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CONTRIBUTOR to a Transatlantic periodical points out a

curious coincidence between what he calls "the most exciting chapter in Daniel Deronda," and a scene in Paul Heyse's story of Die Einsamen. The description in the German work of Tommaso's inability to rescue the man who had fallen out of the boat, though a mere turn of the oar would have saved him, and that of the mental struggle which accompanied this passive form of murder, recall indeed strongly Gwendolen's acquiescence in the death of her husband. The resemblance is, however, doubtless accidental, and, were it otherwise, is of little importance. Still, resemblances and parallel passages have always an interest for a certain class of readers. Milton seems to have appropriated "son bien" almost as readily as Molière. In lists of parallel passages supplied as illustrations of the Laureate, I do not recollect having seen the following, which I first noticed a score years ago:

Ε

You scarce could see the grass for flowers.

-The Two Voices.

Ye may ne see for peeping flowers the grass.

-GEORGE PEELE, The Arraignment of Paris.

NGLAND, which is said to be so over-populated, and certain descriptions of which would lead us to imagine that she had "no haunts of ancient peace" left within her boundaries, contains, in reality, more out-of-the-way and primitive districts than any other civilised country. I was staying lately in a country place with a clerical friend, who did the Sunday duty in the absence of the local clergyman. "Perhaps you wouldn't mind reading and preaching in the chancel, sir," said the Sexton, "for the fact is we got a duck a-sitting in the pulpit." It is needless to say that the duck was the Sexton's. We have heard from young ladies of many "a duck" in the London pulpits, but it is unusual to find them sitting or laying there.

THE

HE famine in India is beginning to stir the heart of England: but, it must be confessed, but languidly. Until a catastrophe has actually happened [to somebody else], one is apt to underrate its importance, or even to believe it may not happen at all. When the special correspondents are sending us thrilling accounts of the calamity, we shall doubtless appreciate its magnitude and severity, and hasten to do what we can-too late. However, we are getting alive to the fact that the lives not only of tens of thousands but of hundreds of thousands of our fellow-creatures are threatened by the gaunt demon of Starvation; and side by side with true bene

volence steps in, as usual, the false that charity which, as Sydney Smith tells us, prompts A to put his hand into B's pocket to give to C. One "Camilla " writes to the papers to suggest that all shareholders in Indian railways which have this year paid a good dividend should subscribe to the Famine Fund. I hope they will, but I do not see anything in "Camilla's" argument beyond the indication that she herself holds no Indian Railway Stock. She might just as well appeal to all dealers in india-rubber, or sellers of "natives," or importers of "Trinchinopoli cheroots," as particularly bound to open their purse-strings; moreover, as a matter of fact, the Indian railways, dependent on the classes for whom she would have others provide, have returned no profits whatever.

THE

HE publication of "Camilla's" letter in the Times was no doubt due to the date of its appearance, namely, the "Silly Season." This has been very dull this year, and those pikes, the reporters, have been consequently more rapacious than usual; they have snapped up everything, quite regardless of its fitness for pabulum. Among other things, they have deplored the premature decease of my esteemed friend Mr. Justin McCarthy, who, I am happy to say, is alive and kicking against the prematurity of the reporters. I wonder how a gentleman feels who peruses his own obituary !-how he likes to be told of his "failure to fulfil the high promise of his early years," and to be patted patronisingly on the back for his "social and domestic virtues." What romances lie in the obituaries of our daily press! The biographies of all our eminent persons are already in manuscript in the desk of every editor of a daily paper, awaiting only the final touches and the date of death. When they are sick, these manuscripts are put in type, and, if they chance to get well, the type has to be "distributed" again. Moreover, many obituaries have yet to appear, the writer of which has himself long "joined the majority." Miss Martineau, for example, who had to "do" the "literary undertaking" for the Daily News, will doubtless "after death yet speak" about many of her contemporaries.

SYLVANUS URBAN.

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THE

GENTLEMAN'S MAGAZINE

W1

NOVEMBER 1877.

MISS MISANTHROPE.

BY JUSTIN MCCARTHY.

CHAPTER XXXI.

AND EVEN FOR LOVE WILL BURY LOVE IN EARTH."

HEN Minola made that sudden confession to Mary Blanchet which was told in a former chapter, she did it under the impulse of a feeling which she could no more restrain than she could explain it. After it was done she was sorry, perhaps, that she had made the confession, but she had no fear that it would be betrayed. Devoted as Mary was to her brother, Minola felt certain that she would never let one word of such a secret escape from her to him; and Minola did not even consider the possibility of her telling it to anyone else. They hardly spoke of it afterwards. Minola only once impressed on Mary the necessity of keeping it the profoundest secret, which, to do the poetess justice, was hardly necessary. If there was one obligation which Mary respected above all others, it was the confidence of a woman's love-secret. She became, if possible, more devoted than ever to her leader; first, because the leader had proved herself a very woman by having a love-secret, and, next, because Minola had confided the secret to her. Mary did not ask who the hero of the secret story might be. She easily got to know that Mr. St. Paul was not the person; because by questions and by inferences she came to understand that he had really offered himself for the place, and had not been accepted. This was a subject of immense delight and pride to Mary. In her wildest dreams of day or night, she had never hoped for such an honour as to have a friend who had refused the son of a duke. No matter about the character of the duke's son; no matter if he was cast off by his own family and VOL. CCXLI. NO. 1763.

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