over the limitations of language. The reproach seems a strange one
to hurl at a nation which has produced the noblest literature of the
world since the light of Greece waned; but we must remember that
distinction of mind, as Mrs. Ward understands it, and as it was
understood by Mr. Arnold, is necessarily allied with a knowledge of
French arts and letters, and with some insight into the qualities
which clarify French conversation. "Divine provincialism" had no
halo for the man who wrote "Friendship's Garland." He regarded it
with an impatience akin to mistrust, and bordering upon fear. Perhaps
the final word was spoken long ago by a writer whose place in
literature is so high that few aspire to read him. England was
severing her sympathies sharply from much which she had held in
common with the rest of Europe, when Dryden wrote: "They who would
combat general authority with particular opinion must first
establish themselves a reputation of understanding better than other
men."

Travellers' Tales

"Wenten forth in heore wey with mony wyse tales,
And hedden leve to lyen al heore lyf aftir."
_Piers Plowman_.

I don't know about travellers' "hedden leve" to lie, but that they
"taken leve" no one can doubt who has ever followed their wandering
footsteps. They say the most charming and audacious things, in
blessed indifference to the fact that somebody may possibly believe
them. They start strange hopes and longings in the human heart, and
they pave the way for disappointments and disasters. They record the
impression of a careless hour as though it were the experience of
a lifetime.

There is a delightful little book on French rivers, written some
years ago by a vivacious and highly imaginative gentleman named
Molloy. It is a rose-tinted volume from the first page to the last,
so full of gay adventures that it would lure a mollusc from his shell.
Every town and every village yields some fresh delight, some humorous
exploit to the four oarsmen who risk their lives to see it; but the
few pages devoted to Amboise are of a dulcet and irresistible
persuasiveness. They fill the reader's soul with a haunting desire
to lay down his well-worn cares and pleasures, to say good-bye to
home and kindred, and to seek that favoured spot. Touraine is full
of beauty, and steeped to the lips in historic crimes. Turn where
we may, her fairness charms the eye, her memories stir the heart.