recurring opportunities for the develop ment both of body and mind. The physical condition of the people should surely be a very important concern to the governing persons of all kinds. I never wish to depreciate the powers and influence of individual men; and, therefore, I readily admit that on many of the greatest occasions, even in what appear to be the crisis of a nation's fate, individual generalship, or statesmanship, may turn the scale to victory, or at least to safety. But, even in the absence of such generalship or statesmanship, I believe that that nation will ultimately hold its own in the world, and not be down-trodden, even by signal defeat, if its population is able to lift an amount of weight through a given space, equal to that which can be lifted by a like number of the population of any neighboring State-supposing, of course, that the nations in question are of any thing like equal magnitude. In a word, to put it less mathematically, that people will hold its own whose muscular force is not inferior to that of its neighbors. No nation, I believe, will continue to be great, in which there is a large and constant decrease of that muscular force. It may be thought that this is a very material way of looking at things, but we live in a very material world, and must think and act accordingly. Even Christendom has not yet attained to that spiritual condition wherein the bodily strength or weakness of the citizens of a State is unimportant to that State. For the future historian-and a far-off future I fear it may be, if he is to make his observations from a different standpoint to that which we occupy-it will be a most remarkable fact to comment upon, how little effect the Principles of Christianity have had upon the conduct of Christian States to one another. There may be thousands and tens of thousands of good Christians among the denizens of any country; but the State, though it may arrogate to itself religious fidelity of the highest kind, and claim for its Sovereign the titles of Most Christian King, or Defender of the Faith, remains essentially Pagan, if its religion is to be divined from its conduct to other States. It has, in general, no hesitation to be the first in carrying war into a neighboring country, upon the most ridiculous and frivolous pretexts; and, whichever State wins the day, such use is mostly made of victory as to insure a longing for revenge in the conquered country, and a perfect certainty of future retaliation. It is a strange, but a marked illustration of this fact, that a writer like myself, who abominates war, and who holds it to be one of the most stupid as well as one of the most wicked things in the world, must yet, in pleading for recreation, urge, as one of the main reasons why it should occupy the attention of Government and governing persons, that it tends to keep up athletic power in the people, and so to make us fully capable of sustaining an invasion, or of undertaking, probably on behalf of allies or colonists, a foreign war. [From Macmillan's Magazine. I. CLEMENCE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "PATTY." THE old Court-yard of the "Ours d'Or" is full of warm light, but it is not glowing August sunshine. The tall fuschias in green tubs which border the court are scarcely in leaf; there are no blossom-buds on the myrtles, though they have put out bright tender little leaves of expectation; the fountain sparkles, but the fish are not gamboling in the basin below-they are still housed safely in the glass globe in Clémence's parlor. The sun disports himself chiefly among the gueldres roses and lilacs, which atone just now for the shabby brown show they will make in autumn, by a perfect luxury of blossoms; snowy masses with exquisite green and gray shadows in between; lilac flowers, now rich, now delicate-always exquisite, both in hue and fragrance. It is almost May, and yet the keen March wind lingers so as to keep Eulalie the cook-there is no male chef at this old Flemish inn-mindful of her rheumatism, and unwilling to venture out of the warm shelter of her kitchen. Eulalie is a small spare woman, with a clever face and dark eyes; these are full of vexation as she stands beside a small table on one side of the kitchen, and strips the leaves from crisp young lettuce-plants. "It is insupportable," she grumbles, as she drops each leaf deftly into the shining brass pan of water at her feet. "Mam'selle Clémence goes beyond reason; if her sister, Madame Scherer, were to ask for the gown off Mam'selle's back she would send it her. She gave Madame Scherer a husband, though it almost broke her heart, and that is enough-too much; it is folly to go on pouring wine into a full bottle." Eulalie shrugs her shoulders and shreds off the lettuce-leaves faster than ever; she has a clever head and a warm heart, but her temper needs a safety-valve. Some time ago it had found this, when Madame de Vos-the mother of the landlord of the "Ours d'Or"-came self-invited to manage her son's household. Eulalie disliked the fat pink-faced dame from the beginning, first for the petty vexations which Madame de Vos had inflicted on her son's wife, Eulalie's own dear mistress, but chiefly for the unceremonious way in which she had installed herself at the "Ours d'Or" after her daughter-in-law's death. Eulalie had put on her war-paint at that time, and had felt compelled to keep her fighting weapons sharp and bright, and to say truth this process was in some way congenial to the skillful old woman. At that time had happened the great sorrow of Clémence de Vos. Her betrothed lover, Louis Scherer, had returned at the appointed time to claim her as his wife; but Clémence was absent, and the extreme beauty of her young sister Rosalie, and, as Eulalie always persisted in affirming, the manoeuvres of Madame de Vos, so infatuated the young soldier, that Clémence voluntarily released him from his troth-plight, and he and Rosalie were married. But Clémence's father had been unable to forgive the wound inflicted on his beloved child, and, on Rosalie's wedding-day, madame her grandmother went back to live in her own house at Louvain. "Dame! what a happiness! what a relief!" Eulalie had said. "Mam'selle Clémence will now take the place that should always have been hers; and what an angel is Mam'selle Clémence!" It may be that the principle which urged the cook at the "Ours d'Or" so con stantly to brighten the shining brass pots and pans on her kitchen-wall was thorough, and led her also to fear lest her tongue too might grow dull and rusty unless she sometimes sharpened it against her master Auguste de Vos, and even against the "angel" Mam'selle Clémence. There is a slight sound, and Eulalie looks up. A black-cloaked figure stands at the parlor door on the opposite side of the long, paved, arched-over entrance to the court-yard of the "Ours d'Or." Eulalie comes forward to the door of her kitchen, which is on the opposite side of the paved entrance way. "Mam'selle Clémence," she says, shrilly. "Yes, yes, Eulalie, I am coming;" the voice is so sweet that one is impatient to see the face which goes with it, but Clémence has turned back to listen to her father's last words. Auguste de Vos is a stout, florid Belgian, but he has dark hair and an intelligent face. He looks younger, and happier too, since he has been left to live alone with Clémence; he has the same blessed freedom from domestic worry that he enjoyed while his wife lived. Clémence has a dexterous way of keeping the bright side of life turned towards her father; even Eulalie's querulousness rarely reaches him. Auguste de Vos has never been a demonstrative man; but ever since the evening when Rosalie's marriage was decided, there has been a graver tenderness in his manner to his eldest daughter, a something not to be painted in words, but which often kindles in Clémence that strange emotion which brings a sob and a smile together. "Well, my child," Auguste de Vos is saying, "if thou sayest it is needful, I yield; but remember always that Rosalie has three maids and only two children: it is to me inconceivable that after all her grandmother has done for her, and for Louis Scherer too, they should not contrive to nurse my mother in her sickness without thy help." Clémence smiles: she has a sweet, pensive face, but her dark eyes light up at this smile, and sparkle brightly through the long black lashes. "Poor Rosalie! Thou art severe, my father; but it is almost the first request she has made me since her marriage, and it seems a beginning, and- -"here Clémence falters and blushes, and then looks 1872.] CLEMENCE. frankly into her father's eyes-he is father and mother both to her now-" only thou knowest well Rosalie has never been the same to me since she went away." Her father's eyes are full of wistful tenderness. "The fault is none of thy making, Clémence." "I must go to Eulalie;" she nods and "Poor Rosalie," she says to leaves him. herself, "she is not yet forgiven." 66 Hein," Eulalie puts her head on one side like a pugnacious sparrow as Clémence steps into the kitchen," fine doings, indeed; and it is true then, Mam'selle, that you go to-morrow to Bruges to nurse the bonneonce good to maman who never was you ?" Hush, Eulalie, you may not so speak of my grandmother," Clémence's gray eyes look almost severe. Eulalie turns to the table behind her. "I speak as I find, Mam'selle. Duty is duty everywhere; and to me, Mam'selle, Monsieur is of more value than Madame his mother, and he will be sad without you; and she-well she would have perhaps a little neglect, what will you? Madame Scherer is young, and she loves her ease; but she will be obliged to take care of Madame de Vos, if you do not go, Mam'selle Clémence." "Nevertheless I am going." Clémence speaks decidedly, and her bright smile quiets Eulalie. "Now I want some broth, a cold chicken, if you can spare me one, and some eggs. I am going to see your friend, the wife of the sacristan of St. Michel." Eulalie grunts, but she produces the food demanded, and carefully stows it away in a basket. "It is all very well," she says; "I don't grudge the food and drink which Mam'selle gives, but I ask myself, when Mam'selle Clémence marries and goes away-and she will marry some day, I suppose-ah! but the man will be lucky!-what will then happen to the wife of the sacristan and all the other sick folk of our parish? She has used them to these dainties; ma foi! it will be harder to give them up altogether than to go without them now. Louis Scherer left the army on his marriage; he has an appointment at Bruges, and Rosalie found housekeeping so little to her liking, that after the first few months she persuaded her husband to let Madame de Vos live with them. For a time this arrangement had been successful. Madame doted on the young couple, managed the servants, and contributed liberally to household expenses; but when babies came-two with only a year's interval between-strife arose about their management, and the discord in his household disgusted Louis Scherer. It was at his instigation that Rosalie had now written to ask Clémence to come and help to nurse Madame de Vos in her sick ness. II. Louis met his wife's sister at the railway station. Clémence had not seen him for more than a year: she thought he looked aged; his fair, handsome face was full of worry. They had met since the marriage, and all remembrance of the old relations had been effaced by the new, save it may be a certain self-complacency in the man in the society of the woman who had once so dearly loved him, and in the woman a certain blindness to faults which were visible to all other eyes; but then Clémence de Vos was indulgent to every one—to every one but herself. She asked after all the family, and then, "How is the Soeur Marie ?" she asked. "Does Rosalie see her often ?" "Ma foi"-Louis twirled his pretty, soft mustaches: he was really handsome, though he looked too well aware of the fact-" Rosalie may, and she may not, see your aunt, the Soeur Marie; but she does not tell me. I have no special liking for religieuses, especially when they are no longer young or pretty; but here we are, Clémence, and there is your little goddaughter peeping out of the window." They had come up a by-street, which ended on the quay of one of the canals, bordered on this side by a closely planted line of poplar-trees. The newly opened leaves trembled in the warm sunshine reflected from the red high-gabled houses over the water-houses which went straight down to the canal edge, and seemed to bend forward so as to get a view of their own full-length reflections in the yellow water. Behind the houses rose the graceful tourelles of the Hôtel de Ville, and beyond, rising high above all the rest, was the beffroi. It was just three o'clock, and suddenly the carillon sounded out from the lofty tower, swelling with sweet throbs, through the air above them, as if the angels were holding a musical festival in those melodious, unearthly strains. But Louis was too much used to the carillon to notice it. "There is your goddaughter, Clémence," he said. Clémence started from her rapt listening. It had seemed to her she heard her mother's voice up there among the angels. Louis Scherer lived in a red stepped-gabled house. There was a pointed window in the gable, with an arched hood of gray stone: the window-mullions too were of stone. Below were two similar windows, with a carved spandril between the arches; and at one of these lower windows peeped out a little smiling cherub-face-a miniature, Clémence thought, of Rosalie. Clémence kissed both hands to the little maid, and then went in through the open archway below the windows. There was a patter of little feet, a chirrup of slight treble voices, and then two laughing baby faces peeped from behind a green, half-closed door on the left of the paved entrance. Clémence forgot where she was, forgot even the bonne-maman's illness, and sat down on the door-step, with the two blooming darlings nestling in her arms. The younger of the two, the little Clémence, talked glibly in her soft, incoherent gibberish, but little Louis played for a while at being shy, alternately hiding his face in his aunt's black cloak, or else looking up with round, shining blue eyes, and his pink, fat forefinger between his pouting lips. Louis had passed on into the house to fetch his wife. "Tiens, tiens!" Rosalie's voice sounded so shrill, that Clémence put the children off her lap, and jumped up from her low seat. The sisters kissed each other affectionately, and then they exchanged looks. "Ma foi!" Rosalie said to herself, "Clémence grows younger-looking every time I see her." "Rosalie looks troubled;" and Clémence followed her sister upstairs, stifling a wish that she would look more sweet and simple. She was still a beautiful blonde; but the Rosalie of Clémence's youth had been lovelier in her simplicity than the befrizzled, over-dressed lady, whose smile was so forced and rare. In the short minute that followed their greeting Clémence had seen Loulou shrink away from his mother, and cling to his father's knees. Madame de Vos's bedroom was at the end of the upstairs gallery. The walls were white, and so were the bed-hangings, with their white tufted fringe. The cushion in the window-seat was covered in white dimity; the window itself was shrouded in white curtains, fringed like the bedhangings. All this white seemed to bring out in yet stronger relief the deeply tinted pink face of Madame de Vos. She stretched one hand out to greet Clémence; the other lay still on the coverlet, powerless for evermore. "Eh bien, my child, thou art come at last, then, to look at what is left of thy grandmother. Ah! but, Clémence, is it not incredible that I, so active, and of so perfect a constitution, should be lying here. like a silly old woman, and la mère Berot, that old imbecile, who has at least ten more years than I have, ails nothing? Ma foi, I can not understand how this is. Clémence kissed the fretful face, and then seated herself at the bedside. "Thou canst stay a few minutes, Clémence," Rosalie nodded, "but not longer. I have much to say to thee." Madame de Vos looked angry. "Rosalie, thou art so selfish. Thou hast Louis and the children ; leave Clémence to me: I have no one." She closed her eyes with a weary sigh. Rosalie made an expressive grimace at her sister, and crept out of the room. Clémence sighed too. At home she and her father lived in such unbroken harmony, this discord seemed doubly jarring. This was only her second visit to Bruges, and when Rosalie had paid short visits to the " Ours d'Or" she had been gay and bright. But her grandmother soon claimed Clémence's attention. Madame de Vos began with her own sufferings, and then went on to the neglect, the vanity, the bad temper of Rosalie. "And, Clémence, she is also jealous. She will not let thee stay long with me, lest thou shouldst love me best. It is the same with the little ones: they love the bonne-maman, poor darlings; and so they may not run to the end of the gallery and I who have done every thing for her." As soon as she could get the words in, Clémence interrupted "Does la tante come to see thee-the easy to talk about any thing to Rosalie. Soeur Marie ?" 'No; no one remembers me now. I am helpless, and suffering, and forgotten. I had plenty of friends, as thou knowest, when I had a house of my own, and did not spend my money on ungrateful children. The Soeur Marie, why should she come? Rosalie told me that Louis disliked to see her, and so I told my poor Marie to keep away; and, Clémence, it is true that Marie is not an amusing companion." It was such a new pleasure for the invalid to get so sweet and cheerful a listener, that she would scarcely let Clémence go when she was summoned to supper. Sounds of angry voices came from the eating-room. Clémence opened the door, and met Louis just coming out. He had his hat in his hand, and his face was flushed. "Bon soir, my sister," he said. "You and Rosalie may have all the talk to yourselves." He passed out, and Clémence looked at her sister. Rosalie's face was heated and angry. She sat in sullen silence, and gave Clémence her supper without any remark. "I find bonne-maman better than I thought to find her. The attack does not seem to affect her speech." Rosalie shrugged her shoulders. "Thou mayst well say that." She tossed her befrizzed head. "Very surely she has been telling thee fine tales about me and my doings. Ah! I know"-she disregarded Clémence's attempt to stop her "it is always I who do all the wrong. Others may do as they choose; but they are always right with bonne-ma man." Clémence's heart ached; it seemed as if there was no union in this household. A tender motherly longing to comfort her young sister urged her to speak. "But how is it, Rosalie ?-thou wast always the one she loved best. When people are ill, dearest, they get fractious, and find fault with those they prefer." Rosalie shook her head. "It is useless to talk about it, Clémence. It did not begin with this illness: the bonne-maman is unjust and selfish, and I do not wish to talk about her." It seemed to Clémence that it was not She would not speak either of her husband or her children. The only subject in which she seemed interested was a new toilettea dress and bonnet she had been choosing for the fête to be held next week in the Jardin Botanique. There "Thou wilt like it, Clémence. will be music, and the officers will all be there." It seemed to Clémence that Rosalie blushed. "But I shall not go. The bonne-maman is quite helpless, though she can talk, and I do not think she ought to be left till she is better." "As thou wilt." Rosalie's sullen look came back, and it seemed best to leave her to herself. III. THE fête in the Jardin Botanique begins at two o'clock. There is just time to hurry over the children's meal, and for Rosalie to make a fresh toilette when she comes in from mass. She is in a flutter of anxiety when she comes downstairs. Clémence has not seen her sister look so bright since her arrival at Bruges. "Come, Loulou, make haste. Rosalie speaks cheerfully, without the fretful ring to which Clémence has grown accustomed. "We shall be late, if thou dost not hasten." She goes to the window. It seems a matter of course that Clémence should sit between the two children, giving them their dinner. "Oh! what lovely weather!"-there is all the glee of a child in Rosalie's voice " and I was so afraid it would be cold!" The door opened, and her husband came in. He was evidently struck by her improved looks. "Are we not gay in our new bonnet ?" he said, to Clémence. "I am just in time, Rosalie, to escort thee to the Jardin Botanique." "Thanks"-Clémence started at the changed voice, and she saw the smile fade away-"I have no wish to be troublesome, Louis. I am sure thou couldst find a more amusing companion; and I have to take care of Loulou and little Clémence." "As it pleases thee; but I suppose we may as well start together." Louis spoke carelessly; but it seemed to Clémence that he was wounded. He |