Charles made a fruitless effort to lift up his right hand to shake that of his captain, but it was physically impossible-he could only raise the arm to a horizontal position as far as the elbow, for all the fore-arm below the fracture hung helplessly down. Perceiving what he wanted to do, the captain convulsively pressed the hand between his own. Within one quarter of an hour from the fatal occurrence, the midshipman was evidently very near his end. His young messmates crowded around him, several of them sobbing aloud, and even the roughest old sea-dogs on board felt their hearts melting at the sight. Until now, Charles had neither spoken a word nor shed a tear, but the comparative composure of his features suddenly vanished, and exquisite mental anguish sharply set its seal on them, while his parched lips rapidly opened and closed, at length emitting the comprehensive exclamation, My poor mother!' Ah, the eloquence of those three words! My dear sister!' and a few tears slowly passed down his cheeks. Oh,' groaned he, it will break their hearts; I know it will!'

A gush of blood, caused by his internal injuries, admonished the dying boy that his end was indeed nigh; and soon, as it eased a little, the surgeon gave him an other draught of brandy. This enabled him to recover his speech; and, after nodding to Home, to myself, and to all his messmates whose faces he could see, he then, with a most heartrending intonation, slowly cried, 'God Almighty bless you all! Good-by!'

His head sank down-Home raised it on his own breast, and wiped the clammy dew of death away anew. The dying midshipman looked up into the tear-blinded eyes which had never gazed on him but with kindness, and murmured, My poor, dear mother, sir. You will see heryou will tell her all?'

...

...

...

Then a few further indistinguishable murmurs and prayers escaped his lips-a shudder passed through his entire frame, agitating even the gory extremities of his mangled limbs-a feeble groan or two-a gasp-a gush of blood from the mouth-a final quiver-and all was over!' Such was the passenger's story of the East Indiaman's midshipman; and, as he concluded, the sun was on the very eve of setting. Another passenger quoted one of the justest and noblest descriptions of the scene they were wit nessing ever bequeathed by poet to the world. It occurs in 'Rokeby' :-

'No pale gradations quench his ray,
No twilight dews his wrath allay;
With disk like battle-target red,
He rushes to his burning bed,
Dyes the wide wave with bloody light,
Then sinks at once-and all is night!'

Hardly had his voice ceased quoting this, when the whole scene described by the poet was bodily enacted. The tropical sun 'rushed to his burning bed,' the wind began to flap his invisible pinions, the waves to fret, the air to chill, and the gathering clouds and mystic shadows of night to enshroud the lately illumined scene.

THE EXPERIENCE OF OUR FATHERS. NATURE Conceals her mysteries; although ever active, she does not at all times reveal her operations: time, in the course of revolving ages, successively discovers them; and, although always alike and unchanged, they are not always equally known, The insight into these secrets, gained by the intelligence of man, is continually augmenting; and as this furnishes the groundwork of physical science, the results and consequences develop themselves and multiply in proportion. In this spirit it is that we may, in the present day, propound views and hazard new opinions without showing contempt or ingratitude towards those of the

ancients. The rudimental knowledge with which they have furnished us, has been the source of our own acquisitions; and in the advantages we thus enjoy, we are their debtors for our very superiority over them. Advanced by their aid to an elevated pitch of intelligence, a slight effort enables us to rise yet higher; and, with less labour, but with less glory also, we take a position superior to them. By these means it is, that we are enabled to discover many things which it was impossible for them to perceive. Our views have acquired more extension; and although they, equally with ourselves, made themselves acquainted with all that it was in their power to discover of nature, their actual amount of knowledge was less, and we see more of her operations than they. How marvellous, then, is this indiscriminating reverence for the opinions of antiquity! It is made a crime to oppose, and a scandal to add to them, as if they alone had left no truths to be discovered by their successors! Is not this treating with indignity the reason of man, and putting it on a par with mere animal instinct? We annihilate the main difference between the two; which is, that the acquisitions of reason are incessantly accumulating, whilst instinct remains ever stationary. The cell of the bee was as exactly constructed a thousand years ago as at this day; and each forms its little hexagon as skilfully at the first attempt, as throughout the whole of its brief existence. It is the same, under this mysterious guidance, with all the productions of the animal creation. Nature instructs her children in propor tion to their respective necessities; but this fragile science is lost with the wants to which it owes its birth. Possessing it without study, they are denied the advantage of retaining it; and every time that it is imparted, it is new to the artificer, because the nature having no design but that of maintaining the animal in its position of a limited perfection, inspires it with this necessary knowledge always equal in degree, lest it should fall into decay; yet never exceeding the allotted measure, lest it should overpass the limits which she has prescribed to its powers. With man, however, it is otherwise. He is formed for infinitude! Wrapped in helpless ignorance during the first stages of existence, he is constantly acquiring knowledge throughout its progress. He derives advantages not only from his own experience, but from that of his predecessors; for he has the power of retaining in his memory all the stores which he has himself acquired, and those which the ancients-who are to him as if ever present-have transmitted in their writings. And, as he thus preserves the knowledge already gained, he bas it in his power easily to make additions to it; so that we are in the present day, in a measure, in the same state as the philosophers of old would have been, if they could have survived till now; adding the knowledge which they then possessed to that which their studies would have accumulated through the lapse of intervening times. Thence it is that, by our especial privilege, not only does each individual make daily advances in knowledge, but the whole body of men are, as ages roll on, in a state of constant progress; for the experience of successive generations is ever the same as that of the advancing years of the individual man. The whole human race, throughout the succession of centuries, may thus be considered as one man -ever living, and continually learning; whence we see how groundless is this inordinate deference for the antiquity of philosophy. As old age is the period of life most remote from infancy, who does not perceive that maturity in this ever-existing being is not to be sought for in the times nearest to his birth, but in those the most remote from it? Those whom we call the ancients' were, in reality, inexperienced in all things, and constituted but the infancy of man; and, as we have added to their acquirements the experience of succeeding ages, it is we who have succeeded to that antiquity, which we are called upon to revere in them. Our fathers are entitled to admiration for the improvement they made of their limited advantages; and their deficiencies should be excused, arising, as they did, rather from want of experience than from any defect of intelligence.-Pascal.

EDUCATION AS IT IS.* 'THERE is a tide in the affairs of men, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune.' This we all know; the truth has been, as it were, breathed into the veins of the nation by our mighty bard. Individual life has its critical periods, its urgent emergencies, its importunate questions; and the man who has known well how to meet these, who has been able to seize occasion and to mould circumstance,

who has ever struck in when the tide was at flood, is the man who has been prosperous. There is a tide in the af fairs of nations, which taken at the flood leads on to fortune. This, on consideration, will be found also to be true. Every generation, as well as every man, has to answer critical questions, to solve riddles of momentous import, to meet emergencies which are peculiar to itself, and have been encountered by no other generation. And for some considerable space, now, with increasing emphasis of proclamation, our particular generation has heard the great question propounded, How are the great masses, the millions, the countless sons of toil, on whose Atlantean shoulders the world and all its worlds' are supported, to be managed and guided?' To our generation, we say, this grand problem has been very audibly propounded. Ever since the first French Revolution, it has been the question of questions; and we still tremble in the echo, if not the continued rolling, of the thunder-peals in which it was then proclaimed. The people now know more than heretofore of their power and their importance; they have found themselves channels for the expression of their opinions; they are in number resistless. Thinking men, now-a-days, are apt to tread softly, as above a grave,' or rather a vol cano, which may yawn and swallow them, or burst into flames and consume them. And of contributions towards the solution of our momentous problem, there has been no lack. Philanthropy has come forward with a kindly smile which beseems our advanced civilisation; and has in many quarters been gravely or inanely railed at: we cast no stone at her. Emigration has been largely pleaded, and surely with resistless logic. Religion, and all the embodied masses or churches which march under her empyreal flag, have not been wanting in effort, amid much most melancholy, hollow, really sepulchral mockery from opposers of cant;' themselves, in sober likelihood, the most unmistakeable and the inanest canters that this poor world of ours, which the old Indian poets discerned to be a most fitting type of patience, ever saw. And, to mention no more, education has been proclaimed far and wide, as a specific for national crime, and a means for averting national calamity.

The work which is at present before us, we have no hesitation in proclaiming a well-timed and useful publication. It consists, as the name imports, of extracts from the reports of her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools; and it is most valuable as embodying, at sufficient length, the varied and important results of the experience and investigation of these gentlemen. It contains much important information; lets us see occasionally behind the scenes, when our stupendous physical attainments may render us satisfied with the performances of this generation on the stage of the world; and, on the whole, is well worthy of the attentive study of thinking men. It is, withal, a manual whose value can scarce be over-rated to schoolmasters and those in any way connected with schools. Its suggestions are wide and generally pertinent; its range of view is extensive; it is substantial, unpretentious, and full of facts. It is not an essay on education; it does not claim to treat systematically on that question; but it is the systematised experience of a number of singularly qualified men; and to any one desirous of attaining a sound theory of education, or composing a treatise on the subject, it will be a most welcome boon.

Extracts from the Reports of Her Majesty's Inspectors of Schools: intended chiefly for the use of the Managers and Teachers of such Elementary Schools as are not receiving Government aid. London: Longman & Co. 1852.

The preface appears to us not quite so satisfactory as the rest of the volume. It seems to want compactness, connection, and unity of principle. It contains somewhat of sound opinion, certainly; but it is not undiluted. The writer, for instance, whose name, by the way, is utterly of both boys and girls should be regulated by the kind of unknown to us, remarks- Generally, the secular lessons employment in which the child is likely to be engaged in

after life.'

Now, this is mere nonsense; one of those smirking plausibilities which it is the duty of all men to tear the mask off, wherever they meet them. It involves, in fact, oblivion, temporary, at least, to the most important principle in education, viz., that the imparting of knowledge to the mind is really a very secondary affair in the training of youth, and that the improvement of the faculties and the formation of true principles are the grand aims. By this plan, which, by the way, is, besides everything else, impracticable, you produce a singular compound of scholar and tradesman, and find at last that, unless a regular apprenticeship is served, your pupil, whose secular lessons' have been 'regulated by the kind of employment in which he is to be engaged,' is, in fact, food for nothing. It is, perhaps, the most baneful prejudice with which teachers have to contend, this of training for some particular walk of life; and teachers can witness to the almost total hopelessness of making anything of a boy, when the idea has once obtained lodgment in his head that he is to look for such knowledge only as is useful for a merchant, or a military or professional man. Fit your boy to use his arms; to what extent is possible put arms into his hands; but do not pretend to predict for him the precise post or position he is to occupy in the life-battle or the life-march; otherwise you and he will, in the wild tossings and strivings of that stern melee, or that tumultuous marching, be very widely out of reckoning. above grave offence, by presenting us with one or two solid The author of the preface somewhat extenuates the and important extracts from various writers. One of these is from Archdeacon Hare's Victory of Faith,' and is of sterling stuff. We shall convey it to our pages: The state and condition in which we enter into life have been so ordered and appointed, that infancy and childhood must needs be to all a perpetual exertion of faith. During the first years of life we cannot do anything, we cannot know anything, we cannot learn anything, not even to speak, except through faith. A child's soul lies in faith as in a He is so fashioned, is brought into the world in such utter helplessness and dependence, that he cannot do otherwise than put faith in the wisdom and in the love of all around him, especially of his parents, who in this respect chiefly stand in the stead of God to him. . . . But every merely as an heir of time, but as an heir of eternity. He is to child that comes into the world is to be trained up not

nest.

be trained to live a life of faith. . . . When we have learned

to look at childhood in its true light, as a discipline and exercise of faith-when we have recognised the beneficence of the ordinance, that, during our first years, our souls should grow up wholly by breathing the air, and, as it were, sucking the milk of faith, we see how rightly, in ages before men were dazzled by the glare of their own ingenuity, it was deemed the fundamental principle of a Wholesome education to bring up children in full, strict, unquestioning obedience. For every act of obedienceif willing and ready, not the result of fear or of constraint -is an act of faith, and that, too, in one of its higher manifestations; . . whereas the practice (now far too prevawithout, at the same time, explaining the reasons for requir lent) of refraining from requiring obedience of children, ing it, by depriving the obedience of its personal faith and confiding submission, deprives it in great measure of its worth as an habitual element of the character; while, by appealing to the child's own understanding as the supreme and qualified judge of what he is to do, it fosters that spirit of self reliance which springs up too readily in every heart. Perverse, too, and enervating, is the practice of coaxing or fondling a child into obedience-of winning obedience from love in its more superficial external workings, rather

...

than as a duty, from faith. Let faith be the primary principle, and love will follow, and be dutiful and steadfast. Still more noxious is another habit, which also is deplorably common, of bribing children into obedience. Many parents are content if they get the dead works of obedience performed anyhow, and will promise their children some plaything or dainty if they will only do as they are bid. Thereby, through a self-indulgent weakness, to spare themselves a little pain and trouble, they encourage stubbornness and reward disobedience. Moreover,

they do what in them lies to strengthen the child's carnal, sensual propensities. . . . They teach him that, even in doing his duty, he is not to do it for its own sake, but for the sake of some paltry outward gratification to be gained by it. They teach him that God's judgments are less to be desired than gold, and far less sweet than honey, and that in keeping them there is no reward comparable to an apple or a toy.' This is well worthy of being pondered; it embodies much of the philosophy of teaching.

It is no easy task, from a work of such variety and compass, to select any passage or passages which would convey to our readers an adequate idea of the book. We shall make one or two extracts of interest in themselves, and such as seem to deserve consideration. The following, for instance, points to a state of affairs which loudly demands remedy and alteration: In order to make a better income, many masters hold offices, and are busied with employments, which interrupt in a greater or less degree the work of the school. At one place in Yorkshire, I found a knot of 'private pupils' seated at one end of the room-whilst the other children were standing in class-to whom the master gave the greater part of his thoughts and time, as the most profitable objects, to the great hindrance of the other and poorer children, who were very ignorant. He acknowledged the impropriety of this arrangement, but pleaded the insufficiency of his allotted stipend as his excuse. At two places in Lancashire, the masters are weavers 'between whiles,' as they call it. At two others, they had, at the time of my visit, been carried away, nothing loath, by surveyors for railways, by the irresistible bait of two guineas per day for their work. It will probably be a long time before these schools produce so much in a month. Other teachers are parish clerks, sextons, organists, postmasters, registrars, lecturers at mechanics' institutes; two are farmers, one is a brewer, another has a druggist's shop, and all, or the greater part of them, for the same reason-that they can hardly live by their scholastic labours, and must do the best in their power to eke out a sufficient maintenance for their families.'

This is truly lamentable, and it is, we suspect, an evil of wide extent. The day, we may safely predict, is not now far distant when such blots and unsavoury blemishes will cease to stare at the sun; and when, for one thing, the profession of the schoolmaster will be a recognised and a most honourable profession.

The following may appear to many, as it appears to us, deserving of serious consideration: In some places the children are in the habit of reading (the Bible) two and three times a-day. At one school, in Northumberland, the master assured me that the second class (of little ignorant children) read it six times daily! What is the natural, almost inevitable consequence? That in a great majority of these schools where Holy Scripture is thus made a reading lesson-a lesson just like other lessons-a long, tedious, often unintelligible lesson--the children turn to it with weariness, receive it with irreverence, and derive none of that solemn and peculiar instruction from it which it is intended to convey. How often have I seen them counting their place in the class, that they might learn which verse they should have to read! How often, when the chapter was finished, have they gone on without pause to another, as if the only object in reading the sacred writings was to get through as much as possible of them within their allotted period of time! The answers, too, which are made to very simple questions-answers, some of which would be blasphemous if the children were not grossly ignorantare such as painfully to convince the inquirer that to read

the Holy Scriptures in our schools does not always mean to mark, learn, and inwardly digest them."

These are mere samples, and are barely sufficient to indicate the wide range of suggestion and information contained in the work. We do not, of course, set our seal of approbation on all the sentiments it contains; we do not pronounce it faultless; but we call it, on the whole, a useful and seasonable work.

Original Poetry.

THE ROADSIDE WELL.'

I pass'd by an old grey well,
In a thirsty land alone,
Roof'd in like an eremite's cell,
And with steps of the mossiest stone."
And the dusty glare of the way
Seem'd soothed by the spell of its quiet;
So I parley'd awhile with the day,
And then sate me rejoicingly by it.

Oh, a goodly thing is thirst,

When the waters that quench it are by; But a demon of dread, and accursed,

When the fountains are distant, or dry!

But the mossy grey well was as clear

As the heart of a kindly old man,
And it brought back old tunes to my car,
As he will, as long as he can.
And let the gay bacchanals sing,

Till it slay them, the praises of wine,
I swear by the tress on this holiest ring
They never knew draught such as mine.
And meet were the visions that lung

On thy hoary, worn borders, old well;
For the branchy-leaved ferns to the crevices clung,
And many a frail-nodding bell.

And pendulous streamers of moss,

The green-flowing locks of thy age,
Hung loose in the air, or flung bridges across
From the crown of the hermitage.

And numberless dreams came over me, too,
Of the fairies and goblins of yore,
Who spirited maidens away in thy dew,
Or rode the foam-bubbles ashore;

Or croak'd in hoarse whispers in Goody's scared ears,
Or twitch'd at the home-going swain,

Or work'd like the nightmare on Jobbin's dull fears,
And then pull'd off the wheels of the wain.

And faces as merry as those old days

Peep'd over my shoulder, and laugh'd from below;
I knew they were damsels of bygone Mays,
And I smote them with pebbles before they would go.
And then a cowl'd face would peer over the brim,
And turn up its features all ghastly and white;
I knew he was Death, and I pelted at him,
And bade him be off to the regions of night.

But just then a small voice, from the dust and the sur,
Came down on my dream in the cool of the well-
'Will you let me come now to the stepping, kind sir,
For mother has sent me to fill her the pail?'

THE ROSIERE OF NANTERRE. SEATED in the easy-chair of indolence, we were smoking the pipe of listlessness, and lazily glancing over a Paris morning paper, when our attention was arrested by an advertisement which roused us thoroughly. To kick off our slippers and jump into our boots, to throw off our reading-gown and throw ourselves into a coat, to exchange our smoking-cap and pipe for our hat and walking-stick, was the work of a moment; in another we were proceeding at a rapid pace to the railway terminus in the Rue d'Amsterdam.

The cause of our excitement was this:-The advertisement referred to had quickened us by the information that the ceremony of crowning the Rosiere at Nanterre was that day to take place. Now, for four years--the ceremony is an annual one-we had been desirous of being present at it, but four times we had been disappointed, not hearing anything about it till after its celebration. Hence our anxiety not to be too late this time. But we must inform the reader what the rite which so raised our curiosity actually is. It is one of long standing. Some benevolent person, long ago (the exact period we have not ascertained), founded a charity by which a certain sum was annually to be bestowed on a poor girl of Nanterre, to serve as her dowery. It was to be considerd as a prize for virtue, and the choice among the candidates was to be in the hands of the magistrates of the place. A prize for virtue, however, we may remark in passing, it has not always been, for we were told of an occasion on which the mayor of the village actually had it bestowed on his own mistress. The sum amounts, we believe, to seven or eight hundred francs, about thirty pounds sterling. Why the successful competitor is called the Rosiere, we shall explain when we come to speak of the ceremony. Nanterre, we should say, is about two leagues from the western barrier of Paris by the road, but by railway it is nearly double that dis

tance.

We soon reached the terminus, which, by the way, is the terminus of three distinct lines, the Havre, the Versailles, by the right bank of the Seine (there is another railway to Versailles by the left bank), and the St Germains. It is on the last of these that Nanterre is a station. We received our ticket from an all but invisible female, seated in a den behind a sort of trellis-work, through a small opening, in which she handed us the narrow slip of paper which secured our place, and took up our money, which we deposited on a little shelf in front. We then ascended a flight of stairs, and found ourselves in the salle d'attente, or waiting-hall. Into this salle none but those provided with tickets are allowed to pass, and, as the platform from which the train starts enters from it, no one, if he be not a passenger, can penetrate to the carriages. It results from this system, which is common to all French railways, that you cannot see a friend off,' as the saying is, and that your wife, sister, or daughter, if alone, must fight her own way, and get a seat after a scramble, and as best she can. The salle d'attente is very large and lofty, and is very full of columns, so much so as at once to remind us of what a former Lord of Session said of what is now the Signet Library in Edinburgh, namely, 'that it was a fine place for haudin' pillars in. The scene in the hall was amusing enough. There were welldressed women without bonnets, polytechnic students walking up and down with the self-complacent strut peculiar to them, the usual proportion of red-legged soldiers, nurses with plump children in their arms and peaked caps on their heads, a great many funny hats, a great many yellow waistcoats, and a great many other things which we forget, having been prevented from committing them to our artificial memory by the curiosity of an individual, who, seeing a 'chield takin' notes,' leaned over us to read them. To mystify him, we turned a page, and began inscribing strange hieroglyphics, which perhaps he took for Chinese.

The bell at length rang, and there was a rush to the door, and from the door a rush to the train; every one

jumped into a carriage as fast as he could, and many were the vain attempts to get into those already full. There was also much scrambling to the roof, for trains on this railway carry outside passengers. After considerable delay we started, and in about eight minutes we crossed the Seine at Asnieres by a wooden bridge, which temporarily replaces the one destroyed during the revolution of February. Asnieres is a coquetish village, the aspect of which is like that of a stage scene. It is a great and favourite resort of the Parisians in summer, who crowd to it to dance in its public gardens, and to eat friture, a kind of fry made of gudgeons. After Asnieres the St Germains railway is like all other railways, one travels alternately along ridge and along furrow, without knowing anything of the country through which one is carried.

At last we arrive at Nanterre. We had heard of the cakes for which the place is celebrated, and were not, consequently, surprised to find them everywhere hawked about the streets, as well as on sale at every window. They are a sort of bun, are very insipid, and cost a sous a-piece. After eating one, in order that we might say we had done so, we inquired the hour and locality of the ceremony we had come to see; it was to take place, we found, at two o'clock, in the church. We went to the church, and read upon a bill posted on the door that admission was only by tickets, which were to be procured at the town-house. We discovered the town-house, entered, and asked for one. The official to whom we applied gave us two. 'Only one, if you please,' said we.

You cannot have only one,' said he.
Why?' we asked.

'Because you must take two,' answered the village functionary.

Two tickets for one person!' 'Yes, certainly.'

'But".

"That's nothing; do you wish tickets-yes, or no?' Finding it of no avail to remonstrate, we took the two, wondering much whether or not the fellow saw double, or if, perchance, he did not think us beside ourselves.

We found we had an hour before us, and therefore passed it in visiting the village. It has nothing very remarkable about it, though it is of very ancient date. Near the church we saw a number of persons entering a gateway without a gate, a rough opening in a wall. We went in, and found a little chapel on our right, with an altar, on which stood a number of the small stucco figures and other equally tasteful ornaments which French piety usually deposits on a shrine. In a corner was a well, and on our left a kind of sideboard, from behind which, for a trifling fee, a woman dispensed glasses of water to all applicants. We were told, on inquiry, that the well was a holy well, and that its water possessed miraculous qualities. How could it be otherwise? The place where we stood was the site of the house in which St Genevieve was born, and where she long lived. We may give an abridgment of her legend as we find it in a work before us, entitled 'Lives of the Saints :'

'St Genevieve was born at Nanterre (this shows the antiquity of the place), about the year 422. When she was seven years old, she was induced by St Germainthen on his way to England to combat the Pelagian heresy-to devote herself to a monastic life. One day, shortly after, she wished to accompany her mother to church; but her mother told her to stay at home, and, on her renewed entreaties, gave her a box on the ear. For this the mother was immediately struck blind, and blind she remained for two years. At last, one morning, a thought seized her, and her faith was strengthened; she told her daughter to bring her some water from the well (the same of which we have spoken), and to make the sign of the cross over it. This done, she washed her eyes with the wonderful liquid, and recovered her sight imme diately. After the death of her parents, Genevieve took the veil, and thenceforth she ate only twice a-week, and even on these occasions barley and beans were her only food. Having gone to live in Paris, she kept up the spirits of the

inhabitants, whom the approach of Attila had terrified. Her fasts and prayers also probably restrained the Huns from attacking the city. Her renown at last spread into every country; so far, indeed, that Simon Stylites, from the top of his pillar in Cilicia, sent to beg her to remember him in her orisons. After working many miracles, she died at the age of ninety, and was buried in a church which took her name, and where her relics were preserved up to the Revolution, when they were dispersed. St Genevieve is the patron saint of Paris; and, for nine days in January every year, crowds of pilgrims visit her tomb, which is still shown in a chapel of the Church St Etienne du Mont, built on the foundations of the former edifice. Having been a shepherdess in her youth, she is always represented with a crook.' So runs the legend. Seeing some steps leading under-ground, we had the curiosity to go down. We found ourselves in a tortuous cavern, at the end of which, after much poking about with our stick, and not a few contusions on our hat, we arrived. It was St Genevieve's cellar, they told us; but what the holy woman did with a cellar, and such a large one, no one knew.

The hour of the ceremony had nearly come, and we took our way to the church. Outside, the building presented nothing remarkable, except its very old tower, surmounted by a stunted spire. Nor, as regards architecture, was there much worth mentioning inside; it was a long edifice, with aisles, and without a transept. There was a fine beadle, with a cocked-hat, a baldric, and a sword. There was a man in black, with a curious instrument, the use of which we could not make out. Half-way up the church, a kind of throne had been erected; beside the throne was the pulpit; at the other end was the altar. On the front of the pulpit were inscribed the words, audite me (hear me), a request which on this occasion was by no means complied with. The church was already almost full, but we succeeded in getting a chair. Here we began taking notes on our usual desk in such cases-the crown of our hat. Looking up for a moment, we saw a tall form gesticulating. We took no heed at first, but presently we perceived that the gesticulations were addressed to us, and, on looking more closely, found that they were being performed by our friend L, whom we had not seen for months, and whom we little expected to meet at Nanterre. As he was evidently making signs to us to come beside him, we obeyed, and found ourselves in a better position than our first. Just as we seated ourselves the organ began to sound; the service was vespers. It was an uncommonly good instrument for a small village, and, what was more, it was remarkably well played. Had the performer been brought from Paris for the occasion, or does Nanterre possess a French Tom Pinch? We are wrong to say French; he that played that voluntary must have been a Germanthe Teutonic spirit exhaled from every bar. We should add that there were some very sweet female voices in the organ loft.

The first event was the arrest of a pickpocket. It caused some commotion. This over, the godmother of the Rosiere took her place on the middle chair of three, which were placed on the dais or throne. She was dressed in deep mourning, and was, we are told, a rich proprietress of the neighbourhood. On her right hand, the Rosiere of last year took her seat, and below, on the steps leading up to the platform, a bevy of girls, dressed in white, and wearing curious peaked caps, took their station. They were of all ages-some were mere infants, others already women. All this time the Rosiere elect was on her knees before the altar. We remarked that few of the girls were at all pretty, and that the old and the new Rosieres were particularly ugly. Our friend Lill-naturedly observed to us, that their ugliness sufficiently accounted for their virtue. 'But,' added he, though it is very proper they should be rewarded, I would not marry either-uo, not if their dowery was twice eight hundred francs.'

Suddenly military music became audible, and in a minute or two the National Guards of Nanterre, with their sapeurs-pompiers, or firemen, and then their drums leading, entered the church. It was the first time we had

ever seen drums, and men with axes and gymnastic belts, in a place of worship. Then the curé-a inan of fine features-mounted the pulpit, and began to read an address. At first he concealed his manuscript; but, seeing that his papers were visible to every one as he turned the pages, he boldly threw off the innocent hypocrisy, and read openly on. Not a word, however, of what he said reached us, so great was the buzz of the conversation carried on throughout the church. When the curé had done, the mayor and his adjunct went to the altar, and raised the new Rosiere from her knees, returning with her to the throne. We recognised, by the way, in the adjunct, the impostor who had sold us the two tickets. Our friend, we found, had been of course similarly victimised; so that he and we had paid for four.

The Rosicre took her place on the vacant chair. The mayor made a short specch, and then placed on her head that from which she takes her title-namely, a crown or wreath of roses. At that moment her godmother embraced her, and the former Rosiere took off the wreath of roses she had till then worn, thus abdicating her dignity. The two girls then changed seats, and the ceremony was accomplished. During the course of it, almost every one in the church got up on his or her chair from time to time. This effort-for to her it was indeed an effort—was very nearly being productive of unpleasant consequences to an exceedingly fat woman in the row behind us, as well as to ourselves. Each time she mounted, she put her thick hands on our shoulders, to help herself up thereby. We bore this patiently enough half-a-dozen times; but at last, losing temper, we shook ourselves at the critical moment, and the huge female came to the ground with a weight that made the flagstones tremble. We shudder yet when we think that she might have fallen on us.

A priest came round with a purse to make a collection. At his approach, L― administered to us a significant nudge, and we left the church. A few minutes afterwards, the firemen, drums, national guards, mayor, Rosieres, adjunet, and white-clad girls, issued from it in procession to parade the village. And so ended the crowning of this year's Rosiere at Nanterre. Her name, as far as we could catch it, was René Ourtin, and she was twenty-one years of age. W. P. S. P.

THE CHEMISTRY OF THE KITCHEN. A SERIES OF PAPERS BY A COUNTRY DOCTOR'S WIFE.—NO. XIV. Ir is quite unnecessary, considering the purpose of these papers of mine, to carry the reader into the chemistry of the colouring matters and medicinal principles secreted by plants; and still less into that of the thousands of compounds which the reactions of the chemist have produced from the more natural proximates. As for the latter, they do not belong to the kitchen at all; and of the former, it is only the green colouring matter of leaves and a few spices, and the active principle of tea and coffee, that the cook has much concern with. The green colouring-matter, or chlorophyle (a word which signifies leaf-green), may be considered in the whole (for it is really twofold) as a body intermediate between fat or wax and the resins; soluble in alcohol, as well as in acids and alkalis, but not in water. As a small part of human diet, it may just be classified as so much wax. The resins are near akin to the oils, containing less hydrogen and more oxygen, insoluble in water, combustible, soluble in the oils, aud so forth. Common resin, generally called rosin, is the colophon of the old galenical drug-shop; and it is procured by distilling the oil of turpentine from the balsam of pine-wood, which is a thick solution of resin in that oil. Theine and the hot principles of the spices and sundry other culinary accessaries had better be reserved till they require to be alluded to, and that casually, in the more practical department of the subject in hand.

I have now fairly introduced you, then, to the four great types of food-the proteines, the gelatines, the oils, and the saccharoids; the gelatines not being known in the vegetable world, and the saccharoids not properly belong.