vanquished. Certainly as long as a Gaul or a Dacian spoke in Latin, he might please himself as to what he talked about. The negroes might sing their songs or hymns, or preach their sermons, at will; the tunes and texts were not given out by their masters, who were indifferent, so long as the overseer was satisfied with their hoeing. But this is not so with us. Boys dictate the subjects of conversation, peremptorily impose their own interests on all comers, and resent ill-advised attempts to turn the talk into channels which concern their elders. The entrance of a public-school lad into a drawing-room or railway-carriage where conversation is going on necessitates a complete change of topic. When a friend had spoken to Balzac for some time of a great domestic calamity, the impatient novelist cut him short by saying, "Let us return to realities; let us talk of Eugénie Grandet." And in some such spirit acts the amiable young tyrant who finds himself among half-a-dozen men and women, middle-aged and elderly. The last novel or poem of merit, the début of a new singer at her Majesty's theatre, the position of the Eastern question, the correspondence between Lord Beaconsfield and Mr. Gladstone, or the price of "Turks" or "Egyptians," may be the theme that is up. But each one must pocket his special interest or enthusiasm, when our young hero proceeds to bring the conversation to realities, — that is, to cricket, football, and "our fellows." An ignoramus who has nothing to say about "dribbling," and does not know all about the crack bowlers or the highest scores of the season, must sit in silence. The weak-minded person who chats for two or three minutes about juvenile things and then slides back into his old talk, under the delusion that he has done his duty and paid due homage, is soon given to understand that he is not to escape in that way, — that he must toe the line, and that he must not thus trifle with his juniors.
The truth is that youth, or rather boyhood, has become the most important time of life, and that boys now know and feel this. In other days, it was left to age to speak of the joys of youth. Its possessors, little conscious of their wealth, looked forward with straining, longing eyes to manhood, its freedom and its strength. This has changed. Boys wish to be and remain boys as long as possible, and when grown to man's estate, they desire to be at least "old boys." They have learned to feel that the best things of life come before twenty, and that they will sink from the position of masters into that of slaves and “fags" when that age is past. To tell how they have managed to attain their present position of power, would be a long story; it would be a useless inquiry, too, for their ascendancy is too firmly established to be disturbed by their weak elders. But what wonder is there if it exists? What Eastern despot had ever more flatterers? Do the nostrils of the Grand Lama or the sultan inhale more of the incense of adulation than the modern English schoolboy, who stands it all, we must say, in a truly surprising way. Newspapers chronicle and comment on his sports and little victories as if they were events of great national interest. His teachers make his scholastic successes the theme of speeches; and there is a great conspiracy to make out that he is the most important person in the scheme of existence. Any one may see an illustration of the sense of awe and importance with which all concerned regard the modern schoolboy and his affairs, by turning to a very pleasant little book, excellently written, called "Uppingham-by-the-Sea." (Macmillan and Co.) It is the history of the Uppingham School while it was in quarantine at the remote Welsh village of Borth, and it is impossible to read it without a feeling of the huge proportions which an incident in the history of a school may assume, in the eyes of those who belong to it. It was, no doubt, a plucky and useful thing to transplant the school, after scarlet-fever had twice shown itself at Uppingham, and the narrative of the migration is flowing and pleasant. But when we find chapters telling how the dinners were eaten at Borth and how the sudden strain on the laundry was met, all fortified with stately quotations from Shakespeare and the "Iliad" — when we find the narrative as solemn and highly-wrought as De Quincey's or Gibbon's — we realize the overwhelming and even alarming importance of the modern schoolboy, and how he has come to be Cæsar to us all.
FOREIGN VIEWS OF OUR OCCUPATION OF CYPRUS.
Journal des Debats, Paris, July 22.
The first unpleasant impression produced in France by the news of the occupation of Cyprus is now calmed down, and it must be admitted that we contributed to the utmost of our power in producing this
