Communist principles in the broad sense of the word, and they split up into small groups bound by common interests, spiritual and material, and by the duty of mutual help. Several villages now exist in the Caucasus, the inhabitants of which belong to this sect, and keep more or less to the Communist organization. Their fanatical enthusiasm, on the one hand, and their material well-being and prosperity, on the other, act as a contagion on the surrounding populations; and the government takes severe measures to put an end to their dangerous propaganda, entirely forbids their migration from one place to another, and exiles them to distant provinces. But all this only widens the spread of the sect, the fanatical agents of which go from village to village haranguing the people, predicting the end of the world, declaring that every one ought to prepare for it and to repent, and during their fits of excitement they jump, sing strange hymns, tear their clothes, and finish by falling senseless. upon your autocratic nature, for I have long ago learnt that the greatest tyranny may be found in little women with fair hair and blue eyes like your own. You commiserate me on the dull monotony of my seaside retreat, but I repudiate your pity. Dull it may be, monotonous it unquestionably is. But when I require variety there is the changeful sea to look at, whilst for amusement I have the pleasure of studying the characters of my fellow-lodgers, and of watching a little play between three dramatis persone which I prophesy will end in the ringing of wedding-bells. The principal actors are a young man who rejoices in the poetical name of Aubrey St. Quintin, and calls himself, I believe, a poet, and a little girl with blue eyes, and nothing that distinguishes her from the rest of the world. She is here quite by herself, and seems to have no one to look after her. She is rather white and quiet, and wears a shabby little brown frock, which, if I were the poet, I should like to replace by something bright and pretty. sit to other. There are in Russia a great variety of They the poet and the girl other sects, which are not less curious gether at meal-time, walk together by the and strange, but this is a brief description sea, read books together, and speak to of some religious sects taken haphazard. each other with their eyes. I think he The facts here marshalled would seem to patronizes and she adores; whichever prove, to a certain degree, that an un-way it is they seem very happy in each healthy mental fermentation is at work among the Russian people, which, at this critical moment, may reach proportions menacing to the State and to existing civilization, and, by its noxious influence on the civilized classes, may give a quite novel turn to the social and intellectual movement which is taking place in Russian society. N. TSAKNI. The other actor is, at present, playing the part of mere walking lady, but I foresee that her talents will speedily raise her into prima donna, and if I were the girl with the eyes, I should fear for the poet. She is a young widow, Mrs. Charleton, and we have already made acquaintance over the constant passing and repassing of the salt-cellar at dinner. She is very smart, very bright, very beautiful. If I were not an old bachelor my pulses might flutter when she looks at me with the eyes and voice of a Circe; as it is, I only fear for the poet. She must be out of her ele. ment here, and she treats most of the inmates of the primitive little hotel with a silent contempt, if you can call a complete From Malcolm Frazer, Esq., to Miss ignoring of their presence contempt. Out From Longman's Magazine. A PHILOSOPHER'S FANCY. Frazer. Saltlinn-by-Sea, August 24, 1880. You ask for a "real, long, diary-like letter," little sister, as if an old professor like me could waste time in such a feminine pursuit as keeping a diary, or inscribing gossipy letters to my friends. But you, spoilt Mabel, are not to be denied. My moral courage quails before thoughts of the effect contradiction might have of sheer longing to speak with some one she addressed me to-day at luncheon, and asked me if I did not find Saltlinn very dull. "So dull," she added, sweeping away (metaphorically speaking) the rest of the company with a scornful glance from her dark eyes, "that I shall not put up with it long. My sister who meant to come with me is ill. It is only because I hate soli tude that I come to the table d'hôte. It amuses me to study my fellow-creatures." “And you find these interesting?" I asked. "Interesting? -no. Unless it be those two young things," she added, nodding in the direction of the poet and the girl. They were talking in low voices together, but at that moment the young man looked up and met Mrs. Charleton's eyes. It struck me that he colored a little, and after that his gaze kept wandering back to her. She too observed it, for presently she turned to me with a significant little laugh. "He is composing a sonnet to you," I suggested. No; they are vowed to his Cinderella. Poor dingy little Cinderella!" Yet Cinderella came out of the cinders a star," I answered, feeling somehow impelled to take up the cudgels for the little girl. "What is she doing here all by herself-a child like that? Do you know her?" "Oh yes, we are very good friends. She is a dear little girl. Her name is Dulcie Dulcie Meade - and she is a governess or something of that sort. She has been ill, and has come here during her holidays to pick up her strength. She must be very poor, for even now she gives daily lessons to some people near here. She and the poet walk to their house every morning, and when her three hours' teaching is over he fetches her back. She is a good little thing. She often comes and sits with me when I am dull. I must get her to introduce me to her poet." With that, she looked again at Aubrey St. Quintin, with a half-smile on her lips, and I wished more than ever for Dulcie's sake that her poet would give her a new frock. I am not a lady's man, and I took it for a sign that Mrs. Charleton was very hard up for companionship when she invited me to come to her sitting-room that evening after dinner. "We might have a little music," she said, "or whist, if you prefer it. Dulcie Meade always comes, and I have set my heart on getting introduced to her poet, that I may ask him too. You and I"with a smile that almost made me forget my forty years "as two elderly people can sit and do gooseberry to the young ones' love-making. But seriously I am all in favor of it. She is too soft and gen tle to grow into a poor soured governess, and the poet is — looks charming." "He is good-looking," I agreed, "but how about the poetry?" "I don't know," she said. But I fancy she will know, very shortly. Well, having brushed myself up, and rather regretting my quiet evening pipe and box of new books, I presented myself in Mrs. Charleton's sitting room that evening after dinner. She was sitting at the piano, and beckoned to me to join her. Aubrey St. Quintin and Dulcie Meade were on the balcony, looking very happy, and carrying on an unceasing flow of conversation in undertones. Mrs. Charleton is very charming, very clever, with the great art of adapting hersel to other people. She did not laugh at me for being a sleepy old professor — as you do, impertinent Mabel - nor inundate me with professional shop; but entered into a thoroughly intelligent conversation, showing genuine intellectual capabilities far above the average. I was very near forgetting that, as a rule, young widows do not care to talk philosophy with men old enough to be their fathers, and I might be there now, discussing the freewill controversy, had not Mrs. Charleton struck a few chords on the piano, which recalled me to myself. "What kind of music do you like, Mr. Frazer?" she asked. "Your native ballads? I always think they lose all their charm, unless sung by a Scotch woman. Nevertheless, I will do my best for you." Her "best" was very good, and I had no criticism to make. As she sang the constant dialogue on the balcony ceased, and the poet was attracted to the window to look at the singer. After one or two songs she turned to him with a winning smile, telling him that as I had had my turn, it was now for him to choose what she should sing next. The young fellow flushed with pleasure at being taken notice of by so great a lady, and was at her side in a moment, leaning on the piano, and telling her that he did not care what she sang so long as she sang something. He IS a nice-looking boy, singlehearted and honest, I should say, in spite of his poetical propensities, and with one of those faces women always fall in love with-dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a devotional manner to all the fair sex, old or young. "Perhaps you sing yourself? I am sure you do," said Mrs. Charleton, smiling back into his admiring eyes. "Will you?" 66 "Oh, not I. I can't sing a note," he answered; "I wish I could." "But then you can write poetry, and that is even better." "Verse-not poetry," he said, in quick disclaimer that seemed to me to be sincere not the orthodox sham humility; "I wish that wretched volume had never been published; it haunts me wherever I go. Please do not allude to it again.” "But you ought to be proud of it. I know some of the poems by heart," she said kindly; "I have even ventured to set one of them to music. A Little Maid,' you know. It is my favorite." "But you play? Come, you cannot deny that, because I know you go every day to teach the little Faringdon children." "It is very easy to teach small children." "I beg your pardon - not at all. It is a great art; it wants a patience, a tact that some people can never learn. It must be very tiring for you. You look as if you ought to do nothing but be petted and waited on all day." Like all elderly bachelors I have a weakness for little girls like Dulcie, and I began to take quite a fatherly interest in her. He would be superhuman not to have felt flattered, not only by the words, but "It is no use minding being tired," she by the subtle charms a clever woman can said rather sadly, but laughed directly afexhibit in voice and manner, and when terwards; adding, “And I like teaching she sang his own poetry to him in a clear, sometimes. The idea of me being waited sweet contralto, his subjugation was com-on-dear me, I should hate it. I have pleted. I began to feel de trop, and won- always had to wait on other people." dered what the little girl thought of it all "Poor little thing!" I said compassionpoor insignificant Cinderella. ately. When I joined her she was sitting on the balcony, looking into the room at Mrs. Charleton and her poet. She gave me a shy little smile when I sat by her side, and then her eyes flew back to the piano. She is not so like all the rest of the world as I thought; she would be very pretty if she were not so white and thin, and so dingily dressed. She has a nice little nose and mouth, and a smile like a cherub; I am sure, if I were the poet, I should be in love with her too, and never tire of kissing her baby lips. As for her great, childlike blue eyes. well, well, I see I shall soon have to take to writing novels if I go on at this rate. It is only out of pity for you, in the solitude scarlet fever has banished you to, that I allow my pen to meander on in this old-maidish fashion. Dulcie did not speak to me for some minutes, but sat gazing at Mrs. Charleton with adoration written all over her face. Then suddenly she turned to me and said in a soft little voice, "Isn't she beautiful?" "Very," I said. "Is she as good as she is beautifu!?" "Oh yes; quite. I never knew any one so kind and good and clever. She can do everything. Her name is Ruby. Does not it suit her? She is just like a rich flashing ruby." Evidently my little friend has the bump of veneration largely developed. I hope her admiration is not misplaced, and that Aubrey St. Quintin does not share it too much. "Don't you sing yourself, Miss Meade?" I asked. "Oh no-I can't do anything. stupid," she said, quite simply. I am "Oh, I don't mind," she answered brightly; "I am very happy. Every one is so kind; Mrs. Charleton - - and Mr. St. Quintin." "The poet? I must read his book before I can judge him fairly." "He is the cleverest man I ever met," she said, with a tender pride that must have bewitched Aubrey St. Quintin could he have heard her; "and his poems are lovely. I have got them I will lend them to you if you like." Aitogether, by the end of the evening we had become excellent friends. It will interest me, whilst I am here, to watch the progress these young people make in their courtship. If I can trust my eyes, they are already engaged sub rosa, and think each other perfection. Malcolm Frazer, Esq., to Miss Frazer. September 5. So you are interested in my character sketches, are you? But, indiscreet Mabel, you have nearly forfeited all confidences by your vile insinuations concerning "lovely young widows" and "the vanity inherent in soft-hearted old bachelors." Never jump to hasty conclusions, for you may overleap facts and alight on the unreliable soil of fancy, as in this case. Know, inquisitive little sister, that I am impervious to all the poisoned shafts that ever were loosed upon man by woman. have found my mistress, and no time can be called lost that is spent in pursuit of her. You will argue that it is waste of I time to chase what can never be over- I was glad to be able to answer sintaken, and that knowledge forever flees cerely that I considered the poems above those that pursue her. True, O sapient the average, and that the poet, though not one! But you overlook the roses that are destined to be a Milton (of course I omitgathered as we follow in her fleeting foot-ted the last parenthetical comment in steps, and no arguments from your impatient pen will ever make me swerve from my allegiance. I am invulnerable to the siren's charm; but not so, I imagine, the poet. Instead of looking in the face of his little girl-love, he gazes with the unabashed effrontery of adoring youth at the brilliant beauty of our fine lady, Mrs. Charleton. If she guesses what is going on, it is unkind of her not to spare him. But I believe the admiration is partly mutual, and that our flashing ruby does not disdain the worship of so interesting a subject as Aubrey St. Quintin. And what of Cinderella? Good little Cinderella — why, she is innocence itself goes into rapturous praises of Mrs. Charleton to the poet, into rapturous praises of the poet to Mrs. Charleton. You will wonder what place I can find in this trio? I confess that I am like a dusty old folio among elegant modern éditions de luxe, and that I serve the purpose of mere utility. I make the fourth wheel to the coach, and prevent that inconvenient number which is said to be mere trumpery. I made a remark to this effect the other day, and feel morally certain that Dulcie, in whom I take such a fatherly interest, had the want of feeling to murmur "frumpery" - which was not nice of her, when I come chiefly for her sake. To tell the truth, I am beginning to feel sorry for her, and try to occupy her attention, that she should not think herself neglected when Aubrey worships at beauty's shrine. Not that she has any jealous qualms yet. speaking to Dulcie), had a good deal of fancy and sentiment. "No wonder he wrote well, with such a subject," I could not help adding it is the especial privilege of elderly bachelors to make speeches like this to nice little girls, and I did not mean it as flattery. By this time Dulcie and I have assumed a kind of fatherly and daughterly relationship to each other, and it seems to be a pleasure to her to come to me with little semi-confidences, or to beg for my opinion and advice on the tiny interests of her life. She blushed a little at my remark, and looked conscious - then said, with childlike ingenuity, — 66 "We did not know each other then," "So you are not old friends. How long have you known each other?" Oh, I remember. I came here the end of July, and I met him for the first time on a Sunday - just three weeks and two days ago, coming home from church. I beg your pardon. It is very wrong of me to come and interrupt you with my silly talk when you are busy." I was reading on the seashore, where she had joined me. The other two were at a little distance - shrimping. I, like you, am on a holiday," I answered. "My book can keep, and I would rather hear about yourself. Are you quite alone in the world, Miss Dulcie? 66 'Yes, now. I am only nineteen," she said, stroking out a crease in the dingy brown frock. "And I have no home, no friends — no one but myself to work for." She did not speak complainingly, but in a dull, matter-of-fact way that touched me. Probably, he himself has no idea that I can see what she wants well enough, he is in the least degree swerving from poor forlorn little creature. I suppose his affection for her; and as for disap-Aubrey St. Quintin will give it to her; pointing her-bah! I should have to anyhow he ought to. If not, and if it were shake him. The little girl is worth a dozen possible, I should almost like to adopt her of her captivating friend - patroness as my daughter and see what I can do to whichever position it is she occupies. bring some color into her cheeks and merriment into her eyes, by giving her new frocks and feminine trifles. Pshaw! what can this be but my dotage coming on? Nevertheless, when she left me, I laid aside my book and spectacles, and calculated that if I had married at twenty, and become a father at twenty-one, I might have a little girl just Dulcie's age. Still, I am glad I have not. How she would disturb the clearness of my thoughts when I like Dulcie because she is so simple and honest in her love for these other two. When she gave me the volume of "Songs and Ballads" by Aubrey St. Quintin, she looked as proudly at the little book as a mother at her first-born. "Isn't he clever?" she said, lifting up her eager, shy eyes to read my answer in my face, when I returned it. "It is not every one who could write like that." Dulcie still worships her friend Ruby, and trusts her poet. But sometimes her eyes are rather doleful, and I catch her watching Aubrey wistfully, as if all was not quite right. She and I are better friends than ever, and she has as good as confided in me about herself and Aubrey. I am engaged in some abstruse calcula- | there for a young man when a beautifu tion, and how all my bachelor comforts woman falls in love with him? He is would be destroyed! I suppose it is bound to give in sooner or later. thinking of you, Mabel, that makes me so prosy, so I warn you that this is the last letter you receive from me for a long time. Perhaps, if the fortunes of Dulcie and Aubrey become at all complicated I shall commit the folly of inscribing them in my diary for your future edification. Marry her he must; wretched fellow to hesitate! even if I have to play go-between to bring him to the point. I cannot have my Dulcie made unhappy. Yesterday she said, "If only I had a father like you, who could advise me how to act. I am so ignorant. Sometimes everything seems a puzzle." So I told her she might treat me as her father, and that I wished she was my Malcolm Frazer's "Folly"-his "Diur- daughter. So I do. nal" Book. September 8. I KNOW, now, why I have taken such a fancy to Dulcie. It is because she reminds me of the little girl who gave me a lock of soft brown hair (I have it still, somewhere or other) when I first went to Oxford. She had eyes like Dulcie, and I think I kissed her that day when she gave me the hair. In fact I know I did. How well I remember ita brook studded with yellow marigolds, and weeping willows growing on the margin! No one could see us under the willows, so I kissed her, and said I should never forget her, and she whispered, "Oh, come back soon from Oxford, Malcolm." Perhaps I used to think I was in love with her. But I was only nineteen, and at that time thought more of taking honors than of matrimony. And when I came back the little girl was gone. Not very far - only as far as the churchyard. Poor little girl; and I have a lock of her hair still. I will not say that that is why I never married. But I used to think I would wait until I found another little girl just like that one, and somehow I never found one until I met Dulcie- and, of course, now, it is too late. He's a lucky fellow, that poet of hers. To-day I met Dulcie coming back from the Faringdons alone. Every other day Aubrey has fetched her home, but to-day Mrs. Charleton invited him to go out seafishing with her, and, as he told Dulcie, "he did not know how to refuse." You see they are not engaged, so there is no earthly reason why he should dance attendance on Dulcie. But there are tacit understandings that are as binding as promises, and I can guess what he is feeling. He is a nice boy, and I don't think he would like to act dishonorably or unkindly to any one. But what chance is When I met her to-day we chose a sunny spot on the cliff, and sat there; I with a book from which I was taking notes for a lecture I am to give on my return to London, she with a well-thumbed, inkstained school lexicon, over which she had spent many slow hours drumming its contents into stubborn little heads. Her eyes were fixed on a small sailing-boat out at sea, where the widow and the poet were pretending to fish. "Is this what you are teaching them?" I asked, pointing to her book; "I suppose you know every word by heart." "Oh yes. I am sick of it," she said, pushing it impatiently from her. "Sometimes I am so tired, so tired of it all. I cannot help it." "Poor child," I said, and could not resist laying my hand over her little shabbily gloved one. "It is different for us women," she went on. "A man has so many things to hope for fame, or success of some sort. But we can do nothing. We have only to go on with the same dull work day after day, day after day, with nothing to look forward to all one's life long. It is dreadful always to be alone." "I have always been alone too. Now that I am old and grizzly I am used to it, and am as happy as a grig. Perhaps you will be too." “Ah, yes — perhaps when I am old," she answered, making me feel at least double my proper age. "Besides, you are very clever, and a man. It must be nice for you because you are learned, and people come for miles to hear you speak, and you have written books." "On the other hand, you are young and have your life before you. You will marry and be very happy. Take the advice of an old bachelor, and don't worry your little head over present troubles. There is a |