I search for causes, and here is a cause that escapes me."

The young lady never ceased waving her fan. She blushed, bowed her head, and murmured a few words which the sage was unable to hear. In vain did he repeatedly renew his question. The young woman took no further notice of him, and it appeared as if her soul had entirely passed into the hand that moved the fan.

Tchouang-Tsen regretfully withdrew. Although he knew that all is vanity he was by nature inclined to search out the motives of human actions, and particularly those of women; this curious little creature inspired him with a malevolent, but very intense interest. He slowly resumed his walk, sometimes turning his head and still seeing the fan beating the air like a great butterfly, when suddenly an old woman whom he had not hitherto noticed made a sign that he should follow her. She drew him into the shade of a particularly lofty mound, and said:

"I heard you ask questions of my mistress, to which she gave no answer. But I will satisfy your curiosity, partly from a natural desire to oblige, and partly in the hope that you will be good enough to give me the money to buy from the priests a magic paper which will prolong my life."

Tchouang-Tsen drew a piece of money from his purse, and the old woman spoke as follows:

"The lady you have seen on a tomb is Madame Lu, the widow of a literate named Tao, who died a fortnight ago, after a long illness, and the tomb is her husband's. They loved each other tenderly. But on the point of death Mr. Tao could not resolve to quit her, and the idea of leaving her in

the world in the flower of her youth and beauty was insupportable. However, he resigned himself thereto, for he had a sweet disposition, and his soul willingly submitted to necessity. Weeping at his bedside, which she had never left during his illness, Madame Lu held the gods to witness that she would never survive him, and that she would share his coffin as she had shared his couch.

"But Mr. Tao said:

666

Madame, you must not swear that.'

"At least,' she replied, 'if I do survive you, if I am condemned by the Spirits to see the light of day when you are no more, know that I shall never consent to become the wife of another; I shall have only one husband, as I have only one soul.' "But Mr. Tao said:

"Madame, you must not swear that.'

"Oh, Mr. Tao, Mr. Tao, let me at least swear that I will not remarry for at least five whole years.'

"But Mr. Tao said:

Swear only

"Madame, do not swear that. faithfully to preserve my memory, so long as the earth be not dry on my tomb.'

"Madame Tao swore a great oath. And the worthy Mr. Tao shut his eyes, never to re-open them.

"It is impossible to imagine Madame Tao's despair. Burning tears devoured her eyes. She scratched her porcelain cheeks with her sharp nails. But everything comes to an end, and the torrent of her sorrow abated. Three days after Mr. Tao's death, Madame Lu's sorrow assumed more reasonable proportions. She learnt that a disciple of Mr Tao wished to assure her of his share in her mourn

ing. She rightly judged that she could not avoid receiving him; which she did, with sighs. The young man was handsome and elegant; he spoke a little about Mr. Tao, and a good deal about her; he told her she was charming, and that he felt a strong affection for her. She allowed him to continue speaking. He promised to return. While she awaits him, Madame Lu, seated by her husband's tomb, passes the day in drying the earth of the mound with her fan."

At the conclusion of the old woman's story the sage Tchouang-Tsen reflected:

"Youth is fleeting; the incitement of desire urges young men and maidens. After all, Madame Lu is an honest individual who does not wish to break her oath."

Here is an example for the white women of Europe.

POPULAR SONGS OF OLD FRANCE

I

LOVE SONGS

HERE are many to-day in search of the hidden sources of tradition. The humblest memorials of poetry and of popular beliefs are carefully collected. A society founded on the initiative of M. Paul Sébillot, two special reviews, and numerous other publications, amongst which must be specified the legends of the Meuse, compiled by M. Henry de Vimal, and, quite recently, L'histoire de la chanson populaire, by M. Julien Tiersot, bear witness to the ingenious activity of our French searchers after tradition. This is indeed. no case of wasted effort. Records of the life of our provincial ancestors are both precious and delightful. Along with their painted plates, their marriage-chests carved with doves, and the pewter dish on which was served the bride's roast,

* Histoire de la chanson populaire en France, par Julien Thiersot, ouvrage couronné par l'Institut, in 8vo. Société des traditions populaires, au Musée d'ethnographie du Trocadéro. Revue des traditions populaires (dirigée par M. Paul Sébillot) 4° année, in 8vo-La Tradition, revue générale des contes, légendes, chants, usages, traditions et arts populaires, direction: MM. Émile Blémont et Henry Carnoy; 3° année, in 8vo.

they also left us their songs, and these are their sweetest legacy. Let us humbly acknowledge it: the old country-folk are the builders of the language, and our masters in poetry. They never seek rich rhyme, and are satisfied with simple assonance. The verses, not made for the eye, are full of ungrammatical elisions; but it must be borne in mind that if grammar is, as they say-and I doubt itthe art of speech, it is certainly not the art of song. Apart from that, the verse of the popular song strikes the ear as correct; it is clear and limpid, and possessed of a brevity which the most learned art seeks without acquiring; the imagery appears sharp and pure; in short, it has the light flight and morning song of the lark it so loves to glorify.

The pious antiquaries animated by the poetic folly of folk-lore-Maurice Boucher, Gabriel Vicaire, Paul Sébillot, Charles de Sivry, Henry Carnoy, Albert Meyrac, Jean-François Bladé-who wander through the country collecting the secrets of the rustic muse from the lips of the shepherds and old women busy with their distaffs, have transcribed and noted many an exquisite little poem, many a suave melody, which would have been lost without an echo in the woods and fields, for popular song is well-nigh extinct. It is a great pity; yet this omen of an approaching end implies a powerful attraction; we only care for what we fear to lose, since there is, alas, nothing poetic except the past.

These expiring songs collected in our villages to-day are doubtless old, far older than our grandmothers, but in their present form they go no further back than the seventeenth century. Several