Part 27

AMONG the brilliant young Englishwomen, who are making a name in contemporary literature, is Miss Violet Paget, the Vernon Lee whose “Miss Brown” has caused some scandal among the London pre-Raphaelites. She lives on the _terreno_ of No. 5 Via Garibaldi, Florence, and is not quite twenty-four years of age. She is a brilliant talker, and if sometimes sophistical, is never without a clever reason for her sometimes extreme and startling opinions. Her reading is astounding in its extent and variety; her memory more remarkable still. Some of the most striking essays, which have appeared in the English magazines and reviews during the last five years, on Italian art, history, and literature have been from her pen. Her time is greatly taken up with the care of her half-brother, Eugene Hamilton, the poet. The fate of this brilliant young man is a very sad one. He was in the Government service during the Siege of Paris and at the Geneva Alabama Claims Conference and was so overworked that he brought on a disease of the spine which has buried him in what Heine calls a “mattress grave.” Miss Paget’s mornings are devoted to riding with her brother, and whatever time she has for individual work is in the night or between the return from this drive and four in the afternoon, when her brother’s callers begin to arrive. Miss Paget is a great admirer of Henry James, is an omnivorous reader, an illogical but often wonderfully intuitive exponent of mediævalism, and a deadly enemy of the æsthetic movement.

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THE Royal Spanish Academy has published in the _Madrid Gazette_ the conditions of a literary competition of considerable interest, to those at least conversant with Spanish literature. The temptation, in the shape of profit as well as of honor, should develop latent talent if it exists. The Academy proposes to give the successful author a gold medal, about 120_l._ in money, and 500 copies of the book. The first competition is for the best biographical and critical study upon Tirso de Molina; the second for a _romancero_ upon the lines of the “Romancero del Cid,” the subject being Don Jaime el Conquistador, the volume to contain not fewer than twenty nor more than fifty romances. The manuscripts of the _romancero_ must be furnished not later than March, 1886, and the Tirso, March, 1887.

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THE translation of the “Mahâbhârata” published at Calcutta by Protap Chandra Roy, and distributed gratuitously, is not only progressing regularly, but begins to excite more and more interest among the people of India. Several Indian princes have contributed largely toward the funds necessary for carrying on this enormous work, more particularly the Maharajah of Cashmere, the Nawab Khayeh Abdul Gani Bahadoor, the generous Maharanee Swarnamayee, the Guikwar of Baroda, the Maharajah of Travancore, etc. More funds, however, were wanted, and it is pleasant to hear that Babu Govinda Lal Roy, a rich zemindar of Rungpore, has on the occasion of his daughter’s marriage undertaken to bear all the expenses of the English translation of one of the largest books of the “Mahâbhârata,” the “Vana Parva,” or Forest Book.

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A WORK so rare that its existence might have been doubted has lately found its way from Persia to the British Museum. The historian Hamdullah Mustaufi says, in his preface to the “Guzidah,” that he was engaged upon the composition of a rhymed chronicle of the Muslim world, which would consist when completed of no less than 75,000 verses. That voluminous work, which, for all we knew, had never been seen or heard of since, has been found. To Mr. Sidney Churchill, of Teheran, belongs the credit of having discovered it in private hands at Shiraz, and secured it, not without a long and severe struggle with the owner, for the national library. It is entitled “Zafar Namah,” and forms a bulky and closely written quarto, richly ornamented with frontispiece and gilt headings, and dated Shiraz, 807, _i.e._, 1405 of our era. It contains the author’s _nom de guerre_, Mustaufi, and comprises, according to the epilogue, the precise number of verses announced beforehand, viz., 75,000. Of these the first 25,000 are devoted to the Arabs, _i.e._, to Mohammed and his successors down to the fall of the Califate of Bagdad; the next 20,000 to the Persians, or to the dynasties of Iran from the Saffaris to the Karakhitais of Kerman; and the last 30,000 to the Moghols. This last section, the largest and most valuable, beginning with the origin of the house of Genghizkhan, treats very fully of the foundation of the Moghol empire of Hulagu, and of his successors in Persia down to Abu Sa’id Bahadur Khan, the last of the dynasty, under whom the author lived. The history is brought down to the time of composition, A.H. 735, A.D. 1334, just one year before Abu Sa’id’s death.

MISCELLANY.

THE MIGRATIONS OF BIRDS.—Among all the migrants the swallow has, perhaps, attracted most attention in all ages and countries. It arrives in Sussex villages with remarkable punctuality; none of the migrants perform their journeys more rapidly than the swallows and their congeners. A swift with young ones, or during migration, covers from 1500 to 2000 miles a day. It begins business feeding its young about three o’clock A.M., and continues it till nine P.M. At that season, therefore, the swift spends nearly eighteen hours upon the wing, and it has been computed that at the ordinary rate of travelling of this very fast bird it would circumnavigate the globe in about fourteen days. At a push, if it were making forced flights, the swift would probably keep on the wing, with very brief intervals of rest, during fourteen days. The speed of the whole tribe is marvellous, and seems the more so when compared with that of the swiftest of animals that depend for their progressive powers on legs, however many legs they may be furnished with. The hare is swift, yet in Turner’s well-known picture of rain, steam, and speed the hare’s fate is sealed; she will be run over and crushed by the engine rushing in her wake. The swiftest animals would soon break down at forty miles an hour, which the swallow unconsciously accomplishes, merrily twittering all the while. All the swallow tribe are found in every part of Great Britain, including Shetland, except the swift, which is not found in those islands. Dr. Saxby, author of “Birds of Shetland,” says that one day a poor fellow, a cripple, who happened at the time to be exceedingly ill off and in want of food, came to him with a swallow in his hand. The doctor ordered the man some dinner. It seems he had opened his door, restless and half famished, when in flew the swallow and brought him, so to speak, a dinner. “After this,” said the poor fellow, “folk need na tell me that the Lord does na answer prayer.” The swallow can hardly be inelegant. When it walks, however, it does so with particularly short steps, assisted by the wings, and in accomplishing any journey longer than a few inches it spreads its wings and takes flight. It twitters both on the wing and on the nest, and a more incessant, cheerful, amiable, happy little song no other musician has ever executed. Much has been said of that “inexplicable longing” and “incomprehensible presentiment of coming events” which occasion birds to migrate from certain districts before the food supplies begin to fail. Quails, woodcocks, snipes, and many other birds, it is said, are in the finest condition at the time of commencing their migration, while none of them are emaciated at that season, so that the pinch of hunger, it is argued, cannot have yet affected them. But it should be remembered that fat as well as lean birds may feel that pinch, and that birds are very fast-living creatures, full of life, movement, and alertness, quick to observe, to feel, and to act. In the rapid digestion of their food they are assisted by a special organ which grinds down such items as grain, gravel, nails, or needles, swallowed in mistake or from caprice or curiosity, with astonishing facility. They prefer feeding nearly all day, and when fully crammed they sometimes become as plump as ortolans, or as well-fed quails, whose skin bursts when they fall to the gun. But when the appetite is urgent, obesity does not by any means preclude hunger. Twelve hours’ fast and snow and a change of wind are very urgent facts in the lives of these quick creatures in the autumn of the year, and then begins that sudden migration which the lighthouse-keepers have observed. It is impossible to imagine creatures more practical and full of action and freer from “presentiments” than birds, engaged as they are from day to day snatching their food at Nature’s board. Perhaps we may compare them to the guests of Macbeth, since all goes well so long as the ghost abstains from making his appearance; but very suddenly sometimes, in the case of the northern birds, the spectre of hunger puts them to flight. Fat or lean, they must go on the instant, and that is why they arrive pell-mell upon our coast; but, as the country to be cleared of its birds of summer is extensive, and the distances of the journeys various, they naturally arrive at intervals. The migrations of birds are world-wide. The birds of North America make corresponding movements to those of Northern Europe, travelling in a north-easterly and south-westerly direction and at the same seasons. The countries of the Gulf of Mexico form the chief retreat of the North American migrants, especially Mexico itself, with its three zones and great variety of climate. But some of them go as far as the West Indies and New Granada. A great number winter in the Southern States. Their method of migration is the same as that which has been described elsewhere. They follow the routes marked out by nature. The kinds of birds are in many cases the same, or they are at least American representatives of the same families that form the migrants of the Old World. They travel southwards in the autumn and return again in spring. The migrants of the southern hemisphere are constrained by their situation to reverse the direction of their periodic movements, flying northwards to escape the rigor of winter and returning south in spring. From March to September some of the most inhospitable regions of the south are quite deserted; even the wingless penguins quit their native shores of Tierra del Fuego and the Falkland Islands after the breeding season and swim to milder regions, while many of the birds which have bred in Patagonia and Southern Chili depart on the approach of winter. The same rules, according to Gould, govern the movements of birds in Australia, where several species migrate in summer to the southern portion of the Continent and to Tasmania to breed.—_Edinburgh Review._

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ORIENTAL FLOWER LORE.—During a residence of some years in the East, I have had abundant opportunities of studying the folk lore of the people inhabiting the vast empire of China, the Malay Peninsula, and the adjoining lands, and I have found their lore to be of the profoundest interest and importance. The facts which I shall now submit to the reader have not been culled at second-hand from the writings of travellers or stay-at-home translators, but were gleaned from the lips and homes of the people themselves, or during my personal residence in the East, where I had every opportunity of verifying the results of my investigations. As being the most familiar to Europeans, we will begin with the use of the Orange, a plant which, by reason of its bearing fruits and flowers at the same time, and during the greater part of the year, has been taken as the symbol of fertility andprosperity. In China the word for a “generation” is _tai_; in Japan the same word means both “generation” and “orange.” Now see the way in which the language of flowers and fruits speaks out in the East. When the new year arrives the Japanese adorn their houses with branches of orange, plum, bamboo, and pine, each of which being placed over the entrance, has a symbolic meaning. The orange, called _dai-dai_, represents the idea of perpetuity, or the wish that there may be _dai-dai_—“generation on generation”—to keep up the family name. The bamboo signifies constancy, as it is a wood which never changes its color; the pine-tree symbolises perpetual joy; while the plum-tree, blossoming in cold weather, encourages man to rejoice in time of trouble, and hope for better days. In China there are many kinds of oranges, one of which is known in Canton as _kat_. Hundreds of years before Christ this name was in use in China, as we know from its mention in the classic writings of that land. In Fuchan this word takes the form of _kek_, and in other parts of the empire it will be pronounced somewhat differently still, but whether it be _kat_, or _kek_, or _kih_, the syllable has a lucky meaning. Consequently, when the New Year arrives, the people procure large quantities of these oranges, in order that they may be able to express to their friends who call to see them their wish that good luck may attend them during the coming year. This they do by handing them an orange, and the lads who at this season pay a number of visits to their relatives and friends come off well, as it would be considered both mean and improper to send away a guest without such a token of good-will. There is in bloom at this important season a sweet little Daffodil (_Narcissus Tazetta_), which is a great favorite with the people, and sells by thousands in Canton and other large cities. It bears the name of _Shui sin fá_, or “water fairy-flower,” and is cultivated in pots and stands of ornamental design filled with pebbles and water. A list of fairy flowers, or such as are by name and tradition in China associated with these “spirites of small folks.” The tree pæony, or montan, and the chrysanthemum, the chimonanthess, and other winter flowering plants, are also much sought after at this time, and each has its meaning. The costliness of the former has led to its being designated by the Cantonese as “the rich man’s flower,” while the chrysanthemum is such a favorite in Japan as to give its name to one of their great festivals. I must not here omit to mention the Citron, famous for the curious fruit it bears. This fruit, the peel of which is employed among ourselves in a candied form for flavoring certain confectioneries at Christmas, grows in a very strange fashion. Though it belongs to the orange and lemon family, yet one variety has fruits of monstrous shapes, very nearly resembling in form the hand of Buddah, with two of the fingers bent in a novel manner, as represented in the paintings and figures of that divinity. On this account the fruits bear the name of _Fu-shan_, or “Buddah’s hand.” This peculiarity, arising from the carpels or divisions of the fruit being more or less separated from each other and covered with a common rind, has led to the custom of placing it in porcelain and other costly dishes before the household gods, or on the altars in the temples at this particular season. It should be noted that while some fruits are specially agreeable to the gods, others are regarded as altogether unfit for their use. Sometimes the fruit is tabooed because of its smell, while its color, time and place of growth, shape and use, all have weight in coming to a decision. In Penang, some years ago, I had the opportunity of attending an important festival at the little shrine near the famous waterfall, at the time of the new year, and I then observed that bananas and cocoa-nuts were the most acceptable offerings, and as the devotees came and presented them at the temple, the priest would cleave the nut in two and divide the bunch of plantains, returning half to the worshipper, and retaining half as the temple perquisite.—_Time._

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WHAT’S IN A NAME?—When we are told that “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” the fact appears to be self-evident. Yet there was a time when there was something in a name. We have abundant evidence from the history of the ancients, and from observations of savage tribes, to show that they believed in some inseparable and mysterious connection between a name and the object bearing it, which has given rise to a remarkable series of superstitions, some of which have left traces even amongst ourselves. The Jews believed that the name of a child would have a great influence in shaping its career; and we have a remarkable instance of this sort of superstition in quite a different quarter of the world. Catlin, the historian of the Canadian Indians, tells us that when he was among the Mohawks, an old chief, by way of paying him a great compliment, insisted on conferring upon him his own name, _Cayendorongue_. “He had been,” Catlin explains, “a noted warrior; and told me that now I had a right to assume to myself all the acts of valor he had performed, and that now my name would echo from hill to hill over all the Five Nations.” A well-known writer points out that the Indians of British Columbia have a strange prejudice against telling their own names, and his observation is confirmed by travellers all over the world. In many tribes, if the indiscreet question is asked them, they will nudge their neighbor and get him to answer for them. The mention of a name by the unwary has sometimes been followed by unpleasant results. We are told, for instance, by Mr. Blackhouse, of a native lady of Van Diemen’s Land who stoned an English gentleman for having, in his ignorance of Tasmanian etiquette, casually mentioned the name of one of her sons. Nothing will induce a Hindu woman to mention the name of her husband; in alluding to him she uses a variety of descriptive epithets, such as “the master,” etc., but avoids his name with a scrupulous care. To such an extent is this superstition carried among some savage tribes that the real names of children are concealed from their birth upwards, and they are known by fictitious names until their death. The fear of witchcraft probably is the explanation of all those superstitions. If a name gets known to a sorcerer, he can use it as a handle wherewith to work his spells upon the bearer. When the Romans laid siege to a town, they set about at once to discover the name of its tutelary deity, so that they might coax the god into surrendering his charge. In order to prevent their receiving the same treatment at the hands of their enemies, they carefully concealed the name of the tutelary deity of Rome, and are said to have killed Valerius Soranus for divulging it. Reluctance to mention names reaches its height in the case of dangerous or mysterious agencies. In Borneo the natives avoid naming the small-pox. In Germany the hare must not be named, or the rye-crop will be destroyed; and to mention the name of this innocent animal at sea, is, or was, reckoned by the Aberdeenshire fishermen an act of impiety, the punishment of which could be averted only by some mysterious charm. The Laplanders never mention the name of the bear, but prefer to speak of him as “the old man with the fur-coat.” The motive here appears to be a fear that by naming the dreaded object his actual presence will be evoked; and this idea is preserved in one of our commonest sayings. Even if the object of terror does not actually appear, he will at least listen when he hears his name; and if anything unpleasant is said of him he is likely to resent it. Hence, in order to avoid even the semblance of reproach, his very name is made flattering. This phenomenon, generally termed euphemism, is of very common occurrence. The Greeks, for example, called the Furies the “Well-disposed ones;” and the wicked fairy Puck was christened “Robin Goodfellow,” by the English peasantry. The modern Greeks euphemise the name of vinegar into “the sweet one.” Were its real name to be mentioned, all the wine in the house would turn sour. We have an example of the converse of the principle of euphemism work in the case of mothers among the savage tribes of Tonquin giving their children hideous names in order to frighten away evil spirits from molesting them. It is, however, in the case of the most dreaded and most mysterious of all our enemies—Death—that the superstition becomes most apparent. “The very name of Death,” says Montaigne, “strikes terror into people, and makes them cross themselves.” Even the unsuperstitious have a vague reluctance to mentioning this dreaded name. Rather than say, “If Mr. So-and-so should _die_,” we say, “If anything should happen to Mr. So-and-so.” The Romans preferred the expression “He has lived” to “He is dead.” “M. Thiers _a vécu_” was the form in which that statesman’s death was announced; not “M. Thiers _est mort_.” The same reluctance is noticeable in mentioning the names of persons who are dead. A writer on the Shetland Isles tells us that no persuasion will induce a widow to mention her dead husband’s name. When we do happen to allude to a deceased friend by name, we often add some such expression as “Rest his soul!” by way of antidote to our rashness; and this expression seems to have been used by the Romans in the same way. As might be expected, we find this carried to a great extreme among savages. In some tribes, when a man dies who bore the name of some common object—“fire,” for instance—the name for fire must be altered in consequence; and as proper names among savages are almost invariably the names of common objects, the rapid change that takes place in the language and the inconvenience resulting therefrom may be imagined. Civilization has indeed made enormous progress from this cumbersome superstition to our own philosophy, which can ask with haughty indifference, “What’s in a name?”—_Chambers’s Journal._

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