the whole Turkish Empire in Asia against Russian attack. On the other hand, the sultan undertook to reform his government in concert with England. So that we actually made ourselves in honor partakers of the government of those widely extended Countries, and such we should have been in act, had the sultan fulfilled his promise. He not only did not fulfil it. In Armenia, he read Reform to mean "Massacre." The peculiarity of the treaty was that his promise of reform was stipulated as being "in return" for the truly valuable engagement he had already obtained. Not only was the pledge broken, but it was broken after he had received actual and weighty value in return. The Armenians were no parties to the Convention. They have no treaty rights, no international existence. They are only men; for, though they happen to be also Christians, this does not affect the substance of the case. But who can deny with "honor" that, when we made this treaty over their heads, we undertook not only heavy juridical obligations as towards Turkey, but also real and profound moral obligations as towards them? But there is another enchancing consideration, which has not, I think, as yet been sufficiently borne in mind. We too in this treaty took "value received;" and we have it, so to speak, at this moment in our pockets. The sultan made over to us, without limit of time, the Occupation and administration, that is the virtual dominion, of the Island of Cyprus. Perhaps it may be said, and I might concur in the opinion, that Cyprus is of no value to us. But that reply is wholly foreign to the purpose. If it did not add to our strength or resources, it added, as we were told, to our prestige. It was boasted of in Parliament at the time as a territorial acquisition, and was highly popular. We cannot now turn round upon it and declare it valueless. We took it as value, and as value we have now to abide by it in the present argument. The case then stands briefly thus: We are entitled to demand of the sultan the immediate fulfilment, under his treaty with us, of his engagements, and to treat his non-compliance as, under the law of nations, other breaches of treaty are, or may be, dealt with. We have in the face of the world bound ourselves to secure good government for Armenia and for Asiatic Turkey. And for thus binding ourselves we have received what we have declared to be valuable consideration in a virtual addition to the territory of the empire. And all this we have done, not in concert with Europe, but by our own sole action, on our own sole responsibility. However we may desire and strive to obtain the co-operation of others, is it possible for us to lay down this doctrine: England may give for herself the most solemn pledges in the most binding shape, but she now claims the right of referring it to some other person or persons, State or States, not consulted or concerned in her act, to determine whether she shall endeavor to the utmost of her ability to fulfil them? If this doctrine is really to be adopted, I would respectfully propose that the old word "honor" should be effaced from our dictionaries, and dropped from our language. W. E. GLADSTONE. CURRENT SPANISH DISCUSSION. Emilio Castelar contributes monthly to the chief magazine of Madrid, the Espaua Moderna, an International Chronicle. In the latest number he discusses the present condition of Chinese affairs, the Greek church, and the later literature of France as shown in the books and life of the Goncourts. Señor Castelar gives one characteristic page to a review of the Spanish-Cuban relations: "In Spain the legislative debates have just been finished on the subject of the message to the crown, and fortunately also the debates in both houses on the great affair which concerns us in Spain so closely, the affair of Cuba. These burning and dangerous controversies always to be expected in time of war, controversies wherein verbal blood flows and fire consumes have given us all just cause to fear that the origin and occasion of our troubles would be imputed to one party or another, since all embroiled in the struggle. "Fortunately, however, national sentiment rises superior to party strife. A new danger threatens our country, forcing the hearts of all Spaniards to make that sacrifice most difficult to a people eloquent and fond, the sacrifice of their eloquence, forcing them to bridle their tongues. "The Liberal party desiring reform has shown much circumspection, and their chief has made glowing promises, but there are to-day no Spaniards who indulge in any vacillation concerning the grave problem which confronts us all. The Liberals ask to have the methods of the war reformed. The Conservatives push it to the extreme of violence. The Liberals know that it is not possible to hold by violence sovereignty over a people without an autocratic dominion in that country. The Conservatives understand that they cannot continue to tyrannize over a people who breathe with every breath the free air of liberty. Fortunately the Spanish Conservative party, with my beloved friend Señor Canovas as its illustrious leader, is not oppressed by its over obstinacy. It knows enough to change when change is called for. Experiments already made in Cuba have proved that she will not be ruled with an absolute dominion. The vital logic of events points us therefore to the adoption of the progressive code which has been unanimously adopted in both houses of our Spanish government as a part of our future progress. Indeed we all look forward to the application of this code as indispensable to our future progress. "We do not doubt that democracy and liberty are needful for all the world,that they are the saviours of the world. Cuba deserves her punishment for having attacked our national supremacy, for having flung against our national peace the blazing hand of parricidal insurrection. "But even in this punishment may be found regenerating elements, which will in the end free the island from all devastating horrors, and envelop it in the living light of our national spirit.” II. Señor P. Dorado contributes to Espana Moderna a review of a little book recently published, containing an address given by Señor Don Vicentè Santamaria de Paredes before the Royal Academy of Political and Moral Science in Madrid. This review gives a glimpse of the present condition of social science in Spain: "Señor Santamaria de Paredes having been asked to deliver the last anniversary address before the Academy had the happy thought to choose for his subject, for the lucid and self-explanatory title of his work, "The Conception of Society as an Organism." Whether society is or is not an organism is our modern question. If the answer is affirmative, therein are contained all the other sociological questions, large and small, which are discussed to-day, and the solution of one is the solution of all. "In this new book by Señor Santamaria are found the qualities which distinguish all his works, great clearness, a fine order in the exposition of his subject matter, and no little knowledge of its literature. His research in these lines is singularly complete, and his knowledge of current important scientific works is indisputable. "But he shows a certain zeal, surely praiseworthy, but from my point of view not readily fruitful of result, for the reconciliation, without union, however, old social tradition, springing from primitive conceptions, with the results of modern investigation. The practical sequel thereof might prove a dose not to be exactly relished by this truly philosophical spirit, whose genius for organization and synthesis, whose solid and ample culture are revealed in this book, in the style which always dis tinguishes the genuine man of science waters. swelled hissing landward, from the mere amateur. under the cold, hard wind that led in the tide. "The work is divided into three parts, general, historical, and critical, and there is a valuable introduction demonstrating our need of accurate definition of the word 'organism,' and of rescuing it from the vagueness which still hangs over this word. The historical part of the book is especially full. The author has brought under discussion all the best known material regarding the consideration of society as an organism, drawing from ancient authorities, limited enough, as well as from those since the time of the French Revolution, and he indicates the roads which all converge to one particular point, in the sphere of purely speculative and abstract philosophy, as well as the sphere of naturalistic, anthropological and sociological investigation, I believe, none the less, that there remain, outside his picture, several schools and many authors who might well have figured there. "In the critical part of the work Señor Santamaria occupies himself with the possible application of his idea of an organism to the conception of state and society, and of the reconciliation between a social organism and individual liberty. The position of the author here is very similar in form and general tendency to that of Fouillée and many others. While he admits the conception of a social organism with individual liberty, his thought is at bottom in the traditional position, the position of the old writers, with Krause and his disciples. On the whole, the discourse of Señor Santamaria may worthily attract the attention of our students of sociology, particularly as we have in Spain but a very slight body of literature on this subject." Teige, son of Diarmaid Bhade, bending forward in his seat in the long boat behind the rowers, looked with all his eyes into the inky space about him. The ceaseless plunge and lifting of the boat gave him well enough the measure of the waves they rode. In good time would come the guiding clamor of the breakers tearing at the cliffs which stood as watch-towers to his haven. There was no fear in his thoughts, or in the minds of his men, of harm from the sea that bore them. Yet ever he stared with anxious gaze into the darkness, and now he gasped and put forth his hand. "You would have seen it this time?" he demanded of the man nearest him. Flann, kneeling in his place, pushed his paddle through the weight of water that held it. Then, as the boat glided downward, he spoke without turning his head. "What is it a man would be seeing with this blackness on him?" "It is the third time!" answered Teige, in eager tones. "A small burning light at the top of the wave-close here to our side. And I have knowledge now what it signifies. It is a corpse-candle, Flann, that I have seen on the waters! Three times it has been lit for me, and not at all for you-and what should be the meaning of that?" He lifted his head and put out a strong voice: "Bend your weight upon the stick, Manus, and you, Tomaltagh,, and those before you! There are tidings for us on the land. At the first gate we will be hearing new things!" But at the first gate there was black silence. Teige and his nine men had boat brought their safely round Translated from the Spanish by Minna Caroline between the unseen crags, and through Smith and Jean Raymond Bidwell. From The Pall Mall Magazine. THE WOOING OF TEIGE. The old moon would be seen no more, and the night was very black. The the foaming ridge of weed-laden breakers beyond, and dragged it up into the shelter of the higher rocks without a slip of the foot. They had gathered its burden of wreckers' booty into their arms, and, thus laden, had climbed noiselessly along the dizzy path from one narrow foothold to another, up the face of the cliff, with no need for a light. Now, when the sea-wall of Ballydevlin barred their progress, they halted, and Teige blew a loud, braying blast upon the horn slung at his back. Here, on the height, the shape of things could be dimly distinguished. Above the tall masonry of the gateway and wall, a vague grey difference marked the skyline. Faintly discerning one another, the men murmured complainingly at the delay, Teige, standing foremost, sent echoes rolling from the horn once more, and then, with a backward step, swung his axe to strike the door. "The gate is open!" cried another, of keener vision; and Teige, checking the weapon in its circuit, let it sink upon his shoulder with a doubtful laugh. He pushed forward, and there was nothing to hinder him. The men followed on behind him, under the heavy roof of the gateway, and up the grass-grown slope of the outer bawn. The high bulk of the castle pile, uncertain in the blackness, was visible to them. And now, rising above the splashing din of the waters down behind them, their ears caught sounds of another sort the vibrant ring of harp strings and the chatter of human voices. "It was my word that tidings would await us," said Teige over his shoulder to Flann. Of a sudden a glare of red light close at hand smote his eyes. Blinking and frowning at it, he made out a torch, held in wavering fashion by some one who had opened the second gate. Teige leaped forward and snatched the torch. Casting his axe aside, he seized the bearer by the neck of his shirt, dragged him to his knees, and twisted his head sidewise into the circle of the light. It was Malachy Caoch, the one-eyed little herd, who crouched and whimpered under Teige's heavy hand. "My blind eye is uppermost," he whined. "It may be a great hero who lays his hand on me, and I having no knowledge who he is! It is no sin of mine! It should not be stated against me." With a gentle push of the arm Teige sent the fellow rolling at his feet. "Look at me through the eye that has been spared to you," he said, with laughter in his voice. "Behold me well and carefully. The drink is thick on your calf's face and on your old woman's tongue, but your eye has its brightness. I will be hearing you tell me who I am.” The her had risen to his knees. The single black, twinkling little eye that he turned upward to the big man over him was full of cunning and solicitude. "You were the son of the master when you put forth in your boat three days ago, to take a prey in the wake of the ship from Waterford," he ventured, with caution. "And what is it that I am now?" Teige demanded, in a loud, confident voice. "I will surely take that eye from your head if you have not the good word for me." Malachy's long jaw twisted itself slowly in a drunken grimace. His eye sparkled like a gem in the torchlight. "Now," he said, speaking as deliberately as he dared-"at this present time in which you do be listening to me, I crave a boon of you, for I am the first to make it known to you-the first to kneel before you—” Teige thrust the torch upward to the arm's length, and with a groan of joy turned on his heel to the men behind him. "Hail me!" he cried, and marked a flaming circle in the air above his head. "I am come into my lordship. I am Teige, the Magnanimous Son. I did not raise my hand to my father. It is well known to you, and to all men, that he was no proper lord. His voice was hoarse with endless shouting, but no one heeded him. His castle there before you was sacked and burnt by Murty Mordha, a mere ignorant bullock; my brothers were given up to be slain and our ships were driven from the water because of his folly. He behaved falsely to his friends, yet took no profit from his artifices; he gave soft words to his enemies, and they trod upon him. He bestowed rich gifts upon the Church-much more than was needful-yet they won him no kindness from the saints or the clergy. He made at last a great pilgrimage, and brought back with him only the leprosy. He would not even die in his boat, with the blood of his foes to smooth like oil the rough waters about him, but lay mewling in his straw through four harvests, with none but old women to hearken to him. And now he has died the death, and I am well rid of him-yet I will have it said that I never struck him. Though it is a wonderful thing, he did not once feel the weight of my hand. I was before all else a good son. And now I will be a good lord to all my people according to all their deserts." The armed men had bowed before Teige, and struck their weapons together and raised a shout to him. Still bearing the torch aloft, but now with the axe again in his other hand, he led them forward through the inner gate. "The burial shall be on the night after to-morrow night," he said to the little herd, who shambled beside him. "He shall at least be given the good fortune of the new moon. Where he has gone such help will not be amiss." Malachy shot up a swift glance from his one eye, and leering, stepped aside beyond the reach of a blow. "He is buried already," he replied. As the young chief said nothing, Malachy raised his voice, and flung his arm out in a gesture. "Hold hither the torch, O'Mahony," he urged. "See the stones we have piled upon him-here to your east. Up with you, Sava! and you, Moree. is the master who is here!" It Two gloomy figures rose haltingly from the ground, at the place to which Malachy pointed. The torchlight flared upon their wrinkled, bare shanks, and reddened, unshapely feet; from head to knees they were shrouded in black cloaks, from under which proceeded the monotonous, mumbling lamentations of weary and aged crones. Between these hooded mourners Teige now saw a long, narrow mound of pebbles. He moved about on the bawn, with the torch held low, till he found a small stone. This he picked up, and returning, tossed it on the heap. "It will be written and sung of me," he said with gravity to his company, "that to the last I was the best son any man ever had." "Oh, it is you who will be the great lord, moreover!" cried the herd, drawing near, with a new burst of confidence. "Cause meat and pieces of money to be given to these women," commanded Teige, as he moved away. "Who is it that makes music in the hall, Malachy, my small man?” “A wandering poet from the O'Sullivans. He was here at the break of the morning, yesterday. God knows how he learned of our death. These poets have the scent of ravens for a burial." II. "Sing to me again your poem of the young woman. It is more to my mind than the others." Thus, two hours further into the night, spoke Teige. His burly form sprawled at its ease in the great chair, over against the fireplace, where, though it was summer still by the calendar, some clods of turf smoked on the stones. His long reddish hair was thrown back from his brows, and the broad face thus made bare, roughened and crimsoned by weather and sun, wore a look of rude kindliness. He plucked idly at the soft yellow down on his cheeks and chin as he lay back in his seat. He had covered his shoulders with a blue mantle; his sandalled feet rested upon a cushion of Italian velvet, which years before his father had had from the sea. About the large room, on skins and cloaks spread over straw and rushes on the floor, lay the men who called him lord-in all a score, half weaklings or aged creatures, who drove the herds, or drew the nets, or helped the |