cities we learn that anciently they practiced what is to-day called mesmerism, and induced clairvoyance, and were able to prophesy future events, as we see by the prophecies of the priests Napuctun, Ahkuilchel, Nahau-pech, Chilam-balam, and others, transcribed in the works of Fathers Lizana and Cogolludo. By the same mural paintings we know that they also consulted the magic mirror, called by them zaztun, and that practice has even reached our days, for they yet use the crystal to see hidden things. But all the scientific knowledge of their ancestors has, by slavery and oppression, been reduced to gross superstition and ignorance. When it is feared that one will die, the other members of the family hang round the outside of the hut food and drink as an offering to Yumcimil (lord of death), believing thus to ransom the life of the patient. They call this kex, which means exchange, as they offer food and drink in exchange for the life.

They also suspend from the bee-hives jicaras filled with a drink called zaca, so that the bees may not abandon them, may constantly bring honey, and their owners keep in good health.

Balam (tiger) is their god of agriculture, to whom they never fail to pay worshipful tribute, believing that in such case their crops would bring them no good. This tribute is offered when the crops are ripe. The first ears of maize are scattered to the winds for Balam. They will never allow one to be used till that is done. Balché (a fermented liquor made from the bark of a tree called balché, put with water to ferment, used by the Mayas in all sacred rites) is also sprinkled at the four corners of the field, and they put corncrust pies, called tamales, in the field for the god to enjoy at his leisure.

They are careful to make offerings to their ancestors. Since Christianity was introduced in the country the offering is made on All-saints' Day. They place

candles on the tombs, and suspend from the trees near by what they call hanal pixan (food for the souls). It is very substantial. A chicken tamal (corn pie) cooked under-ground (pibil). Pig meat is often mixed with the chicken; often, too, the chicken is left out altogether. When they feed their dead they also regale themselves with sponge-cake, chocolate, and as much rum as they can get.

When able to do so, they abandon a house after one has died in it. Formerly this had its reason, for they buried the corpse in or at the back of the house.

Corn is the chief article of diet in Yucatan. It is prepared in various ways. The principal is tortilla. The grains of corn are soaked in lime-water, then washed in pure water to free them from the husks. Afterward they are ground between two stones, one about eighteen inches wide and twenty-five long; it forms an inclined plane by means of its two front legs being shorter than the back one. The other stone is a rolling-pin, and is used as such to break the corn to a coarse powder on the square stone. The work appears easy, but requires both practice and strength. Well ground, and of the consistency of dough, the corn is by hand formed into perfectly round flat cakes on plantain leaves, then baked on a comal-a dish made of clay or iron.

Besides tortillas these poor Indians eat large quantities of chile (red pepper), sometimes black beans, and meat about once a week, many not even that. At times they work hard all day and have nothing to eat but posoli, which is like cooked hominy, kept moist, and generally made up in round balls. They mix it in water with their hands, being very careful to wash them first. This substantial drink is cool and nutritious.

To describe fully these strange people, their customs and language, much remains to be said that can not be included within the scope of a short article.

Grew ashy white and chill; without, a storm Began to blow, and clouds across the sky Swept heavily; the sunlight seemed to die.

In silence sat the veiled intruder down,

And gazed upon me; I could feel her gaze! Through the dark folds I thought I saw a frown Upon her brow. As through the gathering haze

The storm-worn mariner sees, with dread amaze,

The cliffs rise dark and threatening in his way,
So did I look at Sorrow's face that day.

And yet, "Draw not thy veil away!" I cried;
"I can not bear to meet thine awful eyes!
If henceforth at my hearth thou must abide,
And in the lore of suffering make me wise,
At least be merciful: keep thy disguise!
So dread the pangs thy hidden features give,
I can not see thy face unveiled, and live."

VOL. LXX.-No. 417.-25

Day waned, and slowly waned the dreary night,

And still I sat beside my shrouded guest. Her gaze resistless held my shrinking sight; Her voiceless lips woke terror in my breast. A trembling seized me, and my heart, oppressed,

Broke the dread silence with a shuddering cry, "Oh, let me see thine awful face, and die!"

Then Sorrow rose; her sable garment fell

About her feet, and slowly, fold on fold, She put away her veil: I could not quell The fear that made my very heart grow cold.

At length, unveiled, she faced me, and behold!

No grisly phantom was my silent guest,
No shape of terror, but an angel blest.

The light of peace was in her steadfast eyes;
Celestial love and pity made a blaze
Of glory all about her. Rapt surprise
Possessed my soul, and strength for feeble
days

Was in me born beneath her tender gaze.
I cried, "Henceforth we will not dwell apart!"
And clasped the Angel Sorrow to my heart.

THE

HE pretty little village of Ecouen, lying on the Northern Railway, from Paris to Brussels, is familiar to lovers of art as the home of Édouard Frère, and the centre of a school of painting of which he is the honored head. It is interesting also from many historical associations. The family of the famous Constable Anne de Montmorency have for centuries in habited the fine old château which crowns the summit of the mountain. It was here that the German Emperor Otho II., marching on Paris at the head of sixty thousand men, was defeated and driven back by the gallant Montmorencys. During the siege of Paris, in the late war, the Prussians occupied the town for months, but the soldiers were under such good control that many artists remained undisturbed in their studios, and amid the din of arms went quietly on painting the charming genre pictures characteristic of Ecouen. The cannon boomed all day long, but Frère painted the peasant child eating its plate of soup, or bringing its bundle of fagots from the wood, as if soldiers had never invaded this Arcadia.

Ecouen is some forty minutes' ride from Paris, and is easily reached, trains running frequently through the day and night, bringing the visitor to the station of

Ecouen, about a mile from the village itself.

The parish church, the earlier portion of which dates back some two hundred years, was, as M. Frère informed us one day, much more interesting forty years ago, when he first came to Ecouen. It was then very picturesque; additions of modern Gothic a few years ago have made it more convenient, but have spoiled its peculiar character. It stands under the shadow of the grand old chestnut-old when the famous Montmorency tied his horse to its noble branches--which stretches out its great arms as proudly as three centuries ago. Above, on the crown of the hill, towers the magnificent château. It has stood there, according to ancient chronicles, since Merovingian times. In 487 A.D. it was inhabited by the noble family of the Bouchards. The hero Tolbiac, who received the title of First Christian Baron from his sovereign, Clovis I., together with the fief of Montmorency, was the founder of the family. Ever since, the château of Ecouen has been the manor house of this illustrious race.

The château was rebuilt in 1545, during the temporary disgrace of the Constable Anne de Montmorency. Court intrigue and jealousy of the great power and trust

that he enjoyed succeeded in poisoning the mind of his sovereign. His services to the state were forgotten; he was forced to retire from court, and, humiliated and disappointed, secluded himself in his ancestral home in Ecouen.

He then determined to rebuild the castle in accordance with the spirit of the times, the epoch of the Renaissance. The most celebrated artists of the day were employed in this work, the architect and sculptor being the great Jean Bullant, pupil of Pierre Lescot. More than ten years were occupied in the labor of restoration. The château so built is the noble monument which now dominates the town. Nothing could be more admirably chosen than the site of the castle. Near at hand, strange to say, it appears small, but at a distance it assumes its true proportions, occupying an enormous space in the landscape, while the village lying just beneath sinks into insignificance. The view from this high point is very fine: on the southern side a beautiful stretch of country; in the distance the spires and cupolas of Paris; on the west the lovely valley of Saint-Brice.

After the death of Francis I., in 1547, the Constable was recalled to royal favor. Loyal and devoted by nature, he again actively employed his great powers in the service of his King, signalizing his devotion in many a hard-fought field. When more than seventy years old he led the royal troops at the battle of Saint-Denis. Dismounted, and bleeding from eight wounds, the brave old man still refused to yield, but a pistol-shot at the hands of Robert Stuart ended his glorious career.

Of late years the château has been used as a convent school for the daughters and nieces of members of the Legion of Honor. The school was founded by Napoleon in 1807, and with some changes and vicissitudes, owing to the fortunes of war and changes in state policy, has ever since been in operation. Never was there a more delightful school-house. The château grounds are charmingly laid out with terraces, fine avenues of trees, flower beds, and walks. Within the great space inclosed by the outer wall is the fine old park, which is now open to visitors. Until the establishment of the present government the park gates were only open to the public once a year, the pupils being kept in the strictest seclusion.

At the great fête of Corpus Christi religious services are held in the court-yard

of the château. The castle gates are opened to admit the religious procession bearing the sacred emblems. Any one who likes can enter with the priests into the hallowed precints. We were so fortunate as to be here the last time they were celebrated, and to witness the imposing ceremonies.

The crowd advanced through the pretty wood surrounding the castle and along the great avenue, and waited for the procession to appear. Presently the sound of chanting was heard, and far in the distance were seen the banners, now dancing in the sunlight, now passing into the shadow of the trees. Every one knelt as the procession advanced; the great gates swung back, and the priests entered, chanting solemnly, the acolytes swinging their censers. We ran quickly in as the procession swept on. Unhappy he who lingers a moment; he finds the ponderous doors closed. Not a glimpse can he obtain of the gorgeous spectacle within.

The court-yard was a sea of brilliant, harmonious color; silken banners, heavily embroidered, waved in the breeze, and magnificent draperies of silk and velvet hung from the windows of the château. The priests in their rich robes, one holding on high a great silver cross, the pretty acolytes in scarlet and white swinging their censers, the group of young girls who had this year made their first communion, in their white wreaths and veils, formed a pretty picture, with the gray old walls for a background.

Presently the music below was answered from above. Far up from a high balcony came the sound of sweet young voices chanting the grand, solemn music of the Catholic Church. The singing came from a choir of young girls. They were dressed in white, with white veils, the blue sash of some order worn about the shoulders. The choir was led by a beautiful young girl. She stood quite by herself in the centre of the balcony, a sheet of music in her hand, beating the time in a graceful, simple manner. The breeze filled her draperies, and they floated in the wind as she sang, giving her an exceedingly light and airy look, like an angel singing. She might have been St. Cecilia come down again to earth.

When the service was ended, a collection for the poor was taken up by two young girls, who went about with bags to gather the offerings of the devout.

The procession, followed by all the pupils and teachers of the school, then retraced its steps, passing through the door of the court-yard into the grounds. They made the circuit, chanting as they went. It was a beautiful sight as they passed slowly around. At last, the ceremonies being all finished, they retired down the long avenue leading from the château. We lingered for some time to admire the tasteful manner in which the grounds are laid out. The bright parterres and the handsome vases filled with flowers gave a cheerful modern look to the gray castle, while the ancient moat, now all overgrown with grass, but still distinctly visible, carried the mind back to feudal times. In the summer all the men, women, and children work in the fields. They rise between three and four in the morning and go out a long way into the country,

PLOUGHING.

where they find their work, returning at eleven o'clock to get their mid-day meal; then off again to their labor as soon as it is finished. The very small children are left alone, sleeping in their beds till the parents come home for dinner. The doors and windows are shut and locked, the heavy wooden shutters being all closed tight. One would infer that the neighbors and towns-people are all thieves, that it is safe to trust no one, and no doubt they are right. I have often gone out in a great hurry to find a little model, and discovered the house with this forbidding aspect. It is no use to bang at the doors nor wear your patience out trying to wake the little sleeper.

The laborers return from the fields quite late in the evening. Then they eat their supper, and afterward sit on the door-steps and gossip with their neighbors, or make

visits about the village. The children roll round in the dirt, unmindful of damp or of fleas: there is no lack of either in Ecouen. They receive about three francs (sixty cents) for this long day's work. I have often seen them in the fields till nine o'clock in the evening. What would an eight-hour American laborer think of that?

Living is very cheap in Ecouen, or rather was till strangers came and made everything dear, taking the bread from the poor people's mouths, as an old crone said to me one day. The idea that strangers can bring money into the town and spend it there, making them richer, does not occur to them. Perhaps they are right, for the money finds its way into other hands than theirs. They feel only the grip of poverty. As a rule, however, they are very comfortably off, for rents are low, and a French man or woman, not to mention the children, knows better how to turn an honest penny, and to keep it, than any one else. Every child has its caisse d'épargne (savings box),