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“But no, m'sieur, he is my youngest, and bent form beside him, so spare and fleshhe has said—my Jacques did—that he less, and yet with such small bones that will never leave his mother. But what they scarcely show under the wrinkled will you ? he was all I had to give, and skin. when this war came it was not likely he “ But . I suppose Jacques would have would be passed over. He is a fine boy, come to you as soon as he was strong m'sieur, is my Jacques; ah, and so were enough ?” the others !" She sighed and broke off The withered lips are pressed tightly abruptly.
together, but they quiver nevertheless. “ Have you other children ?” There is She keeps her eye steadfastly fixed on the a patient sweetness in the wrinkled face, Englishman. such a mingling of sorrow and hope in "It may be that he will never be strong; the glistening dark eyes, that the English- that is in the hands of the good God; but man is stirred out of his usual indifference he will be happier for the sight of his to fellow-travellers.
mother. Ah, m'sieur, you do not know “I am the mother' of five, m'sieur, but the loving heart of my Jacques.” the others were much, much older than She turned her face away abruptly, and Jacques. They were all taken for sol- then came a little choking sob. It was diers. Two of them died at Magenta, not as if she were ashamed of her sorrow, and two in Algeria, and now my Jacques but she would not obtrude it on her comtoo is wounded."
panion. He left her in peace.
He “ And you are on your way to nurse thought if she cried herself to sleep it him ? Have you come from a long dis- would do her good; and she did sleep tance ?"
peacefully. “ From Trochu, m'sieur. It is some Just at two o'clock the voiture halted. miles from Bordeaux. If I could have It had halted before, but not with so violent gone by the railroad it would not have a jerk. The old woman started, awoke, taken so long. As it is, I have been four and the Englishman, who had dozed off days."
for a few minutes, yawned, and shook But you cannot have walked all that himself. The conducteur came to the immense distance ; and you are lame, door of the coupé. too !”
“ We are near 0- m'sieur. Where Pardon, m’sieur, but I have walked does m'sieur wish to be set down ?” the most of it except when I have gone a “At the hospital.” little way in charrette. Consider, “ Bien, m'sieur !" m'sieur-how else could I get to Jacques ? In a few minutes they were rolling I have a little money, it is true-see here, again along the high road. m'sieur.” She unfastens the handkerchief “When you get to the hospital how which is tied over her cap and shows the shall you find your son ?” The Englishend of the stocking head-gear knotted be- man had been in similar scenes, and he low the tassel. “But I carry that to my foresaw that a crowd of wounded and dyJacques. He cannot walk, the poor boy, ing men lay at Oand I must take him home with me to “ Pardon, m'sieur, but I have the numTrochu as soon as he can leave the ambu- ber of my Jacques. He is number seven. lance. And, m'sieur, with the pardon of And also I have the chaplain's letter. I m'sieur, I am not lame. My feet are sore am to ask for M'sieur Saxe, the chaplain, and blistered, and a stone has got into my and he will conduct me to my Jacques.” sabot and has cut my left foot. It is for Again her eyes glisten with that wonthat reason, m’sieur, that I am so glad to derful blending of hope and find a voiture which goes to 0- I Hitherto their way has lain across open shall tell Jacques of the bounty of m'sieur, country, unscathed as yet by the tread of and we will both pray for him, and that he war; only the untilled fields and the abmay not be wounded in battle.”
sence of crops speak of the universal desoThe Englishman is silent. He thinks lation that broods over France. But close of the intense heat of these last four days, to 0
to 0- everything changes; blackened and of the sandy, flinty roads that lie be- houses in ruins, others riddled with balls, tween 0 and Trochu, for he is a and windowless, are to be seen
on all traveller; and then he looks at the frail, sides as the voiture draws up within a
short distance of the hospital. The Eng- “Madame, is it far to the cemetery ?". lishman helps his companion out of the The Sister's eyes open widely. On voiture very carefully.
the contrary, it is too near; but you will “My visit here," he says, “is to Dr. not see our good father any sooner for L- the head of the medical staff. If I seeking him there.
If I seeking him there. Will you not be glad can be of any assistance to you, you will to rest till Monsieur Saxe comes in ? You find me at his quarters.”
are surely very weary; I will take you The glistening eyes twinkle, but it is an where you can repose yourself.” effort to hold back the tears which run “I thank you, madame, but I too would freely over her withered, scorched cheeks. like to pray for the soul of the poor boy
“ M'sieur,” she says in a quivering voice, who died last night. Madame, I have lost “I cannot thank you enough, but if you four boys in battles, and it may be that will come to see my Jacques we will thank good souls have also prayed at their loneyou together."
ly graves." The Englishman is going to answer “ Bien, my mother, as you will.” The her, but his hand is grasped suddenly by Sister points out the way to the cemetery, some one who has come out of the hospital. and then hastens back to her duties.
“ Ma foi, Martin, I did not look for But the mother of Jacques finds that she you so soon; are you really come to help has more power in intention than in execu
tion. While she sat resting on the cushion “ I am come to do what I can. I have of the voiture wondering at its softness, no medical skill, but I am a tolerable her back and her legs have stiffened; she
But, L-, this good woman has can scarcely move along the way the Sisa son badly wounded; she is anxious to ter pointed out. A desolate way enough, see him."
Then in a lower voice he with ruined cottages on each side, till they told the story of her weary journey and give place to what has been a stone fence of her letter from the chaplain. Mon- scattered in heaps beside the road. There sieur L-answered at once, but he is no living sight or sound except a crowd spoke to the old woman instead of to his of gnats which trumpet forth a joy song friend.
at the approach of a victim. They buzz Madame, your son is in excellent about her head, they settle on her face and hands. Monsieur Saxe is as good a doc- hands, but she does not notice them. Antor as he is a priest. I will take you to other murmur, lower than that of the gnats, him at once."
has reached her, and she turns in on the She made a deep courtesy, and once right between the heaps of grey stones. more hope returned to her dark eyes. This has been a field once, but the grass There was an indescribable expression of has been trodden away. There are already thankful resignation in her face, and in the several earth mounds rising about its brown thin brown hands which she folded one surface. A priest and his attendants stand over the other as she followed the doctor beside an open grave, and near are several to the entrance of the long, low building. men who have already lowered the body, Dr. L- spoke to a woman dressed like The service is nearly ended. The priest a Sister and pointed to the mother of takes the aspersory from his assistant, Jacques. The Sister shook her head. walks round the grave and sprinkles the
“ The Père Saxe is not to be seen just coffin for the last time, and then he chants now," she said.
“He is burying a poor the versicles while the assistants make the boy that died last night.”
responses. Then all kneel while the priest will wait till he returns," offers the last prayer, and the mother of said Dr. L- “ Come, Martin, I will Jacques, spite of her stiffness, kneels revetake you round at once."
rently with the rest and prays earnestly The rapidity, the keenness of decision that the departed one “ may be assoin the dark-eyed doctor has imposed silence ciated with the choirs of angels.” The on his companions. Mr. Martin nods at church has been destroyed by the Prusthe old woman and follows into the hospi- sians, so the De profundis is said at the tal. The Sister stands looking at the grave itself. The priest and assistants mother of Jacques. The Sæur Ursule has depart. The bystanders have noticed the a broad, good-natured face, and looks piti- deep reverence and earnestness of the fully at the weary woman.
stranger's prayers, and two of them, as
6 Then you
they go back along the road, speak of it who had spoken to her on the road came one to another:
close up to where she stood. “She is a parent or some friend, but it “Well, my mother,'' he said, “ what are is strange she was not there at the begin- you looking for ?" ning."
" Pardon, but I have a letter here from His companion turns round and sees m'sieur the chaplain, and he tells me to the old woman following them. Le Père ask for him and he will take me to the Saxe is some way on ahead, but she will person I am come to see." not venture to address herself to him until “ In good time, my mother; then you he has put off his surplice.
will do well to come with me. I am going “Ma mère,” says one of the men kindly, to find the father himself.” “is it any one belonging to you that we He, opened a door in the wooden partihave been laying there ?"
tion and held it while she passed into the “ But no. I thank you, my friend, for hospital. The patients lay on straw on your kind thought. I am a stranger just one side of the long, narrow shed, some arrived from Trochu, and I thought I with coverlets over them, but the greater would
pray for the departed one, that is number had tossed these off in their feverall. Au revoir, my good friend."
ish movements. Bandaged legs and arms She nods and falls into the rear. Her and heads were everywhere; and in some poor stiff knees tremble, but still the glad- faces, where there was no apparent injury, ness is in her eyes. Soon, very soon now, the expression of agony was terrible. The she shall reach the hospital and be with mother of Jacques was full of the thought her Jacques.
of her son, but she could not pass unmov“ They can nurse him better than I ed by this line of haggard sufferers. can,” she says, dragging one weary foot “ Poor man! poor boy!" she murmurafter its fellow, and panting in the treeless ed; and once or twice she bent down and road, “but my Jacques will love dearly to strove to place the coverlet over a sufferer
He loves his mother and tries to who had thrown it off in his restless strug. comfort her, does my Jacques.”
gles. Her kind friend, Mr. Martin, stands at Her conductor opened a door at the the door as she goes in. She makes him end, and she found herself in the open air a deep courtesy.
again, facing another of the long low “How ill he looks—and yet he has not shieds. had nearly so long a journey as I have. Dr. L. stood here. He was speaking Ah! it is as the good curé says, the back eagerly to a priest. He only wore his casis always made for the burden.”
sock now, but the old woman recognized the Mr. Martin had come out to breathe Père Saxe. Her conductor stood waiting, the air and refresh his mind from the terri- but Dr. L. had heard their approach, and ble sights and sufferings he had been wit- he looked up quickly. nessing-suffering which only insensibility “ But yes, father,” he said to the priest, could alleviate, which only death could “here is a good woman who came from cure. He shuddered, as he leaned against O- this morning. You have charge of the open doorway, in thinking of the mere her son, it seems. Will you take her to physical pain that was being endured over him?" almost the whole of France. “ And this is Her heart throbbed fast. Till now her not all; there is mental agony still greater quiet faith had kept her calm, but the in the desolate homes, widowed mothers nearness of coming joy was harder to bear and their little ones. That poor creature in patience than the long suspense had now”—he smiled as she courtesied—“how been. Père Saxe looked very kindly at will she find her son ? Perhaps suffering her. “ I have already seen you this mornthe tortures of those poor fellows I have ing." just left; perhaps more mercifully dying; She courtesied, but her knees trembled. and yet how hard for her to have taken “ Can you tell me your son's number? that long, devoted journey just to see him I fear we have but few names in this. die!"
ward." Meanwhile the old woman waited na- He
the door. The ward is lighttiently in the small boarded space which er and more cheerful looking than that. served as entrance. Presently the man through which she has passed. There are: NEW SERIES.-VOL. XVI., No. 5
fewer patients, and their beds look more the shock. Very quietly she follows the comfortable. The bed nearest the door is priest till he reaches the foot of the empty empty.
bed by the door, and there kneels down. “Will you tell me the number ?” repeats She clasps her wrinkled hands over her the priest.
face, but there is no sobbing burst of grief. “Number seven, at your service, mon Only the père, as he stands pityingly bepère."
side her, sees tears trickle through the The Sister is at the further end of the trembling fingers. He bends down and room, and Dr. L. has gone on to look at whispers, “ He was so patient and good, her patients. She comes up quickly to your Jacques; and you prayed for him Père Saxe while the old woman speaks; this morning. His last wish was, that you then she too speaks and looks to the other should know where he lay, and God in end of the room.
His mercy guided you Himself thither." “ Follow me,” says Monsieur Saxe. He holds his crucifix to her, and she
The mother of Jacques gives a straining, kisses it reverently, and then he offers up wistsul look at every face as she passes, a prayer for the departed spirit of her son. but she sees no one like her handsome boy. The men who lie here are all bearded, and The voiture stands waiting to go back look as if they had served in many cam- to D— next morning. There are no paigns, though their faces are so pale and other passengers except the mother of bloodless. Père Saxe halts before a bed Jacques. Mr. Martin has come to see her and looks round for her, but she does not off
, and he shakes her hand heartily as he hurry forward as he expects. It is a youth, places her in the voiture. it is true, who lies there, but it is not her “ Yours has been a weary sorrow, my son. She shakes her head.
friend, but you have borne it like a hero“This is not, then, number seven ?" the ine." priest says to the Sister.
The old eyes glisten even yet as she No, my father, this is number seven- looks at him. teen; number seven”
“ Monsieur, my trouble might have does not end her sentence in words.
The been worse.
here the cheerful smile fades from her broad face tears run over—" was always so strong, and leaves a look of sad sympathy as she so manly! He would never be helped or glances on to the empty bed next the waited on. He did all for me, and if he doorway. Le Père Saxe looks sad too, had lived he must have been, the père but he hopes to save the mother of says, a poor, helpless cripple, and the good Jacques from thus suddenly learning the God has spared him this torment. M'sieur, truth.
I must now go home and comfort the “Come with me, my good mother," he
poor child who loved him. says, and he leads the way out of the good m'sieur : I cannot thank you. Ah! ward.
if it had not been for
I should perThe mother of Jacques does not speak. haps not have assisted at his burial. M'sieur
, She looks from the face of the Sister to when I pray for benefactors I shall pray that of the priest, and she learns all that they for you." are mercifully trying to withhold from her.
[From Temple Bar. She does not cry out or sink down under
DEVELOPMENT IN DRESS.
BY GEORGE H. DARWIY.
The development of dress presents a truth expressed by the proverb, “ Natura strong analogy to that of organisms, as non facit saltum,” is applicable in one explained by the modern theories of case as in the other; the law of progress evolution; and in this article I propose to holds good in dress, and forms blend into illustrate some of the features which they one another with almost complete conhave in common. We shall see that the tinuity. In both cases a form yields to a
succeeding form, which is better adapted This influence bears no distant analogy to to the then surrounding conditions; thus, the “sexual selection," on which so much when it ceased to be requisite that men in stress has recently been laid in the active life should be ready to ride at any “Descent of Man.” Both in animals and moment, and when riding had for some dress, remnants of former stages of develtime ceased to be the ordinary method of opinent survive to a later age, and thus travelling, knee breeches and boots yielded preserve a tattered record of the history of to trousers. The “ Ulster Coat,” now so their evolution. much in vogue, is evidently largely fostered These remnants may be observed in two by railway travelling, and could hardly different stages or forms. ist. Some parts have flourished in the last century, when of the dress have been fostered and men either rode or travelled in coaches, exaggerated by the selection of fashion, where there was no spare room for any and are then retained and crystallized, as very bulky garment.
it were, as part of our dress, notwithstandA new invention bears a kind of analogy ing that their use is entirely gone (e.g. the to a new variation in animals; there are embroidered pocket flaps in court many such inventions, and many such vari. uniform, now sewn fast to the coat). ations; those that are not really beneficial 2dly. Parts originally useful have ceased die away, and those that are really good to be of any service, and have been handed become incorporated by “natural selec- down in an atrophied condition. tion,” as a new item in our system. I may The first class of cases have their illustrate this by pointing out how macin- analogue in the peacock's tail, as explained tosh-coats and crush-hats have become by sexual selection; and the second in somewhat important items in our dress. the wing of the apteryx, as explained by
Then, again, the degree of advancement the effects of disuse. in the scale of dress may be pretty accu- Of the second kind of remnant Mr. rately estimated by the extent to which Tylor gives very good instances when he various “organs” are specialized.
“ The ridiculous little tails of the example, about sixty years ago, our present German postilion's coat show of themselves evening dress was the ordinary dress for how they came to dwindle to such absurd gentlemen; top-boots, always worn by rudiments; but the English clergyman's old-fashioned " John Bull” in Punch's bands no longer convey their history cartoons, are now reserved for the hunting- to the eye, and look unaccountable field; and that the red coat was formerly enough till one has seen the interonly a best coat, appears from the following mediate stages through which they came observations of “a Lawyer of the Middle down from the more serviceable wide Temple,” in No. 129 of the Spectator :- collars, such as Milton wears in his “ Here (in Cornwall) we fancied ourselves portraits, and which gave their name to in Charles II.'s reign,—the people having the band-box' they used to be kept in.” made little variations in their dress since These collars are curiously enough worn that time. The smartest of the country to this day by the choristers of Jesus squires appear still in the Monmouth cock; College, Cambridge. and when they go awooing (whether they According to such ideas as these it behave any post in the militia or not) they comes interesting to try to discover the put on a red coat."*
marks of descent in our dresses, and in But besides the general adaptation of making this attempt many things appadress above referred to, there is another rently meaningless may be shown to be full influence which has perhaps a still more of meaning, important bearing on the development of Women's dress retains a general simidress, and that is fashion. The love of larity from age to age, together with a novelty, and the extraordinary tendency great instability in details, and therefore which men have to exaggerate any pecu- does not afford so much subject for remark liarity, for the time being considered a as does men's dress. I propose, therefore, mark of good station in life, or handsome to confine myself almost entirely to the in itself, give rise I suppose to fashion. latter, and to begin at the top of the body,
* P. 16, vol. i., of “Primitive Culture,” London, 1871.
* See p. 356 of Fairholt's “Costume in Eng. land :" London, 1846.