action would appear SO my more unintelligible than any man's action has the right to be, and in the second placeto-morrow you shall forget my sincerity along with the other lessons of the past. In this transaction, to speak grossly and precisely, I was the irreproachable man; but the subtle intentions of my immorality were defeated by the moral simplicity of the criminal. No doubt he was selfish too, but his selfishness had a higher origin, a more lofty aim. I discovered that, say what I would, he was eager to go through the ceremony of ex ecution; and I didn't say much, for I felt that in argument his youth would tell against me heavily: he believed where I had already ceased to doubt. There was something fine in the wildness of his unexpressed, hardly formulated hope. 'Clear out! Couldn't think of it,' he said, with a shake of the head. 'I make you an offer for which I neither demand nor expect any sort of gratitude,' I said; 'you shall repay the money when convenient, and 'Awfully good of you,' he muttered without looking up. I watched him narrowly: the future must have appeared horribly uncertain to him; but he did not falter, as though indeed there had been nothing wrong with his heart. I felt angry not for the first time that night. The whole wretched business,' I said, is bitter enough, I should think, for a man of your kind to swallow. 'It is, it is,' he whispered twice, with his eyes fixed on the floor. It It

was heartrending. He towered above the light, and I could see the down on his cheek, the colour mantling warm under the smooth skin of his face. Believe me or not, I say it was outrageously heartrending. It provoked me to brutality. Yes,' I said; and allow me to confess that I am totally unable to imagine what advantage you expect from this licking of the dregs.' 'Advantage!' he murmured out of his stillness.

'I am dashed if I do,' I said, enraged. 'I've been trying to tell you all there is in it,' he went on slowly, as if meditating something unanswerable. 'But after all, it is my trouble.' I opened my mouth to retort, and discovered suddenly that I'd lost all confidence in myself; and it was as if he too had given me up, for he mumbled like a man thinking half aloud. 'Went away went into hospitals.

...

Not one of them would face it. . . . They! . . .' He moved his hand slightly to imply disdain. 'But I've got to get over this thing, and I mustn't shirk any of it or I won't shirk any of it.' He was silent. He gazed as though

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he had been haunted. conscious face reflected the passing expressions of scorn, of despair, of resolution,- reflectėd them in turn, as a magic mirror would reflect the gliding passage of unearthly shapes. He lived surrounded by deceitful ghosts, by austere shades. was startling to have the thought occur to one as it did, for some reason, occur to me just then that his flesh and blood were like mine; his

--

It

brain too, and whatever else goes to the making of a human being-only that I had escaped being played with in just that infernal way. This consideration checked the many wise things I wished to say; but I spoke all the same. 'Oh! nonsense, my dear fellow,' I began. He had a movement of impatience. 'You don't seem to understand,' he said incisively; then looking at me without a wink, 'I may have jumped, but I don't run away.' 'I meant no offence,' I said; and added stupidly, 'Better men than you have found it expedient to run, at times.' He coloured all over, while in my confusion I half-choked myself with my own tongue. 'Perhaps so,' he said at last; 'I am not good enough; I can't afford it. I am bound to fight this thing I am fighting it now.' I got out of my chair and felt stiff all over. The silence was embarrassing, and to put an end to it I imagined nothing better but to remark, 'I had no idea it was so late,' in an airy tone. 'I daresay you have had enough of this,' he said brusquely: 'and to tell you the truth

he began

as likely as not,' he answered in a gruff mutter. I had recovered my wits in a measure, and judged best to take it lightly. 'Pray remember,' I said, 'I should like very much to see you again before you go.' 'I don't know what's to prevent you. The damned thing won't make me invisible,' he said with intense bitterness, -'no such luck.' And then at the moment of taking leave he treated me to a ghastly muddle of dubious stammers and movements, to an awful display of hesitations. God forgive him

me! He had taken it into his fanciful head that I was likely to make some difficulty as to shaking hands. It was too awful for words. I believe I shouted suddenly at him as you would bellow to a man you saw about to walk over a cliff; I remember our voices being raised, the appearance of a miserable grin on his face, a crushing clutch on my hand, a nervous laugh. The candle spluttered out, and the thing was over at last, with a groan that floated up to me in the dark. He got himself away somehow. The night swallowed his form. He was a horrible bungler. Horrible. I heard the quick crunch-crunch of the gravel under his boots. He was running. Absolutely running, with nowhere to go to. And he was not yet six-and-twenty.

THE French nation, changeful in all else, has remained for twenty centuries constant to its love of false news. Cæsar tells us how the ancient Gauls would stop any stranger to ask him whence he came, and what stories he had to tell them. And while they would shift their policy at the first idle word spoken by a traveller, they made no attempt to distinguish between the truth and an uncertain rumour. Is it wonderful, then, that the strolling traders told them precisely those falsehoods which seemed to suit the Gallic temper?

As it was in Cæsar's time, so it has always been. The French love of false news is as ardent to-day as it was then. From time to time philosophers have done their best to expose and correct it. Good Master Pantagruel, for instance, as we know by the 'Prognostication Pantagrueline,' set France a good example, which unhappily she did not follow. This discreet monarch posted certain worthy persons the borders of his kingdom, who should examine into the truth of whatever rumours were brought to his people. But the Parisians, as we know them, have throughout their history well justified their

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name, which, being interpreted, means the Free of Speech. Their credulity is bounded only by their imagination; if others will not tell them falsehoods, they readily invent the lie which corresponds most closely to their aspiration. And since no censorship checks the sin of repetition, they freely repeat the lie to every idler that passes their way. True, the lie is soon forgotten, but that is from no lack of malice: it perishes, without apology or regret, as soon as another, more gross and palpable, is found to take its place. The vice, a vice of folly and weakness, explains better than any political argument the present attitude of France; and we, recognising the amiability of our neighbours, may congratulate ourselves that the vice is hopelessly incurable.

Once upon a time, when France was marching to an easy victory over the forces of the German empire, a telegram was said to be posted up outside the Bourse. The front man in the crowd read (or thought he read) the news of a glorious victory. The word was passed behind him, and in ten minutes five thousand persons were prepared to swear that with their own eyes they

had seen an actual confirmation of the splendid rumour. Of course there had been no victory it is more than likely that there was no telegram. But the quick wits of Paris imagined a phantom message upon the wall of the Bourse, and were content: So lies succeeded lies, until the blood poured out by the Commune wantonly and hideously washed away the stain of falsehood. Again, whatever view we take of the pitiful affaire which still divides France in secret, one thing is certain-it was nursed and cherished in the lap of untruth. Two years ago it was France's point of honour to pin her faith to perjurers, and to applaud the sublime virtue of forgery. But though at times. she has involved herself in her favourite vice, her best efforts have always been devoted to the discomfiture of those she deems her enemies, amongst the first of whom we are pleased to rank ourselves.

In so

Why France hates England it is idle to inquire: we are not wont to diagnose the disease of a mad dog. It is enough to note that she hates us, and expresses her hate after her usual method-in lies. doing she pays us the highest compliment possible, and it is not for us to repel her soothing flattery. If France may be believed, England has devilishly contrived all the evils that have fallen upon Europe since the

ice age. We need not go quite so far back as that for our examples. The history of the last five or six years will yield us an abundant harvest. The

Madagascar Campaign was a splendid opportunity for denunciation, and gossip was both busy and malicious. No sooner had France resolved upon her ill-fated expedition than the perfidy of Albion became apparent. The Minister of War having no ships at his disposal, was forced to borrow his transports in England, a compulsion which in itself was a clear proof of British duplicity. In the Mediterranean one of these transports broke down, and all the newsmongers in France drew their pens to declare that the accident was designed by the British Government. Nor was that all our sin: a club of sportsmen was formed in London, whose purpose was to arm itself with rifles of the newest pattern, and to stalk Frenchmen in Madagascar. It was a new sport, said the press, well adapted to those who are tired of big game. Now, this story, be it remembered, was invented not by a gutter-journal, but by the 'Figaro' itself, which pretends to hold aloft the banner of truth and good manners. We are not told that the sportsmen were discovered lurking murderously in the bush; nor do we suppose that the 'Figaro' deemed it worth while to correct its falsehood. But the fairytale was believed, and another drop of virus sped through the veins of the mad dog.

England, in fact, if the Boulevards are to be believed, is an ogre of hideous mien, belching forth the fire of hate and destruction. It eats up India for its breakfast, and gulps Africa at its hasty lunch.

It annexes countries merely to drive them to starvation. For instance, it is well known to Paris that when India some time since succumbed to famine, she got not one penny piece from England. The poor natives, whom we had deprived of sustenance by a policy of egoism, were saved from death by the generosity of Russia. This lie, also, was published under the auspices of the Figaro,' despite the fact that the largest subscription known to history had been raised in London. In better taste was the rumour, which excited Paris for quite four-and-twenty hours, that the earth-hunger of England had persuaded her to annex a forgotten isle of the Channel, and that at low water the unionjack might be seen floating over a sunken rock. Then, again, it is a matter of common knowledge-in Paris-that the war between Spain and America was devised and managed solely by Great Britain, which Power obstinately forbade the Treaty of Paris to be signed. And when peace was signed, what did England do? Why, she straightway intrigued with Don Carlos, because she thought she might just as well seize the Balearic Isles! So Britain controls the cholera and the plague, and all other diseases, letting them loose where and when she will. In brief, there is as little check upon our power as upon our malice, and again we accept the compliment with equanimity.

But the war which is now being waged in South Africa sharpened the tooth of France

to a fine point unknown even in Cæsar's time. Ignorance is easily acquired, and the French spared no pains to make the acquisition complete. Of course nature had equipped them for the task, since a man who could not find either England or South Africa upon the map of the world is easily capable of misunderstanding the present campaign. The press, then, has believed and printed any travellers' tales which turned to the discredit of England. There has been no attempt to distinguish between true and false. Hurrah! shouted these valiant knights of the pen, England is in difficulties! Come, let us libel her! And libel her they did and do to their own (and our) content. Ink is cheap, cheaper than courage, and so the ink of the Boulevards annihilates the British army and opens the gates of Ladysmith at least twice a week. accounts of such battles as have been fought are admirably cooked to suit the susceptibilities of our neighbours. Colenso, we are told, 800 Boers opposed 12,000 British, of whom they killed either 3000 or 5000. On another day 16 Boers kept 300 Lancers in check, and took them all prisoners. No less than 2000 English soldiers have been arrested dying of hunger in Portuguese territory, and doubtless the inference is that the same country which left India to perish of famine is quite content to starve its drunken mercenaries. Another correspondent, with the same spirit which persuaded France that Bismarck was a butcher,

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