"But they will not have me anywhere. Open the door, I entreat you, only a little-as little as you please-that I may look in and see what paradise is like.' "Le bon Dieu was at that moment in the lodge of paradise, having come to see His old friend and talk with him, as was often His habit. He pitied Sans Souci, thus repulsed on every side, and said to St. Peter: “Open your door a little, and let him look into paradise.' 66 So St. Peter opened the door a little, and immediately Sans Souci threw his hat into paradise as far as he could. Then he said to St. Peter: "Let me come in, dear Saint Peter, I beseech you. At any rate, let me fetch my hat.' 666 666 'Very well, it is much too dirty for me to touch. You may come in.' "Sans Souci entered without waiting to be told a second time. He proceeded a good way, and then began to run. 666 Stop him! Stop him!' cried St. Peter. "Three or four angels ran after him to stop him. But Sans Souci sat down on his hat, and to the angels who wished to move him, and to St. Peter who ran up armed with a stick, he said: 666 "Don't touch me, I tell you.' And, turning to Christ, who looked on smiling, he said: 'You are just, and know what are the rights of every man. Am I not within my right now that I am on my own property, and has St. Peter, or any one else, the power to turn me off?' 666 66 6 Sans Souci is right. Leave him alone, he is doing no wrong to any one.' 'Now you see! Le bon Dieu bids you leave me alone, for I am within my right, and you must obey.' "And that is the way in which Sans Souci entered paradise, where no doubt he is to this day." As we might expect, the devil plays a considerable part in Breton legends. He is at hand to take advantage of any rash expression, and when once he has got his victim into his power, it is all that priests and penance can do to shake him off. Adèle Hourdin, of Erguy in Upper Brittany, being too poor to buy clothes, was distressed at the sight of her rags, and one day, when more than usually resentful, she was wicked enough to declare: "I have no clothes and I can't go anywhere; I would give myself to the fiend to be dressed as well as others." Some days after, when she had quite forgotten this speech, there came to her cottage, which stood alone, in the dusk of the evening a fine gentleman, who was willing to give her money and anything that she liked if she engaged in writing to be his at the end of three years, unless the money was repaid. She agreed, and was soon supplied with the clothes which she desired. She lost no time in displaying her finery, and the neighbours were curious to know how she came by it. Some young men resolved to investigate the matter; but their curiosity was soon cooled by horrible sights and sounds, so that they went to the rector with the story that Adèle had given herself to the fiend. Adèle herself was examined, and confessed that there was something wrong with the feet and hands of her visitor. "In the evening the rector went with two other priests, and passed his stole round the neck of the fiend; but the fiend tore to shreds all the stoles in the parish, and beat the two priests. There remained but one stole, which belonged to a young vicar, who was un petit saint homme. This he could not destroy, and the girl was rescued; but the devil, as he went, carried off more than half the house, which remained in ruins, in spite of every attempt to rebuild it." Often the foul fiend takes the form of an animal which follows his victim about and cannot be shaken off. In one story a girl is followed by a sheep, which the dog refuses to attack, and the farm boy cannot beat off. It followed her to the door of her house, and she was so terrified that she became a religieuse, and the boy a priest. In another story a boy, whose mother had wished for a son, even though the foul fiend should take him," was followed every day to school by a dog, which took the little finger of his left hand in his mouth, and sucked it all the way. The boy wasted away, until at length the cause was discovered. The priest exorcised the demon for the time, but deliverance from his power was not to be obtained without the severest penances. It is impossible, by any selection, to give an idea of the variety of the stories included in these collections, even with the limitation which restricts M. Luzel's volumes to Christian legends. The wealth of imagination is truly remarkable. Of course they are not all the product of the Breton mind; parallels will be found to many of them, both in other parts of France, and beyond the limits of France. There are fées in other parts of the world besides Brittany, though the "houles" of the Breton coast serve as a local habitation for them, and lavandières are as well known to the Berrichons of the centro of France as to the Bretons of the west. In the story of "Barbe Rouge," given by M. Sébillot, we have a variation of Blue Beard,' which is hardly an improvement; in La Pouilleuse the motive is the same as in 'King Lear.' The similarity of popular stories is indeed an interesting and difficult problem. The capture of prisoners may have caused some legends to be carried into new homes, and the migrations of families, or the wandering life of pedlars, would help in the same direction. On the other hand, much must be set down to the uniform action of man's imagination, which, amid many differences, naturally presents some similarities. In this way only can we account for the similar traits which prevail between some South African and European stories. These pretty volumes, edited with great skill and learning— for all the authorities on the subject are quoted, and any parallels are carefully given-are models of the way in which the subject should be approached by those who wish to make it at once scientific and popular. A Ruined Library. "IMPERIOUS Cæsar dead and turn'd to clay Here looking round you're but too sure to see a Here half a Rabelais jostles for position The quarter of a Spanish Inquisition; Here Young's Night Thoughts lie mixed with Swinburne's Ballads 'Mid scraps of works on Poisons and on Salads ; And here a torn but gilt-edged Sterne doth lack a ray W. H. POLLOCK. To Millicent, from America.* BY FREDERICK WEDMORE. New York City: The day I reach it. I AMERICA ought to be very interesting, to justify the voyage. speak as a gentleman of advanced middle-age, who is sure to be of that opinion, for the voyage is really a series of various adventures; its luxury, of which we hear so much, I know not; in its comfort I do not believe. It is all very well to say it lasts only nine days or eight; but eight or nine days are a different length of time according as they are spent in one's usual ways at home, or, hour after hour, in a ship at sea. And then the North Atlantic-especially in the "Roaring Forties"-is such an uncertain and inhospitable sea. The choppy Gulf of Lyons and "the Bay" with its swell are nothing whatever in comparison. If it is fine now, you can't guess what it is going to be two hours hence. And our voyage was one of the roughest known in September, except at the moment of the equinox, and rougher than often then. The log of the ship, which is posted up to be inspected by the passengers every morning in the companion-way, recorded "head seas," "strong gales and high head seas." It began to be roughish soon after leaving Queenstown on Friday-blew very much that evening. Next morning it was better, however, and it was only "fresh"-which means motion and a light swell-throughout that day and Sunday. Sunday night great signs of motion as one lay in one's berth-my cabin friend observing at irregular intervals from his bed, "By Jove, it is blowing! It is blowing, by Jove!" Monday morning a high sea was running when I went up on deck, and it ran all day; the gale increasing, so that, even on a big ship, we could only watch it by holding on, very tightly, in sheltered places. At night the sight was tremendous; the wind and sea being dead against us-that is what is called a "head sea"-and volumes of water flung into the ship by its lower deck. I stood in the "companion-way," high up, till twelve o'clock, the boat groaning and straining as it was pushed through rushing walls of wave. Imagine the dark sky; * They are real letters, though they were not all addressed to the young lady in question. And-need I add ?-the letters which I publish name only one person in fifty of those who, from Boston to Baltimore, and further, covered me with kindness.--F. W. the sea impossible to peer into ahead; the ship's lights flashing at the side over seething waters, and the pant and pressure of the engines. One could hardly hear the bo'suns whistle or the bells that ring every half hour-a forward bell of lower tone responding to one upon the deck-and the man from the forward look-out was had in, and stationed on the bridge, where the sea, of course, was less, so that one heard no more his chanting voice calling out at every half hour his slow and loud "All's well!" as a signal, just after the bells ring, to show the officer on the bridge that he is awake and alert. The captain, who usually sleeps in the chart-room behind the wheel-house, was on the bridge all that night. Next morning it quieted, and was quiet the greater part of Wednesday, though that afternoon the captain vouchsafed the information: "We expect a sea." And soon the sea came, and on Wednesday night there was to the full as heavy a gale as on Monday; "the thick end of a gale" indeed that part of it where it is strongest of all. But it was less directly ahead of us-more on our side, and looking to me therefore less tremendous, though all night, as we lay in our berths, the most crashing seas descended on the deck above us, and the wind seemed, in the wild way you know, to advance, retire, tear on again. "The weary wind, the world's rejected guest "--my favourite line in Shelley-but at sea not a "rejected guest" nor "weary" it seemed. But in the morning that wind wore itself out too. The next thing of moment was on Thursday-" crossing the Bank." The "Bank" I am told-but must correctly inform myself when I have access to some one with a scientific education--is an immense deposit in the bed of the Atlantic, below the coast of Newfoundland. The water is therefore relatively shallow there, and that or the latitude affects the weather, so that it is generally roughish, and often very foggy in those parts. We heard the foghorns going in the morning, and a wet white chilly mist lay on the sea all day, lifting a bit here and there to show only a white grey sky and a grey and disagreeable water. A dreary, endless, ugly day. Next morning we had got into what the Americans told me was "the American climate"; into fresh dry air, golden light, calm seas, and a clear distance. And that lasted the two days, Friday and Saturday; and this morning we steamed slowly up the harbour from Sandy Hook. I saw the first light-house-an island light-houselate last night. And that was the beginning of America. New York City. A word or two about New York itself-a mere first impression. It seems to me less concentrated than London-that is, a stranger, even staying in a good part, somehow has a poor part brought |