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ural that they should wish to get rid of him. | the excited assembly. I was horror-stricken, I noticed that the whole body of the people and, although I would gladly have fled from took an active part in the affair; the doctor not the place, felt transfixed to the spot. I knew openly naming anybody as the guilty parties. that if they fell I should have no power to save It was the people themselves who originated the them, but should be forced to see them torn suspicions, and they showed by their clamour limb from limb. At length, however, the crisis how they thirsted for victims. Mayolo and the came a sudden shiver of the body and involdoctor remained silent. The nephews in vain untary discharge - and the first intended vicprotested that they were innocent, and declared tim had escaped. The same soon after hapthat the accusation was a lie; but they added pened to the second and to the third. They that there were others who wanted to bewitch gradually came back to their former state, but their uncle. They became enraged at the per- appeared very much exhausted. Some people tinacity of their accusers, and swore that the never get over the effects of drinking the people should pay dearly for making them mboundou, although they pass the ordeal withdrink the mboundou. They said they were not out giving way. They linger for a long time afraid to drink it, for they were not wizards and in a sickly condition, and then die. The trial would not die. Some of the relatives of the was over, and the doctor closed the ceremony nephews and some of the people of the village by himself drinking an enormous quantity of now retired to a short distance to prepare the the poison, with a similar result to that which poison. Roots of the mboundou were then we had witnessed in the young men, only that scraped, and the vessel filled with the fragments he appeared quite tipsy; in his wild and incoon which water was poured; a kind of efferves- herent sayings, whilst under the influence of the cence then took place, and the water became of drink, he stated that the bewitchers of Mayolo a red colour, like the root itself. Sufficient was and the bringers of the plague did not belong made to serve as a good draught for each of to the village, a decision which was received the accused. When the water becomes red, it with great acclamation. Mayolo was rejoiced is considered good mboundou, and ready to kill that the wizards or witches did not belong to any wizards. The drinkers of the mboundou his own people, and the whole people were wild are not allowed to witness the preparation, but with joy: guns were fired, and the evening their representatives may, to see that fair play passed with beating of drums, singing, and is used. When at length the poor fellows were dancing. brought into the middle of the circle of excited spectators, it was horrid to see the ferocity ex pressed in the countenances of the people; it seemed as though their nature had entirely changed. Knives, axes, and spears were held ready to be used on the bodies of the victims if they should succumb under the ordeal; if the accused should become unsteady under the in fluence of the poison and stumble, the now quiet crowd would become suddenly frenzied and unmanageable. All seemed eager for the sacrifice of victims to their superstitious fears. It is chiefly through the immunity with which they can drink the poison that the doctors obtain such power over the people; and no wonder; when so many people die under it. The mboundou is a most violent poison. This was proved by the analysis of its roots which I caused to be made after my former journey. A breathless silence prevailed whilst the young men took the much-dreaded cups of liquid and boldly swallowed the contents; the whispering of the wind could be heard through the leaves of the surrounding trees. But it was only of short duration. As soon as the poison was drunk, the crowd began to beat their sticks on the ground, and shout, "If they are wizards, let the mbounduo kill them; if innocent, let it go out!" repeating the words as long as the suspense lasted. The struggle was a severe one; the eyes of the young men became bloodshot, their limbs trembled convulsively, and every muscle in their bodies was visibly working under the potent irritation. The more acute their sufferings became, the louder vociferated

To protect the village from the wizards who might enter it from the neighbouring villages, and who had been accused as the cause of Mayolo's troubles, the doctor, accompanied by the whole of the people, went to the paths leading to Mayolo from other villages, and planted sticks at intervals across them, connecting the sticks by strong woody creepers, and hanging on the ropes leaves from the core of the crowns of palmtrees. It is a recognised law among these people that no stranger can come within these lines. When I asked Máyolo what he would do if any one was to force the lines, he said that there would then be a grand palaver, but that there was no fear of such an event, for it never happened. Another reason for planting the lines was of a sanitary nature smallpox was prevalent in several neighbouring villages, and Mayolo wished to prevent the relatives of the wives of his villagers (for people generally marry girls of distant places) from coming on a visit to them. I learnt to-day that the Otanda man, who had accompanied me from Olenda, had since died of the plague, and the people of other villages had naturally come to the conclusion that his being in contact with me was the cause. He was one of Máyolo's fathers-in-law. It is marvellous how firm Máyolo adheres to the faith that I have nothing at all to do with the introduction of the plague. His influence is so great amongst his people that many have now come round to his opinion, and others dare not openly declare the contrary.

M. Du Chaillu concludes his work with the following judicious observations respecting the character of the negro:

As to his future capabilities, I think extreme views have prevailed among us. Some hold the opinion that the negro will never rise higher than he is; others think that he is capable of reaching the highest state of civilization. For my own part, I do not agree with either of these opinions. I believe that the negro may become a more useful member of mankind than he is at present, that he may be raised to a higher standard; but that if left to himself, he will soon fall back into barbarism, for we have no example to the contrary. In his own country the efforts of the missionaries for hundreds of years have had no effect; the missionary goes away, and the people relapse into barbarism. Though a people may be taught the arts and sciences known by more gifted nations, unless they have the power of progression in them selves, they must inevitably relapse in the course of time into their former state. Of all the uncivilized races of men, the negro has been found to be most tractable and the most docile, and he possesses excellent qualities that compensate in great measure for his bad ones. We ought therefore to be kind to him and try to elevate him. That he will disappear in time from his land I have very little doubt; and that he will who have preceded him. So let us write his history.

follow in the course of time the inferior races

scientific essay on African skulls, of which our traveller has brought back with him a copious, and, we suppose, a precious supply. The appendix is by a great anatomist and naturalist, no less a person than Professor Owen, the man of European fame. The professor has evidently a high opinion of the human brain, but would seem to be rather sceptical touching the intrinsic worth of the case that contains it, and the shape of which has been, without apparent profit, a subject of learned discussion for nearly a whole century. "How often," says the professor,

one feels the desire to ask an author the meaning in which the word 'type' is applied to cranial configuration: the grades or shades of transition are such that the choice of any one step in the series for a term of comparison must be arbitrary." It has pleased some ethnologists to express the grades or shades in the form of the skull by Greek terms, signifying the various proportions between length and breadth of skulls. Of these knotty strangers, some of which run the length of seven syllables, the professor, without approving of them, gives a list of two-and-twenty, which, however, by the use of supplemental epithets, may be increased to eighty-eight! Even this is not all, for we have "also dolichorhinous, brachichorinous and platyrhinous, or platyrhinal," &c. &c. Alas for the unhappy ethnologist who has to get this uncouth vocabulary by heart, and is called by it to distinguish the skull of an Arab from that of a Hindu, or that of an Esquimaux from that of a Chinese! Professor Owen is charitably disposed to the inventors of such terms, for he observes:

There is no particular harm in such array or display of terms of art save where they are extended from signifying a gradation or variety of cranial form to the constant character of a race, a nation, a family, or a period — in the absence of that extent and amount of observation which is absolutely requisite to prove or disprove such constancy.

In all this we heartily agree, saving the last few sentences, from which we as heartily dissent. The negro will not "disappear in time from his land." He is possessed of a strength of constitution and a capacity of increase which for ages have defied every form of bad government, including slavery and compulsory expatriation; and we are satisfied that he will continue to live and multiply. Had the strength of the mind been equal to that of the body, the African negroes would have surpassed Hindus and Chinese in civilization. There exists no people capable of supplanting them in their sweltering climate. The European race cannot live and labour in Africa. The M. Du Chaillu again saw, and shot, and Arabs who conquered Persia, and Egypt, stuffed, and sent the gorilla to England, and and Mauritania, ought to be more likely to has satisfactorily shown that he is the greatsucceed; but they have produced but little est, although not the wisest beast of his influence on the negro, and have nowhere family. The work, we should add, has a absolutely supplanted them, although by in- satisfactory map of the author's route, and termixing with them they have somewhat a score of highly characteristic illustrations, improved them. the result of his own photographic observations.

To M. Du Chaillu's work is appended a

PART IV.

CHAPTER XI. THE YOUNG PEOPLE.

AFTER all, no doubt, it is the young people who are the kings and queens of this world. They don't have it in their own hands, nor their own way in it, which would not be good for them, but all our plots and plans are for their advantage whether they know it or not. For their sakes a great deal of harm is done in this world, which the doers hold excused, sometimes sanctified, by its motive, and the young creatures themselves have a great many things to bear which, no doubt, is for their advantage too. It is the least invidious title of rank which can exist in any community, for we have all been young- all had a great many things done for us which we would much rather had been let alone-and all suffered or profited by the plans of our progenitors. But if they are important in the actual universe, they are still more important in the world of fiction. Here we cannot do without these young heroes and heroines. To make a middle-aged man or woman interesting demands genius, the highest concentration of human power and skill; whereas almost any of us can frame our innocent little tale about Edwin and Angelina, and tempt a little circle to listen notwithstanding the familiarity of the subject. Such is the fact, let us account for it as we may. The youths and maidens, and their encounters, and their quarrels, and their makings-up, their walks and talks and simple doings, are the one subject that never fails; so, though it is a wonder how it should be so, let us go back to them and consider their young prospects and their relations to each other before we go further on in the real progress of our tale. The way that Sara made acquaintance with the little dweller at her gate was in this wise. It was the day after the dinner-party, when the Motherwells were still at Brownlows. Sara had gone out to convey some consolation to old Betty at the gate, who was a rheumatical old woman. And she thought she had managed to escape very cleverly out of Lady Motherwell's clutches, when, to her horror, Sir Charles overtook her in the avenue. He carried in his manner and appearance all the dignity of a man whose mind is made up. He talked very little, certainly, to begin with — but that was his way; and he caressed his abrupt little black mustache as men do caress any physical adjunct which is a comfort to them in a crisis. Sara could not conceal it from herself that something was coming, and there was no apparent escape for her. The avenue was long; there was nobody visible coming or going. Had the two been on a desert island, Sir Charles could scarcely have had less fear of interruption. I do not pretend to say that Sara was entirely inexperienced in this sort of thing, and did not know how to snub an incipient lover or get out of such a dilemma in ordinary cases; but Sir Charles Motherwell's was not an ordinary case. In the first place, he was staying in the house, and would have to

continue there till to-morrow at least, whatever might happen to him now; and in the second, he was obtuse, and might not understand what anything short of absolute refusal meant. He was not a man to be snubbed graciously or ungraciously, and made to comprehend without words that his suit was not to be offered. Such a point of understanding was too high for him. He was meditating between himself and his mustache what he had to say, and he was impervious to all Sara's delicate indications of an indisposition to listen. How could he tell what people meant unless they said it? Thus he was a man with whom only such solid instruments as Yes and No were of any use; and it would have been very embarrassing if Sara, with at least twenty-four hours of his society to look forward to, had been obliged to say No. She did the very best she could under the emergency. She talked with all her might and tried to amuse him, and if possible lead him off his grand intention. She chatted incessantly with something of the same feelings that inspired Scherazade, speaking against time, though not precisely for her life, and altogether unaware that, in so far as her companion could abstract his thought from the words he was about to say, when he could find them, his complacent consciousness of the trouble she took to please him was rising higher and higher. Poor dear little thing! he was saying to himself, how pleased she will be! But yet, notwithstanding this comfortable thought, it was a difficult matter to Sir Charles in broad daylight, and with the eyes of the world, as it were, upon him, to prevail upon the right words to come.

They were only half-way down the avenue when he cleared his throat. Sara was in despair. She knew by that sound and by the last convulsive twitch of his mustache that it was just coming. A pause of awful suspense ensued. She was so frightened that even her own endeavour to ward off extremities failed her. She could not go on talking in the horror of the moment. Should she pretend to have forgotton something in the house and rush back? or should she make believe somebody was calling her, and fly forward? She had thrown herself forward on one foot, ready for a run, when that blessed diversion came for which she could never be sufficiently thankful. She gave a start of delightful relief when they came to that break in the trees. Who can that be?" she said, much as, had she been a man, she would have uttered a cheer. It would not have done for Miss Brownlow to burst forth into an unlookedfor hurrah, so she gave vent to this question instead, and made a little rush on to the grass where that figure was visible. It was a pretty little figure in a red cloak; and it was bending forward, anxiously examining some herbage about the root of a tree. At the sound of Sara's exclamation the stranger raised herself hurriedly, blushed, looked confused, and finally, with a certain shy promptitude, came forward, as if, Sara said afterwards, she was a perfect little angel out of heaven.

"I beg your pardon," she said; "perhaps I ought not to be here. I am so sorry; but it was for old Betty I came."

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"You are very welcome to come," said Sara, eagerly "if you don't mind the damp grass. It is you who live at Mrs. Swayne's? Oh, yes, I know you quite well. Pray, come whenever you please. There are a great many pretty walks in the park."

"Oh, thank you!" said little Pamela. It was the first time she had seen the young great lady so near; and she took a mental inventory of her, all that she was like, and all that she had on. Seeing Miss Sara on foot, like any other human creature, was not a thing that occurred every day; and she took to examining her with a double, or rather triple, interest first, because it was Miss Sara, and something very new; second, to be able to describe minutely the glorious vision to her mother; and, thirdly, out of genuine admiration. How beautiful she was! and how beautifully dressed! and then the tall gentleman by her side, so unlike anything Pamela ever saw, who took off his hat to her actually to her! No doubt, though he was not so handsome as might have been desired, they were going to be married. He must be very good, gallant, and noble, as he was not so very good-looking. Pamela's bright eyes danced with eagerness and excitement as she looked at them. It was as good as a play or a story-book. It was a romance being performed for her benefit, actually occurring under her very eyes.

"I know what you were "but it is too early yet. roots the violets blow-I you were thinking of."

doing," said Sara, Round the ashen know that is what

Pamela, who knew very little about violets, and nothing about poetry, opened her eyes very wide. "Indeed," she said anxiously, "I was only looking for some plantain for Betty's bird

that was all. I did not mean to take anyflowers. I would not do anything so-soungrateful."

"But you shall have as many violets as ever you like," said Sara, who was eager to find any pretence for prolonging the conversation. "Do come and walk here by me. I am going to see old Betty. Do you know how she is to-day? Don't you think she is a nice old woman? I am going to tell her she ought to have her grandchild to live with her, and open the gate, now that her rheumatism has come on. It always lasts three months when it comes on. Your Mr. Swayne's, you know, goes on and off. I always hear all about it from my maid." When she paused for breath, Pamela felt that as the tall gentleman took no part in the conversation it was incumbent upon her to say something. She was much flattered by the unexpected grandeur of walking by Miss Brownlow's side, and being taken into her confidence; but the emergency drove every idea out of her head, as was natural. She could not think of anything that it would be nice to say, and in desperation hazarded a question. "Is there

much rheumatism about here? poor Pamela said, looking up as if her life depended on the answer she received; and then she grew burning red, and hot all over, and felt as if life itself was no longer worth having, after thus making a fool of herself. As if Miss Brownlow knew anything about the rheumatism here! "What an idiot she will think me!" said she to herself, longing that the earth would open and swallow her up. But Miss Brownlow was by no means critical. On the contrary, Sara rushed into the subject with enthusiasm.

"There is always rheumatism where there are so many trees," she said, with decision — "from the damp, you know. Don't you find it so at Motherwell, Sir Charles? You have such heaps of trees in that part of the county. Half my poor people have it here. And the dreadful thing is that one does'nt know any cure for it, except flannel. You never can give them too much flannel," said Sara, raising her eyes gravely to her tall companion. They think flannel is good for everything under the skies."

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"Don't know, I'm sure," said Sir Charles. "Sure it's very good of you. Don't know much about rheumatism myself. Always see lots about in our place; flannel pettic -hem - oh beg your pardon. I'm sure

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When he uttered that unfortunate remark, poor Sir Charles brought himself up with a sudden start, and turned very red. It was his horror and embarrassment, poor man, and fear of having shocked his companion's delicacy. But Sara took the meanest advantage of him. She held out her hand, with a sweet smile, "Are you going?" she said; "it is so kind of you to have come so far with me. I hope you will have a pleasant ride. Please make Jack call at the Rectory, and ask if Fanny's cold is better: Shall you be back to luncheon? But you never are, you gentlemen. Are you never hungry in the middle of the day as we are? Till dinner, then," she said, waving her hand. Perhaps there was something mesmeric in it. The disappointed wooer was so startled that he stood still as under a spell.

"Did'nt mean to leave you," he said; "don't care for riding. I'd like to see old Betty too."

"Oh, but that would be much too polite," cried Sara. "Please, never mind me. It is so kind of you to have come so far. Good-bye just now. I hope you will have a pleasant ride." She was gone before he could move or recover from his consternation. He stood in dumb amazement for a full minute looking after her; and then poor Sir Charles turned away with the obedience of despair. He had been too well brought up on the whole. His mother had brought him to such a pitch of discipline that he could not choose but obey the helm, whosesoever hand might touch it. "It was all those confounded petticoats," he said to himself. How could I be such an ass?" which was the most vigorous speech he had made even to himself for ages. As for Sara, she relaxed from her usual dignity, and went along skipping and tripping in the exhilaration

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"It is very odd," said Sara, "that I never thought of that before. I almost think I shouldn't mind having stupid people now and then if I had thought of that. And so you think it fun? You wouldn't think it fun if you had to watch them eating their dinner, and amuse them all the evening. It is such hard work; and then to ask them to sing when you know they can't sing, no more than peacocks, and to stand and say Thank you when it is all over! I wonder what made you think of look

f her heart. "Oh, what a blessing he is gone! -oh, what a little angel you were to appear just when you did!" said Sara; and then she gave a glance at her new companion's bewilder ed face, and composed herself. "But don't let us think of him any more," she continued. "Tell me about yourself. I want to know all about yourself. Wasn't it lucky we met? Please tell me your name, and how old you are, and how you like living here. Of course, you know I am Sara Brownlow. And oh, to be sure, first of all, why did you say un-ing at the lamps. It is very clever of you, you grateful? Have I ever done anything to make you grateful to me?

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"Oh yes, please," said Pamela. "It is so pretty to see you always when you ride, and when you drive out. I am not quite strong yet, and I don't know anybody here; but I have only to sit down at the window, and there is always something going on. Last night you can't think how pretty it was. The carriagelamps kept walking up and down like giants with two big eyes. And I can see all up the avenue from my window; and when I looked very close, just as they passed Betty's door, I could see a little glimpse of the ladies inside. I saw one lovely pink dress; and then in the next, there was a scarlet cloak all trimmed with swansdown. I could tell it was swansdown, it was so fluffy. Oh, I beg your pardon, I didn't mean to talk so much; but it is such fun living there, just opposite the gate. And that is why I am so grateful to you."

Sara, it was impossible to deny, was much staggered by this speech. Its frankness amazed and yet attracted her. It drove her into deep bewilderment as to the rank of her little companion. Was she a lady? She would scarcely have taken so much pleasure in the sight, had it been within the range of possibility that she could herself join such a party; but then her voice was a refined voice, and her lovely looks might, as Sara had thought before, have belonged to a princess. The young mistress of Brownlows looked very curiously at Pamela, but she could not fathom her. The red cloak was a little the worse for wear, but still it was such a garb as any one might have worn. There was no sort of finery, no sort of pretension, about the little personage. And then Sara had already made up her mind in any case to take her pretty neighbour under her protection. The end of the matter was, that in turning it over in her mind, the amusing side of the question at last caught her eye. How strange it was! While the awful moment before dinner was being got through at the great house, this little creature at the gate was clapping her hands over the sounds and sights out of doors. To her, it was not heavy people coming to dinner, to be enter tained in body and mind for three or four mortal hours; but prancing horses and rolling wheels, and the lamps making their shining progress two and two, and all the cheerful commotion. How odd it was! She must be (whatever her "position") an original little thing to see so tedious a business in such a novel light.

know, to describe them like that. Do you read a great deal? Are you fond of it? Do you play, or do you draw, or what do you like best?"

This question staggered Pamela as much as her description had done Sara. She grew pale, and then she grew red. "I am not in the least clever," she said, nor nor accomplished- -nor-I am not a great lady like you, Miss Brownlow," the little girl added, with a sudden pang of mortification. She had not been in the least envious of Sara, nor desirous of claiming equality with her. And yet when she thus suddenly perceived the difference, it went to her heart so sharply that she had hard ado not to cry.

As for Sara she laughed softly, not knowing of any bitterness beneath that reply. She laughed, knowing she was not a great lady, and yet a little disposed to think she was, and pleased to appear so in her companion's eyes. "If you were to speak like that to Lady Motherwell, I wonder what she would say," said Sara; "but I don't want you to be a great lady. I think you are the prettiest little thing I ever saw in my life. There now-I suppose it is wrong to say it, but it is quite true. It is a pleasure just to look at you. If you are not nice and good, it is a great shame, and very ungrateful of you, when God has made you so pretty; but I think you must be nice. Don't blush and tremble like that, as if I were a gentleman. I am just nineteen. How old are you? "Seventeen last midsummer," said Pamela, under her breath.

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"I knew you were quite a child," said Sara, with dignity. "Don't look so frightened. Í mean to come and see you almost every day. And you shall come home with me, and see the flowers, and the pictures, and all my pretty things. I have quantities of pretty things. Papa is so very kind. I have no mother; but that that-old-lady is your mother, is she? or your grandmother? Look, there is old Betty at the door. Wicked old woman! what business has she to come out to the door and make her rheumatism wor-e? Come along a little quicker; but, you poor little dear, what is the matter? can't you run?

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"I sprained my ancle," said Pamela, blushing more and more, and wondering if Mr. John had perhaps kept that little incident to himself.

"And I trying to make you run!" cried the penitent Sara. "Never mind, take my arm. I am not in the least in a hurry. Lean upon

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