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._
* * * * *
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._
* * * * *
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._
* * * * *
HISTORIC FINANCE.—The first tithe on movables was granted, or enacted,
by papal authority, in 1188, for the Second Crusade. From 1334
subsidies of a fifteenth on goods in general, and a tenth from tenants
of the royal demesne, became the principal form of direct taxation.
Poll taxes (so-called), varying according to rank, were levied in 1377
and 1380, and on other occasions, the maximum being 60 groats, the
minimum 1 groat (4d.) for man and wife. Children under 16 were exempt;
and hence the outrage which gave the immediate occasion of Wat Tyler’s
insurrection. “A fifteenth and tenth,” however, speedily came to mean
a fixed sum of about £38,000, gradually sinking with the decay of
particular towns to £32,000, levied by a fixed assessment on each shire
and borough. A tax thus limited became, with the growth of national
wealth and needs, ridiculously inadequate. A new land tax of 5 per
cent. was granted in 1404, and a graduated income tax in 1435. But the
customs on wool and hides exported and 2s. per ton on wine imported,
with a general poundage of 6d. ad valorem on other exports and imports,
were the only permanent and regular revenue of the Crown, and during
the War of the Roses almost the sole addition to the yield of the royal
estates. This hereditary revenue, however, sufficed for the ordinary
expenses both of the State and the household. The great popularity of
Edward IV. with the citizens, especially of London, enabled him to
raise considerable benevolences, a practice which, forbidden by act of
Parliament on the accession of Richard III., was resumed and carried
to an often oppressive extent by Henry VIII. and his children. The
old fifteenths and tenths were still granted from time to time, but
under the Tudors were accompanied by subsidies in the nature of an
income tax of 4s. on the rental of lands and 2s. 8d. on the total
value of goods—yielding about £80,000. Each subsidy was accompanied
by a clerical grant of 6s. in the pound of annual value, worth about
£20,000. The last grant made to Elizabeth was of four subsidies and
eight fifteenths and tenths, amounting in all perhaps to £640,000.—_The
Saturday Review._
* * * * *
THE THREE UNITIES.—As we have said, the groundwork of “The Cid” is
wholly Spanish, but the beautiful poetry of many of the lines is
wholly Corneille’s. And had Corneille been allowed to follow his
own instincts, and write his play as his spirit moved him, it would
probably be free from many of its absurdities. He was bound to observe
the laws of “the three unities,” which the French pedants of those days
thought necessary to make incumbent upon every one who wrote for the
stage. These ignorantly learned men imagined that Aristotle on his own
authority had promulgated laws to be observed in the composition of a
dramatic poem, and that they should be always binding. The events in
every play were to be comprised within 24 hours, the scene could not
be changed, and in the play there should be only one interest or one
line of action. These laws were as the sword of Damocles held over the
heads of the French dramatists as they sat at their work. Richelieu
had lent his voice in favor of the edict, and they dreaded being found
guilty of insubordination. The authority of Aristotle was too high to
be questioned, and because the Greek writers had so written they must
be followed. The great Condé expressed himself as being terribly bored
by a tragedy by the Abbé d’Aubignac. A friend of the author tried to
excuse the play, saying that it was written exactly after the precepts
of Aristotle. Condé replied: “I am charmed that the Abbé d’Aubignac
should have followed Aristotle so carefully, but I cannot forgive
Aristotle for having made the Abbé d’Aubignac write such a detestable
tragedy!”—_All the Year Round._
* * * * *
A SUNDAY-SCHOOL SCHOLAR.—Here is the pith of a talented youngster’s
paper on the “Good Samaritan:” “A certing man went down from jerslam
to jeriker, and he fell among thieves and the thorns sprang up and
choaked him—whereupon he gave tuppins to the host, and praid take
care on him and put him hon his hone hass. And he past by on the other
side.” This and the following are not, as might be supposed, American
exaggerations, but authenticated instances of examiners’ experiences.
The last specimen is in answer to the question, “Who was Moses?” “He
lived in a hark maid of bullrushes, and he kept a golden calf and
worshipt braizen snakes, and he het nothin but qwhales and manner for
forty years. He was kart by the air while riding under a bow of a tree
and he was killed by his son Abslon as he was hanging from the bow. His
end was peace.”—_Chambers’s Journal._
* * * * *
A MAHDI OF THE LAST CENTURY.—It is interesting to look back a hundred
years and trace the career of a former Mahdi, the Prophet Mansour,
the Sheikh Oghan-Oolō, who burst on the Eastern world in 1785 as
the Apostle of Mahomet, and went forth conquering and to conquer
till Constantinople sought his alliance, and Russia armed herself
_cap-à-pied_ to resist his advance. It was early in March, at the
commencement of the Ramadan, that a solitary horseman rode into Amadie,
a town of Kourdistan, wearing the green turban which marked him as a
descendant of Mahomet, a white woollen garment girt about the hips with
a leathern girdle, and a pair of yellow sandals. His imposing stature,
dignified manners, flashing yet melancholy eyes, vast forehead, and
magnificent black beard showed him to be a king among men; and the
rigor of his fast, combined with the fervor of his perpetual prayers
in the mosque which he never quitted, proved him in the eyes of the
faithful to be a saint of the finest water. When Ramadan was over
the new Prophet assumed the post of authority in the mosque which
had witnessed his prayers and vigils, and proclaimed the twenty-four
articles of a reformed creed. The majority of them were drawn from the
Koran, others from the Mosaic statutes, some few were of Pagan origin,
and the final item was the Christian maxim, “Thou shalt love the Lord
with all thine heart, and thy neighbor as thyself.” This evangel was
not, however, accepted with as much readiness as might have been
anticipated. It was necessary to make a bold stroke and secure the
wavering allegiance of the people of Amadie, so the Prophet declared
that Mahomet, in his inscrutable wisdom, had chosen them to carry the
new law to the Gentiles, and that to them would belong the exclusive
right to punish impenitent sinners with the weapons he was about to
send them. A few days later four men arrived from Sinope escorting a
quantity of arms and ammunition of European manufacture. These worthies
were all of different nationalities, one being Tabet Habib, a Persian
merchant and money-lender of Scutari, another a Frenchman named Cléophe
Thévenot, a third Camillo Rutigliano, a Neapolitan, and the fourth a
German, or probably a Jew, called Samuel Goldemberg. The arms were at
once distributed among the most enthusiastic converts, who, however,
numbered less than a hundred. On April 20 the little band marched from
Amadie to Taku, where the Prophet summoned the inhabitants, explained
his mission, and read the new code of regulations. Those who gave in
their allegiance were enrolled and armed, while the recalcitrants were
put to the sword. The Prophet now found himself at the head of several
thousand troops, undisciplined it is true, but amenable to the orders
of such a ruling spirit as himself. They were approaching Bitlis, a
fortified city containing about twenty thousand souls, defended by
a fortress perched on an inaccessible rock, and garrisoned by five
hundred Turkish troops. The Pasha in charge determined to show fight,
so he summoned the citizens to the ramparts and confided the fortress
to the soldiers. It was all in vain, for the invading army took Bitlis
by assault, and the Prophet, by way of example, impaled the poor Pasha,
his officers, and the chief men of the place, and delivered the city
over to the tender mercies of his soldiers for three days and three
nights. The army next marched to Mush, where the terrified Aga opened
his gates, and the Prophet assured the inhabitants that no harm should
befall them if they supplied his troops with fresh provisions, and
all the young men between twenty and thirty enrolled themselves under
his banners. The Prophet had a keen eye as a military tactician, for
Erzeroum is the centre from which the caravan routes to Van, Trebizond,
Tiflis, and Siwas, diverge. The conqueror turned northwards, taking
possession of half a dozen towns as he went along, and at length sat
down before the fortress of Akhalzik, which was then pretty much as
it is now, a strongly fortified city on the Turco-Russian frontier,
containing about 30,000 inhabitants and a Turkish garrison 5,000
strong. The Pasha and his troops defended themselves bravely, but after
spending ten days in trenches before the walls, the Prophet ordered an
assault, and Akhalzik fell as Bitlis had done at the outset. The Pasha
and his officers were impaled, those who submitted were allowed to
swell the conquering hosts, the impenitent and stubborn was massacred,
and the city burned and sacked. As the troops stood shouting over the
smoking ruins, they hailed their chief as “Mansour,” or the Victor, and
by that name he is principally known to history. Recruits began to come
in apace from all the neighboring provinces, and Mansour saw himself
at the head of 40,000 men, poorly armed but ready for anything; so he
marched straight on Erzeroum, the gates of which were open to him. The
booty he always reserved for himself on entering a city was the right
to choose all the most beautiful women as slaves; but he did it only
to save them from the horrors that would otherwise have awaited them,
and the shame of exposure in the bazaar. He neither loved nor trusted
women, and had flung all passions save ambition behind him. If the
Prophet Mansour had chosen at this moment to turn his arms against
Constantinople, there is no doubt that he would have succeeded, and
if he had become master of the Porte, it is probable that the “sick
man” would never have troubled the councils of Europe. But instead of
invading Turkey, he became its ally against Russia, apparently on the
understanding that he was to be recognised as undisputed sovereign of
all the countries he could rescue from the grasp of the Northern Bear.
Kars fell into his hands after a bombardment of six hours. This secured
his line of retreat, and he led his men over the mountains to Tiflis,
where Heraclius, King of Georgia, awaited him on the marshy plain
of Kours with an army of 50,000, 10,000 of whom were tried Russian
troops, sent to his aid by Catherine. The opposing hosts were equal as
to numbers; the tide of battle rose and fell for three long days, and
Heraclius was totally defeated. Twenty-two thousand of his men were
slain, and 10,000 taken prisoners and sold as slaves at Constantinople.
Mansour took possession of the royal palace, abandoning the city of
Tiflis to his soldiers, and in a letter written from thence he for the
first time used the signature of Sheikh Oghan-Oolō. Turkey now began to
see that her ally might very easily become her master, and endeavored
to undermine his influence. He was perfectly aware of all her little
intrigues, and when a courteous ambassador was sent to him, reproached
him with the treason and perfidy of the Porte, and thundered forth a
threat to go himself to Constantinople for an answer to the charge. In
less than a month all preparations were made, and, assembling his large
army, Mansour read to them a proclamation from Mahomet, commanding
him to annihilate the Osmanlis and place a faithful prince on the
throne of Constantinople. As the Prophet was quite aware that if he
took Constantinople he would have to deal with the united strength
of France, Austria, and Russia, he thereupon concluded an offensive
and defensive alliance with the Sheikh-ul-Islam, and promised to turn
his arms against Russia. From that moment fortune forsook Mansour.
He returned to the Caucasus, and endeavored to raise the Lesghiens
Tartars, and had a victorious engagement with the Russian general
Apraxin, who had to retreat to Kashgar. Gradually the tribes and
nations fell away from him, and gave in their allegiance to Catherine,
and at last Mansour was closely besieged by General Gadowitz in Anapa,
on the Black Sea. He refused to capitulate, and the Russian troops
carried the town and fortress by assault. At the head of the long line
of prisoners who defiled past the conqueror walked the Prophet, a noble
and dignified figure even in his fall. Gadowitz himself presented
Mansour to the Empress, who treated him with the respect due to a brave
and gallant foe. She received him with every mark of honor, gave him
an annual pension of about £4,000, and assigned to him a residence
in the little town of Solowetz, on the Black Sea. There he entered a
convent of Armenian monks, wrote his memoirs, and corresponded with
his family until his death in 1798. This eighteenth century Mahdi thus
ended his days in obscurity, and when but little past his prime. He
no doubt died of _ennui_ and disappointment, for adventure had been
as the bread of life to his soul from babyhood. The most curious part
of his story remains to be told. He was neither Sheikh nor Prophet,
not even a Mussulman, and least of all an Oriental. His name was Jean
Baptiste Boetti, and he was the son of an Italian notary, destined for
the medical profession, which did not please him, and he ultimately
became a Dominican monk. Little or nothing of all this would have been
known had not Boetti, when figuring as the Prophet Mansour, been weak
enough to write his own autobiography piecemeal at dead of night. He
kept the manuscript in his jewel casket, but one day his chancellor,
one of the three Europeans who were in his confidence, eloped with a
lovely Georgian girl _and_ the casket. On reaching Constantinople,
this individual sold the papers to the representative of the King of
Sardinia, and they were recently discovered by Professor Ottino, of
Turin, among the archives of Piedmont.—_Time._
* * * * *