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credit this evidence by the argument that I studs and farms of our great breeders will
the process which is most successful in rearing boneless animals, capable of carrying masses of flesh, does not necessarily develop the finest specimens of the race to which they belong. Such a misconception as this may be excused in a French writer, and is not wonderful in a cockney, whose idea of well-bred cattle and horses is derived from the over-fed bullocks at a Smithfield show, or the half-grown colts that appear at secondrate races; but we are confident that all who have seen both in perfection in the
agree that, as applied to such animals, the term "degenerate" is simply a misuse of language. Unless, therefore, we are prepared to believe that the physiology of reproduction in man proceeds upon laws different from those in force in the rest of the animal kingdom, we cannot admit that any case has yet been made out in favor of the popular opinion that the marriages of bloodrelations have in themselves any tendency to produce degeneracy in the offspring.
Dr. Althaus has published a very carefully executed and exhaustive treatise on the Spas of Europe.* He takes up the subject from the very commencement, beginning with an investigation into the origin of springs in general, thence proceeding to inquire into the causes of the peculiarities of mineral springs in particular, and so leading up to an examination of their physical properties, their chemical constitution, and their physiological and therapeutical effects. Dr. Althaus 1ms studied his subject thoroughly, and is evidently familiar with it to no common degree. His treatise is, however, of a scientific rather than of a popular nature, and appears to be designed for the use of medical men rather than of their patients. Regarded from this point of view, it is certainly the best work on mineral waters that we have hitherto met with.—Spectator.
The measures of our Druidical temples are observed to fall easily and naturally into the scale of the ancient Phenician or Hebrew cubit. But they will not admit of the standard measure of Greece, Rome, or any western nation, without being divided and broken into infinite and trifling fractions.—Enquiry into the Patriarchal and Druidical Rel. by William Cook, Rector of Oldbury and Dedmarton. M. Review, August, 1754, vol. ll,p. 86.
"Is the first form of consecrating churches in England which we meet with, at a synod held at Celchyth, under Wulfred, Archbishop of Canterbury, 816, it is ordained that when a church is built it shall be consecrated by the proper diocesan, who shall take care that the Saint to whom it is dedicated, bo pictured on the wall, or on a tablet, or on the altar."—Kennett's Par. Antiq., vol. 2, p. 300. «
* The Spat of Europe. By Julius Althaus, M.D., etc.. Author of "A Treatise on Medical Electricity," etc. Trnbner and Co.
That the Romance was almost universally understood in this kingdom under Edward the Confessor, it being not only used at court, but frequently at the bar, and even sometimes in the pulpit, is a fact too well known and attested (says Planta) to need my authenticating it with superfluous arguments and testimonials.—Account of the Romanislt Language.
He quotes Ingulphus passim, and accounts for the fact by the constant intercourse between Britain and Gaul.—Southcy.
ENTHUSIASTIC RECOLLECTION OF A BATTLETIE LD.
Leaving the natural tremblings that attend
The spring contributes to their art, make in Each garden a remonstrance of this battle, Where flowers shall seem to fight, and every
Cut into forms of green artillery
Barbara de pictis vcni bascanda Britannis, Sed me jam mavult dcccre Roma suam.
—Martial, 1. 14, ep. 97.
!'i.:; Rome he tells us in right pompous tone, From barbarous British baskets formed her own. —Bishop's Poems, vol. 1, p. 276.
From The Saturday Review.
There is a school of domestic fanatics resembling that school of theologians which exacts from its professors a blind unreasoning assent to the dogmas of religion. Like the papist who considers the exercise of private judgment on a doctrinal point an impiety, there are household bigots who seek to withdraw the relations of consanguinity from the domain of scrutiny, and claim a passive obedience to the divine right of kin. Certain young ladies and gentlemen, they say, are your cousins by divine appointment. It is your duty, therefore, to think them charming, and to enjoy their company more than that of any other young man or woman with whom you may be thrown. You must not allow yourself to ask whether their tastes accord with yours. The eldest may be a ,perfect Nimrod, while the bent of your own genius leads you to pore over manuscripts in the British Museum. Another is the best waltzer of his day, while a ball is, in your eyes, the greatest of social evils. A third is a fast young lady, full of chaff, while you are decidedly sentimental. All this matters nothing. You are privileged to have access to those three young persons. You should be duly sensible of these among your other blessings. Blood overrides all incompatibilities of taste or disposition. Reflect that in those two fine young men you see your father's sister's sons.
Half England, and all Scotland, groans under bondage to these ideas. Not to love your cousins is to be devoid of natural affection—to show a cold, callous, and bad heart, This is really a piece of cant against which we protest. Upon what is the supposed duty founded? There is nothing about it in the Bible, or the Ten Commandments. It would be very difficult to prove from either of these sources any special obligation to love your brother by blood, much more your cousin. Of course, under the comprehensive head of your duty to your neighbor, both have claims on your regard. You are bound to do to your cousin as you would he should do to you; and if, therefore, as is possible, you feel bored by his company, you are bound, by the Catechism, to rid him of yours. Practically, we display in this, as in other social questions, the curious inconsistency of the Anglo-Saxon race. Our practice does
not accord with our theory. We put a song in praise of the family tree in the mouth of our maiden aunts. We retain the decorous fiction of the claims of blood, but we act as emancipated men. It is one of those fictions which we live down, as we do the bugbears of childhood. There are few, probably, who cannot recall a time when they firmly believed the descriptions given by their nurse of inanimate nature, as one universal "layhold to catch meddlers." The march of mind dissipated this childish superstition. It gradually dawned upon the infant intelligence that no table or chair could inflict a slap on the face, or a pinch in some tender part of the body. By degrees one lost all fear of those instruments of torture which were supposed to lurk in nurse's work-basket; and the first use one made of this discovery was to blunt her scissors on the neck of Shem, or some other equally unoffending occupant of Noah's Ark. So is it with illusions of another kind, and with that respectable one, in particular, which invests a cousin with an almost sacrosanct character. It collapses at a comparatively early period of life. It rarely survives the crucial experience of a contemporaneous career at public school. At Eton you sit side by side in the Upper Remove with the aforesaid cousin. Supposing your tastes to suit, you become fast friends. But if not, what a thorn in the flesh does your relative prove, by reason of his dominating the whole of your private and prae-scholastic existence! If he means mischief, he can raise the curtain which shrouds your home from vulgar gaze. He can enlighten your common associates on the names of your sisters, and the terms of endearment by which you are yourself known in the bosom of your family. He is aware that at the early age of seven you made an animated appeal on behalf of the Missions to the Fiji Islands from the table of the Evangelical Lyceum, and that a little later you apostrophized a defunct tom-cat in a few fugitive lines. Horrid secrets, that you bad fondly imagined buried forever in oblivion, turn up to poison your happiness. A rumor spreads that you have but lately escaped from the thraldom of a maid who enjoyed the prescriptive right of scrubbing your person with soap and water every alternate Saturday evening. The tears you shed on returning to school, the touching farewell it is your habit to take of the ponyGrizzell and the dog Ponto, the rowing you got from " the Governor " for obtaining on something like false pretences three hats in one Half, the bilious attack you brought on by eating fifty walnuts in one afternoon, your discreet behavior and exact disposition of the bed-clothes on the memorable night when the Manor House was supposed to be attacked by burglars—all these and a thousand other racy items of "domestic intelligence " you have to thank your cousin for remorselessly parading before your jeering schoolmates. The result is, that you learn early in life to associate the name of cousin with a power to wound you in your tenderest part, and to hold up to. ridicule all that is in your boyish eyes most sacred.
Cousins, however, are far from being, as a general rule, natural enemies. We are only pointing out that this relationship is compatible with a thoroughly genuine mutual dislike, springing either from acts of unkindness or oppression, or, in default of these, a total lack of sympathy. But though the consciousness of a common stock cannot of itself generate affection, as some fondly assert that it necessarily must, cousins are a useful and beneficial institution which it would be absurd to disparage. The Briton, least of all mankind, could afford to dispense with cousins. He rarely suffers from that affection known on the other side of the Channel as cpanchement de cceur. His instinct is to be isolated, morose, exclusive— to adopt an attitude of armed neutrality to the rest of the human race—to reverse the old dictum and think everything human alien to himself—in the language of the servants' hall, " to keep himself to himself." A thing he never does is to open his heart, as our lively neighbors will, to a stranger. He cannot deliver himself of the most trifling confidences to any but a friend of seven years' standing. The monotony of this selfimposed isolation is pleasantly broken by cousins. They serve the double purpose of giving him a point of contact with the world outside his own family circle, and of gratifying the mania he has to know all about any
way likes being with them, because he knows their pedigree. Here he has, if nothing more, at all events two persons whose parentage he knows to be respectable, and whom he has no reason to suspect of a design of imposing on him or turning him into ridicule. Being satisfied on those two points, he gives himself up to a modified enjoyment of their society. There is, then, in England what we may call a national necessity for cousins. The national temperament requires a vent for its pent-up feelings, and upon cousins they naturally expend themselves. We are so much addicted to secreting the real kindliness of our nature, that consanguinity would seem to be a merciful provision to draw us out of ourselves, and prevent our wasting all our sweetness on the desert air. Many a man, who would never otherwise make a friend, makes a friend of a cousin. He is too shy or too proud or too reserved to go through the processes by which a friendship is gradually cemented with a stranger, and eagerly catches at a cousin as a make-shift for a friend, if not exactly a friend ready-made. There are other advantages in the possession of cousins which, in a worldly point of view, are not to be despised. They may have houses for you to stay at, lands for you to shoot over, wine for you to sip. You visit them in the autumn, when London is empty, your heart brimming over with the purest cousinly affection. About the 12th of August, the voice of nature reminds you of the cousin who owns a pretty moor in the Highlands. In September, the current of your being sets towards your Norfolk relatives. In November, your heart yearns towards your cousin at Melton. In May, you are inwardly drawn towards your fashionable cousin in London with a fervor which that fashionable cousin does not at all reciprocate. This is all as it should be. Give full play to these fine and generous impulses; the more you utilize your cousins, the more you enable them to fulfil the purpose for which they are your cousins. They must not be allowed to take into their heads the mischievous notion that they have been dotted round your path to be merely so many dummies or men of straw. Upon the whole, the way in which they accept the responsibilities of collateral ties is very creditable to Englishmen. Unprompted by any mutual affection, one man will solicit a favor for another simply out of regard for a common ancestor. The fact is, that it is his own interest to give a cousin a lift. Hence another cousinly function—to use influence for the advancement of the family fortunes. Your chances of promotion bear a direct ratio to the number of your cousins. Each is a possible advocate of your interests, a possible petitioner on your behalf. A cousin at the Admiralty means a ship for you in the Mediterranean; a cousin in Parliament means access *for you to the minister; a cousin in the city means a good investment for your capital; a cousin in a Cathedral Chapter means your presentation to the next vacant stall. But to secure these, or any part of these results, you must be keenly alive to the advantages of your position—you must study the family tree in all its ramifications, and leave no runlet of collateral blood untapped.
These are some of the advantages of having had a prolific grandmother. But there are also concomitant disadvantages. The "man with many cousins, like the man with wife and children, "gives hostages to fortune ;" for he may find them so many dead weights round his neck. There are few persons who have not cousins of whom they are ashamed. There is the sporting youth whom nature intended for a groom, but dubbed, by a horrid after-thought, your cousin. There is the cousin who will patronize the village tailor, and who slaps you on the back just as you dangle your cane over the rails in Rotten Row, when the season is at its height. There is the cousin in the Queen's Bench Prison, whom you supply, much to your credit, with his Sunday dinner. There is your cousin who hides in Spain, your notorious cousin at the diggings, your cousin the governess, and your cousin the idiot. All these are, undoubtedly, social drawbacks. No one will be the more keen to marry you on account of a gibbering collateral. As the asylum of your hunted relative, you may look on the Peninsular with peculiar interest; but the circumstance will not predispose others to make your acquaintance. Fastidious natures will never do justice to the goodness of your cousin's heart while it throbs beneath that flagrantly bucolic garb. But, apart from these serious inconveniences which sometimes attend kinship, there is another,
are personally dull or disagreeable. The position you occupy towards such persons is essentially false. You are, as it were, pitchforked into a distasteful intimacy. You a>.*supposed by a fiction to feel affection, when in your heart you feel ineffably bored. You call each other by your Christian name—and have nothing more to say. In vain you ransack your brains for a common topic or a common interest. None come for the plain reason that there is none to come. A ttte* it-ttte with an uncongenial companion is always an infliction; but the awkwardness of the situation is immensely increased by a dim notion that you ought all the time to be enjoying it.
This brings us back to the point at which we started, namely, the folly of parents and maiden aunts in trying to erect the love of cousins into an important article of a child's creed. It is just this pious attempt to force the inclinations which so often makes the future relations between cousins uneasy and uncomfortable. Children should be left alone to judge of the virtues or demerits of their cousins, and to bestow or withhold their affection accordingly with perfect freedom. If this wise policy of nonintervention be observed towards them, they will probably find within the pale of kin those whom they can love and esteem, and those with whom they remain on a footing of healthy indifference. Let believers in Wood say what they will, this is the nearest approach to an Agapemone of which the average English family is capable. But though the duty of loving the whole collateral tribe is a mere sham, and no duty at all, there is much to urge, and not from a sordid point of view only, in favor of cousinly affection. Of all the friendships, in the common sense of the word, the most enviable is the friendship of a cousin. More than any other it possesses the seWs of durability. It dates back from the days of happy childhood. It is consecrated by the memories of common raids upon the apple-trees, common peg-tops, com
mon taws. It suffers much less from the separations which kill so many early friendships. If Pylades goes to Cambridge and Orestes to Oxford, the tie between them is, in ordinary cases, broken. But not so, if they meet in the vacation, if they spend their Christmas together—if they continue to hear about each other—in a word, if their sisters correspond. To middle nge it is a support and a source of the purest rational enjoyment ; while to old nge, which loves to travel back into the past, and prose over the family
i' ,i uam illl>u Luu |iii.>L, uiiu |ji Um; uvci
much more generally experienced—cousins J fortunes, it is almost a necessity.
From The London Review. YACHTING.
There are few finer sights in the world to an Englishman's eye, and few more surprising to a foreigner than Cowes Roads during the Royal Yacht Squadron Regatta week. Certainly the Derby is a magnificent national celebration, and one of which the stranger in this old land, "delighting in horses, illustrious at sea," will never see the like on any other plains. Races in France are as the comedie de socitle to the theatre, compared with the performances of Newmarket or Epsom. The meeting at Chantilly is a cabinet picture, a reduced copy of Goodwood, and as much like the original as the peasants in "La Somnambula " are like the work-a-day peasants of actual life in Italy or anywhere else. A coterie of dandy " sportmen," who dress like stud-grooms and flavor their talk with English slang, no more make a " Turf" than a solitary swallow makes the spring. There is no racing public over the water; and even the Emperor, who knows the national importance of the thing, cannot make one. You may count on your fingers the owners of French race-horses; and the only stable which has won a reputation on this side of the water is the " Confederate," as the imperial establishment is sometimes described.
A day with " the Duke " or the Quorn is another of our " solemnities," without a parallel among our gallant neighbors. There is no such thing as riding to hounds in France; cantering round a tree all day in a fancy dress, and winding a horn when the object of the chase comes in view, is picturesque, no doubt, and exciting, and the cur'ee in the courtyard at night is mediaeval and dramatic; but this is not what Englishmen mean by a run of five-and-forty minutes without a check ; though, on the other hand, a greyhound fox has none of the fighting qualities of the German boar or the Gallic wolf to justify even a foreign friend in carrying a knife of exquisite design at his waist. What the British Reynard can do is pace; and any lively Gaul who follows him must know, at least, how to sit well home in the saddle, and not to make too much play with his calves.
Racing and hunting, however, are not, in an absolute sense, national sports. In some form or other they may be said to be com
mon to the whole human race: to the Englishman and the Frenchman, to the creature of civilization and the noble savage, each after his kind. But what shall we say of Yachting-? We know what the poet has said of the courage of the man who first committed his life to a frail skiff. Horace thought that first boatman as brave in soul as the adventurous epicure who swallowed the first oyster. Yet we are not at all persuaded that many an honest German and many a gallant Frenchman would n?t give the palm of folly to the man who goes down to the sea in a private ship for the fun of the thing:—
"Oh! who can tell? Not thou, luxurious
Whose soul would sicken o'er the heaving wave."
Assuredly our friend Monsieur Chose cannot tell the pleasure of going to sea, for his soul sickens at the prospect of the heaving wave beyond Calais Pier; and in the ninety minutes of that middle passage your lion of the Boulevards is awfully limp and crestfallen. Yachting is a sport of native growth in these British isles, peopled by the sons of the Vikings, and to whom the sea is a native element. An English child, born and bred far inland, takes to the river or the lake like a duckling, and conceives a passion for the sea before he has set his eyes upon it. Among our Scandinavian cousins there may be something of the same inborn restless yearning to roam on that silent highway. The Dutch—sturdy old sea-dogs— have the credit of inventing the name of yachting, and the sport of yachting is said to have come from Venice. However this may be, it evidently requires a combination of those attributes which distinguish the modern Briton to make a great racing-man or a genuine yachtsman. The members of the yacht clubs on the other side of the ocean are only Englishmen once removed. Yachting demands not only money, leisure, and a taste for wholesome and rational vagabondage; it demands, above and before all, a stomach of peculiar quality and conformation. This indispensable qualification makes the active yachting world a limited one, and keeps it select. We speak, of course, of the sea-going yachtsman; for the yachting world is very variously composed, and includes a