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sec. to multiply them. Such experiments give us considerable insight into the mind. Those used to reckoning can add two to three in less time than others; those familiar with literature can remember more quickly than others that Shakespeare wrote Hamlet. In the cases which we have just been considering a question was asked admitting of but one answer, the mental process being simply an act of memory. It is also possible to ask a question that allows of several answers, and in this case a little more time is needed; it takes longer to mention a month when a season has been given than to say to what month a season belongs. The mind can also be given still further liberty; for example, a quality of a substantive, of a subject or object for a verb, can be required. It takes about sec. longer to find a subject than to find an object; in our ordinary thinking and talking we go on from the verb to the object. If a particular example of a class of objects has to be found, as Thames' when 'river' is given, on the average a little more than sec. is needed. In this case one nearly always mentions an object immediately at hand, or one identified with one's early home; this shows that the mind is apt to recur either to very recent or to early associations. Again, I need one second to find a rhyme, sec. longer to find an alliteration. The time taken up in pronouncing an opinion or judgment proved to be shorter than I had expected; I need only about sec. to estimate the length of a line, or to say which of two eminent men I think is the greater.

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Our thoughts do not come and go at random, but one idea suggests another, according to laws which are probably no less fixed than the laws prevailing in the physical world. Conditions somewhat similar to those of our ordinary thinking are obtained, if on seeing or hearing a word we say what it suggests to us. We can note the nature of the association and measure the time it takes up, and thus get results more definite and of greater scientific value than would be possible through mere introspection or observation. By making a large number of experiments, data for laws of association can be collected. Thus if a thousand persons say what idea is suggested to them by the word Art,' the results may be so classified that both the nature of the association and the time it occupies throw much light on the way people usually think. Such experiments are useful in studying the development of the child's mind; they help us to understand the differences in thought brought about by various methods of education and modes of life, and in many ways they put the facts of mind into the great order which is the world.

J. MCK. CATTELL.

DORIS.

DORIS is dead-really dead! Not 'dead ere her prime,' for she had known the glories of more than eighty summers, and the blaze of their sunlight had not tanned her cheek nor much dimmed the fire of her glowing eye. Grown men and women who had all their lives felt a shrinking fear of Doris found it hard to believe that she had verily and indeed breathed her last. The immense, exuberant vitality of the woman, her audacity, her wicked joyousness, her ready caustic tongue, her terrible beauty, her immeasurable selfreliance, had made her name and her presence a dread to little children in our streets and lanes. Somehow we were all afraid of Doris 6 years ago,' men say: 'we got out of her way; we ran and hid from her. Is she really dead?' Yes, dead at last! Even Doris.

I am I know not how or why-I am constrained to speak of Doris. Why have great painters, time and again, taken brush in hand and—fascinated, possessed, by some ghastly image that would not pass from them night or day-found no rest till they put the haunting face upon the canvas-left it there to awake a shudder of horror or disgust for all who should gaze hereafter upon it? Who of us has not felt angered now and then by such ghastly pictures-I need not name them and found himself exclaiming, 'This is too revolting; it is the prostitution of art'? Well! if the artist used his skill merely to display to us a tour de force, he was guilty of a crime; at any rate that is what I hold to be true. But, if he could not choose but get rid of the phantoms that would rise up and stay and glare at him, scowling, threatening, making mows at him and ceasing not; if there was no hope, no help for it; if with their dumb insistence they demanded to be shown to a vulgar crowd; if he knew and felt in the depths of him that all visions of loveliness and peace were lost to him till this dream of horror and villany were hurled out of the way by being fixed in colour and form, and so sent from him-what shall we say then? Do you think that Velasquez, when he painted that awful picture of the scourging of the Man of Sorrows that hangs in our National Gallery, could have felt any joy as the overwhelming dreadfulness of his work grew into ever more and more ghastly distinctness? Do you think that Ezekiel's cheek

was not of a deadly pallor, or that his knees smote not one against the other, when he stared with parted lips and wide-open eyes at the dead men's bones that lay in the valley, and saw them, heard them, coming together bone to his bone? He did not choose to go upon that dread errand; the hand of the Lord was upon him, and carried him there whether he would or no.

You poets, how I envy you! Men forgive you, applaud you, render you almost adoring thanks for your utterances because you sing to them in your majestic verse, sweet, strong, all harmony; because you sweep the strings which we of the common herd can never touch without a discord. And yet for us, the beasts of burden of common prose, because we have no wings and cannot soar to your empyrean, we are told to know our place and never, never to step out of our sphere. You ride in your chariots of fire; we must keep between the shafts of the carts and wains that lumber along the common roads of the common world. Yet I cannot choose but write of Doris !

Doris was born at Nestané. Let that suffice. At Nestané there stands, or there stood, a little while ago a windmill, and, before this century began, the miller who had worked it had risen to be its owner. He prospered after a fashion-a shrewd, sagacious, grasping man, tradition says. He had a son and daughter. The son was a riotous, dissipated rake. The miller was growing old; the son broke his father's heart, spent his money, robbed him. The old man moped, grew morbid, half silly, mortgaged his little property, the mill, some few acres here and there, a row of houses at Tegea. What was the daughter doing? 1 gather that she was a high-spirited, passionate lass, fullblooded, impetuous, with a restless soul. She held things together. Why should she not manage the mill? She kept the books and drew up the accounts as it was. No sooner, however, had she contrived to get things straight at this point or at that, and money matters were beginning to look brighter again, than that hulking brother of hers would stroll in, bully and cajole the whimpering old father, and make off with the last little hoard-the sot! It was unbearable. She would marry the first man that asked her, come what might.

There was a jaunty young shoemaker in the next village, tall and strong. In those days there was a small settlement of shoemakers at Phazen, the next parish to Nestané. The little row of four shanties (one room above, one below, in neither of which can a tall man stand up with his hat on) still stands where it did, and as it did, nearly a hundred years ago; the four shanties still hold four families, one of them a family of nine, three grown men, two grown women, five growing boys and girls, the youngest ten years old. The shoemakers were all in full work, and in the employment of a master shoemaker who took small contracts for the shopkeepers at Mega

lopolis. Jaunty Jem was a good workman, stuck to his last, and was an average sort of rustic.

'Folks say as you'll marry the first man as asks you. Will you marry me?' The girl was in a fury when Jem came to her in this straightforward fashion; her brother had just slunk away with another haul from the old man's purse, which purse his daughter had only managed to fill the day before. How would it end? Marry you? You can't write your name. I know you well enough. I want a husband to help me keep the mill. You'd be no good. And yet ... She hesitated and was lost. She thought, Jem is a proper man. I'll teach him to read and write-it'll keep him at home o' nights; he'll take to milling. Oh, heart of mine, how it beats! shall I give it to Jaunty Jem?'

...

So they were married. Alas! Things went on worse and worse. Jem grew idle; the lonely life of the mill bored him; the old father's drivel he could not away with. He took to deeper and more frequent potations of beer. Doris was born, then other children came. What would not many a peer give for such babies as they, heavy as the cubs of a lioness, noisy, strong and dauntless, but with appetites that were frightful! One day the old miller, sitting in his chair 6 among the gooseberry bushes,' as Doris said, was more than ordinarily restless and querulous. He would see his peeaypers-the lawyers had not got them all, not they; he had still something he could call his own. They brought him a box full of small conveyances. He could not read a word of them, not he; but he mumbled out that they were damp, they must be dried. Fingering them in a drivelling way, one by one, as he sat in the sunshine, nothing would do but he must have them spread out upon the gooseberry bushes. There they stuck crinkling in the noonday. Doris remembered it. Suddenly a wind arose a whirlwind. The parchments were tossed up by the squall hither and thither, a wondrous sport to the chubby children, a quite extraordinary game of kiteflying. Doris had a notion that this was the ruin of grandfather, some suspicion that the lawyers had got hold of they peeaypers— not without help of the devil, the tutelar deity and favourer of lawyers.

A few days after this the miller died. There was no will, but the old man had made over the row of houses, aforesaid, to Mrs. Jem, and all that was left-mill and lands, heavily encumbered-came to the brother. What was the end of the brother? Lawk, I don't know; and what's more, I don't care; why should I?' said Doris. Why need we care?

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6

Farewell to the mill. Jaunty Jem took his wife and four sturdy toddlers to Tegea to look after the property,' as he phrased it, and to soak himself in beer. He had occasional fits of industry, but the drink took hold of him. The unhappy wife and mother had a sad

life of it, sinking deeper and deeper-she was quite beaten at last, all the spirit in her crushed. Only one pathetic scene had fixed itself in Doris's memory. She had never learnt to read, but the mother had kept one relic of the old prosperity, which she clung to, I know not why. It was a book, and a big one.

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'Possible you might have a History of England?' said Doris to me, abruptly, a year or so ago. Yes! I had such a work. Ah! so had my mother. It was a great big book, as big as that table. I remember when she hadn't much else-for 'most all the furniture and sich was gone-she used to show it us of a Sunday. There was a sight of gays (illustrations) in that there great book, and she'd tell us about 'em. I mind one day she was showing 'em to us, and I looked up and she was a-crying. "What are you a-crying for, mother?" says I, and she never said not a word, but she shut the great history book, as she used to call it. I never heard what became of that great book. That was all the learning we had!'

Jaunty Jem's career was not a long one. One day, when Doris was just fourteen, Jem rolled into the gutter, staggered out, lurched against a loaded cart, which passed over him, crawled home, and next day Mrs. Jem was a ragged widow, with eight ragged, shoeless children, hungry, defiant and clamorous, demanding victuals. Without more ado they were bundled off to the workhouse. Such a workhouse! I pass it frequently. It is a ramshackle block, now divided into six or eight tenements, looking picturesquely squalid, noisome and filthy. Slums you people of the towns call them. It is always a subject of not unspoken thankfulness to the Great Disposer of our paths that that dreary old workhouse is outside the boundaries of my parish.

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Doris was now fourteen. She was at once apprenticed by the parish authorities to somebody who wanted a maid-of-all-work. Note that this was about seventy years ago. The girl was started in life, with the scantiest of wardrobes, but probably more clothes on her back than she had worn for years. She made a good servant, they say. With her prodigious energy, quickness, and intelligence she could never be idle; but, let her mistress have been what she might, Doris must have been a handful.' Before she had been at her place six months, master and mistress left her in the house with the children to see to. It was winter-time. There had been heavy snow; now there was a sloppy thaw. There were troops of gaunt, lean men out of work, begging from door to door. One of them stopped at Doris's door. Doris! I'm almost dropping: you know me; look at my arms!' The starving wretch was a limping skeleton. The girl dashed into the house, snatched a loaf from the cupboard, thrust it into the bony hand, and burst into a storm of furious railing against all things in heaven and earth. The children were frightened; and to add to the horror of the incident (from their point

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