No More Learning

I am
"Stop, stop! " he exclaimed: "I want to speak to her.
sure she'll know my voice. I want to ask her to forgive me,
for her misfortunes are partly my fault. Mother Chauvin, my
Mother Chauvin! "
She looked at him with a glassy eye, and without moving a
muscle, she said in a solemn voice:-
-
"It seems that the people are bewitched here! "
Her head fell heavily on her breast; prostration was setting in.
"Go on," cried the gendarme.
The driver pushed Renaud aside with his whip, and the cart
went on softly through the snow.
The climber let himself fall on the bank. Within him all
was dark-all was over. No one in his own home - no grand-
father-no Mother Chauvin. He was alone in the world; no
one would smile on him or call him by his name again. Work
as hard as he would, there was no one to give his earnings to.
In the long evenings he would have no one moving on the
other side of the fire. The owls are happier than he would be,
for they have their nests; and when one hoots in the dark there
is another to answer him. No doubt he still had his dear forest
and its soft breezes, the sweet honeysuckles and green pine-trees;
but a forester who goes home and finds no human creature is
forlorn and pitiable.
Renaud, in despair, thought of his lost friends, and longed to
die. It was getting late.
"To-morrow," he said, "I will let go the rope, like Father
Chauvin. "
At this moment he heard the faint sound of a bell at regular
intervals. A boy in a surplice was ringing it, preceding an old
priest who was hurrying along the path, dressed in full canon-
icals, and carrying, with both hands pressed against his chest,
the holy sacrament, the cup covered by a square fringed cloth.
They wended silently along the lonely path, their forms looking
shadowy as seen through the soft-falling snow, on which no foot-
step was heard.
Now and then they stumbled over a hidden
stone; but the priest continued on his way, squaring his elbows
to protect his charge.


## p. 11936 (#570) ##########################################

11936
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The acolyte entered the forest. Renaud removed his cap.
"Where are you taking the sacrament? "
The boy rang his bell, and whispered: -
"To Mélanie. "
"Ah," sighed the poacher, "I sent her to her death. Poor
girl! I must at least bid her good-by. "
He followed the priest who was bearing the last consolation
to the dying woman through the dark night.
Numbers of people had found their way into the yard. This
always happens in the forest. At the slightest disturbance, and
on the most deserted spot, a crowd collects. Whence they come
and how the rumor reaches them, it is impossible to say. No
doubt the sonorous echoes in the forest and the sagacity of its
inhabitants are the real causes. They were watching the priest
vanishing through the snow, and talking together.
"Here's a funeral won't be worth much to the parson. "
"She had a brother who's at work somewhere.
her heir? "
-
Will he be
“Ah, she was like me: she had only her bits of furniture, not
worth paying duty on. "
In the cottage the mother, with the ghastly eagerness of her
class, had taken possession of the body to lay it out.
"It's a great loss," said the father with a sigh. "Poor girl! "
The Little Parisian was sobbing.
"Will that boy ever let us have any peace? " said the father.
After a pause he continued:-
"We must decide at once what to do with the bastard. "
"I shall soon have done here. Do you mean to feed him? "
The forester gave them a look of extreme astonishment.
"Feed him? one must be able to. One poor girl brought
him up with her own money: that was her affair. But I am
growing old; my work is too much for me already. It's too
much to be expected to bring up other folks' brats. "
The mother replied in a low but bitter tone:
"Well, then, it's best to decide at once. When you go to
register the death, take this brat to the maire. He'll make his
usher write to Paris. "
"Is it possible that you mean to forsake your girl's adopted
child? " protested Renaud.
"What right have you to meddle? " said the man; and the
old woman grumbled between her teeth, "Prison leavings! "
――――――――――――


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JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11937
The climber drew the Little Parisian out of the cabin.
For a
minute Jean walked on without speaking. The Little Parisian
sank down, stupefied, on a stone. Night had come; there was
nothing to be seen but the snow, covering the ground like a
shroud; a leaden sky overhead. Renaud meditated. This poor
little shivering creature was alone in the world like himself,-
a bastard without shelter, together with a despised poacher!
Mélanie had loved him; now he was to be turned out of the
forest—to be taken before a lot of clerks with their pens behind
their ears. He was
was so pretty-a darling-like Jean's little.
brother! Would he even have anything to eat next day? Poor,
sad, deserted child! you have the same fate as Renaud; the
deserted Renaud is your only friend.
"Isn't your name Jacques? " he asked at length.
"Yes, Jean, but they always call me the Little Parisian. "
"Well then, Jacques, as they have sent you away from here,
will you come to me in my home? "
The child opened great, wondering eyes.
"What for? "
"To be my brother. I will do my best for you. We'll talk
about your 'Lanie. I'll make you a good fire. And in summer
we'll go ever so far into the woods to gather raspberries. "
"That I will," the boy replied; "but if my 'Lanie wakes up
again I'll come back. "
Jean made only one bound to the door. "Good people, don't
bother about the Little Parisian,- I'm taking him off with me. "
He carried him away in his arms; the falling snow lulled the
child to sleep.
XX-747


## p. 11938 (#572) ##########################################

11938
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
From The Woodman': Copyright 1892, by Harper & Brothers
[The poacher Renaud takes pity on the delicate, friendless orphan lad
before mentioned, and cares for him as far as his scanty forest resources
and wild life permit. ]
BROTHERLY LOVE
Every morning and even-
ing, instead of eating with the methodical deliberation char-
acteristic of the peasant, he hastened his meal to have time
to clean up his home. He swept away the dust, rubbed up the
metals, and put everything in order. He turned himself into a
woman to make his little charge comfortable.
When he reached the felling-place, with what a good heart
he set to work! At the end of the week he was as keen as a
miser after his pay. On Saturday evenings he came home by
the town, in order to bring some fresh bread for the child, and
almost always a beautiful sweetmeat tied on to a card, or even
a red horse in barley-sugar. And how merrily he rubbed his
hands when he opened the door! The urchin walked round him
in delight, asking anxiously:-
"Have you got anything for little Jacques? "
"To be sure. Look in. "
TH
HIS adoption transformed our hero.
―
―
The Little Parisian felt in Jean's pockets and wallet, and at
length found the expected dainty, laughing and skipping round
his big friend.
On fine days they went together to the felling-place. The
little fellow carried the gourd with the comical solemnity peculiar
to children when they think they are of use. Renaud carried
his tools, and learned to think aloud to amuse his boy. He tried
to limp less; for every species of love has its coquettish desire to
please. But Jacques was no longer aware of his friend's infirm
ity, thanks to habit, which had gradually turned what was at
first a subject of astonishment into a matter of course. He
would have been more likely to ask the other foresters why they
did not limp like Jean.
They ate their dinner in a wooden shelter, with their feet on
the grass; and while the climber was felling his tree the Little
Parisian roamed about, stirring the ants' nests with a thin stick
to see what would happen. On Sundays, when they left the


## p. 11939 (#573) ##########################################

JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11939
cemetery, they went into the forest. Jean taught the child how
to make a way for himself through the thicket with his arm.
The little fellow learned with astonishing facility to share the
tastes and habits of his guide. He loved the forest; its sounds,
far from frightening him, were sweet in his ears as the voice of
a friend. When spring came, it was wonderful to see his interest
in every new flower.
"You too like the covert? " the poacher asked, with some
emotion.
"Oh yes: it's so amusing to run about in it,-one finds all
sorts of things. I used to come sometimes with my 'Lanie, but
not as far as this. "
"But, dear Jean, as you
hurt them with your axe ?
at them. "
"The farther one goes, the more beautiful it seems. "
are so fond of the trees, why do you
You look quite angry when you hit
"Oh no, I'm not angry. I've known those old fellows ever
since I was born; and I love them, too; and when the wind
whispers among them I can almost make out what the leaves are
saying. But when I've got to strip one, and I see him standing
up before me with his branches stretched out, he seems to say
that I am too weakly. Then I get excited, and there's a singing
in my ears. Sometimes when I reach the top, the tree shakes
with passion, like a horse shaking off a fly. Then I strike so
hard that my heart beats; the branch hits my head in falling,
and I strike still harder; I don't know what I'm doing.
But as
soon as the top is down I'm sorry: the foot trembles so oddly
one would think it was alive. "
Jacques began to laugh: he was puzzled by a new idea.
"Don't laugh," said Jean: "be sure there's some life in their
hearts. Look at my blouse: don't the spots the bark makes look
like blood? and when we put a green log on the fire, doesn't it
sob? "
<< Well, then, we mustn't cut down any more trees. "
"Nay, it's a kindness to cut them down when they are stag-
headed, they would rot. And there are the young ones stifled
underneath that want to get up. Every one must have his turn. "
As they proceed, the child questions Renaud on all the life
around them. The poacher knows his forest by heart; he can
tell its stories, from the largest beech to the smallest insect.
"What is it one hears in the hole in that tree? "
―――――


## p. 11940 (#574) ##########################################

I 1940
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
"It's a swarm of bees. We'll smoke them out to-morrow, and
you shall have the honey. "
"And that bird with an acorn in its beak? "
"That's a jay. He's collecting his provisions for the winter;
but as he's silly, he'll forget where he puts them, and will starve
with the rest. "
"Have some creatures more sense than others? »
"Yes: it's just like us, there are rascals and fools. Any one
who notices their ways knows they understand. "
"But they can't talk like us? »
"You may be sure that they make each other understand in
their own way. "
"And perhaps they're not so bad as us, for they don't want
gendarmes. "
This last word reminded the child of the poacher's capture:
'Lanie's father had so often talked about it before him. He
longed to question his friend, hesitated at last said:-
"Tell me, Jean, is it true? "
―
"What? "
"Is it true that you had a sweetheart at Vibraye? »
The climber turned as red as a cherry.
<< Stuff and nonsense! I've never set foot in the place. "
"I believe you- but I've heard it said - But tell me, what's
the meaning of a sweetheart ? »
"I've never had one; but from what they say, it's a sort
of lass that one dances with at the assemblies, and takes home
through the lanes, and kisses in the dusk. "
"Did you ever meet any in the forest? "
"No, never, because I get out of their way. Girls make too
much noise with their chatter, and they make me feel quite silly
when they fix their eyes on me. And then it's a waste of time,
for what's the good of kissing the hussies? »
"But you had other company in the forest, Renaud. I'm told
you went there with -»
"Little goose! with whom? "
"With a gun. ”
Jean hung his head without answering.
"Is it true? Oh, how I should have liked to see it. You
haven't got it any longer? "
The poacher stammered out:-
"Don't ever talk about that.
___
I have no gun. ”


## p. 11941 (#575) ##########################################

JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11941
"What a pity. I should have so liked to hear you make it
say 'Bang! We would have gone out together, and you would
have shot some nice little creatures for me. "
Jean Renaud trembled all over. He had left off poaching,
in order to devote himself to the child. He feared danger now
that he had become a father, and the spiders spun their webs
undisturbed over the plank which concealed his gun. He had
given up thinking about it. The child's caresses had lulled the
passion to sleep, and here was the boy awakening it! That gun
is at home-actually under his hands. Oh, if he might take
the good weapon out of its hiding-place, and aim at a bound-
ing fawn, and smell powder once more! It all comes back to his
memory; the fierce passion lights up again;-but no, the orphan
has need of him; he must not be imprisoned now. He turns
pale with the effort, but he masters himself.
"Let's be off," he says sadly.
"Those are all lies,- the gun
was broken long ago. "
The Little Parisian asked every Sunday to be taken farther
into the forest; but he was too weak for so much fatigue.
Renaud made for him a sort of wheelbarrow with long arms,
like those the milkmaids use to carry their milk. He lined it
thickly with grass, and insisted on his dear Jacques sitting in it
when they went a long way. He wheeled it all along the paths,
carefully avoiding the stones and ruts so as not to shake the
child.
"You will see quite as well," he said, "and you won't get
tired.
"
Sometimes the little fellow, overcome by so much fresh air,
would fall asleep in the midst of the woods. Renaud, his per-
ception sharpened by love, would stop on some pretext or other;
for it never does to tell a child he is sleepy. It was Jean, the
indefatigable Jean, who complained of fatigue. He stretched
himself, and said he wanted to go home.
"Oh, I'm not a bit tired," said Jacques, pouting. And his
little eyes closed in spite of his efforts. Jean would rest the
curly head softly on his shoulder, lifting the little sleeper care-
fully, carry him to the barrow, and wheel him slowly home.
It was at this time that the forester learned to sew in order
to mend the orphan's clothes. As soon as the little blouse got
torn in the brushwood, this man, whose tenderness made a
woman of him, might be seen sitting outside his door, gravely
1
I


## p. 11942 (#576) ##########################################

11942
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
and patiently using his needle with his awkward fingers. The
white thread made strange figures on the mended hole.
He was
so busily engaged that he hardly gave himself time to breathe,
he tried so hard to make his darn strong and neat. Often on
a Sunday morning he was heard washing a child's shirt in the
river, beating it with a wooden beetle.
The two companions lived in this way for about ten months.
September had already reddened the first leaves of the maple.
They met Mélanie's father at the stone quarry. His manner was
never very pleasant; this time he only answered curtly:-
"Good-day. "
"Are you going for a walk? "
"Nay, I'm looking for my new spade that I've lost. "
"Shall we lend a hand? "
"I don't care much for your company. "
"And the child, won't you speak to him? "
"What should I say? I don't admire the way you're bringing
him up. "
"Really, do you want him to go into the saw-pit at his age? '
"No-nonsense. I should like him to go to church. He's
But as your grand-
been trusted to you, and you misuse him.
father said before me, you're more like a wolf than a man.
Renaud had never thought on the subject. The voices of the
forest, and another voice within himself, had whispered to him
that there was something greater than the woods and the wood-
cutters-up there where the stars were shining. But his faith,
too abstract not to be vague, was not in any way connected with
the Christian ceremonies, which he did not understand. His aspi-
rations were religious, but ignorantly unbelieving when he tried
to reason.
« as
"I think I should be bored in heaven," he used to say,
they have nothing to do but sit still and sing psalms. I'd rather
roam about in the woods. "
"'Lanie would have taken the boy to church," resumed the
old man, "and when he was old enough, to confirmation. You
are no better than an arquelier. "
An arquelier means a mischievous vagabond. It is evidently
a contemptuous diminutive of the word arquebusier, and has
remained in use among our country-folk ever since the Middle
Ages, when the peasantry suffered from the depredations of the
hired soldiery.


## p. 11943 (#577) ##########################################

JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11943
"I don't hold much to such devout folks," retorted Renaud.
"Isn't every one free to do what he thinks right? But wherever
Mélanie would have taken the boy I'll take him. "
From that day he took the Little Parisian every Sunday to
mass. The two were to be seen standing, silent and motionless,
at the entrance near the font. When the priest went up into
the pulpit to preach, Jean coughed and spit in imitation of other
people; the rest of the time he was perfectly quiet. When the
blessed bread was distributed, he put his piece carefully into his
cap, to give it to the little one when they left the church.
Jacques generally stood on tiptoe, looking into the choir.
Jean remarked this, and looked in the same direction; but saw
nothing except the schoolboys ranged in parallel lines, with the
schoolmaster at their head. When the mass was over, the lit-
tle band went out in single file, with a formidable clattering of
sabots. Some pushed those in front or overturned a chair by
mistake, then hid their mouths with their sleeves to laugh with-
out noise.
"What were you looking at just now, Jacques? You were
quite absorbed. "
"The schoolboys and the gentleman in spectacles. "
"There's nothing curious in them. In old times I too used
to go to school. I found it very tiresome. "
"I shouldn't find it tiresome. Can you read, Jean? "
"Not a word. What's the good? "
"To know about things. They say that books explain all sorts
of nice things. "
The climber shrugged his shoulders. But every time they
met the schoolboys, Jacques looked at them with envy and talked
of books with regret.
"You want, then, to be a scholar? "
"Yes, to be sure, dear Jean. I should be ever so glad to
learn. "
Renaud considered that the expense would be small, and that
the child would be better at school in bad weather than all alone
in the woods.
"Well, then, we'll put you to school. "
He took the boy, eager and joyful, to the same master who
had been the bugbear of his childhood.
"No offense, Jean Renaud," said the latter-"but I hope the
little fellow will not be as slow as you were. "


## p. 11944 (#578) ##########################################

I 1944
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
"Well now, master, boys are not all alike. This boy is clever.
I never was. No offense-but I never was so bored in my life
as when I was with you. "
"All right: and is this little man your brother? »
Renaud replied, shyly and sadly:-
"Jacques was Mélanie's nursling. "
The good man asked no more questions; and the Little Paris-
ian joined the class on the next day.
Renaud watched tenderly over the little scholar.
He bought
no winter waistcoat for himself, in order that Jacques might have
a new suit of clothes. He washed his hands and face carefully
every morning. The little wallet was filled with provisions to
last all day. Jean made an enormous round to take the child
half-way to school before going to his work. When he left him
the little chap walked very steadily for fear of tearing his new
blouse, and once in school astonished the master by his intelli-
gence. And in the evening what a pleasure it was to follow the
shady paths, and join his big brother in the midst of the forest,
and then both go home by a short cut! When there, one would
light the fire and the other set on the soup; then they pricked
two lovely apples, and watched them frothing in the cinders.
Next year, when the Little Parisian had learned to read, Jean .
became uneasy.
"This boy's too clever for me. I fancy he'll get tired of my
company. "
And he tried to think of something, besides providing for
physical wants, to amuse his little companion. His unselfishness
led him even to leave the forest, to frequent the fêtes in neigh-
boring towns. He lifted the boy on to the merry-go-rounds,
when the wooden horses turned slowly to the sound of a hand-
organ; made him take shares in lotteries for macaroons and
wine-glasses. They witnessed the rough sports of the young
farmers, who drank all the more when they were not thirsty, and
whose wit consisted in pinching the waists of the girls and mak-
ing them scream without being found out. Vehicles filled with
whole families drove in, raising a terrible dust. The violin
squeaked in the place marked out by ropes for dancing. The
dentist "from Paris," established with great pomp on his un-
horsed carriage, a huge case of instruments in the front, held
firmly on the seat a peasant adorned with a swelled face, and
informed the public that he was going to extract the tooth with


## p. 11945 (#579) ##########################################

JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
11945
the same instrument that he used for crowned heads. At a little
distance long tables were spread under sheds, charged with cider
and strong-smelling drinks. The landlord's assistant had to make
way with his elbows to the billiard table, to separate two sabot-
makers who were settling a doubtful game with a fight.
"Do you enjoy the fun, my little Jacques? " said Renaud,
trying to look delighted.
"On the contrary, I am bored to death. My head aches, and
I feel sick. I like the forest ever so much better. "
But there were also fêtes in the forest. There they felt at
home, and Renaud took his little friend to all of them.
First, there was gathering the lilies-of-the-valley about Ascen-
sion Day. The fields are celebrated for their profusion from
Grez to St. Agert. Gentle and simple alike love these sweet
flowers, whose milky whiteness gleams in the shade, against the
deep green of their pointed leaves. All the idle population of
the neighboring towns crowds the forest in the charming sea-
son when the lilies burst into flower. The woods change their
aspect. Young men from town arrive with their great-coats
under their arms; young ladies sing in high soprano voices the
romances of Louisa Puget; some young men are exchanging
words of love with their sweethearts, others pursuing the objects
of their fancy. In the evening, nosegays pass from hand to
hand. The mothers follow, large and imposing, their caps ad-
orned with artificial flowers, the strings floating in the breeze.
Greasy papers cover the ground in open spaces. One hears the
bottles knock against each other in the baskets carried by means
of a walking-stick passed through the handles by some happy
couple.
On the Fête of St. Louis (August 15th) the nutting begins.
The strangers come again, and once more fill the forest with
noisy merriment. The nuts in their hairy envelopes cover the
branches. The draper's wife has stuffed her pockets with them;
the policeman has filled his basket. The priest's nephew, a cor-
poral on leave, strikes them down with a quarter-staff; the col-
lector's wife uses her yellow parasol to bend down the branches.
Some of the young men get excited, and challenge each other
to a gymnastic bout. Elsewhere they are dancing in a ring. No
one but the barber, who was formerly a waiter in Courbevoie,
refuses to take part, and replies scornfully, "I only care for reg-
ular dances. "


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11946
JULES QUESNAY DE BEAUREPAIRE
The Little Parisian draws his friend on one side.
"I don't care for this either: let's be off, brother. "
"My darling, you love the real forest, then, as much as I
do? "
"Yes, I do love it. But you don't know how I wish that
what the people said was true that dear Jean had a gun, and
we could hunt the game together. "
Renaud the Poacher trembled.
What! again this longing! How often has he cherished it
himself during the two years they have lived together!
"What are you talking about? " he broke out: "are you mad?
My gun? I swear it's broken; but why-why are you always
thinking of sport? "
The Little Parisian looks dreamily up at the green vault over
his head; he inhales the scent of the woods; he has all sorts of
wild thoughts. The mysterious thicket attracts him; he begins to
understand why he loves the Chemins-Verts. He replies:-
"I don't know if I am thinking of sport, but I long to get
deeper and deeper into the forest, to watch all that goes on, to
catch the birds on the wing. "
The dead leaves lay in heaps on the path, the wind had
blown them into ridges like the waves of the sea. He stepped
over them proudly, and threw back his head, thrilling with youth-
ful excitement, and exclaimed: -
"The forest is ours! this delicious air is ours! "
Renaud saw himself in this enthusiastic child.


## p. 11947 (#581) ##########################################

11947
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
(1863-)
HE fiction of the English writer who began by signing his lit-
erary work with the initial "Q. ," is among the most virile
and pleasing written by the younger British school. A. T.
Quiller-Couch-the full name of this author-makes stories that are
full of vigor and invention; romantic in treatment, yet realistic in
their close observation, and in the understanding sympathy with which
he studies the life of humble folk and the types and scenes of his
native country. He is a Cornishman, and has given his main atten-
tion to the people of that locality, spending
most of his time within the sound of the
Cornish seas. His novels and short tales in
spirit and method affiliate him with Barrie,
Kipling, and Stevenson, and he is little in-
ferior to them in strength and originality.
Although his literary production includes
criticism and poetry, his reputation is based
substantially on his stories. 'Dead Man's
Rock' in 1887 won him much favor, and
other books followed in due course: The
Astonishing History of Troy Town, The
Splendid Spur,' and 'The Blue Pavilions,'
historical novels; and the collections of A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
short stories entitled 'Naughts and Crosses,'
'I Saw Three Ships; and other Winter's Tales,' 'The Delectable
Duchy,' and 'Wandering Heath. ' 'Ia,' a novelette, is a tale of love
in a Cornish fishing village. Mr. Quiller-Couch's strongest novel is
the brilliant 'The Splendid Spur,' recognized by the critics as one of
the most stirring romances by a contemporaneous English novelist.
In 'The Delectable Duchy,' which is finely representative of his
short-story work, are grouped a number of Cornish tales and sketches,
exquisite for truth, pathos, and poetry, rich with feeling for the lights
and shadows in the life of the Welsh poor. The writer thus ranges
from the dramatic to the idyllic, and is successful in both veins. His
fiction as a whole is thoroughly healthy and inspiriting. The unpleas-
ant realism and the decadent pessimism of the day he stands quite
apart from.
Like R. L. Stevenson, he unites the power of making

>


## p. 11948 (#582) ##########################################

11948
A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
stories instinct with adventurous interest, with a literary gift and an
insight into character which have gained him the approval of captious
critics, and made him a favorite with those who read a story for the
story's sake.
In his personality and manner of life, Quiller-Couch seems a man
of affairs and of outdoor sports rather than the traditional book-man.
He was born November 21st, 1863. His family has lived in Corn-
wall for generations, and he comes of good stock; father, uncle, and
grandfather being distinguished scientists in the fields of biology and
medicine. He was educated in various Devonshire schools, then went
up to Trinity College, Oxford. As an undergraduate he contributed
clever verse to the college paper, adopting the pseudonym "Q. " He
was and is an athlete, as one might infer from his books,- and in
his day was stroke of the college boat. He took his degree in 1887,
and was appointed classical lecturer at Trinity; but soon turned to
fiction, went to London, and joined the staff of the Speaker - Barrie
being a fellow-worker. This newspaper connection has been retained
ever since, although Mr. Quiller-Couch now lives in a charming
country house at Fowey in Cornwall. The volume 'Adventures in
Criticism' is made up of selected book reviews representing his jour-
nalistic work, which is decidedly fresh and good. The Elizabethan
anthology, The Golden Pomp,' also testifies to his reading and schol-
arship.
The work of A. T. Quiller-Couch is refutation of the charge that
the end-of-the-century in English literature has nothing to offer but
the morbid and unwholesome. He is a strong, manly writer, whose
steadily growing influence is tonic and welcome.
WHEN THE SAP ROSE: A FANTASIA
From The Delectable Duchy. Copyright 1893, by Macmillan & Co.
Α
N OLD yellow van, the "Comet," came jolting along the edge
of the downs and shaking its occupants together like peas
in a bladder. The bride and bridegroom did not mind
this much; but the Registrar of Births, Deaths, and Marriages,
who had bound them in wedlock at the Bible Christian Chapel
two hours before, was discomforted by a pair of tight boots, that
nipped cruelly whenever he stuck out his feet to keep his equi-
librium.
Nevertheless, his mood was genial; for the young people had
taken his suggestion and acquired a copy of their certificate.


## p. 11949 (#583) ##########################################

A. T. QUILLER-COUCH
11949
This meant five extra shillings in his pocket.