vachè d'entendre que votre veaufrère est devenu bœuf "-instead of "faché que votre beau-frère est devenu veuf."

Mal. It was Lady D. who, wanting her large cloak, ordered the servant to bring her cloaca maxima; and when a friend was taking tea with her, and the toast was all gone, is reported to have cried out to the servant, "Cameriere, più tosto."

Bel. Oh, I have heard that she said, "Aspettatore, più tosto," literally translating the word "waiter."

Mal. I don't believe she ever said it at all, but one must have somebody to father it, or mother

it.

There is always something amusing, as I have said, in bad English when spoken by a foreigner; but when spoken by a native it has a different effect sometimes at least. A lady told me the other day that on one occasion she had the privilege of an interview with the renowned Brigham Young, and upon being presented to him she said "I was always very desirous to see you, Governor Young, and to make the personal acquaintance of one who has had such extraordinary influence over my own sex. To which the Governor shortly remarked, "You was, was you?"

Bel. Exquisite finesse. "In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister."

Mal. Oh, I forgot to tell you, apropos of these verses, M. came in here one day, and observing them asked me what they were. I told him they were German, and by the great poet Goethe, and then I recited them to him; at which he cried out and stamped on the ground, not understanding a word of course-"Dio mio! che lingua! Mi pare che tuona. E poesia? vero? Dio! che lingua!" After that I used to torment him by

declaiming them to him, until at last he would cover his ears, and

say he would go away unless I stopped,-" Mi fa male, sa. Poesia da vero! Bella Poesia ! Par che si butta giù una carica di sassi.”

Bel. German must sound rather rough after their soft language "Wer grosses will muss sich zusammen raffen "-does sound a little like emptying a cart of heavy

stones.

Mal. A German friend of mine an artist-told me an amusing anecdote about Goethe. My friend used to frequent a café in Rome not much used by his compatriots; and as he was sitting there sipping his coffee one evening-many years after the death of Goethe-there came in a stranger, also a German, and called the waiter. "Guesto," he began to him, with a strong German accent,-"Guesto, tunque, è il caffé dove era solito a fenire il krande nostro boeta Goethenon è fero?" "Eh!" said the waiter, “ chi !” "Il nostro Goethe," answered the stranger. "Eh?" cried the waiter with a shrug. "Chi lo conosce? Io non l' ho mai visto." Tunque non è mai stato qua?" said the disappointed tourist. "Eh non! Io non conosco questo signore-mai è stato qua che so Io." On hearing this, our German, who had come primed with sentiment to visit the haunt of the great poet during his lifetime, turned about, disappointed and annoyed, and began to approach the door; when the waiter, seeing he was losing a customer, cried out, "Dica! come si chiama quel signore chi lei voleva?" The German turned and said, "Goethc." "Oh-h-h!" cried the waiter-"lui ? non aveva capito. Certo! Lui! Ah! si lo conosco Io? Era qua pochi momenti fa- aspetti signore-tornera fra poco-oh! se

lo conosco Io! Lo conosco come questa mano."

Bel. Is not the 'Italienische Reise' a very disappointing book? Mal. To me it is; but you know I don't worship at that shrine. But I am told it is a very remarkable performance.

Bel. I found it very dull; and I was surprised to find it so. I had heard so much about it before I read it.

Mal. To return a moment more to proverbs. My wife dreamed a little while ago an excellent one, and it was this: "Man wakes to trouble as the needle to the thread." Is not that a perfect dream-proverb ? It almost seems to mean something.

Bel. It is as good as what D. said as he was just waking up. He was making a call late one evening. There were several friends in the room, and a general conversation was going on, when he fell asleep for a few minutes. Suddenly he awoke, and feeling conscious that ho had been asleep, felt it necessary to say something to conceal the fact, or to cover it over if it had Ecen observed. So he remarked apropos of nothing, as if he had been following every word of the conversation-"Ah! yes; but, you know, it isn't always the least good-looking that have the most money."

Mal. Admirable, but rather

puzzling, isn't it?

Bel. Very-and you may imagine the utter surprise with which it was received-having nothing to do with anything that had been said.

Mal. What excellent epigrams one makes in one's sleep; what trenchant repartees; what happy poems! Unfortunately, if one remembers them in the morning, they have not the same excellence. During the American war, I made

one of such startling power and point that it woke me up, and half-dreamily I kept repeating it lest I should forget it, and thus preserved it in my memory. In the morning I wrote it down. It was utter blank nonsense.

Bel. I, too, can do admirable things in dreams. A little while ago I made one of the most finished and exquisite compliments ever known. I was in Russia. I spoke Russian fluently. I was surrounded with Russian ladies, and to one of them I turned with this happy phrase, "Inchikumbür Kichumbüz." I defy any person to say anything more refined and perfect than that. No wonder they applauded me.

Mal. Had you an idea of what it meant?

Bel. Perfectly. It means, "Take not my heart, but a cork." The play of words is perfect is it not?

Mal. Simply perfect. It is better even than my epigram.

Bel. The only difficulty about it is, that it is in no known language. Mal. That is no objection-so much the better.

Bel. What wild freaks our dreams play with us! It seems as if we lost all judgment, and our thoughts ran helter-skelter about,· jostling against each other in a sort of saturnalia, like boys let out of school. Is the spirit freed then from the body, and let forth on its wild rambles alone? How, then, do we bring it back again? What mysterious power is it by which we again chain up these wild, errant thoughts, and bind them into subordination to the reason? Is what we call imagination a half-loosening of the thoughts and feelings, with still a rein upon them to keep them to their track?

Mal. I suppose, when we do anything consecutively in dreams,

we are not quite asleep. When we are profoundly asleep there is no consecutiveness or order or reason in what passes through the mind. We accept impossibilities and absurdities as if they were realities and facts. Sometimes the mind has been so fixed upon a thought during waking hours that, while in sleep, it still holds guidance over us, and then we produce something at times which is valuable. I was told an interesting story the other day of the distinguished naturalist Agassiz which illustrates this. He had found the half of a fossil fish, and had become extremely interested in endeavouring by comparative anatomy to supply the other half. But he was unable to do so satisfactorily to himself. While this problem was haunting his mind he went to bed and to sleep, and in his dreams he resolved it to his complete satisfaction.

On

waking, however, the solution had passed away from his recollection, and vainly he strove to recall it. The next night, thinking that perhaps it might again recur to him in his dreams, he placed at the head of his bed a sheet of paper and a pencil, so that, in such case, he might at once make a drawing of it before it escaped him. During his sleep he. again completed the fish, and on waking in the morning he found it carefully drawn on the paper that he had placed at his bedside, though he had never awaked during the night, and was not conscious of having drawn it. The fact is that he had done it during his sleep.

Bel. That is curious and interesting on three accounts: first, that he should have forgotten the solution of the problem when once he had made it; and second, that he should have dreamed it again; and third, that he should

have drawn it in a somnambulistic state. It is rare that a dream repeats itself. It is rare that we do anything reasonable and valuable in somnambulism; and it is also rare that we forget a dream so soon, when it has been the result of a fixed offort by day in the same direction.

Mal. Yes, the combination is singular. Generally speaking, however, I think that the impression of our dreams clings to us very slightly after waking. Strong as it may be for a short while, it soon evaporates, as the mists in the valley dissolve at the touch of the sun, leaving nothing behind. And what is also curious is, that we always clearly distinguish between what we have dreamed and what we have experienced, known, or seen in waking hours. The expression we often hear, "I must have dreamed it," is not a correct one. We do not confuse what we dream with actual facts, otherwise we should be in a most singular condition of mind about everything. This story of Agassiz reminds me of what occurred to me once. I had been for years endeavouring to solve a certain problem, and get at the principle on which the system of proportion among the ancients was founded. Connected with this, I had also been pursuing a series of studies in ancient philosophies, and particularly in that branch relating to magic and to the mysteries of numbers. I had long been persuaded that, as there is a strict law of thorough-bass for musical sounds and harmonies, so there must be as strict a law relating to proportions and harmonies of forms; and further, that the ancients were possesed of some principle, formula, or canon, either scientific, mathematical, geometrical, mystical, or

perhaps purely empirical, upon which all their systems of proportion were founded, and according to which they divided and measured the human figure. No one could carefully study the ancient statues without being persuaded of this. But what was this principle? Many hypotheses I framed, but none satisfied me on practical application. On a bookcase opposite my bed there stood a small copy of the so-called Egyptian Antinous of the Vatican, which is a figure made in the time of Hadrian, and generally supposed to embody a certain canon of proportion. I had often measured it, and applied to it various systems of triangulation, and never had satisfied myself. One morning on waking, my eyes fell upon this figure, and instantly and unconsciously, without an effort of my will, the solution dawned upon me which had never occurred to me before. All the various statements and reasonings, and combinations and usages of the ancients which I had stored away in my mind, came, as it were, suddenly together, and crystallised into a theory, and I started up, crying to myself, "Of course, that is it -that is what I have been seeking in vain for these long years." I sprang out of bed, without giving myself even time to dress, took a pair of compasses, a sheet of paper, and a pencil, made at once my diagram and calculations, applied them to the figure of the Antinous, and assured myself that I was right. I had discovered the secret.

Bel. Well, what was this secret, if it be permitted to ask?

Mal. The secret was simply this-I saw in an instant that the true relations of proportion in general as well as in the human body were the relations of the

diameter, square, and equilateral triangle to the circle in which they are inscribed; and that this was the occult meaning of the symbol called the Seal of Solomon, which is the triangle inscribed in the circle. Then all the reasons for this struck me at once, the mathematical as well as the symbolical, the mystical, and the geometric. The laws of numbers, of forms, and of magic all coincided.

Bel. I now know just as much as I did before. Please explain yourself, for to speak plainly you seem to be talking a little wildly.

Mal. I don't know whether it is quite worth while, but if you insist I will try to explain myself.

Bel. Certainly, I beg to insist.

Mal. Well, in the first place as to the mystical part, for the first definite suggestion of this whole thing came to me in answer to this mystical question,—what does the symbol of the equilateral triangle inscribed in the circle mean? and why was it used as a magical symbol for ages? Simply because it expressed the Divine Spirit humanised, or God in the world, or Man.

The circle represents the world; the triangle, the Spirit, which always had a triune entity in all the systems of religion. That Spirit (the triangle), bounded by the world (the circle), is plainly man-or, as we Christians would say, it is Christ, the emanation of God made perfect man in the world. Add to this figure the square, which represented always law in the ancient philosophies, and particularly in the system of the Hebrews, and we have God made man in the world through law. Everything which was established was among the Hebrews

four-square. The square repre

sented the absolute establishment of things, and this was its mystical meaning.

Bel. That is quaint and curious, though perhaps far-fetched. Mal. It would not seem so to had studied these you, if you symbols in the ancient writers. These geometric forms were hieroglyphic statements, which were constantly used as symbols.

Bel. But I hope you had something a little more tangible in your mind than this.

Mal. I mean to go on now as I have begun, and then you may laugh as much as you please. Remember that the temple of the Jews was four-square. Recall the wheel of Ezekiel which contained the hieratic mysteries. I do not mean to explain them all to you, but if you are interested in this question, I would refer you to La Haute Magie' of Levi, to the mysteries, of the Tarot and Bota, to the treatises of Gaffarel, and in a word to all the old magical books on this question. will find enough to read if you choose.

You

Bel. Thanks. I will take all you say for granted. Let us get on to something a little more tangible and definite.

Mal. I merely alluded to this question, and don't mean to bore you with it. There is already enough written about it to make a small library, and I don't mean to add to it. Now for the mathematics. When I have said that this symbol is the nearest approximation to the squaring of the circle that is practically possible, I will say no more on that point; only if you are interested calculate it, and I think you will be convinced. Bel. Don't say any more about the squaring of the circle. I am losing my mind already.

Mal. Then come down to numbers. The circle in all the ancient writers is founded on the dodecahedron, the 12-sided figure, and stands

for the number 12—the πirpITOS πυθμην — the perfect number of Plato and Aristotle. The triangle represents 3; the square 4: 4 multiplied by 3 makes 12, the perfect number; added to 3 makes 7, the number used for the evocation of spirits. So that the triangle multiplied by the square makes the circle by which it is bounded. The numbers are mystical, and they all had their meaning. Read Plato's system of numbers, and you will see this plainly. Whether you understand them is quite another question. Nobody yet has done so. Yet this combination certainly coincides with certain formulas of his, which are not quite unintelligible at the present day.

Bel. Pray get to something practical.

Mal. Pazienza! and I will. I have already told you some days ago-and of course you treasure up all my remarks-that the Greeks had certain definite canons of proportion: first, that of Polycleitus, which was the most celebrated, and the earliest definite canon of Greece; second, that of Euphranor; and third, that of Lysippus. All these were primarily founded on the Egyptian canons-on which, probably, the ancient statues of Debutades of Samos were worked. That they did work, even at his early period, on a definite canon, is clear, because he is said to have been able to make one half of a statue in one place, and the other half in a different place, so that when brought together they exactly corresponded in proportion. The canon of Polycleitus is reported empirically by Vitruvius; but Vitruvius evidently did not understand the system, and only gives us certain measures, some of which are entirely inaccurate. But he adds at the end of his account