or the teaching of demons, which issued in the making of mothers like Cornelia, and of sons like Cleobis and Bito, we may, of course, reject the heathen Mythology in our privileged scorn:  but, at least, we are bound to examine strictly by what faults of our own it has come to pass, that the ministry of real angels among ourselves is occasionally so ineffectual, as to end in the production of Cornelias who entrust their child-jewels to Charlotte Winsors for the better keeping of them; and of sons like that one who, the other day, in France, beat his mother to death with a stick; and was brought in by the jury, “guilty, with extenuating circumstances.”

May.  Was that really possible?

L. Yes, my dear.  I am not sure that I can lay my hand on the reference to it (and I should not have said “the other day”—­it was a year or two ago), but you may depend on the fact; and I could give you many like it, if I chose.  There was a murder done in Russia, very lately, on a traveler.  The murderess’s little daughter was in the way, and found it out, somehow.  Her mother killed her, too, and put her into the oven.  There is a peculiar horror about the relations between parent and child, which are being now brought about by our variously degraded forms of European white slavery.  Here is one reference, I see, in my notes on that story of Cleobis and Bito; though I suppose I marked this chiefly for its quaintness, and the beautifully Christian names of the sons; but it is a good instance of the power of the King of the Valley of Diamonds [Footnote:  Notes vi.] among us.

In “Galignani” of July 21-22, 1862, is reported a trial of a farmer’s son in the department of the Yonne.  The father, two years ago, at Malay le Grand, gave up his property to his two sons, on condition of being maintained by them.  Simon fulfilled his agreement, but Pierre would not.  The tribunal of Sens condemns Pierre to pay eighty-four francs a year to his father.  Pierre replies, “he would rather die than pay it.”  Actually, returning home, he throws himself into the river, and the body is not found till next day.

Mary.  But—­but—­I can’t tell what you would have us think.  Do you seriously mean that the Greeks were better than we are; and that their gods were real angels?

L. No, my dear.  I mean only that we know, in reality, less than nothing of the dealings of our Maker with our fellow-men; and can only reason or conjecture safely about them, when we have sincerely humble thoughts of ourselves and our creeds.

We owe to the Greeks every noble discipline in literature, every radical principle of art; and every form of convenient beauty in our household furniture and daily occupations of life.  We are unable, ourselves, to make rational use of half that we have received from them:  and, of our own, we have nothing but discoveries in science, and fine mechanical adaptations of the discovered physical powers.  On the other