The Evolution of a Thought. LATELY, in pursuing our studies in literature, we have been much interested in tracing the evolution of certain thoughts. We have carried our study with much enthusiasm into the domain of poetry. To-day we propose to trace a poetic shoot-if we may use the expression-to what we believe to be its source; and thus to discover to the reader a field which, we feel assured, all will work with ardor.

In the latest edition of Mr. Spencer Mac Fugle's poems there is one that embodies a thought often used by former writers. We do not charge Mr. Spencer MacFugle with plagiarism: far from it. It is simply one of those curious repetitions in litera ture. The same bright idea has entered the ecstatic brain of each poet as he sat in the frenzied state before his task. Spencer MacFugle was perfectly ignorant that he was clothing an idea which many years before had received expression from the mind of a brilliant and famous poet.

We will begin by giving the idea as lately expressed by Mr. Spencer MacFugle in his

LINES TO A LOCKET.

O, enviable locket on that breast,

Which heaves and throbs to lull thy rest,
Ignorant of the ecstatic bliss,
Whene'er her lily fingers kiss

Thy burnished face,

Or from out thy dreamy nest,
She raises thee in heedlessness,
Unto the richness of those lips,

Where soft air blows;

That careless touch alone would be
My poor heart's birth in ecstasy.
But locket, thou dost know all this,

For next her heart thou must feel bliss.

This is the idea as expressed by Spencer MacFugle. Let us go back in its history, and see if it has been improved. Among the works of Petrus Spookeyman, a celebrated Wallachian poet of the thirteenth century, we find the following poem:

ODE TO HER BANGS.

O, enviable bangs on that fair brow, Which sets thy beauties off enow, Angering her though none may knowWhene'er the gentle breezes blow

Thee in a muss;

When from off thy lofty height,
She hangs thee on a chair at night,
And combs thee by the bright fire-light,

In admiration,

Those curling-irons, that touch so fine
Would sizzle my heart as well as thine.
But bangs, O bangs, she must touch thee,
For thou frizzlest up in ecstasy.

Thus does the medieval poet express the thought. We will omit the intermediate stages in its development, and produce what we believe to be the original form. Let it be understood, however, that in our

study of prehistoric poetry we may yet discover some still more ancient specimen.

For those of our readers who are unacquainted with the history of the following poem, we will state that some years ago the eminent geologist and paleontologist, Timothy Sandstone, while prosecuting his searches in the ancient caves of the Yellowstone for evidences of the Silurian age, discovered the skeletons of three human beings. In the hands of one, found in an upright position facing the other two, was found a crumpled and almost destroyed parchment. It was the poem to which we refer. Unfortunately, but a fragment was left. The frames of the other skeletons were much distorted, showing that they had died in great agony. The persistency and cold-bloodedness of poets in all ages in relation to their writings is well worth the consideration of those who love to trace the progress of humanity. We greatly esteem and honor Timothy Sandstone, and have high respect for his learned judgments; but we must beg to doubt even his wisdom when he attempts to explain the relation and causes of the situation of these skeletons by a reference to geolog. ical actions. Mr. Timothy Sandstone is a geologist, and the love he has for his profession prompts him to make this explanation. But in this case it leads him to err. Thanks to our learned litterateur, Mr. Sampson Buftop, we have a true solution of the enigma. 'Tis the story of the poet and the charmed auditors. The old, old story.

Let me present to the reader a sample of the lines found upon the rumpled parchment taken from the hands of the skeleton. We have several reasons for so doing, apart from showing its primitive uniqueness. Hjrm jan ikon djus inodus Kron sis ejoc bkon sid judus Mjarus krac djus buon irona

Sid hjrm curus djon enona....etc., etc.
Sul djus cranc disko roi
Inul sac..

Pr. .

Mj.

.dk.. .sl...... .f. .j.

S

....

(badly blurred)

(unintelligible)

Freely translated, this poem might be rendered as follows:

O, damsel, thumpest thou the tough jamckon cloak,
With muscles lusty after it lies in soak?

Swift molds th: jamckon's garb in tenacious grasp thine;
Yet, O damsel, not swifter than loving heart mine.
Yea, moldest thou mine heart, yet in soak not,
By thy look amorous.

Sometimes, yea, truly, thumpest my heart vigorously,
When look I slyly where thou stalkest fearlessly.
O, maid cruel, thus to treat a heart loving,
Like a jamckon skin in water scrubbing.

What a glorious picture, illustrating the characters and customs of the primitive man! Although Mr. Timothy Sandstone, the great geologist, will persist in asserting that this being was a Palaeolithic man, yet in our humble duty of maintaining truth and

justice we must beg leave to tell him that for once he does not know what he is talking about. Consider the character of the poetry. This alone flatly contradicts his assertion. What is a Pliocene man doing, writing Miocene poetry? This is a problem that we flatter ourselves the astute learning of Mr. Timothy Sandstone, ably assisted by his friends and disciples, will be unable to solve. Unquestionably it is a Miocene man. If Mr. Timothy Sandstone knew something about prehistoric poetry, it would undoubtedly assist him much in settling many knotty points in the geology of prehistoric periods. But let us leave the bickerings of discussion and return to the more congenial study of the beauties of this poem.

Imagine the primitive poet seated in a rabid frenzy behind an immense bowlder on the river bank, the parchment before him, a burnt stick in his hand, his thoughts upon some primeval damsel, who was probably at that moment across the river scrubbing the jamckon's skin. Serenely he sits with his back braced against the high rock which conceals him from her. Enthusiastically he scratches his rhymes. Suddenly he hears the voice of the father, who, poking his head from a cave, yells: "Hjkmulansum, hurry up with that wash. I've an appointment at the club, and you can't expect me to go dressed in a walking stick."

The poet hears nought but the sweet name of Hjkmulansum. He drops his stick, claps his hand over his beating heart, and rolling the name about his mouth, dwells rapturously upon its sweet lusciousness; but suddenly getting a beautiful thought, he heaves a heart-bursting sigh, seizes his burnt stick, and buckles hurriedly to his amorous task once

more.

And she, the subject of his verse, the maid who has so warmed his heart-diligently she scrubs the skin of the jamckon. The washing must be done quickly, for the skins of the jamckon are scarce, and her father is obliged to wear his every-day clothes on Sunday. Even now, while she scrubs, he is calmly reposing upon boughs in the cave, patiently awaiting the return of his week's wash. The daughter continues her task with unabated vigor. She does not smile. She cannot be dreaming of her poet lover, who is seated at his ecstatic task. No: her thoughts are upon the Gagolanchichewans, who, sporting in the river some distance above, have ruined the water for rinsing purposes. Alas, poor lover!

At last, a Jamgigewan goes to the river to drink, and no more water flows for the next hour. The Jamgigewan drinks but once a month, but when he does drink there's usually a drought on the plains. The Jamgigewan was the first brute that introduced the practice of "swearing off," and soon became the butt of all the prehistoric animals.

How primitive and natural is the whole scene! From afar echoes the loud roar of the Mastodons. Up in the trees the Syvanteria minima are playfully skipping about. We can see a care-worn smile pass over the features of the poet, as he scribbles his

noble thoughts for undying fame. Ah, little recks he who will read his verse! He scratches his matted and grizzled hair abstractedly, as he vainly rakes his brain for a happy rhyme. The loud squeals of the miserable little Pachytheriums disturb the flow of his poetic thoughts. Near by a Megalonyx is roaring and fighting with a yelling Mylodon. Yet the poet writes on, unconscious of all. Ah, what difficulties did not the Miocene poet grapple with and overcome! But man's indifference and apathy have limits. Suddenly a massive and unwieldy Megatherium pokes his head around the corner of the rock, and seeing the poet, makes a rush at him. Good poets, scarce even in the Miocene times, were regarded as a special luxury by all Megatheriums. But our poet has had many trials and has won much experience. He sighs wearily, hastily rolls up his parchment, pokes his burnt stick in his matted locks, ducks between the ponderous legs of the Megatherium, smiles sarcastically with his fingers to his nose at the same astonished beast, and before the perplexed Megatherium can reverse himself, is lost in the distance.

With that brief moment his history ends for us, but his Thought remains to kindle the souls of a million generations. C. O. B.

For a Plaque.

A ROUNDED hill of sun-burned grass
Lies there against a sapphire sky,
Where still-winged buzzards circling pass;

And half-way up the hill a tree

Stretches its thin-leaved branches high,
While round it flow unceasingly

The summer wind and summer heat.
And road-side dust as teams go by
Drifts up in clouds from horses' feet,
And clings on shriveling leaves and limbs,
That drooping hang and wait to die,
While all the land with summer brims.
E. C. Sanford.

Her 'Broidery-Work.
HER 'broidery-work is fair to see;
For there she sets most curiously

The flowers that on the hill-side grow,
Bright buttercups and grasses low,
Wild roses and nemophila.

The cloth is plain and bare till she
Touches it with her witchery,
Then by its graces new you know
Her 'broidery-work.

And so with you, too, mon ami.
Last month you had no dignity,

No wit, no grace, no art to show.
But now like Lancelot you go.
How came you so, unless you be
Her 'broidery-work?
E. C. Sanford.

In the last century the thieves and blackguards of London had peaceable citizens at their mercy, and the provisions for keeping the city clean were little better than they had been in the Middle Ages. The slums of Whitechapel are in better order now, and safer to the pedestrian, than Fleet Street and the Strand were then. But London, unlike Paris, had no Haussmann to suddenly transform it from an ancient city to a modern one. The changes made in it were gradual. One of the first steps toward an improvement was the establishment of a more efficient police force. Formerly the guardians of the peace were old and sleepy men, who had not strength enough, even when they had courage, to quell disorder, and who were glad when the ill-doers left them to doze in the sentry boxes which were provided for their shelter. Indeed, their age and feebleness were looked upon as a qualification for their posts. The young "bucks" of the Regency were especially the tormentors of these poor old men, who were called Charlies, because the law under which they were appointed dated to the time of Charles I. To "box a Charlie" was considered fine sport. If he was found dozing between the hours when he went his rounds, his box was VOL. I.-8.

upset, with him inside of it, and he was left to kick and struggle, like a turtle on its back, until help arrived. Another trick was to offer him a dram which had been drugged, and, when the liquor had stupefied him, to cart him with his box into a quarter of the town far distant from his post. Practically, the watchmen were of no use except to cry the hour of the night and the state of the weather to wakeful citizens.

In 1829 Sir Robert Peel abolished the "Charlies" and established the present force of uniformed policemen, who number over eleven thousand, and have jurisdiction over the whole of the county of Middlesex, and parts of the adjacent counties of Hertford, Essex, and Kent. A nickname is given to them as to the watchmen who preceded them, and they are known as Bobbies or Peelers, both names being derived from those of the great statesman who established the force.

Another great improvement was the abolition of cesspools in 1847, and the drainage of the houses through sewers. The sewage is now conducted to Crossness, fourteen miles below London Bridge, and is ultimately discharged into the German Ocean. In its water supply, London had been

for help. The means were furnished by James I., who, in return for his advances, received half the shares, of which there were seventy-two, each being now valued at $85,000. Though the undertaking had few friends in the beginning, it thus has proved not only an incalculable boon to the inhabitants, but also an immensely profitable investment.

The conduits were an improvement on the open streams, but they were an obstruction to traffic in the streets, and all the water from them had to be carried into the houses. There were no pipes in the houses, such as we consider indispensable. But in 1582 a Dutchman, named Peter Morris, introduced a plan for supplying the houses with water by mechanical power. He obtained a lease for the use of the Thames water and two arches of London Bridge, where he built a forcier, by which a supply could be sent a short distance. His apparatus was inadequate, however, and relief came in 1594, when a goldsmith, named Hugh Middleton, appeared upon the scene. Even if Morris's invention had been capable of distributing all the water that was wanted, it could not have been a success, for the supply could not have been pure as long as it depended on the Thames. Middleton took up a plan which others refused to adopt, because it was costly. Spending the whole of a large private fortune in the undertaking, he went to the green hills and dales far beyond London, and, tapping the sweetest springs, brought their waters to the city through an artificial river, twenty-one miles long. Engineers had not the machinery then which is at their command now, and the tunneling of the St. Gothard Pass was not, relatively speaking, a more imposing work than the cutting of this channel from Hertfordshire to London. Middleton's fortune was all spent before his great work was complete,

For many years the New River was ample, and it is still utilized for the north-eastern region and that limited part of London which claims the exclusive designation of the "city"; but, in addition to it, seven other sources are now required to supply the modern metropolis. There are about seven hundred miles of water-mains, and the average daily consumption is about one hundred and twenty million gallons, or nearly thirty gallons for each person. What other city in the world, it has been asked, has provided for the comfort of its inhabitants so abundantly?

Edward Heming proposed to light some of the streets with lanterns in the time of Charles II., and many laughed at his project. The proposition to use gas for the same purpose was also derided. Sir Humphry Davy said that it would be as easy to bring down a piece of the moon for the illumination of London as to light the streets with gas. The philosopher was mistaken, and yet he was supported by even as clever men as James Watt, the inventor of the steam-engine. He suggested that the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral could be used as a gasometer. Nevertheless, in 1803-4 a German named Winsor proved that gas was feasible for an illuminant, and first used it in the Lyceum Theater, after which it was gradually adopted throughout the metropolis. But, like so many pioneers in great works, Winsor was ruined by the opposition which he met. As Macaulay says of Heming's lanterns, "The cause of darkness was not undefended. There were fools in that age who opposed the introduction of what was called the 'new light' as strenuously as fools in our own age have opposed the intro