PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS.

AT the birth of our Society stood as Godmother the Fairy-Tale. She held in her hand the magic wand, and threw some of her own charm upon the offspring. With the fondness of a mother the Fairy-Tale has watched over the growth of the child and has experienced the same conflicting emotions as are in store for every nurse and godmother. The child no sooner feels its legs than it leaves the nursery behind, and roams over the wide world. New views open, new interests spring up, and when reminded of the days of youth and the happiness of the nursery years, the grown-up man tries to find some excuse or some rational explanation for the joy that still lingers in his mind. But we ought not to leave the nursery, and if possible we must needs bring the fugitive youths back to the charmed circle of olden days. "Once upon a time," so the story begins, "once upon a time," in the days of our youth we were living in a world so different from the present, we built castles and peopled them with all that is beautiful and lovable, and we were happy, for we believed in the reality of their existence, and we were as one of them. An enchanted world, a weird world, but none the less as real and true as the world in which we are moving Since that time the former has apparently disappeared never more to return; our castles have been

birds that bore us on their wings, the beasts that spoke and befriended us, and the flowers that quickened the dead, all have vanished. Wise men shake their heads over the foolishness of youth, and prove to us with their dry-as-dust wisdom that hobgoblins do not nod their heads and wink their eyes, that beasts have never been kind, and that birds have never, never, been heard speaking or known to carry men aloft; and that fairies, above all, are mere fancies, and all this world of poetry and beauty a snare and delusion. There are other wise men who explain all these things away; they have theories, you know, and they tell us that it is all a misunderstanding. The people who tell these tales do not know what they are talking about. They say one thing, and it means something quite different. It is "cloudland" and moonshine" and "fights of the seasons," and they look very wise. Others, again, have found in our old nursery tales the lost philosophy of the ages and the birth-indexes of the several nations in their families and in their generations. And all the while the fairy-tale turned to us with a piteous look in the eyes, hoping that we at least would show some token of filial affection, and come to the rescue of the sorely tried godmother.

I therefore make bold to step to-night into the arena, encouraged by your indulgence, and attempt to discharge this filial duty. I invite you to follow me into the forbidden chamber, and surprise, if possible, the fairy-tale at the toilet-table. Peradventure we may be able to light upon the secret of the charm, and find out the hidden spring of the spell which the fairy-tale has cast upon man, and with which it has swayed the world for untold ages. I do not intend discussing the origin of the fairy-tale, nor entering the path of dogmatic theories, which leads to destruction. The problem for which I endeavour to find the solution, is, wherein lies the secret of the

PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS.

AT the birth of our Society stood as Godmother the Fairy-Tale. She held in her hand the magic wand, and threw some of her own charm upon the offspring. With the fondness of a mother the Fairy-Tale has watched over the growth of the child and has experienced the same conflicting emotions as are in store for every nurse and godmother. The child no sooner feels its legs than it leaves the nursery behind, and roams over the wide world. New views open, new interests spring up, and when reminded of the days of youth and the happiness of the nursery years, the grown-up man tries to find some excuse or some rational explanation for the joy that still lingers in his mind. But we ought not to leave the nursery, and if possible we must needs bring the fugitive youths back to the charmed circle of olden days. "Once upon a time," so the story begins, "once upon a time," in the days of our youth we were living in a world so different from the present, we built castles and peopled them with all that is beautiful and lovable, and we were happy, for we believed in the reality of their existence, and we were as one of them. An enchanted world, a weird world, but none the less as real and true as the world in which we are moving now. Since that time the former has apparently disappeared never more to return; our castles have been

birds that bore us on their wings, the beasts that spoke and befriended us, and the flowers that quickened the dead, all have vanished. Wise men shake their heads over the foolishness of youth, and prove to us with their dry-as-dust wisdom that hobgoblins do not nod their heads and wink their eyes, that beasts have never been kind, and that birds have never, never, been heard speaking or known to carry men aloft; and that fairies, above all, are mere fancies, and all this world of poetry and beauty a snare and delusion. There are other wise men who explain all these things away; they have theories, you know, and they tell us that it is all a misunderstanding. The people who tell these tales do not know what they are talking about. They say one thing, and it means something quite different. It is "cloudland" and "moonshine" and "fights of the seasons," and they look very wise. Others, again, have found in our old nursery tales the lost philosophy of the ages and the birth-indexes of the several nations in their families and in their generations. And all the while the fairy-tale turned to us with a piteous look in the eyes, hoping that we at least would show some token of filial affection, and come to the rescue of the sorely tried godmother.

I therefore make bold to step to-night into the arena, encouraged by your indulgence, and attempt to discharge this filial duty. I invite you to follow me into the forbidden chamber, and surprise, if possible, the fairy-tale at the toilet-table. Peradventure we may be able to light upon the secret of the charm, and find out the hidden spring of the spell which the fairy-tale has cast upon man, and with which it has swayed the world for untold ages. I do not intend discussing the origin of the fairy-tale, nor entering the path of dogmatic theories, which leads to destruction. The problem for which I endeavour to find the solution, is, wherein lies the secret of the

climes, and among all nations. For one of the results of our study of Folklore has been, to demonstrate this fact of the universal favour enjoyed by the fairy-tale Still more important has been the subsequent result, that there exists a strong similarity between the fairy-tales gathered from the most distant parts of the world.

When first collected and studied, the fairy-tale was made the handmaid of Mythology. She has since emancipated herself from the trammels of that servitude, and has become an undisputed mistress in her own right; she has been installed as a queen in the realm of Folklore in which the sun never sets, and her sovereignty goes back to the dawn of history. The fairy-tale claims undivided homage, and we are not allowed to read into it what is not expressed by it. The study of Folklore has taught us, besides, that we cannot wring the secret out by force; nor dare we press it into any mould of our own choice. We can coax it; we may be able to induce it to yield to our blandishments as a reward for faithful and devoted service. No wizard or conjurer will part with his secret words of magic. After years of faithful service, the Famulus may be allowed to overhear the words spoken by the Master, and gather them into his memory, or he may snatch them from him by cunning and ruse. Otherwise they lose their power, and are of no value for any practical purpose. We will not use cunning it is much more the case of Psyche standing by the bedside of Amor asleep, or Partenopeus at that of Melusine, anxious to unravel the mystery of the lover. I hope no one will shake my hand, lest a drop of the burning wax falls on the sleeper, and he vanishes. In one way we are better situated than Psyche or Partenopeus. The tale is not clad in a beast's skin. On the contrary, it is donned in all its radiant clothing, and beckons us from afar to follow it to its golden palace,