own joy in life and sunlight, or, as in the sadder Psalms, resentment at the outrage of Death against Justice, or the still nobler agony of the thought that the claim of Love to its own continuance shall be made in vain.

By what indeed are we to judge a man if not by the way in which he meets this problem? Be his speculative conclusions what they may, if there be any unselfishness in him, if any heroism, if any holiness, he will show them in the face of these extreme possibilities, this one hope worth hoping, this only formidable fear.

In one of the last poems of L'Année Terrible, M. Hugo paints at great length and with startling rhetoric the possibility that God may at last be found to have deceived us all along-that the moral cosmos may be reduced to a chaos,' and man, the sport of destiny, expire in a ruined universe. What then is the central point of this poem? what is the idea which stands out for our strength or solace from this profusion of rhetoric and metaphor? It is-I blush with shame for M. Hugo in writing it down-it is that M. Hugo himself may be relied upon to chase and catch the recalcitrant Deity, like a wolf in the forest, and to overawe Him by the majesty of his personal appearance and the eloquence of his rebuke:

J'irais, je le verrais, et je le saisirais

Dans les cieux, comme on prend un loup dans les forêts,

Et terrible, indigné, calme, extraordinaire,

Je le dénoncerais à son propre tonnerre.

M. Hugo, forsooth, would be terrible! M. Hugo would be calm! M. Hugo would be extraordinary! It seems likely that at the crack of doom even M. Hugo might see something more terrible and extraordinary than himself.

Can the force of egoism further go? Can we accept as a teacher or a prophet a man who sees on the whole vault of heaven only the Brocken-spectre of his own soul? Must not all our admiration for this man's talents enclose within itself an ineffaceable core of contempt ?

Or rather let us say that this, like all contempt, must ultimately resolve itself into a profound compassion. Must we not pity the man, however great his genius or his fame, who has not found in this or the other world one love or one worship which could teach him to forget himself? Let him call his works mountains, himself a Titan, if he will: the Titans with their heaped-up mountains could never scale the sky.

But we will not accept his metaphor. We will not part from him except with a comparison which has in it at once less of arrogance and more of hope. For when we ponder on that keen but troubled vision, that soaring but self-captive spirit, we recur to Plato's charioteer, who has indeed in times foregone driven upwards to feast and festival with the blessed gods-who has looked, indeed, for a moment on very Justice, very Beauty, very Truth, but in the midst

of the thunder of rebellious horses and a storm and confusion of the soul, till he crashes downwards to the earth, and feeds upon the semblances of things, and half forgets and half remembers what that true world has shown. For him, in Plato's myth, there yet is a glorious hope; there remains for him some needful draught of selfforgetfulness, some purifying passage beneath the earth; and then again he may look with the gods on Truth, and stand with firmer footsteps upon the heavenly way.

FREDERIC W. H. MYERS.

FOOD AND FEEDING.

I THINK I shall not be far wrong if I say that there are few subjects more important to the well-being of man than the selection and preparation of his food. Our forefathers in their wisdom have provided, by ample and generously endowed organisations, for the dissemination of moral precepts in relation to human conduct, and for the constant supply of sustenance to meet the cravings of religious emotions common to all sorts and conditions of men. In these provisions no student of human nature can fail to recognise the spirit of wisdom and a lofty purpose. But it is not a sign of ancestral wisdom that so little thought has been bestowed on the teaching of what we should eat and drink; that the relations, not only between food and a healthy population, but between food and virtue, between the process of digestion and the state of mind which results from it, have occupied a subordinate place in the practical arrangements of life. No doubt there has long been some practical acknowledgment, on the part of a few educated persons, of the simple fact that a man's temper, and consequently many of his actions, depend on such an alternative as whether he habitually digests his food well or ill; whether the meals which he eats are properly converted into healthy material, suitable for the ceaseless work of building up both muscle and brain; or whether unhealthy products constantly pollute the course of nutritive supply. But the truth of that fact has never been generally admitted to an extent at all comparable with its exceeding importance. It produces no practical result on the habits of men in the least degree commensurate with the pregnant import it contains. For it is certain that an adequate recognition of the value of proper food to the individual in maintaining a high standard of health, in prolonging healthy life (the prolongation of unhealthy life being small gain either to the individual or to the community), and thus largely promoting cheerful temper, prevalent good nature, and improved moral tone, would require almost a revolution in the habits of a large part of the community.

The general outlines of a man's mental character and physical tendencies are doubtless largely determined by the impress of race

and family. That is, the scheme of the building, its characteristics and dimensions, are inherited; but to a very large extent the materials and filling in of the framework depend upon his food and training. By the latter term may be understood all that relates to mental and moral and even to physical education, in part already assumed to be fairly provided for, and therefore not further to be considered here. No matter, then, how consummate the scheme of the architect, nor how vast the design, more or less of failure to rear the edifice results when the materials are ill chosen or wholly unworthy to be used. Many other sources of failure there may be which it is no part of my business to note; but the influence of food is not only itself cardinal in rank, but, by priority of action, gives rise to other and secondary agencies..

The slightest sketch of the commonest types of human life will suffice to illustrate this truth.

To commence, I fear it must be admitted that the majority of British infants are reared on imperfect milk by weak or ill-fed mothers. And thus it follows that the signs of disease, of feeble vitality, or of fretful disposition, may be observed at a very early age, and are apparent in symptoms of indigestion or in the cravings of want manifested by the 'peevish' and sleepless infant. In circumstances where there is no want of abundant nutriment, over-feeding or complicated forms of food, suitable only for older persons, produce for this infant troubles which are no less grave than those of the former. In the next stage of life, among the poor the child takes his place at the parents' table, where lack of means, as well as of knowledge, deprives him of food more suitable than the rough fare of the adult, and moreover obtains for him, perchance, his little share of beer or gin. On the whole, perhaps he is not much worse off than the child of the well-to-do, who becomes a pet, and is already familiarised with complex and too solid forms of food and stimulating drinks which custom and self-indulgence have placed on the daily table. And soon afterwards commence in consequence and entirely in consequence, a fact it is impossible too much to emphasise the 'sick headaches' and 'bilious attacks,' which pursue their victim through half a lifetime, to be exchanged for gout or worse at or before the grand climacteric. And so common are these evils that they are regarded by people in general as a necessary appanage of 'poor humanity.' No notion can be more erroneous, since it is absolutely true that the complaints referred to are self-engendered, form no necessary part of our physical nature, and for their existence are dependent almost entirely on our habits in relation to food and drink. I except, of course, those cases in which hereditary tendencies are so strong as to produce these evils, despite of some care on the part of the unfortunate victim of an ancestor's self-indulgence. Equally, however, on the part of that little-to-be-revered progenitor was ill

chosen food, or more probably excess in quantity, the cause of disease, and not the physical nature of man.

The next stage of boyhood transfers the child just spoken of to a public school, where too often insufficient or inappropriate diet, at the most critical period of growth, has to be supplemented from other sources. It is almost unnecessary to say that chief among these are the pastrycook and the vendor of portable provisions, for much of which latter that skin-stuffed compound of unknown origin, an un-. certified sausage, may be accepted as the type.

After this period arise the temptations to drink, among the youth of all classes, whether at beerhouse, tavern, or club. For it has been taught in the bosom of the family, by the father's example and by the mother's precept, that wine, beer, and spirits are useful, nay, necessary to health, and that they augment the strength. And the lessons thus inculcated and too well learned were but steps which led to wider experience in the pursuit of health and strength by larger use of the same means. Under such circumstances it often happens, as the youth grows up, that a flagging appetite or a failing digestion habitually demands a dram before or between meals, and that these are regarded rather as occasions to indulge in variety of liquor than as repasts for nourishing the body. It is not surprising, with such training, that the true object of both eating and drinking is entirely lost sight of. The gratification of acquired tastes usurps the function of that zest which healthy appetite produces; and the intention that food should be adapted to the physical needs of the body and the healthy action of the mind is forgotten altogether. So it often comes to pass that at middle age, when man finds himself in the full current of life's occupations, struggling for pre-eminence with his fellows, indigestion has become persistent in some of its numerous forms, shortens his staying power,' or spoils his judgment or temper. And, besides all this, few causes are more potent than an incompetent stomach to engender habits of selfishness and egotism. A constant care to provide little personal wants of various kinds, thus rendered necessary, cultivates these sentiments, and they influence the man's whole character in consequence. The poor man, advancing in years, suffers from continuous toil with inadequate food, the supply of which is often diminished by his expenditure for beer, which, although often noxious, he regards as the elixir of life, never to be missed when fair occasion for obtaining it is offered. Many of this class are prematurely crippled by articular disease, &c., and become permanent inmates of the parish workhouse or infirmary.

It must be obvious to everybody how much more of detail might be added to fill in the outlines of this little sketch. It is meagre in the extreme: nevertheless it suffices for my purpose; other illustrations may occur hereafter.

But it is necessary to say at this point, and I desire to say it.