It is singular to turn for a moment from the extravagant exuberance of a polished French court to find the same device existing in a very different era of the world's history. The educated Athenian vented his "Mon Dieus" like any Frenchman on the boulevard, and in like manner learned to soften his "[Greek: Ma ton theon]" to a simple "[Greek: Ma ton]" in deference to ears polite. Socrates himself, never altogether free from a predilection for jocose forms of swearing, also took the palace dog, so to speak, as his colloquial stalking-horse, and, like the courtiers of St. Louis, swore [Greek: ne ton kuna]. The framework of the story dealing with the conversion of La Hire has not been lost upon the writers of the theatre. A _petite comedie_ well known on the boards of the Theatre Francais as 'Les Jurons de Cadillac,' is occupied with the sufferings of a naval officer who is constrained by feminine influence to relinquish his customary expletives. "How is it," asks La Comtesse, "that you have contracted this horrible habit; you, a scion of an old stock, one of our first Gascon gentlemen?" Cadillac's answer is spirited. "Comtesse, I was brought up by my grandfather, an old sea dog, corbleu! With him I learnt to swear before I learnt to read, and if he has not taught me the language of courts, it is because, sacrebleu! he did not know it. He made me a true sailor, ventre mahon!" The Comtesse insists that, as a proof of the captain's professions of regard, he should abstain from indulging in this habit for the space of one single hour. Should the ordeal be successfully passed, she consents that he shall receive her hand as his reward. Cadillac is fairly driven to desperation. "Ask of me anything but that!" he exclaims; "only let me swear, or I shall go mad!" Finally he sees no help for it but to accept the challenge, and the audience is detained in a state of amusing suspense while witnessing the contrivances with which the honest captain endeavours to overcome the difficulty. He tampers with the hands of the clock in the hope of abridging the hour of trial, and this ruse being discovered he unworthily seeks safety in sullen silence. "No, no, captain," objects the Comtesse, "unless you converse it is not fair play." His tormentor lures him with all her skill to let slip one of his unpremeditated expletives, and a hundred times the worthy fellow is on the point of giving way. At last, beguiled into a description of one of his most thrilling sea-fights, and with the recollection of the wild scenes of carnage passing vividly before his eyes, he is no longer able to maintain composure. He bursts into a volume of his old sea terms, but the lady, moved, as it would seem, by the _elan_ and spirit of the recital, finds it in her heart to be merciful. The play concludes with a modest _sacrebleu_, this time spoken by La Comtesse. It will be seen from the evidence of this performance alone that in ascribing to our