r
inward strength he grew up. But this one is the Devil's daughter
notwithstanding. Two things she derives from him, her uncleanness, her
love of handling life. These are her allotted walk, in these she is
quite an artist; an artist already trading in her lore, and we are
admitted into the business.

It was said that she would perpetuate herself by the incest from which
she sprang. But she has no need of that: numberless little ones will
she beget without help from another. In less than fifty years, at the
opening of the fifteenth century, under Charles VI., a mighty
contagion was spread abroad. Whoever thought he had any secrets or any
receipts, whoever fancied himself a seer, whoever dreamed and
travelled in his dreams, would call himself a pet of Satan. Every
moonstruck woman adopted the awful name of Witch!

A perilous, profitable name, cast at her in their hatred by people who
alternately insult and implore the unknown power. It is none the less
accepted, nay, is often claimed. To the children who follow her, to
the woman who, with threatening fists, hurl the name at her like a
stone, she turns round, saying proudly, "'Tis true, you have said
well!"

The business improves, and men are mingled in it. Hence another fall
for the art. Still the least of the witches retains somewhat of the
Sibyl. Those other frowsy charlatans, those clownish jugglers,
mole-catchers, ratkillers, who throw spells over beasts, who sell
secrets which they have not, defiled these times with the stench of a
dismal black smoke, of fear and foolery. Satan grows enormous, gets
multiplied without end. 'Tis a poor triumph, however, for him. He
grows dull and sick at heart. Still the people keep flowing towards
him, bent on having no other God than he. Himself only is to himself
untrue.

* * * * *

In spite of two or three great discoveries, the fifteenth century is,
to my thinking, none the less a century tired out, a century of few
ideas.

It opened right worthily with the Sabbath Royal of St. Denis, the wild
and woful ball given by Charles VI. in the abbey so named, to
commemorate the burial of Du Guesclin, which had taken place so many
years before. For three days and nights was Sodom wallowing among the
graves. The foolish king, not yet grown quite an idiot, compelled his
royal forefathers to share in the ball, by making their dry bones
dance in their biers. Death, becoming a go-between whether he would