MORE SALUTATIONS.*

THE salutations of the Romans indicate the course of their history and development as a people more strikingly perhaps than those of other nations. In the days of their first rugged bravery and staunch republican virtue, when aptitude for war was their great desideratum, we hear of "salve" and "vale"-Be healthy! be strong! Have value as a man and a brave man too! There was a rough military bluntness in all the older Roman language. The conception those warriors formed of the real value of a man was attached to his strength and courage, a meaning of the word preserved in our language in its original form valor.

In later and more degenerate times, the reverences and kissing of hands, the compliments and sweet speeches of these same Romans were so fulsome as to excite the ridicule of Lucian, who satirizes the servility that was exhibited to the rich. 66 What," says he, "can be more contemptible than those rich fools who are always showing their purple garments, stretching out their fingers that you may see the rings upon them, and practising a thousand follies? But what is still more ridiculous, if they meet, they will speak to you only by proxy, as thinking it honour sufficient if they permit you but to look at them; some are so proud as even to expect adoration, not at a distance, or after the Persian mode, but coming close up, with your eyes fixed on the ground, and showing the submission of your soul by the humble posture of your body, kissing the breast or hand. And even this is looked upon as a high and mighty favour by those who are not so happy as to arrive at it: and thus the idol shall stand for a long time and suffer himself to be made a fool of. At the same time, I must own, we are obliged to the cruel creatures for refusing the honour of their lips."

What a world of expression is in the old Greek salutation "Xaipe !" -Rejoice! Be glad! What a people must they have been! their earthly existence rounded off with a completeness in the enjoyments of intellect, of grace, and of freedom, that has not fallen to the lot of any other nation. Think of the Spartan who "smiled in dying," and then believe that it was no mere conventionalism which the Greek uttered when he saluted his companions with the inspiriting word "Rejoice!"

Tame and insipid after this is the imported salutation of the modernized Greek, whose heartiest ceremony is his business-like method of drinking toasts. At feasts no guest partakes of wine, without first offering an appropriate wish to each of his fellow-guests-to the scholar

* Continued from the November number.

progress in his studies, to the young lady a good husband, and so on. As only one person at a time can do this, the process must be rather tedious to the thirsty souls.

The merchant princes of the middle ages, the Genoese, expressed the two elements of their character in the salutation, "Health and Gain!" The priest-ridden Neapolitan bade you "Grow in sanctity!" The liberal Piedmontese carried his politeness so far as to profess, "I am your

slave!"

Our own ordinary salutations at the present day I hold to be as forcible and terse as those of any people or any times. What phrases, after all, if we consider their signification, can be deeper or finer than the simple-sounding inquiries, "How are you?" "How do you do?" To do! this word contains the whole essence of productive existence, national and individual. The greatness of this country may be attributed to the endeavour to answer aright that important question, "How do you do?" The careful consideration of the same question by every one of us is of the utmost moment. Doing is so universal among us; we do not, like the Germans, ask a man, "Was machst du ?"-What dost thou ?-but how do you do it? Do you must; there is no question about that with us. Such a salutation could belong to no other than an active, busy, energetic nation. It is the badge of our industrial and commercial

character.

No better evidence can be given of the force and reach of this searching question than the spirit which pervades that memorable answer to it, for such it appears to us, given by Nelson at the battle of Trafalgar. In the awful hour of preparation for the tremendous conflict we can well imagine that every eye turned steadily towards the Admiral's ship, to know "how they were to do that day?" To do? how ?—why, "England expected that every man would do his duty!" That was the answer which compressed into a few words the predominant feeling, the characteristic sentiment, of a whole nation; and never perhaps before or since was the verb to do conjugated with such vigour as on that glorious day.

If the external aspect of our national character is in some sort expressed by our salutation, "How do you do?"-the active existence of an inner life, of the restless, dancing flame within, is implied in the inquiry, “How are you?" "It is indeed the question," says a powerful writer in the Quarterly Review. "All knowledge, science, all reason, thought, imagination, is nothing else but the effort of the blinded Cyclops, feeling about the walls of his cavern-all, merely a struggling to find out how we are.'"

PAUL ROMAINE.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "SAINT FRIDESWIDE'S."

(Continued from Page 64.)

CHAPTER X.

THE SUMMER TERM.

IT has been suggested to me that certain of my acquaintances may discover likenesses to themselves in some of the personages of this history, and be offended thereat; but que voulez vous? can I help it? However, if there be any such thin-skinned ones who peruse these pages, let them take the following incident to heart. Travelling once abroad I went by chance into a barber's shop, and while submitting myself to the hands of the worthy tonsor, I remarked that his shop contained a large assortment of block-heads, the faces of which were very ingeniously carved. I praised the workmanship; whereupon the barber said: "Ah! sir, those block-heads have been a great source of trouble to me!"

"How so?" asked I in astonishment.

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'Why, in this way, sir," answered he; "when they were first exhibited in my shop, not a day passed but a crowd of people came here, and asked me whether I meant to insult them, for such and such a block-head was exactly like them in the face; and one old gentleman went so far as to call me very ill names on the occasion. Well, this troubled me greatly for a time, but at length I could bear it no longer. So one day when a crowd of complainants were assembled in my shop, 'Gentlemen,' said I, 'you are angry because you see a likeness to yourselves in these block-heads of mine; but if such a likeness does exist, it is clearly the fault of Nature, and not mine; so you must blame Nature for it, and leave me and my block-heads alone.' And believe me, sir, not one of them ever complained afterwards.”

I leave the moral of the barber's story to those of my friends who think they discover a likeness in any of my characters, and now let us get back to Oxford as fast as we may.

The summer term had begun. Chilly, dusty, treacherous spring (for in spite of what poets say to the contrary, spring is a very unpleasant part of the year) had vanished, and the long bright days of summer had fairly commenced. I know no place more pleasant than Oxford in the summer-time; if one could only be idle all day, there is no better place in the world to dream and be idle in; but when a man is conscientious, and is firmly determined to get through his fixed amount

of reading daily, he has a hard struggle with the sunshine, the green trees, the fair sky, and the delights of the river and the cricket-field, all which allure him like so many syrens away from his hot rooms and his books.

Paul Romaine found this in his first summer term, but being of a firm, not to say obstinate, character, the syrens were generally unsuccessful with him. When, however, the books were closed, Paul realized the full enjoyment of the season. How often did he, in after years, look back, as so many men have done, to those glorious summer days in Oxford-days when the noble college fronts looked bright and cheerful in the pure, clear atmosphere, the graceful towers of All Souls standing out sharply against the background of blue sky; St. Mary's spire glowing in the sun-set, its beautiful carvings bathed in a rosy mistdays when the mighty trees in the Broad walk extended a kindly shade over the hot boating-man as he came hurrying back from the river, over the cool lounger, and the simpering nurse-maid, and over the portly Don strolling out in search of an appetite before Hall! Many an hour is spent among the summer trees, and bright flowers of the gardens of St. John's and New College, which is thought little of then, but often longed for-ah! how earnestly--when life has proved a path with many thorns and very few roses, a desert where the gardens and such like oases are very "few and far between!" But what matters it? After all, Horace's maxim of "carpe diem," is the best let us enjoy the gardens, and the flowers, and sunshine while they last; and when the gardens are bare, the flowers withered, and the sunshine gone, we must wrap our cloak about us (if we have one), and go out to meet the wind and rain as manfully as we may. So thought our friend Paul, as with a volume of Tom Moore's poems in his hand, he reclined at ease under a chestnut tree in St. John's gardens. From this luxurious ease he was aroused by the voice of Challoner, addressing him with: "Oh! here you are, most lazy of Sybarites! I've been looking for you half over Oxford."

"Have you?" said Paul, “I'm very sorry, I'm sure; but not having the faintest idea that you wanted me I couldn't be expected to be on the look-out."

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Well, come on the river, will you ?"

“What, now? with the thermometer at 90 degrees; not if I know it." "Nonsense, it's the coolest place," retorted Challoner; "besides we needn't pull, we'll have a punt and float down the river. Or have a canoe if you like."

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No, that will be too much like the

card in the song, you know—

what is it—' Nelly Grey,' when he says: We'll float down the river in the little red canoe, while my banjo so sweetly I'll play.' But I don't mind a punt.

Accordingly, Paul and Challoner departed towards Medley Lock, on hat part of the river which is less frequented than the Iffley end, and

where a long row of trees offers a strong inducement to those who understand the true dolce far niente enjoyment as well as Oxford men do.

Beautiful looked the Isis in the bright sunshine as our two friends embarked in their punt, and allowed it to drift pretty much as the tide directed. The river, which is 'broader here than in most parts, was flashing into a thousand sparkles; here and there large beds of green waterweeds lay like miniature islands; on one side was the flat expanse of Port Meadow, with its browsing cattle; on the other the long avenue of trees fringing the towing-path; and over all hung the fair blue sky, flecked with masses of white cloud, like capes and far-off headlands rising out of the ocean.

Paul and Challoner punted themselves leisurely along till the avenue was reached. Beneath the shade the water lay dark and cool, the tall reeds rustled, the insects made a dreamy hum, and all things seemed to invite repose. Our friends did not go to sleep, however, but letting their punt drift in among the reeds, they lay on their cushions and looked up dreamily into the sky, and thought. A writer of the present day has said most truly that young men think more than old ones, and that to speak of "thoughtless youths," meaning persons who seldom or never think, is a great mistake. Of course there are people who, like the jolly young waterman in the song, "row along, thinking of nothing at all;" but they will do so just as much at sixty as at twenty. Young men do not think so much of the cares of life, because they have never known them; but their minds are generally more occupied than those of their seniors, who have fought the battle of life and are resting on their arms in that stage of existence which may be styled "the after-dinner napping stage." Paul and Challoner thought, or dreamed if you like it better, as they lay, in their punts on that summer afternoon.

"What are you thinking about, Challoner ?" asked Paul, whose reverie came to an end first.

"Of many things," answered his friend, "among others, that a happy home must be a very jolly thing:"

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'Why, of course it is. It needs no ghost to tell us that," said Paul. "Exactly, but I didn't put it forth as a new idea, Romaine," said Challoner gravely; "I meant that I wished I could enjoy what others do, a really happy home."

And don't you?" asked Paul, who had noticed hitherto that Challoner had avoided all mention of his family.

"I'll tell you, old fellow, for you're my best friend, I think, though we have not known each other very long. I don't choose to talk about my affairs as a rule, and I can't stand impertinent comments, but I'll tell you, and you'll perhaps be able to sympathize with me. My father lives at a place down in the country, as pretty a place as I ever saw, Fairwater it's called; and there we've always lived, and a good many Challoners before us, I believe; but that's all nothing. My mother died when I was quite a boy, leaving me and a sister a little younger than I

VOL. VI.

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