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models in space as a sculptor garia has her tomb in the tran

in clay, but by an inverse process, enclosing his creation: he borders it with embroidery of design, he floods it with colour, but eventually what he has made when it is finished is a poem in space: space that for all its vastness is taught to have measure and proportion: that for all its simplicity and unity is capable of infinite subtilisation, fading away into recesses of roof, of ambulatory and side-chapels: capable too of endless division, into broad compartments of nave and transept, and in the enormous towering choir endlessly cut off and partitioned: yet everywhere, one; fluid and defined, still, yet palpitating with movement; the inner aspect of that living shape which was three hundred years in growing and for twice as many centuries has remained in flower.

It is amazing to think that when this glory of France was in its growth, England owned Maine. Cœur de Lion's Beren

sept. Yet in truth neither was the England of that day England, nor the France of that day France. Europe was far more one in the days of chivalry, that international institution, than in the ages since nationalities grew up. That cathedral hardly expresses the France of to-day: it has the soul of medieval Europe in it: but it is a live thing, not a dead one. And there hangs by its altar, I am sure, what is in almost all French churches since the war, little tricolour with the sacred Heart emblazoned on it-symbol of an aspiration. France has had two religions since 1789, Dieu et la Patrie: this is an attempt to marry them-some think in defiance of nature. The little flag looked natural enough, at all events in the beautiful church of St Serge at Angers, set against the creamy tones of vaulting, constructed when Henry II. was lord and master in Anjou.

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THE GINGER-BEER STANDARD.

BY ISOBEL JAMIESON.

MARK discovered he had a long-lost pal who was at the moment junior artillery subaltern in one of the outlying forts Maddalena, which is towards St Paul's Bay. So, of course, an expedition to have tea at the Fort was the next "ploy," to use a Scotch word picked up from Miss Mason: I suppose it is just a dislocated bit of "employment," but it seems to mean an employment that is all play and no work. The Capitano, as an Allied army officer, was included in the invitation, likewise several friends, male and female, of Mark's and the junior Sub's. With the best intentions Van Winkle could not pull more than four individuals up to Maddalena, so we set out to hire another vehicle. In the stable, Mark discovered one of the Maltese country carts on which the natives come into town and transact business. They are perfectly flat platforms on two wheels, no sides or seats, only a mattress on which the passengers lie extended! The driver generally lies on his tummy, which may be a good position for shooting, but for driving it seems to necessitate a beast as docile as a sheep between the shafts. I quite

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agreed with Mark that this kind of bed on wheels would be much more exciting than a dog-cart, and we engaged it.

The Capitano was rather shocked, and not a little embarrassed, when this vehicle appeared at the house-for it is a purely plebeian affair; and what Madame Patapouffe would have said if her cavalry-officer brother had been seen leaving her house in such a thing, I faint to imagine!

I did suggest that Octavia should go in it-not merely for the joy of seeing her in it but as a test of the Capitano's feelings! If he went in it too, just for the sake of her society, it would be as heroic an act as Leigh Hunt's gentleman who jumped down among the lions for a glove, and as I suggested it, it would be my face he would want to slap, not Octavia's, which would be an improvement on the poem's ending-from Octavia's point of view.

In an ordinary way Octavia would most certainly have refused to try, and it must have been the first vague stirrings of coquetry that made her say Yes now! But having tried lying flat on her face, and on her back, and then sitting up with her legs straight out, she

said she would rather stick to I tried, but they all dismissed the dog-cart. it with exclamations of, "Golly, what a beastly country!" or "Malta's as pretty as a stone quarry," and so on.

"I seem to be all legs when I can't get them under me," she explained. "I think humans are meant to sit upright."

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What about all the women of the East who lie about on divans all the time ? " I asked. "They are not human," was Octavia's characteristic reply.

It ended in Captain Castellani and Octavia driving Van Winkle with some young creatures behind, and Mark driving the rest of us laid out in the country cart like fish in a shop-all anyhow, but all flat. Half a mile was enough of that! Mark had not the slightest control of the horse in that position, and the rest of us ached all over! The Maltese must have evolved a joint in their backbones that allows them to rear up while lying flat without breaking in the middle. We rearranged ourselves the driver sitting on the shaft, as though it were a side-saddle, and the rest of us sitting with our legs hanging over the edge in a fringe all round. The hill up to Maddalena is pretty steep; and although Van Winkle had done his usual bolt through St Julian's, he was quiet enough by the time we reached the top. So were we, for at that angle we could not stick on to our flat cart at all, and had toiled up on our own feet. It was no use expecting the young people" to take any interest in the view when we got there.

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Some one has said that if every priest were a tree, Malta would be a beautiful island; but although that would provide shady boulevards in the towns, the country would remain as it is-walls and walls, and still more walls! The hills opposite Maddalena are so terraced with tier above tier of stone walls that they look more like great Coliseumsonly convex instead of concave ! None of the guide-books we had read explained why the whole island should be so covered with stone walls, and yet it must be the first question of any one who visits it, however incurious. I said so as we were walking up the hill; but the only answer I got was: "I never thought about it," though these girls were all daughters of Service parents, and had been in the island for a year or two. Did I say though" I take it back!

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I got the explanation from the Capitano. It is because the soil is so shallow in Malta, and the rain both scarce and uncertain in its behaviour, so the fields have all got to be absolutely level to get the maximum good from rain, when it comes in moderation, and when it comes-as it occasionally does-immoderately, then the soil is not washed away by it as it would be if the fields were steep. So if every field

on a hillside is to be level, one understands how the general effect is more of the retaining walls than anything else!

While we old 'uns had remained outside the Fort talking, and looking at the extensive view, the others had been laying their wicked heads together about some game they had concocted. What it was we only heard on Easter Day -when it caused a scandal on the whole island!

Going over the fort after tea made me feel very old! One has to be very young to make so many silly remarks and find them acceptable! Octavia looks on with a placid maternal smile and says naught, and I fancy they think her quite a nice old thing; but I have not her natural and queenly repose and capacity for saying nothing, yet I can't talk quite nonsense enough really to merge in the general idiocy when a remark with any sense sounds like a snub! Mark's whole visit was a little ageing in this way. Taken one by one, each of the little crowd of "young things was very nice to talk to, but put them together, and some inherent imbecility came uppermost! Living with Octavia generally makes me feel very young and irresponsible. It is even more difficult to get an idea out of Octavia's head than to get it in. When we first met, she was a "big girl" at school, and I one of the insignificant kids; so having got that firmly impressed when she

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was sixteen and I only twelve, I have not, in all the succeeding twelve years, been allowed to bridge that immense gulf! She has naturally a maternal soul, but the Feminist movement and no children have suppressed it to a monitrix mind!

Coming home, I went in the dog-cart, and we started last, Van Winkle, like ourselves, being in an extra sedate mood to show his disapproval of the skittish young horse in the plebeian country cart. At St Julian's we overtook them, not from our excessive speed, but because the cart had been stopped by the police!

"I knew they would run over some one!" wailed Octavia.

"Perhaps they have only dropped off some of themselves inadvertently," I suggested more hopefully. Having been in that tray-like cart, I knew how easily this might have happened when Mark rounded the corners on one wheel. But neither of us was right-our little lot were all there, and no victim was to be seen. Mark and the policeman were doing a great deal of concerted talking, but the theme was difficult to pick out. Without Captain Castellani, I don't know what the upshot would have been-Mark removed in handcuffs, I expect. The policeman, when allowed a solo in Maltese, explained to the Capitano that the English gentleman had broken a law. What law? Why, he had been

sitting on the shaft of the cart! Ecco ! It was obviously useless to try and get any explanation of the law from the policeman, who was there only to enforce it, so Mark's name, parentage, age, profession, family, and private life generally were duly noted in the policeman's little book, with much back-chat on Mark's part, soothing interpreting on the Capitano's, and conscientious pencil-licking care on the policeman's.

"And remember, Jessie," finished Mark, "that I can't read or write, I've been in prison, have lost my appendix, and I believe in polygamy." Obviously Mark has visited the United States of America, and felt that "Jessie "-i.e., Guiseppe-should have at least as many details as the inquisitive immigration authorities there.

Next day being Good Friday, the entire population was occupied in watching or assisting in interminable processions and special services. We did a little of each. The Capitano took Octavia and me to the church where, he said, they had the best singing. The crowd, even outside, was so great that he took us in by a side-door. To our surprise we found we were in the vestry, or whatever corresponds to it, where the priests were busy getting into their gorgeous robes. One might expect to feel a trifle embarrassed by getting behind the scenes like that, but there was no need! While the priests were dressing

and being dressed, a crowd of devout Maltese were shuffling about after them on their knees, busy confessing! The priests were apparently supremely indifferent to them, and much occupied with their robes, and often moved away from the kneeling penitents with the same placid disregard with which a sheep moves away from her lambs! Octavia was trying not to be pained, when I whispered to her

"Is this the vestry or the Green Room ! "

Just then the Capitano, who had been cheerfully passing the time of day with his ecclesiastical friends over their suppliants' heads, got us through into the church. The service when it began was very fine-but the best performance loses some of the glamour if one has been behind the scenes. Several members of the Opera were singing the special music, and the processions, the lights-the great, kneeling audience were all really very fine, and Octavia was much impressed.

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"How different from most our services,' she whispered to me. "How really convinced and sincere they all are."

The Capitano piloted her through the service, and explained sotto voce. He also was impressed, but chiefly by Octavia's beautiful serious face. As for the service itself, when I said something about it as we came out, he answered in a cheerful tone

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