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does not interfere, yet many influences, political and others, combine to cause great divisions among the Academicians themselves.

Daudet's celebrated novel, 'L'Immortel,' lets us behind the scenes, and in spite of the exaggerations of the work, there is no doubt that many intrigues are carried on at every election, and many influences brought to bear on the votes. This was especially the case on 1st May, for the battle was long and ardent, yet remained without result, no one reuniting a sufficient number of votes to make the election valid-twenty votes, or one more than the half of the Academy, being absolutely necessary.

Foreseeing the ardour of the struggle, the Academicians were all at their post. Of the thirty-nine Immortals, only one was absent, the Duc d'Aumale, who was in Sicily. M. Rénan, suffering from a severe attack of gout, and unwilling to be absent, was carried into the hall. At one o'clock the sitting was declared to be open, and the permanent secretary read the letters addressed to the Academy by the thirteen candidates; and then, according to the ancient statutes, he declared that the voting ought to be entirely free and independent. The votes were then taken. Seven times the operation was renewed, and always with the same result, or rather without result, as no candidate succeeded in reuniting more than ten votes. After the seventh time, seeing that it was useless to continue, the director proposed that the election should be adjourned. This motion was unanimously agreed to. Amongst the candidates it was certainly not variety that was wanting, for there were not only his

torians and critics, but novelists, poets, men of science, dramatists, &c.,-some amongst these of brilliant talent, others of more modest pretensions, and some few whose names are but little known even in France. Amongst the best known was that of M. Zola. Many have wondered that he should aspire to a place among the Immortals, for whatever may be the merits or defects of his works, they certainly are not academic.

Many thought that his last work but one, 'Le Rêve' (‘The Dream ') was written with a view to academic honours. However this may be, the book is as different from his other works as day from night, as light from darkness. When a friend asked M. Zola if he thought he had a chance, he replied, "I know I have not the slightest, at least this time; but I mean to persevere, and in the end I hope to succeed. I think a man, and especially an artist, ought to aspire to all the honours he can obtain, and that he thinks he merits. A seat in the Academy is the highest literary honour for us, and I mean to try for it."

Another novelist on the list was Pierre Loti ("Julien Viaud"). His works are eminently sympathetic. The descendant of an old Huguenot family which centuries ago took refuge in the isle of Oberon, we may call him the sailor-poet, for his profession is that of a naval officer, and his writings, although in prose, are full of poetic beauty.1

From all the far-off lands and distant seas where the changes of a sailor's life have carried him, he has brought back memories and descriptions whose originality and melancholy tenderness have a pro

1 He has written 'Le Mariage de Loti,' 'Mon Frère Ives,' 'Propos d'Exil,' Madame Chrisanthème,' &c.

found charm. And his last work, 'Le Roman d'un Enfant' ('A Child's Romance'), gives us pictures of the Huguenot home which might have been taken from some old English Puritan family of the seventeenth century. The old Family Bible, the object of so deep a reverence; the venerable grandmother, stern yet kind, are described with rare tenderness and pathos. Some day or other Loti will certainly take his place amongst the forty, but it will not be this time!

M. Brunetière, who was another of the candidates, takes a high place as critic. His articles in the 'Revue des deux Mondes' are much appreciated.

But the competitors who seemed destined to dispute the prize were the historians, M. Lavisse and M. Thureau-Dangin. The former is Professor of History at the Sorbonne, and has written ably on historical subjects: above all, he is supported by very powerful friends, who have left nothing undone to ensure his success.

M. Thureau-Dangin had, however, still more serious claims. For several years he has been accepted in principle as a future Academician, and the merits of his works amply entitled him to this distinction.

His principal work, 'The History of the Monarchy of July,' gives him a place among the great historical writers, not only on account of the eloquence and beauty of the language, but principally because of its thorough integrity, and the rare impartiality and independence of its judgments.

But almost at the last moment a new candidate came forward M. de Freycinet, Prime Minister (Président du Conseil) and Minister of War. His suc

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cess was certain from the first, his position as Prime Minister coming powerfully to the aid of his literary merits. The election took place 11th December, and M. de Freycinet obtained the requisite number of votes-namely, 1 more than the half; 38 Academicians were present, and 20 voted for him. We may add that M. de Freycinet's literary bagage (as they say here) is neither very voluminous nor very important: some treatises on scientific subjects, and a book written after the war of 1870 ('La Guerre en Province'). This latter publication has been well spoken of. M. de Freycinet is considered (by his own party, at least) to have done good service to his country; and the Academy's doors have always been open to those who have rendered public service, though it may not have been with the pen.

Much of the success of the French Academy is due to the opportune time at which it was inaugurated. It fixed to some extent the language of French letters, and has exercised a not inconsiderable influence upon literature itself. Usage has made its membership a most legitimate aspiration for French littérateurs, but it is only when coincident with the already expressed judgment of the public that its membership affords any practical benefit. English literature may fairly boast that no academy would be capacious enough to hold the authors who might justly claim their seats in it. English authors, sua si bona norint," will think twice before they curb their free, noble, and inclusive profession by an institution whose raison d'être could only be restrictive, and which at best would lend only an extrinsic dignity to its present position.

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THE moorland rills, in which live the pigmy trout, gathering force and volume, unite and become streams. After running through the upland woods they widen in the woodland meadows, forming ponds which are nearly surrounded by copse growth. In these, fine trout thrive and grow fat; not the long-bodied trout that live in the swift stream, but short thick fellows, silvery in colour, red spots dappling their bright sides. They be hog-backed uns, an' no mistake," said a rustic fisher, as I was passing along the edge of the wood one evening.

This man was cutting extraordinary capers with his heavy hobnailed boots on the grass, threshing away most vigorously at the same time with his hat. "Now then, Marksman," said I,—that was the nickname he went by," what's up? Have you got St Vitus's dance, or is it a wasp's nest you've stepped into?"

"I ain't got one nor yet t'other; I'm gettin' owlets." As he said this he held up a ghost moth between his finger and thumb. Then he placed it in his empty tobaccobox, in which were three or four more of the same sort.

"That'll do fur to-night," he remarked. Will ye come?" Then he produced from his pocket a fishing-line wound round a short piece of hazel. I nodded.

"Are ye going to bide here, or are ye coming in the cover with me?"

I chose to remain where I was, for from the open side of the pond I could note all his proceedings,

which were always of an interesting nature.

From some brambles he pulled out a stick about five feet long, forked at the end where it had been cut.

The end of the line

was securely tied just below the fork; the rest of it was wound round the outside of the fork, leaving about a foot of strong gut hanging down; to this a by no means small hook was attached. Then from his tobacco - box he pulled out one of his owlets, and, evidently knowing well what he was about, he placed the moth. "I'm agoing to wiggle fur 'em," said he. Then he made his way into the cover, with such gentleness of movement that I only knew of his whereabouts by seeing him look over the splashed hazel bank of the pond on the other side, the light throwing his shadow behind him. Marksman was knowing in all details; but he had an original way of proceeding that always had great fascination for me, and I learned many a "wrinkle from him. He very quietly unwound the line by turning his forked stick the reverse way as it neared the water, and I could see him gently jerking it up and down to imitate the flight of the insect. Then he let it drop on the water, close to the bank, and gave his owlet a motion as if it were struggling to rise from the pond, after falling in.

Another wiggle, and then came a sound, sock! The stick was raised, the line as tight as any harp-string, and up the bank went a trout, being out of sight in the most extraordinarily quick fashion.

The next moment, with a grin all over his face, Marksman held it up for inspection; a real beauty it was. As silently as before he then moved on to another place, where the performance was repeated with equal success.

"I see one of they owlets drop in one evenin' as I wus looterin' round," said he. "I thought over it fur a spell, an' since then I've found it act most oncommon."

But luck changes. Marksman had only seen that particular moth fall in, and when his owlets failed him he was at a loss to know what to use next. Worms or live bait the trout in that particular pond refused entirely. Meeting him again on the moor one day, I asked how his fishing was getting "Oh,” replied he, "I gi'n it up. I thought as I'd found out a way to clear that thear pond, but 'tain't no go arter all. I shell hev tu wait till they owlets cums round here agin."

on.

"Marksman," said I, "if I find you a kind of owlet that will catch trout out of that pond, and last you all the season up to running time, will you keep it to yourself?" "Now- ""

"There, that's all right-give me your precious tackle; you don't leave that at home, I know."

"I wonders what noover ye be up tu now," he observed, handing over his fishing-gear.

After a fresh whipping of the hook on to the gut, I made a body from a new wine-bottle cork, and securely fixed it on the hook fore and aft. In it I put two small dark beads for the eyes. In place of wings I whipped on the beautifully pencilled tips of the feathers from the wings of the white owl. "Use it just before the dark closes in," I said, in giving the thing to Marksman.

He used it with good result. Many a fine trout in that pond was taken by the strange insect, which, when not in requisition, was religiously kept in a dominobox in some cunningly contrived pocket of his old velveteen jacket. No profane eye was allowed to rest on that treasure, and from the date of the unearthly insect's manufacture I rose many inches in Marksman's estimation. It is still treasured up, and when its owner has had a little over three pints of ale he will tell the company that he has "summat in a box as 'll fetch 'em out on it, when it's dark." After another pint, he will state in the most defiant manner, and perfectly unsolicited, "No, I ain't a goin' tu show it tu nobody,-what du ye think? No, nor yit tell who made it. No, I shan't!" his voice rising to a perfect yell. Poor Marksman !

There is plenty of water on both sides of the valley belonging to the Hackhurst downs. The streams run in different directions, part finding their way to the Wey, the rest emptying themselves into the Mole. In these are certain pools and ponds hidden in nooks and corners that are full of fine fish. Before the pro

perty changed owners I and many others were allowed to fish and shoot there, but that is a thing of the past. The rod is placed on one side now; there are too many of those unsightly square boards about, telling one that any person attempting to catch anything the size of a sprat will be prosecuted. Ay, ugly notice - boards disfigure the stream and road sides, the beautiful woods and the wild hillsides. Yet I do not remember that the kindness and confidence of our old gentry was ever abused. A simple intimation to keep away

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"That's all very well, but what kind of fish?"

"Perch, roach, dace, and gudgeon, sir."

"Show me your baskets, and take your lines from the water that I may see your baits. Yes, yes, quite right."

We lifted our caps to him as he turned to go again, an act of politeness which the courteous old gentleman returned instantly in kind.

"Let my trout alone-don't go where they are;" that was the only restriction he placed on our movements. We respected it always, for we liked and honoured him well.

Dabchicks, or little grebes, bred in one spot, I knew. The pool was not larger than a duck-pond, but it was clear and deep, and full of fine green weeds. I had never noticed any fish, particularly, on account of the thickness of these. One evening my companion was waiting for a shot at a dabchick—we had come for other game when a rise up in the weeds made us put our guns quickly up to the shoulder, thinking it was some water-bird diving; but out jumped some fine roach, and a great pike after them.

He was one of the brightest, and for his length the thickest, pike I had ever seen. We looked at each other, dabchicks were forgotten, and our only thought was how to get at the fish. What to do we did not know,

for if the pike ran into the masses of weed a rod was useless,—no clothes - prop would have pulled him out. So we agreed to sleep on it; and during the night my friend had a happy inspiration. Next morning he showed me the most rough-and-ready contrivance that it has ever been my lot to see. He had a large hank of light olivegreen cord, thin but very strong, such as you would use to hang a good-sized picture by. To this

form of line two feet of wire was firmly lashed, and this again was securely lashed-whipped would by no means express it-to a double hook. The wire was of the same kind and of equal thickness as that used to catch hares with. As my companion observed, "It would pull the very old one himself out, if he got the hooks in his gullet." The next business was to catch bait this was easily done, for large roach abounded in the stream close at hand. After the bait had been fixed, my friend took it in his hand and threw it, as he would have done a stone, into the first open space between the weeds near us; the remainder of the picture-cord lay on the top of the weeds. I had no faith in the proceedings myself, the tackle being so very rough, but my companion evidently had. Those pike had surely never seen a line before; they must have been the most unsophisticated of the pike family, for, before five minutes had passed away, the picture-cord began to shoot over the top of the weeds at a most rapid rate, and then it stopped. "All right," said my friend; "he's pouching it. I shall give him ten minutes, and then I'll tickle his gizzard." He

1 Our author must remember, too, that in those days, before so many railroads were open, crowds of trippers were not able to overrun the beautiful country-side, tearing up primroses, roots, and flowers, and carrying on a system of wholesale destruction wherever their profane hands and feet went.

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