ve never deigned to admit Mary's
guilt, and then to palliate it by those sentimental, or rather sensual,
theories of human nature, too common in a certain school of French
literature,--too common, alas! in a certain school of modern English
novels. They have not said, "She did it; but after all, was the deed so
very inexcusable?" They have said, "The deed was inexcusable: but she
did not do it." And so the Scotch admirers of Mary, who have numbered
among them many a pure and noble, as well as many a gifted spirit, have
kept at least themselves unstained; and have shown, whether consciously
or not, that they too share in that sturdy Scotch moral sense which has
been so much strengthened--as I believe--by the plain speech of good old
George Buchanan.

RONDELET, THE HUGUENOT NATURALIST {358}

"Apollo, god of medicine, exiled from the rest of the earth, was straying
once across the Narbonnaise in Gaul, seeking to fix his abode there.
Driven from Asia, from Africa, and from the rest of Europe, he wandered
through all the towns of the province in search of a place propitious for
him and for his disciples. At last he perceived a new city, constructed
from the ruins of Maguelonne, of Lattes, and of Substantion. He
contemplated long its site, its aspect, its neighbourhood, and resolved
to establish on this hill of Montpellier a temple for himself and his
priests. All smiled on his desires. By the genius of the soil, by the
character of the inhabitants, no town is more fit for the culture of
letters, and above all of medicine. What site is more delicious and more
lovely? A heaven pure and smiling; a city built with magnificence; men
born for all the labours of the intellect. All around vast horizons and
enchanting sites--meadows, vines, olives, green champaigns; mountains and
hills, rivers, brooks, lagoons, and the sea. Everywhere a luxuriant
vegetation--everywhere the richest production of the land and the water.
Hail to thee, sweet and dear city! Hail, happy abode of Apollo, who
spreadest afar the light of the glory of thy name!"

"This fine tirade," says Dr. Maurice Raynaud--from whose charming book on
the 'Doctors of the Time of Moliere' I quote--"is not, as one might
think, the translation of a piece of poetry. It is simply part of a
public oration by Francois Fanchon, one of the most illustrious
chancellors of the faculty of medicine of Montpellier in the seventeenth
century." "From time immemorial,"