ary feeling he gives an appreciation which even to-day retains all its value and all its flavor. Word for word, this is what he said:

'We have never read the Fleurs du Mal of Charles Baudelaire without involuntarily thinking of a tale of Hawthorne's. They have those sombre and metallic colors, that gray and green foliage, and those odors which rush to the head. His muse is like the daughter of a doctor, whom no poison can affect, but whose complexion, by its bloodless dull color, reveals the nature of her environment.'

That comparison would please Baudelaire and he would have loved to find in it the personification of his talent. He would thus glorify himself in the phrase of a great poet:

'You endow the heavens with a kind of macabre art; you create a new shudder. Yet it would be a serious error to think that among these mandragoras, these poppies, and these saffrons, there is not found here and there a fresh rose with innocent perfume, a great flower from India opening its white cup to the dew from heaven. When Baudelaire paints the uglinesses of humanity and of civilization, it is never without secret horror. He has no complaisance for them and regards them as infractions of the universal rhythm. When he is speaking of the immoral, a great word of which one knows the use in France as well as in America, he would have been amazed that he should have been understood to stigmatize the merits of the

jasmine and to extol the wickedness of the bitter ranunculus.'

Théophile Gautier ends his article. for September 9, 1867 by brief homage, worthy of such a critic as the author of Paradis artificiel, and he concludes: 'Baudelaire was an art critic of perfect fairness, and he brought to the appreciation of painting a metaphysical subtlety and an originality of viewpoint which makes one regret that he did not devote more time to work of this kind. The pages which he wrote on Delacroix are most remarkable. . . .'

We have confined ourselves in this article to quoting faithfully the most striking passages in Théophile Gautier's paper, in order to show the fraternal devotion which the author of so many poems of classic form wished to show in his appreciation of the works of Baudelaire, taken as a whole.

To-day our youth is reading Baudelaire passionately, quite unlike the youth of 1868, which was given over to the influence of Romanticism. When the City of Paris honors the house in which he was born by placing a tablet on it; and when literary societies are being formed to perpetuate the cult of the author of the Fleurs du Mal, it seems to us that it would be as well to give appreciation to this great poet, and critic,an appreciation that is authorized and justified, so that admirers, more numerous to-day than yesterday, may judge in their turn the work of Baudelaire, without any passion and with respect and admiration.

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SIDI EMMHAMMED BEN LACHMI pulled the hood of his burnous down over his eyes as he entered his home. He felt weary, so weary that he wished for, death-good, friendly death, down under the crazy weeds of the cemetery. Squatting in the shadow of his bare room, he lighted a cigarette. His khaki blouse, spangled with the ribbons of his decorations, hung from a nail and the three galons of a captain in the French army glistened on the sleeves, bringing back all the memories of the military career that he had abandoned, his flight from his father's house, his enlistment, the constant study of the years of his apprenticeship, the joy of rising in rank, year by year, his pride when he became an officer, his marriage to a daughter of France, the terrible war with the quick promotion that it brought, his citations, his medals

He had come back to the town of his fathers, after he had been given his discharge the little town that he had quitted one clear morning in flowery May, so long ago. It had seemed lovelier than ever to him on his return, his birth-place, Blida,-welcoming him home again, and he had murmured again to himself the words of the old marabout (seer): 'You are called a little town, but for my part, I call you a little

rose.'

He was glad that he was all alone as he received the first smile of the village. He had urged his wife to stay at Algiers for a little while. He knew that his father was reconciled to him, but he wanted to make sure of his good-will

As he approached the house, apprehension overtook him. How would his father receive him? Sidi Emmhammed's heart, hardened by long service in camp and under hurricanes of fire on the battlefield, failed him, like the heart of a child who knows he has done wrong, so that he almost trembled as he knocked at the discolored door.

It was Lakdar, a broken old man now, who received him with the quiet glance of a good old dog. In the rear of the court, on a frayed old rug, Sidi Lachmi was smoking his kif. Sidi Lachmi did not open his arms for the patriarchal embrace, as is the custom of the Arabs. After a quick touch of their hands, he kissed his forefinger negligently and then sat immovable. Only the keen eyes in his brown scarred face were alive, and they pierced down to the very bottom of his son's heart. The captain, humble under his uniform with its stars and crosses, lowered his eyes.

'My father,' he said, finding it dif ficult even to speak, 'may Allah be blessed for having kept thee in health!'

The old man bowed his head without reply; and then, with a longer glance, he

murmured slowly, 'Since Allah has brought thee again to the house of thy fathers, let it be thy first duty to don again the dress that they have worn.'

Emmhammed went to his room without protest. He had never contemplated putting on coat and vest and trousers, when at last he should doff his uniform; for European clothing seemed to him at once disgusting and without grace. But this reception destroyed the joy of his home-coming. He ended the day shut up alone in his room, on the divan.

It was not until the next day that his father, a little more ready for speech, called him my son,' for the first time.

'My son, since thy departure, not once have I gone forth from this house, that I might escape the glances of these black sons of darkness who have come to be our masters, and to whom thou hast delivered over the days of thy youth. If thou hast wounded my sight with that clothing which recalls all this to me, let it be for the last time.'

'It shall be even as thou dost wish, my father,' replied Sidi Emmhammed. He dared not speak of his wife.

He set out from his home at random and rambled sadly through the streets of Blida. Friends of his childhood crossed his path, and either did not know him, or pretended that they did not. He pulled his cloak about his eyes and went back again to his home.

That is why Sidi Emmhammed, captain of the First Tirailleurs, was smoking cigarettes in a chamber of his father's house and wishing for death. Did he regret his military life, the life of the quasi-European, which had taken the finest years of his youth; or was he glad that he had lived so? What would have been better? He could not think of anything. But it seemed to him that it would be good to end his days beside that jet of water falling monotonously in the fountain in the

court, with his wife beside him, the wife whom he had chosen and whom he still loved, in spite of the first threads of silver about her temples. This Frenchwoman was growing old less rapidly than Moorish women; she was still desirable; there was a charm about her which he had never found in the little prostitutes of his own race, the only women of his own country whom he had ever had a chance to know. The upshot of it all was that he loved her and that she sufficed for him.

But what of his father? Would he endure her presence in his house? Suppose his father refused - what then? Go back with her? Live like a European, amid the noise and bustle of a great city? It was an odious idea to him. Weary of movement and action, he longed for repose, for the enveloping peace and calm of Islam. To make the same gestures over and over, between the morning prayer and the evening prayer, in the quietness of Blida, where it was always spring; to sink to sleep in warm and perfumed arms; to grow old insensibly amid the insensible flight of things there was the happiness that he craved, until death. For a moment he hated the father, who kept him from fulfilling his happiness as he longed to have it; then atavistically, the resignation of his race swept him away.

The shadows of the night were stealing into his chamber when Lakdar came with a message: 'My master sends word that his son will visit Sidi El Hadj Belkassem.'

Emmhammed was not annoyed. He saw in the incident only a welcome diversion. With his learning and his gracious manners, with his talk his quotations from the Koran and from the poets, the aged holy man had a charming unction of his own. Emmhammed found him little changed in spite of his great age, though he had, perhaps, grown more circumspect.

El Hadj begged him to partake of his evening meal, kousskouss, moistened with whey; and as they slowly ate, he asked question after question. Did not the officer regret the profession of arms? Was he glad to return to his own land? Why, then, had he married a Frenchwoman? Were there no pretty women to be found among the Arabs? He would not let her go unveiled in the streets?

Emmhammed made evasive replies to these insidious questions but the old marabout sought to pierce his very soul, taking upon himself the rôle of moral adviser to one whom he considered as a son. The old man was not to be put off with half-answers. He had an impressive way of saying, with a smile, 'Allah looks into the bottom of your soul even as I into your eyes.'

Little by little Emmhammed unbosomed himself further. Was it by design that the past was mentioned? Had the years that had gone by helped without his knowing it, in this distortion. He admitted that he had suffered among the roumis. All in all, he felt himself to be different from them; and then their attitude, their kindliness,— which sometimes masked their hatred, - their insinuations, the very thoughts which he sometimes suspected in them, often wounded him to the quick. He talked at great length of his superiors or of his 'comrades' - a phrase of devotion which he repeated with a shade of bitterness in order to keep from talking of his wife.

"There is no good in association with the infidels,' concluded the old marabout. One of our sages rightly says, "The Arabs are at an equal distance from extremes, at the centre of the physical world and at the centre of the moral world." They are in the best position, then, for the best of everything is its golden mean.'

to the old man like his echo, 'pride fills my heart when I read on the gate of Djemaâ-Djedid d'El Djezaïr those glorious verses of a poet (to whom may Allah accord his mercy): "Since Allah has called Him who called us to obedience, the most noble of prophets, it is we who are the noblest among all peoples."

The meal was over. In its earthen bowl the red felfel gleamed.

'My son,' said El Hadj, ‘let us go to the café of Mouloud. There we shall find the true believers of Blida, and hear the best tales that the story-tellers know. Thou shalt see once more the friends of thy childhood. They will rejoice to know that thou hast not forgotten us, but hast returned to the ways of Allah.'

The two men went out together. A crescent gleamed in the sky from the dome of a high mosque. They smiled up proudly at it. The café of Mouloud was swarming. In the light of the lanterns some Arabs were playing dominoes, others were playing cards, while still others were silently sipping their coffee. In front of the oudjak Mouloud, with his thin, angular face and scanty hair under his turban, was busy. Smoke filled the room.

Introduced by the marabout, Emmhammed received a welcome which was warm, though a little pitying. Friends. of other times, who that very day had seemed to have forgotten him, now embraced him warmly. About the smoking, sweet-scented cups, they chatted quietly; but El Hadj, seeing in the rear of the room a little old man with whitish eyes, happily sipping his kaoua, called out to him in an imperative tone:

'Abdallah! Come tell us the tale of the hundred and one sittings. I bring a hearer who has never heard thy tales.'

coffee-sippers. He found a place in the circle that had formed about the marabout, drank, in slow small sips, another cup of syrupy coffee, paused a moment for reflection, cast up his sightless eyes toward the smoky ceiling, and in a measured, sing-song voice with a slight swaying of his body, he began his story:

'In very ancient times, this happened. All the saints of Moghreb gathered themselves together to decide to what authority the true believers of the land should submit themselves. Long and bitter was their debate, and it lasted for a hundred and one sittings. Turn and turn about, very many of the holy ones spoke, one after another, some for the Turks, some for the Franks. The warmest advocate of the Franks, the aged El Marsli, declared that they were good people, wise, tolerant. "They will bring us order and security," said he. "The fields shall be worked and again grow fertile; our cities shall be secure and safe. Roads properly built will bring to El Djezaïr the dates of the desert. The oases will spring up afresh about new wells. Amazing machines that spit out smoke will carry the sons of the prophet more speedily than the swiftest meharas. The poor and sick will be healed and cared for. And you will see that the roumis of France will protect the sanctuaries of Allah and will respect the tombs of the saints."

Sidi Emmhammed, wrapped in warmth and languor, thought, 'Yes, the French have done all those things, and my wife and I, Sidi Emmhammed Ben Lachmi, belong to their race.'

The old story-teller recounted the intervention of Etsa-Albi, the patron of El-Djezaïr, who sought to put the assembly of the holy ones on its guard against these suspicious benefits. For he said, "The French are no less than Manichæans, adorers of idols, an ac

cursed race. Their faces will blacken till the day of judgment. They have but one aim: to make Allah's adorers like themselves. They come with words like honey. They set up schools to turn aside the children from the holy religion. They take for their army the best of the young men of Moghreb, that they may complete their corruption. They seek to destroy the home of the Mussulman. They set up the scandal of their women, with faces uncovered and forever at the sides of the men. By the most devious ways they alienate the true believers from the Faith and the Law. In every public square, like poisonous spiders, they seek to snare the poor Mohammedan fly in their webs."

Sidi Emmhammed murmured sadly to himself that he had been such a fly, caught in the snare of the infidel. But he would break away, he would flee back to the sunlight, the fair sun, Mohammed. The syrupy coffee, the smoke of the tobacco, the melodious drone of the story-teller, all this twined about his heart like a penetrating intoxication.

The story ended. The group, squatting as they talked, said that the Cross, for a little time, might supplant the Crescent. But what is a hundred years in the eyes of Allah?

"They may crush us again and again,' said the story-teller, 'but never shall they destroy us. No, on the other hand, many of them shall be won to the Law of the Prophet, as true believers. As for the true believers, submitting to the will of the All-Powerful, they may wait with confidence in the Master of the Hour.'

"This will come about,' thought Emmhammed; and if my eyes are not then closed in death, on that day I shall give all the strength that is left in me to Allah's service. Akarbi, I swear it!'

All night long Emmhammed was in