March 18, 1882.]

country that is suffering from the manufacture and sale of fabricated wines. The French on the Loire have, owing to the ravages of the phylloxera for some seasons past, turned from being growers to being manufacturers of wine; and they have found, says another contemporary, much of their raw material 'in the hasty and wholesale productions of the neighbouring districts of Italy and Spain. A great proportion of this crude wine, hurriedly and carelessly made, is consequently unsound and immature. It is refined to the palate in skilful French hands. And this supply of the juice is supplemented by a supply of the grapes themselves. A vast trade has sprung up in these grapes. The vine-growers of north Italy and of northern Spain are now sending their grapes to France and Germany, and are for the time giving up wine-making. It is even reported that in some of the great Marsala districts-so far away as Sicily-so great and so profitable is the export of grapes to France, that this year there is danger that no marsala will be made.' The great demand for light French wines comes from England; and as the French cannot, by reason of insect ravages, supply those wines pure, they have taken to supplying them in an adulterated or fabricated form. In this way, they make a shift to keep up their trade connections in this country; because they know that if the liquor is so diluted as to be below an alcoholic strength of twenty-six degrees-which is the Customs standard for light wines-it will have entry into England on the reduced tariff; while the excellent and wholesome wines of Spain and Portugal, because their strength somewhat exceeds this standard, are charged upon a very much higher tariff, and are consequently shut out of the English market. It was long a popular belief that 'natural' wines never contained much alcohol, and that when their alcoholic strength exceeded twenty-six degrees, they might be held as adulterated. This is now found not to be the case, perfectly sound and wholesome wines frequently exceeding this limit.

The production of these fabricated wines is rapidly increasing; and, looked on merely as scientific triumphs, they are wonderful. In Hamburg, we are told, one can nowadays taste, without possibility of detecting any difference, two bottles of Johannisberg, the one genuine pe juice of the Johannisberg vineyards, and the other a liquid guaranteed to contain no rape juice whatever. The same authority states that in the neighbourhood of Marseilles We may purchase 'claret' which has no single ingredient that has any connection with vines, whether of the Bordeaux or any other district. All these concoctions, as already mentioned, are due to the fact that the English must have tap claret; and what they call 'cheap' claret must be below twenty-six degrees of alcoholic strength; and this standard of alcoholic strength, Like many other legal nets, captures the small gues and allows the big ones to escape-that is, it places a restriction on the sale of Spanish and Portuguese wines that are mostly good and wholesome, and encourages the trade in light French wines that are to a very large extent either adulterated or entirely fabricated and artificial. The remedy for the evil, so far as

this country is concerned, would seem to be to raise the standard of alcoholic strength sufficient to admit of the entrance of the higher-class wines from Spain and Portugal into the English market; and as soon as the latter wines came into competition on equal terms with those from France, the market for the adulterator and the fabricator would be gradually closed, and their occupation correspondingly diminished.

love.

PRIMROSES AND OTHER FLOWERS. A HINT TO TOWNSFOLK FROM A COUNTRY GARDENER. IF we were so unfortunate as to be compelled to cultivate one class of plants only, we would be much inclined to choose primroses. A first-love makes a permanent impression, and primrosesthe simple wild ones-were our first horticultural almost wholly with primroses. That was before Long ago, we had a small plot planted we were old enough to go to school. By-and-by the hedgeside primroses were gradually displaced, for kind friends collected and presented us with garden kinds. How rich we felt when we became possessed of these! We never will feel so rich again. And what miser ever exulted over his accumulated hoards as we did over these lowly gems! What lover of gold ever so gazed at his treasure, as we at these lovely yet simple flowers!

One day during the past mid-winter, we plucked one single bloom, which had ventured to salute the sun; and as we looked on its loveliness, all the past spring-times of a quarter of a century came rushing back upon us. Again we looked on the crumbling wall, last relic of the home where for generations our forefathers lived, beside which the treasures of our boyhood grew. Again our mother was by our side with her ever-ready instructions. There stood our father, returned from an evening's angling in the quiet river; and there our sister and our brother, as they were before the one grew to womanhood, and the other went to sleep beneath the primroses that were once his own. And as the sight of the grave to which these flowers were transplanted, comes up before us, we drop a tear, which might have been bitter but for the sweetness cast into our lot by the pure love of the simple wayside flower.

o;

Surely every one loves primroses! Most persons whose youth was spent in the country, do those whose homes are in the town, sigh for such treasures. The days when they gathered primroses are past with them in their brick-andmortar-bound prisons, and if they ever think at all about them, it is with regret at their not being able to possess them. We shall, however, show that this fancied unavailing regret is a mistake to every one who can command a window-sill, a box, and a little common soil. Skill isn't wanted; but a love for the flower is. True, it does not bloom all the summer; but, unlike nearly every other flower, it doesn't mind sharing its lot with other things that will bloom when it goes to rest. A few crocuses and snow

drops will enliven your little box almost ere the snow has left the hills, just as effectively as if no primroses were there. These should be placed round the sides. They will not be harmed if a few hyacinths should be placed singly between the clumps; and we all know that these will bloom in early spring. In summer, you may have a few sweet-peas, fastened to a string at one end, trained up one side of your window; and a climbing Indian cress or Tropaeolum at the other, framing your window with sweet-scented glowing flowers. When your snowdrops and other bulbs disrobe for their summer's sleep, a pinch of seed of the ever-popular and delightful mignonette, scattered along the sides, and lightly covered with soil, will speedily grow and hang over the sides in the most delightful drapery, and scent your room if you only move up the sash a little to allow of the fresh air entering. Talk of hangings and furnishings! what hangings ever surpassed even matched glorious living blossoms and tender green leaves!

or

While love of flowers will enable any one to grow them, even under very great difficulties, sometimes a few hints are of service, especially to beginners; and as our life is spent cultivating plants, we are in a position to give reliable advice so far as it goes. We will say nothing about the construction of a window-box, for no doubt you have seen them, and the shape matters nothing. However, we would advise you not to make yours less than six, or more than nine inches in depth.

The next thing is the soil. If you have friends in the country, you can easily procure that. If your friend is, or knows, a gardener, so much the better. What you want is loam, and this is old fibry turf well decayed. A good substitute is decayed twitch-grass, and that can easily be got. Failing that, choose moderately heavy soil from a field; and when you have got it, mix it with one-third of decayed manure, or, better, thoroughly decayed leaves-what gardeners calí leaf-mould. A tenth of sharp sand or small gravel, and a few pieces of charcoal or potsherds, will make a nice, sweet, rich, porous soil, in which all the plants we have named will grow to perfection.

The placing of the soil in the box properly, is a matter of much importance. To allow the surplus water to escape, you must provide drainage. To secure this, a few holes must be bored in the bottom of the box; and over these holes, one inch of broken cups and saucers, imbricated like the slates on the roof of the house, with the concave sides down, must be laid. From the soil, pick out any fibry matter, and spread it, after shaking out the loose soil, over the crocks; this will prevent the soil working in among them, and choking the drainage. Worms must also be removed, or they will work the whole soil into a puddle. Then fill the box with the soil, and press it firmly; for loose soil holds too much water. Don't exactly ram it hard, or the tender roots will fail to penetrate it. Leave half an inch at the top of the box empty, to hold water.

Now you are ready to begin; now you possess a garden. All you want now are a few seeds and plants. If you begin in spring, and that is the best time, you had better procure a few plants

of the kind you love from a friend in the country, or buy them from a nurseryman. Go in for what you love.

We will not add to the list, for it would only bewilder a beginner, and those further advanced don't need instruction-experience has taught them what to grow. Primroses may be planted either in spring or autumn; snowdrops, crocuses, hyacinths, and bulbous plants late in autumn; annuals, such as mignonette and Indian cress, in April; sweat-peas and hardy annuals generally, in March. In sowing seeds, always cover them with soil twice the thickness of their own diameters, and take care that the soil never becomes parching dry or puddled with wet. In watering, fill the box to the brim with water, and it will soak all the soil. To allow it to pass freely away, let the box stand on two pieces of wood, so that the water may have free egress. Never water by driblets, for that sours the surface and starves the bottom; and never water till water is actually wanted.

MUSINGS IN THE TWILIGHT.
IN the Twilight alone I am sitting,
And fast through my memory are flitting
The dreams of youth.

The Future is smiling before me,
And Hope's bright visions float o'er me-
Shall I doubt their truth?

I know that my hopes may prove bubbles,
Too frail to endure,

And thick-strewn be the cares and the troubles
That Life has in store.

But 'tis best we know not the sorrow
That comes with a longed-for to-morrow,
And the anguish and care:
If the veil from my future were lifted,
Perhaps at the sight I had drifted
Down into despair :

If I knew all the woes that awaited
My hurrying feet,

My pleasures might oftener be freighted
With bitter than sweet.

And yet, though my life has been lonely, Some flowers I have plucked that could only From trials have sprung;

Some joys I have known that did borrow Their brightness from contrast with sorrow That over me hung.

For the moonbeams are brighter in seeming
When clouds are gone by,

If only a moment their gleaming
Be hid from the eye.

Sad indeed would be Life's dewy morning,
If, all Hope's bright promises scorning,
O'erburdened with fears,

We saw but the woe and the sorrow
That would come to our hearts on the morrow,
The sighs and the tears.
So 'tis best that we may not discover
What Fate hath in store,
Nor lift up the veil that hangs over
What lieth before.

EMMIE J. BARBATT.

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

PLATONIC FRIENDSHIPS. THE subject of Platonic friendships or attachments is a tempting one to an essayist; yet its treatment is difficult and delicate, on account of the dangerous ground over which we must tread. Without going back to the theories of the old Platonists, some of which are exploded, and most of which have been considerably modified, we all know what is meant by the term 'Platonic friendship' in the phraseology of the present day. The words are indeed generally used in rather a sneering tone, and there are many unbelievers in the existence of such a relationship. Most people think it quite an ideal connection, only to be realised in some Utopia, to which we are all obliged to relegate in turn most of our cherished illusions. Still it is a beautiful conception; and as there undoubtedly have been well-authenticated historical instances of such an intercourse, we may be permitted to treat of it as at least possible, if rare. It will, however, first be necessary to define strictly what a bond-fide Platonic friendship is, as the name is often degraded, and made to mean very different things by different people.

A pure Platonic friendship, then, is, as we shall speak of it in this paper, a close and constant attachment between two persons of opposite sexes, into which, from beginning to end, nothing of the passion of love has ever entered, and in which neither of the parties has ever contemplated marriage as the result of their friendship. It is, we must confess, a connection so rare, even amongst men and women of exceptional characters, and under exceptional circumstances, as almost to justify the prevailing septicism as to its possibility. Yet we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that there have been ach friendships. We have biographies and Letters of well-known literary characters which testify to the existence of what we have called Platonic attachments lasting for years, or even for a lifetime, and which have been beneficial

PRICE 12d.

and comforting to both parties. We also, some of us, know cases in our own experience, or in that of those around us, of friendships which have so closely justified the definition given above, that there would be a difficulty in placing them in any other category.

It is easy to account for the rarity of the connection. We all know, alas! to our cost, and to our sore trouble of heart, how rare a thing a true mutual friendship is, even between persons of the same sex, and how many disappointments we meet with in our way through life. How much more rare a thing, then, must be a true, unselfish, strong attachment between those of opposite sexes, when we consider the snares and pitfalls which lie in its course. If the two parties are perfectly free in heart, they are of course subject to the danger of permitting their friendship to develop into something closer and deeper; and if, on the other hand, they are bound to others either by congenial or uncongenial ties, there is the worse danger of jealousies, and of that interference with 'vested rights' which is always to be deprecated. It is therefore easy to see why the Platonic sentiment has come to be so generally sneered at and distrusted.

It is probably due to the character of our social laws and conventionalities and old prejudices, that such connections are very uncommon in this country. This may result as much from want of the opportunity to bring such friendships to perfection, as from there being anything in nature to forbid them. We may remark, indeed, how very rarely our novelists or poets-who touch on almost every possible relationship of life-have portrayed for us a steady typical Platonic friendship. We can scarcely recall an instance of even one such, in thinking over all the fictions we are familiar with. Even when there has seemed a promising case in the beginning, as Adam and Dinah in Adam Bede, Tom Thurnall and Grace in Two Years Ago, or Daniel Deronda and Gwendolen, it has always failed in the end, and the destructive element of love-destructive, that is, to the continuance of the Platonic connection

-has obtruded itself, sometimes on one side, sometimes on both. It is not difficult to see why this should be. The most natural termination to a close and tender attachment between the sexes, where both have hearts unoccupied by others, or by a memory,' is love, pure and simple, even though the attachment may have begun, and continued for years without any admixture of this passion. On the other hand, in the case of two people who have other ties, the Platonic connection is seldom desired, and is always dangerous.

The chief components of a true Platonic friendship are, on the man's part, affection, respect, and entire confidence; on the woman's, devotion, selfsacrifice, and a constant regard for the well-being of its object. It partakes more, as we have said, of the nature of the relationship of brother and sister, or, if the ages differ much, of that of parent and child, than any other affection. Those among us who have happily realised this ideal friendship, or think they have done so, may be permitted to rejoice in it. It is a relationship which it seems a pity to believe impossible, or even uncommon, and is one which we can conceive of as being fruitful in beneficent results to both men and women, a sweetener of existence to many solitary hearts who, from other adverse circumstances, incompatible ties, or other causes, have failed to find much comfort in the more ordinary relationships of life.

Men who have met with a real and lasting disappointment in love-and there are such cases either from death, treachery, or an unhappy marriage, are the most likely subjects of all others to form a strong Platonic friendship for any kindly, sympathetic woman with whom they may be brought into contact. Indeed it is almost certain that they will do so, as it is scarcely possible for any one to live without at least one close friend; and the heart may be too dead for a second trial of the closest passion of all, or there may be obstacles in the way of indulging it. On the other hand, those who are called disappointed women' are not such promising subjects. Being generally too faithful to a love or a memory to care for any new tie, they solace themselves with their remaining domestic connections, or with the love

of children.

There are, however, women free in heart who are specially capable of Platonic attachments. Some women from the tone of their mind, or from the habit of hourly and daily intercourse with the beloved male members of their own family, grow to like the characters, conversation, and companionship of men better than they do those of their own sex; and they therefore form attachments for, or at least are strongly attracted by, men of their acquaintance, whom they know well, and who may chance to be congenial spirits. And this may be so without a thought of love, especially if love is not offered to them. Men who are disappointed in their wives, as far as intellect goes, often seek mental companionship elsewhere, and generally choose a woman for such. This is, however, one of the dangerous cases; and the woman chosen must indeed be so exceptional as to be an almost impossible character.

There are often what may be called spurious Platonic attachments, as there are spurious

loves, which bring discredit on the real article ; some in which one or both parties think they are acting bond fide; others in which the name of the half-recognised sentiment is made use of for unworthy purposes. There are men, for instance, who are capable of a very good imitation of a Platonic attachment, and who indulge in such in all good faith. We can all recall cases of this kind. They chiefly occur between cousins, or old friends from childhood, who have been thrown much together, and have many interests and thoughts in common; but often between mere casual acquaintances, where the girl is soft, sympathetic, and kind, and above all not exacting. The men in these cases may truly love elsewhere at the same time, and make the secondary love, so to speak, the receptacle of the confidences to which their male companions would not have the patience to listen. These little episodes in a man's life are, however, very far from fulfilling all the conditions of the true or ideal Platonic friendship, which is in its purity and intensity a thing of the life and of the heart, and one of the chief elements of which is constancy.

A STORY OF THE PRIMROSE WAY. CHAPTER X.-THE GHOST OF GARLING'S PAST.

GARLING, trusted cashier and manager to the great house of Lumby, sat in his own apartments in Fleet Street. The streets outside were filled with fog, and the lamps burned yellow in the haze. Voices of passers-by, footsteps, roll and roar and rumble of traffic by seething Temple Bar, came faintly, as though filtered through wool before reaching Garling's ears. There was a half-extinguished fire upon the hearth, the red glaring with dying anger through gray ashes. At a large circular table, lighted by one shaded lamp, sat the secret man, his hands resting passively in the light, his face in darkness. Outside the circle of the shaded lamp, everything lay in doubled darkness; and shadows lurked behind the meagre chairs, hiding in gloomy corners, as though, like Garling's face, they had drawn back from the tell-tale lamp. Muffled like the outer sounds, the voices of dead youth spoke through the fogs of many years. Unformed and indistinct, like the shadows in the corners of his room, the faces and figures known in that dead youth time moved before him. He had no wish or will to summon back the Past, but it flowed in upon him like a phantom tide. He could no more resist its coming than he could have swept back a real sea upon an actual beach. It rose about him with voices sad and terrible, and, as it were upon the crest of every phantom wave, old faces smiled or frowned again, and in the murmur of that tide of time old voices spoke.

Out of this mood he came into another, to which the first seemed but the natural prelude. Scenes came before him: gray, as in dreams, with no light upon them. And, indistinctly-as he saw the scenes-he heard the voices of those who acted in them, filtered through the fogs of years.

You are going,' said one phantom, 'to the

coast?'

Journal

'I am uncertain where to go,' said the voice of the first phantom, speaking in Memory's ear. 'Shall I join you? Do you mind?'

'Come by all means,' said the ghost of Garling's past; and the scene changed, yet the people were the same.

'I am recalled,' said the shadowy friend, and must return at once. I must travel hastily. You had better take my luggage on, and bring it back to town with you.'

The scene changed again. His self that was, had lighted at a village inn alone. He saw the ghost of a coachman, the ghosts of a team of horses, the ghost of a coach, the ghost of an old portmanteau. The portmanteau bore a nameE MARTIAL-painted in white letters. was an unsubstantial waiter on the scene, touching a shadowy forelock with vague finger. luggage, sir?

There

Your

Yes,' said the ghost of Garling's past; 'mine.' And so he was there as 'Mr Martial.' He had not thought of these things for years.

It was moonlight in the summer-time, and the gray waves vaguely seen were crumbling on the cliffs below. Roll and roar and rumble of traffic by seething Temple Bar came through the fog, and helped the picture, with noises as of the sea. His dead youth was here again.

'You love me well enough to trust me?'

'I love you better than any words that I can find will say.'

Is this a careworn woman, in a squalid room, with sewing on her lap, looking up at him as he enters? No. That was only a break in the vision, and the girl's face was fair-fair, with a tender bloom upon it; and in the eyes which turned to look in those of the ghost of Garling's youth, the light of love. Passive, dull-eyed, sate Garling in his own room, pondering on this dream. Was there any touch of pity in him-any stirring of remorse?

A village church-a quiet wedding-a clergyman, quite blurred with the fog of many years, was speaking; but ill-remembered though he may be, his voice was clear enough-Wilt thou, Edward Martial, take this woman to thy wedded wife? It was Garling's voice which answered 'I will:' his own hand traced the false name in the ghostly register. Garling's dead youth had kissed the bride, and the picture faded. Was there any touch of pity in him—any stirring cf remorse?

Suddenly, in one high corner of the room in which the cashier dreamed these dreams, a bell Fang, Moving his hand in a startled way, he ted the shade upon the lamp, and all the shadows that had lain behind him swept across the room, as the visions flitted from his mind. He threw open the door, wide, so that the lampat might fall upon the stairs without, and ed down them. Who's there?' he cried. A voice spoke through the letter-slip, and stirred the little cloud of yellow fog that lingered round it. I want to see Mr Martial.'

Who are you? What do you want?' asked Carling ungraciously, as he opened the door.

A tall figure stood in the fog, dimly visible by the light of a street lamp. The cashier peering at him, made out that he was respectably attired. 'What do you want?' he asked again.

'I want to see Mr Martial,' said the man. 'Is that you, mister?'

'Mr Martial has gone away from here long since,' said Garling.

"That's a pity,' said the man. 'His wife's dyin'. She sent me to this address—at least her daughter did.'

'Come in.'

The man entered, closing the door behind him, and followed the cashier up-stairs. Garling turning round upon him there, as he stood full in the lamplight, looked at him for half a minute, and then replaced the shade of the lamp. 'Who are you?' he demanded.

'I'm a lodger in Mrs Martial's house.' 'What's your name?'

'Hiram Search,' replied the messenger.'What's yourn?'

Garling returned no answer to this query; but from under down-drawn brows regarded his visitor, rather as if he looked beyond him than at him.

'Can you tell me where Mr Martial is to be found?' asked Hiram.

'No,' said Garling; 'I can't.'

'And wouldn't if you could,' said Hiram to himself. The cashier's manner certainly conveyed that inference legitimately enough.

ill?'

How long,' asked Garling, has his wife been

'She's been ailin',' Hiram responded, 'for a long time; but she's only been real bad about a week.'

'Who says she is dying?'

'Doctor,' said Hiram laconically. Neither of the two men liked the other. There was an instinctive antagonism between them. 'Says she can't live the night out,' he added.

'Go and call a cab,' said the cashier.
'There's one outside,' responded Hiram.

Mr Garling drew on an overcoat, goloshes and gloves, wound a muffler about his throat, put on his hat, all gravely and deliberately, and then turned down the lamp. Hiram led the way down-stairs, and they entered the cab which waited at the door. Drive straight back,' said Hiram, 'an' make haste.'

Roll and roar as though a tide were rising near at hand. Spectral appearances and disappearances of red-eyed monsters, mistily discerned as hansom cabs, growing out of fog-like exhalations, and melting back again. Roll and roar of the unseen tide along noisy Fleet Street and loud Ludgate Hill and by echoing St Paul's, and then a dulled quiet in Cheapside, as though the breakers had fallen into sudden frosty silence. Then from the asphalt to the stones again, with renewed bellowings of the unseen tide. Nothing seeming real to either of the travellers but themselves and the vehicle they sat in. Even the cab, verifying its existence by painful joltings, was drawn, in quite a ghostly and unreal manner, by nothing but the phantom hind-quarters of a horse.

All this time Hiram speculated as to the identity of his companion, resolving now that he was the husband of the dying woman, and