Il semble que l'azur égalise et confonde Jésus, l'âme de l'homme, et Dieu, l'âme du monde!

The adoring reverence of Hugo for the sacred name which is used here to express the ideal of divine or glorified humanity stands out singularly in contrast with the apparent aversion excited by its association with creeds and churches in the mind of such a contemporary student and fellow. republican as Michelet. But it is always more interesting, as it is always more profitable, to find instances of likeness than to find instances of contrast to the work of a poet or the speculation of a thinker; and in the following couplet one of the most perfect and magnificent in all the world of verse we hear again an unconscious echo of the spirit and indeed the very voice of William Blake. L'oubli que ferait Dieu du dernier et du

moindre

Suffirait pour ôter au jour le droit de poindre. But of course it is seldom that we find anything here which could have been written by any hand save one. The full and fiery torrent of Crashaw's sometimes turbid and morbid verse poured out in honor of a great Catholic saint has in it no pearl of praise that can be set against the single line which closes the following magnificent and transcendent passage:

Oh! vous l'avez cherché sans l'entrevoir, sibylles,

Ce Dieu mystérieux des azurs immobiles!
Filles des visions, toi, sous l'arche d'un pont,
Manto; toi, guettant l'œuf que la chouette
pond,

Albunée, et brûlant une torche de cire;
Toi, celle de Phrygie, épouvante d'Ancyre,
Parlant à l'astre, et, pâle, écoutant s'il ré-
pond;

Celle d'Imbrasia; celle de l'Hellespont
Qui se dresse déesse et qui retombe hyène;
Toi, Tiburtine; et toi, la rauque Libyenne,
Criant: Treize! essayant la loi du nombre im-
pair;

Toi dont le regard fixe inquiétait Vesper, Larve d'Endor; et toi, les dents blanches d'écume,

Les deux seins nus, ô folle effrayante de

Cume;

Rouler vos fauves yeux dans la profondeur noire,

Nulle de vous n'a vu clairement dans sa gloire Sainte Thérèse, avec un soupir, l'a trouvé. Ce grand Dieu du pardon sur la terre levé. Victor Hugo alone could have written that; and Victor Hugo alone could have put into the mouth of an angel such superhuman words as these:

Si tu ne l'entends pas, tu peux au moins le voir,

L'hymne éternel, vibrant sous les éternels

voiles.

Les constellations sont des gammes d'étoiles; Et les vents par moments te chantent des lambeaux

Du chant prodigieux qui remplit les tombeaux.

Of this great new song which comes to us from the grave of Victor Hugo there is so much more to be said than any man could say at once that it may be well to disclaim all pretence of giving an analysis or even a summary of its component parts. Those who would know what it contains and what it conveys its dramatic force, its philosophic insight, its evangelic passion-must be content and thankful to study it reverently and thoroughly for themselves.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

From The Spectator.

POSSIBLE PETS.

THE number of animals which with

ordinary tact and kindness can be tamed by man is so great, that the range of possible pets would seem almost co-extensive with the limits of the animal world. The Turkestan tiger whose good temper was mentioned recently in the Spectator, owed its passage by rail from the Caspian to the Black Sea, to its cleverness in performing tricks before the little daughter of the Russian railway superintendent, after it had been sternly refused by the subordinate officials on the ground that tigers were not scheduled in the fare-list of the Tiflis Railway; and a bear may be made an interesting and intelligent companion. But tame tigers must, as a rule, remain a luxury for sultans and Sarah Bernhardts, and the amiable bear be left to the professional gentlemen who make a living from his society. We say "as a is hardly any limit to the Englishman's rule," not without reason, because there fancy for pets. The writer was requested last year to act as friendly broker to bid for the bear which found its way so often to the London police-courts after being

one who fed it. It made friends with the dogs, and would "wash" their faces for them, catching hold of an old setter's nose with its sharp little claws, to hold it steady while it licked its face. The staircase and bannisters furnished a gymnasium for exercise in winter, and in summer it could be trusted among the trees in the garden. This opossum is becoming scarce, owing to the demand for its fur; but there is little doubt that specimens could still be bought for a moderate sum. That owned by the writer cost three pounds. The American grey squirrel is a common and hardy species, which becomes very tame, and is even prettier than our red squirrel; and the South American coatis, especially the small kinds, are most amusing pets; though, like the mongoose, they need to be kept warm. All the coatis are sociable, lively creatures, quite omnivorous, and with as many odd tricks as a monkey. The mongoose, that "familiar " of Indian households, has such a natural bias for human society, that, according to Mr. Kipling, it will often come into a house from the jungle, and voluntarily enrol itself among the members of the family. It is a slim, active little animal, varying from a foot to nearly two feet in length, of a curious mottled silvery-grey color, and so amazingly rapid in its movements that its victory over the cobra is not surprising. Provided that it is kept warm in winter, it will live well in an English home, and loses none of those domestic qualities which make it such a favorite in India. The marmot and the viscacha, or prairiedog, are amusing little fellows, and if allowed the use of a small enclosure in which the marmots can burrow and make hay for the winter, and the viscachas make their "collections" of curiosities, either species would, no doubt, add to the interest of an English country house. But as both the marmot and the viscacha hibernate in winter, their owner must be prepared for their disappearance underground from Christmas until March.

But

There is only one monkey which we can thoroughly recommend as an indoor pet, the beautiful and intelligent little capuchin. The marmozets, even more beautiful and equally pleasing, are too delicate for our climate, and die of colds and coughs after the first fogs of winter. the lively little capuchins may be kept for years in an English house; and no monkey approaches their good temper and pretty, winning ways. They all have good round heads, with black fur on the top and light-brown on the cheeks. Some have

pinkish faces, and others dark-brown skin, with eyes like brown jewels. Their faces are most expressive, and seldom still, for they take deep and abiding interest in everything in or about their cages. The writer has seen one from a large house in Leicestershire, which had learnt to put out burning paper. This it did most adroitly by beating it with its hands or knocking it against the floor. Another, which was kept at the Zoo, would, if it got a match, collect a heap of straw, strike the match, light its bonfire, and dance round it. This dangerous accomplishment led to its removal from the cages on Saturdays and bank-holidays, when the crowd makes it difficult to keep a watch on its movements. The capuchin is so small, so pretty, and so clever, that it seems to embody all the good and none of the bad points of monkey nature.

Those who possess an aviary may be interested to hear that at the Zoo, blackcaps, whitethroats, garden-warblers, and nightingales, all birds of passage, are living in excellent health through the winter; and one nightingale was singing on December 29th, but the song, though very beautiful, was not a true nightingale's note, but largely borrowed from that of the bulbul in the next aviary, the bird being a young one caught in the autumn. It is evident, from the experiment at the Zoo, that our summer warblers may be kept as pets. But the bird of all others suited for the aviary, but neglected as a rule in England, is the bulbul. The Persian variety has the finest song, but the Indian is an even prettier bird, and sings exquisitely. In appearance, the bulbuls are not unlike the Bohemian waxwing, with a black conical top-knot, cinnamon-colored backs, red and white or yellow and white cheeks and white breasts, with some bright color near the tail. The note is most liquid and beautiful, and the bird has a pretty habit of varying the volume of the sound, singing loudly in the open, and almost whispering its song to its master or mistress if confined in a room. We might do worse than follow the example of the Persians, and make the bulbul our favorite cagebird, instead of the canary.

From All The Year Round. MRS. DIFFIDENCE.

MRS. DIFFIDENCE, as readers of that almost unequalled classic, "The Pilgrim's Progress," will remember, was the wife of

Giant Despair; and so, we may suppose, part owner of Doubting Castle. Her name has been a puzzle to many. Diffidence we may have been used to look upon as an amiable weakness; in the young, indeed, as almost a virtue. But Mrs. Diffidence is an awful character, a Jezebel, or Lady Macbeth, who stirs her husband to cruelty. In the curtain conferences that Bunyan describes so graphically, it is the wife who suggests all the husband's barbarities. It is she who recommends the use of the grievous crab-tree cudgel, and the insidious persuasion to suicide, and the exhibition of the bones and skulls of those who had before been slain. It was through the counsel of the artful old giantess that the escape of the giant's captives had almost been prevented.

"I fear," said she to her husband, "that they live in hope that some will come to relieve them; or that they have pick-locks about them, by means of which they hope to escape."

"And sayest thou so, my dear?" said the giant they were a loving pair; we must say that for them. "I will, therefore, search them in the morning."

But happily, in the morning, the birds were flown.

It was a curious notion of Bunyan's, to kill off the giant and giantess in the second part of the allegory, and destroy Doubting Castle. We cannot but conclude that there has been a marvellous resurrection of the fond couple, and a rebuilding - by voluntary subscription, or otherwise of their venerable habitation. The reason why the name of Diffidence appears to us inappropriate to the terrible old lady is that the word has changed in the two centuries since Bunyan wrote, if not in its literal meaning, in its ordinary use. From fide, to trust, we get confide, the opposite to which is diffide - a word not out of use in Bunyan's time. Confidence, therefore, is trust, and diffidence is unbelief. In Bunyan's eyes, nothing was worse than unbelief, or even doubt. As to Tennyson's "honest doubt," it would have made Bunyan furious. "When Diffidence, the giantess, came up to help," her husband, as in duty bound, "old Mr. Honest cut her down at one blow." Honesty and unbelief were in Bunyan's view of things flat opposites. At first, diffidence was mainly distrust of others, now it is distrust of ourselves. And this, I dare say, Bunyan would have said is retribution. We begin by doubting the higher powers, we end by renouncing faith in ourselves.

Taking diffidence in its modern sense, it is pretty evident that it must be conquered before a man can do anything great and good; or anything great and bad. A diffident person would never have won for himself favorable notice in De Quincey's "Essay on Murder." If he had begun a murder well, he would have become panic-struck as it proceeded, and huddled it up at the close. A diffident burglar would never retire upon his savings. He would even run the risk of being driven in the end to earn his living honestly. We may be diffident in welldoing, and that is a pity; or we may be diffident in evil-doing, and that may keep us out of mischief.

The diffident people will not count for very much in the battle of life. When they were boys at school and sides were tossed for at any game, they were always the last selected. And now who would choose a diffident soldier to command an army, or a diffident sailor to direct a fleet? Who would submit to be operated upon by a diffident surgeon, or would wish to have his portrait painted by a diffident artist? A man has no chance in any walk of life without some measure of confidence, and we may almost go on to say that in proportion to his confidence will be his success. We first overcame our diffidence when we learned to walk and to talk - in the walking we displayed our physical courage, in the talking our moral courage; and it is very doubtful if we have ever done anything more heroical since. What clever little chaps we must have been, to balance ourselves longways, and then to lift one foot into the air, thus disturbing the balance so painfully acquired, and so through all the complicated evolutions which constitute the science of walking! And talking-think of the decision of character required in order to the making of uncouth sounds with the mouth and throat that shall be intelligible to the stupid, grown-up creatures around us! You have to make a dash at it, or you will never be able to do it at all. Especially you must set loosely by all considerations of personal dignity. So also in mature life; no man has achieved distinction who has been afraid of making a fool of himself. The public never thoroughly appreciate a man until he has made an exhibition of himself. Some idols of the multitude repeat the performance annually, but the worst of this plan is, that properly to strike the mind, each performance must be more outrageous than the last, and that calls for rare inventive power, and is a ter