she, raising her head in a few minutes from it), do you think that my father can baffle the pursuit?"

"I trust he may have a safe retreat secured ere it commences. But you must not turn your thoughts entirely upon him;


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 you must not turn your thoughts entirely upon him; you must now think of yourself—think of escaping from the castle."

"Of escaping!" repeated Madeline.

"Yes, if you wish to avoid cruelty and oppression."

"Explain yourself," said Madeline.

"I will if you promise to compose yourself—if you promise not to interrupt me—briefly and explicitly inform you of the sufferings which await you if you continue in the castle."

"I promise," cried Madeline.

"To begin then (said Lafroy). After I had delivered the Count's letter to the Marquis, I stepped into an adjoining room to listen to the conversation which would ensue between him and D'Alembert in consequence of it. Long I had not remained in my concealment, ere my ears were shocked by hearing D'Alembert deride the assertion contained in the letter, and begin a horrid narrative of all he knew concerning your father. I will not pain you by repeating what the Marquis said; suffice it to say, he vowed


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 the most implacable vengeance against the Count, and swore the world should be searched to discover him.

'His daughter to be sure (cried D'Alembert), who 'tis obvious wishes to have you, as well as your father, put out of the way in order to gain, without division, the fortunes of Montmorenci, is acquainted with the secret of his retreat.'

'No doubt (replied the Marquis), and I will obtain it from her.'

'I have little hope of your being able to do so,' cried D'Alembert.

'If gentle means will not prevail on her to reveal it (cried the Marquis), other methods shall be tried; every torture, every suffering, which can be devised, shall be practised upon her in this castle to wring it from her.'

"On hearing this (continued Lafroy), I hastened to you to apprise you of your danger, and assist you in escaping it."

"This instant let me go (cried Madeline), this instant let me fly from those


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 hated walls—let me pursue the steps of my father."

"To do so would be madness (replied Lafroy); to follow his steps, would be to give a clue to his pursuers to discover him."

"Then guide me to a convent," cried Madeline.

"No; for a convent would be the worst asylum you could enter. The Marquis's power is great; on missing you, he will naturally conclude you have taken shelter in one, and will, I am confident, immediately get himself authorized to search throughout the religious houses for you, in order to get you again into his hands."

"Whither then (said Madeline in an agony), Oh! whither shall I go?"

"I have a female relation in Paris (cried Lafroy), who I am sure would be happy to afford you an asylum. She is far advanced in life; a woman of an amiable disposition, and housekeeper to a gentleman of large fortune, who, on the death of his wife, which happened some years ago, betook himself to


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 travel, and left his house, a very fine one, to the entire care of my aunt; to her I can get my friend (the same who assisted your father in escaping) to convey you, and also a letter to her, imploring her protection for you."

"What reason will you assign for my requiring that protection?" demanded Madeline.

"I shall say (I trust you will excuse me for it, cried Lafroy), that your father is a particular friend of mine, who, from embarrassed circumstances, has been compelled to quit his residence near the castle of Montmorenci, for the purpose of seeking one elsewhere, and that, till he procures it, he has consigned you to my care."

Madeline felt truly grateful to Lafroy for the readiness with which he offered his services, yet at the same time most unwilling to accept them; and again she expressed a wish to retire to a convent—a wish, which was again opposed with vehemence by Lafroy, who assured her he was confident, if she


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 went to one, that in a few days she would be dragged from it by the Marquis.—"By this (he continued), I dare say every plan relative to you and your father is settled; no time, therefore, is to be lost, for if the Marquis and D'Alembert once seize you, to escape will be beyond your power."

"I am ready (cried Madeline), I am ready this moment to fly."

A scarf hung upon the back of a chair, which Lafroy took up and wrapped about her; he then drew her trembling hand under his arm, and with light steps they stole down a flight of back stairs, and through a back court entered the forest.

They proceeded a considerable way through the forest before Lafroy would permit Madeline to slacken her pace for the purpose of asking whither they were now going.


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 When at length she had power to make the enquiry, "we are going (said he in reply to it) to the cottage of my friend, where every thing relative to your journey can be adjusted, and where it never will occur to the Marquis or D'Alembert to search for you."


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CHAP. VII.

habitation of Lafroy's friend stood about half a league from the forest;—it was a lonely and sequestered cottage, built by the side of a river, and shaded by fine old trees, above which a range of lofty mountains raised their proud heads. On reaching it, Lafroy seated Madeline on a little bench before it, and desired her to continue there till he had settled every thing relative to her journey with his friend: he then unlatched


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 the door, and entered the cottage; in less than half an hour he returned to her, accompanied by an elderly man.

"Well, Mademoiselle, (said he, as he approached her) I have settled every thing, I hope, to your satisfaction. My friend has kindly promised to attend you to Paris, and is now going to L, which is about two leagues off, to procure a proper conveyance for you."

"You must thank your friend for me (said Madeline, rising) for I have not language to express the gratitude I feel for his promised protection."

"My friend Oliver is a good soul (cried Lafroy), and does not require thanks."

"No! (exclaimed Oliver), I do not, indeed!"

"I think you had better now retire to a chamber, and try to take some repose, ere you commence your journey," said Lafroy.

"Do, Mademoiselle (cried Oliver), my daughter will be happy to attend you."


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 "I have taken care (said Lafroy, in a whispering voice to her), to guard you against all impertinent curiosity. I told a plausible story about you, and expressly desired that no one but Oliver's daughter should attend you;—she is a good girl, and has promised to make up a bundle of her clothes for you to take to Paris; when once there, you can easily procure others.—Excuse me if I ask, whether you do not want your purse replenished?"

"No, (replied Madeline), I do not; I have money enough, I am sure, to defray the expenses of my journey, and the sale of some valuable trinkets I have about me will, I hope, enable me, without inconvenience, to rejoin my father."

"As to the expenses of your present journey, they are already defrayed (said Lafroy); do not, my dear young lady, speak upon the subject; the money I acquired in your family can never be better expended than in the service of any one belonging to it."


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 "I cannot express my feelings (cried Madeline, melting into tears); 'tis only Heaven, Lafroy, that can properly reward your humanity."

"I must now bid you farewell, my dear lady (said Lafroy); if I stay much longer from the Castle I fear being missed, and my absence at this juncture would, I make no doubt, excite suspicion.—farewell! May Heaven and all its holy angels for ever watch over you!"

"Stop for one instant (cried Madeline, catching his arm). Oh! Lafroy! I entreat—I conjure you—the moment a letter arrives from my father, to forward it to me. I shall be all impatience—all agony—all distraction—till I hear of his safety, and know where or when I may rejoin him!"

"Rest assured (said Lafroy), that I shall do every thing you can wish. Once more, my dear young lady, farewell! Oliver has a letter to deliver to my aunt, which I wrote in the cottage; I am confident she will do every thing in her power to make you happy."


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 Madeline mournfully shook her head.—"Alas! (she cried to herself) any effort to make me happy will now, I fear, be unavailing."

"Come, Mademoiselle (said Oliver, as Lafroy turned from her), you had better step into the house."

"I will (replied Madeline, as with streaming eyes she still pursued the steps of Lafroy); but first tell me how long you think it will be ere you return with a carriage."

"About three hours, I think, (said Oliver); I shall ride to L—, and will, you may assure yourself, make as much haste as possible."

He now led her into the house, and conducted her to a chamber, at the door of which he left her, telling her, as he retired, that he should send his daughter Theresa to her with a light and supper. Left to herself, Madeline, instead of indulging tears and lamentations, tried to suppress both, and regain some little degree of composure.—-


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 "I am embarked upon a stormy sea (said she), and I must resolutely brave its dangers if I hope to gain a port of safety."

She every instant expected Theresa, but the minutes passed away without bringing her; this was a circumstance Madeline did not by any means regret, as solitude and silence best suited her present feelings. She continued a considerable time deeply ruminating over past events, when she was suddenly awakened from her reverie by strains of soft music from without the house; they were strains at once tender and solemn, and while they delighted, affected her to tears.—She went to a window, but just as she had gently opened it, for the purpose of more distinctly hearing them, they entirely ceased. The beautiful prospect, however, which the window commanded of the opposite mountains and the river, prevented her withdrawing immediately from it. It was a prospect to which the beams of a rising moon, and the stillness of the night gave additional


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 charms—a stillness which (to borrow a description from a much-admired work) rendered the voice of the mountain waterfalls tremendous, as they all, in their variety of sounds, were re-echoed from every cavern, whilst the summits of the rocks began to receive the rays of the rising moon, and appeared as if crowned with turrets of silver, from which the stars departed for their nightly round.

"Ah! (cried Madeline, to whose recollection the present scene brought those she had been accustomed to), perhaps at this very moment my father gazes upon a landscape as sublime and beautiful as the one I now behold, with sadness, at the uncertainty of his Madeline ever again enjoying with him the works of nature."

She ceased, for again she heard the soft breathing of the oboe, though at a considerable distance from the house.


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The pensive pleasure which communicated itself to the feelings of Madeline, as with deep attention she listened to the enchanting strains, was soon interrupted by the now unwelcome appearance of her long expected visitor.

"Dear Mademoiselle! (cried she, as Madeline turned from the window to receive her), dear Mademoiselle! (as she laid down a little tray with refreshments) I hope you will have the goodness to excuse my not coming to you before, but I would not come to you till I brought you something to eat; do pray sit down and try this omelet! I flatter myself you will find it good."

"I am afraid (said Madeline), I have been the cause of a vast deal of trouble to you."


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 "Of pleasure, instead of trouble (replied the little voluble Theresa); but, Lord! Mademoiselle (continued she, going to it, and putting it down), how could you bear the window up so cold a night?"

"I opened it (said Madeline, as she seated herself at the table), for the purpose of listening to the most enchanting music I ever heard. Pray who plays so divinely on the oboe?"

"My brother," replied Theresa.

"Your brother! (repeated Madeline, somewhat surprised), why he seems a perfect master of music."

"Yes, that he is (said Theresa), and of many other accomplishments too. Lord! if I had but the key of that cabinet; for you must know, Mademoiselle, we are now in his room; it being the best in the house, my father procured it for you, I could show you such drawings of his as would I dare say astonish you: there is one hangs just over your head, a view of some fine place he saw, for he has been a great traveller."


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 Madeline stood up to examine it; but, Oh! what was her surprise, what the feelings of that moment, on beholding the landscape which de Sevignie had sketched of her native valley.

"Are you sure (cried Madeline, looking wildly at Theresa), are you sure your brother drew this landscape—are you sure it is not a copy instead of an original?"

"Very sure indeed (replied Theresa); he told me himself he had drawn it, and I know he would not utter a falsehood."

"Yes (cried Madeline to herself), 'tis evident de Sevignie is the son of a cottager, and every thing which before appeared strange and mysterious in his conduct, is now explained. Oh! de Sevignie, had no false pride restrained you—had you candidly, explicitly confessed your situation, what happiness might now have been our's! for well am I convinced that neither my father nor my friend would have objected to our union


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 when once thoroughly assured of your worth."

"What is your brother's name?" asked Madeline, wishing to remove every doubt, as to what she suspected, from her mind.

"Henri de Sevignie Melicour. Melicour is the name of his family, and he was called Henri de Sevignie after a great gentleman who stood godfather to him, and by whose desire he received so different an education from the rest of his family."

"And did he do nothing more than desire him to be well educated?" said Madeline.

"Why—yes—he made him handsome presents at times, and enabled him to travel and keep fine company; and I believe that lately he would have made a certain provision for him, but that they have disagreed."

"Disagreed!" repeated Madeline, in an agitated voice.

"Yes—Henri's patron wants him to marry some great young lady, who has fallen desperately in love with him, and he has positively refused to do so.


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 "Who is the lady?" asked Madeline, in a voice scarcely intelligible.

"I really don't know, Ma'am; if I did, I would tell you; but my father never entrusts me with a secret, lest I should blab it; though I am sure I should never think of doing so; and so 'tis only by listening here, and listening there, I ever come to the knowledge of any thing. Poor Henri! my father has also quarrelled with him, because he has rejected this great offer: 'tis a cruel thing to do so; for, to be sure, it is but natural to suppose he would accept it, if he could; but when a person is already in love, what can one do?"

"In love! (repeated Madeline), do you think your brother is in love?"

"Yes, I am sure he is."

"But how sure: did he ever tell you he was?"

"No—but one can easily guess he is, by the alteration in his looks and manner.—Lord, he is grown so pale, and so melancholy, he mopes about the whole day by himself;


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Rh in eternal life: so that he who will go from being baptized, may live in the temple of God, and the holy Spirit lives in him, for the forgiveness of sins, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, who will come to judge the living and the dead, and the world by fire. Amen.

Ord, holy Father almighty, eternal God, sanctifier of the spiritual waters,

Through Christ our Lord. ℞. Amen. Rh


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60 saw it in its naked reality, he ran down the street, and stopped in front of the three-story frame building where dwelt the grand mogul of sedition. Up the stairs he went, three steps at a time, and burst into a small room where three colored men were engaged in excited conference, with their heads close together, speaking in agitated whispers. They leaped to their feet as George Washington rushed in.

The three men were robed in white garments, cowled like monks, with the hoods thrown back, revealing their heads. One was fat, and squinted at the intruder through puffy folds of flesh around his dull black eyes. The other two men were lean and malign. Their robes were spotted with dabs of fresh blood, and red crosses had been drawn in blood over the men's hearts.

George Washington shuddered as he confronted the sinister trio.

"I has a message fo' de Great Panjandrum," he panted. "Wich is him?"

The taller of the two lean men looked at him skeptically.

"The Great Panjandrum cannot be seen," he said. "From whom is the message?"

"F'um Doctah Elusha Jones, suh," replied George Washington.

The name proved a talisman, an "open sesame" to the inner temple of voodoo. The desperate colored man felt that sinister rites must be going on behind the heavy black curtain that covered one side of the room. This, curtain was now drawn back by unseen hands, revealing a small door, covered with weird and horrible symbols. A painted green serpent writhed malevolently across the paneling, crushing in its folds a white infant, and menaced by a charging black ram with short, sharp horns. George experienced acute nausea. A sensation of cold fear attacked the pit of his stomach, for he realized that he was about to stand in the presence of the high priest of voodoo.

The door swung slowly back. In George's disordered fancy the painted snake moved, drawing its folds tighter about the form of the child, and the black ram seemed to shake its sharp horns. The tall, lean man who had questioned him now shoved him forward, and the door swung shut behind him.

For a minute George could make out nothing, for a brilliant electric arc light dazzled his eyes. Then he saw, standing before him, a coal-black negro, scarcely more than five feet tall, wizened, and apparently very old. Fuzzy tufts of gray hair showed behind his ears. His face was carved by a thousand wrinkles. His thin hands, ending in carefully polished nails, clutched nervously at a tract that he had been reading when George Washington entered the chamber. He was loosely garbed in a white robe, dabbled in fresh blood, like the garments of his aids in the outer room. A tall stove-pipe hat sat on his thin temples.

The room was hung with heavy black curtains, which shut out all light from outside. It was illuminated solely by the arc light that had dazzled George when he first came into the room. On the table was a bowl filled with blood from a small black goat, freshly killed! The animal's carcass lay alongside on the table, and its heart was floating in the bowl. The table, like the walls, was shrouded in black cloth.

The cunning eyes of the wizened negro looked searchingly into the face of the intruder, as if seeking to read his errand there.

"Is you de Great Panjandrum!" asked George, struggling for words, and frightened nearly to death.

"I am he." replied the other.


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Rh "Says wich?"

"I am he. What do you want? Be quick, fool; I can't talk to you all day."

"Oh, mistah, Doctah Jones done sen' dis message by me, dat hit ain't no use fo' to staht dat dere revolooshion nohow. Hit ain't got no chance fo' to succeed, an' you is jes gwine frow away de lives of de cullud people. Yes, suh."

The high priest's face took on a terrible expression.

"This to me?" he roared. "This from Elusha Jones? He dares dictate to me?"

"Yes, suh. I mean, no, suh."

"We will proceed without him. It is time to strike, and at once."

The Great Panjandrum began to divest himself of the blood-streaked robe of his voodoo priesthood, revealing a neat business suit underneath.

"No, suh, hit ain't Doctah Jones. Hit's me, an' hit's de othah cullud folks dat will be kilt in dis yeer foolish revolt! No, suh, you cain't mean you is gwine staht to fire on de soldyahs dat's out paradin' fo' to get a bonus f'um Congress. Cain't you see, beggin' youah pahdon, suh, but cain't you see dat hit ain't no use? Dat dey ain't no chanst fo' hit to succeed? No, suh. Dey ain't no chanst. An' you ain't gwine move f'um dis yeer room, till you promises me dat dey ain't gwine be no revolooshion. 'Coz nobody ain't gwine staht nuffin' less you gives 'em de signal."

The Great Panjandrum raised his voice in a sharp command. The door swung open, and the three men from the outer room entered.

"Bind him and gag him and drop him into the hole," the high priest ordered, abruptly.

The robed figures moved forward to obey, but George Washington, in an agony of desperation, clung to the robe of the leader in a last entreaty.

"No, suh. Ah ain't gwine leave you till you promises. Hit cain't do no good, suh, to de cullud folks. Hit cain't do no good nohow."

The three men leaped upon him, but he clung with the grip of despair to the Great Panjandrum. The table crashed over on its side. The bowl upset, and drenched George in the blood of the black goat. His shabby felt hat fell to the floor, and was kicked to one side in the scuffle.

The fat man turned his attention to a hidden push-button under the carpet, waiting for the other two to pry George loose from the Great Panjandrum. But the four men rolled and scuffled and kicked and bit, and the fat man could not press the button without dropping all four of them into the black hole that yawned beneath the carpet. The flying legs of one of the men struck the fat man on the back of the head. With a howl of pain, he involuntarily pressed the button. The floor opened. George, whose right hand had been pried loose, clutched frantically at the leg of the fat man, and pulled him down. All five fell through the floor, and the bowl rolled after them, together with the remains of the black goat. The trap-door closed above them.

ARDLY had the Great Panjandrum and his men fallen into the dark hole with their prisoner, when a shuffling of feet was heard overhead. Several men burst into the room. The votaries of voodoo clapped their hands over George Washington's mouth, to silence him. They listened intently.

The men, who had entered the room with drawn revolvers, were a detail of police, sent to arrest the Great Panjandrum, after a later warning than George's had wakened them to a sense of the peril confronting the South Side.


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Rh Elissey could not make up his mind to leave them that evening, as had been his intention, and he decided to remain till next morning. He prepared his bed in the yard, and, after saying his prayers, lay down, but he found it impossible to go to sleep. It was necessary that he should resume his journey, as he had lost a good deal of time and money; yet he could not help feeling sorry for the unfortunate family's predicament.

"I cannot supply every one," he said to himself; "I had intended to give them only bread and water; but now it has gone so far that I shall be obliged to redeem their meadow and rye-field, and afterward to buy them a cow and horse, with which to work their farm. Well, Brother Elissey Bodroff, it is plain that you have gotten yourself into trouble. Once you have opened your pocket, you are never done spending."

Without having reached any conclusion, Elissey arose, and putting on his kaftan he took some


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 108 snuff to clear his head. He felt that it was at last necessary that he should depart, yet he had great pity for the poor peasants, and was undecided as to what he would do. Placing the kaftan once more under his head, he again lay down, but the cocks had begun to crow before he fell asleep.

Soon, however, as if some one had suddenly awakened him, he saw himself in his dreams dressed up. He thought he had arisen, and with sack and walking-stick was directing his steps toward the gate, which was opened just wide enough for one person to pass through. But when he made the attempt his sack caught on the gate-post, and in his efforts to release it his leg-wrappers also became entangled and untied. He finally discovered that the latter obstruction was caused by the little girl, who was holding him back and crying out: "Uncle! My dear uncle! Give us bread!" Elissey thought that he next looked toward his feet and beheld the girl holding fast to his leg-wrapper,


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 Rh while the peasant man and the old woman were watching the scene from the window.

Awaking suddenly, Elissey said to himself: "To-morrow I will redeem the meadow and rye-field, after which I will buy a horse and cow for the children. It is no use to go beyond the seas to look for Christ, for you may lose your self. I must make one more effort to give these people another start." And Elissey went to sleep again and rested quietly till morning.

Early the next day he arose and visited the rich peasant. He cancelled the mortgage and bought back the scythe which the poor peasant had previously sold to the rich man, returning it to its former owner. Elissey then sent the peasant into the field to mow, going himself to the village in search of a horse and wagon which had been sold to the inn-keeper. After repurchasing them he went to buy also a cow.

Elissey overheard the gossiping of two Little Russian women as he passed along the street, and he became convinced that they were talk-


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 110 ing about him, for soon he heard one of them say:

"You see, at first they did not recognize him. They thought he was but a common, ordinary man, for he went there only to ask for a drink of water. Yet he is living there still. He has provided them with almost everything they need. Only to-day with my own eyes I saw him buy a horse and wagon from the inn-keeper. People like him are very scarce in this world, and when such a one is found it is cause for great surprise."

On hearing himself thus praised Elissey abandoned his search for the cow and returned to the inn-keeper, to whom he paid the money for his previous purchase. After harnessing the horse he rode back to the peasant home, alighting on reaching the gate.

On seeing the animal standing by the gate the inmates of the house were much surprised. It was plain that Elissey had bought the horse for them, but they hardly dared to think so.


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 Rh The peasant went out to open the gate, remarking to Elissey as he did so:

"Well, uncle; and so you have bought a horse?"

"Yes," was the reply; "I have bought it and paid for it—but it was not very dear. You had better mow some grass and bed him down for the night, putting some also into the manger."

The man unharnessed the horse and did as he was directed, after which he and the other members of the household retired for the night. Taking his sack from the house, Elissey went outside and lay down upon it to sleep.

Very early the next morning, before any of the family were up, Elissey arose and dressed himself, and, placing the sack upon his back, went off in search of Euthymus.


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 OR,

The BATTLE of the

BY

A in the Port of POOLE.

With some

By the same HAND.


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daylight appeared, Elissey had travelled five versts. Seating himself under a tree, he opened his sack and proceeded to count his money. To his great surprise, he found that he had but seventeen rubles and twenty kopecks left. He said to himself:

"Well, this is certainly too small an amount to take me on my proposed journey beyond the seas, and to go begging 'in Christ’s name' along the way might be only to commit more sin. Godfather Euthymus will reach there safely alone, and will surely put a candle in the window for me. It seems to have been predestinated that I should not fulfil my vow. I am thankful that the Lord is merciful, and will have patience with me."

Arising and putting the sack again upon his


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 Rh back, Elissey started to walk in the direction of his home—making a circuit of the village, however, so as not to be seen by the people.

He soon reached his home, for although while he was travelling toward the Holy Land he walked with great difficulty, and could scarcely keep up with Euthymus, on his return journey God seemed to have given him additional strength and he did not know fatigue. He went along rejoicingly waving his stick in the air, and travelling at the rate of seventy versts a day.

On his return Elissey found that the other members of his household had completed their field work, and they rejoiced to see their old man at home once more. But they made many inquiries as to how he happened to leave his comrade, and why he did not continue his journey to Jerusalem. Elissey, however, did not make any extended explanation, saying only: "It was God's will. I lost money on the road and was obliged to leave my companion."


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114 Restoring to his aged wife the little money he had left, Elissey inquired anxiously concerning their domestic affairs, which he found to be satisfactory in every particular. They were living in peace and contentment.

The family connections of Euthymus, hearing of Elissey's return, came to ask him a number of questions in regard to their old man, but to them he would only say: "Euthymus left me three days before St. Peter's Day. He was in good health. I intended to overtake him, but something happened through which I lost my money, and being unable to go any further I returned."

All the people wondered how such a wise man could have acted so foolishly: he started, but failed to reach his destination—only losing his money in the attempt. But they finally ceased to comment upon it, and soon the incident seemed to pass also out of Elissey's mind, for he had resumed control of his domestic labors with all his former energy. He helped his son


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 Rh to cut the winter's wood and to thresh the rye. He also put new roofs on the cart-sheds and prepared his bee-hives for the coming cold weather, having previously given seventeen of them to his neighbor.

The old woman had wished to conceal from Elissey the exact number of swarms that had been obtained from the hives that were sold, but he knew just about what increase to expect, and he accordingly gave the man seventeen bee-hives instead of ten.

When Elissey had got through with his work, he sent his son to look for employment elsewhere, when he settled down for the winter—making bast-shoes and doing other light work for his family.


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day long Euthymus waited in vain for the coming of Elissey—not even imagining the errand of mercy that detained him. He had not gone very far when he sat down to wait for him. Alternately he would fall asleep and wake up again, but without seeing anything of his companion. He would look everywhere—but the vain search had already made his eyes weak and feverish.

The sun had set behind the forest, and still there was no trace of Elissey. "It may be that he has passed me by," thought Euthymus; "or perhaps he was riding with some one while I was asleep and did not recognize me. Yet it is impossible that he could not have seen me. In the Steppes you can see for a great distance. Now if I should retrace my steps to look for


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 Rh Elissey, and he should go forward, then we will surely lose each other. I had better continue my journey, for perhaps we may meet at the lodging-house during the night."

When Euthymus reached the next village he gave the police a description of his comrade, requesting that he be directed to the house at which Euthymus was staying for the night. Elissey, however, not making his appearance, his friend the next day proceeded alone on his travels. He inquired from all whom he met on the way if they had seen an old man with a bald head, but the answer was invariably in the negative. So Euthymus continued his journey in the hope that he and Elissey might possibly meet either in Odessa or on the ship, and he ceased to worry about the absence of his comrade.

Where Euthymus secured his next night's lodging he fell in with a long-haired traveller, who was dressed in a calotte and under-cassock. He had visited Athos twice and was now on his


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118 way to Jerusalem, and together they continued their pilgrimage.

At length they reached Odessa in safety, where they waited three days for the arrival of the ship. They found there many other pilgrims from various parts of the world, who also were awaiting the coming of the vessel with anxiety. Once more Euthymus tried to learn something in regard to Elissey's whereabouts, but no one had seen him.

Euthymus' strange companion had tried to instruct him how to go aboard the ship without paying his passage, but. he would not listen to the man who tried to lead him into dishonesty. "No, sir," said he; "I shall pay my way out of the money which I have saved for this purpose." And he paid forty rubles for his passage and return, buying also some bread and herrings to eat on the voyage.

Finally the ship arrived, on which Euthymus and his strange companion embarked with the other pilgrims. Having received its load of


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 Rh merchandise and passengers, the vessel weighed anchor and sailed away.

During the day the weather was fine, but toward evening the wind came up and the rain fell in torrents. The ship lurched in the storm and trembled from stem to stern, while huge waves fell upon the deck and nearly swamped the vessel. The passengers became panic-stricken. Women cried, while weaker men ran wildly about in search of places of refuge from the storm.

Euthymus also was frightened, but he did not show it by his manner. When he entered the ship he seated himself on the floor with the pilgrims from the province of Tomboff, who watched their sacks in silence, and there he remained all night and also the next day.

After three days the storm abated, and on the fifth day they reached Constantinople. Some of the pilgrims went to see the temple of Sophia (Great Wisdom), then in possession of the Turks; but Euthymus remained quietly on the ship.


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 120 After a day's delay they sailed again, making a short stay at the ports of Smyrna and Alexandria, and finally reaching Jaffa in safety, where all the pilgrims disembarked.

Much difficulty was experienced in landing them, as they were greatly terrified. The ship was high out of the water, and they feared to descend the rope-ladder to the small boats, which were in waiting for them. The sea was very rough, and the boats constantly surged back and forth, and two of the pilgrims in their attempt to jump into one of the boats fell into the water, but were afterward rescued. The remainder were landed in safety.

They travelled on foot seventy versts, reaching Jerusalem on the fourth day. They stopped on the outskirts of the city, registered their passports, and had their dinner, after which the little band went to visit several holy places. They went to see the Lord's Tomb, but were refused admittance, so they attended morning service in the Patriarch Monastery, where they


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 Rh prayed and lighted candles before an icona, or holy picture. From outside its walls they viewed the Temple of the Resurrection, which is erected over the spot where the sepulchre of our Lord is supposed to have been. Their view, however, was somewhat obstructed by the many other buildings which surround the sacred edifice.

On the first day they visited also a grotto in which the Virgin Mary is alleged to have taken shelter during her flight from Bethlehem, after which they paid a priest to sing a "Te Deum" and to put lighted candles on the altar. It had been their intention also to hear mass at the Lord's Tomb, but they were too late, and went instead to Abraham's Monastery, where they saw the spot on which the father of Israel prepared to offer up his son as a sacrifice to God. Afterward they visited the Church of St. James, which is erected where Christ is supposed to have appeared to Mary Magdalene.

Euthymus was shown by his companion all


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 122 the other places of interest, and he informed him as to the amount of money he should give on every occasion, and where they should place lighted candles.

As night drew on they returned to their lodging, and as they were preparing to retire, the stranger became greatly excited. Searching his clothes hastily, he cried out:

"They have stolen my wallet! It contained twenty-three rubles—two ten-ruble bills and three rubles in small change."

He grieved but little over his loss, however, as it could not be helped, and soon he and Euthymus were fast asleep.


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 280 Nass, 32.

Násikh, 39.

Nasuá, 200.

Násút, 228, 230.

Nazr, 226.

Nikah, 177.

Nisf, 30.

Niyyat, 106.

Nmúz, 104, 114.

Núr-i-Muhammad, 266.

Paighambar, 102.

Peshín, 114.

Pír, 157.

Qabúl, 177.

Qádaría, 236.

Qaul-ul-Haqq, 256.

Qazá, 120.

Qazaf, 140.

Qází, 155.

Qíám, 106.

Qíám-i-Sami-Ullah, 108.

Qíámat, 87.

Qiás, 12, 48, 64.

Qiás-i-Jalí, 64.

Qiás-i-Khafí, 64.

Qibla, 135.

Qiraʾat, 24, 107.

Qisás, 142.

Qurbán-Bayrám, 173.

Qurbán-i-ʾId, 173.

Qurán, 12, 14.

Qurán-Majíd, 14.

Qurán-Sharíf, 14.

Qutab, 158.

Qutbah, 158.

Rabiʾ-ul-Awwal, 163.

Rabiʾ-ul-Akhir, 163.

Rafía, 237.

Rajab, 163.

Rakʾat, 110.

Ramazán, 119, 163.

Rami-ul-Jamár, 134.

Rasúl, 84, 102.

Rasúl-Ullah, 85.

Rawá, 137.

Rayyán, 119.

Rezwán, 80.

Riwáyat, 54.

Roza, 101.

Rowzat-us-Shuhádáa, 165.

Rubaʾ, 30.

Rúh, 256.

Rúh-Ullah, 85, 256.

Rúh-ul-A′mín, 15.

Rúh-ul-Qudus, 15.

Rukuʾ, 30.

Sabʾata-Ahrúf, 25.

Sadaqa, 128, 171.

Safar, 163.

Saghíra, 139.

Sáhib-i-Nissab, 125.

Sahífah, 85.

Sʾaír, 97.

Salám, 112, 148.


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. Take that French case for example: the scandal nearly disrupted the army; even generals were mixed up in it. All politics, of course. Talk about handwriting—I could fix up for you myself pretty much what you please. If I had had any leaning toward evil, as thank God I have had toward good, and I have never had reason to regret it—a quiet conscience is better than great riches—well, the fact is I could fix up for you pretty much what I pleased. But I have never taken advantage of this ability, no, sir, unless sometimes in jest. Now and then a man must have his jest. But there are people who think otherwise, who will go to any length in order to get money. Yes, sir! But Doña Josefina? Nonsense! She is innocent. If you could see her as I do every morning, sitting at the foot of the bed fixing the collars and cuffs on the Governor's shirt!

. I wouldn't have believed it possible.

. No, sir, I tell you people are malicious, evil-minded. For instance, I brought up a niece of my wife's out of charity from a very tender age, and everybody said… Believe me, there is more in these things than appears upon the surface. Yes, sir! I have had experience. Don Baldomero's daughter is in love with Don Manolo; her father is opposed to the match; then Josefina intervenes with Doña O, and she is offended by it; so to disillusion the girl, they invent the first slander that comes into their heads.

. Caramba! They are growing impatient.

. Yes, the sun is hot and they bring their wine-skins. They are warming up. [Looking into the box] Ah! Now they hiss me.

. If it begins like this

. What will the end be?


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. Well, what more do they wish? The most exacting should be satisfied. Liberty has triumphed. We have seen the play, and it turns out to be a good one. Yes, sir! Those who didn't like it, didn't like it, but the public has been heard from.

. Yes, but how? On their way home they broke two windows in the café. At Don Baldomero's there isn't so much as a whole pane of glass.

. He hasn't given up, though. Did you see the Abejorro?

. And the Echo! This story about the secretary and the Governor's wife—Nothing else was talked of in the café this morning. Have another glass?

. No, thank you. It would never do to have it go to my head. This story—you can take it from me—it's a lie out of the whole cloth, a calumny. I come into contact daily with Doña Josefina and Don Manuel, yes, sir, and with the Governor himself, and I consider them all in their way decent people, very decent people—without meaning anything by it—among the most decent we have had in the Palace during the twenty years I have been in it, and we have had all sorts of people, including decent people. But politics have no heart. It is every one for himself and the devil for all of them. Poor Doña Josefina! She was crying all morning like a Magdalen.

. No! She was?

. She hides nothing from me. While she was combing her hair, she let fall such a tear!

. But there are people who have seen the letters. You can read them in the papers.

. You can, can you? How do you know they are not forgeries? Yes, sir!

. [Much impressed] Ah! Very likely.


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text: West African Studies/Chapter 1

title: West African Studies/Chapter 1


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. What is the matter? What are they hooting at?

. Nothing, señora, the heat, the wine…

. [Seating herself at the table without entering the box] Ay! I never was so nervous. Everything upsets me.

. And His Excellency the Governor? Did he come with you?

. No, he is in conference with the manager and the chief of the Guardia civil.

. We thought it best to be early so as to avoid the crowd. Have we long to wait?

. A few minutes.

. We were setting out the refreshments.

. Yes, the lunch. I shall be back during the intermission. With your permission, señora…

. If there is nothing for me to do, I will retire also.

. Aren't you going to stay to see the fight?

. Sí, señora, I have seats with my family.

. Gracious! Have you a family, Don Trino? I didn't know you were married.

. I am a widower, sí, señora. I have a niece and three small children. At your service, señora.

. Why does he say at my service? A widower!… I hope there is not going to be any trouble.

. I hope not, señora. It is only the people amusing themselves. If the toreros are good and the bulls fierce, all will be well; but if the bulls are bad, as they were last year—Good Lord! They will burn the plaza! At least that is the custom.

. It is?

. Barbarous!

. Worse than barbarous; it is terrible! The spec-


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title: Page:Poems Osgood.djvu/169


text:
Page:Batrachomyomachia, or, the Battle of the Frogs and Mice.djvu/4

 {|
 * Of the ||  Of the
 * Borborocætes. Calaminthius. Crambophagus. Craugasides. Hydrocharis. Hydromedusa. Hypsiboas. Limnisius. Limnocharis. Peleus. Pelion. Pelobates. Pelusius. Prassæus. Physignathus. Polyphonus. Prassophagus. Sentlæus.||| Artepibulus. Artophagus. Cnissodioctes. Embasichytros. Lichenor. Lichopinax. Lichomyle. Meridarpax. Pternotroctes. Pternoglyphus. Pternophagus. Psicharpax. Sitophagus. Troxartes. Tyroglyphus. Troglodytes.
 * }
 * Borborocætes. Calaminthius. Crambophagus. Craugasides. Hydrocharis. Hydromedusa. Hypsiboas. Limnisius. Limnocharis. Peleus. Pelion. Pelobates. Pelusius. Prassæus. Physignathus. Polyphonus. Prassophagus. Sentlæus.||| Artepibulus. Artophagus. Cnissodioctes. Embasichytros. Lichenor. Lichopinax. Lichomyle. Meridarpax. Pternotroctes. Pternoglyphus. Pternophagus. Psicharpax. Sitophagus. Troxartes. Tyroglyphus. Troglodytes.
 * }


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 not so big as the Congo, but it is a very respectable stream even for the great continent of rivers, and it pours into the Atlantic, in the wet season, about 1,750,000 cubic feet of fresh water per second, on which float some of these islands. But by no means every island gets out to sea, many of them get into slack water round corners in the Delta region of the Ogowé and remain there, collecting all sorts of débris that comes down on the flood water, getting matted more and more firm by the floating grass, every joint of which grows on the smallest opportunity. In many places these floating islands are of considerable size; one I heard of was large enough to induce a friend of mine to start a coffee plantation on it; unfortunately the wretched thing came to pieces when he had cut down its trees and turned the soil up. And one I saw in the Karkola river, was a weird affair. It was in the river opposite our camp, and very slowly, but perceptibly it went round and round in an orbit, although it was about half an acre in extent. A good many of these bits of banks do not attain to the honour of becoming islands, but get on to sand-banks in their early youth, near a native town, to the joy of the inhabitants, who forthwith go off to them, and drive round them a stockade of stakes firmly anchoring them. Thousands of fishes then congregate round the little island inside the stockade, for the rich feeding in among the roots and grass, and the affair is left a certain time. Then the entrance to the stockade is firmly closed up, and the natives go inside and bale out the water, and catch the fish in baskets, tearing the island to pieces, with shouts and squeals of exultation. It's messy, but it is amusing, and you get tremendous catches.

A very large percentage of fish traps are dedicated to

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 tacle itself is a savage one, sí, señora; but, believe me, the people, when they are aroused, are a thousand times more savage than the spectacle. Sí, señora.

. I don't think I shall enjoy it. I like the animation, the parade of the fighters, the entrance of the bull, but nothing else. The truth is, this year I didn't want to come…

. No wonder. The circumstances—that is, the conditions… Ah! What a world we live in! Sí, señora! If you wish nothing more?

. No, no, nothing, Don Trino.

. [Looking into the plaza] There is a big crowd.

. There is? I am sorry to hear it. I wish there wasn't anybody at all. Give me a glass of water.

. Have a sandwich? A cake? Didn't you eat anything this morning? You look pale.

. No, I couldn't eat. I am so restless, so nervous.

. Why? It is quite unnecessary. I tell you we have won.

. Yes, it was all very well last night while the performance was going on—applause and cheers at the theatre; but this afternoon, after people have seen the papers, after they have had a chance to talk! On the way here everybody was reading the Abejorro. I could see them from the carriage.

. Yes, but everybody was indignant, as I thought. They say it is a calumny invented by Don Baldomero to revenge himself for the insults of last night.

. That may be. But didn't you hear? Esperanza made a scene this morning—I had it from the servants. She says she is going to marry you, and she is going to marry you immediately.