Of the Roman remains to be seen at Evora, Stoy, and elsewhere, and the Celtic excavations at Citania and Guimaraes; of the charms of Mont'Estoril, Cascaes, and other coast resorts; and of many other interesting or beautiful spots, I can say nothing here, but must reserve the remaining space at my disposal for the two best-known towns, Lisbon and Oporto, and the least-known province, the Algarve. It is almost superfluous to expatiate upon the capital or Oporto; all that need be said is that they more than bear out the promise of the guide-books. Lisbon is clean, bright, and handsome; grandly situated on the Tagus; blessed, as already mentioned, with the most balmy of climates; and, above all, it contains in the Jeronymos, at Belem, the most superb memorial ever erected to human achievement. At this spot landed, in 1499, the great Vasco da Gama, when he returned with only one-third of his companions from the fateful voyage which resulted in the discovery of India; and a grateful monarch vowed there and then to build in his honor a monastery which should commemorate the event for all time. Nobly

bly in the cloisters-the finest in the world and the supporting columns of the church itself. A distinguishing feature of Manueline work may be noted here as elsewhere: no two columns are alike in design, but each is wrought in the most delicately traced patterns, and every one different from its neighbor. The same thing may be noticed, in the chapter-house, on the stately tomb of Herculano, the national historian-certainly the finest sarcophagus which ever enclosed mortal remains. Portugal, indeed, knows how to honor its dead, even if his contemporaries did allow Camöes to die a pauper.

At Oporto there are many noteworthy churches and other buildings, and the Arab room of the Exchange is worth going a long way to see. But the great charm of the place lies in the bustling life about the quays, and the quaint streets which lead up to the more modern parts of the town. It is an experience in itself to see the women porters carrying huge and varied loads, marvellously poised, on their heads; and, if it does not accord with western notions of the division of labor, one may at least say that the women bear their burden

Twentieth-century development of Portugal, where the tourist is concerned, will largely centre in the exploitation of Algarve, the southern province which borders on the Atlantic's approach to the Mediterranean. On the beautiful bay of Lagos, whence da Gama set sail for India, a modern hotel is to be raised, and other schemes are afoot which deserve encouragement and success. The climate is far superior to that of the French Riviera, and generations must elapse before the picturesque and fertile coast could possibly become spoiled. Meanwhile let me say that even now there is comfortable hotel accommodation to be had at Praia da Rocha and Faro, and those who wish to enjoy "Côte d'Azur" conditions on simple lines, far from the madding crowd of gambling plutocrats of all nations, may reasonably set off for the Algarve littoral "right now." One word as to motoring in Portugal. I did a great deal of road-travelling by car, and in many places found it indispensable; but, much as I should like to say otherwise, I cannot recommend the motoring tourist to take his own vehicle so far afield. The roads, like the curate's egg of the story, are "good in parts"; but through travelling by road is not to be

lightly undertaken, especially as the country would have to be approached through Spain unless the car were shipped from England by sea. There are garages, nevertheless, in the chief towns, and I would advise the hiring of cars for intermediate journeyings after suitable inquiries on the spot as to the available possibilities.

The tourist who sees Portugal by ordinary means need have no fear as to his comfort at hotels, or the welcome he will receive if he speaks the English tongue. If he finds himself in any difficulty in the streets, however, and knows nothing of the language of the country, the best tip I can offer is: "Do not try English or French on an adult, but lay hold of the nearest schoolboy." English is understood by the rising generation to a surprising degree, and probably there are more Portuguese youngsters who could go through all three verses of the English national anthem than could be found in England itself.

As for the learning of Portuguese, the pronunciation is everything; and let not the tourist ask when the boat will arrive at Leixões-the port for Oporto-with any phonetic approach to its spelling. The actual pronunciation is "Leshoines," or sometimes "Leshines"!

E

OR the sake of moral values I ought to wish, I suppose, that Paramore had been a more conspicuous figure. There is moral significance in the true tale of Paramore-the tale which has been left to me in trust by Hoyting. I cursed Hoyting when he did it; for Paramore's reputation was nothing to me, and what Paramore knew or didn't know was in my eyes unspeakably unimportant. I wish it clearly understood, you see, that if Paramore deliberately confused exogamy and endogamy in the Australian bush, it doesn't in the least matter to me. Paramore is only a symbol. As a symbol I am compelled to feel him important. That is why I wish that his name were ringing in the ears and vibrating on the lips of all of you. His bad anthropology doesn't matter-a dozen big people are delightedly setting that straight-but the adventure of his soul immensely does. Rightly read, it's as sound as a homily and as dramatic as Euripides. The commonest field may be chosen by the opposing generals to be decisive; and in a day history is born where before only the quiet wheat has sprung. Paramore is like that. The hostile forces converged by chance upon his breast.

I have implied that Paramore was never conspicuous. That is to be more merciful than just. The general public cares no more, I suppose, than I do about the marriage customs of Australian aborigines. But nowadays the general public has in pay, as it were, an army of scientists in every field. We all expect to be told in our daily papers of their most important victories, and have a comfortable feeling that we, as the age, are subsidizing research. By the same token, if they deceive us, we the age-are personally injured and fall to "muckraking." It is typical that no one had been much interested in Paramore until he was discredited, and that then, quite without intelligible documents, we all began to despise him. VOL. LIV.-40

The situation, for that matter, was not without elements of humor. The facts as I and the general public knew them were these before Hoyting, with his damnable inside information, came into it.

Paramore sprang one day full-armed from some special academic obscurity. He had scraped together enough money to bury himself in the Australian bush and grapple face to face with primitive religion in its most concrete form. Each to his taste; and I dare say some casual newspaper readers wished him godspeed. There followed the proper interval of time; then an emaciated Paramore suddenly emerging, laden with note-books; then the published volume, very striking and revolutionary, a treasure-house of authentic and indecent anecdote. He could write, too, which was part of his evil fate; so that a great many people read him. That, however, was not Paramore's fault. His heart, I believe, was in Great Russell Street, where the Royal Anthropologists have power to accept or reject. He probably wanted the alphabet picturesquely arranged after his name. At all events, he got it in large measure. You see, his evidence completely upset a lot of hard-won theories about mother-right and group marriage; and he didn't hesitate to contradict the very greatest. He actually made a few people speak lightly of "The Golden Bough." No scientist had ever spent so long at primitive man's very hearth as Paramore had. It was a tremendous achievement. He had data that must have been more dangerous to collect than the official conversation of nihilists. It was his daring that won him the momentary admiration of the public to whom. exogamy is a ludicrously unimportant noun. Very soon, of course, every one forgot.

It was not more than two years after his book was printed that the newspapers took him up again. Most of them appended to the despatch a brief biography of Paramore. No biographies were needed

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in Great Russell Street. This was the point where the comic spirit decided to meddle. A few Germans had always been protesting at inconsistencies in Paramore's book, and no one had paid any attention to them. There is always a learned German protesting somewhere. The general attitude among the great was: any one may challenge or improve Paramore's conclusions-in fact it's going to be our delightful task for ten years to get more out of Paramore than he can get out of himself but do get down on your knees before the immense amount of material he has taken the almost fatal trouble to collect for us. No other European was in a position to discredit Paramore. It took an Australian planter to do that. Whitaker was his quite accidentally notorious name. The comic spirit pushed him on a North German Lloyder at Melbourne to spend a few happy months in London. It was perfectly natural that people who talked to him at all should mention Paramore. The unnatural thing was that he knew all about Paramore. He didn't tell all he knew as I learned afterward-but he knew at least enough to prove that Paramore hadn't spent so much of his time in the bush as would have been absolutely necessary to compile one-quarter of these note-books. Whitaker was sufficiently reticent about what Paramore had been doing most of the time; but he knew for a fact, and took a sporting interest in proving it, that Paramore had never been west of the Musgrave Range. That in itself sufficed to ruin Paramore. It was perfectly easy then for the little chorus from Bonn, Heidelberg, etc., to prove in their meticulous way that both his cribbing and lying (his whole treatment of Spencer and Gillen was positively artistic) had all been mere dust-throwing. Of course what Paramore really had achieved ceased from that moment to count. He had blasphemed; and the holy inquisition of science would do the rest. It all took a certain amount of time, but that was the net result.

Paramore made no defence, oddly enough. Some kind people arranged an accidental encounter between him and Whitaker. The comic spirit was hostess, and the newspapers described it. It gave the cartoonists a happy week. Then an

international complication intervened, and the next thing the newspapers found time to say about him was that he had gone to the Upper Niger, still on folk-lore bent. That fact would have been stupendous if it hadn't been so unimportant. Two years later the fickle press returned to him just long enough to say that he had died. I certainly thought then that we had heard the last of him. But the comic spirit had laid her inexorable finger on Hoyting. And suddenly, as if in retribution for my spasmodic interest in Paramore's beautiful fraud, Hoyting sent for me.

I went to one of the rue de Rivoli hotels and met him by appointment. Of course he hadn't told me what it was about. Hoyting never writes; and he puts as little into a telegram as a frugal old maid. Any sign from Hoyting, however, would have sufficed to bring me to Paris; and I stayed in my hotel, never budging even for the Salon so close at hand, until Hoyting appeared in my sitting-room.

I asked Hoyting no questions. I hadn't an idea of what he wanted. It might, given Hoyting, be anything. He began without preliminaries-except looking frightfully tired. That, for Hoyting, was a rather appalling preliminary.

"Three months ago I was in Dakar. I don't know just why I had drifted to Sénégal, except that I've come to feel that if there must be colonial governments they had better be French. If there was any special thing that pushed me, I've forgotten it.

"They were decentish people, those French officers and their wives. A little stiff always, never expatriated, never quite at ease in their African inn, but not half so likely to go fantee as the romantic Briton. And once a fortnight the little boats from Bordeaux would come in bringing more of them. I rather liked them; but even so, there wasn't any particular reason for my staying on so long. in Dakar. I hung on like an alarm that has been set. I couldn't go off-or onuntil the moment I was set for. I don't suppose the alarm-clock knows until the vibration begins within it. Something kept me there in that dull, glaring, little official town, with its dry dock and torpedo-basin, which, of course, they had managed to endow with the flavor of pro