Theodoret gives a story of the Arian Bishop Eunomius, which belongs to the same epoch as the Panarion. Eunomius was so unpopular with the Christian majority in Samosata, who were nearly all Catholics, that scarcely any Christian of repute or social standing would go to church. One day, when he was in the baths, he saw that many persons stood waiting without. He seems to have fancied that they refrained from bathing at the same time out of respect to his august office, for he kindly told his servants to bid them enter freely and bathe with him. They still continued to stand silently at the edge, as if waiting; and he, out of consideration-still thinking their respect withheld them -hastily left the water. The Christians, however, refused to enter until all the water had been withdrawn, and the bath refilled, fearing that their bodies might be polluted with his heresy if they used the water in which he had bathed himself. A century later, St Gaudentius of Brescia, in one of his sermons advising Christians to sanctify all their actions with the sign of the cross, tells them to use it also 'at the bath when you come in, and when you go out.'

When the monks, in later times, studied the lives of the early solitaries of the fourth century, they were shocked at the discovery of their own declension from primitive dirt and purity. Our fathers,' says the Abbot Alexander, never washed their faces, but we frequent the public baths.' Mr Lecky quotes from The Spiritual Meadow the significant story of Abbot Theodosius. At his urgent prayer, God once suddenly opened a stream; as soon as his monks began to use it, not for drinking only, but for washing, the stream miraculously dried up. They had dug a pit in which to bathe themselves. As soon as they had filled up this incentive to luxury, the water again flowed. It was the luxury of the act which they feared. Could any one have convinced these simple men that washing is as necessary to bodily soundness as drinking is, the legend would not have recorded the drying up of the water the moment they began to dig a bath.

The only persons to whom bathing was actually prohibited by the legislation of the early church were the penitents and the catechumens. The penitents were ordered to refrain from the bath until the day of the absolution and restoration their bodily uncleanness was to remain upon them as a symbol and reminder of their spiritual uncleanness. The catechumens who were under preparation for baptism at Easter were obliged to abstain from the bath throughout Lent, until the day on which the Saviour washed the feet of his apostles, Maundy-Thursday. This had become a fixed custom in the beginning of the fifth century, for the reason of it was one of those series of questions put by Januarius to St Augustine, to which the great African gave those answers, so full of liberality and of common-sense, which compose his two long epistles Ad Januarium (54 and 55). 'You ask me,' he writes, whence originated the custom of using the bath on that day. When I think over it, nothing occurs to me as more probable than that it was intended to avoid that offence to decency which must be given at the baptismal font, if the bodies of those to whom it, as sacrament, is to be administered, are not cleansed on some preceding day from the uncleanness they have contracted through their long abstinence from washings during

Lent. And this once granted to those who are about to receive baptism, others desired to join them in the luxury of a bath.'

When the lives of the Fathers of the Desert were rendered into Latin, and studied in the western nations, the western character offered some amount of opposition to the dirty element in the example of the hermits. In the beginning of the sixth century, St Cæsarius of Arles, who had been educated in that centre of Gallican intelligence (and as M. Michelet will have it of Gallican rationalism), the splendid monastery of Lerins, where he had nearly destroyed himself by ascetic austerity, drew up two rules, one for monks, and the other for virgins. He had himself in his life founded two nunneries, and placed his own sister Cæsaria over the convent at Arles as first abbess. In his eleventh regulation for her nuns, he so far modifies the savage oriental example as to order that the nuns shall never use bathing unless it is prescribed by the physician.' In the end of the ninth century, Reculfus, Bishop of Soissons, included cleanliness amongst the duties he commended to his clergy in his Instructions. The fourth section begins with the quotation from Isaiah: 'Be ye clean, that bear the vessels of the Lord' (Isaiah lii. 11). Reculfus goes on to say: "You must not suppose that this refers only to the cleansing of the chalice and paten, wherein the body and blood of Christ are consecrated; it refers also to personal cleanliness. We have a frail vessel, that is, our body, which we ought always to keep clean with the most scrupulous care.' By the eleventh century, the difference between the refined and aristocratic Benedictine of the West and the fathers of monasticism in the East had become as wide as the difference between a gentleman and a mudlark in modern London in regard to bodily cleanliness. The monk William of Malmesbury evidently shrunk from personal uncleanliness with the horror of any modern historian; in his catalogue of the different home delights and home occupations which each nation had to leave behind to join other nations in the Crusades, while saying that the Welsh left their hunting, and the Danes their drinking, he characterises the Scots as 'leaving their fellowship with lice.' We should have thought the fellowship was not so easily broken; but it is curious that not long after, this kind of fellowship was still taken as one sign of saintship when discovered upon the dead body of a martyr. It seems that the East has been as conservative in the early cult of dirt as in so many other things. In a list of the sins of everyday life laid down for the Christians in Bulgaria, according to Messrs St Clair and Brophy, the fourth article, as late as 1869, still stood thus: 'It is a sin to wash a child before he has come to the age of reason.' The canonical age of reason is seven. The Bulgarian child has a bath of salt at his birth, but no other bath at all until seven years after. With the female Christian it seems to be even worse. The bride, on the Friday before her marriage, takes for the first and the last time in her life' a complete bath; her two bridemaids may look on, but may not share in the ablution. Although until the seventh year a child may not be touched with water, the washing of face, hands, and feet is permitted after that period. The cleansing of the whole body, however, is regarded as a great sin either for male or female, with the single exception of the bride-elect.

Possibly the dirty habit is connected with some dread of washing away baptism However, it is plain that in this case dirt must be considered as next to godliness.' All desire to be clean must still be reckoned by men and women now living, as by the ancient hermits in the Thebaid, as a lust of the flesh. According to the universal experience of mothers and nurses in the western nations, expressed in so many nursery rhymes and tales and pictures, the very reverse is true. They tell us, and perhaps our own young recollections sanction their assertion, that a desire to remain dirty, a hatred of the bother and the pain of being cleansed, is an instinct of the natural man which reappears in each of the species from the day he feels the smart of soap and water or the rough pressure of a towel. The little birds never cry!' said the perplexed nurse to her screaming charge. 'Because they are never washed,' the natural foe of soap incontinently and wittily replied.

MISS TWITTER'S CONSPIRACY. YEARS ago I had a young person in my service called Annabel Brown. The Brown was not, of course, surprising in a parlour-maid, but the Annabel was; and the more so when the cook made Hannibal of it, who, I need not remark, was a gentleman and a general. For my part, I would not encourage such a name at all in one in her position, but called her plain 'Annie,' with which she was quite content. She was an orphan; but I had known both her parents, and very honest, good folks they were, with plenty of common-sense too, so that it could not have been they, but her 'godfather and godmothers in her baptism,' as the Service says, who gave her such an outlandish name-for Christian I can't call it. She was a modest girl, who, if she had a fault in dress, was given to extreme simplicity; indeed, some of my visitors used to say: 'So you have got a Quakeress, I see;' which was, of course, ridiculous; for though one does not want one's servants to be chatter-boxes, one likes one's questions answered by something more than 'Yes' or 'No,' to which, I believe, the vocabulary of the Friends is limited. Moreover, though I am not a great lady, nor anything like it, it was not likely I should permit my parlour-maid to thou' and thee' me, and far less my guests. However, what with the meekness of her manners and the simplicity of her attire, Annabel Brown might have sat for Mrs Fry, supposing that good lady to have ever been eighteen and a beauty. Annie had brown hair, very silken and plentiful; large brown eyes like those of a gazelle; and a soft, rather alarmed expression of face, which, if it did not suggest modesty, was the most hypocritical mask that ever woman wore. Her movements were quick, but noiseless; and altogether she reminded one of a mouse. Like a mouse, however, she was not as regards purloining, even so much as a rind of cheese. I could have trusted her with untold gold; and when I had a new bonnet or other piece of finery, I felt as certain that Annabel Brown would never try them on even, to see how she looked in my cheval glass, as though I had kept them under lock and key. Finally and above all, she had no Followers; or, at all events, they followed her at such a distance that they never came within view of my windows, and I have a pretty long sight for such gentry.

I need not say that Annie was a constant church-goer, and as sure as Sunday came round, always went to hear the Word' (that was her phrase, though she was by no means a canter) twice a day, whether it was wet or fine. In the evenings she never went out, not even on weekdays, which itself spoke volumes in her praise. She had no friends in town, she said, in explanation of this phenomenon. She was the only maid I ever had who never asked leave to pass an evening with her friends' or 'cousins.' Well, being such a pattern of propriety, you may imagine my astonishment on seeing her come home from church one day accompanied by a young man, who left her at the front door (my area gate is always locked on Sunday) with a bow that would not have disgraced Lord Chesterfield.

Though a fine morning, it had turned out wet, and I noticed, with no little distress of mind, that the umbrella which he was holding over her with much apparent solicitude was a handsome silk one; the man himself, too, had an alarmingly genteel appearance. I made sure that Annie would explain this unprecedented circumstance without any inquiry on my part; and when some hours passed by without her doing so, the matter appeared to me all the graver.

Accordingly, at night, when she was assisting me in my room, I broached the subject myself.

'Annie,' said I, 'I was very much surprised to see you come home from church this morning accompanied by a stranger. How did that happen?'

'Well, ma'am, it was very wet,' returned she (with a simplicity that would have quite disarmed me, even if I had entertained any indignation against her, which I did not; I only felt angry with the man); and as I had no umbrella, the gentleman, who was at church himself, kindly offered to see me home.'

'Annie,' said I solemnly, 'do not imagine that men-and especially gentlemen-only go to church as you do, to say their prayers. I once heard a great preacher, Mr Spurgeon, divide "churchgoers" into a number of classes, some of which were of a very unsatisfactory sort. Among others there was the "umbrella Christian," as he termed it: the man who goes into a church merely to save his hat, or get out of the rain.'

But, please, ma'am, this gentleman had an umbrella, observed Annabel Brown.

I thought it rather pert, and very unlike herself, that she should argue with me on this matter; but still, I was determined not to lose my temper.

In this particular case, that may have been so,' said I; but he might have gone to church with a wrong motive, for all that. To my eyes he did not look a suitable person for a young woman in your position to be walking with. He left you at the front door, and he may have been mistaken as to your condition in life. Did you inform him of it?' 'No, ma'am.'

Annabel Brown was certainly too Quakerish; any other girl would have seen with half an eye that I was really solicitous (for her own sake) to know what the man had said to her; yet all that I could get out of Annie was: 'No, ma'am.' It was not treating me, I thought, with the confidence that my conduct towards her had merited. She might have been more open-like that silk umbrella.

really suffered. Mr Trevelyan at once proceeded to transfer his attentions to me.

"O yes, ma'am, she 'ave come in. I only wonder her friend didn't come in with her; he seemed so very much attached.'

"What friend?' asked I, with assumed indifference.

'O pray, ma'am, don't ask me; Hannibal, I know, is such a pattern. Otherwise, I should have said as 'ow he was a follower.'

'And what sort of a man was he, cook?' "Oh, quite the gentleman to look at; fine feathers makes fine birds to them as can see no further;' and cook looked as if she could see a great deal further, and amongst other things the house robbed, and her mistress's throat cut, in no distant perspective.

But I did not fear for anything, except upon Annie's account, and resolved at once to give her a good talking to?

'Now, my good girl,' said I, having summoned her into the drawing-room, this matter must be put a stop to at once. I will not have that man come to this house again. Don't say "What man?" because you know who I mean perfectly well. I mean the umbrella-man.'

'Please, ma'am, he had no umbrella to-day.' She was so simple, that I felt quite ashamed of being angry with her.

Umbrella or not,' said I, he shall not come here. A man without a name-and with much too good an address-it is perfectly scandalous.'

'Please, ma'am, his name is Trevelyan.' "Then, that is much too good for you,' answered I. You have a nice manner and appearance of your own, and they have evidently deceived him; and no good can come of such a misunderstanding to either of you. Do you understand me?'

'Mr Trevelyan knows, ma'am, that I am but a servant, observed Annabel gently, and with a little blush.

Then the more shame for him,' said I sharply. 'Mind, from this moment, you never walk with him again, or you leave my service.'

Annabel Brown lowered her head in respectful assent; she would have said: 'Yes, ma'am,' if she could, but the tears were falling fast down her pretty cheeks. I was very sorry for her, but I felt sure that I was doing my duty by her, and did not

relent.

The next Sunday, she came home alone. She had been very depressed throughout the week, but going to church seemed to have done her good, for she looked much more cheerful. My impression was that she had seen him, and got rid of him; and in doing so, had discovered the wisdom of such a proceeding. He had shewn his hand-with the false cards in it--and she knew him for a cheat and a deceiver, and was glad to have escaped tolerably heart-whole.

She was not so much to be pitied, however, after all, my gentle reader, as you shall hear; so please to reserve your compassion for the person who

'Mr Arthur Trevelyan!' exclaimed I, reading the printed name; 'why, that's never your Mr Trevelyan?'

She was about to say: "Yes, ma'am,' but putting on what was for her a bold face, answered: Well, I hope he will be mine, maʼam.'

The next moment, he was in the room, and Annie had shut the door, leaving me alone with this Don Giovanni. I am bound to say he was a very good-looking, gentlemanly person, and with anything but an impudent air.

I have ventured to call upon you, madam, with relation to Annabel Brown, who is, I believe, at present your parlour-maid.'

'Well, sir,' said I, very stiff and formal.

'I thought it would be only courteous to let you know that she would be leaving you, probably before the month is up, in order to become my wife. If, as she says, you forbid us to meet, I shall take her even earlier, as I find it impossible to exist without her society-at all events on Sundays.'

'Take her earlier-make her your wife!' reiterated I: 'this is quite incomprehensible to me, sir; why, you have not seen her half-a-dozen times!'

'Nevertheless, madam, it is my intention to marry her, and that at once. She is of age, she tells me, and there is nothing to prevent it.'

'But there is surely a great difference of social position, Mr Trevelyan. You have the air and manners of a gentleman; while she'

'Forgive me, madam, for interrupting you, but I am sure you are yourself too much a gentlewoman to say anything derogatory of the person I have selected for my bride.'

He quite took my breath away, he was at once so proud and so polite.

I am twenty-six years of age, madam,' he went on, and I know my own mind, and have an independent fortune. There is no sort of use in opposing our engagement, even if your kind heart would permit you to do so. The chief object of my calling upon you was indeed to request a personal favour of you in connection with our approaching nuptials. Annabel tells me that she has neither father nor mother, nor indeed any friend in London except yourself.'

'That certainly was my belief,' said I, 'until lately.'

Mr Trevelyan only smiled at this significant reply.

Well, madam, this being so, and you having reason, I believe, to be satisfied with Annabel as to her moral qualities, I come to ask of you the great favour of your giving her away at the altar.'

'I give Annie away! and to you, a perfect stranger! Never!'

'My dear madam, I honour your scruples,' returned the young man with a low bow (and I must say, for grace of manner I have seldom seen his equal); but this is the address of my lawyers, and this of a parish clergyman in your vicinity, who will both vouch for my respectability and good family. Beyond these facts, and that I have

sufficient means, independent of a profession, to support a wife, I don't feel called upon to speak.' Mr Trevelyan seemed such a very nice young man, and I had such a true regard for Annabel, that, absurd as the proposition of my giving her away to him at first had seemed, I finally came in to it, and, about three weeks afterwards, they were married by special licence. She was not at all puffed up by her good fortune, and though he gave her a great sum for her trousseau, she expended it with her usual quiet good taste. Annabel Brown was adapted for any position in life into which she happened to be thrown, and that did not require energy or powers of conversation, in which she was certainly deficient; and out of the fifty maid-servants that I have had in my service from first to last, she was the only one of whom I could say as much.

'But how,' my readers may ask, 'did Annabel get on after she became Mrs Trevelyan?'

That I can't tell you, but I can tell you what happened to me in consequence, which is the terrible part of the whole story.

A stately carriage drove one day up to my door, and my new maid (a very different one from dear Annie) came running up the stairs in a state of great excitement. "O mum, please, mum, there's a lord's coach at the door, and her ladyship wishes to see you.'

ful accomplice, who passed as your maid-servant, it seems, and whose fatal charms overcame poor Arthur's scruples. It is my belief that you both ought to be hanged. Don't answer me; don't venture to speak to me, lest the sound of your hated voice should provoke me beyond all bounds! You were a witness to this atrocious marriage. I have read your foolish name in the register, you false, perjured, crafty, abominable woman! If I was not a lady born and bred, I don't know what I shouldn't call you!'

What she would have called me had she not been a lady of hereditary title, it is impossible to conjecture; she had an immense vocabulary of abuse even as it was, and she exhausted it.

'I shall come again and let you know what my opinion of you really is!' were her last words, which were perhaps the most terrible of all. She had nearly frightened me out of my wits as it was; and the threat of that scene being repeated, lay heavy on my soul for many a day, until my lease was out, and I took another house. Thank Heaven, I never saw her ladyship again.

'What's her name?' demanded I quietly; for I did not wish this grinning idiot to suppose that I was never called upon by members of the aristocracy.

'It is not your business to read visitors' cards,' said I stiffly. Shew Lady Alice Trevelyan up.'

The similarity of name with that of Annabel's husband of course struck me at once; yet I was totally unable to conjecture her business with poor insignificant me. I was not long, however, left in doubt. A tall, bony, stiff-backed woman of about sixty years of age presently sailed into the room. 'Miss Twitter, I believe?' said she.

'The same,' replied I politely. 'Will not your ladyship take a seat?'

"Certainly not,' answered she snappishly. I merely came to see the sort of person by whose nefarious assistance my unfortunate nephew has been entrapped into matrimony. This is the house, is it,' said she, looking round my little drawing-room in a very depreciatory way, where this Conspiracy was hatched? In this vile hole you baited your trap, did you, for that innocent boy?'

'I am quite at a loss, madam, to know what you mean,' said I (though I began to guess), 'except that you intend to make yourself offensive.'

'You are right there, woman,' she rejoined acidly, if you should never again be right in your life. It is the only consolation left to me, after the ruin of our house, to tell you to your face what I think of you. You are a treacherous, designing creature; you entered into a fraudulent conspiracyYes, I know it's actionable, if there's a witness; but if you dare to come near the bell, I'll knock you down. I say, you conspired to seduce the affections of my nephew, the Honourable Arthur Trevelyan, heir-presumptive to the Earl of Manilands. I don't say you did it yourself; I wish you had, because then the probability is that the disgrace would only have lasted for your lifetime: you employed a youth

prudent persons: Never give anything away;' but above all I would impress upon all spinster ladies: 'Never give a parlour-maid away in marriage to the heir-presumptive of an earldom, especially if he has an aunt who is touchy about the honour of the family?

THE MONTH:
SCIENCE AND ARTS.

ONCE more the Societies which devote themselves to art, learning, and science, have closed their session, and are planning new labours, new researches for the long vacation, now close upon us, or are contriving holidays. It is said that art has not much to boast of this year, that no painting or sculpture stands out to make the season of 1873 memorable. On the other hand, it may be argued that, in the Royal Academy and other galleries, a large amount of exceedingly clever work has been shewn, which implies that the whole body of artists have advanced, stand on a somewhat higher platform than heretofore. If they can stay there, and mount still higher, so much the better; but it would be for the advantage of all concerned in art, as in literature, if the mere pretenders could be weeded out, and persuaded to betake themselves to some useful handicraft.

Students or amateurs who wish to compare the fine art of different countries can do so at the International Exhibition, where the display of paintings is as large as could be desired. To discover excellence in others, is a good corrective for self-conceit. For those who prefer the arts mechanical, there is the machinery in motion, among which are to be seen some of the newly