neighborhood. It has in fact taken the are scarcely sufficient to account for the place of the old Berkshire feast or frequency with which bishops adorn its "revel," which was already fast decom- pages; and to one who, like myself, has posing when Hughes described it in an almost Waltonian affection for the "Tom Brown's Schooldays." There is bench this determination to find or only one old man in the village, so far make them ridiculous is provoking. It as I can learn, who ever took part in a would not be an unprofitable matter for "back-swording" contest, and he only consideration at the next Church Cononce. His story is that an "old game- gress. The dress may have something ster" asked him to make play for him, to do with it, especially the "apron," as promising to let him off easily; but the it is called, which does not explain itself incessant flicker of the single-stick be- as a walking cassock. One of Julian fore his eyes so roused his bile that, Sturgis's most successful "Little Combeing a brawny fellow, he beat down edies" turns upon a bishop unbuttoning the old gamester's guard by sheer force his apron. Then there is the shoveland "broke his head." He has no sen- hat, which came in, says Fitzgerald, timental regret at the disappearance of "with the gift of tongs; so that is backswording, which, as he describes it, doubtless preserved as standing witness must have been brutal enough; and he to the Apostolical Succession. Then, of insists that the wrestling was as bad, course, there is the dignity; so difficult the shoes of the wrestlers being often to manage because it came late in life, full of blood from cuts made by the though in that bishops are no worse off sharp leather. A degenerate age is con- than law lords; but still more because it tent with cricket and football, which is so curious an amalgam of worldly and are vastly better civilizers both of spiritual elements. One could not imthews and temper. All the morning on agine the mildest of barristers apoloWhit-Monday, the purveyors of amuse-gizing to the lord chancellor for one of ment, mostly gipsy, are getting their his lordship's breakfast eggs, that stalls, and cocoanut pavilions, and merry-go-rounds into place; then the town band arrives a little before noon and plays the members into church. Dinner follows in the big barn, the gentlemen interested in the club doing the carving. When everybody is well wound up, the annual meeting is held, the honorary secretary makes an inaudible report, new officers are elected, the queen's health is drunk, and everybody proposes a vote of thanks to everybody else. Then the whole company migrates into Tom's park and gardens to watch the cricket-match, or swing or loaf as their fancy leads them, except a few thirsty enthusiasts who pre- | fer playing skittles at the Blue Boar for a cheese to make them thirstier. time comes dancing, and in time the band marches out of the park drawing the youths and maidens after it. In 27th.-Punch has another picture joke this week about a bishop. Of course there are well-known reasons why the Church of England is not much in favor with our chief comic paper, but they or "parts of it were excellent," as Punch makes a curate apologize to his bishop. And then, again, there is the "madam" "mistress," about whom Selden made so merry, and in these all but last days Trollope; sharing in neither dignity, but too often affecting a higher degree of both. There is no doubt that the world loves asceticism in its clergy; Manning's face must have been worth a good deal to his adopted Church. However, the cassock matter might well be referred to a committee of the Upper House of Convocation. An inch or two might make all the difference: "A little more and how much it is!" Punch's joke reminds me of a story I heard of -'s little girl. She was put next to Bishop at luncheon, and told to behave herself accordingly. Her mode of doing so was to say, "For G―'s sake, bishop, pass the salt." 29th. The scythes have begun in the bottom meadow; there is no more cheerful sight and no more delicious sound, when the grass is worth cutting, but this year it is all "bennets." "It shall be called Bottom's Dream, because there is no bottom." Turned over Bacon's "Essays." He is not Shakespeare, but he is often as surprisingly modern, sentence after sentence seems written with an eye to current events. Take this, for instance: "To be master of the sea is an abridgment of a monarchy" (i.e., a monarchy in miniature). Surely at this day, with us of Europe, the vantage of strength at sea (which is one of the principal dowries of the kingdom of Great Britain) is great; both because most of the kingdoms of Europe are not merely inland, but girt with the sea most part of their compass; and because the wealth of both Indies seems in great part but an accessory to the command of the seas." And here is our Armenian policy. Among unjustifiable wars Bacon ranks those "made by foreigners under the pretence of justice or protection to deliver the subject of others from tyranny and oppression." And here is a judgment on the Transvaal government: "All states that are liberal of naturalization towards strangers are fit for empire." Here, too, is one side of the colonial secretary: "Wonderful is the case of boldness in civil business: What first? Boldness. What second and third? Boldness. It doth fascinate and bind hand and foot; therefore we see it hath done wonders in popular states, and more ever upon the first entrance of bold persons into action." This is, of course, the passage from which Danton stole his "Il nous faut de l'audace, encore de l'audace, toujours de l'audace." Here is a good criticism on the Drink Commission: "In choice of committees for ripening business for the Council, it is better to choose indifferent persons than to make an indifferency by putting in those that are strong on both sides." Finally, the following judgment of a great soldier on duelling might well be commended to the notice of the German emperor: "It were good that men did hearken to the saying of Consalvo, the great and famous commander, that was wont to say 'a gentleman's honor should be de tela crassiore-of a good strong warp or web, that every little thing should not catch in it.'" 30th. The post this morning has more waste paper than ever. There are six prospectuses of joint-stock companies, most of them offering gold mines. Will Africa never cease blowing bubbles? It is not insignificant that money-lenders' letters are increasing in proportion. There are a couple to-day. One gentleman suggests "remunerative but not exorbitant interest," and writes in a boyish hand that is very frank and engaging. Indeed, I opened the letter first, thinking it was from Harry. The other fellow puts a crest on his envelope, a hound's head with the motto, "Fides in adversis,' which is even more touching. It strikes me that "a crocodile's head, the eyes distilling tears, all proper," with for motto "Beati pauperes," or "Dare quam accipere," would be much more appropriate. Then there is an enormous circular from a gentleman who is urgent that I should go with him on an educational tour to Jericho, or a co-operative cruise to shoot polar bears. And then there are the wine-lists. There is no such good reading to be had, if you lunch alone, as an advertiser's wine-list; to a person of imagination and gouty tendency it is more stimulating and far more innocuous than the wine itself. Indeed, I suspect that what these vintners sell is not half so precious as their description of it. From The Spectator. DAINTIES OF ANIMAL DIET. The well-informed persons who wrote to the papers on the nature and uses of the persimmon, after the Prince of Wales's horse of that name won the Derby, omitted to notice that the fruit is in immense request as one of the dainties of animal diet. "Brer Rabbit" achieved not the least notable of his diplomatic triumphs by inducing the other animals to get him persimmons when they wanted them themselves; and in fact there is no other fruit, ex cept perhaps the watermelon, which is in more general request both among birds and beasts. The taste for "dainties" among animals takes rather unexpected forms. Many flesh-eating creatures, for example, select as delicacies some form of fruit, and take considerable trouble to gratify what is a taste for luxury rather than a necessity of diet. The Syrian foxes, "the little foxes which spoil the grapes," are not the only creatures of their tribe which go for food to the vineyards. Jackals do the same, and eat the fruit not only as a luxury, but as a medicine. The "grape cure" makes a marked difference in their condition, and animals which enter the vineyards suffering from mange are said to be restored to health very soon after their diet of grapes has begun. One British carnivorous animal, the marten, also seeks fruit as a dainty. In Sutherlandshire Mr. St. John discovered that some animal was stealing his raspberries, and setting a trap, caught in it a marten cub. Dogs will also eat fruit, though rarely. When they do they usually take a fancy to gooseberries; the present writer has met with two spaniels which had this taste, and would take the gooseberries from the trees, and put out the skins after eating the pulp. In the annual report of the management of the menagerie of the Zoological Society, the item "onions" always figures largely in the bill for provender. Onions, as is well known to housekeepers, are an indispensable ingredient in very many dishes in which their presence is hardly recognized by those who would at once detect the smallest morsel of the vegetable if uncooked; and by most out-of-door populations, especially Spaniards and Portuguese, they are eaten raw with bread as part of their staple food. But no English animal seems particularly fond of them, and it is not easy to guess for whose benefit they are in such request at the Zoo. They are bought mainly for the African antelopes and giraffes. All of the former, from the big roan antelopes to the min iature gazelles, "dote" on onions, and regard them as the greatest delicacy which can be offered for their acceptance. It is said by trainers that if a horse once becomes fond of sugar he can be taught any trick for the circus. Antelopes could probably be trained in the same way by rewards of onions. There is one drawback to their indulgence in this dainty, which leads to some restriction of its use at the Zoo. After an onion-breakfast the scent in the antelope-house, usually redolent of odorous hay and clover, is overpowering, and visitors who do not notice the fragments of onion-tops upon the floor are inclined to leave in haste, and class the antelopes among the other evilsmelling beasts of the menagerie. For the giraffes they were not only a bonne bouche, but also a very wholesome change in their ordinary food, and though the liking for the bulb is an acquired taste, for onions are not native to the South African veldt, the new giraffe is as fond of them as its predecessors. Deer show no particular preference for onions; on the other hand, they prefer apples to any other dainty. In the Highlands the wild deer have no chance of invading an orchard; but on Exmoor and on the Quantock Hills, where they have now greatly increased in numbers, they leave the hillsides and thick plantations and rob orchards by moonlight. The stags thrust their horns among the appleboughs and shake off the fruit, and even leap up to strike the branches which are beyond their reach when standing. In enclosed parks red-deer find a substitute for apples in the small unripe horse-chestnuts which fall in dry weather. At the Sheen Lodge of Richmond Park, near which several chestnut-trees stand, the stags have been known to slip out through the gate to pick up the fallen fruit lying on the road. Fallow-deer seem less fond of fruit than the red-deer. Bread is the delicacy by which they are most tempted, though, except in such small enclosed parks as that of Magdalen College at Oxford, they are rarely tame enough to take it from the hand. At Bushey Park, where the herbage is unusually rich and the fallow-deer fatten more quickly than in any of the royal parks, there is one old buck who has acquired such a taste for bread that he has left the main herd, and established himself as a regular beggar near the Hampton Court Gate. The benches between this gate and the circular pond and fountain near the head of the great avenue are naturally favorite seats for Londoners who come down and bring their luncheon with them. The moment the buck sees a couple comfortably seated and a paper parcel produced and opened, he sidles up and gazes with all the expression of which his fine eyes are capable at the buns and bread-and-butter. If a piece be held out to him, he waltzes up, and stretching forward as far as he can without overbalancing, takes it from the hand. At this moment his dignity and grace somewhat decline, for his excitement is such that he curls his tail over his back, and looks like a terrier. Hares, like most rodents, do not show strong preference in their choice of food; their chief "preference" being that there shall be plenty of it, and that it shall be green and tender. But they will come great distances to feed on carrots. Some Devonshire magistrates recently refused to convict a person charged with poaching a hare, on the ground that they, as sportsmen, did not believe that there was a hare in the parish in which the offence was alleged to have been committed. The facts rather favored this view, but the planting of a field of carrots in this hareless area soon attracted the animals. Rabbits, which are by consent able to get a living where no other quadruped can, become very select in their tastes where food is abundant, and soon seek variety. In the gardens of a large house in Suffolk, adjoining a park in which rabbits swarmed before the passing of the Ground Game Act, it was found that some rabbits managed to effect an entrance every night, with a view to eating certain flowers. These were clove-pinks and verbenas. No other flowers were touched, but the pinks were nipped off when they flowered, and the verbena plants devoured as soon as they were bedded out. Farmers have lately been advised to try feeding their stock on sugar. which is both cheap and fattening. This would be good hearing for many horses, which like nothing so well as lump-sugar; but neither cows nor pigs seem to be particularly fond of sweetstuff in this form, though the latter are very partial to raw, crushed sugarcane. But the pig, though greedy and omnivorous when kept in a stye, and a very foul feeder on the New Zealand runs, is most particular in its choice of food when running wild in the English woods. Its special dainties are underground roots and tubers, and it is the only animal, except man, which appreciates and seeks for the truffle. For all these underground delicacies its scent is exquisitely keen. If by any mishap a pig enters a garden at the time when bulbs are planted it will plough up a row of snowdrops or crocus-roots, following the line as readily as if they lay exposed upon the surface. On the other hand, pigs seem to have discovered that raw potatoes are unwholesome. Cooked potatoes are devoured greedily; but the raw tuber is as a rule rejected, unless the animal is very hungry, and though pigs will sometimes root among the potato-mounds, it is in search of other food than potatoes. Stud-grooms have decided that carrots are the favorite dainty of the horse, and accordingly it has become part, in many stables, of the under-groom's duty to slice carrots and arrange them on a plate ready for the master or mistress to take to the horses when visiting them. They like apples equally well, but these do not always agree with them. There is, or was recently, at Guildford Station, a horse which would push a truck with its chest, when told to do so, instead of pulling it. This was very useful when it was desired to bring the truck up to the end of a siding, where there was no room for the horse to go in front and pull. It had been taught by a shunter, who sat in an empty truck and offered the horse a carrot. The horse would stretch its neck out, and push its chest against the wagon to take the carrot, and so start the wagon along the metals. It was then given the carrot, and soon learned that it was wanted to push and would be rewarded for doing So. Donkeys are said to like thistles. They will eat them, and will even take them from the hand and eat them when other food is at hand. But they do not exhibit much enthusiasm for the dainty, and would probably agree with Bottom that "Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow." Camels, however, really enjoy them, and menagerie camels when on tour will eat every thistle they can pick by the roadside. This is a curious taste in dainties, but, like human fancies of the kind it has a sentimental background. The camel, it is said, eats the thistles because they are the nearest approach to the "vegetation" of its native desert. From Le Magasin Pittoresque (Paris). ETYMOLOGICAL SUPERSTITIONS. It is difficult to understand how great is the influence of words on popular beliefs. When two terms present some similarity in pronunciation, this resemblance, remote though it be, suffices in the mind of the masses to establish between them a mysterious connection whence some legend arises. The history of language furnishes us with examples on all sides. It is thus that Hugh Capet appears in history as having a large head [Latin caput, head], that oil of lavender is extracted from the asp, and that bears and oxen have usurped the places of stars in the heavens. There was formerly, in the Alps, on the Italian frontier, a chapel dedicated to St. Vrain or Verein. This pious hermit, who lived in the sixth century of our era, was bishop of Cavaillon and was present at the second council of Macon in 585. On the site of this chapel was erected later a tower, which bore the name of the Tower of St. Vrain, in Italian San Verene. When the memory of the bishop was effaced in the minds of men the term San Vereno, being no longer understood, was changed to sans veneno, an expression which was naturally translated [into French] sans venin [without poison], and this is the present name of the tower. People, however, were not able to stop here. A reason for this singular name was sought. Why was this tower "without poison"? The solution of the problem was soon found. The tower was called thus because near it no venomous animal could live, no poisonous plant flourish. History does not say to what distance the influence of the tower extends, but it certainly asserts that no poisonous thing can grow near it. If a scorpion, a viper, or even a spider ventures too near, it dies at once. The tower is "without poison." Thus an error in pronunciation, coming from a certain similarity between two words (vereno, veneno) gave rise to a legend that is to this day believed in the neighborhood to be as true as the Gospel. The popular imagination attributes to certain saints a peculiar power over maladies and over the scourges that ravage humanity. These beliefs have nothing to do with religion. The Church sets before us the saints as models whose virtues we ought to imitate, and as powerful intercessors with God; but she says nowhere that they have power to remove sickness, to preserve from lightning, or to assauge pestilence or famine. How, then, have these superstitious beliefs arisen? With a little attention it will be easy to see that there is in the whole thing only a question of homophony. Thus St. Clou has naturally for his specialty the cure of fever sores (clous). St. Main [French main, hand] and St. Genou [genou, knee] have power over affections of these parts of the body. St. Claire and St. Luce watch over the eyes. The department of hearing [ouïe] belongs to St. Ouen. St. Mammès watches over maladies of the |