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his work had, or developed, a sincere purpose, and even a something which his admirers have hailed as a philosophy.

His first purpose the illustration of the doctrine of heredity-may be ignored. His second purpose was the diagnosis of the manifold diseases of the social organism-a diagnosis which deliberately exaggerated the unhealthy symptoms in order to alarm the patient. In fulfilling this purpose he was probably doing more to educate himself than to instruct the world, and gradually he discovered an enthusiasm. Most of the good things of life -and particularly the higher thingsdid not appeal to him. Robert Louis Stevenson wrote of him that he was "fundamentally at enmity with joy." He could not picture either love or religion making the world go round. Religion, for him, was simply an hysterical hallucination, and love simply a sensual passion, the precursor of abominable crimes. The one enthusiasm that did at last lay hold of him was the enthusiasm for justice.

One may read through half the library of his works before becoming aware of the passion, but in Germinal it begins to be expressed in ringing phrases: "Ca, vous avez raison, criait elle. Moi, quand une affaire est juste, je me ferais hacher." The sentence sums up the diffused rhetoric of J'ac cuse, and should be printed on the title-page of any history of Zola's enThe Fortnightly Review.

deavors to save Captain Dreyfus. But the passion itself survives the occasion of its violent manifestation, and develops into a more or less philosophic socialism. In Lourdes and Rome the real question at issue is: "Does the Pope see his way to become a Christian Socialist?" For, if not, Zola will set himself up as a lay Pope, and preach Socialism without reference to Christianity. And that, in fact, is what Zola was doing when he died.

There is no space at the end of an article, carefully to define his socialistic creed. His Four Gospels were left unfinished, and no doubt his Socialism, like the rest of his philosophy, was invented as he went along. The one fact that stands out quite clearly is that the optimism of his middle age, like the pessimism of his youth, rested on a purely materialistic basis. Once more one may go to Germinal for the phrase that sums it up:

"En voilà encore des idées, disait le jeune homme. Est-ce que vous avez besoin d'un bon Dieu et de son paradis pour être heureux? est-ce que vous ne pouvez faire à vous-mêmes le bonheur sur la terre?"

That is practically the theme which Zola's later writings were embroidering. Life consists of faits divers and nothing else. The Millennium is attainable by the re-arrangement of the faits divers. Such was Zola's doctrine, and from it his place among the prophets may be deduced.

Francis Gribble.

DREAMS.

Mr. Legge, in an essay on dreams, in the Academy' cites Alfred Maury's remarkable dream "that he was about to be guillotined, and woke up to find that a lath from the head of the bed had fallen and was pressing upon his neck." Maury's dream was much more curious than one might guess from this compressed version. His mother was in the room, watching him as he slept; what she saw was a lath, or something of that kind, fall and touch Maury's neck, when he instantly awoke. But his dream had comprised a whole chapter from the Reign of Terror. He dreamed that he was suspected, arraigned before the Revolutionary tribunal, tried, condemned, and taken to execution, the whole affair occupying, at least, many hours. But, as Maury saw, what happened was this: he felt, in sleep, the touch on his neck. His sleeping self asked itself, "What is this?" and replied by the long and (he says) coherent dreammyth, containing vivid experiences occupying, if not days, at least a great portion of a day. And through all these emotions Maury passed in the fraction of a second between the touch on his neck and his complete return to waking consciousness. The interest of this dream, and others, lies in the dramatic power of the sleeping self, which actually constructs, stages, and acts out a long story explanatory of a real sensation, literally "in the twinkling of an eye." Manifestly the dream self is a dramatist of force far beyond the power of the waking self. Shakespeare could not have constructed that plot, in the given time, when awake. In short, the dreaming self, like the soul in Mr. Matthew Arnold's poem,

1 The Eclectic Magazine, November, 1902.

Did not know the bond of Time Nor feel the manacles of Space,

a fact which donne à penser as to the nature of space and time, "mere hallucinations," as the late Lord Bute once remarked to myself. The inferences may lead us far away beyond the ordinary philosophy of dreaming. Many people are curious on this matter, but few or none seem to read Karl du Prel's Philosophy of Mysticism, of which there is an excellent English translation. M. du Prel enlarged freely on this matter of "dream as dramatist," and on "real and ideal time." Parts of his commentary, and some of his facts, are "tough," but his book is most interesting. Naturally we must remember that we all, unconsciously, "edit" our dreams, and are apt to fill up and omit- "eik and pare," as the old Scots phrase runs.

Occasionally there are witnesses to some of the facts, like Madame Maury. Thus, a young lady of my friends lately danced most of the night at a ball, and next day went on a short railway journey. She was reading Lavengro in the train; she fell asleep, and dreamed that she was boating on a lake well known to her. She saw her sister drowning in the lake, tied a rope to the rowlock, and threw the loose end to her sister. On this she awoke, and found that, when she thought she was throwing a rope to a drowning sister, she had really flung Lavengro (a pretty heavy volume) at the head of a lady sitting opposite her -a perfect stranger! Explanations to a railway-carriageful of people followed.

Mr. Legge quotes M. Lorain to the effect that clever people who use their brains a good deal dream cleverer

dreams than "children, women, and handicraftsmen," so he "rather ungallantly puts it." I wonder if this is true? Are the clever people not more adroit in "editing" their dreams after they waken? It would not be easy to collect statistics. To myself it seems that I only remember the dreams which occur in the moment of waking, when a fair amount of the waking self must be interfering with the vision. This morning I dreamed something about the Origin of Exogamy! It seemed very satisfactory, at the moment, and the origin of Exogamy appeared as an amiable result of the purest emotions of our nature. But that idea can hardly bear the light of waking reflection.

Mr. Legge appears, if I understand him, to suppose that our dreams are always a kaleidoscopic combination of actual experiences. "It is said that no woman ever dreams of entertaining persons utterly unknown to her." On this point ladies may speak for themselves; but surely we do dream of places and faces which no effort of memory, at least, can bring back to us as parts of waking experience in the past. But they may be, in the future! Thus A tells me (and, like Mr. Tracey Romford, he "would not lie if it were ever so") that he dreamed of a particular part of the exterior of an Elizabethan house, built of brick, and that he there found some entomological specimens of considerable rarity. Years afterwards, on going to a new Longman's Magazine.

home, a house which he certainly had never seen before, he recognized the corner of the building observed in his dream, but he never yet has found there the entomological specimens. B in the same way, dreamed of seeing, in a corry of the hills near Loch Leven (the salt-water Loch Leven), a peculiar tree, with the top boughs flattened down like a table. B later came across the tree, but in a corry of Ben Cruachan. Mr. Legge, I daresay, will explain such facts on the "two-shoot" memory system. A and B never really dreamed of the corner of the house, or of the queer tree, but, on seeing them, had the feeling of having "been there before," and then fancied that they had dreamed of the objects, the entomological specimens being merely part of the unconscious fable. One thing I can swear to that, in the visions beheld with shut eyes, before sleep, one does see faces and places that never were present in our waking experience, as well as others that have been present. Alfred Maury was very strongly convinced on this point. It will be replied that such faces and places are only "kaleidoscopic combinations" of actual experiences, like the centaur-half-horse, half-man. But the person who sees them feels prepared to take his affidavit that this is not so that these experiences are originals, not refractions. The sceptic will say "Pooh pooh!" (at least on paper-nobody ever says "Pooh pooh!"), and there is the end of the matter. Andrew Lang.

LOVE-MAKING, OLD AND NEW.

The other day, while glancing down the columns of "Answers to Correspondents" in a journal of repute, we came across one to this effect:"Regina (Malvern).-Has your flancé

read Lecky's 'Map of Life'? It is not at all difficult to read, and seems just what he wants. With regard to philosophy and logic, there are several excellent elementary works published

self-willed lady-love to one of those convenient little cottages of fiction that are occupied by obliging old women who provide a spotless parlor and an easy chair for the heroine to listen to her lecture in. After a delightful little meal, in which wild strawberries and bowls of milk play an important part, the heroine is taken home riding meekly by the side of her cavalier, whose presence has a magical effect upon 'Master "Tippoo." But the book is not all taken up with pleasure excursions by any means. Far from it. The hero devotes most of his time to training the mind of his lady-love, who is gently led on from point to point till he can congratulate himself on having taken her through a modified College course.

dealing with these subjects, notably the scene at once, and supports his Jevons's little book on logic, which has not yet been superseded by more pretentious works." Now here we evidently have a young lady desirous of educating her fiancé up to her own standard, and calling in aid from outside to her assistance. Is not this a significant change indeed from the oldfashioned days when the hero of a book had the heroine intellectually under his thumb, so to speak, for the whole three volumes? We all know the delightful way in which our favorite works of fiction used to undulate along. The hero makes the acquaintance of a beautiful, blushing girl, whose simple white robes are as innocent and sweet as her maiden fancies. How happy a destiny, he thinks (in chap. 2), to be entrusted with the care and guardianship of this delicate flower! He then proceeds to the wooing, and after sufficient incident to justify the three volumes, the heroine disappears from our delighted gaze on the stalwart arm of her gallant husband.

Or perhaps there was another variety of entertainment offered to the public. The heroine is a self-willed, impulsive, yet withal radiant personality, who is determined to dislike the hero, while he on his part is determined to overcome that aversion and turn it into a "warm regard." (How the familiar words come back to one!) For our own part, this second motif was by far the favorite. We all know the methods employed by the stern, selfcontained, unbending hero to subdue his chosen lady,-the request that she will not ride the black horse, "Tippoo," without his consent, and the catastrophe that follows when Lady Disdain mounts "Tippoo," and is thrown on a desolate moor,-desolate for all she knows, that is, for the hero, superbly mounted on an equally ferocious steed "Surajah Dowlah," appears on

There must be some who remember the methods employed by John in "The Wide, Wide World" to fit Ellen to be his consort, the pages of history which she had to peruse, the French moral anecdotes that he told in society with a keen eye for signs of intelligent participation on Ellen's speaking countenance, and the astronomical studies which she had to say she liked. In another book by the same gifted authoress we are told, speaking of the heroine, that the hero "took her hands from pots and pans and put into them philosophies"; while in another charming work the honeymoon was devoted to the study of Hebrew. But those days, it would seem, are past. The present-day heroine has changed all that. It is her turn now to teach French, and she begins with an easy little phrase that any man can master in a few seconds,-Place aux dames. Nor is she behindhand in the teaching of philosophy. Modern heroes have to learn a good deal of it. Can we imagine the heroine of the present day submitting to dictation in the way that was the joy of her predecessors?

If the modern hero were to presume to offer advice, he would find himself in a book within a month as an interesting psychological study. Or could we imagine, say, Miss Fowler's heroines sitting meekly with their needlework, picking up such crumbs of wit and wisdom as their fiancés might let fall within their reach? No, indeed, the heroine of the twentieth century will not submit to be bored by any one, least of all by her reigning fiancé. And here we touch upon the chief difference between the old and the new style. The old-fashioned works of fiction to which we have alluded were planned on a simple method that left nothing to be desired. Every Ellen had her John, so to speak, and there was the whole plot at a glance. But the modern heroine knows better than that. It is almost necessary to keep a slip of paper in one's book to help one to remember which is the present fiancé, so that there may be no needless confusion of thought and the reader's mind left free to grapple with the mental crises and problems of the 'heroine. Modern novel-readers will sympathize with the little girl who, on reading Mignet's "French Revolution" for the first time, asked wearily, "Hadn't I better put an asterisk against the names of those who weren't guillotined?" Some of us find it very difficult to remember who were guillotined by the heroine and who were not.

Again, we have mentioned the problems and mental crises of the modern heroine. In present-day fiction the heroine calculates to a nicety the feelings with which she regards the hero. "To love, or not to love? that is the question," she muses, as in the seclusion of her apartment she reviews the The Spectator.

situation. Tom is a dear boy, there is no doubt about it; he rides well, talks sense, and has the very nicest motorcar she knows, but he did not seem very intelligent about Ibsen, and could she look forward to spending her life with a man who only knows: Maeterlinck by name, and who has no interest in Buddhism? Or suppose there has been a disagreement, and two seemingly devoted lovers (who have even taken us in) are separated, what happens? The heroine retires from observation for half an hour (she is not to be interrupted for that space of time unless the proofs come from the printer's or the photographer's) and takes stock of the damage done to her heart. If the novel has been entitled "Passions and Problems," or some such title, the heart will prove to have been decidedly cracked but, as with old china, that only makes it more valuable. She adds one more experience to her rosary and travels on like a giant refreshed.

Now could any one imagine the oldfashioned heroine behaving in this way? Could one picture Ellen trifling with John's affection? Sooner could we imagine the daisies refusing to lift their little heads to the sun! Rather was the engagement a time of probation, which if satisfactorily passed through by the heroine led to the higher school of marriage, when the visiting teacher was transformed into the resident tutor. The times have indeed changed since those days. The scales are held more evenly now. Gentle Ellen Montgomery, doubtless resting humbly at John's feet in CarraCarra churchyard, you are avenged? The whirligig of time has brought in his revenges.

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