all the rights of a husband. They delay the
celebration of the union until the promise of its first
fruits. If the future bridegroom, after the
conscientious celebration of his betrothal, were to
draw back from completing his engagement, his
refusal would cost him his life. A story is told of
a betrothed young man who took refuge on board
a Portuguese ship on the eve of his wedding.
He died at Lisbon of a stab with a knife.

If it is difficult to break off a marriage which
is not yet completed, nothing is easier than to
undo it when once it is done. The papas, or
priests, are not incorruptible, and, if you know
by which end to handle them, will contrive to
discover in the most regular union five or six
informalities sufficient to annul the marriage.
After having lived with your wife forty years,
they will make it a point of conscience to
declare that you have been erroneously married,
and that the person in question is nothing to
you. But it costs very dear, as Panurge says.

If it pleases you to have been married, whilst
it displeases you to be married still, divorce
shines for all the world. Certain ladies are to
be seen in Athens who have been divorced three
times, and who could ask their three husbands
to dinner without the public's having a right
to find fault with them. But divorce is a
luxury which humble people scarcely ever
indulge in. The rural districts are tenanted by
exemplary households. The honest creatures
pass their lives without passion and without
coquetry. Once married, the most elegant
peasant-girl takes no trouble to please even her
husband; her whole pleasure and her great
glory consist in rearing the greatest possible
number of children. She is perfectly satisfied
with her own appearance if she can take a walk
on Sunday, preceded by her husband, and
followed by five or six of her progeny. She takes
no care to hide or sustain the formidable source
whence the whole little family have drawn their
sustenance. She advances with majestic and
protruding step, like a goose. The song says,
"Sink down, ye mountains, that I may behold
Athina—Athina my beloved, who walks like a
goose!"

Mothers of families have a profound pity for
women who have the misfortune to be without
children. "When journeying, the travellers were
asked by all the men whether they were married;
by the women, if their mothers had many
children. It is said that when King Otho was was
going about the country with his young
queen, to show her to the people, the wife of a
demarque, or mayor, who came to compliment
her sovereign, tapped her unceremoniously on
the stomach, asking, "When are you going to
give us an heir?"

The rivalry of the mothers of families ought,
in twenty years, to have doubled the population
of the kingdom; but the fever has put things in
order. In summer, children die off like flies.
Those who survive are mostly spindle-shanked
and pot-bellied until they attain their thirteenth
or fourteenth year. The parents rescue all they
can, and don't overtask themselves in bewailing
the rest; they know that up to thirteen years
their children's existence is precarious. A high
functionary was once asked how many children
he had had. He answered, reckoning them on
his fingers, "Eleven or twelve; I don't know
exactly. I have seven left."

Under the Turkish domination, the mother,
when she could write, kept the register of her
family. She took note of the date of the birth
of each of her children. Unfortunately, all
mothers were not women of letters; besides,
papers fly away, in spite of the proverb Litera
scripta manet, "what is written remains."
Consequently, a considerable portion of the
Greek people do not know their own age.
Whenever Petros, the servant, was asked how old he
was, he replied imperturbably, "My mother
wrote it down, but she lost the paper."

This blissful ignorance allows people to grow
young again with impunity. When the said
Petros went to procure passports for his two
employers (his juniors) and himself, he called
one thirty-five and the other forty, carefully
reserving for his own use the charming age of five-
and-twenty.

From these specimens, it will be evident that
M. About's book is one of those whose intrinsic
interest is greatly increased by unforeseen and
accidental circumstances happening after
publication. It is so able, and so much to the point,
that we shall be surprised if, now, it is not
translated entire into English.

SMALL-BEER CHRONICLES.

IT has been stated that to register the exact
condition of the moral health of the age is one
of the dearest functions of a Small-Beer
Chronicler. A curious change in that moral health
has now to be placed on record. We are getting
undecided.

It is a fair question whether we are not obeying
the injunction contained in the saying,
"Look before you leap," too implicitly and too
literally. The increased facilities for discussion
which exist in the present day; the temper of
the times, which takes nothing for granted; the
singular diffusion of a certain amount of cleverness
and knowledge—are not these things leading
us a little astray? Are we not getting into the
habit of examining the leap we are going to take,
so long and so carefully, as that we are gradually
getting into a state in which it is all looking and
no leaping? Is there any proceeding of
importance (it may be worth considering) which
may not be proved to be dangerous, if all the
contingencies connected with it be examined
and dwelt upon? Is there any leap more
complicated than one consisting of a low hurdle in
the middle of a meadow, which may not, under
some circumstances, turn out a break-neck
affair? Here is a man committing a murder in
the next field to the one in which I find myself.
I want to get to the rescue, and I ride up to the
next hedge intending to leap it. I must look
first through. Here is a high bank, a rail on