JUNE 12, 1897. READINGS FROM From Lippincott's Magazine. The wings of the Asterias are black, with broad bands of yellow spots extending from the front edge of the fore wing to the back part of the hind wing, and with a row of yellow spots on the margin. The hind wings are tailed, and between the band of yellow and the row of yellow spots on the margin are seven blue spots. Although the Asterias are quite common in May and June, they are far more numerous in July, and can then be found hovering over beds of parsley and sweet-scented phlox. They deposit their eggs on these plants, and it is there that the caterpillars feed. Other butterflies found occasionally in May are the Semicolon, Comma, and Milberti, all belonging to the genus Vanessa. The Semicolon is so called from the shape of the golden spot on the under side of each hind wing. The wings are tawny orange, shaded very dark near the body. They are thickly spotted with brown, and expand about two and a half inches, having a regular line of brown spots on the margins. The Comma is not quite so large, and is rarely found expanding more than two inches. The wings are dull orange, shaded on the margin with a purple tint. They are spotted with brown, and along the margin have a row of buff-colored spots. The Milberti is about the same size as the Comma, but more showy. The wings are of a rich velvety black, and there is a broad orange band extending across both pair of wings near the margin. On the hind wings there is a row of blue crescentshaped spots between this band and the edge. Although these varieties of the Vanessa are often seen flying about in May, they are far more numerous 735 LIVING AGE. VOL. XIV. and perfect in July, August, and September. The Troilus appears about the middle of June, and resembles the Asterias very closely while in the winged state. The Papilio Troilus is never very numerous, and will probably be overlooked unless one is particularly observart. It has one row of yellow dots on the margin of both the fore and the hind wings, and the green on the hind wings is shaded into the tint of the wing, instead of being in distinct spots like the blue in the Asterias. The difference between the two butterflies is so slight that it is impossible to distinguish one from the other when they are on the wing. Along the roadsides, hovering over beds of nodding trillium and wake-robin and wild geraniums, over the white flowers of the blackberry vines, and the delicate white blossom of the shad-flower, and among the clumps of lilac-bushes, may be seen swarms of the little red and brown butterflies which are generally classed together under the name of Lycenians. The small red variety is one of the prettiest of the group, and is very common. It is often found fluttering over the grass in any sunny spot, and is called the copper butterfly, or Lycæna Americana. The brown variety, Lycæna Epixanthe, is somewhat rare, and is usually found near damp meadows and lowlands, apparently delighting more in green grass and sunshine than in flowers. There is a beautiful blue speck of a butterfly which haunts the brier-fields and old pasture walls where the high blueberry-bush and sweet viburnum love to linger. It is one of the most delicate of all the small butterflies, but has a ludicrously ponderous name, Polyommatus Pseudargiolus. However, its common name, Azure-blue-butterfly, is more appropriate, as, when it is fluttering over flowers in the sunshine, it looks like a tiny speck of bright blue satin. A near relative is the Lucia, a little smaller, and of a more purplish black; another is the Comyntas, with violet-blue wings having black dots on the margin of the hind ones. The Comyntas lives in dry woods, and does not appear before July. Several other small butterflies which appear at the same time belong to the genus Thecla, readily distinguished by the peculiar manner in which their hind wings are tailed. Their color is a dull brown of various shades, marked in some of the varieties with specks of white or blue. July is the gala-time of butterflies. Most of them have just left the chrysalis, and their wings are perfect and very fresh in color. All the sunny places are bright with them, yellow and red and white and brown, and great gorgeous fellows in rich velvetlike dresses of blue-black, orange, green, and maroon. Some of them have their wings scalloped, some fringed, and some plain; and they are ornamented with brilliant borders and fawn-colored spots and rows of silver crescents. The Asterias are there, the Troilus, the dusky-orange Melitæa, and the silver-spotted Idalia. They circle about the flowers, fly across from field to field, and rise swiftly into the air; little ones and big ones, common ones and rare ones, but all bright and airy and joyous,-a midsummer carnival of butterflies. The largest butterfly we have is the Archippus. It is not so gaudy as some, but is yet very showy. The wings are tawny orange, beautifully bordered with black dotted with white, and are crossed by fine black veins, with several yellow and white spots extending up to the front border of the fore wings. A butterfly that is almost exactly like the Archippus, except for a band across the hind wing above the border, is the Nymphalis Disippe. It is found on the wing from the middle of July until October, and deposits its eggs on poplars and willows. Another variety of the Nymphalis is the Ephes tion, differing from the Disippe in being clothed in blue-black instead of a gorgeous orange and black. The genus Argynnis is almost invariably ornamented with silver markings; among the varieties are the Idalia, with a row of silvery crescentshaped spots just within the black margin on the under side of the wings, found in grass-fields and among bushes by the roadside all through July and August; the Aphrodite, with the same silvery crescents, and with tawny orange wings shaded very dark near the body, found about meadow-lands; the Myrina, similar to the last, but having black lines on the hind wings; and the Bellona, whose chief distinetion is that it lacks the silvery spots. Other July butterflies are the Me litæa Pharos, very small, and with wings of dusky orange; the black and white Cynthia Huntera, expanding about two and a half inches, very pretty and very common; the Cynthia Cardui, more commonly called Thistle butterfly, because it loves the flowers of the thistle and because its caterpil lar lives on the leaves of that plant; and the Cynthia Atalanta a little larger than the other two, and with almost black wings. From "A Year of Butterflies." By Frank H. From The Atlantic Monthly. OVER-CIVILIZATION. It is easy to see how the instinct of pugnacity is or may be weakened in the process of civilization; but it is not quite so easy to recognize the subtle way in which the instinct of pity, also, is weakened or perverted by the same process. We have all felt the instinct of pity. If we hear the cry of a drowning man, we have an impulse to jump in after him, or at least to throw him a rope. If our neighbor is ill or bereaved, our hearts go out toward him, as we say. Nature speaks in us. Upon this primeval instinct is based all pity, all charity, all benevolence, all self-sacrifice; and this instinct, too, we share not only with the savage, but also with ward if he does not do it. He springs to the child's aid because he cannot help it; because he has an impulse to do so, just as he would have an impulse to save his own life. But let us suppose that the man who stands by is of a different character,-not so close to nature, although he may be a better man, more conscientious, a more valuable member of society. He, too, feels the impulse of pity, the instinct to save the child; but in him this impulse is not so strong; the selfish considerations that arise in his mind combat with it, and while he is struggling to perform his duty the moment flashes by, the child is run over; all that can now be done is to take the victim to a hospital, and that he will do, even at much personal inconvenience. I do not intend to assert that the one is exclusively a savage, and the other a civilized type. Both exclusively kinds of men undoubtedly exist in barbarous tribes, both kinds exist in civilization; but the tendency of civilization, or of what we call civilization, is to produce the man who stands still in the moment of peril to another,-the man who is far from nature, who has lost something of primeval instinct. An illustration might be found in the case of General Gordon, whom the English government left to perish in the city of Khartoum. This, indeed, is an apt illustration, because the dangerous situation of Gordon appealed to all three of those main primeval instincts which I have mentioned, namely, the instincts of pity or benevolence, of pugnacity, and of pride. England was moved to go to Gordon's assistance, first, out of pity for him; secondly, out of anger against his enemies; and thirdly, out of wounded pride, because it was a British citizen whose life was threatened. The members of the Liberal government felt these impulses, of course, as other Englishmen felt them, but they were precisely in the situation of Rousseau's philosopher, whose impulse to do a generous act was stifled by the selfish motives which occurred to his mind, and in this case, also, the selfish dictates of reason got the upper hand of the primeval in- eral interest, a story worth repeating, his Cabinet with the omitted names and added details. It-the story, not the clippingdated back to 1851, when the late Samuel McLean, of Brooklyn, widely known as a racy raconteur of a long lifetime's experiences (just previous to his death at seventy-four he had crossed the Atlantic for the ninetyninth time), was visiting London with his bride, who was Miss Chapman, of Hartford, Conn. It was the year in which the Crystal Palace was opened, an opening graced with the presence of royalties, great personages, and celebrities generally; but only holders of season tickets, costing £50 each, were admitted. The price seemed a little too steep for Mr. McLean, as he had seen pretty much everybody at one time or another but he wanted Mrs. McLean to go. So he bought a season ticket for her and sent her with some English friends. Mrs. McLean was a short. slight woman, and when she reached the Crystal Palace on the day of the opening, the crowd completely hemmed her in. She could not catch a glimpse of a single royalty or celebrity. Tears of chagrin sprang to her eyes as she realized her disappointment and the price of it. A "distinguished looking Englishman," as she afterward described him, who stood beside her. grasped the situation at a glance, and saying, "Permit me, madam," he closed his hands around her waist, and lifted her, as he would a child, above the crowd, holding her there as long as he could, and pointing out the queen, the prince consort, and the other royalties If now the question of going to Gordon's rescue or of leaving him in the hands of his enemies had been submitted, not to the Liberal government, but to the hedgers and ditchers of England, to the farmers or sailors,-to any body of men close to nature in the sense that I have indicated,-can it be doubted what the result would have been? But such men, it might be objected, would be thoughtless; they would not count the cost. That is precisely their merit, they would not count the cost even if they had to pay it themselves, in money or in blood. England has become what she is partly by not counting the cost, by venturing upon forlorn hopes, by carving out her own path with what seemed at the time to be a reckless disregard of other nations. It was a different spirit which left Gordon to his fate, and which, later, held in check the army and navy of Great Britain while the Turks butchered the Armenians and ravished their women. From "On Being Civilized Too Much." By Henry and celebrities. After he had set her Childs Merwin. From The Bookman. A REMINISCENCE. In turning the leaves of a scrap-book the other day-do any but those who have professional use for them now keep scrap-books, or write in diaries?the eye lighted on an old newspaper clipping, one that told a story of gen down and rested himself, he raised her again, and then a third time. When she thanked him, he said simply: "I am always glad to do a favor for an American." all that summer she tried in vain to identify her "distinguished Englishman," but finally came home without learning who he was. Years afterward in Plymouth Church, when the lecturer of the evening entered with Henry Ward Beecher, she turned to her husband and exclaimed, "That's my English man!" It was Thackeray, whom she met later and entertained at her home, recalling the incident to their mutual satisfaction. Who but the creator of Colonel Newcome could have dared to attempt so unconventional a kindness; or have done it with a quick tact and delicacy that gave no offence? From "Chronicle and Clipping." From McClure's Magazine. THE FOUNDER OF THE REVUE DES DEUX MONDES. The preponderance maintained by the Revue for more than half a century, in a country said to be the home of caprice and inconstancy, is nothing short of miraculous, and this preponderance is far from declining. The most varied forms of talent are as eager as ever to ask for its lofty consecration. "The Revue is the real title-giver, after all," said Sainte-Beuve, a short time before his death. This is the Revue's position as regards authors; as for the public, all serious-minded people read the Revue, and those who are not serious-minded, but wish to seem to have general information, never fail to read it also. Bicycling, if one may believe the publishers, has done much harm to the book-trade since its recent introduction; still, it has not yet succeeded in hurting the Revue des Deux Mondes. A few spiteful attacks, a few coarse insults, from a handful of "barbarians," as François Buloz used to call them, have only served to increase its prestige, by proving that it cannot be approached except by those who are entitled to do so, and that the unsuccessful ones revenge themselves as best they can. All this does not alter the fact that the part taken by the Revue ever since its foundation in 1831, has been most important. It would be impossible to mention any movement of public thought, any social problem, any new idea, that it has not signalled and discussed, always bearing the banner of liberty firmly aloft, yet, at the same time, never relaxing its hold on the ferule of order and common sense. Curious, in a measure, as to the customs and condition of foreign nations, open to art, philosophy, and science quite as freely as to literature, constantly faithful to liberal principles in politics, without ever systematically keeping the voice of any party away from its platform, it yet retained its personal opinion, which was as much opposed to revolutionary doctrines as to the arbitrary undertakings of absolute governments. These are high claims to glory, and the fact of having begun this long and brilliant career without material resources, by the sole power of one man's will, certainly does not lessen them. a The prolific period immediately following the Revolution of 1830, among the many works pertaining to all branches of human imagination and intelligence called forth, produced this powerful political and literary focus. Its creator, however, was neither writer nor a politician. François Buloz, a contemporary of the magnificent efflorescence of the romantic era, saw what good could be gained by setting all the scattered brilliant minds in a single cluster, which would somewhat resemble the English reviews, especially the Edinburgh Review, with the additional advantage of more frequent periods of publication, and a wider, more elastic, more varied scope. This dream had nothing in common with a financial speculation, although Buloz was successful in this direction as well; he aimed higher, as his faithful friend and collaborator, Mr. de Mazade, has so well explained in the touching and respectful pages he has dedicated to Buloz's memory-he aimed at appealing to the highest intellectual culture everywhere, at reaching the directing classes, at offering them an accredited organ which would carry the French tongue and ideas to the remotest limits of the earth. For, above all else, François Buloz was a patriot, and one can say that the reverses of 1870 killed him just as surely as if he had been struck by a bullet on the |