Much less than a lady cyclist is required to rouse the curiosity of the Bourgneuviennes, which is kept keen like an appetite by want of food. I was even told that it would not do for the doctor, or for the notary or percepteur, to have their house in the main street, because if any one happened to call several times, it would be spied and talked over the place in no time, and the most preposterous reasons would be imagined and assigned for those visits. I was at times greatly amused myself by the irrepressible impulse which led some persons to inspect our clothes basket in the open street, on its way from the repasseuse.

One of the most interesting events to the village people (village I dared not have called either Mercurey or Le Bourgneuf within hearing of their inhabitants, for whom they are villes, just as their narrow lanes are rues) is the occasional passage of troops. It is awaited in great excitement, and hailed enthusiastically. The setting off of the diligence which was to take us to Germolles one fine morning was delayed by such a passage of artillery, and, despite the early hour, the whole population was out lining the street on each side from end to end, eagerly discussing the looks of the soldiers, the condition of their horses, the models of the guns. They are very patriotic and democratic people, and were highly gratified by the appearance of the regiment. I overheard many a proud whisper that "If now France went to war it would turn out

I said above that on the momentous day of the passage of artillery we were to go by the diligence to Germolles, a village at a distance of four kilometres from Le Bourgneuf, and of quite a different character. It is fresher and more green, and the hills about it are not without a certain sylvan charm, though the trees never attain to any great height, nor are the woods very extensive; but I had been told that Mont Blanc might be seen from the highest summit when rain was not far off, and I was not to be disappointed after climbing up to it. For beyond the shining and meandering river Saône, beyond the vast, rich, peaceful plain, still beyond, and far above the blue range of the Jura and the fainter Alps, a white peak rising clearly defined against the sky was Mont Blanc itself, looking more like a cloud than the tremendous mass it really is. And the rain was certainly not far off: half an hour later we were enveloped in mist, then in a cold drizzle which rendered our descent somewhat arduous, the short hill - moss having become so slippery.

On my return to the chateau, a small group of children, apparently awestruck, attracted my eyes, as I reached the Place. They were surrounding a little

girl in an agony of childish grief. With her apron thrown over her head and her face hidden against a wall, she was sobbing as if her heart would break. I inquired what was the matter, but on my approach the little crowd decamped hurriedly, as if afraid of being made responsible, and I could not get the girl to answer me. But there was no need of an answer: the infantile tragedy was made plain by an empty greasy cup in the girl's trembling hand, and by a yellow pool of sticky oil at her feet, from which I had to guard my skirt as I pulled down her thin apron from over her wet face. Evidently she was terrified at the idea of the punishment awaiting her, and when I asked how much oil she had spilt, she could only gasp out, "Quatre sous." I forced the quatre sous into her clenched hand and said, "Now, run and get some more oil, quick!" She raised her bewildered eyes to my face, understood, and shot like an arrow into the next shop, without a word of thanks, but with such an ecstatic expression of gratitude that I shall never forget it. Such a slight occurrence would not be worth mentioning had not the sequel confirmed what I have said of the independent spirit of the Val d'Oriens.

About a fortnight later we were at dinner when Gladie came to say that a little girl asked to see me: it was the girl who had spilt the oil, with another cup in one hand, and a tiny brother holding the other and keeping well in the rear.

a

Her face this time was slily conscious and important as she drew near and said, 66 Madame, c'est de la crême toute fraîche -de notre vache-que ma mère vous envoie"; and after moment of hesitation she added, "C'est pour l'huile "C'est pour l'huile . . . vous savez bien." Somehow the mother had heard, and was unwilling to remain under a fancied obligation. Luckily I happened to have some dragées, which I divided between sister and brother to complete their happiness. The cream was delicious, and worth at least twice what I had given for the oil.

Since the middle of September we had been eating grapes from the treilles of the chateau, but they were comparatively dear, being of an early and superior sort: we gave fivepence a pound for them, or twice the usual price. The incessant rains delayed the ripening, and I began to fear that I should have to leave before the vintage, which I longed to see once more in remembrance of my youthful days. And besides, Mons. L. had promised to show me and to explain all the processes of vinification, when the time came: how vexatious it would be to lose such an opportunity! Formerly women could not enter a pressoir, the grapes in the vats being crushed by naked men, who trampled them under their feet: but now it is done by machinery, except with the poorer people, whose vintages are on a very small scale.

I was now met everywhere by signs of the approaching ven

danges: long, flat baskets piled high upon narrow carts, to gether with the glittering metal hottes of the porters. Barrels at every door and filling every courtyard-large, small, old and new, and the great barn-doors opened wide for the cleansing of the vats. Also the unwonted presence of ragged and tired figures, strange to the place, wandering in from parts where the vine is unknown, come in the hope of getting a small share of its bounties. They were on the Place and in the street, miserably awaiting the last warm days of unclouded sunshine needed to ripen the grapes for the vintage; yet the sun still showed a wan face behind a thick veil of mist, and the general look of cheerfulness I had noticed on

my arrival had now fled from almost every face.

And it so happened that we had to leave the Val d'Or without seeing the vintage, which, after all, proved abundant, if not of superior quality. We had new tokens of the kindly disposition of the people at our departure. Those we knew came to say good-bye, and expressed a wish that we might come again; the old woman who brought our morning milk, and who came a long way for three halfpence, said "it had been a pleasure to her." Gladie wiped her eyes very hard with the corner of her apron as she handed us our packages in the diligence, and Mme. L. sent us a hamper of fruit and a bouquet of everlasting flowers as a souvenir.

TRIBUTES affectionate and admiring have been paid in full to the memory of George Steevens. Most affectionate and admiring, but most searching and sanely critical withal, is the Memoir by Mr Henley which accompanies the first volume1 of the Memorial Edition of his works. Little or nothing can be added to that appreciation; but it is fitting that in 'Maga,' where some of the best in this first volume appeared, there should be an attempt to estimate it. And consisting, as it does, of miscellaneous papers which cover the whole time of their author's working life and show most sides of his wide and various intelligence, a review of it is necessarily in some sort a review of the man.

To begin, however, with an account of the book as it stands. Its object, one may say, was to represent, to the best of the judgment of those who prepared it, George Steevens at all points of his mind, in so far as he expressed it in his written work-an expression which, as Mr Henley reminds us, is always partial. It is an extraordinary record. Philosophy, scholarship, delicate and acute analysis and criticism in æsthetics, a virile but sometimes very tender humanity, a power of strong attack, a faculty of irresponsible humour, the hard fist (so to say) and the gay laugh, and with these

use

an eye which saw everything and saw it in a right perspective-all this the book demonstrates, not tentatively or by inference only, but in robust, unmistakable working order. The combination, for an effect on the world, is more important than the excellence. There are other scholars and philosophers, and other men who can their eyes about the world. The important matter was that this man could both think and see: it is this that made his loss to literature and to practical life so lamentable. It is possible, even, to go farther than Mr Henley goes in regard to the singularity of the fact. He instances other men of literary powers who have used their eyes for journalism— Dickens, R. L. Stevenson, Ruskin, Mr Meredith, and Kipling. Perhaps the present writer rates scholarship and trained philosophy higher than Mr Henley does, and higher than they deserve. But it seems pertinent to remark that Dickens had little or nothing of either, that Stevenson did not possess them in the degree of Steevens, and that they are hardly Mr Kipling's strong point. On the other hand, Mr Ruskin wrote of art and Mr Meredith writes of human nature: Steevens's theme was the working of empire, was peoples and policies.

Mr

It would be a poor service to him to attempt to make out his actual achievement to be greater than that of this or that great man, and it is far from the intention of these remarks. He died at thirty. But that his union of qualities was more than exceptional, and gave sure promise of very great work indeed, is the mere truth. Scholarship and philosophy were not with him mere accomplishments, to adorn а literary style or to amuse the leisure of a practical man. Their results were an active element in his mind, and at least it may be said of them that in a career which would have turned the heads, and in experiences which would have clouded the judgments, of most men, they helped to keep him serene as a man and sane as an observer. And their implicit presence in all that he wrote enabled one to view without misgiving the fact that of late he was doing a kind of work that is commonly done by coarser hands. He lost little, if anything, by this work, and he gained immeasurably by it-resource and readiness of intelligence, a great experience, a fame which should have been a spring-board to ambition. But since this later work was of the practical sort it was, the value of the book before us is largely that it stamps him (in "From the New Gibbon," "Mr Balfour's Philosophy," "Little Eyolf," and "The New Tennyson") as a philosopher and a critic as indubitably as his 'Monologues' had stamped him as a scholar.

It is roughly in this connection to deal with a matter which Mr Henley settles conclusively in a note, but which may bear a word or two in addition. Somebody, it seems, has written that Steevens "did but pretend to approve the reconquest of the Soudan, the reply to Mr Kruger's declaration of war: that

With some

what he wrote about these matters was written to please the public, and in no sort represented his own convictions." Mr Henley, speaking from intimate knowledge, contradicts this flatly; and the present writer, who had many talks with Steevens about politics, can add his testimony to Mr Henley's. warmth of feeling: for surely to bring a reckless charge of dishonesty against a man just dead is worse than ungenerous. It is a kind of dishonesty-this hireling pretence of opinions— which is or used to be common among journalists and is not unknown among politicians, but Steevens was entirely free from it.

That he called himself a Radical at Oxford or for the first days after leaving Oxford is likely enough. The political opinions of boys at Oxford are not formed on profound conviction. They come from family and other connections, from an idea that Conservatism is the gentlemanly profession, from a revolt against that idea, and from suchlike causes generally. Steevens wore a soft hat at Oxford, as Mr Henley says, and to do so at that period was a sort of symbol, a sort of badge, of those who were all for intel