punishment." Turning his head toward the weeping girl, he gave her a piercing look, and asked, 66 Can you bear a sudden sorrow? You must prepare yourself to receive a dagger into your heart, driven home by the hand of one you thought a friend; I am a murderer, and yet I meant no harm. I was fascinated with the study of psychology, and read and studied all writers on the subject. I was likewise a skilled anatomist, and my nerves were hardened in dissecting rooms. I sought to find out the wonders of those secrets, the passions and the nerves. The first day I saw you, the tempter came to me and suggested the trial on you of some of my theories. I meant you no harm, nor did I ever think that evil would come of it. I thought no more of it than I would of the cleavage of a crystal, or the analysis of a chemical compound. It was only at the last sitting that my eyes were opened, and I sought to undo my sin. I was awakened to the knowledge of it by the discovery of the love I had for you, which was changing my old habits, and had life been granted me, I might have undone it all. I say that the passion for you, and your sweet speech and gentle manners opened my eyes, and I saw the evil sown by me eating into your life. I then resolved to work backward and remove the cankerspot, but this accident has come between me and my purpose. I have no brother," he gasped. Leila's face grew pale; she trembled from head to foot, and the hot tears ceased to roll from her eyes. He motioned for wine, and with shaking hand she poured out and handed him the glass. After it was swallowed, he continued: "You were so innocent, so guileless, and so different from all others, that I yielded to the tempter and prepared that portrait, sitting up at night to embody in its expression and features the idea of a noble man, one whose thoughts were pure, and whose life was without guile. I wanted to see what effect the presence of such a face would have upon you, because you were, I thought, so susceptible and innocent. I followed up that by constant references to the qualities and manners of the man. Up stairs in my room, you will find the 'syllabus' as it were of his character, the soul with which I endowed a canvas portrait. To make this was far harder than to paint the picture. You will now recall all my little designs and tricks to interest you in a person who had no existence. Believe me, Leila, I had no thought of entangling your soul. The cursed curiosity of my nature led me into the experiment; the cost of it to you I never counted; I thought to amuse myself, and you as well. Can you, oh, Leila, the purest one of all earth's daughters, can you forgive me?" He waited a moment, looked into her now staring eyes, and then repeated the question, to which she answered: "Francois Faber, thou didst lie to me, and lead my soul astray." "This is my punishment-to go down to hell, unforgiven! Was it not enough that I saw my own burning love swallowed up in the very experiment I made? You loved my creation, and not the creator of it. Had I foreseen it, never would the evil one have persuaded me do aught. And yet, Leila, loved one, I swear to you that I never meant you harm. I have digged pit for another, and fallen therein myself. I did not mean to touch you with even so much as the shadow of pain. I am innocent. Will you not forgive me? For I have loved you truly; and as soon as I saw you in the toils I turned me about to withdraw your lily-white heart from the pit. Oh, how I have repented me of my sin! Leila, I loved you-oh, I loved you with a love that never was known to man! Give me, by your touch, by a spoken word, your forgiveness!'' The agony of this speech, and the anguish of soul, drew Leila's thoughts from herself, and her eyes melted with divine pity. She clasped his hand, and brokenly whispered: me. "Leila, my darling, I know you have forgiven Think of me sometimes. I have given you everything I own; just do what you will with it; do good with it. I know you will. Keep something of mine specially to remind you of one who loved much, and suffered much. Good-by, Leila; good-by, darling." Even as she put her trembling lips to his forehead, and her arm about his neck, to lift him, if possible, to an easier position, his spirit fled, leaving on his face the sunny smile that had so charmed her when in life. Years have gone by since then, and but yester day I saw the placid face of Leila Brosius, with her pure white and pink complexion, going about on an errand of mercy. It was Leila Brosius in spite of the Quaker garb, and a gentle step instead of a springing one; while in her eyes one could see an ineffable peace, begotten of some deep anguish. Her name has not been blazoned about, but the money of Francois Faber, in her hands, has compassed and brightened scenes of squalor, of poverty and despair; an asylum for "Magdalenes" is her special care, and Francois Faber's name is to be found on the marble slab over the entrance, just under the words, "He loved much; he suffered much." In Leila's room are two pictures, whose history she never tells; and hidden away in a bureau drawer are a volume of Shakspeare, bound beautifully in mother-of-pearl and dead gold, a coral bracelet, a cameo, and a handsome opal. Where'er her troubled path may be, The Lord's sweet pity with her go; THE FASCINATION OF A FASHIONABLE IDEA. BY LEONIDAS. flanked by the voluminous shirt collar, who was And mete the ocean with my span, The mind's the standard of the man. It seems to be the tendency of the popular mind | lectual-looking" man, with the bare Byronic throat to run into extremes with regard to nearly all subjects. The middle way, spite of the classical axiom which declares it to be the safest, is very rarely, or never, the popular way. There is a perennial charm in exaggeration, which fascinates us in the face of our better judgment. The inevitable outcome of this lax practice is a sort of pendulum motion in the currents of thought and opinion-a lack of stability and certainty as to any matter whatever, and a habit of following the fashion of the day in matters of thought and speculation as mechanically as we do with regard to ceremony and costume-just as if fact and truth, like "leather and prunella," were mere conventional things. The Great Muscular Idea, with which certain of our fiction writers and popular lecturers have been so industriously indoctrinating the American people for some dozen years past, offers a fair illustration of the tendency to which we allude. We are taught to look upon muscle, and bone, and nerve, and sinew as the types of all conceivable excellencies in the heroes depicted for our admiration—and, by inference, of course, to regard the absence of these anatomical analogues as evidence of inferiority or insignificance. Now, granted that to be strong is a very good thing, it does not follow that muscular strength is necessarily or even generally conjoined with any other kind of strength whatever. A generation or so back the popular idea inclined the other way. Then, in the days of our boyhood, it was the slender, delicate, limp, sallow, "intel The world endorsed the sentiment of the worthy doctor's quatrain, and the fictitionists and orators of his days, and of days long after, did the same, as any one may see who will take the trouble to look but cursorily over the "circulating" literature of the closing of the last and opening of the present century. The old idea and the new one are, we think, both equally wanting in any solid basis-both are pendulum notions, equally distant from the plumb-line of truth-the new muscular one being just a centripetal swing back again, an inevitable reaction from the old one. That both notions are mischievous there can be no doubt: the old one led many weak minds to asceticism, and others to reckless dissipation; and the new one is productive of consequences just as evil. We hear complaints from time to time to the effect that our Universities, the great national establishments for the education of the intellect, are in danger of becoming mere training-grounds for the body; and it is said that of late years they have turned out a far greater number of accomplished athletes than of accomplished scholars that rowing, running, and leaping are preferred to the classics, and the Tripos is postponed in favor of football, pitching the bar, and other favorite exercises. What truth there is in the libel we do not pretend to say; there is, however, one ugly consequence of the furor for muscularity which marks the rising men among the upper classes, which one must be blind not to recognize, and which grows more repulsive and more formidable every year; and that is, the spread of the love of sport, as it is absurdly called, among all classes of the population. There might be little harm in sport, if sport were what the term implies-innocent amusement and excitement; but in the present day, sport is but another name for gambling, unless it is also another name for cruelty. No trial of strength or endurance can now publicly take place, but immediately there is betting all through the country as to the result, and in cases where the competition is long delayed, it shall happen that hundreds of thousands of dollars are lost and won. What does this mean? It means that, in instances a hundred times more numerous than ever come to light, the bettors have staked and lost money that was not their own, or, being their own, should have been applied in the maintenance of their families. But this is partly a digression; let us return to the question of strength. What is bodily strength? Is it strength to do, or strength to endure-and what sort of relation is there between the two kinds of strength? We know a blind man, miserably poor, the very twin brother of privation, and nearly seventy years old; he is about five feet three in height, and bent out of shape by the fire which burned out his eyes nearly threescore years ago; for the last forty or more years he has groped through the streets in all seasons at all hours; and for nearly all that time his principal ailments have been fainting from exhaustion. Is he a strong man? No, for he could barely lift a hundred-weight from the ground. Yes, for he has outlived hardships under which the majority of living men would have succumbed. Again: Some forty years ago, the writer sat at the desk in an office in company with two others, W— and D—. W was an invalid, much below the middle size, of a pale, bloodless countenance, and generally suffering in health. D-, tall and robust, was the picture of manly health, vigor and cheerfulness; he excelled in feats of strength, and could walk about freely with weights to the amount of a quarter of a ton hung about him. At fifty-five, D-began to break down, aged rapidly in the following three or four years, and died in a state of decrepitude at sixtyone. W-retained his post until he was approaching seventy, then retired and bought an annuity, and still lives to enjoy it, though he cannot be far from fourscore. Which of these was the strong man? Strong, you perceive, is a rather vague term when you come to consider the different senses in which it may be used. There is strength to do, and there is strength to endure, and it is not at all evident that the relation between the two strengths is of a very intimate kind; indeed, so far as our experience goes, it points rather to the contrary. The navvy is strong; he is held up by his admirers as the type of muscular strength; so are the puddlers, casters, and platemakers of the Black country; one is amazed at the bodily strength these men will exercise for hours together. But nothing is more certain than that they do not last longer than men of ordinary power, while in general they break down earlier, and are not so strong at threescore as ordinary workers are at the same period of life-which, moreover, few of them, comparatively reach. It would seem to be the case that the human frame can put forth but a definite amount of force in a lifetime, and that the man who draws too frequently or extravagantly on this reserved fund really squanders his life, and like other spendthrifts, must suffer the penalty of exhaustion. The existence of some such law as this is fairly inferable from facts open to us all. We see around us persons who, having husbanded their strength in youth and manhood, lead healthy and comfortable lives in their old age, and live on and on, year after year, and lustre after lustre, while many younger, and to all appearance stronger men, drop and fall and die. What is it, too, that makes women on the average so much longer-lived than men? What, but their calmer and more tranquil modes of life, their relatively passionless existence and freedom from fierce excitement, and both mental and muscular stress? Then, as to intelligence and general physical power. Is it true, as the muscular missionaries have so long been trying to persuade us, that it is the strong in body who is strong in mind-that muscular and mental power are correlatives? We do not think it. Robert Hall, the most powerful orator, and one of the most correct thinkers of this century, was never a strong man in the muscular sense; and though he might be called a big man, it is well known that his bulk was his burden, and was due to disease. Heine, the famous German poet, was a little man, puny in person, all his life a weakling, and during his latter years, when he produced some of his finest works, was bedridden and totally helpless. Alexander Pope was notoriously feeble and infirm, and grew almost decrepit in middle life. Keats and Shelley were both men of feeble constitution; so was Nelson; and the same might be said of many others who have done some of the best work in the world, and left their mark on their age. On the other hand, the men of powerful physique, such as Goethe, Johnson, Scott, Wilson, and others, have played as prominent a part and achieved as lasting reputation. So that there is no proof that any kind of relation exists between the intellectual and corporal strengths. Fools and philosophers, as all the world knows, are not distinguishable by stature and brawn and muscle; but both are to be found, and always have been found, among all varieties of size and constitution and bodily qualities. In one respect we believe it is true that the man of huge and powerful frame shows to greater advantage than he of small and slender proportions-but the advantage is a moral and not a mental one; the large, powerful man (perhaps by a kindly provision of nature) is generally, and that even among the rough and least civilized classes, a being of gentle and forbearing temper, and, as a rule, far more ready to assist and oblige than to take offence-while traits of character the reverse of these are too often observable in persons of feeble frame and puny stature. This is all. If the above observations are just, then the Great Muscular Notion is after all nothing better than a deceptive exaggeration. Let the comely bodily frame, and all health-giving, manly exercises, receive the admiration and encouragement that are due to them; but do not let it be thought that, wanting muscular development with breadth of chest and length of limb, a man is therefore lacking in any of the essentials either of manliness or capacity. NOTES AND QUERIES. Strange Coincidences in Dates.-In an article lately given by us on "Curious Links," we illustrated the advantages conferred so widely upon society and the world by the connections between and the incidents of human life; as if an overruling decree of fate and destiny had settled the whole affair for us, without leaving us the power of setting it aside. It will be found, on further examination, that this idea is especially marked in connection with sovereigns, princes, and great personages generally, more particularly in the years of their birth, accession, deposition, and death. With such as are superstitious these coincidences will have weight. One singular mode of fishing out the connection (for a fishing it certainly is in many cases) consists in adding up the digits or numerals in a particular date, and comparing this sum with the date itself. Thus, the year 1876 is expressed by four digits (one, eight, seven, six), the sum of which amounts to twenty-two; and the "fishing" would consist in catching any peculiar relation or connection between twenty-two and 1876. The French have taxed their ingenuity greatly in this kind of thing, with results which are less curious if nothing more. Take, for instance, some of the French sovereigns who flourished several centuries ago. The crochet-mongers have discovered, in four cases, at any rate, a numerical connection between the order of succession on the one hand, and on the other the sum of the digits in special dates rendered memorable by noteworthy events in the lives of the respective sovereigns. Louis IX. was born in 1215; the sum of these digits is nine. Charles VII. was born in 1402; the sum of these digits is seven. Louis XII. was born in 1461; the sum of these digits is twelve. Lastly, Louis XIV. was crowned in 1643, a date the digits of which sum up to fourteen. In regard to an intermediate sovereign, Louis XIII., the accumulation of coincidences (so to speak) is very curious. We must first remind the reader that in the old court language of France, "Louis " was spelled Loys;" that this king's French, Christian and surnames were "Loys de Bourbon," and that those of his queen were " Anne d'Autriche." The figures came out thus: Louis XIII. married Anne of Austria in 1615; the sum of these four digits is thirteen. Loys de Bourbon" comprises thirteen letters, and so does "Anne d'Autriche." The boy king and girl-princess were each thirteen years old at the time of the marriage; he was the thirteenth Louis of France, and she the thirteenth Anne of Austria. Come we now to the nineteenth century, with which mystical Frenchman have been equally busy. Bourbonists, Bonapartists, Orleanists, Republicans—all are cited to supply materials for the same story. The great French Revolution, which brought so many momentous events in its train, began in 1789; the sum of these four digits is twenty-five, which, added to 1789, brings us to 1814, the year when the Emperor Napoleon went captive to Elba, and ceased his European conquests-although there was destined to be one more year of struggle on the battle-field. When Charles X. was deposed in 1830, a contest arose concerning his successor; some politicians wished for the appointment of another Bourbon, while others preferred Louis Philippe, Duke of Orleans, as a representative monarch or "citizen king." The Chamber of Deputies decided on the latter by two hundred and twenty-one votes against one hundred and eighty-one. The Bourbonists sustained a defeat; but they solaced themselves by pointing out that by expressing the numbers in words instead of figures, and taking the alphabetical order of the letters in the words, they could prove two hundred and twenty-one to mean "La queue de Robespierre," while one hundred and eighty-one meant "Les Honnêtes Gens." We have not quite succeeded in realizing this bit of reckon ing ourselves; but the Bourbonists very much relished the idea of proving their adherents to be "virtuous or honorable persons," while their opponents were merely "the tail of Robespierre." We have had a little of this sort of thing in England, and possibly a due exercise of ingenuity might convert the little into much. Charles I.'s son, and eventual successor, was born in 1630; the sum of these digits is ten, which brings us to 1640, the year when the short Parliament began to make short work of the kingly power. Again, the sum of the digits in 1640 is eleven, which brings us to 1651, the year when the battle of Worcester drove Charles II. into exile. One more instance: George I. ascended the British throne in 1714, which added to thirteen, the sum of its digits, makes 1727, the date of his death. But apart from, and in addition to, these numerical conun. drums involving the summing up of digits, there are many associations of particular years with certain persons, families and dynasties. The year 1809 was marked by the death of Haydn and the birth of Mendelssohn; the sum of these digits (availing ourselves of one more illustration of this class) is eighteen, which, added to 1809, brings us to 1827, the year marked by the death of another great composer, Beethoven. The year '88 is associated with a train of events, none of them cheerful in character, concerning the House of Stuart. For instance, in 1388, Robert II., first Stuart king of Scots, became little more than a nominal sovereign in the hands of the nobles, and died two years afterwards; in 1488 James III. of Scotland was murdered; close to the ominous '88, but really in 1587, the beautiful, erring, hapless Mary, Queen of Scots, was beheaded; in 1688 the last Stuart king of Great Britain, James II. (James VII. of Scotland) was dethroned; and in 1788 Charles Edward Stuart, who had been known forty years previously as the Young Pretender (the "Bonnie Prince Charlie" of the romancists and balladists), died in a foreign land, unhonored and almost uncared for. In eleven years another '88 will come; is there another Stuart any. where to come under a cloud in that year? In some instances one particular month in the year, and |