opinion of those not unfitted to form a judgment, might profitably occupy the attention of the Registrar-General, whether the majority of births in each month do not occur on the days specified.

An instance of this method of discovering the month of an individual's birth may not be without a practical value. Thus: A has the Natural, compared with the other lines, faint and livid; he was born therefore in the second half year, i. e., in one of the months January, June, August, September, October, or November. examine the Natural more closely, and find, for example, that its first clearly marked division occurs near the commencement under the base of the index finger. This is under the domination of Jupiter. Now Jupiter presides over the months of February and November; but February is already excluded as belonging to the first half year, there remains therefore only November,-A. was therefore born in November; and there is further a presumption in favour of his having selected a Thursday in that month for the operation.

PRACTICAL REMARKS IN CONCLUSION.

With this practical exemplification of the value of Chiromancy, it may be as well to draw this paper to a close. Of all people the English are most inclined to judge of the truth of a science by putting it to the test of practical utility; and, judged by this test, Chiromancy must indeed stand high. The history of the world bristles with examples of the service it has rendered. We read in Josephus that Cæsar was so well versed in this science that, when one day a soi-disant son of Herod had audience of him, he at once detected the impostor, because his hand was destitute of any marks of royalty. Scoffers may indeed urge that it does not need either the acumen of a Cæsar or the special knowledge of a Chiromantist to distinguish between the hand of an adventurer and that of one born in the purple; but the true votary of science will not allow himself to be discouraged by the cheap scorn of the incredulous; and from the days of Josephus until within comparatively recent times, the science of Chiromancy has been held in the honour it deserves. That the state of affairs should now-a-days be so different induces no doubt regret, but can hardly excite astonishment. For that an age, which has removed all the old landmarks of traditional belief and timehonoured statecraft, should shrink with timidity from any attempt to unveil the future which it is thus preparing for individuals as well as nations is most strictly natural. Chiromancy went out of fashion with the appearance of the modern republican doctrines of liberty, equality, and fraternity, and may be expected to revive in influence as soon as the world shall have seen the error of its ways, and returned to the simplicity of feudal times and the healthy atmosphere of paternal government.

A. EUBULE-EVANS.

MR. CARINGTON.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

THE THREE-VOLUME NOVEL.

"Tria juncto in una."

THE most distinctive literary production of the present age is, devoid of question, the three-volume novel. Next thereto in point of popular interest comes the science or nescience made easy of certain professors, who announce a new discovery every Monday, which is forgotten by the following Friday. These professors are really not altogether useless; they occupy what are assumed to be minds with what is assumed to be science. If no better for young people, their amazing lectures and theories are assuredly no worse than a theatre which has killed the drama, or a church that prefers folly to faith. In old times of England, as all historians know, there was often war between the Church and the Theatre, each being now and then victor. Now neither seems to have any faith in ideas; there are superb decorations and music at a fashionable church, and shapely legs dancing to music at a fashionable theatre, and the choristers pass from one to the other. A great Dramatist and a great Ecclesiastic are the wants of the age.

Meanwhile the novel does its best to amuse, and sometimes tries to instruct; but the novel has its difficulties. It is an awkward form of literature. Sir Walter would rather have written his worst poem than his best novel: so much space must be given in a novel to incidents undramatic, to descriptions unpicturesque, that the great writer grows tired. The architect has to do bricklayer's work: he dares leave nothing to the imagination of his readers. The sharp crisp rapid action of the drama will not do,-poetry and power are wasted. A story must reach a certain length, and must be worth the circulating-library price merely as a method of killing time. Far be it from me dogmatically to assert that killing time is not the best thing that many people can do, but it is scarcely worthy of a great writer to supply them with a method of doing this thing. This, indeed, has become apparent to some of our foremost novelists; and they appear also to have discovered that they cannot supply tittletattle and chit-chat and nice little naughtinesses, as well as their female rivals. So the novel-reading world is just now in the position of a nobleman or gentleman who has decided to dismiss his butler

and groom of the chambers and footman and so forth, and content himself with maid-servants. There is place for them in the modern novel, from the cook to the foolish fat scullion.

Properly conceived and properly handled, I take it that the novel in its present form might be a very fine literary instrument. Unluckily an audience is needed. "An audience!" is the natural exclamation-"why, everybody reads novels." Yes, everybody who is nobody. But, to put a crucial test, would any publisher give a remunerative price for a novel so good that the Archbishop of York could not help reading it? Let any man count the few modern novels he would care to read twice, and they would probably be all failures. Novels are now written for readers who cannot read anything twice. Like children who take their physic in jam, they are unconscious that in every dull impossible story they devour they are reading the same thing over and over again. A perfect yet ideal mirror of life is to such readers unintelligible.

Yet am I sorry for the novel. It might do great things. It reflects in prose the old Greek trilogy of drama. The three volumes, in the hand of an artist, give such fine opportunity for beginning, middle, and end, which are the obvious necessity of all literary conceptions, from a lyric to an epic. It is so good a formula to work upon, that nothing but the public appetite for trash could have prevented the appearance of a great novelist ere this.

That subtle journal, the Spectator, some time ago suggested, that the English novel, like the Greek drama, might last about a hundred years and no more. The idea is based on a misapprehension. Drama in Athens was coincident with the glory of Athens . . . brilliant beyond measure, so that the lamp of the Greek mind burns in our households now, but, alas! brief . . . partly by reason of its brilliance. Novel in England is likely to last as long as the English -a race whose even continuous course through triumph, trouble, conquest, defeat, agony, apathy, is without any parallel. One faith. is firm in the heart of every Englishman-that the English will go on. I am glad of it. Next to faith in the immortality of your own soul, is faith in the immortality of your own race. Bury me in a trance for as many centuries as you please, and when you resuscitate me there will be Pall Mall the immemorial, and a man on the steps of some club to say,

"Hullo, old fellow ! Where have you been so long?"

This brief digressive essay at the commencement of my third volume is intended for more purposes than one. It is intended to show most clearly that many writers (I deliberately and carefully except myself) would write much better novels, romances, stories, historiettes, et hoc genus omne, if only the public would deign to read them. Further, it is designed to punctuate my story to indicate that we have passed the middle of it, and are growing near the real

.

meaning of it. if it have a meaning. Lastly, chiefly, indeed, it is intended to teach young ladies a certain art.

"What?" say you.

The merry girls, with laughing eyes,

Who don't like dry books,

If they are wicked, still are wise
To pick up sly books.

A novel full of joy and fun,

Of thought and glory,

May show the youngsters there is one
Can tell a story.

Some children in this book, I hope,

Will soon be dipping :

This chapter's meant, without a rope,
To teach them skipping.

CHAPTER XXIX.

RACHETTE AND BRAKINSKA.

'Happy the man whose cook is no conspirator.”

WHILE the honey-moon of the Prince and Princess Oistravieff was passing from gaiety to gloom, events moved somewhat slowly both at Sarum and at Langton Delamere. Frank Noel waited on the dear old Canon devotedly, ably aided by Laurence the butler, but hindered as much as possible by the Minx. There was a regular war carried on a very civil war of course. . . between this charming young lady and Frank Noel and his trusty ally. She had the best of it; she was in the citadel. Canon Lovelace found her necessary to his existence, and in the fondness of his old heart nicknamed her Sunshine. She played her game to perfection: no word ever did she utter against Frank, or against old Laurence, who had known Sarum Close at least as long as the Canon; but she contrived to do for the old gentleman not only what might naturally be expected of her, but also much that might better have been done by his nephew and his butler. She seemed to efface them and render them unnecessary. Canon Lovelace, convalescing, felt perfectly happy under her management she was without rival as nurse, as secretary, as companion; he found her the best medicine in the world. Frank, seeing as little of his uncle as Miss Wilkinson could manage, very naturally got among his old Salisbury friends, and took life as a young man will who has nothing to do and likes doing it.

At the great hall of Delamere the condition of affairs was so far changed that Mr. Carington had carried his point, and induced the Earl to promise that at the right time he would do the right thing by Elinor. . . as well as by Lucy. To each of these girls he had

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duties to perform, the nature of which were known to scarcely any one except himself and Carington . . . certainly quite unknown to the girls themselves. Elinor knew a little, but not all: Lucy knew simply nothing. Elinor had from mere childhood been to some exextent under Mr. Carington's kind and wise guardianship, and had grown into a woman of noble type. Poor little Lucy's opportunity of growth had been far feebler: some "seminary for young ladies" had taught her all she knew, save what she knew by instinct. A good giri naturally, but with an instinctive levity about her as of whipt syllabub, she did not compare favourably in well-judging eyes with our Elinor, who looked every inch a lady, and who had a stately touch of the Princess even when her eyes ran over with mirth, and her rose-red lips with song. It is fair to Mr. Carington to say that, though he argued the great case of "Elinor versus Lucy," as leading counsel for the plaintiff, with strict logic and strong eloquence, he never for a moment forgot that the poor pretty little defendant was in no degree at fault. It is also fair to the Earl, in this case sole judge, to say that his growing delight in Elinor's loveliness of character did not make him less kind to Lucy. He had made up his mind which he liked best: he had made up his mind what was his duty to each. Mr. Carington had fought for the right, and won ; yet the Earl had still a pathetic feeling that Lucy, poor child, was not quite fairly treated. Some wrongs are irreparable. Some children come into the world under conditions so unfair that it seems unfair to punish them for their conduct. Yet the stern and rigorous law of life will punish them. The sins of the fathers fall upon the children. What a pity we cannot turn time backwards, make the earth revolve the wrong way, make old people grow young and return to their birthplace, visit upon fathers and mothers, great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers, the sins of our existing generation, which for the most part are hereditary. Fancy an archbishop going back through head-mastership to college life, to boy-life, to the nursery. Some of us would enjoy such reflex movement. Some of us, I sadly fear, are unfit to be babies again.

When the great news of the Princess Paulovna Oistravieff's mysterious death reached Delamere, it amazed more persons than one. Not Mr. Carington, for he knew only too well the deadly anger of a certain person whom here we must not name. The melodramatic method of that death showed the rough hoof of the caitiff-crowned conspirator.

"Vile hound!" thought Mr. Carington. "It is a pity we can't administer English justice to him. One of these days he will run away to England, and all the fools of his neighbourhood will hurrah. The House of Commons, for manifest reasons, will never bring in a bill for the abolition of fools."

Thus having gratified his splenetic vein, our good friend thought he would communicate his news. Seldom did the Earl look at