at the lower level; and have fossils which depart more in their character from the present fauna than do those of the low-level gravels. But before these old gravels were deposited yet a third kind of elephant, E. meridionalis, is believed to have lived and to have become extinct. Its remains are found in the old forest bed of Cromer, Norfolk, in the Norwich crag, in the deposits of Val d'Arno, and in those of St. Prest, near Chartres. In association with this elephant at St. Prest, we have species different from those which occur in the gravels in association with E. antiquus. We have the remains of Rhinoceros leptorhinus, several species of deer, Megaceros carnutorum, a large ox, and several others, believed to be new and yet undescribed. Before the Cromer forest was flourishing on the old land of Norfolk, a large proboscidean, Mastodon arvernensis, characteristic of the Norwich crag, appears to have died out.

As in space we find that in two neighbouring areas there exist faunas very similar to each other, inasmuch as a large proportion of each is composed of the same species, while the small proportion consists of species peculiar to each district; so in time we have periods in which the same general assemblage of animals belongs to the period before or the period after ; during the lapse of time, a steady and constant succession of different forms follow each other, so that of the thousand kinds of animals which exist in the first period, only nine hundred, say, will be living in the second, eight hundred in the third, and so on; while the deficiency in varieties of form will be made up by species of another kind. This everflowing tide of creation is, to our mind, one of the most marvellous truths which the labours of the zoologist, the palæontologist, and the geologist have revealed to us.

If we had devoted our attention to any other part of the world, we should have seen a similar stream of life, and a similar ladder of changes. We have taken a glance at the way in which the operations of man have tended to mingle up these streams, and so to destroy many of their distinctive features. What may have been the aggregate change which his influence has brought about it would be hard to say, but it must have been something very great, considering that he has been an active agent for thousands of years. might form some idea of its magnitude from knowing that the destruction of forests lessens the amount of moisture available for plants, and ultimately may produce barrenness. We know that continents are being ground down, and their materials being deposited in the depths of ocean; we know that perhaps these

We

materials may subsequently rise up above the level of the sea, so as to form new continents and islands; we know that as the land shifts, the terrestrial animals must shift with it, or die; we know that in past times changes in the animal world have been going on simultaneously with the redistribution of dry land; and it is exceedingly probable that these changes in the inorganic have had a material influence on the changes in the organic world. Man himself is quite unable to make a continent arise at his bidding, but he can and does exercise great influence, not by planting new lands, but by transferring animal and vegetable life from one region to another. This power ought to be used with a judgment and caution in proportion to its magnitude and importance. A. R.

THE PERFECT GENERAL SECRETARY.

THE English visitor to Paris, picking out his way (as English visitors mostly do) to that ghastly little shop on the Seine bank where Death exposes his wares, will probably pass by another little magazine equally mysterious and almost equally foreign to our notions, known by the thrilling name of "The Tomb of all Secrets." What a library of romance in three volumes is contained in these few words! But be not alarmed, reader; far be it from us to chill your blood with tales of ancient horrors, with stories of bricked-up nuns ; of misery left to perish in oubliettes; of prisoners so long immured in dank and dismal dungeons that their very existence had been forgotten.

Despite its melodramatic name, the Tomb has, we will hope, only milder secrets hidden in its mysterious bosom. In fact, a first casual glance at the Tomb, as we sit on the tree-shadowed bench immediately opposite to it, lazily contemplating it through the haze of an after-breakfast cigarette, is calculated to produce impressions of meanness rather than of mystery. Lying almost in the shadow of the Tower of St. Jacques de la Boucherie is a small wooden hut; except that it is more finished, perhaps not unlike those which contractors set up near their great works, and against which, towards the close of the week, the burly forms of gigantic navvies lounge, as they await in files their turns to take their wages. But it is clear that the destination of this little hut is quite different. The visitors to it come singly, and remain some time carefully shut off from the outer world; the closed door seems, indeed, to be received as a notification to fresh comers to abstain from entering the Tomb; a dapper little soldier, after inspection of the entry, has come over to my bench,

and having asked for fire, puffs harmoniously at my side, evidently awaiting a sortie of the garrison. The visitors to this hut, the depositors in this bank with an unlimited ability of keeping secrets, are generally persons of a humble class; trim women with grey dresses, and heads so neat that I regret that any of them should wear caps, and so bare, even when they have this slight protection, that for some days after my arrival from a damper atmosphere, I feel certain they must be always catching cold. Sometimes a robust lady, evidently from the halles, will be closeted; sometimes a workman, whose fair hair and skin point him out as an Alsatian, while his whitened blouse tells you that he is a mason, who is doing his share in the marvels that rise round you as if by magic. He has come hither to get a letter written to his distant native province, to his father, to whom he will send part of his wages; or he wants to marry, and although half-way through the usual span allotted to humau life, he must either have the consent of his parents, or supply its place by a certain number (regulated by law) of "respectful summonses," or he may be writing to the mayor of his commune for his 'papers," equally indispensable at this interesting crisis.

For in truth this little wooden box is, as the acute reader guessed long ago, neither more nor less than the establishment of a public letter writer, who, as a card hanging outside informs the world, is at his post from seven o'clock in the morning till nine at night, to "make" letters, petitions, complaints (I hope this branch is not extensive), memorials, copies, requests for situations, bills of exchange, procurations, and many other things besides, and not finding these branches sufficient, " one charges himself equally" with the letting of lands, investment of money, representation of persons before all tribunals, translations, &c., &c. Really a most active, versatile man, seemingly, this public writer; in no other place that I know of is such a varied amount of business transacted in so very small a space.

I may confess that I have entered the Tomb, and without violating its secrecy, I may state that within its dread portals I found a very inoffensive and very snuffy little man seated before a desk covered with writing materials. Ranged round him on shelves were a number of volumes, between the leaves of which were inserted, at irregular distances, slips of paper for convenience of reference. On hearing an explanation of your errand, he will at once open at the right page, for these volumes are the polite letter-writers of France.

Curiosity to see one of these volumes more

closely than I had been able to do in the Tomb of All Secrets, took me on to the quays among the "dentists of the people," and the old book-stalls. A very slight search and a very small sum of money procured me a fat, squat volume, stitched in the orthodox yellow cover, and printed on paper compared with which the roughest blotting paper presents a remarkably fine and even surface. But the difficulty of reading the "Perfect General Secretary" is amply repaid by the wonderful example it furnishes of what is called Organisation in Daily Life. The work seems to have taken account of all the varied relations of humanity. Its author addresses letters from persons in every grade and position to other persons in every grade and position, on every possible topic. Letters and verses for fête days are given for all degrees of relationship, although, indeed, the author has refrained from inditing a sonnet, as he informs us other (inferior) authors have done, from a coachman to his master, as he thinks the employer would not be pleased by the discovery that he had a poet to drive him.

"With one auspicious, and one dropping eye," we follow the varied fortunes of French letterwriters; we pass from tears of condolence on page 100, to dry eyes, smiles, and hearty congratulations over-leaf. All styles are equally at the author's command, the curt address of the business man, the bluff tone of the soldier (who mentions, as if quite by accident, that a remittance would not be ungrateful), the respectful accents of humility beseeching a favour; the fond whisper of the domestic affections. The nurse is told in what words to announce to delighted parents that their child has cut its first tooth, and other models are furnished to the same person to complain of irregular payment and of absolute non-payment. The husband is told how, on an interesting occasion, to inform his friends that mother and child, or neither, or both, are as well as could be wished.

The

But it is naturally on the love department that the author has lavished his skill. lover is informed that he may with propriety use rose-coloured or blue paper, which may even be perfumed, but under no circumstances must an engraving appear at the head, as a well-bred woman "would laugh with pity" on receiving a declaration of love over which figured two hearts transfixed with a dart. Your love-letter may be folded in a thousand ways, according to circumstances, but the mark of a finger which should not be of irreproachable cleanliness would ruin your brightest hopes. The width of margin to be allowed, and the way of closing the letter being deter

mined, we come to the matter and manner. Reason, we are told, is usually the last thing consulted in love-letters, which are generally devoid of common sense, and do very well without it; the most disordered and unreasonable, and the least intelligible, letters are always those which produce the greatest effect. Acting on these rules, the author has in cold blood produced the following :

"If to love you be a crime, I am the greatest of all criminals, for not only do I love you with the most ardent, the most sincere affection, but I have registered a vow to love you alone, and to love you all my life. Pity, mademoiselle, pity for a wretch who is dying with love! Pray Heaven that a spark of the fire which burns my heart may penetrate yours. Reject not, I implore you, the homage of a heart over which you have sovereign sway; leave me at least hope. For I love you, yes, yes, I love you with all the strength of my soul; to renounce hope would be to die. There is nothing I would not undertake to arrive at the immense happiness of being beloved by you; I am your humble slave; from this moment I renounce all that could displease you, from this moment I live only for you. I tremble while I await my sentence: whatever it be, my last sigh, my last thought, will be for her whom I love more than my life."

This glowing epistle is followed by observations. "Be careful," says the author, "to abstain from the ordinary forms of finishing a letter, such as, 'I have the honour to be, &c.' This is too cold, too collected. You must show passion throughout, and especially at the close. The end of a letter of this sort is like the finishing bars of a piece of music-the ear rests on the termination. Mind you do not speak of beauty to one ill-endowed by nature in this respect. You can, however, always say, 'Your beautiful eyes,' the charms of your person,' for there is no woman who does not think she can claim to have beautiful eyes; all think they have the power to charm in some way. It is always safe to speak to a woman of her esprit,—all think they have it."

From the open cynicism of the observations, we might suppose that the love-letters were intended to be read by the male sex only, but the declarations are followed immediately by answers, in which we are far from surprised at finding that the lady, whose heart is not perhaps as yet "penetrated by the spark" which burns in ours, modestly objects that the sentiments are exaggerated. It was clear to the author, however, from the beginning, that the fire of his declaration would prove irresistible, so the swain is allowed to hope; although a foot-note tells him that he must not expect a

written reply; he will generally receive a mute answer; a glance, a smile, a flower bestowed, will show him that his suit prospers.

His extensive knowledge of mankind has already told the author that true love never did run smooth; there follow letters of reproaches, of rupture even, though happily after these lovers' quarrels comes the redintegration of love: "Yes, yes," cries the repentant lover, "I was wrong Adèle (or Julie, or &c., as the case may be), but for the error of a moment, will you condemn me to eternal regrets? No, oh no! with the face of an angel, you cannot have a heart of bronze. Let this cloud be dissipated by the sun of our love. I throw myself at your feet (here insert the name of the lady); stretch towards me a friendly hand, and from the purgatory in which I now am, remove me to Heaven. (Signature.)"

It is rarely, we learn, that letters of this sort receive a reply. An answer, when given, must be short, and the intention to pardon must be hinted at rather than expressed. Happily, pardon comes somehow, and the liberty granted by his parents to the French subject when in love being small, it is they who now write to ask the hand of the lady for their son, observing no doubt the caution of the author, to specify carefully which lady's hand is sought, when there happen to be several daughters in the family.

Let us hope that, having conducted the ardent youth so far, fortune and the Perfect Secretary may still smile on him; may he in due time receive, as per model, the announcement of the first tooth of his first child; we are sure at least that so tender a lover will never turn out a father, the nurse of whose child "is not paid at all."

"WHAT IS MY LOVE LIKE?”

WHAT is my love like? Ah vain, empty words,

You mock me when I would express my loveLove that wounds deeper than the sharpest swords, Love that soars higher than the heavens above.

Oh prate no more to me of "dew-lit eyes,"

Of cheek whose crimson doth out-blush the rose, Or neck in whiteness with the swan's that vies, Or hair that in one golden wavelet flows.

My love is like a sense of melody

Filling my heart and throbbing through each vein, Till all the grosser passions in me die,

And, save my love, no thoughts of earth remain.

And though to her my love I dare not tell,

Yet, simple verse! do thou go forth and speak: Haply her bosom may responsive swell When she beholds thee, shrined in-ONCE A WEEK. R. H. P.

CHAPTER II. THE FRUIT OF THE SUN.

Ir was only natural that the Houghton Bull should see little of Mr. Ffrench after this. Though personally unknown to Theo's father, he still was thoroughly au fait with all that had happened in Greece in '28 and the two following years. "I was just of age when I went to Athens," he said in the course of conversation with Mr. Leigh, "and the first use I made of my nominally perfect liberty was to be off to the seat of the struggle, for everybody was talking about it just then." When he said that, Theo did a sum on the instant, and the year of my story's opening being that of our first Great Exhibition, arrived at the decision that Mr. Ffrench was forty-four! almost an old man in Theo's estimation. She sighed to

think of it.

But soon-before he had been with them an hour-she ceased to think it a matter for sighing. He charmed them all round, and fairly won the welcome that had been so frankly offered. Mrs. Leigh asked him to stay and dine with them-asked him with such an evident desire that he should accept the invitation, that Theo felt at once that her mamma was carried as quickly and successfully as she herself had been. Her father too was palpably inclining most kindly to one who listened with understanding to his time-honoured stories.

"Besides, he hasn't the look and manners of a middle-aged man," thought the girl, as she looked at the slight and graceful figure, and the proudly-carried handsome head of this delightful guest. The time-honoured stories, from which, truth to tell, Theo generally fled, gained a new interest now that they were listened to .in his company. She threw herself rashly into the conversation, and fired off a brisk volley of questions, some of which struck her papa as being slightly irrelevant. Her papa, in fact, desired to dwell principally on the naval and political aspects of Greece; Theo wanted to hear something about those other romances to which Mr. Ffrench had alluded.

At length they quitted the past and came down to the present.

"What finally fixed you in this out-of-theway place after such a career?" Mr. Ffrench asked of his host.

"Want of interest to get anything better than a coastguard station, and the necessity to take the first thing that offered, no matter how

poor that thing was. I was struck off the list for some years in consequence of that Greek affair, and when I was reinstated, I was given to understand that promotion was over for me," Mr. Leigh answered.

That was a bad look-out." "A bad look-out !-it was a blackguard look-out!" Mr. Leigh cried; he could not endure to hear gentle mention made of his grievances and ill treatment at the hands of the Government they had been many and very hard to bear, and lenient allusion to them was disgusting to him.

"What was the reason assigned for striking you off the list?" the visitor asked politely. He had been looking at and thinking of Theo when her father spoke before. His words, "that was a bad look-out" referred to something vastly different to the old sailor's wrongs. But now he recalled his attention and his eyes from Theo to her father—for he was a well-bred gentleman, and he saw that he was expected to do so.

"The reason—a cursedly unfair one, by the by-was that I, being on half-pay, unable to find employment under my own flag, did what any other young fellow would have done, went off and served without leave under a foreign one. That was their only reason, sir—and by God, though they've reinstated me, I have never been able to get my arrears of half-pay from them up to this day! You'd scarcely credit it, but such is the fact; they've robbed me of it, and as yet I have found no redress ;" and as Mr. Leigh brought the recital of his wrongs to a conclusion, he gave the table a thump in his excitement, and to Theo's delight some of the same enthusiasm appeared to fire the guest.

"Why don't you memorialise?" Mr. Ffrench said warmly; "it is, as you say, scarcely credible that such a punishment should be awarded for such a venial offence against regulation: why don't you memorialise ?"

"I have done so."

"Yes, that papa has," Theo cried; "I can testify to that, for I have often had to copy your petitions—and I hate their endings, and your memorialist will ever pray;' it seems so abject. I'd rather let them keep the arrears of half-pay, the mean things! than humbly pray for them to give it to me."

Theo had not been lapped in luxury all her life, certainly, but still it was evident enough that she had never known the want of money

No. 280.

or aught that money could produce. Had she done so, the stereotyped prayer to those in power would not have gone so palpably against the grain.

Strictly speaking, there was very little to amuse the stranger guest in that country household. They could not gild the present by offering him the run of their stables in the hunting-season, or the freedom of so many acres in September. He was a middle-aged man, accustomed to club-life in London, and they had neither a French cook nor choice wines. He was a gentleman who though never bored or weary when alone, was very apt to become horribly bored in the society of others; and yet the prosy stories of the old naval officer, and Theo's naïve comments on the same, were heard by him with a fresher interest than he had accorded to anything for longer than he cared to remember. He had not counted on experiencing this phase of feeling when he entered Houghton idly the day before.

At last not long before he left them for the night it occurred to them to ask what had brought him to their remote little village a stranger, with no apparent call there at all. It was not the right time of year for sport of any kind, and for what other end did men ever come to Houghton?

"I came for the purpose of resting for a day from the society of some very kind friends of mine who are living at a lovely place about twenty miles from this-that was the real reason of my coming here; my nominal one was that I wanted to take a sketch of a headland that they call 'The Point,' that will come in well in a picture I'm about."

"Oh! it was that kind of drawing the beach, then-not what you thought, papa, when you said what folly, at this season.' Do you paint, Mr. Ffrench, in oils?"

6

Grange: the place I mean is Haversham Grange: I am staying there with a cousin of mine if you will go over, Mrs. Galton will be delighted to see you, and do the honours of my picture and her own.”

"Her own! is she your cousin? does she paint?"

"She is my cousin, and she is obliging enough to think my picture worthy of a copy, which she is making with admirable inten tions."

"What is the picture ?" Theo asked.

"A description such as I can give will not convey the slightest idea of it to your mind: there is a bay, and a boat in it pulling round a headland which partially conceals a little frigate, that is all; it doesn't sound interesting, does it?"

"What is in the boat?" Theo questioned.

"Three men and a woman," Mr. Ffrench replied, rising as he spoke. "And now, he continued, "having given you such a barren account of it, my self-esteem compels me to try and win your promise to go to Haversham and look at my picture."

Then Theo, though she shook her head in a faintly negative manner, gave the promise with her grey eyes; and the guest departed, glad that she had done so.

"Why not?" he asked himself. Why should he not be glad that a fresh, pretty, intelligent girl, young enough to be his daughter, desired to see a work of art-a work of his ? There was no reason against it. Nothing to render such a consummation undesirable. He was a time-hardened man of the world, who had outlived all feeling such as might be detrimental to Theo's peace. He had all his life experienced a certain pleasure in doing a kind action which he had not to go out of his path to accomplish. It would be doing a kind action to

"Have you the picture with you at the Bull ?"

"Oh no; would you like to see it?" he asked with a softened inflection of the monotonously sweet voice that was very perceptible to the acute ear of the girl whom he addressed.

un

"Very much indeed," she replied, with the hearty interest which, though unseen, known, we all-the most indifferent among us, as well as those who yearn for appreciationdelight in seeing expressed about our works. "Very much indeed; do you mind telling me what it is, as I can't see it?"

"But you can see it, and you shall see it, if you will do me so much honour. I have it over at the Grange-that's vague, for every third place in Norfolk seems to be called the

but a dull life of it, to a woman who could render that life much more lively, if it so pleased her, even at twenty miles' distance. "And it will please Kate, to please me," he said with a laugh in his eyes. "So why not do it for the little girl?"

He sat down in the little parlour of the Bull Tavern and wrote a letter, over the composition of which he laboured more than one would have imagined so cool-mannered, so easy-going a man, would have done. With his look of hauteur, with that air of condensed pride and suppressed passion in his face, he was not the kind of man one would have accused of halting over a form of address to any mortal, or choosing his words and phrases with thought and labour.

But it was written at last, written and di