that he came of a branch of the Standishes of Ormskirk, which had settled in the Isle of Man. Myles's own assertion that his great-grandfather was a 'second or younger brother from the house of Standish of Standish' cannot be verified, and seems on the whole improbable. Like many other people, he doubtless cherished the belief that, if he had his rights, he would be a wealthy landowner, without inquiring minutely into the basis of such a belief. Standish is by no means an unname in Lancashire, and Myles may have belonged to some minor and landless branch of the family. Mr. Porteus's essay is a good piece of work, though its conclusions are mainly negative.

common

A Sunday in Notre Dame AN English musician writes: It was a day, not an hour or a service. It began with High Mass at 10 o'clock, when the Cathedral was flooded with the clear morning sunlight which Paris enjoys even in the middle of November; it was continued through the afternoon offices, sung in the gathering gloom, till at last the crowning act of worship, the great procession of the Blessed Sacrament, was visible only by the innumerable torches carried by the participants and the blaze of lights above the High Altar. Later, again, a few of us were admitted by the tower staircase to hear M. Marcel Dupré play the organ in the dark and empty Cathedral, with the privilege of asking for what we would, for Bach, or César Franck, or the organist's own compositions, with the certainty that whatever one might ask for was there, not in a bookshelf (indeed, the peculiarity of the organ loft at Notre Dame is that there is not a sheet of music to be seen anywhere), but stored in M. Dupré's memory.

This coda to the day might have been continued far into the night; we

might, we probably should, have made him repeat the greater part of the marvelous feat which we were told he had performed lately at the Conservatoire, when, in a series of ten recitals, he played through the whole of Bach's organ works from memory. Certainly his physical endurance seemed equal to it, and the hearers' avidity threatened to demand it. But a limit was set by the third party, that party which English organists have almost forgotten in these days of hydraulic and electric power the blowers. For the huge organ of Notre Dame is still blown, not by hand, but by feet. A squad of men still tread the bellows very much in the manner which Prætorius described as the invention of the sixteenth century. So that at last we were confronted with a labor problem which put an end to the 'one day.'

Though we had come to Paris solely with the object of hearing M. Dupré's performance, and the day had begun and ended with him in the organ loft, among its many impressions the one which stood out distinct above others was that his art must not be regarded merely as so much playing of a high order involving gifts of mental concentration and alertness with complete physical control over the complex mechanism of the instrument. Rather it is an art dependent on the particular type of church service which has fostered it. It is only when one realizes the place of the organ in the French treatment of the liturgy that one can see how the national school of organ music, so vigorously developed in the last generation or two of French composers, has come into being, and can appreciate those qualities which are in direct and striking contrast with much that we instinctively associate with church music. Strict liturgists may condemn this French treatment. We Londoners who have heard the Roman

liturgy sung in its completeness at Westminster Cathedral can understand their complaint. But when one is a unit of that large, inarticulate congregation which hears Vespers at Notre Dame, one is not there to weigh questions of liturgical propriety. That congregation, apparently so little concerned in the details of the service, yet seems quietly absorbed in assisting at a rite the meaning of which is expressed in outward acts and symbols. The organ itself is one of the symbols; it thunders down the nave from the far west end, representing the voice of the people.

No doubt that is the historical derivation of what seems so curious a custom to English minds, the custom of allowing the choir to sing only the odd verses of the Magnificat and of replacing the even ones with an organ improvisation on the melody. Originally the organ was there to support; now it has replaced the response of the congregation. The character of its music is wild, untamed, secular, the very reverse of the decorous solemnity which we associate with the Cathedral organ. For it does not peal 'to the full-voiced quire below,' but answers for the mass of humanity, with its various aspirations, its troubles, and its sins, huddled there in the nave. This psychological difference in the position of the organ and its music also explains the difference between the French ideal of organ tone and the English one. What our organbuilders call a ‘Cathedral tone' is the

last thing aimed at. A battery of brilliant reed-stops, which produce almost the attack of a full orchestra, and the rhythmic throb of percussion instruments, is the chief glory of the Notre Dame organ. As the procession winds round the aisles of the Cathedral the verses of the hymn, 'Adoro Te,' are interspersed with more urgent and more clamorous interjections, till at the moment when the Host returns to the High Altar the organ voices the climax of a multitudinous devotion.

It is in such an atmosphere that the French organ school has grown up, and M. Dupré, who is regarded by his master, M. Widor, as the leader of its younger exponents, has matured his powers.

Love, An Essay in Rhythm LIKE a great twilight bird it came, Swooping upon us from some shadowy region of strange air

And things half-understood, halfformed and nameless.

In a tense instant it was there
Incredibly;

And we who had walked thoughtless in the spring

Grew suddenly aware

Of swift wings beating round us, Beating between us, fanning us to

EARLY in the morning the camels of the party were watered at the district headquarters (Um Kedada), until each looked as though he had swallowed an eighteen-gallon beer cask.

A policeman from the escort was detailed to each camel, and made responsible for seeing that the howiya (pack-saddle) was put on properly, the shawish (sergeant) being in charge of the lot.

Every man knowing his job, one hoped for silence, but there was an absolute babel, no inhabitant of the Sudan being able to do a job quietly. Instead of shidding his own camel, a policeman much prefers to shout out needless instructions to another man four camels off. In addition, the domestic servants worry about the various personal odds and ends, without which they are never happy.

All are shidded at last, including a couple of hired animals that each carry a ten-gallon fantass (iron water tank) on either side of the hump, and a smaller one poised across the top, and the baggage camels are sent off.

An hour later there is a brisk 'zin

har' from the shawish, and the Inspector inspects the escort and their camels.

to feed

Two of the police carry lances with the Union Jack and the Egyptian flag respectively. These flags are friendly in more ways than one, because they are homemade from white calico and old bunting. The Inspector cannot get off yet. He has still to shake hands. The native may forget everything,an appointment to wash his beast even native beer, but he never forgets to shake hands. The village omda, some head-men, the office staff, sundry hangers-on, and various delinquents who desire to get themselves back into favor, are all there, and eagerly press his hand with a sweaty fervor, leaving behind a remembrance both to the eye and nose.

It is over at last, and as the Inspector passes the women at the well, they stop their ceaseless toil, and holding their right arms above their heads, utter the shrill cry between the teeth that denotes joy and God-speed.

Later, the Inspector comes up with the hamla (baggage camels), and notices

that one of the Arabs, with a hired camel, is walking blissfully in front of his animal, while the bung is missing from one of the small fantasses, and all the precious drinking water has been spilled. It is pointed out to him rather forcibly, but he just smiles, and says: 'Marlaish: Rubbona karim' (Never mind; God is merciful).

Evenings and days are spent at villages hearing grievances, fixing up outstanding cases, and giving decisions on diverse subjects.

As one goes on day after day and sees the various villages, a well is ordered to be dug here, a warrant of sheikh-ship is given there, and someone else is granted leave to found a new village. At one place the cattle have been dying like flies, so the people are instructed to burn all the droppings round the wells, which are a great source of infection, and also to burn the dead animals. This latter is probably not feasible, as they generally kill the beasts at the actual point of death, and eat them. As long as the throat is cut and blood rushes out, it is immaterial to them what state of health the animal was in.

A section of the tribe that was driven away by the late Sultan's 'beneficent' rule wants to come back to its old possessions, but the land has passed under the direction of another tribe, and the old inhabitants do not want to have an alien omda (head-man) over them.

A meglis (tribunal) is formed in the Inspector's tukl, the diameter of which is about seven yards. Fifty or more crowd into it, and sit on their heels.

Each sheikh in turn gives his views and opinions, emphasizing a point here with a gesture, and forcing an argument home there with a flash of the eye, or an appeal to Allah if his story is

not true.

There is an old man of the Sherifi tribe who does not speak, but employs

his time making patterns with his finger-tips in the sand in front of his toes. When all have spoken to, round, near and beside the point, the Inspector nods to the old man, who begins to speak. He holds no official position, being content to let others strive for power, while he thumbs his rosary and reads the Koran, but in the Inspector's little tukl his voice at once gains the attention of all. He talks slowly at first, illustrating a point with a finger-mark on the sand, but as he warms to his subject, his words come quicker, and at the end of a few minutes he has said all he wants to, and his voice dies away. He has not spoken long, but his speech is worth all the others put together. As it is long past three o'clock, and the Inspector has been hard at it since nine in the morning, the tukl is cleared for reflection and lunch.

The result of the meeting is that a new omodia, or division, is decided upon. The old boundaries as far as possible will have to be re-demarcated, so that there may be no squabbles in the future, and also that a record may be kept at headquarters.

The start is made at dawn two days later.

It is a motley crowd that meets in a cold north wind. The Inspector, armed with a compass, is accompanied by his escort and standard-bearers. Everyone has turned out. Most are mounted on that forbearing beast of burden, the ass, driven, like Balaam's of old, by a staff. One or two ride horses decked out with trappings of leather and camel's hair, guided by the cruel bit the Arab loves so well because from sheer dread of being pulled up the horse carries his head in a proud arch. A.few have camels, and one man is giving a 'brother' a lift, by letting him cling on behind the hump.

Only one man knows the ancient boundaries, and he is so feeble from

age that he has to be lifted on to his donkey. He is sworn on the book of Allah to show faithfully the old landmarks, then the Koran is put on his lap, and the procession starts.

The old man leads, and immediately behind him walks a man pushing the surveying wheel with cyclometer attached, so that the Inspector may register the various distances of the compass bearings, and plot them later.

Noon finds one side of the boundary finished, and after a rest of a couple of hours under various trees, the party returns in driblets.

A dance is invariably arranged to greet the Inspector on arrival at a village.

There is one dance that derives its source from negro origin.

and one

The girls stand up in a row, begins to chant a song, which is repeated by the chorus; the same verse composed on the spur of the moment is

From sandy hillock to old tebeldy tree, from tree to stony peak, from peak to hollow, the procession goes; then the old man is at fault, so a new point is fixed, and a bearing taken.

As the scattered line of a hundred men or so approach a small jebel (hill) that stands out sharply in the sunlight, there is a whoop from an Arab riding a well-made mare, and, pointing his spear, he dashes off, as a herd of Teytal

a large species of antelope-break cover. The Inspector and all those mounted on horses join him in the hunt; one beast is separated from the rest, and after a long chase the Arab gets alongside and throws his spear. Alas! he throws too low, and the weapon passes harmlessly under the animal's body.

After this half-hour's diversion the hunters, with blowing horses, return to the business of the day. The rest of the party have waited at the little jebel, and, as it has no name, it is christened 'Jebel El Teytal,' and a record duly made. As they go along, the Inspector explains about the old English custom of 'Beating the Bounds,' which is listened to with interest. Some wag's suggestion that the two omdas shall be beaten at the next village is greeted with roars of laughter.

haps half an hour, accompanied by hand-clapping.

The following is a typical song heard on tour. The reader must understand that aeroplanes were used during the military operations, and made a considerable impression, for the place where this song was sung is at least a hundred miles from where the machine had ever been.

Hamza, waladee,
Husan khabir shidee

Wala timshee wa tkhalenee
Wa el tobe kabir ghatinee

Wa babour el Tayer ma yesheelnee.

Hamza, my son,

Saddle the big horse,

Do not go and leave me,

Take the big cloth and cover me,
Then the engine-bird will not take me away.

While this is going on the young lads of the village have strolled up, and stand facing the girls. One of them plucks up courage and advances with a sheepish grin on his face to the lady of his fancy. He stands before her, and putting his hands on his hips, leaps into the air in time to the music. The girl follows suit, and when their breath is exhausted the bashful swain retires. He is followed by other brave adventurers hour after hour.

If Fatma or Miriam thinks her particular choice is a little tardy in repeating the performance, she leaves the