splendid heritage has now been handed over freely to the Canadian people. "As the legal ties are slackened, the moral ties are tightened," said Lord Thring, and this is eminently true of the development of political thought in Canada to-day. She is ceasing to be a dependent, but she is more than an The Nineteenth Century and After.

ally. Alliances are determined by selfinterest. Not in any spirit of self-interest, but in obedience to the dictates of nature and education is Canada, the daughter-state, resolved to remain linked with the mother-land.

George M. Wrong. University of Toronto.

It is mid-October, but perfect summer still-a season of skies absolutely cloudless, of scorching sunshine, of heat so intense that, high perched as the Condados is, standing "four square to all the winds that blow," I hesitate to leave the shelter of the house between the hours of 10 and 4; a season of gorgeous sunsets, pageants of scarlet and gold, ablaze beyond the calmly glittering Atlantic, and of the most exquisite violet twilights imaginable. Each evening I always watch by the deathbed of the dying day, as it passes away amid fire and flame, like an Indian widow on her funeral pyrespending the hour that is such a curious union of calm peace and lurid grandeur on the broad terrace which clasps the south and west sides of the old palaço. This terrace, with its thickets of roses, its oleanders, and its broken sun-dial, is a delectable lingering place, and I do not come away till the deep purple velvet that robes the queen of night is strewn thick with the largest and most brilliant stars I have ever seen. The air is full of pungent balm, distilled throughout the long hot day by heat and sunshine from the thousand aromatic things-myrtle and lavender, eucalyptus and rosemary, juniper and bay-that clothe all uncultivated spaces around me, and the only sounds that break the stillness are the murmur of ocean as its long-drawn swell breaks in languid ripples on the

bar of the Mondego and the answering whisper that creeps through the pinecopse, black on the skyline against the imperial purple of the southern night.

Yes, though it is mid-October, summer is with us still, and the world and his wife who, when July poured her torrid heat upon the land, licking up all moisture as with a tongue of flame, and setting body and mind athirst for seaboard regions of comparative coolness, came to Figueira to bathe the breathless months away upon her yellow sands, and to lose their money in her gambling salons, are only now flocking home again-bag and baggage, in the most literal sense of the term. Let us spend a moment in the Estação of our little town-distant, Graças a Deus-two good miles away from the Condados, and watch the motley comeand-go. It is so typically Portuguese that if you were suddenly dropped down from the clouds in its midst you could not possibly imagine yourself in any other land than this.

The dirty, squalid station is thronged with passageiros; following in their wake, the impecunious indigenes, the halt and the lame, the idiot and the blind, that for ever haunt its precincts in rags indescribable and the hope of turning an unearned penny, have assembled in fuller force than ever, and the shabby, cigarette-smoking officials shout and gesticulate more even than is their usual wont.

The 11.20, the principal morning train, is about to be sent on her way. Red-sashed countrymen are taking their places in her, off to buy or sell bulls at the weekly fair of Montemor, the little town half-an-hour distant, whose name, signifying the Hill of the Moors, is so eloquent of Portugal's his toric past. Fisher-girls, in the black velvet-bound turban-shaped hats which keep green the memory of a costume that once was universal, are piling the van high with baskets of fish intended for the markets of Coimbra and Salamanca, under the indolent eye of the Guarda Fiscal, who stands by, trim in his neat uniform of gray and red-piped blue, and with the eternal cigarette alight under his jaunty moustache. But these you may see any day of the week. Not so the gorgeous army of "Banhistos" and "Banhistas" whose exodus is proceeding. Here comes a family party, the father in his black cloth manta with scarlet facings, silver clasps and little shoulder capes, the mother, if she be not in black, gay with all the aniline tints that are not of the rainbow. A monstrous hat is perched on the summit of her fantastically arranged pile of coarse and well-greased, jetty hair, her sallow cheeks are pasty with pearl powder and perspiration. The small fry that clamor shrilly in her wake are bedizened into the semblance of miniature fashion plates, with top-heavy hats and frilled and furbelowed garments of violent hue which, regarded doubtless as le dernier cri of elegance, certainly scream aloud at their association. Self-possessed to an irritating degree are these imps, and their bold, well-opened eyes, so curiously African of suggestion, will more easily stare you out of countenance than fall abashed beneath your gaze. Each of the travellers is attended by at least three friends who, if the dear departing were bound for immediate execution, could not take leave of them

with greater ado. The ladies kiss effusively, first on one cheek, then on the other; the men embrace with wideflung arms that revolve like the sails of a windmill; hats are solemnly waved, and handkerchiefs frantically fluttered till the air is piebald with black and white flourishes; attitudes are struck, adieux are screamed (if one is to believe in the transmigration of souls, there can be no doubt that the Portuguese in a previous state of existence was a peacock), and tearless eyes are wiped. All the panoply of woe has been displayed, when discovery follows that it was only the first of three warning bells which rang. So the performance recommences, to continue till the second bell sounds and then-da capo.

These might be a party of female emigrants laden with all their worldly goods who stand meanwhile apartbarefooted, muffled in shapeless shawls and their brows bound with cloths, whose gaudy colors throw into strong relief the olive of rounded cheeks, and the jet of straying locks of hair. Were they less sturdy, less firmly planted on their finely-formed feet, less strong of limb, they would bend beneath the loads they carry, instead of walking erect with the gait of an empress and the supple grace of a young pinetree. Notice the girl in the kirtle of strong green woollen, upkilt to show a broad band of crimson petticoat, and half covered by a crimson apron patterned in white. A shawl of emerald green, gaily striped with pink and white, swathes the upper part of her body as a canary-colored handkerchief does her head. In one hand is a battered portmanteau, in the other a carpet-bag, wherein purple roses and sulphur geraniums bloom resplendent from a background of magenta wool. Pendant from one arm is a huge bag of cotton patchwork, stuffed to its fullest caрасity; poised on her head is a basket piled high with pots and pans. Her companion, a portly person in skirts of scarlet, sky-blue shawl and orange kerchief, is gravely statuesque under the weight of a wooden trunk, while a bundle of bedding is clipped tight under the left arm, and her free hand grasps the mouth of another bag, made apparently-probably indeed de facto-from the pattern book of a Manchester firm. I gaze at these poor women with compassion in my heart for those who are surely preparing to leave their native shores for some distant colony, till it suddenly dawns upon me that instead of being homeless wanderers they are the retainers of the senhors and senhoras, who are taking such touching farewell of their friends and acquaint

ance.

Quite a golden harvest is gleaned by the native who can spare one or two furnished rooms (unfurnished, I should call them, but that is by the way!), or a tiny flat during Figueira's busy season, and many are those who flock hither to minister to the wants of more pecunious visitors. This donna who tramps by, straight as a lath under the headborne burden of an iron stove, while she is hung thick as any travelling tinker with tins and baking sheets, is the servant of a lady who has paid her rents by making the prawn-patties, the puffs filled with ovos molles, and the delicious pao de l'or or "golden bread" (anglicé: sponge-cake) -for which she possesses time-honored recipes; and she who follows, with a valise riding triumphantly aloft, and the roll of blankets in whose one hand is counterpoised by a tower of bonnet boxes in the other, is the assistant of the beetlebrowed person who keeps such watch and ward over her movements. While the Senhora Modista has passed her mornings in the surf of the Atlantic and her evenings in the Casino, her afternoons have been employed in retailing the latest "Parisian" millinery to

the rank and fashion of Figueira, or in twisting and twirling home-hoarded fragments of silk and satin into fashionable form.

Further up the platform is a group of Spaniards. You will have guessed the nationality of the women by the coquettish glance of lovely eyes that are darkly, languorously lustrous, by the beautiful curve of the most enchanting full red lips that ever lured man to his destruction, no less than by the simple elegance of the plainly made black dress, the mantilha so gracefully disposed over hair black and glossy as the raven's wing and the glowing carnation that confines its folds. These women are dancers from Seville, who, having displayed the trim ankle and arched instep of Andalusia nightly throughout the season at the Casino, are now homeward bound. So, too, is the company of bull-fighters close by. No mistaking the profession of these gentlemen of the short jackets and fringed sash-girdle, of the skin-tight breeches, broad-brimmed sombrero and tiny pigtails, of the low forehead and thick necks, which in themselves suffice to suggest their co-partners in the national pastime. These toureiros have turned their time to good account in their tour of the arenas, which are to be found in every Portuguese town, however small, and they will be able to live a life of golden ease throughout a winter whose cold is often more keenly felt than in lands where the thermometer falls habitually below zero.

If you have ever travelled in Portugal you cannot fail to have been struck (not, perhaps, in the Cosmopolitan Sud Express, but in the ordinary Rapidos, save the mark! to say nothing of the comboios mixtos) by the ubiquity of the patchwork bag which seems to serve the purpose of portmanteau, dressingcase, and luncheon basket to the Portuguese when his foot is abroad on his native heath. This is the receptacle in

which he carries the small impedimenta of his perilous enterprise (he still, by the way, makes his will with due solemnity when on the eve of travel in foreign parts; and we never fail to send our servants with anxious inquiry after the welfare of such of our excellent and illustrious friends who have returned in safety from a journey of two or three hours); and whether it be the samples of beans and maize he is taking to the fair at the nearest market town, the toothbrush and clean collar that equip him for a visit to the gay metropolis, the biscuits and "Marmelata" that sustain him on the way, or the bundles of greasy native notes (beginning at a value of 10s.), and the English sovereigns so eagerly sought and carefully hoarded in a country that has no gold of her own, that are to be exchanged for scrip or bond, all rides comfortably in the patchwork bag. Potent, grave and reverend Senhors, pillars of State, dignitaries of the Church, legal luminaries, university professors, no less than the peasant on his way to market, and the private soldier on furloughone and all are equipped with the national hold-all, which proves as cараcious and variously prolific as the immortal bag from which Mrs. Swiss Family Robinson supplied the wants of her progeny on a desert island in the midst of the Pacific. Were I to come across the King himself en voyage I should expect him to seek his pockethandkerchief in the depths of a manycolored cotton sack pendant from his left arm, while the refreshment he would surely offer me would emerge from the same hiding-place.

And very much surprised should I be if he did not press an apple or its sea. sonable equivalent on me, for your true Portuguese, worthy descendant of the courteous East, will never embark on his own apology for a meal-be it of the simplest character and scantiest pro

portions- without begging his fellowtravellers to do him the extreme honor of partaking, and if acceptance of such hospitality is not always expected or even desired, the most gracious thing to do, in nine cases out of ten, is to help yourself to a grape or a "bolacha" the while you call upon Heaven to shower blessings on your benefactor. Your own repast, bien entendu, must be similarly proffered to one and all of the occupants of your compartment. You may be sure no undue advantage will be taken of your invitation, but cordial relations will be established, and everything is now comfortable all round.

How gracefully and genuinely friendly-in the intervals of sharpening the knife of murder, of loading the revolver of assassination, of preparing the bomb of wholesale slaughter-are these Portuguese! Many are the instances of extraordinary and most delicate kindness received that rise up in the cinematograph of memory. And the fact that they were showered upon that sternly disapproved product of hated Albion, the unprotected female, walking unabashed in public thoroughfares, made them all the more amazing. Can I, for instance, forget the smart and distinctly handsome NonCom. who, in answer to my barely intelligible appeal for direction to the old Tower of Belem, which hangs with such ruggedly picturesque effect over the shining expanse of Tagus, insisted on devoting two precious hours of his afternoon's leave to squiring me to all the sights, and only parted from his adopted charge after presenting her with a railway ticket back to Lisbon, for which he absolutely refused repayment? Or the soldierly old gentleman of benign aspect, fellow-traveller from Madrid to Lisbon, who surreptitiously paid for the lunch I enjoyed so much at Alcantara, the frontier station, and whom only a determined man-hunt revealed and obliged to accept reimbursement? Or the kindly folk of Luzo, of whom I shall ever think with peculiar and quite affectionate gratitude, and how they bestowed courtesies innumerable, and by way of special consolation, two exquisite bouquets on the solitary female who sat, stranded and forlorn, on the top of her box at their little roadside station in slowly waning expectation of the cavalier that never came? Many are the bright threads that unlooked-for kindness and courtesy have contributed to the web woven from the memories of half a lifetime's wandering-but nowhere have I found more spontaneous and charming consideration for the wayfarer than under the sunny skies of the Peninsula.

If, to quote the Portuguese saying, "Sun and flies are the two things that are necessary to the success of a good bull fight" (sol e moscas é o que é preciso para uma boa Tourada) it is difficult to realize that such joys are, with the season, over, till St. John opens the ball again next year on June 24, the most popular feast of the Portuguese Calendar. Neither flies nor sun were lacking as I drove down to Buarcos one day last week, and Chica, our gallant little pony, whisked his tail incessantly, in vain endeavor to circumvent his tormentors. We went down lanes, deeply rutted by the slowly revolving wheels of heavy ox-carts, and fringed with sprawling aloes which, languid in the heat of afternoon, resembled stranded octopuses extending livid tentacles in search of prey. The wretched village to which we presently came looked doubly squalid under the rays which mercilessly revealed dirt and disorder indescribable, and drew sickening emanations from the heaps at cottage doors-heaps in which fishheads and empty cockleshells were the most reputable elements. Squatting on the thresholds of the low, square hovels, so dazzling white, or gaily

tinted with pink or buff, the female population of Buarcos pursued their occupations, here drawing a listless needle through some unspeakably tattered garment, or chasing small deer through the happy hunting ground of a neighbor's head, as it lies in a red cotton lap, there indulging in gossip and gesticulating as the wire-like, hooked knitting-needles dived in and out of a slowly-proceeding stocking, or gazing, impassive, and motionless as if carved out of stone, out from beneath black-hooded brows, over the broad expanse of ocean. For the Atlantic lies at our feet, its gently heaving bosom agleam with the sheen of faint blue satin, as it breaks in languid ripples on the amber beach. But if the sun, still high in the heavens this superb October day, betrays with scorching scorn each shameless secret of domestic filth and degrading squalor, it also lends additional radiance to the Turkey reds and rose pinks of kirtle, and the buff and yellows of kerchief. to the vivid blues and grass-greens of shawl and apron, and evokes strange gleams from the ornaments of pure gold that hang from ear or on bosom. The men who lounge by, idle in the intervals of a fisherman's life of spasmodic energy, are a complete foil to the brilliance of their wives and sweethearts, the customary Masaniello cap of scarlet-bound black or green, with point falling to the shoulder, and an occasional red sash as substitute for braces, being the only picturesque features of their dress. But very personable fellows, nevertheless, are these toilers of the sea-tall, well-knit of frame, bold of eye, and their natural swarthiness bronzed by constant exposure to wind and weather. Somewhat lowering is their expression till a smile casts sudden illumination over the mahogany cheek and scowling mouth. Then-oh, the magic of the Latin smile! Especially where, as here,