CHAPTER VI.

The last day of October came round apace, and about six o'clock in the evening the company began to arrive at old Mick Murdock's. Winny Cavana and her father took their time. They were near enough to make their entree at any moment; and Winny had some idea, like her betters, that it was not genteel to be the first. She now delayed, however, to the other extreme, and kept her father waiting, under the pretence that she was finishing her toilet, until, on their arrival, they found all the guests assembled. Winny flaunted in, leaning upon her father's arm, "the admired of all admirers." Not being very learned in the mysteries of the toilet, I shall not attempt to describe the dresses of the girls upon this occasion, nor the elaborate manner in which their heads were set out, oiled, and bedizened to an amazing extent, while the roses above their left ears seemed to have been all culled from the same tree.

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Altogether there were about sixteen young persons, pretty equally divided as to boys and girls, beside some--and some only--of their fathers and mothers. Soon after the arrival of Ned Cavana and his daughter, who were the guests of the evening, supper was announced, and there was a general move into the "large parlor," where a long table was set out with a snow-white cloth, where plates (if not covers) were laid for at least twenty-four. In the middle of the table stood a smoking dish of _calcannon_, which appeared to defy them, and as many more; while at either end was a _raking_ pot of tea, surrounded with cups and saucers innumerable, with pyramids of cut bread-and-butter nearly an inch thick.

The company having taken their seats, it was announced by the host that there were "two goold weddin'-rings in the _calcannon;_" but whereabouts, of course, no one could tell. He had borrowed them from two of the married women present, and was bound to restore them; so he begged of his young friends, for his sake as well as their own, to be careful not to swallow them. It was too well known what was to be the lot of the happy finders before that day twelvemonth for him to say anything upon that part of the subject. He would request of Mrs. Moran, who had seen more All-Hallow Eves than any woman there present--he meant no offence--to help the calcannon.

After this little introduction, Mrs. Moran, who by previous arrangement was sitting opposite the savory volcano, distributed it with unquestionable impartiality. It was a well-known rule on all such occasions that no one commenced until all were helped, when a signal was given, and a simultaneous plunge of spoons took place.

Another rule was that all the married persons should content themselves with tea and bread-and-butter, in order that none of them might possibly rob the youngsters of their chance of the ring. Upon this occasion, however, this restriction had been neatly obviated by Mrs. Moran's experience in such matters; and there was a _knock-oge_ of the same delicious food without any ring, which she called "the married dish." The tea was handed up and down from each end of the table until it met in the middle, and for some time there was a silent onslaught on the calcannon, washed down now and then by a copious draught of tea.

"I have it! I have it!" shouted Phil M'Dermott, taking it from between his teeth and holding it up, while his cheeks deepened three shades nearer to the color of the rose in Kate Mulvey's hair, nearly opposite.

"A lucky man," observed Mrs. Moran, methodically, who seemed to be mistress of the mysteries. "Now for the lucky girl; and lucky everybody will say she must be."

The words were scarcely finished when Kate Mulvey coughed as if she were choking; but pulling the other ring from her mouth, she soon recovered herself, declaring that she had nearly swallowed it.

Matters, as Mrs. Moran thought, had so far gone quite right, and a hearty quizzing the young couple got; but, to tell the truth, one of them did not seem to be particularly satisfied with the result. The attack upon the calcannon from this point waxed very weak, for the charm was broken, and the tea and bread-and-butter came into play. Apples and nuts were now laid down in abundance, and the young girls might be seen picking a couple of pairs of nice nuts out of those on the plate, as nearly as fancy might suggest, to match the figures of those whom they were intended to represent upon the bar of the grate. Almost as if by magic a regiment of nuts in pairs were seen smoking, and some of them stirring and purring on the flat bar at the bottom of the grate, which had been swept, and the fire brightened up, for the purpose. Of course Mrs. Moran insisted upon openly putting down Phil M'Dermott and Kate Mulvey of the rings; for in general there is a secrecy observed as to _who_ the _nuts_ are, in order to save {512} the constant girl from a laugh at the fickleness of her bachelor, should he go off in a shot from her side, and _vice versâ_. And here the mistress of the mysteries was not at fault. Kate Mulvey, without either smoking or getting red at one end (which was a good sign), went off like the report of a pistol, and was actually heard striking against the door as if to get out. There was a general laugh at Mrs. Moran's expense, who was told that it was a strong proof in favor of putting the pairs down secretly.

But Mrs. Moran was too experienced a mistress of her position to be taken aback, and quietly said, "Not at all, my dears. I have three times to burn them, if he does not follow her; but he has three minutes to do so."

As she spoke there was another shot. Phil M'Dermott could not stand the heat by himself, and was off to the door after Kate Mulvey.

This was a crowning triumph to Mrs. Moran, who quietly put back the second pair of nuts which she had just selected for another test of the same couple, and remarked that "it was all right now."

The couples, generally speaking, seemed to answer the expectations of their respective match-makers better than perhaps the results in real life might subsequently justify. It is not to be supposed that on this occasion Tom Murdock and Winny Cavana did not find a place upon the bar of the grate. But as Winny had given no encouragement to any one to put her down with him, and as the mistress of the mysteries alone could claim a right to do so openly, as in the case of the rings, their place, with the result, could be known only to those who put them down, and perhaps a confidant.

There were a few pops occasionally, calling forth exclamations of "The good-for-nothing fellow!" or "The fickle lass!" while some burned into bright balls--the admiration of all the true and constant lovers present.

The next portion of the mysteries were three plates, placed in a row upon the table; one contained earth, another water, and the third a gold ring. This was, by some, considered rather a nervous test of futurity, and some objections were whispered by the timid amongst them. The fearless and enthusiastic, however, clamored that nothing should be left out, and a handkerchief to blind the adventurers was produced. The mystery was this: a young person was taken outside the door, and there blindfolded; he, or she, was then led in again, and placed opposite to the plates, sufficiently near to touch them; when told that "all was right," he, with his fore-finger pointed, placed it upon one of the plates. That with the earth symbolled forth sudden, or perhaps violent, death; that with the water, emigration or ship-wreck; while that with the ring, of course a wedding and domestic happiness.

Young people were not generally averse to subject themselves to this ordeal, as in nine cases out of ten they managed either to be previously acquainted with the position of the plates, or, having been blindfolded by their own bachelor, to have a peep-hole down by the corner of their nose, which enabled them to secure the most gratifying result of the three.

With this usual course before his mind, Tom Murdock, as junior host, presented himself for the test, hoping that Winny Cavana, whom he had asked to do so, would blindfold him. But in this instance he had presumed too far; and while she hesitated to comply, the mistress of the mysteries came to her relief.

"No, no, Tom," she said, folding the handkerchief; "that is my business, and I'll transfer it to no one; come outside with me."

Tom was ashamed to draw back, and retired with Mrs. Moran to the hall. He soon returned, led in by her, with a handkerchief tied tightly over his eyes; there was no peep-hole by the side of his nose, let him hold back {513} his head as he might, Mrs. Moran took care of that. Having been placed near the table, he was told that he was exactly opposite the plates. He pointed out his fore-finger, and threw back his head as much as possible, as if considering, but in fact to try if he could get a peep at the plates; but it was no use. Mrs. Moran had rendered his temporary blindness cruelly secure. At length his hand descended, and he placed his finger into the middle of the earth.

"Pshaw," said he, pulling the handkerchief off his eyes, "it is all humbug! Let Lennon try it."

"Certainly, certainly," ran from one to the other. It might have been remarked, however, if any one had been observing, that Winny Cavana had not spoken.

Young Lennon then retired to the hall with Mrs. Moran, and was soon led in tightly blindfolded, for the young man was no more to her than the other; beside, she was strictly honorable. The plates had been re-arranged by Tom Murdock himself, which most people remarked, as it was some time before he was satisfied with their position. Lennon was then placed, as Tom had been, and told that "all was right." There was some nervousness in more hearts than one as he pointed his finger and brought down his hand. He also placed his finger in the centre of the plate with the earth, and pulled the handkerchief from his eyes.

"Now, you see," said Tom, "others can fail as well as me;" and he seemed greatly pleased that young Lennon had been as unsuccessful as himself.

A murmur of dissatisfaction now ran through the girls. The two favorites had been unfortunate in their attempts at divination, and there was one young girl there who, when she saw Emon-a-knock's finger fall on the plate with the earth, felt as if a weight had been tied round her heart. It was unanimously agreed by the elderly women present, Mrs. Moran amongst the number, that these tests had turned out directly contrary to what the circumstances of the locality, and the characters of the individuals, would indicate as probable, and the whole process was ridiculed as false and unprophetic. "Time will tell, jewel," said one old croaking crone.

A loud burst of laughter from the kitchen at this moment told that the servant-boys and girls, who had also been invited, were not idle. The matches having been all either clenched or broken off in the parlor, and the test of the plates, as if by mutual consent, having been declared unsatisfactory, old Murdock thought it a good opportunity to move an adjournment of the whole party, to see the fun in the kitchen, which was seconded by Mrs. Moran, and carried _nem. con._

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

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Translated from Etudes Religieusea, Historiques, et Littéraires, par des Pères de la Compagnie de Jesus.

A CITY OF WOMEN.

THE ANCIENT BEGUINAGE OF GHENT. BY THE REV. A. NAMPON, S.J.

According to some authors, St. Begghe, daughter of Pepin, Duke of Brabant, and sister of St. Gertrude, must have given her name to those pious assemblages of Christian virgins and widows called from very remote times _beguinages_.

These holy women, united under the protection and the rule of St. Begghe, had nothing in common except the name with those Beguines whose errors were condemned by the council of Vienne.

Beguinages exist at Ghent, Antwerp, Mechlin, Alost, Louvain, Bruges, etc., etc. The rule is not in all places the same, but everywhere these pious establishments are places of refuge open to devout women, wherein they may sanctify themselves by prayer, labor, and retirement from the distractions of the world.

Let us transport ourselves to the capital of Flanders. From the centre of that tumultuous city, in which industry, commerce, activity, and pleasure reign supreme, are separated two other smaller towns of venerable aspect--closed to the world, destitute of shops, coaches, public criers, and all modern inventions. These two towns are the _Great_ and the _Little Beguinage_.

These places are delightful oases, wherein you breathe a pure air, where, in the noonday of the nineteenth century, you find the simplicity of the faith and customs of antiquity. They are surrounded, as they were five or six centuries ago, by a ditch and a wall; you enter them by a single gate carefully closed at night, and not less carefully watched all day. This gate, surmounted by the cross, was formerly protected by a drawbridge.

As soon as you have passed through this gateway, you are forcibly struck with the calm and pious atmosphere of this peaceful city, and with the grave and edifying looks of its _female_ inhabitants. I say female inhabitants, for no man has ever dwelt in this enclosure. The priests who serve the beguinages only enter to fulfil their sacred offices, and have no place therein save the pulpit, the altar, and the confessional. The dress of the inmates is not elegant, but it is in strict conformity with the model traced in their thirteenth century rule.

All the streets, which are at right angles, are named after saints. The houses are also distinguished by the names, and frequently by the statue, of some saint, under whose protection they are placed; thus you may read, gate of St. Martha, gate of St. Mary-Magdalen, etc., etc.

The houses, which are whitewashed annually, display in their furniture, as in their construction, no other luxury but a charming cleanliness. They are of two kinds, _convents_ and _hermitages_. The convents are inhabited by communities, each governed by a superior. The hermitages, which resemble very much the dwellings of the Carthusians, consist of two or three bed-rooms, a parlor, a kitchen, and a small garden. Prominent among the convents is the dwelling of the superior-general, called _Grande Dame_, who has charge of the infirmary, and who is conservator of the documents, traditions and pictures, which date from five or six centuries ago. Lastly, in the midst of this peaceful city rises the house of God, a large church, very commodious and clean, surrounded by a {515} cemetery, in conformity with an ancient custom, which all the beguinages, however, have not been able to retain.

The object of these societies is very clearly stated in a paragraph of the rule of the beguinage of Notre Dame du Pré', founded at Ghent in 1234. We retain the old style:

"Louis, Count of Flanders, of Nevers, and of Rethel, etc., etc., to all present and to come makes known, that Dame Jane, and Margaret, her sister of happy memory, who were successively Countesses of Flanders and of Hainault (as we are, [Footnote 100] by the grace of God), having remarked that in the Flemish territory there were a great number of women, who, from their condition in life and that of their parents, were unable to find a fitting match; observing that honorable persons, the daughters of nobles and burgesses, who desired to live in a state of chastity, could not all enter into convents of women, by reason of their too great number, or for want of means; remarking, moreover, that many young ladies of noble extraction and others had fallen into a state of decadence, so that they were reduced to mendicity, or to a painful existence, to the dishonor of their families, unless they could be provided for in a discreet and becoming manner; incited by God, and with the advice, knowledge, and consent of several bishops and other persons of probity, the aforesaid countesses founded, in several cities of Flanders, establishments with spacious dwellings and lands, called beguinages, where noble young ladies and children of good families were received, to live therein chastely in community, with or without vows, without humiliation to themselves or their families, and where they might, by applying themselves to reasonable labor, procure their food and clothing. They founded among others a beguinage in our city of Ghent, called the beguinage of Notre Dame du Pré, enclosed by the river Scheldt, and by walls. In the centre is a church, a cemetery, and a hospital for infirm or invalid beguines, the whole given by the before-mentioned princesses, etc."

[Footnote 100: This bull is in the original French: _"Comteses de Flandre et de Hainault, comme nous aussi, par la grace de Dieu."_]

Those young persons who desire to be admitted to the beguinage must first become postulants, and afterward make their noviciate in the convents or communities. They remain there even after their profession up to thirty years of age. Thus are they protected during the most stormy period of life by the watchfulness of their superior and their companions, by prayer and labor in common. Later they can enjoy without danger a larger measure of freedom. They then live two or three together in one of the hermitages, where they pass their time in exercises of prayer and labor, to which the early years of their cenobitical life have accustomed them.

"The great beguinage at Ghent," says M. Chantrel, "contains four hundred small houses, eighteen common halls, one large and one small church. There are sometimes as many as seven hundred beguines assembled in the church. The assembly of these pious women, in their ancient Flemish black dresses, and white bonnets, is very solemn and impressive. The novices are distinguished by their dress. Those who have recently taken the veil have their heads encircled by a crown.

"The beguines admit within their enclosure, as boarders, persons of the gentler sex, of every age and condition, who find in these establishments an asylum for the inexperience of youth, or a calm and peaceful sojourn where those who are tired of the world may pass their days without any other rule than that of a Christian life. In the great beguinage at Ghent there are nearly two hundred secular boarders, who live either privately or in community with the nuns."

Among the novices of the great beguinage at Ghent there lived, fifteen years ago, a Mlle, de Soubiran, the niece of a former vicar of Carcassonne. For twenty years this worthy ecclesiastic had communed with Almighty God, in incessant prayers, to obtain an {516} answer to this question: "Would it be a useful work to introduce, or rather to resuscitate, beguinages in France?"

Monseigneur de la Bouillerie, whose eloquence and zeal for good works have made him famous, interpreted in a favorable sense the signs furnished by a concurrence of providential circumstances; and a small establishment was opened twelve years ago, in a suburb of Castelnaudary, under the direction of the Abbé de Soubiran. Since 1856, it has had its postulants, novices, and professed sisters.

The buildings of the new beguinage were too small and poor. This defect was remedied by a great fire which consumed them, and compelled their reconstruction on a larger plan, and with better materials than the planks and bricks of the original buildings.

There is doubtless a vast distance between this feeble beginning and the extensive beguinage in Belgium, which so many centuries have enlarged and brought to perfection. But Mlle, de Soubiran and her first companions brought with them from Flanders the old traditions, with the spirit of fervor and of poverty and humble labor. The trials which they have undergone have only improved their work. They are happy in the blessing of their bishop, and his alms would not be wanting in case of need.

The Castelnaudary beguinage is already fruitful. A second establishment is forming at Toulouse, on the Calvary road. Those of our readers who are acquainted with the capital of Languedoc know the situation of that road, but all Christians have long since learnt that the road to Calvary is the way of salvation.

Suffice it for the present that we notice the existence of these two establishments. We shall have at a future time to narrate their progress and development.

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From The Month.

THE DREAM OF GERONTIUS.

BY JOHN HENRY NEWMAN, D.D.

§ 1.

GERONTIUS.

JESU, MARIA--I am near to death, And thou art calling me; I know it now. Not by the token of this faltering breath, This chill at heart, this dampness on my brow,-- (Jesu, have mercy! Mary, pray for me!) 'Tis this new feeling, never felt before, (Be with me, Lord, in my extremity!) That I am going, that I am no more. 'Tis this strange innermost abandonment, (Lover of souls! great God! I look to thee,) This emptying out of each constituent And natural force, by which I come to be. Pray for me, O my friends; a visitant Is knocking his dire summons at my door, The like of whom, to scare me and to daunt, Has never, never come to me before. 'Tis death,--loving friends, your prayers!--'tis he! .... As though my very being had given way, As though I was no more a substance now, And could fall back on naught to be my stay, (Help, loving Lord! Thou my sole refuge, thou,) And turn no whither, but must needs decay And drop from out this universal frame Into that shapeless, scopeless, blank abyss, That utter nothingness, of which I came: This is it that has come to pass in me; O horror! this it is, my dearest, this; So pray for me, my friends, who have not strength to pray.

ASSISTANTS.

Kyrie eleïson, Christe eleïson, Kyrie eleïson. Holy Mary, pray for him. All holy angels, pray for him. Choirs of the righteous, pray for him. Holy Abraham, pray for him. St. John Baptist, St. Joseph, pray for him. St. Peter, St. Paul, St. Andrew, St. John, All apostles, all evangelists, pray for him. All holy disciples of the Lord, pray for him. All holy innocents, pray for him. All holy martyrs, all holy confessors, All holy hermits, all holy virgins, All ye saints of God, pray for him.

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GERONTIUS.

Rouse thee, my fainting soul, and play the man; And through such waning span Of life and thought as still has to be trod, Prepare to meet thy God. And while the storm of that bewilderment Is for a season spent, And, ere afresh the ruin on thee fall, Use well the interval.

ASSISTANTS.

Be merciful, be gracious; spare him, Lord. Be merciful, be gracious; Lord, deliver him. From the sins that are passed; From thy frown and thine ire; From the perils of dying; From any complying With sin, or denying His God, or relying On self, at the last; From the nethermost fire; From all that is evil; From power of the devil; Thy servant deliver, For once and for ever.

By thy birth, and by thy cross, Rescue him from endless loss; By thy death and burial, Save him from a final fall; By thy rising from the tomb, By thy mounting up above, By the Spirit's gracious love, Save him in the day of doom.

GERONTIUS.

Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus, De profundis oro te, Miserere, judex meus, Parce mihi, Domine. Firmly I believe and truly God is Three, and God is One; And I next acknowledge duly Manhood taken by the Son. And I trust and hope most fully In that manhood crucified; And each thought and deed unruly Do to death, as he has died. Simply to his grace and wholly Light and life and strength belong, And I love supremely, solely, Him the holy, him the strong.

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Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus, De profundis oro te, Miserere, judex meus, Parce mihi, Domine. And I hold in veneration, For the love of him alone, Holy Church, as his creation. And her teachings, as his own. And I take with joy whatever Now besets me, pain or fear, And with a strong will I sever All the ties which bind me here. Adoration aye be given, With and through the angelic host, To the God of earth and heaven, Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Sanctus fortis, Sanctus Deus, De profundis oro te, Miserere, judex meus, Mortis in discrimine.

I can no more; for now it comes again, That sense of ruin, which is worse than pain, That masterful negation and collapse Of all that makes me man; as though I bent Over the dizzy brink Of some sheer infinite descent; Or worse, as though Down, down for ever I was falling through The solid framework of created things, And needs must sink and sink Into the vast abyss. And, crueller still, A fierce and restless fright begins to fill The mansion of my soul. And, worse and worse, Some bodily form of ill Floats on the wind, with many a loathsome curse Tainting the hallowed air, and laughs and flaps Its hideous wings, And makes me wild with horror and dismay. O Jesu, help! pray for me, Mary, pray! Some angel, Jesu! such as came to thee In thine own agony...... Mary, pray for me. Joseph, pray for me. Mary, pray for me.

ASSISTANTS.

Rescue him, O Lord, in this his evil hour, As of old so many by thy gracious power:--Amen. Enoch and Elias from the common doom; Amen. Noe from the waters in a saving home; Amen. Abraham from th' abounding guilt of heathenesse; Amen. Job from all his multiform and fell distress; Amen. Isaac, when his father's knife was raised to slay; Amen. Lot from burning Sodom on its judgment-day; Amen.

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Moses from the land of bondage and despair; Amen. Daniel from the hungry lions in their lair; Amen. And the children three amid the furnace-flame; Amen. Chaste Susanna from the slander and the shame; Amen. David from Golia and the wrath of Saul; Amen. And the two apostles from their prison-thrall; Amen. Thecla from her torments; Amen: --so, to show thy power, Rescue this thy servant in his evil hour.

GERONTIUS.

Novissima hora est; and I fain would sleep. The pain has wearied me. . . . Into thy hands, Lord, into thy hands. . . . .

THE PRIEST.

Proficiscere, anima Christiana de hoc mundo! Go forth upon thy journey, Christian soul! Go from this world! Go, in the name of God, The omnipotent Father, who created thee! Go, in the name of Jesus Christ our Lord, Son of the Living God, who bled for thee! Go, in the name of th' Holy Spirit, who Hath been poured out on thee! Go, in the name Of angels and archangels; in the name Of thrones and dominations; in the name Of princedoms and of powers; and in the name Of cherubim and seraphim, go forth! Go, in the name of patriarchs and prophets; And of apostles and evangelists, Of martyrs and confessors; in the name Of holy monks and hermits; in the name Of holy virgins; and all saints of God, Both men and women, go! Go on thy course; And may thy place to-day be found in peace, And may thy dwelling be the holy mount Of Sion: through the same, through Christ, our Lord.

§ 2.

SOUL Of GERONTIUS.

I went to sleep; and now I am refreshed. A strange refreshment: for I feel in me An inexpressive lightness, and a sense Of freedom, as I were at length myself, And ne'er had been before. How still it is! I hear no more the busy beat of time, No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse; Nor does one moment differ from the next. I had a dream; yes:--some one softly said "He's gone;" and then a sigh went round the room. And then I surely heard a priestly voice Cry "Subvenite;" and they knelt in prayer.

{521}

I seem to hear him still; but thin and low, And fainter and more faint the accents come, As at an ever-widening interval. Ah! whence is this? What is this severance? This silence pours a solitariness Into the very essence of my soul; And the deep rest, so soothing and so sweet, Hath something too of sternness and of pain. For it drives back my thoughts upon their spring By a strange introversion, and perforce I now begin to feed upon myself, Because I have naught else to feed upon.

Am I alive or dead? I am not dead, But in the body still; for I possess A sort of confidence, which clings to me, That each particular organ holds its place As heretofore, combining with the rest Into one symmetry, that wraps me round, And makes me man; and surely I could move, Did I but will it, every part of me. And yet I cannot to my sense bring home, By very trial, that I have the power. 'Tis strange; I cannot stir a hand or foot, I cannot make my fingers or my lips By mutual pressure witness each to each, Nor by the eyelid's instantaneous stroke Assure myself I have a body still. Nor do I know my very attitude, Nor if I stand, or lie, or sit, or kneel.

So much I know, not knowing how I know, That the vast universe, where I have dwelt, Is quitting me, or I am quitting it. Or I or it is rushing on the wings Of light or lightning on an onward course, And we e'en now are million miles apart. Yet . . is this peremptory severance Wrought out in lengthy measurements of space, Which grow and multiply by speed and time? Or am I traversing infinity By endless subdivision, hurrying back From finite toward infinitesimal, Thus dying out of the expanded world?

Another marvel; some one has me fast Within his ample palm; 'tis not a grasp Such as they use on earth, but all around Over the surface of my subtle being, As though I were a sphere, and capable To be accosted thus, a uniform And gentle pressure tells me I am not Self-moving, but borne forward on my way. And hark! I hear a singing; yet in sooth

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I cannot of that music rightly say Whether I hear or touch or taste the tones. Oh what a heart-subduing melody!

ANGEL.

My work is done,' My task is o er, And so I come, Taking it home, For the crown is won. Alleluia, For evermore.

My Father gave In charge to me This child of earth E'en from its birth, To serve and save, Alleluia, And saved is he.

This child of clay To me was given, To rear and train By sorrow and pain In the narrow way, Alleluia, From earth to heaven.

SOUL.

It is a member of that family Of wondrous beings, who, ere the worlds were made, Millions of ages back, have stood around The throne of God:--he never has known sin; But through those cycles all but infinite, Has had a strong and pure celestial life, And bore to gaze on th' unveiled face of God, And drank from the eternal fount of truth, And served him with a keen ecstatic love. Hark! he begins again.

ANGEL.

Lord, how wonderful in depth and height, But most in man, how wonderful thou art! With what a love, what soft persuasive might, Victorious o'er the stubborn fleshly heart, Thy tale complete of saints thou dost provide, To fill the throne which angels lost through pride!

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He lay a grovelling babe upon the ground, Polluted in the blood of his first sire, With his whole essence shattered and unsound, And, coiled around his heart, a demon dire, Which was not of his nature, but had skill To bind and form his opening mind to ill.

Then was I sent from heaven to set right The balance in his soul of truth and sin, And I have waged a long relentless fight, Resolved that death-environed spirit to win, Which from its fallen state, when all was lost, Had been repurchased at so dread a cost.

Oh what a shifting parti-colored scene Of hope and fear, of triumph and dismay, Of recklessness and penitence, has been The history of that dreary, lifelong fray! And oh the grace, to nerve him and to lead, How patient, prompt, and lavish at his need!

O man, strange composite of heaven and earth! Majesty dwarfed to baseness! fragrant flower Running to poisonous seed! and seeming worth Cloaking corruption! weakness mastering power! Who never art so near to crime and shame, As when thou hast achieved some deed of name;

How should ethereal natures comprehend A thing made up of spirit and of clay, Were we not tasked to nurse it and to tend, Linked one to one throughout its mortal day? More than the seraph in his height of place, The angel-guardian knows and loves the ransomed race.

SOUL.

Now know I surely that I am at length Out of the body: had I part with earth, I never could have drunk those accents in, And not have worshipped as a god the voice That was so musical; but now I am So whole of heart, so calm, so self-possessed, With such a full content, and with a sense So apprehensive and discriminant, As no temptation can intoxicate. Nor have I even terror at the thought That I am clasped by such a saintliness.

ANGEL.

All praise to him, at whose sublime decree The last are first, the first become the last; By whom the suppliant prisoner is set free, By whom proud first-borns from their thrones are cast; Who raises Mary to be queen of heaven, While Lucifer is left, condemned and unforgiven.

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§ 3.

SOUL.

I will address him. Mighty one, my Lord, My guardian spirit, all hail!

ANGEL.

All hail, my child! My child and brother, hail! what wouldest thou?

SOUL.

I would have nothing but to speak with thee For speaking's sake. I wish to hold with thee Conscious communion; though I fain would know A maze of things, were it but meet to ask, And not a curiousness.

ANGEL.

You cannot now Cherish a wish which ought not to be wished.

SOUL.

Then I will speak. I ever had believed That on the moment when the struggling soul Quitted its mortal case, forthwith it fell Under the awful presence of its God, There to be judged and sent to its own place. What lets me now from going to my Lord?

ANGEL.

Thou art not let; but with extremest speed Art hurrying to the just and holy Judge: For scarcely art thou disembodied yet. Divide a moment, as men measure time, Into its million-million-millionth part, Yet even less than that the interval Since thou didst leave the body; and the priest Cried "Subvenite," and they fell to prayer; Nay, scarcely yet have they begun to pray. For spirits and men by different standards mete The less and greater in the flow of time. By sun and moon, primeval ordinances-- By stars which rise and set harmoniously-- By the recurring seasons, and the swing, This way and that, of the suspended rod Precise and punctual, men divide the hours, Equal, continuous, for their common use. Not so with us in th' immaterial world; But intervals in their succession

{525}

Are measured by the living thought alone, And grow or wane with its intensity. And time is not a common property; But what is long is short, and swift is slow, And near is distant, as received and grasped By this mind and by that, and every one Is standard of his own chronology. And memory lacks its natural resting-points, Of years, and centuries, and periods. It is thy very energy of thought Which keeps thee from thy God.

SOUL.

Dear angel, say, Why have I now no fear at meeting him? Along my earthly life, the thought of death And judgment was to me most terrible. I had it aye before me, and I saw The Judge severe e'en in the crucifix. Now that the hour is come, my fear is fled; And at this balance of my destiny, Now close upon me, I can forward look With a serenest joy.

ANGEL.

It is because Then thou didst fear, that now thou dost not fear. Thou hast forestalled the agony, and so For thee the bitterness of death is passed Also, because already in thy soul The judgment is begun. That day of doom, One and the same for the collected world-- That solemn consummation for all flesh, Is, in the case of each, anticipate Upon his death; and, as the last great day In the particular judgment is rehearsed, So now too, ere thou comest to the throne, A presage falls upon thee, as a ray Straight from the Judge, expressive of thy lot. That calm and joy uprising in thy soul Is first-fruit to thee of thy recompense, And heaven begun.

§ 4.

SOUL.

But hark! upon my sense Comes a fierce hubbub, which would make me fear, Could I be frighted.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

{526}

From The St. James Magazine

EXTINCT SPECIES

The study of geology teaches us that our planet, has undergone many successive physical revolutions, the crust of it being made up of layer upon layer, after the manner of the successive peels of an onion. Each of these successive depositions constitutes the tomb of animal forms that have lived and passed away. Now it is a fresh-water or a marine shell that the exploratory geologist discloses; now the skeleton, or parts of a skeleton, from the evidence of which a comparative anatomist can reproduce, by model or picture, the exact forms. Occasionally science has to build up her presentment of animals that were, from the scanty evidence of their mere footfalls. As the poacher is guided to the timid hare, crouching in her seat, by the vestiges of her footprints on the snow, so the geologist can in many cases arrive at tolerably certain conclusions relative to the size and aspect of an extinct animal by the evidence of footsteps on now solid rock. And if it be demanded how it happens that now solid rocks can bear the traces of such soft impressions, the reply is simple. There evidently was a time when these rocks, now so hard and solid, were mere agglomerations of plastic matter, comparable for consistence to ordinary clay. It needs not even the weight of a footfall to impress material of temper so soft as this. The plashes of rain are distinctly visible upon many rocks now hard, and which have only acquired their consistence with the lapse of countless ages.

The geologist's notion of the word "recent" comprehends a span of time of beginning so remote that the oldest records of human history fade to insignificance by comparison. Since this world of ours acquired its final surface settlement, so to speak, numerous species have become extinct. The process of exhaustion has gone steadily on. It has been determined by various causes, some readily explicable, others involved in doubt. It is a matter well established, for example, that all northern Asia was at one time, not geologically remote, overrun by herds of mammoth creatures which, as to size, dwarf the largest elephants now existing; and which, among other points distinguishing them from modern elephants, were, unlike these, covered by a crop of long hair. Very much of the ivory manufactured in Russia consists of the tusks of these now extinct mammoths, untombed from time to time.

Tilesius declares his belief that mammoth skeletons still left in northern Russia exceed in number all the elephants now existing upon the globe. Doubtless the process of mammoth extinction was very gradual, and extended over an enormous space of time. This circumstance is indicated by the varying condition in which the tusks and teeth are found. Whereas the gelatine, or soft animal matter, of many specimens remains, imparting one of the characteristics necessary to the being of ivory, other specimens have lost this material, and mineral substances, infiltrating, have taken its place. The gem turquoise is pretty generally conceded to be nothing else than the fossilized tooth of some extinct animal--probably the mammoth.

Curiosity of speculation prompts the mind to imagine to itself the time when the last of these gigantic animals succumbed to influences that were finally destined to sweep them all from the earth. Had men come upon the scene when they roamed their native wilds? Were those wilds the same as now as to climate and vegetable growths? {527} Testimony is mute. Time silently unveils the sepulchred remains, leaving fancy to expatiate as she will on a topic wholly beyond the scope of mortal intelligence.

Inasmuch as bones and tusks of the mammoth are dug up in enormous quantities over tracts now almost bare of trees, and scanty as to other vegetation, certain naturalists have assumed that in times coeval with mammoth or mastodonic life the vegetation of these regions must have been richer than now, otherwise how could such troops of enormous beasts have gained their sustenance?

On this point Sir Charles Lyell bids us not to be too confident affirmatively. He remarks that luxuriance of vegetable growth is not seen at the time being to correspond with the prevalence of the associated fauna. The northern island of the New Zealand group, at the period when Europeans first set foot there, was mostly covered by a luxuriant growth of forest trees, of shrubs and grasses. Admirably adapted to the being of herbivorous animals, the land was wholly devoid of the same. Brazilian forests offer another case in illustration; a stronger case than the wilds of New Zealand, inasmuch as the climate may be assumed as more congenial to the development of animal life. Nowhere on earth does nature teem with an equal amount of vegetable luxuriance; yet Brazilian forests are remarkable for almost the total absence of large animals. Perhaps no present tract is so densely endowed with animal life as that of South Africa, a region where sterility is the prevailing characteristic; where forest trees are rare and other vegetation scant; where water, too, is infrequent.

Present examples, such as these, should make a naturalist hesitate before coming to the conclusion that Siberian wilds, even as now, were wholly incompatible with the existence and support of troops of mammoths or mastodons. Speculating now as to the latest time of the existence of mastodons in Siberia, a circumstance has to be noted that would seem to countenance the belief in the existence of it up to a not very remote period of historic times. In the year 1843, the season being warmer than usual, a mass of Siberian ice thawed, and, in thawing, untombed one of these animals, perfect in all respects, even to the skin and hair. The flesh of this creature furnished repast to wolves and bears, so little alteration had it undergone. Another mastodon was disentombed on the Tas, between the Obi and Yenesei, near the arctic circle, about lat. 66° 30' N., with some parts of its flesh in so perfect a state that the bulb of the eye now exists preserved in the Moscow museum. Another adult carcass, accompanied by an individual of the same species, was found in 1843, in lat. 75° 15' N., near the river Taimyr, the flesh being decayed. Associated with it, Middendorf observed the trunk of a larch tree (_Pinus larix_), the same wood that now grows in the same neighborhood abundantly.

It is no part of our intention to discuss the causes of mammoth extinction. This result has assuredly not been caused by any onslaught of the destroyer man. The Siberian wilds are scantily populated now, and it has never been suggested that at any anterior period their human denizens were more plentiful. Nature often establishes the balance of her organic life through a series of agencies so abstrusely refined, and acting, beside, over so long a period, that they altogether escape man's cognizance. The believer in the God of nature's adaptation of means to ends will see no reason to make an exception in animal species to what is demonstrated by examples in so many other cases to be a general law. The dogma, that no general law is without exceptions, though one to which implicit credence has been given, may nevertheless be devoid of the universality commonly imputed. On the contrary, the application of this dogma may extend over a very narrow field; may be only referable to the codifications, artificial and wholly {528} conventional, which mankind for their convenience establish, and under a false impression elevate to the position of laws. If logical proof in syllogistic form be demanded as to the proposition that laws established by nature have no exceptions, the fulfilment of demand would not be possible; inasmuch as human reason is too impotent for grasping, and too restricted in its energies for investigating, the multifarious issues which the discussion of such a thesis would involve. As coming events, however, are said by the poet to cast their shadows in advance, so, as heralds and harbingers of truths beyond logical proof, come beliefs, faiths, even moral convictions. Of this sort is the assurance of the balance established by nature at each passing epoch of being in the world.

The naturalist is impressed with the firm belief that the number of animal species existing on the earth, and the number of individuals in each species, are balanced and apportioned in some way and by some mysterious co-relation to the needs of the universe.

Some presumptive testimony in favor of this belief is afforded by the discussion, barely yet concluded, relative to the effect of small bird destruction. Without any more elaborate reasoning on this topic than follows necessarily as the result of newspaper reading, the general concession will be made by any one of unbiased mind, that if small bird destruction could be enacted to its exhaustive limits--if every small bird could be destroyed--the aggregate of vitality thus disposed of would be balanced through the increase of other organisms. Insect life would teem and multiply to an extent proportionate with the removal of an anterior restraining cause.

The nature of the topic on which we are engaged does not force upon us the question whether such proportionate increase of insect life be advantageous or disadvantageous. What we are wholly concerned in placing in evidence is the balance kept up between vital organisms of different species by nature. Nor is the balance of vitality established between different animal species. It also may be traced, and even more distinctly, between the vegetable and animal kingdoms; each regarded in its entirety. Vegetables can only grow by the assimilation of an element (carbon) which animals evolve by respiration, as being a poison. Consideration of this fact well-nigh forces the conclusion upon the mind--if, indeed, the conclusion be not inevitable--that if through any vast cataclysm animated life were to become suddenly extinct throughout the world, vegetable life would languish until the last traces of atmospheric carbon had become exhausted, and then perish.

In maintenance of her vital balance through the operation of some occult law, it often happens that animals that have ceased to be "obviously useful," as taking part in a general economy around them, are seen to die out. Whilst wolves and elks roamed over Ireland the magnificent Irish wolf-dog was common. With the disappearance of wolves the breed of wolf-dogs languished, and has ultimately become extinct. As a matter of zoological curiosity many an Irish gentleman would have desired to perpetuate this gigantic and interesting race of dogs; but the operation, the tendency to vital equilibrium has been over-strong to be contravened--the race of Irish wolf-dogs has fleeted away. Speaking now of the huge Siberian mammoths, from which we diverged, of these faith in nature's balanced adaptation assures us that they died out so soon as they ceased to be necessary as a compensation to some unknown force in the vital economy.

Spans and periods of time, such as those comprehended by the human mind, and compared with the normal period of individual human existence, dwindle to nothingness when attempted to be made the units of measurement in calculations involving the duration of species. Perhaps the data are not available for enabling the most careful investigator to come to an approximate {529} conclusion as to the number of years that must elapse before the race of existing elephants, African and Indian, will become extinct, departing from the earth as mammoths have departed. The time, however, must inevitably arrive for that consummation under the rule of the present course of things.

Without forest for shade and sustenance the race of wild elephants cannot exist; and, inasmuch as elephants never breed in captivity, each tame elephant having been once reclaimed from the forests, it follows, from the consideration of inevitable results, that sooner or later, but some day, nevertheless, one of two possible issues must be consummated--either that man shall cease to go on subduing the earth, cutting down forests and bringing the land into cultivation, or else elephants must become extinct. Who can entertain a doubt as to the alternative issue? Man has gone on conquering and to conquer from the time he came upon the scene. Animals, save those he can domesticate, have gone on fleeting and fleeting away. It is most probable, nevertheless, that one proportionate aggregate of vitality has at every period been maintained.

The most marked examples of the passing away of animal species within periods of time, in some cases not very remote, pronounced of even in a historical sense, is seen in the record of certain gigantic birds. The largest individuals of the feathered tribes now extant are ostriches; but the time was when these plumed denizens of the Sahara were small indeed by comparison with existing species. Some idea of the bulk of the epiornis--an extinct species--may be gathered from a comparison of the bulk of one of its eggs with that of other birds. According to M. Isidore Geoffroy, who some time since presented one of these eggs to the French Academy of Sciences, the capacity of it was no less than eight litres and three-fourths. This would prove it to be about six times the size of the ostrich's egg, 148 times that of an ordinary fowl, and no less than 50,000 times the size of the egg of the humming-bird. The egg exhibited was one of very few that have been discovered; hence nothing tends to the belief that it was one of the largest. The first knowledge of the existence of this gigantic bird was acquired in 1851. The sole remains of the species hitherto found are some egg-shells and a few bones. These suffice, however, for an ideal reproduction of the creature under the synthetical treatment of comparative anatomy. The epiornis inhabited Madagascar. The creature's height could not have been less than from nine to twelve feet, and the preservation of its remains is such as to warrant the belief in its comparatively recent existence.

Of a structure as large as the epiornis, probably larger, though differing from the latter in certain anatomical particulars, according to the belief of Professor Owen, is a certain New Zealand giant bird, called by him the dinornis. As in the case of the Madagascar bird, the evidence relating to this is very recent. Some few years ago an English gentleman received from a relative settled in New Zealand some fragments of large bones that had belonged to some creature of species undetermined. He sent them to Professor Owen for examination, and was not a little surprised at the assurance that the bones in question, although seemingly having belonged to an animal as large as an ox, were actually those of a bird. The comparative anatomist was guided in coming to this conclusion by a certain cancellated structure possessed by the bony fragments, a characteristic of the bones of birds. For a time Professor Owen's dictum was received with hesitation, not to say disbelief, on the part of some people. The subsequent finding of more remains, eggs as well as bones, soon justified the naturalist's verdict, however. Not the slightest doubt remains now upon the mind of any zoologist relative to the past existence of the dinornis; nay, the {530} impression prevails that this feathered monster may be living in some of the more inaccessible parts of the southern island of New Zealand at the present time. Be that as it may, the dinornis can only have become extinct recently, even using this word in a historical sense, as the following testimony will make manifest:--

A sort of mummification prevailed amongst the Maories until Christianity had gained ground amongst them. The process was not exactly similar to that by which Egyptian mummies were formed, but resembled it, nevertheless, in the particular of desiccation. Smoking was the exact process followed; and smoked Maori heads are common enough in naturalists' museums. In a general way Maori heads alone were smoked, certain principles of food economy prompting a more utilitarian treatment for entire bodies. Nevertheless, as a mark of particular respect to some important chief now and then, affectionate survivors exempted his corpse from the oven, and smoking it entire, set it up amongst the Maori lares and penates as an ornament. This explanation is not altogether _par parenthèse_, for it brings me to the point of narrating some evidence favorable to the opinion that the dinornis cannot have been extinct in New Zealand even at a recent historical period. Not long ago the body of a Maori was found in a certain remote crypt, and resting on one hand was an egg of this bird giant. Contemplate now the bearings of the testimony. The Maori race is not indigenous to New Zealand, but arrived there by migration from Hawai. Not alone do the records of the two groups of Pacific islands in question advert to such migration, but certain radical coincidences of language lend confirmation. It is further a matter of tradition that the migration took place about three hundred years ago. Now, even if the recently discovered specimen of Maori mummy art had been executed on the very first advent of the race, the period elapsed would be, historically speaking, recent. The laws of chance, however, are adverse to any such assumption; and, moreover, the degree of civilization--if the expression may be used--implied by the dedication of an entire human body to an aesthetic purpose, instead of devoting it to one of common utility--could only have been achieved after a certain lapse of time.

According to Professor Owen, there must have been many species of dinornis. The largest individuals of one species, according to him, could not have been less than four yards high. According to the same naturalist, moreover, these birds were not remarkable by their size alone; they had, he avers, certain peculiarities of form establishing a link between them and the cassowary and apteryx: the latter a curious bird still found in New Zealand, but very rare nevertheless.

Of colossal dimensions as were the dinornis and epiornis, the size of both sinks into insignificance by comparison with another giant bird, traces of which, and only traces, are discoverable in North America, at the epoch when the deposit of the conchylian stage of Massachusetts was yet soft enough to yield under the feet of creatures stepping upon its surface. Footsteps, indeed, are the only traces left of these giant birds, and they are found side by side with the imprints of drops of rain which fell on the yielding surface in those early times. Mostly the footmarks only correspond with three toes, but occasionally there are traces of a fourth--a toe comparable to a thumb, only directed forward, not backward. Marks of claws are occasionally found. Every trace and lineament of the Massachusetts bird is marvellously exceptional. The feet must have been no less than fifteen inches long, without reckoning the hinder claw, the length of which alone is two inches. The width must have been ten inches. The intervals between these footmarks correspond evidently with the stride of the monster, which got over the ground by covering successive stages of from {531} four to five feet! When we consider that the stride of an ostrich is no more than from ten to twelve inches, the application of this record will be obvious. Here closes the testimony already revealed in respect of this bird, except we also refer to it--which is apocryphal--certain coprolites or excrementitious matters found in the same formation.

For the preceding facts naturalists are indebted to the investigations of Mr. Hitchcock. The evidence adduced leaves no place for doubt as to the previous existence of a giant bird to which the traces are referable. Naturalists, however, were slow to come to this conclusion; so extraordinary did it seem that a bird should have lived at a period so remote as that when these geological formations were deposited. To gain some idea of the antiquity of that formation, one has only to remember that the conchylian stage is only the fifth in the order of time of the twenty-eight stages of which, according to Alcide D'Orbigny, the crust of the earth is made up, from the period of primitive rocks to the present date. However, many recent facts have tended to prove that several animals, mammalians and saurians amongst others, are far more ancient than had been imagined; after which evidence these giant bird footprints have lost much of the improbability which once seemed to attach to them.

Pass we on now to the traces of another very curious bird, the existence of which has been demonstrated by Professor Owen, according to whom the creature must have lived at the epoch of the schists of Sobenhofen. The name given by Professor Owen to this curious extinct bird is _archeopterix_. Its peculiarities are so numerous that for some time naturalists doubted whether it should be considered a reptile or a bird; between which two there exist numerous points of similarity. And now, whilst dealing with bird-giants, it would be wrong not to make some reference to a discovery made in 1855, at Bas Meudon, of certain osseous remains, referable to a bird that must have attained the dimensions of a horse; that floated on water like a swan, and poised itself at roost upon one leg. Monsieur Constant Prevost, the naturalist who has most studied the bird, gave to it the name of gastornis Parisiensis. The bony remains of this creature were found in the tertiary formation in a conglomerate associated with chalk, which refers the gastornis to a date more remote than any yet accorded to any other bird.

From a bare record of facts contemplate we now our planet as it must have been when inhabited by the monstrous birds and reptiles and quadrupeds which preceded the advent of man. These were times when animated forms attained dimensions which are now wholly exceptional. That may be described as the age when physical and physiological forces were dominant, as the force of moral agency dominates over the present, and is destined, as appearances tend to prove, to rule even more fully hereafter. Might it not seem that in nature an economy is recognizable similar to the economy of human existence? Can we not recognize an antagonism between the development of brute force and of the quality of mind? Would it not even seem that nature could not at one and the same time develop mental and corporeal giants? The physiological reign has only declined to prepare the advent of moral ascendancy. Giant bodies seem fading from the earth, and giant spirits commencing to rule. Humanity is progressive; is not its progression made manifest by these zoological revelations? The first bone traces of human beings range back to an epoch posterior to the monstrous quadrupeds entombed in the diluvium. Hereafter giants, probably, will only be seen in the moral world, grosser corporeal giant forms having become extinct. The physical gigantesque is not yet indeed banished from the earth, but the period of its {532} banishment would seem to be at hand.

The probability is that all the great birds to which reference has been made were, like the ostrich, incapable of flight. This defect, when contemplated from the point of view suggested by modern classifications, seems one of the most remarkable aberrations of nature of which we have cognizance. For a bird to be deprived of what seems the most essential characteristic of bird-life--to be banished from the region that we have come to regard as the special domain of bird-life--bound to the earth, forced to mingle with quadrupeds--seems to the mind the completest of all possible departures from established type.

Thoughts such as these result from our artificial systems and classifications. Apart from these, the conditions of giant walking birds that were, and to a limited extent are, will be found to harmonize well with surrounding conditions. Suppose we take the case of the ostrich for example; this bird being the chief living representative of giant bird-life remaining to us from the past. In the ostrich, then, do we view a creature so perfectly adapted to conditions which surround it that no need falls short and no quality is in excess. A complete bird in most anatomical characteristics, it borrows others from another type. The sum of the vital elements which normally, had the ostrich been like flying birds, should have gone to endow the wings, has been directed toward the legs and feet, and thereupon concentrated. Bird qualities and beast qualities have mingled, and, as we now perceive, have harmonized. If to the ostrich flying is denied--if it can only travel on foot, yet is it an excellent pedestrian. A quality of which it has been deprived we now find to have been transmuted into another quality--the ostrich has found its equivalent.

Reflecting thus, we cease to pity the ostrich; we begin to see that nature has been supremely wise, our classifications only having led us into error. A new thought dawns upon our apprehension; instead of longer regarding the ostrich as furnishing an example of nature's bird-creative power gone astray, we come to look upon this creature as designed upon the type of ordinary walking animals, and having some bird characteristics added. Assuredly this point of view is better than the other; for whereas the first reveals nature to us through the distorting medium of an abstraction, the other shows us nature herself. It is not a matter of complete certainty that the bird-type, as naturalists explain and define it in their systems, exists; but there can be no doubt as to the existence of the ostrich. In this mode of expression there is nothing paradoxical; and doubtless, when we come to reflect upon it, the case will not fail to seem a little strange that we are so commonly in the habit of testing the inequalities of beings by reference to systems, instead of following the opposite course, viz., that of testing the value and completeness of systems by reference to the qualities of individuals they embrace. Naturalists invent a system and make it their touchstone of truth; whereas the real touchstone would be the creature systematized. The ostrich simply goes to prove that the zoological types imagined by naturalists are endowed with less of the absolute than philosophers in their pride of science had imagined. Animal types are not the strangers to each other that artificial classifications would make them appear.

Nor is flexibility of bird-type only manifested by the examples wherein a bird acquires characteristics of quadrupeds and other walking animals. Wings may even become metamorphosed into a sort of fins, thus establishing a connection between bird-life and fish-life. This occurs in the manchot, a bird not less aquatic in its habits than the seal--of flying and walking almost equally incapable--a bird the natural locomotive condition of which is to be plunged {533} in water up to the neck. Assuredly nothing can be more absurd than the attempt to recognize, in these ambiguous organizations, so many attempts of nature to pass from one type to another.

No matter what religious system one may have adopted, or what philosophical code: the interpretation of nature (according to which she is represented as making essays--trying experiments) is alike inadmissible. Neither God omniscient, nor nature infallible, can be assumed by the philosopher as trying experiments. There are, indeed, no essays in nature but degrees--transitions. Wherefore these transitions? is a question that brings philosophy to bay, and demonstrates her weakness. It is a question that cannot be pondered too deeply. Therein lies the germ of some great mystery.

Reverting to bird-giants, past and present, it is assuredly incorrect to assume, as certain naturalists have assumed, that flying would have been incompatible with their bulk. There exist birds of prey, of whose bodies the specific gravity does not differ much from that of the ostrich, and are powerful in flight nevertheless. Then another class of facts rises up in opposition to the hypothesis, that mere grandeur of dimensions is the limit to winged flying. Neither the apteryx nor the manchot fly any more than the ostrich. Neither is a large bird, nor, relatively to size, a heavy bird. As regards the epiornis, the position is not universally acceded to by naturalists that the creature was like the ostrich, the apteryx, and cassowary, a mere walking bird. An Italian naturalist, Signor Bianconi, has noted a certain peculiarity in the metatarsal bones of the creature which induces him to refer it to the category of winged birds of prey. If this hypothesis be tenable, then a sort of giant vulture the epiornis would have been: one in whose imposing presence the condor of the Andes would have dwindled to the dimensions of a buzzard. Further, if Signor Bianconi's assumption hold good, then may we not have done amiss in banishing the "roc" to the realms of fiction? Old Marco Polo, writing in the thirteenth century, described the roc circumstantially, and the account has been long considered as either a fiction or a mistake. Signor Bianconi, coming to the rescue of his fellow-countryman, thinks that the Italian traveller may have actually described a giant bird of prey extant at the time when he wrote, but which has now become extinct.

A notice of extinct birds would be incomplete without reference to the dodo, the very existence of which had been lately questioned; so completely has it fleeted away from the earth. Messrs. Broderip, Strickland, and Melville, however, have amply vindicated the dodo's claim to be regarded a former denizen of the world we live in. The dodo was first seen by the Dutch when they landed on the Isle of France, at that time uninhabited, immediately subsequent to the doubling of Cape Horn by the Portuguese. These birds were described as having no wings, but in the place of them three or four black feathers. Where the tail should be, there grew instead four or five curling plumes of a grayish color. In their stomachs they were said to have commonly a stone as big as a fist, and hard as the gray Bentemer stone. The boat's crew of the _Jacob Van Neck_ called them Walgh-vogels (surfeit birds), because they could not cook them or make them tender, or because they were able to get so many turtle-doves, which had a much more pleasant flavor, so that they took a disgust to these birds. Likewise, it is said that three or four of these birds were enough to afford a whole ship's company one full meal. Indeed, the sailors salted down some of them, and carried them on the voyage.

Many descriptions of the dodo were given by naturalists after the commencement of the seventeenth century; and the British Museum contains a painting said to have been copied {534} from a living individual. Underneath the painting is a leg still finely preserved; and in respect of this leg naturalists are agreed that it cannot belong to any existing species. The dodo must have been a curious bird, if Mr. Strickland's notion of him be correct; and Professor Reinhardt, of Copenhagen, holds a similar opinion. The dodo, these naturalists affirm, was a vulture-like dove--a sort of ugly giant pigeon--but with beak and claws like a vulture. He had companions or neighbors, at least, not dissimilar in nature. Thus a bird called the solitaire inhabited the small island of Roderigues, three hundred miles east of the Mauritius. Man has exterminated the solitaire, as well as other birds nearly allied, formerly denizens of the Isle of Bourbon.

The dodo will be seen no more; the race has fleeted away. Among birds, the emeu, the cassowary, and the apteryx are species rapidly vanishing; amongst quadrupeds, the kangaroo--the platypus: others slowly, but not less surely. After a while they will be gone from the earth wholly, as bears, wolves, mammoths, and hyenas have gone from our own island. The _Bos primigenius_, or great wild bull, was common in Germany when Julius Caesar flourished. The race has become wholly extinct, if, indeed, not incorporated with the breed of large tame oxen of northern Europe. The urus would have become extinct but for the care taken by Russian emperors to preserve a remnant in Lithuanian forests. The beaver built his mud huts along the Saone and Rhone up to the last few generations of man; and when Hannibal passed through Gaul on his way to Italy, beavers in Gaul were common. Thus have animals migrated or died out, passed away, but the balance of life has been preserved. Man has gone on conquering: now exterminating, now subjecting. Save the fishes of the sea and the birds of the air, the time will perhaps come when creatures will have to choose between subjection and death. Ostriches would seem to be reserved for the first alternative, seeing that in South Africa, in southern France, and Italy, these birds have lately been bred, domiciled into tame fowls, in behalf of their feathers. Very profitable would ostrich farming seem to be. These giant birds want no food but grass, and the yearly feather yield of each adult ostrich realizes about twenty-five pounds sterling.

----

{535}

From Chambers's Journal.

A DINNER BY MISTAKE.

"Only one poun'-ten a week, sir, and no extras; and I may say you won't find such cheap airy lodgings anywhere else in the place; not to speak of the sea-view;" and the bustling landlady threw open the door of the tiny sitting-room with an air which would have become a Belgravian lackey. It certainly was a cosy, sunny little apartment, with just such a view of the sea, and of nothing else whatsoever, as is the delight of an inland heart, I was revolving in my mind how to make terms on one most important point, when she again broke forth: "I can assure you, sir, I could have let these same rooms again and again in the last two days, if I had not given my promise to Mrs. Johnson that she should have them next Friday fortnight, and I would never go from my word, sir--never! though this month is our harvest, and it's hard for me to have the rooms standing empty. As I told my niece only yesterday, I won't let forward again, not to please anybody, for it don't answer, and it worrits me out of my life. And I'm sure, sir, if you like to come for the fortnight, I'll do my utmost to make you comfortable; and I always have given satisfaction; and you could not get nicer rooms nowhere."

"No," said I, taking advantage of her pause for breath; "these are very nice. I--I suppose you don't object to smoking?"

The good woman's face assumed a severe expression, though I detected a comical twinkle in her eye. "Why, sir, we always do say--but if it's only a cigar, and not one of them nasty pipes"--

I smiled: "To tell the truth, it generally is a pipe."

"Is it now? Well, sir, if _you_ please, we won't say anything about it now. We have a lady-lodger upstairs, and if she should complain, I can but say that it is against my rules, and that I'll mention it to you. And so, sir, if you please, I'll go now, and see to your portmanteau being taken up;" and thereupon she vanished, leaving me in sole possession.

I threw my bag and rug on to the sofa, pushed a slippery horsehair armchair up to the window, and sat down to rest and inhale the sea-breezes with a certain satisfaction at being in harbor. As I before remarked, the prospect was in the strictest sense of the words a sea-view. Far away to east and west stretched the blue ocean; and beside it, I could see only a steep grass-bank just beneath my window, with a broad shingly path running at its base, evidently designed for an esplanade, though no human form was visible thereon. Away to the right, I just caught a glimpse of shelving beach, dotted with fishermen's boats; and of a long wooden jetty, with half-a-dozen figures slowly pacing from end to end, while the dismal screeching of a brass band told of an attempt at music more ambitious than successful. It was not a lively look-out for a solitary man, and I half wished myself back in my mother's comfortable house at Brompton. However, I was in for it now; and I could but try how far a fortnight of open air and exercise would recruit my wasted strength. I had been reading really hard at Oxford through the last term, and my very unusual industry had been followed by a languor and weariness which so awakened my dear mother's solicitude that she never rested till she had persuaded Dr. Busby to prescribe sea-air and a total separation from my books. She could not come {536} with me, as she longed to do, kind soul! but she packed my properties, and gave endless instructions as to diet, all of which I had forgotten before I had accomplished the first mile of my journey. I don't know why I came to that out-of-the-way watering-place, except that I was too languid to have a will of my own, or to care for the noisy life of country-houses full of sportsmen. So, on the following morning, behold me in gray travelling suit and wide-awake, strolling along the beach, watching the pretty bathers as they dipped their heads under water, and then reappeared, shaking the dripping tresses from their eyes. Then there were the fishermen, brawny, bare-legged Goliahs, setting forth on their day's toil, and launching their boats with such shouts and cries as, to the uninitiated, might indicate some direful calamity. The beach was alive now, for the whole visiting population, such as it was, seemed to have turned out this bright September morning, and were scattered about, sketching, working, and chattering. I scanned each group, envying them their merry laughter and gay talk, and half hoping to recognize some familiar face among those lazy lounging youths and sun-burned damsels; but my quest was fruitless, and I pursued my lonely way apart.

Really, though, the little place improved upon acquaintance. There were fine bold cliffs, just precipitous enough to make a scramble to the top almost irresistible; there were long stretches of yellow sand and shallow pools glittering in the sunlight; and there was a breeze coming straight from the north pole, which quickened my blood, and brought the color into my sallow cheeks, even as I drank it in. I bathed, I walked, I climbed, I made friends with the boatmen, and got them to take me out in their fishing-smacks; but still, with returning vigor, I began to crave not a little for some converse with more congenial spirits than these honest tars and my loquacious landlady. I inscribed my name on the big board at the library; I did all that man could do to make my existence known, but nearly a week passed away, and still my fellow-creatures held aloof. I had been out for the whole of one windy afternoon tossing on the waves, watching the lobster-fishing, and came in at sunset tolerably drenched with spray, and with a terrific appetite. As I opened the door of my little sitting-room, I beheld--most welcome sight--the white dinner-cloth, and lying upon it a card--a large, highly-glazed, most unmistakable visiting-card. With eager curiosity, I snatched it up, but curiosity changed to amazement when I read the name, "Sir Philip Hetherton, Grantham Park." Sir Philip Hetherton! Why, in the name of all that's incomprehensible, should he call on me? I had never even heard his name; I knew no more of him than of the man in the moon. Could he be some country magnate who made it a duty to cultivate the acquaintance of every visitor to Linbeach? If so, he must have a hard time of it, even in this little unfrequented region. My impatience could not be restrained till Mrs. Plumb's natural arrival with the chops; and an energetic pull at the bell brought her at once courtesying and smiling.

"I suppose," began I, holding the card with assumed carelessness between my finger and thumb--"I suppose this gentleman, Sir Philip Hetherton, called here to-day?"

"Oh yes, sir, this afternoon; not an hour ago."

"He inquired for me?"

"Yes, sir; he asked particularly for young Mr. Olifant, and said he was very sorry to miss you. He's a very pleasant-spoken gentleman, is Sir Philip."

"Ah, I see. Is he often in Linbeach? Does he know many people living in the place?"

"Well, I don't think he has many friends here, sir; at least, I never understood so; but he owns some of the {537} houses in the town, and he is very kind to the poor. No one is ever turned away empty-handed from his door, and I've a right to say so, sir, for my brother's widow lives in one of the lodges at Grantham. He put her into it when her husband was drowned at sea, and he's been a good friend to her ever since."

All this was not what I wanted to find out, but I had learned by experience that Mrs. Plumb's tongue must have its swing. I now mildly brought her back to the point: "Does he see anything of the visitors?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir. He sometimes rides in of an afternoon, for Grantham is only four miles from Linbeach; but I don't think he ever stays long."

So it was not apparently an eccentric instance of universal friendliness, but a special mark of honor paid to me. It grew more and more mysterious. However, there was nothing to be gained by pumping Mrs. Plumb further; and as I was discreetly minded to keep my own counsel, I dismissed her. But meditating long and deeply over my solitary dinner, I came at length to the unwelcome conclusion, that Sir Philip Hetherton must have been laboring under some strange delusion, and that I should see and hear no more of him. I was rather in the habit of priding myself on my judgment and discrimination; but in this instance they were certainly at fault, for within three days, I met him face to face. I was strolling slowly along one of the shady country lanes which led inland between cornfields and hedge-rows, when I encountered a portly, gray-haired gentleman, mounted on an iron-gray cob, and trotting soberly toward Linbeach. He surveyed me so inquisitively out of his merry blue eyes, that the thought crossed me, could this be the veritable Sir Philip? I smiled at my own vivid imagination; but I must confess that before I had proceeded another half mile, I faced round, and returned to Linbeach for more briskly than I had left it. I had scarcely stepped into Mrs. Plumb's passage, when that personage herself met me open-mouthed, with a pencil-note in her hand. "Oh, Mr. Olifant, I wish you had come in rather sooner. Sir Philip has been here again, and as he could not see you, he wrote this note, for he had not time to wait. I was quite vexed that it should happen so."

Evidently the good woman was fully impressed with the dignity of the event, and not a little flattered at the honor paid to her lodger. I opened the note, and it contained--oh marvel of marvels!--an invitation to dinner for the following day, coupled with many warm expressions of regard for my family, and regrets at having been hitherto unable to see me.

"I told Sir Philip that I thought you had only gone down to the beach, sir; but he laughed, and said he should not know you if he met you. I suppose you don't know him, do you, sir?" Mrs. Plumb added insinuatingly.

"No." said I; thinking within myself that the baronet need not have been quite so communicative. However, this confession of his, at any rate, threw same light upon the subject, and suggested a solution. He might have known my father or mother. Of course, indeed, he must have known them, or somebody belonging to me. His own apparent confidence began to infect me, and I wrote off an elaborate and gracefully-worded acceptance; and then sat down to my pipe, and a complacent contemplation of all the benefits that might accrue to me through his most praiseworthy cordiality. "After all," I reflected, "'tis no matter where one goes; friends are sure to turn up everywhere;" and thereon arose visions of partridge-shooting in the dewy mornings, to be followed by pleasant little dinners with my host and a bevy of lovely daughters. But on the morrow certain misgivings revisited me, and I came to the conclusion that it would only be the civil thing to ride over to Grantham in the afternoon, and get through {538} the first introductions and explanations before appearing there as a guest. Accordingly, I hired a long-legged, broken-winded hack, the only one to be got for love or money, and set forth upon my way. It was a fruitless journey; the fatal "not at home" greeted my ears, and I could only drop a card, turn the Roman nose of my gallant steed toward home, and resign myself to my fate.

Seven o'clock was the hour named for dinner, and I had intended to be particularly punctual, but misfortunes crowded thick upon me. The first white tie that came to hand was a miserable failure. My favorite curl would not be adjusted becomingly upon my brow; and the wretched donkey-boy who had solemnly promised to bring the basket-carriage punctually to the door, did not appear till ten minutes after the time. Last of all, when I had descended "got up" to perfection, and was on the point of starting, I discovered that I was minus gloves, and the little maid-of-all-work had to be sent fleeing off to the corner shop, where haberdashery and grocery were picturesquely combined. So it fell out that, despite hard driving, it was several minutes past the hour when we drew up under the portico at Grantham. I had no time to compose my nerves or prepare my opening address. A gorgeously-arrayed flunkie appeared at the hall-door; a solemn butler, behind, waved me on to the guidance of another beplushed and bepowdered individual; and before I fully realized my position, I stood in a brilliantly-lighted drawing-room, full of people, and heard my name proclaimed in stentorian tones. The next moment, the florid gentleman whom I had encountered on the previous day came forward with outstretched hands and a beaming face, and a perfect torrent of welcomes burst upon me.

"Glad to see you at last, Mr. Olifant, very glad to see you; I began to think there was a fate against our meeting. Let me introduce you. Lady Hetherton--my daughter--my son Fred. Come this way, this way."

And I was hurried along helpless as an infant in the jovial baronet's hands. How could I--I appeal to any reasonable being--how could I stand stock-still, and, under the eyes of all that company, cross-examine my host as to the why and wherefore of his hospitality? It will be owned, I think, that in what afterward occurred I was not wholly to blame. Lady Hetherton was a quiet well-bred woman, with a mild face and soft voice; she greeted me with a certain sleepy warmth, and after a few placid commonplaces, resumed her conversation with the elderly lady by her side, and left me to the care of her son, a bright, frank young Harrovian, with whom I speedily made friends. Really it was very pleasant to drop in this way into the centre of a genial circle, and I found my spirits rising fast as we talked together, _con amore_, of cricket, boating, hunting. A fresh arrival, however, soon disturbed the party, and, directly afterward, dinner was announced. Sir Philip, who had been busily engaged in welcoming the last comers, led off a stately dame upon his arm, and we followed in procession, a demure young daughter of the house being assigned to me. We were slowly making our way round the dining-room, when, just as we passed the end of the table, Sir Philip turned and laid his hand upon my shoulder.

"I have scarcely had time for a word yet," he said; "but how are they all in Yorkshire?"

I don't know what answer I gave; some one from behind begged leave to pass, and I was borne on utterly bewildered. Yorkshire! what had I to do with Yorkshire? And then, all at once, the appalling truth burst on me like a thunder-clap--I was the wrong man! Yes; _now_ I recalled a certain Captain Olifant, whom I had once met at a mess-dinner, and who, as I had then heard, belonged to an old Yorkshire family. We could count no sort of kinship with them {539} but here I was, for some inexplicable reason, assumed as one of them, perhaps as the eldest son and heir of their broad acres, and regaled accordingly. My situation was sufficiently unpleasant, and in the first impulse of dismay, I made a dash at a central seat where I might be as far as possible from both host and hostess. But my manoeuvre failed. Lady Hetherton's soft tones were all too audible as she said: "Mr. Olifant, perhaps you will come up here; the post of honor;" and of danger too, in my case; but there was no help for it, and I went. As I unfolded my napkin, striving hard for a cool and easy demeanor, I mentally surveyed my position, and decided on my tactics. I could not and would not there and then declare myself an embodied mistake; I must trust to chance and my own wits to carry me through the evening, and leave my explanations for another season. Alas! my trials full soon began. "We had hardly been seated three minutes, when Lady Hetherton turned to me.

"We were so very glad you were able to come to-night, Mr. Olifant; Sir Philip had quite set his heart upon seeing you here. It is such a great pleasure to him to revive an old friendship; and he was saying that he had almost lost sight of your family."

I murmured something not very coherent about distance and active life.

"Ah, yes, country gentlemen have so much to do that they really are greatly tied at home. I think, though, that I once had the pleasure of meeting a sister of yours in town--Margaret her name was, and she was suffering from some affection of the spine. I hope she is better now?"

"Much better, thank you." And then, in the faint hope of turning the conversation, I asked if they were often in town.

"Not so often as I should wish. Sir Philip has a great dislike to London; but I always enjoy it, for one meets everybody there. By-the-by, Olifant, the Fordes must be near neighbors of yours. I am sure I have heard them speak of Calveston."

I did not dare to say they were not, lest inquiries should follow which might betray my extreme ignorance of Yorkshire geography in general, and the locality of Calveston in particular; so I chose the lesser peril, and answered cheerfully; "Oh yes, quite near within an easy walk of us."

"What charming people they are!" said Lady Hetherton, growing almost enthusiastic. "The two eldest girls were staying here last spring, and we all lost our hearts to them, they were so bright and pleasant; and Katie, too, is growing so very pretty. She isn't out yet, is she?"

"No; I fancy she is to be presented next year," I responded, reflecting that while I was about it I might as well do it thoroughly. "She ought to make a sensation."

"Ah, then," said Lady Hetherton eagerly, "you agree with me about her beauty."

"Oh, entirely. I expect she will be quite the belle of our country balls." And then, in the same breath, I turned to the shy Miss Hetherton beside me, and startled her by an abrupt inquiry whether she liked balls. She must have thought, at any rate, that I liked talking, for her timid, orthodox reply was scarcely uttered, before I plied her with fresh questions, and deluged her with a flood of varied eloquence. Races, archery, croquet, Switzerland, Paris, Garibaldi, the American war, Müller's capture, and Tennyson's new poem, all played their part in turn. For why? Was I not aware that Lady Hetherton's conversation with the solemn old archdeacon opposite flagged from time to time, and that, at every lull, she looked toward me, as though concocting fresh means of torture. But I gained the day; and at length, with secret exultation, watched the ladies slowly defiling from the room. Poor innocent! I little knew what was impending. The last voluminous skirt had scarcely disappeared, when Sir Philip left his chair, and advancing {540} up the table, glass in hand, seated himself in his wife's place at my elbow. I tried to believe that he might intend to devote himself to the arch-deacon, but that good gentleman was more than half inclined to nod, and my left-hand neighbor was deep in a geological discussion; so I sat on, spell-bound, like the sparrow beneath the awful shadow of the hawk. Certainly, there was not much outward resemblance between that bird of prey and Sir Philip's comely, smiling visage, as he leaned forward, and said cheerily: "Well, now, I want to hear all about them."

It was not an encouraging beginning for me, but I had committed myself with Lady Hetherton too far for a retreat. Like Cortes, I had burned my ships. Before I had framed my answer, the baronet proceeded: "I don't know any of you young ones, but your father and I were fast friends once upon a time. Many's the lark we've had together at Harrow, ay, and at Oxford too; for he was a wild-spirited fellow then, was Harry Olifant, though, I daresay, he has settled down into a sober country squire long ago."

It was plain that Sir Philip liked to hear himself talk, and my courage revived.

"Why, yes," I said; "years and cares do work great changes in most men; I daresay you would hardly know him now."

"I daresay not. But he is well, and as good a shot as in the old Oxford days?"

"Just as good. He is never happier than among his turnips." And then I shuddered at my own audacity, as I pictured my veritable parent, a hard-worked barrister, long since dead, and with about as much notion of firing a gun as one of his own briefs.

"Quite right, quite right," exclaimed Sir Philip energetically, "and we can find you some fair sport here, my boy, though the birds are wild this year. Come over as often as you like while you are at Linbeach; or, better still, come and slay here."

I thanked him, and explained that I was staying at Linbeach for the sea-air, and that I must be in town in a few days.

"I'm sorry for that. We ought to have found you out sooner; but I only chanced to see your name at the library last Friday. And so you are at Merton?"

"Yes, I'm at Merton," said I, feeling it quite refreshing to speak the truth.

"Ah, I'm glad your father's stuck to the old college; you could not be at a better one. That boy of mine is wild for soldiering, or I should have sent him there."

The mystery stood revealed. I had recorded my name on the visitors' board as H. Olifant, Merton College, Oxford; and by a strange coincidence, Sir Philip's former friend had belonged to the same college, and owned the same initial. The coincidence was indeed so complete, that it had evidently never dawned upon the baronet that I could be other than the son of his old chum. He sat now sipping his wine, with almost a sad expression on his honest face.

"Ah, my lad," he said presently, "when you come to my age, you'll look back to your old college and your old friends as I do now. But what was I going to ask you? Oh, I remember. Have you seen any of the Fordes lately?"

I glanced round despairingly at the geologists, but they were lost to everything except blue lias and old red sandstone, and there was no hope of effecting a diversion in that quarter.

"Well, no--not very lately," I responded slowly, as though trying to recall the exact date when I last had that felicity. "To tell the truth, I don't go down into those parts so often as I ought to do."

"There's a family for you!" Sir Philip went on triumphantly; "how well they are doing. That young George Forde will distinguish himself one of these days, or I'm much mistaken; and Willie, too--do you know {541} whether he has passed for Woolwich yet?"

I could not say that I did, but the good baronet's confidence in Forde genius was as satisfactory as certainty.

"He's sure to pass, quite sure; never knew such clever lads; and as for beauty--that little Katie"--But here the slumbering archdeacon came to my aid by waking up with a terrific start and a loud "Eh!-- what! time to join the ladies."

There was a general stir, and I contrived to make my escape to the drawing-room. If I could only have escaped altogether; but it was not yet half-past nine. The tall footmen and severe butler were lounging in the hall, and I felt convinced that if I pleaded illness, Sir Philip would lay violent hands on me, and insist on my spending the night there. After all, the worst was over, and in the crowded drawing-room, I might with slight dexterity avoid all shoals and quicksands. So I ensconced myself in a low chair, guarded by a big table on one side, and on the other by a comfortable motherly-looking woman in crimson satin, to whom I made myself agreeable. We got on very well together, and I breathed and chatted freely in the delightful persuasion that she at least knew no more of the Fordes than I did. But my malignant star was in the ascendant. I was in the midst of a glowing description of the charms of a reading-party at the lakes, when Sir Philip again assailed me: "Well, Mrs. Sullivan," he said, addressing my companion, "have you been asking after your little favorite?"

"My little favorite?" repeated Mrs. Sullivan inquiringly.

She did not know whom he meant, but I did; I knew quite well.

"Katie Forde, I mean; the little black-eyed girl who used to go into such ecstasies over your roses and ferns--you have not forgotten her yet, have you?"

No, unluckily for me, Mrs. Sullivan had not forgotten her. I was charged with a string of the fond, unmeaning messages which ladies love to exchange; and it was only by emphatically declaring that I should not be in Yorkshire for many months, that I escaped being made the bearer of sundry curious roots and bulbs to the fair Katharine.

But Sir Philip soon interrupted us: "There's a cousin of yours in the next room, Mr. Olifant," he said, evidently thinking that he was making a most agreeable announcement: "she would like to see you, if you will let me take you to her."

I heard and trembled. A cousin. Oh, the Fordes were nothing to this! Why did people have cousins; and why, oh why, should every imaginable evil befal me on this disastrous evening! Such were my agonized reflections while with unwilling steps I followed my host to execution. He led me to a young lady who was serenely examining some prints. "I have brought him to you, Miss Hunter; here's your cousin, Mr. Olifant."

She looked at me, but there was no recognition in her eyes. How could there be, indeed, when we had never met before! What would she do next? What she _did_ do was to hold out her hand with a good-humored smile, and at the same time Sir Philip observed complacently: "You don't know one another, you know." Not know one another; of course we didn't; but I could have hugged him for telling me so; and in the joy of my reprieve, I devoted myself readily to my supposed cousin, a bright, pleasant girl, happily as benighted regarding her real relatives as I was about my imaginary ones. The minutes slipped fast away, the hands of the clock pointed at ten, the guests were beginning to depart, and I was congratulating myself that the ordeal was safely passed, when, happening to turn my head, I saw Sir Philip once more advancing upon me, holding in his hand a photograph book. My doom was sealed! My relentless persecutor was resolved to expose me, and with diabolical craft had planned the certain {542} means. Horrible visions of public disgrace, forcible ejection, nay, even of the pump itself, floated before my dizzy brain, while on he came nearer and ever nearer. "There!" he exclaimed, stopping just in front of me, and holding out the ill-omened book--"There! you can tell me who that is, can't you?"

It was a baby--a baby of a year old, sitting on a cushion, with a rattle in its hand, and it was of course unlike any creature I had ever beheld. "Hm, haw," murmured I, contemplating it in utter desperation; "children are so much alike that really--but"--as a brilliant idea suddenly flashed on me: "surely it must be a Forde!"

"Of course it is," and Sir Philip clapped me on the back in a transport of delight. "I thought you would recognize it. Capital! isn't it? The little thing must be exactly like its mother; and I fancy I see a look of Willie in it too."

I could endure no more. Another such victory would be almost worse than a defeat; and while "my cousin" was rhapsodizing over the infantine charms so touchingly portrayed, I started up, took an abrupt farewell of my host, and despite his vehement remonstrances, went off in search of Lady Hetherton, and beat a successful retreat. As I stepped out into the portico, the pony-trap which I had ordered drove up to the door, and jumping in, I rattled away toward Linbeach, exhausted in body and mind, yet relieved to feel that each succeeding moment found me further and further from the precincts of Grantham. Not till I was snugly seated in the arm-chair in Mrs. Plumb's parlor, watching the blue smoke-wreaths wafted up from my best beloved pipe --not till then could I believe that I was thoroughly safe, and begin to review calmly the events of the evening. And now arose the very embarrassing inquiry: What was next to be done? Sir Philip's parting words had been an energetic exhortation to come over and shoot, the next day, or, in fact, whenever I pleased. "We can't give you the grouse of your native moors," he said as a final thrust, "but we can find you some partridges, I hope;" and I had agreed with a hypocritical smile, while internally resolving that no mortal power should take me to Grantham again. Of one thing there could be no doubt--an explanation was due to the kind-hearted baronet, and it must be given. Of course I might have stolen off from Linbeach still undiscovered, but I dismissed the notion instantly. I had gone far enough already--too far, Sir Philip might not unnaturally think. No; I must write to him, and it had best be done at once. "Heigh-ho," I sighed, as I rummaged out ink and paper, and sat down to the great work; "so ends my solitary friendship at Linbeach." It took me a long time to concoct the epistle, but it was accomplished at last. In terms which I would fain hope were melting and persuasive, I described my birth and parentage, related how I had only discovered my mistaken identity after my arrival at Grantham, and made a full apology for having then, in my embarrassment, perpetuated the delusion. I wound up by the following eloquent and dignified words: "Of course, I can have no claim whatever to continue an acquaintance so formed, and I can only tender my grateful thanks for the warm hospitality of which I have accidentally been the recipient." The letter was sealed and sent, and I was left to speculate how it might be received. Would Sir Philip vouchsafe a reply, or would he treat me with silent contempt? I could fancy him capable of a very tolerable degree of anger, in spite of his _bonhomie_, and I blushed up to my brows when I pictured quiet Lady Hetherton recalling my remarks about Miss Katie Forde. The second day's post came in and brought me nothing; and now I began to be seized with a nervous dread of encountering any of the Grantham Park party by chance, and this dread grew so {543} unpleasant that I determined to cut short my visit, and return to town at once. My resolution was no sooner made than acted on. I packed my portmanteau, settled accounts with Mrs. Plumb, and went off to take my place by the next morning's coach. Coming hastily out of the booking-office in the dusk, I almost ran against somebody standing by the door. It was Sir Philip, and I stepped hastily back; but he recognized me at once, and held out his hand with a hearty laugh. "Ah, Mr. Olifant, is it you? I was on my way to your lodgings, so we'll walk together;" and not noticing my confusion, he linked his arm in mine, and continued: "I got your letter last evening, when I came in from a long day's shooting, and very much amazed I was, that I must own. I did not answer it at once, for I was half-dead with walking, and, beside, I always like talking better than writing, So now I have come to tell you that I think you've behaved like an honest man and a gentleman in writing that letter; and I'm very glad to have made your acquaintance, though you are not Harry Olifant's son. As for the mistake, why, 'twas my own fault for taking it for granted you must be the man I fancied you. My lady is just the least bit vexed that we should have made such geese of ourselves; but come over and shoot to-morrow, and we'll give you a quiet dinner and a bed in your own proper person; and she will be very glad to see you. Mind I expect you."

After all my resolutions, I did go to Grantham on the following day; and my dinner by mistake was the precursor of a most pleasant acquaintance, which became in time a warm and lasting friendship.

From All the Year Round.

NOAH'S ARKS.

In Kew Gardens is a seldom-visited collection of all the kinds of wood which we have ever heard of, accompanied by specimens of various articles customarily made of those woods in the countries of their growth. Tools, implements, small articles of furniture, musical instruments, sabots and wooden-shoes, boot-trees and shoe-lasts, bows and arrows, planes, saw-handles--all are here, and thousands of other things which it would take a very long summer day indeed even to glance at. The fine display of colonial woods, which were built up into fanciful trophies at the International Exhibition of eighteen hundred and sixty-two, has been transferred to one of these museums; and a noble collection it makes.

We know comparatively little in England of the minor uses of wood. We use wood enough in building houses and railway structures; our carriage-builders and wheelwrights cut up and fashion a great deal more; and our cabinet-makers know how to stock our rooms with furniture, from three-legged stools up to costly cabinets; but implements and minor articles are less extensively made of wood in England than in foreign countries--partly because our forests are becoming thinned, and partly because iron and iron-work are so abundant and cheap. In America, matters are very different. There are thousands of square miles of forest which belong to no one in particular, and the wood of which may be claimed by those who are at the trouble of felling the trees. {544} Nay, a backwoodsman would be very glad to effect a clearing on such terms as these, seeing that the trees encumber the ground on which he wishes to grow corn crops.

The wood, when the trees have been felled and converted into boards and planks, is applied to almost countless purposes of use. Of use, we say; for the Americans are too bustling a people to devote much time to the fabricating of ornaments; they prefer to buy these ready made from Britishers and other Europeans. Pails, bowls, washing-machines, wringing-machines, knife-cleaning boards, neat light vehicles, neat light furniture, dairy vessels, kitchen utensils, all are made by the Americans of clean, tidy-looking wood, and are sold at very low prices. Machinery is used to a large extent in this turnery and wood-ware: the manufacturers not having the fear of strikes before their eyes, use machines just where they think this kind of aid is likely to be most serviceable. The way in which they get a little bowl out of a big bowl, and this out of a bigger, and this out of a bigger still, is a notable example of economy in workmanship. On the continent of Europe the wood-workers are mostly handicraftsmen, who niggle away at their little bits of wood without much aid from machinery. Witness the briar-root pipes of St. Claude. Smart young fellows who sport this kind of smoking-bowl in England, neither know nor care for the fact that it comes from a secluded spot in the Jura mountains. Men and women, boys and girls, earn from threepence to four shillings a day in various little bits of carved and turned work; but the crack wages are paid to the briar-root pipe-makers. England imports many more than she smokes, and sends off the rest to America. M. Audiganne says that "in those monster armies which have sprung up so suddenly on the soil of the great republic, there is scarcely a soldier but has his St. Claude briar-root pipe in his pocket." The truth is, that, unlike cutties and meerschaums, and other clay and earthen pipes, these briar-root productions are very strong, and will bear a great deal of knocking about. The same French writer says that when his countrymen came here to see our International Exhibition, some of them bought and carried home specimens of these pipes as English curiosities: not aware that the little French town of St. Claude was the place of their production.

In Germany the wood-work, so far as English importers know anything of it, is mostly in the form of small trinkets and toys for children. The production of these is immense. In the Tyrol, and near the Thuringian Forest, in the middle states of the ill-organized confederacy, and wherever forests abound, there the peasants spend much of their time in making toys. In the Tyrol, for example, there is a valley called the Grödnerthal, about twenty miles long, in which the rough climate and barren soil will not suffice to grow corn for the inhabitants, who are rather numerous. Shut out from the agricultural labor customary in other districts, the people earn their bread chiefly by wood carving. They make toys of numberless kinds (in which Noah's Ark animals are very predominant) of the soft wood of the Siberian pine--known to the Germans as ziebelnusskiefer. The tree is of slow growth, found on the higher slopes of the valley, but now becoming scarce, owing to the improvidence of the peasants in cutting down the forests without saving or planting others to succeed them. For a hundred years and more the peasants have been carvers. Nearly every cottage is a workshop. All the occupants, male and female, down to very young children, seat themselves round a table, and fashion their little bits of wood. They use twenty or thirty different kinds of tools, under the magic of which the wood is transformed into a dog, a lion, a man, or what not. Agents represent these carvers in various cities of Europe, to dispose of the wares; but they nearly all find their way back again {545} to their native valleys, to spend their earnings in peace.

Many of the specimens shown at the Kew museums are more elaborate than those which could be produced wholly by hand. A turning-lathe of some power must have been needed. Indeed, the manner in which these zoological productions are fabricated is exceedingly curious, and is little likely to be anticipated by ordinary observers. Who, for instance, would imagine for a moment that a wooden horse, elephant, or tiger, or any other member of the Noah's Ark family, could be turned in a lathe, like a ball, bowl, or bedpost? How could the turner's cutting tool, while the piece of wood is rotating in the lathe, make the head stick out in the front, and the ears at the top, and the tail in the rear, and the legs underneath? And how could the animal be made longer than he is high, and higher than he is broad? And how could all the ins and outs, the ups and downs, the swellings and sinkings, be produced by a manipulation which only seems* suitable for circular objects? These questions are all fair ones, and deserve a fair answer. The articles, then, are not fully made in the lathe; they are brought to the state of flat pieces, the outline or contour of which bears an approximate resemblance to the profile of an animal. These flat pieces are in themselves a puzzle; for it is difficult to see how the lathe can have had anything to do with their production. The truth is, the wood is first turned into _rings_. Say that a horse three inches long is to be fabricated. A block of soft pine wood is prepared, and cut into a slab three inches thick, by perhaps fifteen inches in diameter; the grain running in the direction of the thickness. Out of this circular slab a circular piece is cut from the center, possibly six inches in diameter, leaving the slab in the form of a ring, like an extra thick india-rubber elastic band. While this ring is in the lathe, the turner applies his chisels and gouges to it in every part, on the outer edge, on the inner edge, and on both sides. All sorts of curves are made, now deep, now shallow; now convex, now concave; now with single curvature, now with double. A looker-on could hardly by any possibility guess what these curvings and twistings have to do with each other, for the ring is still a ring, and nothing else; but the cunning workman has got it all in his mind's eye. When the turning is finished, the ring is bisected or cut across, not into two slices, but into two segments or semicircular pieces. Looking at either end of either piece, lo! there is the profile of a horse--without a tail, certainly, but a respectably good horse in other respects. The secret is now divulged. The turner, while the ring or annulus is in the lathe--a Saturn's ring without a Saturn--turns the outer edge into the profile of the top of the head and the back of a horse, the one flat surface into the profile of the chest and the fore legs, and the other flat surface into the profile of the hind quarters and hind legs, and the inner edge of the ring into the profile of the belly, and the deep recess between the fore and hind legs. The curvatures are really very well done, for the workmen have good models to copy from, and long practice gives them accuracy of hand and eye.

An endless ring of tailless horses has been produced, doubtless the most important part of the affair; but there is much ingenuity yet to be shown in developing from this abstract ring a certain number of single, concrete, individual, proper Noah's Ark horses, with proper Noah's Ark tails. The ring is chopped or sawn up into a great many pieces. Each piece is thicker at one end than the other, because the outer diameter of the ring was necessarily greater than the inner; but with this allowance each piece may be considered flat. The thick end is the head of the horse, the thin end the hind quarter; one projecting piece represents the position and profile of the fore legs, but they are not separated; and similarly of the hind {546} legs. Now is the time for the carver to set to work. He takes the piece of wood in hand, equalizes the thickness where needful, and pares off the sharp edges. He separates into two ears the little projecting piece which juts out from the head, separates into two pairs of legs the two projecting pieces which jut out from the body, and makes a respectable pair of eyes, with nostrils and mouth of proper thorough-bred character; he jags the back of the neck in the proper way to form a mane, and makes, not a tail, but a little recess to which a tail may comfortably be glued. The tail is a separate affair. An endless ring of horses' tails is first turned in a lathe. A much smaller slab, smaller in diameter and in thickness than the other, is cut into an annulus or ring; and this ring is turned by tools on both edges and both sides. When bisected, each end of each half of the ring exhibits the profile of a horse's tail; and when cut up into small bits, each bit has the wherewithal in it for fashioning one tail. After the carver has done his work, each horse receives its proper tail; and they are all proper long tails too, such as nature may be supposed to have made, and not the clipped and cropped affairs which farriers and grooms produce.

This continuous ring system is carried faithfully through the whole Noah's Ark family. One big slab is for an endless ring of elephants; another of appropriate size for camels; others for lions, leopards, wolves, foxes, dogs, donkeys, ducks, and all the rest. Sometimes the ears are so shaped as not very conveniently to be produced in the same ring as the other part of the animal; in this case an endless ring of ears is made, and chopped up into twice as many ears as there are animals. Elephant's trunks stick out in a way that would perplex the turner somewhat; he therefore makes an endless ring of trunks, chops it up, and hands over the pieces to the carver to be fashioned into as many trunks as there are elephants. In some instances, where the animal is rather a bullet-headed sort of an individual, the head is turned in a lathe separately, and glued on to the headless body. If a carnivorous animal has a tail very much like that of one of the graminivorous sort, the carver says nothing about it, but makes the same endless ring of tails serve both; or they may belong to the same order but different families--as, for instance, the camel and the cow, which are presented by these Noah's Ark people with tails cut from the same endless ring. Other toys are made in the same way. Those eternal soldiers which German boys are always supposed to love so much, as if there were no end of Schleswig-Holsteins for them to conquer, are--if made of wood (for tin soldiers are also immensely in request)--turned separately in a lathe, so far as their martial frames admit of this mode of shaping; but the muskets and some other portions are made on the endless ring system. All this may be seen very well at Kew; for there are the blocks of soft pine, the slabs cut from them (with the grain of the wood in the direction of the thickness), the rings turned from the slabs, the turnings and curvatures of the rings, the profile of an animal seen at each end, the slices cut from each ring, the animal fashioned from each slice, the ring of tails, the separate tails for each ring, the animal properly tailed in all its glory, and a painted specimen or two to show the finished form in which the loving couples go into the ark--pigs not so much smaller than elephants as they ought to be, but piggishly shaped nevertheless.

All the English toy-makers agree, with one accord, that we cannot for an instant compete with the Germans and Tyrolese in the fabrication of such articles, price for price. We have not made it a large and important branch of handicraft; and our workmen have not studied natural history with sufficient assiduity to give the proper distinctive forms to the animals. {547} The more elaborate productions--such as the baby-dolls which can say "mamma," and make their chests heave like any sentimental damsels--are of French, rather than German manufacture, and are not so much wooden productions as combinations of many different materials. Papier-mache, moulded into form, is becoming very useful in the doll and animal trade; while india-rubber and gutta-percha are doing wonders. The real Noah's Ark work, however, is thoroughly German, and is specially connected with wood-working. Some of the more delicate and elaborate specimens of carving--such as the groups for chimney-piece ornaments, honored by the protection of glass shades--are made of lime-tree or linden-wood, by the peasants of Oberammergau, in the mountain parts of Bavaria. There were specimens of these kinds of work at our two exhibitions which could not have been produced in England at thrice the price; our good carvers are few, and their services are in request at good wages for mediaeval church-work. We should be curious to know what an English carver would require to be paid for a half-guinea Bavarian group now before us--a Tyrolese mountaineer seated on a rock, his rifle resting on his arm, the studded nails in his climbing shoes, a dead chamois at his feet, his wife leaning her hand lightly on his shoulder, his thumb pointing over his shoulder to denote the quarter where he had shot the chamois, his wooden bowl of porridge held on his left knee, the easy fit and flow of the garments of both man and woman-- all artistically grouped and nicely cut, and looking clean and white in linden-wood. No English carver would dream of such a thing at such a price. However, these are not the most important of the productions of the peasant carvers, commercially speaking; like as our Mintons and Copelands make more money by everyday crockery than by beautiful Parian statuettes, so do the German toy-makers look to the Noah's Ark class of productions as their main stay in the market, rather than to more elegant and artistic works.

{548}

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

BY CARDINAL WISEMAN.

[In the autumn of last year a communication was made to his eminence the late Cardinal Wiseman by H. Bence Jones, Esq., M.D., as Secretary of the Royal Institution of Great Britain, requesting him to deliver a lecture before that society. The cardinal, with the prompt kindness usual to him, at once assented. The Shakespeare Tercentenary seemed to prescribe the subject, which his eminence therefore selected.

The following pages were dictated by him in the last weeks of his life. The latter part was taken down in the beginning of January; the earlier part was dictated on Saturday the fourteenth of that month. It was his last intellectual exertion, and it overtaxed his failing strength.

The Rev. Dr. Clifford, chaplain to the Hospital of St. John and St. Elizabeth, who acted as his amanuensis, states, from the lips of his eminence, that the matter contained in these pages is the beginning and the ending of what he intended to deliver. We have, therefore, only a fragment of a whole which was never completed except in the author's mind.]

I.

There have been some men in the world's history--and they are necessarily few--who by their deaths have deprived mankind of the power to do justice to their merits, in those particular spheres of excellence in which they had been pre-eminent. When the "immortal" Raphael for the last time laid down his palette, still moist with the brilliant colors which he had spread upon his unfinished masterpiece, destined to be exposed to admiration above his bier, he left none behind him who could worthily depict and transmit to us his beautiful lineaments: so that posterity has had to seek in his own paintings, among the guards at a sepulchre, or among the youthful disciples in an ancient school, some figure which may be considered as representing himself.

When his mighty rival, Michelangelo, cast down that massive chisel which no one after him was worthy or able to wield, none survived him who could venture to repeat in marble the rugged grandeur of his countenance; but we imagine that we can trace in the head of some unfinished satyr, or in the sublime countenance of his Moses, the natural or the idealized type from which he drew his stern and noble inspirations.

And, to turn to another great art, when Mozart closed his last uncompleted score, and laid him down to pass from the regions of earthly to those of heavenly music, which none had so closely approached as he, the science over which he ruled could find no strains in which worthily to mourn him except his own, and was compelled to sing for the first time his own marvelous requiem at his funeral. [Footnote 101]

[Footnote 101: The same may be said of the celebrated Cimarosa.]

No less can it be said that when the pen dropped from Shakespeare's hand, when his last mortal illness mastered the strength of even his genius, the world was left powerless to describe in writing his noble and unrivalled characteristics. Hence we turn back upon himself, and endeavor to draw from his own works the only true records of his genius and his mind. [Footnote 102]

[Footnote 102: Even in his lifetime this seems to have been foreseen. In 1664, in an epigram addressed to "Master William Shakespeare," and first published by Mr. Halliwell, occurred the following lines: "Besides in places thy wit windes like Maeander. When (_whence_) needy new composers borrow more Thence (_than_) Terence doth from Plautus or Menander, But to praise thee aright I want thy store. Then let thine owne words thine owne worth upraise And help t' adorne thee with deserved baies." _Halliwell's Life of Shakespeare_, p. 160.]

{549}

We apply to him phrases which he has uttered of others; we believe that he must have involuntarily described himself, when he says,

"Take him all in all, We shall not look upon his like again;"

or that he must even consciously have given a reflection of himself when he so richly represents to us "the poet's eye in a fine phrenzy rolling." ("Midsummer-Night's Dream," act v., scene 1.)

But in fact, considering that the character of a man is like that which he describes, "as compounded of many simples extracted from many objects" ("As You Like It," act iv., scene 1), we naturally seek for those qualities which enter into his composition; we look for them in his own pages; we endeavor to cull from every part of his works such attributions of great and noble qualities to his characters, and unite them so as to form what we believe is his truest portrait. In truth, no other author has perhaps existed who has so completely reflected himself in his works as Shakespeare. For, as artists will tell us that every great master has more or less reproduced in his works characteristics to be found in himself, this is far more true of our greatest dramatist, whose genius, whose mind, whose heart, and whose entire soul live and breathe in every page and every line of his imperishable works. Indeed, as in these there is infinitely greater variety, and consequently greater versatility of power necessary to produce it, so must the amount of elements which enter into is composition represent changeable yet blending qualities beyond what the most finished master in any other art an be supposed to have possessed.

The positive and directly applicable materials which we possess for constructing a biography of this our greatest writer, are more scanty than have been collected to illustrate the life of many an inferior author. His contemporaries, his friends, perhaps admirers, have left us but few anecdotes of his life, and have recorded but few traits of either his appearance or his character. Those who immediately succeeded him seem to have taken but little pains to collect early traditions concerning him, while yet they must have been fresh in the recollections of his fellow-countrymen, and still more of his fellow-townsmen. [Footnote 103]

[Footnote 103: As evidence of this neglect we may cite the "Journal" of the Rev. John Ward, Incumbent of Stratford-upon-Avon, to which he was appointed in 1662. This diary, which has been published by Doctor Severn, "from the original MSS.," preserved in the library of the Medical Society of London, contains but two pages relating to Shakespeare, and those contain but scanty and unsatisfactory notices. I will quote only two sentences: "Remember to peruse Shakespeare's Plays--bee much versed in them, that I may not bee ignorant in that matter, whether Dr. Heylin does well, in reckoning up the dramatick poets which have been famous in England, to omit Shakespeare" (p. 184). Shakespeare's daughter was still alive when this was written, as appears from the sentence that immediately follows: it seems to us wonderful that so soon after the poet's death a shrewd and clever clergyman and physician (for Mr. Ward was both) should have known so little about his celebrated townsman's works or life. ]

It appears as though they were scarcely conscious of the great and brilliant luminary of English literature which was shining still, or had but lately passed away; and as though they could not anticipate either the admiration which was to succeed their duller perceptions of his unapproachable grandeur, or the eager desire which this would generate of knowing even the smallest details of its rise, its appearance, its departure. For by the biography of Shakespeare one cannot understand the records of what he bought, of what he sold, or the recital of those acts which only confound him with the common mass which surrounded him, and make him appear as the worthy burgess or the thrifty merchant; though even about the ordinary commonplace portions of his life such uncertainty exists, that doubts have been thrown on the very genuineness of that house which he is supposed to have inhabited.

Now, it is the characteristic individualizing quality, actions, and mode of executing his works, to whatever class of excellence he may belong, that we long to be familiar with in order to say that we know the man. What matters it to us that he paid so many marks or {550} shillings to purchase a homestead in Stratford-upon-Avon? The simple autograph of his name is now worth all the sums that he thus expended. One single line of one of his dramas, written in his own hand, would be worth to his admirers all the sums which are known to have passed between him and others. What has become of the goodly folios which must have once existed written in his own hand? Where are the books annotated or even scratched by his pen, from which he drew the subjects and sometimes the substance of his dramas? What vandalism destroyed the first, or dispersed the second of these valuable treasures? How is it that we know nothing of his method of composition? Was it in solitude and sacred seclusion, self-imprisoned for hours beyond the reach of the turmoil of the street or the domestic sounds of home? Or were his unrivalled works produced in scraps of time and fugitive moments, even perhaps in the waiting-room of the theatre, or the brawling or jovial sounds of the tavern?

Was he silent, thoughtful, while his fertile brain was seething and heaving in the fermentation of his glorious conceptions; so that men should have said--"Hush! Shakespeare is at work with some new and mighty imaginings!" or wore he always that light and careless spirit which often belongs to the spontaneous facility of genius; so that his comrades may have wondered when, and where, and how his grave characters, his solemn scenes, his fearful catastrophes, and his sublime maxims of original wisdom, were conceived, planned, matured, and finally written down, to rule for ever the world of letters? Almost the only fact connected with his literary life which has come down to us is one which has been recorded, perhaps with jealousy, certainly with ill-temper, by his friend Ben Jonson--that he wrote with overhaste, and hardly ever erased a line, though it would have been better had he done so with many.

This almost total absence of all external information, this drying-up of the ordinary channels of personal history, forces us to seek for the character and the very life of Shakespeare in his own works. But how difficult, in analyzing the complex constitution of such a man's principles, motives, passions, and affections, to discriminate between what he has drawn for himself, and what he has created by the force of his imagination. Dealing habitually with fictions, sometimes in their noblest, sometimes in their vilest forms--here gross and even savage, there refined and sometimes ethereal, how shall we discover what portions of them were copied from the glass which he held before himself, what from the magic mirrors across which flitted illusive or fanciful imagery? The work seems hopeless. It is not like that of the printer, who, from a chaotic heap of seemingly unmeaning lead, draws out letter after letter, and so disposes them that they shall make senseful and even brilliant lines. It is more like the hopeless labor of one who, from the fragments of a tesselated pavement, should try to draw the elegant and exquisitely tinted figure which once it bore.

This difficulty of appreciating, and still more of delineating, the character of our great poet, makes him, without perhaps an exception, the most difficult literary theme in English letters.

How to reduce the subject to a lecture seems indeed a literal paradox. But when to this difficulty is added that of an impossible compression into narrow limits of the widest and vastest compass ever embraced by any one man's genius, it must appear an excess of rashness in any-one to presume that he can do justice to the subject on which I am addressing you.

It seems, therefore, hardly wonderful that even the last year, dedicated naturally to the tercentenary commemoration of William Shakespeare, should have passed over without any public eulogy of his greatness in this our metropolis. It seemed, indeed, as if the magnitude of that one man's genius was too oppressive for this generation. It was not, I believe, an undervaluing {551} of his merits which produced the frustration of efforts, and the disappointment of expectations, that seemed to put to rout and confusion, or rather to paralyze, the exertions so strenuously commenced to mark the year as a great epoch in England's literary history. I believe, on the contrary, that the dimensions of Shakespeare had grown so immeasurably in the estimation of his fellow-countrymen, that the proportions of his genius to all that had followed him, and all that surround us, had grown so enormously in the judgment and feeling of the country, from the nobleman to the workman, that the genius of the man oppressed us, and made us feel that all our multiplied resources of art and speech were unequal to his worthy commemoration. No plan proposed for this purpose seemed adequate to attain it. Nothing solid and permanent that could either come up to his merits or to our aspirations seemed to be within the grasp either of the arts or of the wealth of our country. The year has passed away, and Shakespeare remains without any monument, except that which, by his wonderful writings, he has raised for himself. Even the research after a site fit for the erection of a monument to him, in the city of squares, of gardens, and of parks, seemed only to work perplexity and hopelessness.

Presumptuous as it may appear, the claim to connect myself with that expired and extinct movement is my only apology for my appearing before you. If, a year after its time, I take upon myself the eulogy of Shakespeare, if I appear to come forward as with a funeral oration, to give him, in a manner, posthumous glory, it is because my work has dropped out of its place, and not because I have inopportunely misplaced it. In the course of the last year, it was proposed to me, both directly and indirectly, to deliver a lecture on Shakespeare. I was bold enough to yield my assent, and thus felt that I had contracted an obligation to the memory of the bard, as well as to those who thought that my sharing what was done for his honor would possess any value. A task undertaken becomes a duty unfulfilled. When, therefore, it was proposed to me to perform my portion of the homage which I considered due to him, though it was to be a month too late, I felt it would be cowardice to shrink from its performance.

For in truth the undertaking required some courage; and to retire before its difficulties might be stigmatized as a dastardly timidity. It is a work of courage at any time and in any place to undertake a lecture upon Shakespeare, more in fact than to venture on the delivery of a series. The latter gives scope for the thousand things which one would wish to say--it affords ample space for apposite illustration--and it enables one to enrich the subject with the innumerable and inimitable beauties that are flung like gems or flowers over every page of his magnificent works. But in the midst of public, or rather universal, celebration of a national and secular festival in his honor, in the presence probably of the most finished literary characters in this highly-educated country, still more certainly before numbers of those whom the nation acknowledges as deeply read in the works of our poet as the most accomplished critic of any age has been in the writings of the classics--men who have introduced into our literature a class-name--that of "Shakespearian scholars"--to have ventured to speak on this great theme might seem to have required, not courage, but temerity. Why, it might have been justly asked, do none of those who have consumed their lives in the study of him, not page by page, but line by line, who have pressed his sweet fruits between their lips till they have absorbed all their lusciousness, who have made his words their study, his thoughts their meditation,--why does not one at least among them stand forward now, and leave for posterity the record of his matured observation? Perhaps I may assign the reason which I have before, that they {552} know, too, the unapproachable granduer of the theme, and the rare powers which are required to grasp and to hold it.

Be it so; but at any rate, if in the presence of others so much more capable it would have been rash to speak, to express one's thoughts, when there is no competition, may be pardonable at least.

And yet, when everybody else is silent, it may be very naturally asked, Have I a single claim to put forward upon your attention and indulgence? I think I may have _one_; though I fear that when I mention it, it may be considered either a paradox or a refutation of my pretensions. My claim, then, to be heard and borne with is this--that I have never in my life seen Shakespeare acted; I have never heard his eloquent speeches declaimed by gifted performers; I have not listened to his noble poetry as uttered by the kings or queens of tragedy; I have not witnessed his grand, richly-concerted scenes endowed with life by the graceful gestures, the classical attitudes, the contrasting emotions, and the pointed emphasis of those who in modern times may be considered to have even added to that which his genius produced; I know nothing of the original and striking readings or renderings of particular passages by masters of mimic art; I know him only on his flat page, as he is represented in immovable, featureless, unemotional type.

Nor am I acquainted with him surrounded, perhaps sometimes sustained, but, at any rate, worthily adorned and enhanced in accessory beauty, by the magic illusion of scenic decorations, the splendid pageantry which he simply hints at, but which, I believe, has been now realized to its most ideal exactness and richness--banquets, tournaments, and battles, with the almost deceptive accuracy of costume and of architecture. When I hear of all these additional ornaments hung around his noble works, the impression which they make upon my mind creates a deeper sense of amazement and admiration, how dramas written for the "Globe" Theatre, wretchedly lighted, incapable of grandeur even from want of space, and without those mechanical and artistical resources which belong to a later age, should be capable of bearing all this additional weight of lustre and magnificence without its being necessary to alter a word, still less a passage, from their original delivery. [Footnote 104 ] This exhibits the nicely-balanced point of excellence which is equally poised between simplicity and gorgeousness; which can retain its power and beauty, whether stript to its barest form or loaded with exuberant appurtenances.

[Footnote 104: The chorus which serves as a prologue to "King Henry V.," shows how Shakespeare's own mind keenly felt the deficiencies of his time, and almost anticipatingly wrote for the effects which a future age might supply:

"But pardon, gentles all, This flat unraised spirit that hath dar'd, On this unworthy scaffold, to bring forth So great an object. Can this cock-pit hold The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram Within this wooden O the very casques That did affright the air at Agincourt. . . . . Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts; Into a thousand parts divide one man, And make imaginary puissance: Think, when we talk of horses, that ye see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth; For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings."]

After having said thus much of my own probably unenvied position, I think I shall not be wrong in assuming that none of Shakespeare's enthusiastic admirers, one of whom I profess myself to be, and that few of my audience, are in this exceptional position. They will probably consider this a disadvantage on my side; and to some extent I must acknowledge it--for Shakespeare wrote to be acted, and not to be read.

But, on the other hand, is it not something to have approached this wonderful man, and to have communed with him in silence and in solitude, face to face, alone with him alone; to have read and studied and meditated on him in early youth, without gloss or commentary, or preface or glossary? For such was my good or evil fortune; not during the still hours of night, but during that stiller portion of an Italian {553} afternoon, when silence is deeper than in the night, under a bright and sultry sun when all are at rest, all around you hushed to the very footsteps in a well-peopled house, except the unquelled murmuring of a fountain beneath orange trees, which mingled thus the most delicate of fragrance with the most soothing of sounds, both stealing together through the half-closed windows of wide and lofty corridors. Is there not more of that reverence and that relish which constitute the classical taste to be derived from the concentration of thought and feelings which the perusal of the simple unmarred and unoverlaid text produces; when you can ponder on a verse, can linger over a word, can repeat mentally and even orally with your own deliberation and your own emphasis, whenever dignity, beauty, or wisdom invite you to pause, or compel you to ruminate?

In fact, were you desired to give your judgment on the refreshing water of a pure fountain, you would not care to taste it from a richly-jewelled and delicately-chased cup; you would not consent to have it mingled with the choicest wine, nor flavored by a single drop of the most exquisite essence; you would not have it chilled with ice, or gently attempered by warmth. No, you would choose the most transparent crystal vessel, however homely; you would fill at the very cleft of the rock from which it bubbles fresh and bright, and drink it yet sparkling, and beading with its own air-pearls the walls of the goblet. Nay, is not an opposite course that which the poet himself censures as "wasteful, ridiculous excess?"

"To gild refined gold, to paint the lily; To throw a perfume on the violet. . . . . Or with a taper light To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to varnish." (_"King John" act iv., scene 2._)

You will easily understand, from long and almost apologetic preamble, in the first place, that I take it for granted that I am addressing an audience which is not assembled to receive elementary or new information concerning England's greatest poet. On the contrary, I believe myself to stand before many who are able to judge, rather than merely accept, my opinions, and in the presence of an assembly exclusively composed of his admirers, thoroughly conversant with his works. A further consequence is this, that my lecture will not consist of extracts--still less of recitations of any of those beautiful passages which occur in every play of Shakespeare. The most celebrated of these are present to the mind of every English scholar, from his school-boy days to his maturer studies.

II.

It would be superfluous for a lecturer on Shakespeare to put to himself the question, What place do you intend to give to the subject of your discourse in the literature of England or of Europe? Whatever difference of opinion may exist elsewhere, I believe that in this country only one answer will be given. Among our native writers no one questions that Shakespeare is supremely pre-eminent, and most of us will probably assign him as lofty a position in the whole range of modern European literature. Perhaps no other nation possesses among its writers any one name to which there is no rival claim, nor even an approximation of equality, to make a balance against it. Were we to imagine in England a Walhalla erected to contain the effigies of great men, and were one especial hall to contain those of our most eminent dramatists, it must needs be so constructed as to have one central niche. Were a similar structure prepared in France, it would be natural to place in equal prominence at least two figures, or, in classical language, two different muses of Tragedy and of Comedy would have to be separately represented. But in England, assign what place we may to those who have excelled in either branch in mimic art, {554} the highest excellence in both would be found centered in one man; and from him on either side would have to range the successful cultivators of the drama.

But this claim to so undisputed an elevation does not rest upon his merits only in this field of our literature. Shakespeare has established his claim to the noblest position in English literature on a wider and more solid basis than the mere composition of skilful plays could deserve. As the great master of our language, as almost its regenerator, quite its refiner--as the author whose use of a word stamps it with the mark of purest English coinage--whose employment of a phrase makes it household and proverbial--whose sententious sayings, flowing without effort from his mind, seem almost sacred, and are quoted as axioms or maxims indisputable--as the orator whose speeches, not only apt, but natural to the lips from which they issue, are more eloquent than the discourses of senators or finished public speakers--as the poet whose notes are richer, more wondrously varied than those of the greatest professed bards--as the writer who has run through the most varied ways and to the greatest extent through every department of literature and learning, through the history of many nations, their domestic manners, their characteristics, and even their personal distinctives, and who seems to have visited every part of nature, to have intuitively studied the heavens and the earth--as the man, in fine, who has shown himself supreme in so many things, superiority in any one of which gains reputation in life and glory after death, he is preeminent above all, and beyond the reach of envy or jealousy.

And if no other nation can show us another man whose head rises above all their other men of letters, as Shakespeare does over ours, they cannot pretend, by the accumulation of separated excellences, to put in competition with him a type rather than a realization of possible worth.

Until, therefore, some other writer can be produced, no matter from what nation, who unites in himself personally these gifts of our bard in an equally sublime degree, his stature overtops them all, wherever born and however celebrated.

The question, however, may be raised, Is he so securely placed upon his pedestal that a rival may not one day thrust him from it?--is he so secure upon his throne that a rebel may not usurp it? To these interrogations I answer unhesitatingly, Yes.

In the first place, there have only been two poets in the world before Shakespeare who have attained the same position with him. Each came at the moment which closed the volume of the period past and opened that of a new epoch. Of what preceded Homer we can know but little; the songs by bards or rhapsodists had, no doubt, preceded him, and prepared the way for the first and greatest epic. This, it is acknowledged, has never been surpassed; it became the standard of language, the steadfast rule of versification, and the model of poetical composition. His supremacy, once attained, was shaken by no competition; it was as well assured after a hundred years as it has been by thousands. Dante again stood between the remnants of the old Roman civilization and the construction of a new and Christian system of arts and letters. He, too, consolidated the floating fragments of an indefinite language, and with them built and thence himself fitted and adorned that stately vessel which bears him through all the regions of life and of death, of glory, of trial, and of perdition.

A word found in Dante is classical to the Italian ear; a form, however strange in grammar, traced to him, is considered justifiable if used by any modern sonneteer. [Footnote 105] He holds the place in his own country which Shakespeare does in ours; not only is his _terza rima_ considered inimitable, {555} but the concentration of brilliant imagery in our words, the flashes of his great thoughts and the copious variety of his learning, marvellous in his age, make his volume be to this day the delight of every refined intelligence and every polished mind in Italy.

[Footnote 105: Any one acquainted with Mastrofini's "Dictionary of Italian Verbs" will understand this.]

And he, too, like Homer, notwithstanding the magnificent poets who succeeded him, has never for a moment lost that fascination which he alone exercises over the domain of Italian poetry. He was as much its ruler in his own age as he is in the present.

In like manner, the two centuries and more which have elapsed since Shakespeare's death have as completely confirmed him in his legitimate command as the same period did his two only real predecessors. No one can possibly either be placed in a similar position or come up to his great qualities, except at the expense of the destruction of our present civilization, the annihilation of its past traditions, the resolution of our language into jargon, and its regeneration, by a new birth, into something "more rich and strange" than the powerful idiom which so splendidly combines the Saxon and the Norman elements. Should such a devastation and reconstruction take place, whether they come from New Zealand or from Siberia, then there may spring up the poet of that time and condition who may be the fourth in that great series of unrivalled bards, but will no more interfere with his predecessor's rights than Dante or Shakespeare does with those of Homer.

But further, we may truly say that the legislator of a people can be but one, and, as such, can have no rival beyond his own shores. Solon, Lycurgus, and Numa are the only three men in profane history who have reached the dignity of this singular title. The first seized on the character of the bland and polished Athenians, and framed his code in such harmony with it, that no subsequent laws, even in the periods of most corrupt relaxation, could efface their primitive stamp, cease to make the republic proud of their lawgiver's name.

Lycurgus understood the stern and almost savage hardihood and simplicity of the Spartan disposition, and perpetuated it and regulated it by his harsh and unfeeling system, of which, notwithstanding, the Lacedaemonian was proud. And so Numa Pompilius comprehended the readiness of the infant republic, sprung from so doubtful and discreditable a parentage, to discover a noble descent, and connect its birth and education with gods and heroes; took hold of this weakness for the sanction of his legislation; and feigned his conferences with the nymph Egeria as the sources of his wisdom. No; whatever may become of kings, legislators are never dethroned.

And so is Shakespeare the unquestioned legislator of modern literary art. No one will contend that, without certain detriment, it would be possible for a modern writer, especially of dramatic fiction, to go back beyond him and endeavor to establish a pre-Shakespearian school of English literature, as we have the pre-Raphaelite in art. Struggle and writhe as any genius may--even if endowed with giant strength it--will be but as the battle of the Titans against Jove. Huge rocks will be rolled down upon him, and the lightning from Shakespeare's hand will assuredly tear his laurels, if it do not strike his head. Byron could not appreciate the dramatic genius of Shakespeare; perhaps his sympathies ranged more freely among corsairs and Suliotes than among purer and nobler spirits. Certainly he speaks of him with a superciliousness which betrays his inability fully to comprehend him. [Footnote 106] And yet, would "Manfred" have existed if the romantic drama and the spirit-agency of Shakespeare {556} had not given it life and rule? So in other nations. I shall probably quote to you the sentiments of foreign writers of highest eminence concerning Shakespeare, not as authorities, but as illustrations of what I may say.

[Footnote 106: Lord Byron thus writes to Mr. Murray, July 14, 1821: "I trust that Sardanapalus will not be mistaken for a political play . . . . You will find all this very unlike Shakespeare; and so much the better, in one sense, for I look upon him to be the worst of models, though the most extraordinary of writers."--_Moore's Life of Lord Byron._]

Singularly enough, the greatest of German modern writers has nowhere recorded a full and deliberate opinion on our poet. But who can doubt that "Götz von Berlichingen with the Iron Hand," and even the grand and tender "Faust," and no less Schiller's "Wallenstein," belong to the family of Shakespeare, are remotely offsprings of his genius, and have to be placed as tributary garlands round his pedestal. To imagine Shakespeare even in intention removed from his sovereignty would be a treachery parallel only to that of Lear dethroned by his own daughters.

But still more may we say that, in all such positions as that which we have assigned to Shakespeare, there has always been a culminating point to which succeeds decline--if not downfall. It is so in art. Immediately after the death of Raphael, and the dispersion of his school, art took a downward direction, and has never risen again to the same height. And while he marks the highest elevation ever reached in the arts of Europe, a similar observation will apply to their particular schools. Leonardo and Luini in Lombardy; the Carracci in Bologna; Fra Angelico in Umbria; Garofalo in Ferrara, not only take the place of chiefs in their respective districts, but mark the period from which degeneracy has to date. And so surely is it in our case, whatever may have been the course of literature which led up to Shakespeare, without pronouncing judgment on Spenser, or "rare Ben Jonson," it is certain that after him, although England has possessed great poets, there stands not one forward among them as Shakespeare's competitor. Milton, and Dryden, and Addison, and Rowe have given us specimens of high dramatic writing of no mean quality; others as well, and even these have written much and nobly, in lofty as in familiar verse; yet not one has the public judgment of the nation placed on a level with him. The intermediate space from them to our own times has left only the traces of a weak and enervated school. It would be unbecoming to speak disparagingly of the poets of the present age; but no one, I believe, has ventured to consider them as superior to the noble spirits of our Augustan age. The easy descent from the loftiest eminence is not easily reclimbed.

Surely, then, we may consider Shakespeare, as an ancient mythologist would have done, as "enskied" among "the invulnerable clouds," where no shaft, even of envy, can assail him. From this elevation we may safely predict that he never can be plucked.

III.

The next point which seems to claim attention is the very root of all that I have said or shall have still to say. To what does Shakespeare owe this supremacy, or whence flow all the extraordinary qualities which we attribute to him? You are all prepared with the answer in one single word his GENIUS.

The genius of Shakespeare is our familiar thought and ready expression when we study him, and when we characterize him. Nevertheless, simple and intelligible as is the word, it is extremely difficult to analyze or to define it. Yet everything that is great and beautiful in his writings seems to require an explanation of the cause to which it owes its origin.

One great characteristic of genius, easily and universally admitted, is, that it is a gift, and not an acquisition. It belongs inherently to the person possessing it; it cannot be transmitted by heritage; it cannot be infused by parental affection; it cannot be bestowed by earliest care; neither can it be communicated by the most finished {557} culture or the most studied education. It must be congenital, or rather inborn to its possessor. It is as much a living, a natural power, as is reason to every man. As surely as the very first germ of the plant contains in itself the faculty of one day evolving from itself leaves, flowers, and fruit, so does genius hold, however hidden, however unseen, the power to open, to bring forth, and to mature what other men cannot do, but what to it is instinctive and almost spontaneous. It may begin to manifest itself with the very dawn of reason; it may remain asleep for years, till a spark, perhaps accidentally, kindles up into a sudden and irrepressible splendor that unseen intellectual fuel which has been almost unknown to its unambitious owner.

In our own minds we easily distinguish between the highest abilities or the most rare attainments, when the fruit of education and of application, and what we habitually distinguish as the manifestation of genius. But still we do not find it so easy to reduce to words this mental distinction; the one, after all, however gracefully and however brightly, walks upon the earth, adorning it by the good or fair things which it scatters on its way; the other has wings, and flies above the surface--it is like the aurora of Homer or of Thorwaldsen, which, as it flies above the plane of mortal actions, sheds down its flowers along its brilliant path upon those worthy to gaze upward toward it. We connect in our minds with genius the ideas of flashing splendor and eccentric movement. It is an intellectual meteor, the laws of which cannot be defined or reduced to any given theory. We regard it with a certain awe, and leave it to soar or to droop, to shine or disappear, to dash irregularly first in one direction and then in another; no one dare curb it or direct it; but all feel sure that its course, however inexplicable, is subject to higher and controlling rule. But in order to define more closely what we in reality understand by genius, it may be well to consider its action in divided and more restricted spheres of activity. For although we habitually attribute this singular quality to many, and often but on light grounds, it is seldom that we do so seriously and deliberately without some qualifying epithet. We speak of a military genius, of a mechanical genius, of a poetical genius, of a musical genius, or of an artistic genius. All these expressions contain a restrictive clause. We do not understand when we use them that the person to whom they were attributed possessed any power beyond the limits of a particular sphere. We do not mean by the use of the word genius that the soldier knew anything of poetry, or the printer of mechanism. We understand that each in his own profession or stage of excellence possessed a complete elevation over the bulk of those who followed the same pursuits; a superiority so visible, so acknowledged, and so clearly individual, that no one else considered it inferiority, still less felt shame at not being able to rise to the same level. They gather round them acknowledged disciples and admirers, who rather glory to have been guided by their teaching, and formed on their example.

And in what consisted that complete though limited excellence? If I might venture to express a judgment, I would say that genius in these different courses of science or art may be defined a natural sympathy with all that relates to each of them, with the power of giving full and certain execution to the mental conception. The military genius is one who, either untrained by studious preparation, or else starting out of the lines in which many were ranged level with himself, seizes the staff of command, and receives the homage of comrades and superiors. While others have been plodding through the long drill of theory and of practice, he is found to have discovered a new system of the science, bold, irregular, but successful. But to possess this genius, there must be a universal sympathy with all that relates {558} to its own peculiar province. The military genius of which we are speaking must embrace or acquire that which relates to the soldier's life and duty, from the _dress_ of a single soldier, from his duties in the sentry-box, or on the picquet, to the practice of the regiment and the evolutions of a field-day; from the complete command of tens of thousands on the battle-field, with an eagle's eye and a lion's heart, to the scientific planning, on the chessboard of an empire, of the campaign, which he meditates, move by move and check by check, till the final victory is crowned in the capital city. He who has not given proof of his being equal to all this, has not made good his claim to military genius. But such a one will find, wherever he puts his hand, generals and marshals, each able to command a host, or to take his place in his roughest of enterprises.

I need not pass through other forms of genius to reach similar results; Stephenson, from the labor of the mine, creating that system of mechanical motion, which may be said to have subdued the world, and bound the earth in iron links; Mozart giving concerts at the age of seven that astonished gray-headed musicians; Raphael, before the ordinary age of finished pupilage, master of every known detail in art of oil or fresco, drawing, expression, and grand composition; Giotto, caught in the field as a young shepherd by Cimabue, drawing his sheep upon a stone, and soon becoming the master of modern art. [Footnote 107] These and many others repeat to us what I have said of the military genius--an inborn capacity, comprehensive and complete, with the power of fully carrying out the suggestions of mind. Had there been a single portion of their pursuits in which they did not excel, if the result of their work had not exhibited the happy union and concord of the many qualities requisite for its perfection, they never would have attained the attribution of genius.

[Footnote 107: The early manifestation of artistic power is so frequent and well known, that it would be superfluous to enumerate other instances. The expression _"anch' io son pittore"_ is become proverbial. One of the Carracci, on being translated from an inferior profession to the family studio, was found at once to possess the pictorial skill of his race. At the present, Mintropp at Düsseldorf, and Ackermann at Berlin, are both instances of very high artists, the one in drawing, the other in sculpture, both originally shepherds.]

If this sympathy with one branch of higher pursuits passes beyond it and associates with it a similar facility of acquisition and execution in some other and distinct art or science, it is clear that the claim to genius is higher and more extensive. Raphael was before the world a painter, but he could scarcely have been so without embracing every other department of art. Before the science of perspective was matured or popularly known, when, in consequence, defects are to be found in the disposition of figures, and in the adjustment of aerial distances, [Footnote 108] his architecture shows an instinctive familiarity with its rules and proportions; a proof that he possessed an architectural eye. And consequently the one statue which he is supposed to have carved, and the one palace which he is said to have built, show how easily he could have undertaken and executed beautiful works in either of those two classes of art. In Orcagna and Michelangelo we have the three branches of art supremely united; and the second of these adds poetry and literature to his artistic excellence. In like manner, Leonardo has left proof of most varied and accurate mechanical as well as literary genius.

[Footnote 108: See Mr. Lloyd's article on "Raphael's School of Athens," in Mr. Woodward's _Fine Art Quarterly Review_, January, 1864, p. 67.]

It is evident, however, that while a genius has its point of concentration, every remove from this, though wider, will be fainter and less complete. We may describe it as Shakespeare himself describes glory, and say:

"Genius is like a circle in the water, Which never ceaseth to enlarge itself, Till, by broad spreading, it disperse to naught." (_"Henry VI.," act i., scene 3._)

The sympathies with more remote subjects and pursuits will be rather the means of illustration, adornment, and {559} pleasing variety, than for the essential requirements of the principal aim. But though less minute in their application, in the hand of genius they will be wonderfully accurate and apt.

IV.

All that I have been saying is applicable in the most complete and marvellous way to Shakespeare's genius. His sympathies are universal, perfect in their own immediate use, infinitely varied, and strikingly beautiful, when they reach remoter objects. And hence, though at first sight he might be classified among those who have displayed a literary genius, he stretches his mind and his feelings so beyond them on every side, that to him, almost, perhaps, beyond any other man, the simple distinctive, without any qualification, belongs. No one need fear to call Shakespeare simply a grand, a sublime genius.

The centre-point of his sympathies is clearly his dramatic art. From this they expand, for many degrees, with scarce perceptible diminution, till they lose themselves in far distant, and, to him, unexplored space. This nucleus of his genius has certainly never been equalled before or since. Its essence consists in what is the very soul of the dramatic idea, the power to throw himself into the situation, the circumstances, the nature, the acquired habits, the feelings, true or fictitious, of every character which he introduces. This forms, in fact, the most perfect of sympathies. We do not, of course, use the word in that more usual sense of harmony of affection, or consent of feeling. Shakespeare has sympathy as complete for Shylock or Iago as he as for Arthur or King Lear. For a time he lives in the astute villain as in the innocent child; he works his entire power of thought into intricacies of the traitor's brain; he makes his heart beat in concord with the usurer's sanguinary spite, and then, like some beautiful creature in the animal world, draws himself out of the hateful evil, and is himself again; and able, even, often to hold his own noble and gentle qualities as a mirror, or exhibit the loftiest, the most generous, and amiable examples of our nature. And this is all done without study, and apparently without effort. His infinitely varied characters come naturally into their places, never for a moment lose their proprieties, their personality, and the exact flexibility which results from the necessary combination in every man of many qualities. From the beginning to the end each one is the same, yet reflecting in himself the lights and shadows which flit around him.

This extraordinary versatility stands in striking contrast with the dramatic productions of other countries. The Greek tragedian is Greek throughout--his subjects, his mythology, his sentences, play wonderfully indeed, but yet restrictedly, within a given sphere. And Rome is but the imitator in all its literature of its great mistress and model.

"Graiis eloquium, Gratis dedit ore rotundo, Musa loqui."

Even through the French school, with the strict adhesion to the ancient rule of the unities, seems to have descended the partiality for what may be called the chastely classical subjects. Not so with Shakespeare.

Who, a stranger might ask, is the man, and where was he born, and where does he live, that not only his acts and scenes are placed in any age, or in any land, but that he can fill his stage with the very living men of the time and place represented; make them move as easily as if he held them in strings; and make them speak not only with general conformity to their common position, but with individual and distinctive propriety, so that each is different from the rest? Did he live in ancient Rome, strolling the Forum, or climbing the Capitol; hear ancient matrons converse with modest dignity; listen to conspirators among the columns of its porticos; mingle among senators around Pompey's {560} statue; or with plebeians crowding to hear Brutus or Anthony harangue? Was he one accustomed to idle in the piazza of St. Mark, or shoot his gondola under the Rialto? Or was he a knight or even archer in the fields of France or England during the period of the Plantagenets or Tudors, and witnessed and wrote down the great deeds of those times, and knew intimately and personally each puissant lord who distinguished himself by his valor, by his wisdom, or even by his crimes? Did he live in the courts of princes, perchance holding some office which enabled him to listen to the grave utterances of kings and their counsellors, or to the witty sayings of court jesters? Did he consort with banished princes, and partake of their sports or their sufferings? In fine, did he live in great cities, or in shepherds' cottages, or in fields and woods; and does he date from John and live on to the eighth Henry--a thread connecting in himself the different epochs of mediaeval England? One would almost say so; or multiply one man into many, whose works have been united under one man.

This ubiquity, if we may so call it, of Shakespeare's sympathies, constitutes the unlimited extent and might of his dramatic genius. It would be difficult to imagine where a boundary line could at length have been drawn, beyond which nothing original, nothing new, and nothing beautiful, could be supposed to have come forth from his mind. We are compelled to say that his genius was inexhaustible.

V.

This rare and wonderful faculty becomes more interesting if we follow it into further details.

I remember an anecdote of Garrick, who, in company with another performer of some eminence, was walking in the country, and about to enter a village. "Let us pass off," said the younger comedian to his more distinguished companion, "as two intoxicated fellows." They did so, apparently with perfect success, being saluted by the jeers and abuse of the inhabitants. When they came forth at the other end of the village, the younger performer asked Garrick how he had fulfilled his part. "Very well," was the reply, "except that you were not perfectly tipsy in your legs."

Now, in Shakespeare there is no danger of a similar defect. Whatever his character is intended to be it is carried out to its very extremities. Nothing is forgotten, nothing overlooked. Many of you, no doubt, are aware that a controversy has long existed whether the madness of Hamlet is intended by Shakespeare to be real or simulated. If a dramatist wished to represent one of his persons as feigning madness, that assumed condition would be naturally desired by the writer to be as like as possible to the real affliction. If the other persons associated with him could at once discover that the madness was put on, of course the entire action would be marred, and the object for which the pretended madness was designed would be defeated by the discovery. How consummate must be the poet's art, who can have so skilfully described, to the minutest symptoms, the mental malady of a great mind, as to leave it uncertain to the present day, even among learned physicians versed in such maladies, whether Hamlet's madness was real or assumed.

This controversy may be said to have been brought to a close by one of the ablest among those in England who have every opportunity of studying the almost innumerable shades through which alienation of mind can pass. [Footnote 109] And so delicate are the changeful characteristics which Shakespeare describes, that Dr. Conolly considers that a twofold form of {561} disease is placed before us in the Danish prince. He concludes that he was laboring under real madness, yet able to put on a fictitious and artificial derangement for the purposes which he kept in view. Passing through act by act and scene by scene, analyzing, with experienced eye, each new symptom as it occurs, dividing and anatomatizing, with the finest scalpel, every fibre of his brain, he exhibits, step by step, the transitionary characters of the natural disease in a mind naturally, and by education, great and noble, but thrown off his pivot by the anguish of his sufferings and the strain of aroused passion. And to this is superadded another and not genuine affection, which serves its turn with that estranged mind when it suits it to act, more especially that part which the natural ailment did not suffice for. Now, Dr. Conolly considers these symptoms so accurately as well as minutely described, that he throws out the conjecture that Shakespeare may have borrowed the account of them from some unknown papers by his son-in-law, Dr. Hall.

[Footnote 109: "A Study of Hamlet," by John Conolly, M.D., London, 1863. In p. 52 the author quotes Mr. Coleridge and M. Killemain as holding the opinion that Shakespeare has "contrived to blend both (feigned and real madness) in the extraordinary character of Hamlet; and to join together the light of reason, the cunning of intentional error, and the involuntary disorder of a soul."]

But let it be remembered that in those days mental phenomena were by no means accurately examined or generally known. There was but little attention paid to the peculiar forms of monomania, or to its treatment, beyond restraint and often cruelty. The poor idiot was allowed, if harmless, to wander about the village or the country, to drivel or gibber amidst the teasing or ill-natured treatment of boys or rustics. The poor maniac was chained or tied in some wretched out-house, at the mercy of some heartless guardian, with no protector but the constable. Shakespeare could not be supposed, in the little town of Stratford, nor indeed in London itself, to have had opportunities of studying the influence and the appearance of mental derangement of a high-minded and finely-cultivated prince. How then did Shakespeare contrive to paint so highly-finished and yet so complex an image? Simply by the exercise of that strong sympathetic will which enabled him to transport, or rather to transmute, himself into another personality. While this character was strongly before him he changed himself into a maniac; he felt intuitively what would be his own thought, what his feelings, were he in that situation; he played with himself the part of the madman, with his own grand mind as the basis of its action; he grasped on every side the imagery which he felt would have come into his mind, beautiful even when dislorded, sublime even when it was grovelling, brilliant even when dulled, and clothed it in words of fire and of tenderness, with a varied rapidity which partakes of wildness and of sense. He needed not to look for a model out of himself, for it cost him no effort to change the angle of his mirror and sketch his own countenance awry. It was but little for him to pluck away the crown from reason and contemplate it dethroned.

Before taking leave of Dr. Conolly's most interesting monography, I will allow myself to make only one remark. Having determined to represent Hamlet in this anomalous and perplexing condition, it was of the utmost importance to the course and end of this sublime drama, that one principal incident should be most decisively separated from Hamlet's reverse of mind. Had it been possible to attribute the appearance of the Ghost, as the Queen, his mother, does attribute it in the fifth act, to the delusion of his bewildered phantasy, the whole groundwork of the drama would have crumbled beneath its superincumbent weight. Had the spectre been seen by Hamlet, or by him first, we should have been perpetually troubled with the doubt whether or not it was the hallucination of a distracted, or the invention of a deceitful brain. But Shakespeare felt the necessity of making this apparition be held for a reality, and therefore he makes it the very first incident in his tragedy, antecedent to the slightest symptom {562} of either natural or affected derangement, and makes it first be seen by two witnesses together, and then conjointly by a third unbelieving and fearless witness. It is the testimony of these three which first brings to the knowledge of the incredulous prince this extraordinary occurrence. One may doubt whether any other writer has ever made a ghost appear successively to those whom we may call the wrong persons, before showing himself to the one whom alone he cared to visit. The extraordinary exigencies of Shakespeare's plot rendered necessary this unusual fiction. And it serves, moreover, to give the only color of justice to acts which otherwise must have appeared unqualified as mad freaks or frightful crimes.

What Dr. Conolly has done for Hamlet and Ophelia, Dr. Bucknill had previously performed on a more extensive scale. In his "Psychology of Shakespeare" [Footnote 110] he has minutely investigated the mental condition of Macbeth, King Lear, Timon, and other characters. On Hamlet he seems inclined to take a different view from Dr. Conolly; inasmuch as he considers the simulated madness the principal feature, and the natural unsoundness which it is impossible to overlook as secondary. But this eminent physician, well known for his extensive studies of insanity, bears similar testimony to the extraordinary accuracy of Shakespeare's delineations of mental diseases; the nicety with which he traces their various steps in one individual, the accuracy with which he distinguishes these morbid affections in different persons. He seems unable to account for the exact minuteness in any other way than by external observation. He acknowledges that "indefinable possession of genius, call it spiritual tact or insight, or whatever term may suggest itself, by which the great lords of mind estimate all phases of mind with little aid from reflected light," as the mental instrument through which Shakespeare looked upon others at a distance or within reach of minute observation. Still he seems to think that Shakespeare must have had many opportunities of observing mental phenomena. I own I am more inclined to think that the process by which the genius of Shakespeare reached this painful yet strange accuracy was rather that of introversion than of external observation. At any rate, it is most interesting to see eminent physicians maintaining by some means or other that Shakespeare arrived by some sort of intuition at the possession of a psychological or even medical knowledge, fully verified and proved to be exact by the researches two centuries later of distinguished men in a science only recently developed. Mrs. Jameson has well distinguished the different forms of mental aberration in Shakespeare's characters, when she says that "Constance is frantic, Lear is mad, Ophelia is insane." [Footnote 111]

[Footnote 110: Pages 58 and 100.]

[Footnote 111: "Characteristics of Women." New York 1833, p. 142.]

VI.

This last quotation may serve to introduce a further and a more delicate test of Shakespeare's insight into character. That a man should be able to throw himself into a variety of mind and characters among his fellow-men, may be not unreasonably expected. He has naturally a community of feelings, of passions, of temptations, and of motives with them. He can understand what is courage, what ambition, what strength or feebleness of mind. Inward observation and matured experience help much to guide him to a conception and delineation of the character of his fellow-men. But of the stronger emotions, the wilder passions, the subdued gentleness and tenderness, the heroic endurance, the meek bearing, and the saintly patience of the woman, he can have had no experience. Looking into himself for a reflection, he will probably find a blank.

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It has often been said that in his female characters Shakespeare is not equal to himself. The work to which I have just alluded meets, I think completely, this objection, which, I believe, even Schlegel raises. It required a lady, with mind highly cultivated, with the nicest powers of discrimination, and with happiness of expression, to vindicate at once Shakespeare and her sex. The difficulty of this task can hardly be appreciated without the study of its performance. Its great difficulty consists in the almost family resemblance of the different portraits which make up Shakespeare's female gallery. There is scarcely any room for events, even for incident, still less for actions, say for bold and unfeminine deeds. Several of the heroines of Shakespeare are subjected to similar persecutions, and almost the same trials. In almost every one the affections and their expression have alone to interest us. From Miranda, the desert-nurtured child in the simplicity of untempted innocence, to Isabella in her cloistered virtue, or Hermione in her unyielding fortitude--there are such shades, such varying yet delicate tints, that not two of these numerous conceptions can be said to resemble another. And whence did Shakespeare derive his models? Some are lofty queens, others most noble ladies, some foreigners, some native; different types in mind and heart, as in the lineament or complexion. Where did he find them? Where did he meet them? In the cottages of Stratford, or in the purlieus of Blackfriars? Among the ladies of the court, or in the audience in his pit? No one can say--no one need say. They were the formations of his own quickened and fertile brain, which required but one stroke, one line, to sketch him a portrait to which he would give immortality. Far more difficult was this success, and not less completely was it achieved, in that character which medical writers seem hardly to believe could be but a conception. We may compare the mind of Shakespeare to a diamond pellucid, bright, and untinted, cut into countless polished facets, which, in constant movement, at every smallest change of direction or of angle caught a new reflection, so that not one of its brilliant mirrors could be for a moment idle, but by a power beyond its control was ever busy with the reflection of innumerable images, either distinct or running into one another, or repeated each so clearly as to allow him, when he chose, to fix it in his memory.

VII.

We may safely conclude that, in whatever constitutes the dramatic art in its strictest sense, Shakespeare possessed matchless sympathies with all its attributes. The next and most essential quality required for true genius is the power to give outward life to the inward conception. Without this the poet is dumb. He may be a "mute, inglorious Milton;" he cannot be a speaking, noble Shakespeare. I should think that I was almost insulting such an audience, were I to descant upon Shakespeare's position among the bards and writers of England, and of the modern world. Upon this point there can scarcely be a dissentient opinion. His language is the purest and best, his verses the most flowing and rich; and as for his sentiments, it would be difficult without the command of his own language to characterize them. No other writer has ever given such periods of sententious wisdom.

. . . . .

I have spoken of genius as a gift to an individual man. I will conclude by the reflection that that man becomes himself a gift; a gift to his nation; a gift to his age; a gift to the world of all times. That same Providence which bestows greatness, majesty, abundance, and grace, no less presents, from time to time, to a people or a race, these few transcendent men who mark for it {564} periods no less decisively, though more nobly, than victories or conquests. On England that supreme power has lavished the choicest blessings of this worldly life; it has made it vast in dominion, matchless in strength; it has made it the arbiter of the earth, and mistress of the sea; it has made it able to stretch its arm for war to the savage antipodes, and, if it chose, its hand for peace to the utter civilized west; it has brought the produce of north and south to its feet with skill and power, to transform and to refashion in forms graceful or useful, to send them back, almost as new creations, to its very source. Industry has clothed its most barren plains with luxuriant crops, and with Titan boldness hollowed its sternest rocks, to plunder them of their ever-hidden treasures. Its gigantic strength seems but to play with every work of venturesome enterprise, till its cities seem to the stranger to overflow with riches, and its country to be overspread with exuberant prosperity.

Well, these are great and magnificent favors of an over-ruling, most benignant Power; and yet there is a boast which belongs to our country that may seem to be overlooked. Yet it is a double gift that that same creating and directing rule has made this country the birthplace and the seat of the two men who, within a short period, were made the rulers each of a great and separate intellectual dominion, never to be deposed, never to be rivalled, never to be envied. To Newton was given the sway over the science of the civilized world; to Shakespeare the sovereignty over its literature.

The one stands before us passionless and grave, embracing in his intellectual grandeur every portion of the universe, from the stars, to him invisible, to the rippling of the tiny waves which the tide brought to his feet. The host of heaven, that seemed in causeless dispersion, he marshalled into order, and bound in safest discipline. He made known to his fellow-men the secret laws of heaven, the springs of movement, and the chains of connection, which invariably and unchangeably impel and guide the course of its many worlds.

In this aspect one's imagination figures him as truly the director of what he only describes--as the leader of a complicated army, who, with his staff, seems to draw or to send forward the wheeling battalions, intent on their own errands, combining or resolving movements far remote; or, under a more benign and pleasing form, we may contemplate him, like a great master in musical science, standing in the midst of a throng, in which are mingled together the elements of sublimest harmonies, confused to the eye, but sweetly attuned to the ear, mingling into orderly combination and flowing sequence, as they float through the air, which, though he elicit not nor produce, he seems by his outstretched hand to direct, or, at least, he proves himself fully to understand. For what each one separately does, unconscious of what even his companion is doing, he from afar knows, and almost beholds, understanding from his centre the concerted and sure results of their united action. And so Newton, from his chamber on this little earth, without being able more than the most helpless insect to add power or give guidance to one single element in the composition of this universe, could trace the orbits of planet or satellite, and calculate the oscillations and the reciprocal influences of celestial spheres.

Then his directing wand seems to contract itself to a space within his grasp. It becomes that magic prism with which he intercepts a ray from the sun on his passage to earth; and as a bird seizes in its flight the bee laden with its honey, and robs it of its sweet treasure--even so he compels the messenger of light to unfold itself before us, and lay bare to our sight the rich colors which the rainbow had exhibited to man since the deluge, and which had lain concealed since creation, in every sunbeam that had passed through our atmosphere. And further still, he bequeathes that wonderful alembic of light {565} to succeeding generations, till, in the hand of new discoverers, it has become the key of nature's laboratory, in which she has been surprised melting and compounding, in crucibles huge as ocean, the rich hues with which she overlays the surfaces of suns and stars, yet, at the same time, breathes its delicate blush upon the tenderest petals of the opening rose.

And all the laws and all the rules which form his code of nature seem engraved, as with a diamond point, upon a granite surface of the primitive rocks--inflexible, immovable, unchangeable as the system which they represent.

Beside him stands the Ruler of that world, which, though even sublimely intellectual, is governed by him with laws in which the affections, even the passions, the moralities, and the anxieties of life have their share; in which there is no severity but for vice, no slavery but for baseness, no unforgivingness but for calculating wickedness. In his hand is not the staff of authority, whether it take the form of a royal sceptre or of a knightly lance, whether it be the shepherdess's crook or the fool's bauble, it is still the same, the magician's wand. Whether it be the divining rod with which he draws up to light the most hidden streams of nature's emotions, or the potential instrument of Prospero's spells, which raises storms in the deep or works spirit-music in the air, or the wicked implement with which the witches mingle their unholy charm, its cunning and its might have no limit among created things. But it is not a world of stately order which he rules, nor are the laws of unvarying rigor by which it is commanded. The wildest paroxysms of passion; the softest delicacy of emotions; the most extravagant accident of fortune; the tenderest incidents of home; the king and the beggar, the sage and the jester, the tyrant and his victim; the maiden from the cloister and the peasant from the mountains; the Italian school-child and the Roman matron; the princes of Denmark and the lords of Troy--all these and much more are comprised in the vast embrace of his dominions. Scarcely a rule can be drawn from them, yet each forms a model separately, a finished group in combination. Unconsciously as he weaves his work, apparently without pattern or design, he interlaces and combines in its surface and its depth images of the most charming variety and beauty; now the stern mosaic, without coloring, of an ancient pavement, now the flowing and intertwining arabesque of the fanciful east; now the rude scenes of ancient mediaeval tapestry like that of Beauvais, and then the finished and richly tinted production of the Gobelins loom.

And yet through this seeming chaos the light permeates, and that so clear and so brilliant as equally to define and to dazzle. Every portion, every fragment, every particle, stands forth separate and particular, so as to be handled, measured, and weighed in the balance of critic and poet. Each has its own exact form and accurate place, so that, while separately they are beautiful, united they are perfect. Hence their combinations have become sacred rules, and have given inviolable maxims not only to English but to universal literature. Germany, as we have seen, studies with love and almost veneration every page of Shakespeare; national sympathies and kindred speech make it not merely easy but natural to all people of the Teutonic family to assimilate their literature to that its highest standard. France has departed, or is fast departing, from its favorite classical type, and adopting, though with unequal power, the broader and more natural lines of the Shakespearian model. His practice is an example, his declarations are oracles.

Still, as I have said, the wide region of intellectual enjoyment over which our great bard exerts dominion, is not one parcelled out or divided into formal and state-like provinces. While the student of science is reading in his {566} chamber the great "Principia" of Newton, he must keep before him the solution of only one problem. On that his mind must undistractedly rest, on that his power of thought be intensely concentrated. Woe to him if imagination leads his reason into truant wanderings; woe if he drop the thread of finely-drawn deductions! He will find his wearied intelligence drowsily floundering in a sea of swimming figures and evanescent quantities, or floating amidst the fragments of a shipwrecked diagram. But over Shakespeare one may dream no less than pore; we may drop the book from our hand and the contents remain equally before us. Stretched in the shade by a brook in summer, or sunk in the reading chair by the hearth in winter, in the imaginative vigor of health, in the drooping spirits of indisposition, one may read, and allow the trains of fancy which spring up in any scene to pursue their own way, and minister their own varied pleasure or relief; and when by degrees we have become familiar with the inexhaustible resources of his genius, there is scarcely a want in mind or the affections that needs no higher than human succor, which will not find in one or other of his works that which will soothe suffering, comfort grief, strengthen good desires, and present some majestic example to copy, or some fearful phantom. But when we endeavor to contemplate all his infinitely varied conceptions as blended together in one picture, so as to take in, if possible, at one glance the prodigious extent of his prolific genius, we thereby build up what he himself so beautifully called the "fabric of a vision," matchless in its architecture as in the airiness of its materials. There are forms fantastically sketched in cloud-shapes, such as Hamlet showed to Polonius, in the midst of others rounded and full, which open and unfold ever-changing varieties, now gloomy and threatening, then tipped with gold and tinted with azure, ever-rolling, ever-moving, melting the one into the other, or extricating each itself from the general mass. Dwelling upon this maze of things and imaginations, the most incongruous combinations come before the dreamy thought, fascinated, spell-bound, and entranced. The wild Ardennes and Windsor Park seem to run into one another, their firs and their oaks mingle together; the boisterous ocean boiling round "the still vexed Bermoothes" runs smoothly into the lagoons of Venice; the old gray porticos of republican Rome, like the transition in a dissolving view, are confused and entangled with the slim and fluted pillars of a Gothic hall; here the golden orb, dropped from the hand of a captive king, rolls on the ground side by side with a jester's mouldy skull--both emblems of a common fate in human things. Then the grave chief-justice seems incorporated in the bloated Falstaff; King John and his barons are wassailing with Poins and Bardolph at an inn door; Coriolanus and Shylock are contending for the right of human sensibilities; Macbeth and Jacques are moralizing together on tenderness even to the brute. And so of other more delicate creations of the poet's mind--Isabella and Ophelia, Desdemona and the Scotch Thane's wife, produce respectively composite figures of inextricable confusion. And around and above is that filmy world, Ariel and Titania and Peas-blossom and Cobweb and Moth, who weave as a gossamer cloud around the vision, dimming it gradually before our eyes, in the last drooping of weariness, or the last hour of wakefulness.

* * * * * * *

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MISCELLANY.

ART.

_Domestic._--The south gallery of the new academy is the largest and best lighted of the several exhibition rooms, and contains some of the most ambitious pictures of the year. As the visitor, pausing for a moment to survey the paintings, drawings, studies, architectural designs, and miscellanea which are hung around the four sides of the open corridor at the head of the grand staircase, turns naturally into the great gallery, through whose wide entrance he catches glimpses of the art treasures within, so do we propose to conduct the reader thither without further parley. Here confront us specimens of almost every subject legitimate to the art, and of some not legitimate--great pictures and little pictures, grave pictures and gay pictures, landscape and _genre_, history and portraiture, beasts, birds, fishes, and flowers. At either end of the room hangs a full-length portrait of a gentleman of note, which challenges the visitor's attention, be he never so reluctant. No. 464, the late Governor Gamble, of Missouri, by F.T.L. Boyle, belongs to a family only too numerous among us (we speak of the picture only), and whose acquaintance one feels strongly inclined to cut in the present instance. But that is impossible. There stands the familiar lay-figure in the old conventional attitude, which we feel sure the governor never assumed of his own accord. The marble columns, the draped curtain, the library table and the books--all the stock accessories in fine--are there; and either for the purpose of pointing a moral, of instituting a personal comparison, or of calling attention to its workmanship, the governor blandly directs your attention to a bust of Washington. He might be intending to do any one or all of these things so far as the expression of his face affords an indication. The idea on which the portrait is painted is thoroughly false, and ought to be by this time discarded; but year after year artists continue to mint these modish, stiff, and ridiculous figures, when with a little regard to common sense they could produce portraits which all would recognize as natural and effective. Especially is this the case with the present picture, which evinces considerable executive ability. The other portrait to which we alluded, No. 412, a full length of Ex-Governor Morgan, painted by Huntington, for the Governor's Room in the City Hall, is one of the least creditable works ever produced by that artist, cold and repulsive in color, awkward in attitude, and unsatisfactory as a likeness.

Occupying a less prominent position than either of these pictures, but conspicuous enough to attract a large share of attention, is the full-length portrait of Archbishop McCloskey, No. 438, by G.P.A. Healy. Mr. Healy, though never very happy as a colorist and often disposed to sacrifice characteristic expression to a passion for painting brocades and draperies, has generally succeeded in imparting a refined air to his portraits, however feeble they might be as likenesses. The present work is coarse in expression, and untrue as a likeness. It is a mistake to suppose that a free, rapid touch is adapted to every style of face. The small and delicate features of the archbishop, with their shrewd, yet refined and benevolent expression, cannot be dashed off with a few strokes of the brush, but require careful painting, and, above all, patient painting. Mr. Healy's portrait of Dr. Brownson in last year's exhibition, though of little merit as a painting, was much better than this. No. 448, a portrait of the late Peletiah Perit, by Hicks, is one of the most creditable specimens of that very unequal painter that we have recently seen. Mr. Perit is sitting easily and naturally in his library chair, and is not made to assume the attitude of a posture-master for the time being, in order that posterity may know how he did _not_ look in life. The likeness is not remarkable; but the accessories are carefully painted and agreeably colored. No. 423, portrait of a lady, by R.M. Staigg, is exactly what it assumes to be--a lady. In the refined air of the gentlewoman which the artist has so happily conveyed, he recalls some of the female heads of Stuart, though in the present instance he had no wide scope for the display {568} of Stuart's charming gift of color. The resemblance is more in the general sentiment than in any technical qualities. Almost adjoining this work is another portrait of a lady, No. 425, by W.H. Furness, a forcible example of the naturalistic school, of great solidity of texture and purity of color. There is intelligence, earnestness, and strength in this face, and in the attitude, though the latter, as well as the accessories, is studiously simple. Baker and Stone contribute some attractive portraits to this room. No. 454, a lady, by the latter, is a good specimen of a style neither strong nor founded on true principles, but which, on account of a certain conventional gracefulness, which amply satisfies those who look no deeper than the surface of the canvas, will always find admirers. No. 458, a portrait of Capt. Riblett, of the New York 7th Regiment, by Baker, is a clever work, noticeable for the easy pose of the figure, the clear fresh coloring, and the firm handling.

Two other portrait pieces may be noticed in this room, of very opposite degrees of merit. They illustrate a method of treating this branch of the art which has become popular of late years, and which seeks to combine portraiture with _genre_; that is to say, the figures represent real personages, but to the uninitiated seem merely the actors in some little domestic scene. Any subject verging on the dramatic is of course inappropriate to this method. Thus the stiffness too often inseparable from portraiture and its unsympathetic character to a stranger are avoided, and the "gentlemen" and "ladies" who have monopolized so much space on the walls awaken an interest in a wider circle than when appearing simply in their proper persons. No. 441, "A Picnic in the Highlands," by Rossiter, presents us with portraits of some twenty ladies and gentlemen, including a fair proportion of generals, who have been ruthlessly summoned from the pleasures of the rural banquet or of social intercourse to place themselves in attitudes which a travelling photographer would blush to copy, and be thus handed down to posterity. In submitting to this dreadful process Generals Warren and Seymour afforded a new proof of courage under adverse circumstances; and one scarcely knows whether they deserve most to be pitied, or the artist to be denounced for putting brave men in so ridiculous a position. The picture is simply disgraceful, and would naturally be passed over in silence had it not been hung in a position to challenge attention, while many works of merit are placed far above the line. Thirty or forty years ago, when the academy was glad to enroll painters of the calibre of Mr. Rossiter among its members, such productions were perhaps acceptable on the line. But have hanging committees no appreciation that there is such a thing as progress? The other picture above alluded to is No. 435, "Claiming the Shot," by J.G. Brown. It represents a hunting scene in the Adirondacks, and though thinly painted, with no merit in the landscape, and of a general commonplace character, tells its story with humor and point. We have not the pleasure of knowing the party of amateur hunters whose good-natured altercation forms the subject of Mr. Brown's picture, but their faces are perfectly familiar to us, and may be seen any day on Broadway, until the shooting season summons them to a purer atmosphere than our civic rulers permit us to breathe. That good-looking and well-dressed young man, with the incipient aristocratic baldness, and the languid, gentleman-like air, reclining in a not ungraceful attitude on a stump, and whose incredulous shake of the head denotes that he will not resign his claim to the successful shot--is he not a type of our _jeunesse dorée?_ And who has not met the portly, florid gentleman, his face beaming with good nature and good living, who claps our young friend on the back and advises him to give it up? The earnest expression of the half-kneeling hunter, clinching the argument as he identifies his bullet-hole in the side of the slain buck, is well rendered, as is also that of another florid gentleman who looks on, a quiet but highly amused witness of the dispute. In the background are a party of guides and boatmen engaged in preparing supper for the disputants, over whose perplexity they appear to be indulging in a little quiet "chaff." We imagine that the faces of the principal actors in this group are good likenesses, and we feel sure that to see them thus depicted amidst scenes suggesting healthful out-door sports will be pleasant to their friends.

{569}

From portraits we pass naturally to figure pieces, and first pause with astonishment before No. 394, "The Two Marys at the Sepulchre," by R.W. Weir. Here is a work which has doubtless cost much thought and patient labor, but which is so hopelessly beneath the dignity of the subject as to seem almost like a caricature. When will modern painters recognize that sacred history is a branch of their art not to be attempted except under very peculiar and favorable circumstances?--that the artist must feel and believe what he paints, unless he wishes to degenerate into insipidity? We do not desire to impugn Mr. Weir's sincerity, but a work so cold, lifeless, and void of propriety shows that he is either hiding his light under a bushel, or is incapable of feeling, perhaps we should say of reflecting, the religious fervor which should be associated with so awful a scene. Had he even stuck to the conventional forms and accessories which have satisfied six centuries of Christian painters, he might have produced something of respectable mediocrity. But modern realism would not permit this, and therefore the Virgin is represented as a commonplace middle-aged woman, who might as well be Mr. Weir's housekeeper, and whose mawkish expression is positively repulsive. Of St. Mary Magdalen the attitude, figure, and expression are not less inappropriate. Surely these personages are raised above the level of ordinary women--no believer in Christianity will deny that--and cannot the painter so represent them? In other respects the picture has little merit, being stiff and mannered in the drawing and of a mixture of dull gray and salmon in its local coloring.

The most conspicuous landscape in this room is Bierstadt's immense view of the Yo Semite Valley in California, No. 436, which occupies the place of honor in the middle of the south wall. For months past the artist has been announced as at work on this picture, and in view of the great merits recognized in his "Rocky Mountains," public expectation has been raised to a high pitch. But public expectation has been doomed to disappointment this time, for the Yo Semite is much inferior to its predecessor, though, in several respects, both works show the same characteristics in equal perfection. They have breadth of drawing, admirable perspective, and convey an idea of the solemn grandeur of nature in the virgin solitudes of the west. But while in the older work Mr. Bierstadt succeeded in forgetting for a time the academic mannerisms which he brought with him from Germany, in the present one he has, unconsciously, perhaps, lapsed into them again, and produced something of great mechanical excellence, and with about as much nature as can be seen through the atmosphere of a Düsseldorf studio. Yellow appears to be his weakness, and the canvas is accordingly suffused with yellow tints of every gradation of tone; not a luminous yellow which the eye may rest upon with pleasure, but a hard, dusty-looking pigment, without warmth, or transparency, or depth; such a yellow as never tinged the skies of California or any other part of the world, but is begotten of men who derive their ideas of nature from copying _pictures_ of landscapes, instead of going directly to nature. The grass and the foliage which receive the sunlight are of a dirty, yellowish green, those in the shadow of the great mountain ridge on the right of the scene of a yellowish black, the very rocks and water are yellow, and if Indians or emigrants had been introduced into the foreground, we feel convinced they would have received the prevailing hue. Only in the mountain peaks, checkered with sunlight and shadow, does the artist seem to escape from this thraldom to one color, and paint with force and truthfulness. The picture is therefore a failure; and yet viewed from the head of the great stair-case, across the open space, and through the entrance to the exhibition-room, it has a mellowness of tone and truthfulness of perspective which almost induce us to retract our criticism. Approach it, however, and the illusion vanishes. Another Californian scene by Bierstadt, in this room, No. 472, "the Golden Gate," shows the artist's predominant fault even more conspicuously, and is not only unworthy of him, but absolutely unpleasant to look at. No. 487, "Among the Alps," by Gignoux, is a solidly, though coarsely painted work, and notwithstanding a prevalent cold, leaden tone, tolerably effective. The idea of solemn repose is well conveyed, although scarcely one of the details is truthfully rendered. The water of the mountain lake is not water, but an opaque mass, the trees and rocks are so slurred in the drawing as to be {570} unrecognizable by the naturalist, and the shadows are unnecessarily deep and sombre. Such painting, however, pleases the multitude, who do not care much for absolute truth, provided effect is obtained; and Mr. Gignoux's picture is considered very fine indeed. No. 466, "A Mountain Lake in the Blue Ridge," by Sonntag, is a fine piece of scene painting, and, if properly enlarged, would form an excellent design for a stage drop-curtain. As a representation of nature it is false in nearly every detail. And yet no landscape painter deals more readily and dexterously with the external forms of American forest scenery, or perhaps has more neatness of touch; and none, it may be added, has wandered further from the true path.

No. 465, "Greenwood Lake," by Cropsey, is a pleasanter picture than we commonly see from this artist, who, to judge from his productions, scarcely ever saw a cloudy day, and has a very indifferent acquaintance with shadows. Here is a still, serene summer afternoon, in the foreground a newly-mown hayfield, with a group of mowers and rakers, just pausing from their labor, and beyond the placid bosom of the lake. Despite its somewhat monotonous uniformity of tone, the picture is pervaded by an agreeable sentiment of repose, characteristic of midsummer; and as an honest attempt to portray a pleasing phase of nature it is welcome. No. 493, "Afternoon in the Housatonic Valley," by J.B. Bristol, represents the period of the day selected by Mr. Cropsey, but the tone of his picture is lower and cooler, and the coloring more harmonious. Its most noticeable feature is a noble mountain in the background, whose wooded sides afford fine contrasts of light and shadow. No. 494, "A Foggy Morning--Coast of France," by Dana, evinces more desire to catch the secret of rich coloring than success. It is not by scattering warm pigments about, without regard to harmony or gradation, that Mr. Dana can attain his end; and so far as color is concerned he shows no improvement upon his work of former years. In composition he wields, as usual, a graceful pencil, and his children are pleasingly and naturally drawn.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE ILIAD OF HOMER RENDERED INTO ENGLISH BLANK VERSE. By Edward, Earl of Derby. 2 vols. 8vo., pp. 430 and 457. New York: Charles Scribner & Company.

There have been several translations of the Iliad into English verse, but, practically, only three have hitherto been much in vogue. The first of these, by Chapman, is a work of considerable spirit, of a rude, fiery kind; but it is unfaithful, and has long been antiquated. Pope's brilliant and thoroughly un-Homeric version will always be popular as a poem, though anything more widely different from the original was probably never published as a translation. Cowper is verbally accurate, but tame and tiresome. A translation in blank verse, by William Munford, of Richmond, Va., appeared in Boston some twenty years ago, but does not seem to have attracted the attention it deserved.

Lord Derby appears to have avoided nearly all the defects and combined nearly all the merits of his predecessors. He has aimed "to produce a translation and not a paraphrase; not, indeed, such a translation as would satisfy, with regard to each word, the rigid requirements of accurate scholarship, but such as would fairly and honestly give the sense and spirit of every passage and of every line, omitting nothing and expanding nothing, and adhering as closely as our language will allow, even to every epithet which is capable of being translated, and which has, in the particular passage, anything of a special and distinctive character." The testimony of critics is almost unanimous as to the success with which he has carried out his design. His translation is incomparably more faithful than either of those we have mentioned. He almost invariably perceives the delicate shades of meaning which Pope was {571} not scholar enough to notice, and he is often wonderfully happy in expressing them in English. His language is dignified and pure; his style animated and idiomatic; and his verse has more of the majestic flow of Homer than that of any previous translator. He has produced by all odds the best version of the Iliad in the English language.

That a statesman should have succeeded in a task of this sort, where Pope and Cowper failed, is strange indeed. But let our readers judge for themselves: we give first a somewhat celebrated passage from Pope--the bivouac of the Trojans, at the end of the eighth book--premising that Pope prefixes to it four lines which have no equivalent in the Greek, and which are not only an interpolation but a positive injury to the sense:

"The troops exulting sat in order round, And beaming fires illumined all the ground. As when the moon, refulgent lamp of night, O'er heaven's clear azure spreads her sacred light, When not a breath disturbs the deep serene, And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene; Around her throne the vivid planets roll, And stars unnumbered gild the glowing pole, O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed, And tip with silver every mountain's head; Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, A flood of glory bursts from all the skies; The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight, Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light. So many flames before proud Ilion blaze, And lighten glimmering Xanthus with their rays: The long reflections of the distant fires Gleam on the walls, and tremble on the spires; A thousand piles the dusky horrors gild, And shoot a shady lustre o'er the field, Full fifty guards each flaming pile attend, Whose umbered arms, by fits, thick flashes send, Loud neigh the coursers o'er their heaps of corn, And ardent warriors wait the rising morn."

This is not a faultless passage, but no one can help admiring the felicitous imagery, the vivid word-painting, the wonderful harmony of the versification. Yet what reader of Homer will hesitate to prefer Lord Derby's simpler and almost strictly literal rendering?

"Full of proud hopes, upon the pass of war, All night they camped; and frequent blazed their fires. As when in heaven, around the glittering moon The stars shine bright amid the breathless air; And every crag, and every jutting peak Stands boldly forth, and every forest glade; _Ev'n to the gates of heaven is opened wide The boundless sky;_ shines each particular star Distinct; joy fills the gazing shepherd's heart. So bright, so thickly scattered o'er the plain, Before the walls of Troy, between the ships And Xanthus' stream, the Trojan watchfires blazed. A thousand fires burnt brightly; and round each Sat fifty warriors in the ruddy glare; With store of provender before them laid, Barley and rye, the tethered horses stood Beside the cars, and waited for the morn."

Take now the description of Vulcan serving the gods at a banquet, from the conclusion of the first book. Cowper gives it as follows:

"So he; then Juno smiled, goddess white-armed, And smiling still, from his unwonted hand Received the goblet. He from right to left [Footnote 112] Rich nectar from the beaker drawn, alert Distributed to all the powers divine. Heaven rang with laughter inextinguishable, Peal after peal, such pleasure all conceived At sight of Vulcan in his new employ. So spent they in festivity the day, And all were cheered; nor was Apollo's harp Silent, nor did the muses spare to add Responsive melody of vocal sweets. But when the sun's bright orb had now declined, Each to his mansion, wheresoever built By the same matchless architect, withdrew. Jove also, kindler of the fires of heaven, His couch ascending as at other times When gentle sleep approached him, slept serene, With golden-sceptred Juno by his side."

[Footnote 112: Just the reverse,--_from left to right_, [Greek text] Cowper's blunder is serious, because to proceed from right to left was looked upon by the Greeks as unlucky.]

{572}

Cowper is better than Pope here; but Lord Derby is the most literal and by far the best of the three. His lines have a dignified simplicity not unworthy the father of poetry himself; yet the translation is nearly verbatim:

"Thus as he spoke, the white-armed goddess smiled, And smiling from his hand received the cup, Then to th' immortals all in order due He ministered, and from the flagon poured The luscious nectar; while among the gods Rose laughter irrepressible, at sight Of Vulcan hobbling round the spacious hall. Thus they till sunset passed the festive hours; Nor lacked the banquet aught to please the sense, Nor sound of tuneful lyre, by Phoebus touched, Nor muses' voice, who in alternate strains Responsive sang; but when the sun was set, Each for his home departed, where for each The cripple Vulcan, matchless architect, With wondrous skill a noble house had reared. To his own couch, where he was wont of old, When overcome by gentle sleep, to rest, Olympian Jove ascended; there he slept, And by his side the golden-thronèd queen."

If our space permitted we might easily extend these comparisons, and show that Lord Derby excels other translators in every phase of his undertaking--in the rude shock of war, the touching emotions of human sentiment, the debates of the gods, and the beauties and phenomena of nature. We cannot refrain, however, from quoting a few passages of conspicuous excellence.

Hector's assault on the ships in the fifteenth book is thus spiritedly rendered:

"Fiercely he raged, as terrible as Mars With brandished spear; or as a raging fire 'Mid the dense thickets on the mountain side. The foam was on his lips; bright flashed his eyes Beneath his awful brows, and terribly Above his temples waved amid the fray The helm of Hector; Jove himself from heaven His guardian hand extending, him alone With glory crowning 'mid the host of men, But short his term of glory; for the day Was fast approaching, when, with Pallas' aid The might of Peleus' son should work his doom. Oft he essayed to break the ranks, where'er The densest throng and noblest arms he saw; But strenuous though his efforts, all were vain; They, massed in close array, his charge withstood; Firm as a craggy rock, upstanding high Close by the hoary sea, which meets unmoved The boist'rous currents of the whistling winds, And the big waves that bellow round its So stood unmoved the Greeks, and undismayed. At length, all blazing in his arms, he sprang Upon the mass; so plunging down as when On some tall vessel, from beneath the clouds A giant billow, _tempest-nursed_, descends: The deck is drenched in foam; the stormy wind Howls in the shrouds; th' affrighted seamen quail In fear, but little way from death removed; [Footnote 113] So quailed the spirit in every Grecian breast."

[Footnote 113: We are particularly struck with the excellence of Lord Derby's translation of this magnificent image when we contrast it with Mr., Munford's:

"As on a ship a wat'ry mountain falls, Driven from the clouds by all the furious winds; With foam the deck is covered, pitiless The deafening tempest roars among the shrouds; The sailors, whirled along by raging waves. Tremble, confused and faint; immediate death Appears before them."

Yet, no less an authority than the late President Felton, of Harvard, pronounced Munford's the best of all English metrical versions of the Iliad.]

In book sixth Hector is accosted by his mother on his return from the battle-field. She offers him wine, wherewith to pour a libation to Jove and then to refresh himself. Lord Darby's translation of his answer is very neat and very close to the original:

{573}

"No, not for me, mine honored mother, pour The luscious wine, lest thou unnerve my limbs And make me all my wonted prowess lose. The ruddy wine I dare not pour to Jove With hands unwashed; nor to the cloud-girt son Of Saturn may the voice of prayer ascend From one with blood bespattered and defiled."

We close our extracts with a few lines from book third. Priam, sitting with "the sage chiefs and councillors of Troy" at the Scaean gate watching the hostile armies, thus addresses Helen:

"'Come here, my child, and sitting by my side, From whence thou canst discern thy former lord, His kindred and his friends (not thee I blame, But to the gods I owe this woful war), Tell me the name of yonder mighty chief Among the Greeks a warrior brave and strong: Others in height surpass him; but my eyes A form so noble never yet beheld, Nor so august; he moves, a king indeed.' To whom in answer, Helen, heav'nly fair: 'With rev'rence, dearest father, and with shame I look on thee: oh, would that I had died That day when hither with thy son I came, And left my husband, friends, and darling child, And all the loved companions of my youth: That I died not, with grief I pine away. But to thy question; I will tell thee true; Yon chief is Agamemnon, Atreus' son, Wide-reigning, mighty monarch, ruler good, And valiant warrior; in my husband's name, Lost as I am, I called him brother once.'"

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LIFE OF MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO. By William Forsyth, M.A., Q.C., author of "Hortensius," "Napoleon at St. Helena and Sir Hudson Lowe," "History of Trial by Jury," etc., and late fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge. Two volumes, 8vo., pp. 364 and 341. New York: Charles Scribner & Co.

Mr. Forsyth has a very correct notion of the business of a biographer. His object has been not only to tell Cicero's history but to describe his private life--to make us acquainted with minute details of his domestic habits, and to represent him as far as possible in the same manner as he would a man of the present generation. "The more we accustom ourselves," he says, "to regard the ancients as persons of like passions as ourselves, and familiarize ourselves with the idea of them as fathers, husbands, friends, and _gentlemen_, the better we shall understand them." He has therefore carefully gathered up from the letters and other writings of the Roman orator those little bits of personal allusion, domestic history, and unconsidered trifles which indicate, more clearly sometimes than important actions, the bent of one's mind or the inmost character of one's heart; and he has arranged them with great skill, and a good eye for effect. He shows but slight literary polish; his style is not elegant, nor always clear, nor even dignified; but he has a logical way of putting things, a happy knack of arrangement, and a habit of keeping to the point and throwing aside superfluous matter, for which we dare say he is indebted to his training as a pleader in the courts. As a lawyer, too, he is specially qualified to give the history of the causes in which Cicero's orations were delivered; and this he does better than we have ever seen it done before, explaining the narrative by copious illustrations from modern jurisprudence. But if in some respects he writes like a lawyer, in another very important point his practice as an advocate seems not to have affected him. He is thoroughly impartial. He sums up Cicero's character more like a judge than a queen's counsel. He admires him but not blindly; holding the safe middle path between the excessive veneration shown by Middleton and Niebuhr and the unreasonable animosity of Drumann and Mommsen. He admits that Cicero was weak, timid, and irresolute; but these defects were counter-balanced by the display, at critical periods of his life, of the very opposite qualities. In the contest with Catiline and the final struggle with Antony he was as firm and brave as a man need be. One principal cause of his irresolution was an anxiety to do what was right. If he knew that he had acted wrongly, he instantly felt all the agony of remorse. His standard of morality was as high as it was perhaps possible to elevate it by the mere light of nature. The chief fault of his moral character was a want of sincerity. In a different sense of the words from that expressed by St. Paul, he wished to become all things to all men, if by any means he might win some. His private correspondence and {574} his public speeches were often in direct contradiction with each other as to the opinions he expressed of his contemporaries. His foible was vanity. He was never tired of speaking of himself. As a philosopher he had no pretensions to originality, but he was the first to make known to his countrymen the philosophy of Greece, which until he appeared may be said to have spoken to the Romans in an unknown tongue. He adhered to no particular sect, but affected chiefly the school of the new academy. He was a firm believer in a providence and a future state. As an orator his faults are coarseness in invective, exaggeration in matter, and prolixity in style. "Many of his sentences are intolerably long, and he dwells upon a topic with an exhaustive fulness which leaves nothing to the imagination. The pure gold of his eloquence is beaten out too thin, and what is gained in surface is lost in solidity and depth."

The position of Cicero with respect to the political parties into which the republic was divided in his time is not so well described as his personal character. While Mr. Forsyth displays industry and good judgment in collecting and arranging the little traits which go to make up a life-like portrait, he lacks the comprehensive and philosophical view with which Merivale has recently surveyed the same period of history. Forsyth writes as one who, having mingled with the busy crowd in the forum, should come away and tell us what he had seen and heard, and describe the men with whom he had talked. Merivale surveys the scene from a distance; and though his perception of individual objects is less distinct than Forsyth's, his view is broader and takes in better the relative situations and proportions of the various features spread out before him. Both are excellent in their kind: the historian is the more instructive, the biographer the more entertaining.

BEATRICE. By Julia Kavanagh, author of "Nathalie," "Adele," "Queen Mab," etc., etc. Three volumes in one. 12mo., pp. 520. New York: D. Appleton & Company.

The readers of "Adele" and "Nathalie" will hardly be prepared for what awaits them in the novel now upon our table. Miss Kavanagh has won a high reputation by her delicate pictures of quiet home life, and thorough analyses of female character. But lately the prevailing thirst for sensational stories appears to have enticed her away from the old path, and led her to attempt a style of novel which will no doubt please the majority of readers better than her earlier efforts, though as a work of art it is inferior to them. It is by no means however a merely sensation story. The heroine is painted with all Miss Kavanagh's accustomed clearness and skill; although the uninterrupted series of plots and counterplots, the dramatic terseness of the dialogue, and the effectiveness of the situations, tempt one to forget sometimes, in the absorbing interest of the narrative, the higher merit of vivid and truthful drawing of character. That of Beatrice is charmingly conceived, and admirably worked out, recalling those delightful heroines who first gave Miss Kavanagh a hold upon the popular heart. Beatrice is a spirited, proud, natural, warm-hearted girl, born in poverty and fallen heiress unexpectedly to great wealth. Her guardian and step-father, Mr. Gervoise, subjects her to innumerable wrongs in order that he may get possession of the property. Poison even and a mad-house are hinted at. The book is principally a narrative of battle between the defenceless girl and this villain. Our readers who may wish to know how the struggle ends are referred to the book itself; they will have no reason to regret the time they may spend in reading it.

GRACE MORTON; OR, THE INHERITANCE. A Catholic Tale. By M.L.M. 12mo., pp. 324.

THE CONFESSORS OF CONNAUGHT; OR, THE TENANTS OF A LORD BISHOP. A Tale of our Times. By M. L. M., author of Grace Morton, etc. 12mo., pp.319. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham. New York: D. & J. Sadlier & Company.

These are both religious stories. The first is inscribed to the Catholic youth of America, and the scene is laid in Pennsylvania. The second is founded upon the evictions in 1860, in the parish of Partry, Ireland, of a number of tenants of the Protestant bishop of Tuam, who had refused to send their children to proselytizing schools. The well-known missionary, Father Lavelle, is a {575} prominent figure in the book, slightly disguised under the name of Father Dillon.

A GENERAL HISTORY OF THE CATHOLIC CHURCH: FROM THE COMMENCEMENT OF THE CHRISTIAN ERA UNTIL THE PRESENT TIME. By M. l'Abbé J.E. Darras. First American from the last French edition. With an Introduction and Notes, by the Most Rev. M.J. Spalding, D.D., Archbishop of Baltimore. Numbers 6, 7, and 8. 8vo. pp. (each) 48. New York: P. O'Shea.

We are pleased to learn that two valuable appendices are to be added to the American translation of this important work; one by an eminent Jesuit on the history of the Church in Ireland, the other by the Rev. C.I. White, D.D., on the history of the Church in America. The English version of the book ought thus to be far superior to the original French. The numbers appear with great promptness, and present the same neat and tasteful appearance which we took occasion to praise in noticing some of the earlier parts.

LIFE OF THE CURÉ D'ARS. From the French of the Abbé Alfred Monnin. 12mo., pp. 355. Baltimore: Kelly & Piet.

It is only six years since Jean Baptist Marie Vianney, better known as the Curé of Ars, closed his mortal life in that little village near Lyons which will probably be henceforth for ever associated with his name. "A common consent," says Dr. Manning, in a preface to the book before us, "seems to have numbered him, even while living, among the servants of God; and an expectation prevails that the day is not far off when the Church will raise him to veneration upon her altars." He was the son of a farmer of Dardilly, near Lyons, and appears to have inherited virtue from both his parents. God gave him neither graces of person nor gifts of intellect. His face was pale and thin, his stature low, his gait awkward, his manner shy and timid, his whole air common and unattractive. His education was so defective that his teachers hesitated to recommend him for ordination. But the want of human learning seems to have been supplied by supernatural illumination. When he went to Ars, virtue was little known there. To say that he speedily wrought an entire reformation is but a faint expression of the extraordinary effect of his ministry. Drunkenness and quarreling were soon unknown. At the sound of the midday _Angelus_ the laborers would stop in their work to recite the _Ave Maria_ with uncovered head. Men and women used to repair to the church after their work was done, and often came again to pray at two or three o'clock in the morning. The curé himself, it may be said, never left the church except to discharge some function of his ministry, to take one scanty meal a day, of bread or potatoes, and to sleep two or three hours. In the seventh year of his ministry he founded an asylum for orphan or destitute girls which he called "The Providence." It is believed that he was miraculously assisted in providing food and clothing for these poor children. Once the stock of flour was exhausted, except enough to make two loaves. "Put your leaven into the little flour you have," said the curé to the baker, "and to-morrow go on with your baking as usual." "The next day," says this person, "I know not how it happened, but as I kneaded, the dough seemed to rise and rise under my fingers; I could not put in the water quick enough; the more I put in, the more it swelled and thickened, so that I was able to make, with a handful of flour, ten large loaves of from twenty to twenty-two pounds each, as much, in fact, as could have been made with a whole sack of flour."

It was in consequence partly of circumstances of this nature connected with the Providence, and partly of the reputation of M. Vianney as a spiritual director, that a stream of pilgrims set in toward Ars that has continued to flow ever since. Before the close of his life, as many as eighty thousand persons are said to have visited him in a single year, by a single route. Most of them came to confess; many to be cured of deformities or disease; others to ask advice in special difficulties. The number of cures effected at his hands was prodigious. His labors in the confessional were almost beyond belief; for thirty years he spent in this severest of all the duties of a parish priest sixteen or eighteen hours a day. Penitents were content to await their turn in the church all night, all the next day--even two {576} days. Devout persons were so eager to get relics of him during his life, that whenever he laid aside his hat or his surplice the garment was immediately appropriated. So after a time he never put on a hat, and never took off his surplice.

It seemed at last that his humility could no longer endure the veneration that was paid him. He resolved to retire to a quiet place, and spend the rest of his life in prayer. He attempted to escape secretly by night; but one of his assistant priests discovered his purpose, and contrived to delay him, until the alarm was sounded through the village. The inhabitants were roused at the first stroke. The clangor of the bell was soon mingled with confused cries of "M. le curé!" The women crowded the market-place and prayed aloud in the church; the men armed themselves with whatever came first to hand; guns, forks, sticks, and axes. M. Vianney made his way with difficulty to the street door, but the villagers would not let him open it. "He went from one door to another," says his old servant, "without getting angry; but I think he was weeping." At last he reached the street, and stood still for a moment, considering how to escape. His assistant made a last effort to persuade him to remain. The populace fell at his feet, and cried, with heart-rending sobs, "Father, let us finish our confession; do not go without hearing us!" And thus saying, they carried rather than led him to the church. He knelt before the altar and wept for a long time. Then he went quietly into his confessional as if nothing had happened.

We would gladly quote the whole of the beautiful scene of which we have attempted to give an outline; but our space forbids. We must pass over also the graphic description of the abbé's death and funeral, as well as the narrative of the extraordinary sufferings which made his life one long purgatory. Let our readers get the book, and they will find it as interesting as a romance.

THE LIFE OF JOHN MARY DECALOGNE, STUDENT IN THE UNIVERSITY OF PARIS. Translated from the French. 18mo., pp. 162. Baltimore: Kelly & Piet.

This edifying narrative of the short and almost angelic career of a school-boy who died in the odor of sanctity, in his seventeenth year, was a great favorite with our fathers and grandfathers, but we believe has long been out of print. Its re-publication is a praiseworthy adventure, which we hope will have the success it deserves. The book is especially recommended to lads preparing for their first communion.

_The New Path_, for June (New York: James Miller, publisher), is devoted wholly to the fortieth annual exhibition of the National Academy of Design. Our spicy little contemporary has no mercy on the artists.

_Trübner's American and Oriental Literary Record_, the first number of which was published in London last March, is "a monthly register of the most important works published in North and South America, in India, China, and the British Colonies; with occasional notes on German, Dutch, Danish, French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, and Russian books." We believe it is the first systematic attempt to bring the young literature of America and the East before the public of Europe. We commend it to the attention of our book-writing and publishing friends.

The American News Company issue a little pamphlet on _The Russo-Greek Church, by a former resident of Russia_. Its aim is to expose the absurdity of the attempts at union between the Russian and Protestant Episcopal Churches.

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BOOKS RECEIVED.

History of England from the fall of Wolsey to the death of Elizabeth. By James Anthony Froude, M.A. New York: Charles Scribner & Company.

The History of the Protestant Reformation, etc. By M.J. Spalding, D.D., Archbishop of Baltimore. Fourth revised edition. Baltimore: John Murphy & Company.

Ceremonial for the use of the Catholic Churches in the United States of America. Third edition, revised and enlarged. Baltimore: Kelly & Piet.

Meditations and Considerations for a Retreat of One Day in each Month. Compiled from the writings of Fathers of the Society of Jesus. Baltimore: Kelly & Piet.

The Year of Mary. Translated from the French of the Rev. M. d'Arville, Apostolic Prothonotary. Edited and in part translated by Mrs. J. Sadlier. Philadelphia: Peter F. Cunningham.

{577}

THE CATHOLIC WORLD,

VOL. I., NO. 5. AUGUST, 1865.

Translated from Études Religieuses, Historiques, et Littéraires, par des Pères de la Compagnie de Jésus.

DRAMATIC MYSTERIES OF THE FIFTEENTH AND SIXTEENTH CENTURIES.

BY A. CAHOUR, S. J.

The drama of the Middle Ages ends with a sort of theatrical explosion. Everything disappears at once, under all forms and on every side. It included, like that of earlier times, "mysteries" drawn from the Old and the New Testament; "miracles" and plays borrowed from legends, tragedies inspired by the acts of the martyrs and by chivalric romances, by ancient history and by modern history; "moralities" whose allegorical impersonations represent the vices and the virtues; pious comedies like those of Marguerite de Valois, Queen of Navarre, upon the Nativity of Jesus Christ, upon the Adoration of the Magi, upon the Holy Family in the desert; profane comedies like those of the "Two Daughters" and the "Two Wives" by the same princess; ludicrous farces like that of Patelin the Advocate; licentious farces _ad nauseam;_ finally, the _"Soties,"_ satirical plays in which the _Clercs de la Basoche_ and the _Enfants sans souci_ renewed the audacity of Aristophanes without reviving his talent. There were representations for all solemn occasions, for the patron-feasts of cities and parishes, for the assemblies of a whole country, for the "joyous entry" of kings and princes. There were also scenic _entremets_ for banquets; and nearly all these displays were made with proportions so gigantic, with so much pomp and expense, that everybody must have participated in them, priests and magistrates, lords and citizens, carpenters and minstrels. The representation of a "mystery" became the affair of a whole city, of a whole province. The hangings of the theatre, the costume of the actors, exhibited the most beautiful tapestries, the richest dresses, the most precious jewels of the neighboring chateaux, and even the ornaments of the churches--copes for the eternal Father, dalmatics for the angels.

One of our most ingenious and learned critics, whom it is impossible not to cite frequently when writing upon the dramatic poetry of the sixteenth century, M. Sainte-Beuve, in speaking of this prodigious fecundity, has remarked, that "when things are close to their end they often have a final season of remarkable brilliancy--it is their autumn--their vintage; {578} or it is like the last brilliant discharge in a piece of fireworks." Perhaps there is no better illustration of this phenomenon than that of a pyrotechnic display, which multiplying its jets of light, and illuminating the entire horizon at the very moment of its extinction, disappears into the night and leaves naught behind but its smoke. What is there left, in fact, after all this theatrical effervescence? One natural and truly French inspiration alone--the immortal farce of Patelin, dating from the second half of the fifteenth century, and revived at the commencement of the eighteenth by Brueys and Palaprat.

However, despite its poverty, this dramatic epoch merits our close attention. In giving us a picture of the public amusements of our forefathers, it will indicate, on the one hand, the nature of their morality and their literary tastes, and on the other, the causes of the decline of the old Christian drama at the verge of the revolution which delivered over the French stage to the ideas and the philosophy of paganism.

If we wished to give a catalogue of the productions of the fifteenth and the sixteenth centuries, we might easily compile it from the history of the brothers Parfait, the _"Recherches"_ of Beauchamps, and the _"Bibliothèque"_ of the Duke de la Vallière. Such a task, however abridged, would require a long chapter, and we neither have time to undertake it nor are we sorry at being obliged to omit it. Passing straight to our goal, let us occupy ourselves with the tragic dramas alone, and even here we must put bounds to our inquiry under penalty of losing ourselves in endless and uninteresting details. All that which characterizes the Melpomene of the fifteenth and the commencement of the sixteenth centuries is found in the two great works, "The Mystery of the Passion," and "The Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles." In these, and we may almost say in these only, shall we study its power and its originality.

"The Mystery of the Passion" is the work of two Angevin poets, named alike Jehan Michel. The first, born toward the end of the fourteenth century, after having been a canon and at the same time secretary of Queen Yolande of Aragon, mother of the good King René, Count of Anjou and of Provence, became bishop of Angers, February 19, 1438, and died in the odor of sanctity, September 12, 1447. The second Jehan Michel, a very eloquent and scientific doctor, as la Croix du Maine informs us, was the chief physician of King Charles VIII., and died in Piedmont, August 22, 1493. He edited and printed, in 1486, the work of his namesake.

This mystery was played at Metz and at Paris in 1437, and at Angers three years afterward upon the commencement of the episcopacy of its first author. It is a gigantic trilogy, into which are fused and co-ordinated all the dramatic representations borrowed for three centuries from the canonical and apocryphal gospels.

"It is," remarks M. Douhaire, in his eleventh lecture on the History of Christian Poetry before the Renaissance,--"it is a great central sea into which flow all the streams of a common poetic region. From the refreshing pictures of the patriarchal life of Joachim and Ann to the sublime scenes of the resurrection of Jesus Christ and the saints of the ancient law, all, or nearly all, that has caught our eyes before is here found anew, sometimes as a reminiscence, sometimes in the lifelike and spirited form of a dialogue. The legend of the death of the Holy Virgin, the legends of the apostles, of Pilate, and of the Wandering Jew, have alone been omitted; whether because they appeared to the authors of the mystery to break the theological unity of their work, or because their length excluded them from a composition already swollen far beyond reasonable limits."

The mystery opens with a council held in heaven upon the redemption {579} of the human race. On the one side Mercy and Peace, in allegorical character, implore pardon for our first parents and their posterity. On the other, Justice and Truth demand the eternal condemnation of the guilty. To conciliate them, there must be found a man without sin who will freely die for the salvation of all. They go forth to seek him on the earth. To the council of heaven succeeds that of hell. Lucifer in terror convokes his demons to oppose the redemption of the world. During their tumultuous deliberation the four virtues return in despair to heaven. They have failed to find the generous and pure victim necessary for expiation. The Son of God offers himself, and the mystery of the incarnation is decreed. [Footnote 114] St. Joachim espouses St. Ann, and Mary is born of the union so long sterile. Then follows the scenic display of all the legendary and gospel narratives of her education, her marriage with St. Joseph, the incarnation of the Word, the birth of Jesus Christ, and all the wonders of his infancy up to his dispute in the temple with the doctors. It is at this point that the great drama completes its first part, which is entitled "The Mystery of the Conception." It is adapted, after the style of the time, for ninety-seven persons.

[Footnote 114: This is the idea of St. Bernard dramatized. _In festo Annunciationis B.M.V. Sermo primus_, No. 9; vol. i., p. 974.]

The second part, which has given its name to the entire drama, is the "Mystery of the Passion of Jesus Christ." It is divided into four "days," each of which has its appropriate actors. The first day, which is for eighty-seven persons, extends from the preaching of St. John the Baptist, in the wilderness, to his beheading. The second requires a hundred persons. It comprises the sermons and miracles of our Saviour, and ends with the resurrection of Lazarus. The third commences with the triumphal entry of Jesus Christ into Jerusalem and ends with Annas and Caiphas. This day is for eighty-seven persons, like the first. The fourth requires five hundred. It is the representation of all the scenes in the tribunal of Pilate and at the court of Herod, at Calvary and at the holy sepulchre.

The third part, entitled "The Resurrection," represents Jesus Christ manifesting himself to his disciples in different places after he has risen from the tomb; then his ascension and entrance into heaven in the midst of concerts of angels; and finally, the descent of the Holy Spirit upon the apostles assembled together in an upper chamber. We have two different forms of this third part. One is in three days; the other in one. The former has only forty-five persons; one hundred and forty are needed for the latter.

These three dramas, of which the trilogy of the Passion is composed, were played for a century and a half, sometimes together, sometimes separately. When represented at Paris, in 1437, at the entrance of Charles VII., they closed with a spectacle of the final judgment. [Footnote 115] There are even found amplifiers who carry it back as far as the origin of the world. It will be difficult to say how much time the performance of this agglomeration of dramas required. Some idea, however, can be formed from a representation of the Old Testament, arranged about 1500, which set out with the creation of the angels and did not arrive at the nativity of our Lord Jesus Christ until after twenty-two days. Was the trilogy of the two Angevin poets sometimes preceded by this immense prelude? We cannot tell. But the length of the spectacle would render this conjecture incredible, since the "Triumphant Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles," played at Bruges, in 1536, lasted forty days, morning and afternoon. {580} These spectacles commenced ordinarily at nine in the morning. Then at eleven o'clock the people went to dinner, and returned again two hours after.

[Footnote 115: "All along the great Rue St. Denis," according to Alain Chartier, "to the distance of a stone's throw on both sides, were erected scaffoldings of great and costly construction, where were played The Annunciation of Our Lady, The Nativity of our Lord, his Passion, his Resurrection, Pentecost, and the Last Judgment, the whole passing off quite well." (Beauchamps' _Recherches sur les théâters de France,_ t. i., p. 254-256).]

This drama, thirty or forty times longer than our longest classical tragedies, contains, at the least, sixty-six thousand verses. It was printed for the first time, in 1537, in two volumes folio, and proved its popularity by three different editions within four years. The emphasis of its title attests, moreover, the immense success of its representation at Bruges the year before. It was the composition of two brothers, Arnoul and Simon Greban, born at Compiegne. Arnoul, by whom it was conceived and commenced about 1450, was a canon of Mans. He died before he had finished versifying it. Simon, monk of St. Riquier, in Ponthieu, completed it during the reign of Charles VII., and, consequently, before 1461. Their dramatic composition is divided into nine books. They have left to the "directors" of the spectacle the care of dividing it into more or fewer days, according to circumstances.

The first book commences with the assembling of the disciples in the upper chamber, and represents the election of St. Matthias, the descent of the Holy Spirit, and the earlier preaching of the apostles when braving the persecutions of the synagogue. The second book extends from the martyrdom of St. Stephen to the conversion of St. Paul. The third is filled with the legendary traditions concerning the apostleship of St Thomas in India. The fourth brings back the spectacle to Jerusalem, where Herod dies after having cut off the head of St. James the Greater; then the scene is transferred to Antioch, where St. Peter, at the solicitation of Simon the Magician, is put into prison, and obtains his liberty by restoring to life the son of the prince of that city who had been dead ten years. The fifth book contains, first, the preaching of St. Paul at Athens, where he converts St. Denis, the future apostle of France; then, the death of the Blessed Virgin, at which the apostles are present, brought together suddenly by a miracle. The sixth book is consecrated to the apostleship and martyrdom of St. Matthew in Ethiopia, of St. Barnabas in the Isle of Cyprus, of St. Simon and St. Jude at Babylon, and, finally, of St. Bartholomew, whom Prince Astyages flayed alive. In the seventh book, St. Thomas ends his apostleship in India, slain by the sword; St. Matthias is stoned to death by the Jews; St. Andrew is crucified by the provost of Achaia; the Emperor Claudius dies and Nero succeeds him. In the eighth book, St. Philip and St. James the Less suffer martyrdom at Hierapolis. The two princes combine with the apostles against Simon the Magician and bring his miracles to naught. St Paul recalls Patroclus to life, who had fallen from a high window while sleeping over the apostolic sermon. In the ninth and last book, Simon the Magician, availing himself of his most powerful enchantments in order to deceive the Romans, having caused himself to be lifted into the air by the demons, falls at the voice of St. Peter and is killed. Nero avenges him by imprisoning St. Peter and St. Paul--puts to death Proces and Martinian, their gaolers, whom they had converted and by whom they were set at liberty--arrests the two apostles anew, and condemns one to be crucified, the other to be beheaded. Then, terrified by the successive apparitions of the two martyrs, who announce to him the vengeance of heaven, he invokes the demons, demands their counsel, kills himself, and the devils bear away his soul to hell.

When we add that each book is filled with striking conversions, that some terminate with the baptism of a whole city or a whole people, and that the apostles insure the triumph of the gospel even in death, a sufficient idea will have been given of the historic procession and the moral unity of this drama, or rather of this epic worked up in dialogue and arranged for the {581} stage. But in order to get a clearer notion of its theatrical power and poetic features, it is necessary to direct our attention, in the first place, to the interest of the legends which are here blended constantly with history; and, in the second place, to the fairy art and the magnificence of the spectacle.

Here, for instance, is an example of the legendary poetry interwoven in the piece. We borrow it from the third book. Gondoforus, king of India, wishes to build a magnificent palace; but he is in want of architects, and therefore sends his provost Abanes to Rome in search of one. The messenger mounts at once on a dromedary: he is followed by a servant leading a camel. In three and a half hours they are at Caesarea in Palestine, where the apostle St. James is dwelling. St. Michael had descended from heaven to anticipate the arrival of Abanes, and commands the apostle, in the name of our Lord, to offer himself as architect. Directed by the archangel, he accosts Abanes and tells him that he is the man he seeks. They breakfast together and set out, not this time on a dromedary and a camel, but in a ship conducted by Palinurus, who had just arrived, bringing St. James, the son of Zebedee, from Spain to Palestine. While they are making the voyage, the king of Andrinopolis is holding counsel upon the manner of celebrating the nuptials of his daughter Pelagia, who is espoused to the young chevalier Denis; and the result of this deliberation is that he must invite everybody who can come. The apostle and the Provost disembark at Andrinopolis at very moment when the herald the proclamation, in the name of the king, summoning to the banquet citizens of all conditions and even rangers--pilgrims and wayfarers. St. Thomas consequently is present at the nuptial feast. A young Jewess chants a roundelay:

There is a God of Hebrew story. Dwelling in eternal glory Who first of all things claims our love: Who made the earth, sea, sky above, And taught the morning stars to sing. High would I laud this virtuous king, And blaming naught, his praises ring Through every hall, through every grove. There is a God of Hebrew story, Dwelling in eternal glory, Who first of all things claims our love. [Footnote 116]

[Footnote 116: She commences in Hebrew: A sarahel zadab aheboin, Aga sela tanmeth thavehel Elyphaleth a der deaninin, etc. Then she translates her roundelay into French.]

St. Thomas, charmed with this song, begs that it may be repeated, and the king's butler boxes his ears.

Ere the morrow shall be through, Thy hand its fault will sorely rue,

says the apostle, adding--

'Twere better for thy purgatory, To suffer anguish transitory.

This prediction is not tardy of accomplishment. The butler is sent to the fountain by the cup-bearer. A lion comes up, and with a snap of his teeth bites off the guilty hand, while the poor man dies repentant and commending his soul to God. In the banquet hall all is gay confusion, when presently a dog enters with the dissevered hand. The king, informed of the prophecy and its accomplishment, prostrates himself with his whole family at the feet of the apostle, who blesses him. All at once there appears a branch of palm covered with dates. The wedded couple eat of it and then fall asleep. In their dreams angels counsel them to preserve their virginity. After having baptized the king of Andrinopolis and all his household, St. Thomas renews his journey with his guide, and arrives in India.

Gondoforus and his brother Agatus salute the architect whom Abanes has brought. "Well, master, at what school did you study your art?" "My master surpasses all others in excellence." "And of whom did he learn his science?"

"Master and teacher had he none, He learneth from himself alone."

"Where is he?"

"In a country far away, He lives and ruleth regally: The sons of men his servants be, His twelve apprentices are we."

{582}

The king, amazed at the knowledge of the stranger, gives him a vast sum of gold, for the construction of his palace. But it was not an earthly edifice that the apostle proposed to build--it was a heavenly and spiritual edifice whose materials were alms and good works. He therefore distributes among the beggars whom he meets all the money which has been given him. At the end of two years, Gondoforus comes to see the building, and not finding it, he thus addresses St. Thomas and Abanes:

"Scoundrels without conscience born, Where has all my money gone? My trust in you has cost me dear.

THOMAS

Sire, therewith I did uprear A palace fair, of rare device For you--

AGATUS.

Where is't?

THOMAS.

In Paradise."

The Indian king, who does not understand that style of architecture, throws St. Thomas and Abanes into prison. Scarcely has he returned home with his followers, when Agatus suddenly dies. The angels descend in haste to bear his soul to heaven. [Footnote 117] "What do I see?" he cries. "The palace which Thomas has made for thy brother," replies Raphael. "Great God, but I am not pure enough to be its porter!" "Thy brother," said Uriel, "has made himself unworthy of it. But if thou desirest, we will supplicate our Lord to restore thee to earth, and this palace shall be thine when thou hast repaid the king his money." The soul of Agatus joyfully agreed to this, and was restored to its body by Uriel. Then Agatus, as soon as life returned, arose and told Gondoforus all that he had seen, proposing to reimburse him for all the expenses of this heavenly palace the possession of which he desired. The amazed king, wishing to secure the beautiful palace for himself, goes and flings himself at the feet of St. Thomas, beseeching baptism for himself and court.

[Footnote 117: "Although the arts of the middle ages," says Father Cahier, "did not adopt an absolutely invariable form for the representation of souls, the most ordinary symbol is that of a small, nude figure escaping from the mouth, like a sword drawn from the sheath." _Monagraphie de la Cathédrale de Bourges_, p. 158, note 2.]

When the "Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles" was played at Bruges in 1536, so perfect was the representation of this legend and the other marvels of the piece, says the old historian Du Berry, that many of the hearers thought it real and not feigned. They saw, among a thousand other wondrous sights, the provost of the king of the Indies enter riding on a huge dromedary, very well constructed, which moved its head, opened its mouth, and ran out its tongue. When the butler was punished, they saw a lion steal up and bite off the hand, and a dog who bore it still bleeding into the midst of the feasters. These were not the only animal prodigies that passed under the eyes of the spectators. In the representation of the sixteenth book, for example, two sorcerers, irritated against St. Matthew, caused a multitude of serpents to appear, and the apostle summoned forth from the earth a very terrible dragon which devoured them. In another part of this same book, St. Philip, having been led before the god Mars, makes a dragon leap forth from the mouth of the idol, which kills the son of the pagan bishop, two tribunes, and two varlets. In the course of the seventh book, a still more extraordinary automaton appears. St. Andrew delivers Greece from a monstrous serpent fifty cubits long. "Here," says the note introduced for the ordering of the mystery, "an oak must be planted, and a serpent must be coiled beneath the said oak, glaring, and must vomit forth a great quantity of blood and then die."

The marvels of the art multiply themselves infinitely and in all directions. We see, for example, idols crumbling into powder at the voice of the apostles, and temples crushing the pagans in their fall. We see Saul {583} struck down from his horse by a great light out of heaven; St. Thomas walking over red-hot iron; St. Barnabas fast bound upon a cart-wheel over a pan of live coals, which burn him to cinders. [Footnote 118] We see, also, the apostles borne through the air to assist at the death of the Virgin. "Here lightning must be made in a white cloud, and this cloud must float around St. John, who is preaching at Ephesus, and he must be borne in the cloud to the gates of Notre Dame." A moment after, "thunder and lightning must burst forth from a white cloud which shall veil over the apostles as they preach in different countries, and bear them before the gates of Notre Dame." While the apostles are carrying the body of the Holy Virgin to the tomb, chanting _In exitu Israel de Egypto_, "a rosy cloud in shape like a coronet must descend, on which should be many holy saints holding naked swords and darts." A mob of Jews come to lay hands on the shrine. "As soon as they touch it, their hands must be glued to the litter and become withered and black; and the angels in the cloud must cast down fire upon them and a storm of darts." The sacrilegious Jews are struck with blindness. Some of them are converted and recover their sight. Five remain obstinate. The devils come to torment them, and finally strangle them. "Here their souls rise in the air and the devils bear them away." Lastly, we have the Assumption of the Holy Virgin. "Here Gabriel puts a soul into the body of Mary, after Michael has rolled away the stone. And the Virgin Mary rises to her knees, a halo of glory round her like the sun. Then a grand pause of the organ or anthem, while Mary is being placed in the cloud on which she will ascend. The angels should sing as they disappear _Venite ascendamus_, and the angels ought to surround the Virgin and bear her above Gabriel and the other angels." Lifted thus above nine choirs of angels, she elicits vast admiration, and beholding from the height of heaven St. Thomas, who could not arrive in time to assist at her death and receive her last benediction, she throws him her girdle.

[Footnote 118: "Daru will pretend to burn Barnabas, and will burn a feigned body, and will lower Barnabas under the earth."]

Thus in this drama, requiring forty days and five hundred and thirty persons [Footnote 119] for its performance, heaven, air, earth, hell, all participated in the movement and the spectacle. What kind of a theatre was required for such scenic action? In the sixteenth century men saw theatres with two stages for the miracles of Notre Dame. The Mysteries of the Acts of the Apostles and of the Passion required three. Heaven was on high, hell below, earth in mid-space. Let us attempt to build anew these theatres before the eyes of our readers.

[Footnote 119: This is the number of actors employed in the representation made at Bruges in 1536, according to the calculation of M. Chevalier de Saint-Amand. Cahier, "_Monographie de la Cathédrale de Bourges,_" p. 153. We find only 484 persons in the "_Repertoire, des noms contenus au jeu des actes des apôtres_." See the edition of this "Mystery" published at Paris in 1541 by Arnoul and Charles les Angliers, under this title: "_Les catholiques OEuvres et Actes des Apôtres_."]

Paradise was an amphitheatre in form. High above appeared the Deity, seated upon a golden throne and overlooking all--the stage and the audience. At the four corners of his throne sat four persons representing Peace, Mercy, Justice, Truth. At their feet were nine choirs of angels ranged by hierarchies upon the steps. There was space also for the blessed spirits and for the organ which accompanied the celestial chants. Everything flashed and glittered. The painter and the carver were prodigal of their wonders. Of this we can form a judgment from a description of the paradise displayed at Bruges on the representation of the "Triumphant Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles." According to a contemporary narrative, five hundred and odd actors, sallying forth from the abbey of St. Sulpice on Sunday afternoon, April 30, 1536, bore with them in great pomp the apparatus of a spectacle which they were about to give at the amphitheatre of the _Arènes_. {584} They had a paradise twelve feet long, and eight feet wide. "It had all around it open thrones painted to resemble passing clouds, and both without and within were little angels as cherubim and seraphim, powers and dominations, in bas-relief, their hands joined and always moving. In the middle was a seat fashioned like a rainbow, upon which was seated the Godhead--Father, Son, and Holy Ghost; and behind were two gold suns revolving continuously in opposing orbits. At the four corners were seats on which reposed Justice, Peace, Truth, and Mercy, richly clothed; and beside the said Godhead were two small angels chanting hymns and canticles to the music of the players on the flute, the harp, the lute, the rebec, and the viol, who circled about the paradise."

The same account describes a hell fourteen feet in length and eight in width. "It was made in the fashion of a rock, upon which was raised a tower always burning and sending forth flames. At the four corners of the said rock were four small towers, within which appeared spirits undergoing diverse torments, and on the fore-edge of the rock writhed a great serpent, hissing and emitting fire from his mouth and ears and nostrils; and along the passages of the said rock twined and crawled all kinds of serpents and great toads."

"The form and dimensions of this fiery cavern varied according to the exigencies of the dramatic action; but its place was invariably in the lower part of the theatre. In this were assembled all the _diablerie_, usually comprising a dozen principal personages; and from thence issued a terrible storm of howls and shrieks. Lucifer was there, and Satan, Belial, Cerberus, Astaroth, Burgibus, Leviathan, Proserpine, and other devils great and small. The gate through which they passed when coming to earth to torment mankind, appeared in shape like the enormous jaws of a dragon, and was called hell's mouth." [Footnote 120]

[Footnote 120: At the representation of the "Mystery of the Passion" at Metz, in July, 1437. "The mouth of hell was exceedingly well made, for it opened and shut when the devils wished to enter or go forth, and it had a great steel under-work." _Chronique de Metz_, MS.; composed by a curé of St. Eustache, cited by Beauchamps, in the _Recherches sur les theatres_.'']

Limbo, when demanded by the peculiar features of the play, as in the Mystery of the Resurrection, was placed below hell, and was symbolized by a huge tower with slits and gratings on all sides, in order that the spectators might catch glimpses of the spirits confined there. As these spirits were only statuettes, there was stationed behind the tower a body of men who howled and shrieked in concert, and when anything was to be said to the audience, a strong and lusty voice spoke in the name of all. [Footnote 121] When a purgatory was needed, it was located and constructed after nearly the same manner.

[Footnote 121: "_Mysteres inèdits du XVe siècle_" published by Achille Jubinal, t.i., preface, p. xlii. (Paris, 1837). Let us remark here in passing, that M. Jubinal, who is better acquainted with the manuscripts of the middle ages than with his catechism, has confounded limbo with purgatory. ]

The stage, properly so called, which was on a level with the audience, represented earth--that is, the different countries to which the dramatic action was successively transferred. It therefore required a vastly greater space than hell or paradise; the one symbolized by a cavern, and the other by an amphitheatre. It was divided into compartments, and inscriptions indicated the countries and the cities. This division was effected by scaffolds entirely separate, when there was room enough. Thus at the "Mystery of the Passion," represented at Paris in 1437, at the entrance of King Charles VII., the scaffolds occupied the whole of the Rue St. Denis for a distance of a stone's throw on either side, and the more remote stage, on which the last judgment was exhibited, was before Le Chatelet. The spectators were obliged to travel from one part to the other with the actors. But they remained seated, and could see the whole without change of place, at the performance of the same mystery, given the same year at Metz, in the {585} plain of Veximiel. For the vast semicircle destined for the assembly had nine rows of seats, and behind were the grand chairs for the lords and dames assembled from all parts of the province, and even from Germany. It was the same at Bruges on the preceding year at the representation of the "Acts of the Apostles." The enclosure occupied the whole space of the ancient amphitheatre, commonly called the Ditch of the Arènes. It had two stages, and vast pavilions protected the spectators from the inclemency of the weather and the heat of the sun.

But three years after, in 1541, when the burgesses of Paris played that immense drama in the hall of l'Hotel de Flandre, or when the Fraternity of the Passion gave their representations for a century and a half, at their theatre of the Trinity, in a hall one hundred and twenty-nine feet long and thirty-six feet deep, how were local distinctions indicated? Then the stage, in default of space, was divided by simple partitions, and inscriptions, indicating beyond mistake the houses, cities, and diverse countries, were more indispensable than ever. We may remark, finally, that in the great mysteries, divided by days, it was easy during the temporary suspension of the play to give a new aspect to the stage by a change of scenery. Sometimes, also, as in the preceding century, the actors were obliged to inform the audience that they were transported from one place to another by saying, "Here we come to Bethlehem--to Jerusalem. We are making sail for Rome--for Athens, etc." And the illusion was kept up, as far as could be, by the cessation of the music, in the interval during which, to use an expression of M. Sainte-Beuve, the mighty train swept on across space and time.

Passing from the architecture of the theatre to the physiognomy of the actors, let us study the manner in which they were recruited. There were stock companies, and extemporized companies. Of the first description were the "Fraternity of the Passion," so celebrated in the history of the representations of the "mysteries" at the end of the middle ages. There were also the burgesses of Paris, artisans of all handicrafts, who, at the end of the fourteenth century, assembled at the village of St. Maur, near Vincennes, to give on festal days their pious spectacles. Interdicted June 3, 1398, by ordinance of the provost of Paris, who mistrusted this novelty, they obtained from King Charles VI., by letters patent of December 4, 1402, permission to play even at Paris, and at the same time their society was elevated into a permanent fraternity, under the title of _De la Passion de Notre Seigneur,_ and was installed near the gate St. Denis in the ancient hospital of the Trinity, then for some time disused.

It would appear that in certain provinces, cities, and even parishes, had, like Paris, their association of miracle-players. But, most commonly, these companies were improvised, and consisted of volunteers. This was the case at the gigantic representations of the Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles at Bruges and at Paris. We have still "the cry and public proclamation made at Paris, Thursday, the sixteenth of December, 1540, by the command of our lord the king, Francis I. by name, and monsieur the provost of Paris, summoning the people to fill the parts necessary for the playing of said mystery." At eight o'clock of the morning there were assembled at the Hotel de Flandre, where the "mystery" was to be performed, all those who were charged with its management, rhetoricians, gentlemen of the long robe and the short, lawyers and commoners, clergymen and laity, in vast numbers. They paraded through the streets in fine apparel, all well mounted according to their estate and capacity, preceded by six trumpeters and escorted by numerous sergeants of the provost, who kept the crowd in check. They halted at every square, and, after a triple flourish of trumpets, a public crier made the proclamation, which was in bad rhyme. Ten days {586} after, on St. Stephen's day, the large hall of the Hotel de Flandre--the usual place, says the narrative, for making the records and holding the rehearsals of the mysteries, was filled with a crowd of burgesses and merchants, clergy and laity, who came to exhibit their talents in the presence of the commissioners and lawyers deputed to hear the voice of each person, retaining and remunerating them according to the measure of their excellence in the parts required. The selections having been made, the rehearsals commenced and continued every day until the performance of the mystery, which was played at the beginning of the next year.

Whoever deemed himself of any value responded generously to these appeals, not only among the _bourgeois_ and gentlemen--artisans and magistrates--but also the curés and their vicars, the canons, and sometimes even the friars. Women alone were excluded, the female parts being always filled by men. The participation of the clergy in these scenic diversions is readily accounted for, when one considers the moral aim and the religious character of the plays. All these dramas represent the mysteries and history of Christianity. All commence, either with readings from the Holy Scripture or by the chanting of the hymns of the Church, or by the recitation of the Ave Maria--the whole assemblage kneeling and joining in the services. All ended, moreover, as in preceding centuries, with the _Te Deum_. The spectacle was frequently interrupted by preaching, and more than once, at the end of a dramatic day, actors and spectators might be seen wending their way to church to offer up thanks to heaven. Beside, did not the clergy find themselves on their own ground, in these plays, instituted in order to increase the solemnity of their sacred days, and evincing unquestionable traces of a liturgic origin? Let us add finally, with Dom Piolin, that a distinction was rigorously maintained between profane pieces and those whose aim was the edification and the instruction of the faithful; that while zealously keeping in check all acting which could possibly be turned to license, the clergy furthered with all their power the exhibiting of the "mysteries." The learned Benedictin presents to us the chapter of St. Julien at Mans preventing, in 1539, the ringing of the cathedral bells in order not to interrupt a representation of the Miracle of Theophilus; and stopping them again, in 1556, and, in addition, hastening the morning offices and delaying those of evening, in order to accommodate them to the time of the performance of the "Mystery of the Conception of the most Holy Virgin."

After the distribution of parts, all the actors were obliged on the spot to pledge themselves by oath and under penalty of a fine never to be absent from the rehearsals. A second appeal to the public good-will was necessary to secure a wardrobe for the hundreds of players, who on the day of exhibition wore sometimes the richest jewels and the most beautiful stuffs of a whole province. The magnificence of the spectacle at Bruges, in 1536, would strike us as incredible, if the author of the narrative which has preserved us the details, had not taken the precaution to forewarn his readers at the start that he kept within the truth. As illustrating its splendor, take the following examples, gathered here and there from the volume.

St. James the Lesser wore a scarf estimated at 450 gold crowns. The girdle of St. Matthew was valued at more than 500 crowns sterling. Queen Dampdeomopolis, who was mounted on an ambling pad which was covered with a housing of black velvet and had a gold fringed harness, wore a petticoat of cloth of gold, beneath a robe of crimson damask bordered with gold chains, while down the front ran a rich beading of precious stones, rubies and diamonds, of the value of more than 2,000 crowns. This is not all. From head to foot gold and jewels glittered {587} on her person. Her head-dress was surmounted by a white feather, and on her forehead hung by a little thread of black silk a huge oriental pearl. The wife of Herod Agrippa had for her girdle a great gold chain of more than 1,000 crowns in value; from which hung chaplets carved in facets. She had on her neck another great chain and a collar of pearls, whence hung a ring and sprig of four diamonds, and on her stomacher was a _dorure_ which bore a gold dog having a great ruby hanging from its neck, and a great pearl suspended to the tail.

All these princesses--and they could be counted by dozens--had with them their maids, their squires, and their pages, handsomely clothed. There were likewise princes, kings, and emperors, who came from all quarters of the world.

Nothing approaches to the magnificence of Nero. It would carry us too far out of our way if we should mention in detail the numerous and brilliant cortege which preceded the formidable emperor when the actors issued from the abbey of St. Sulpice, where they robed themselves before entering the theatre. First came a troop of musicians composed of a fifer, six trumpeters, and four players on the tamborine; next the grand provost of Rome, mounted on a splendid horse caparisoned with violet-colored satin, fringed with white silk; then four cavaliers attending the ensign-bearer of Nero; presently four companies of Moors crowned with laurels and bearing, some, masses of gilded silver, others, vases of silver and gold or _cornucopiae_ filled with _fleurs de lis_--or the armorial bearings of the empire inter-worked on triumphal hats. Lastly, a horse appeared covered to the ground with flesh-colored velvet, bordered with tracery of gold, into which were woven the devices of Nero. This horse, conducted by two lackeys clothed also with flesh-colored velvet, bore a cushion of silk and cloth-of-gold in Turkish work, on which lay three crowns, the first, solid gold; the second, all pearls; the third, composed of every kind of precious stone of marvellous beauty and richness--and these three crowns formed the imperial head-gear.

Next there came into sight another horse, whose harness and caparison were of blue satin, fringed with gold and bestrewn with stars made of embroidery of gold stuff on a violet field. The two lackeys who led it by the bridle, had their heads uncovered and were clothed with velvet of a violet crimson, purfled with gold, slashed with broad slashes, through which the lining of white satin showed itself in folds. This was the saddle-horse of the emperor.

Afterward came six players on the hautboy clothed in sarcinet of a violet crimson.

Nero appeared last, borne on a high tribunal eight feet wide and ten long, and covered to the earth with cloth-of-gold, strewn with large embroidered eagles, "copied as closely as possible from the life." The chair on which he was seated was entirely covered with another cloth-of-gold crimped. His _sagum_, or military cloak, was of blue velvet all purfled with gold, with large flowers in needle-work after the antique; the sleeves slashed, and displaying beneath the undulating folds of the lining, which was of gold stuff on a violet field. His robe, a crimson velvet, adorned with flowers and interlaced with gold thread, was lined with velvet of the same color. The cape was serrated, the points interblending, and was bestrewn with a profusion of great pearls, and at each point hung a great tassel of other pearls. His hat, of Persian velvet and of _a tyrannical fashion_, was bordered with chains of gold and strewn with a great quantity of rings. His gold crown, with its triple branches, was filled with gems so numerous, so varied, and of so great a price that it is impossible to specify them. And his collar was not less garnished. His buskins, of Persian velvet, with small slashes, were laced with chains of gold, and some rings hung from his {588} garters. He placed one of his feet upon a casket which enclosed the imperial seal and was covered with silver cloth sown with gems, thus symbolizing that the power of the empire was his, and that all things were submissive to him. In his hand was a battle-axe well gilded. His port was haughty and his mien very magnificent. The tribunal, with the monarch upon it, was borne by eight captive kings, the drapery concealing from the audience everything save their heads, on which rested crowns of gold. A troupe of musicians followed with trumpets, clarions, tamborines, and fifes. The procession was closed by twenty-four cavaliers, captains, chevaliers, squires, cup-bearers--some wearing the imperial livery, others clad according to their pleasure; and by chariots which were loaded with the emperor's baggage and _vivanderie_, and were drawn by eighteen or twenty horses.

Nero's sagum, with its splendid flower-work _after the antique_, his hat of _tyrannical fashion_, his battle-axe, the eagles embroidered on the drapery which covered his tribunal, the laurel crowns which begirt the brows of his Moorish guards, the _cornucopiae_, the vases of gold and silver which they carried, all indicate a tendency toward historical costume. This is also seen in the robes of the seventy-two disciples _approaching the ancient manner_--the caps of the high priests, Josephus and Abiachar, made _according to the Jewish manner_--the dagger of Polemius, king of Armenia, the golden handle of which was prepared _after the antique_--the robe, _fashioned after the Hebrew manner_, which was worn by the young Jew whom we saw singing at the marriage of Pelagia and Denis. But apart from these examples and some others which are found here and there in the pompous catalogue of the actors of Bruges, everybody used great liberty and much fancifulness in the choice of habiliments. Each person took the most beautiful things he could lay hands on. The cortege of Nero closed, as we have seen, by cavaliers dressed _after their own pleasure_. The marechal of Migdeus, king of Greater Ynde, and his valet, had taffeta clothes while bearing on their shoulders bars of iron and mallets. The lord of Quantilly, author of the relation from which we have derived our details, after having spoken of a group of eighteen or twenty persons blind, halt, demoniac, lepers and vagabonds, confesses that they were too well clad to accord with their condition.

Thus far we have concerned ourselves with the history of the mysteries and their representation; we shall now proceed to a critical retrospect of the subject.

The trilogy of the "Mystery of the Passion" and the "Triumphant Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles," deserve an important place in the history of French dramatic art, not only because they characterize the epoch of which they were the two chief works, but also because they have an intimate and an essential connection with the tragic masterpieces of the eighteenth century--a connection also which has been little noticed. We propose to consider the literary value and the influence of those two plays, commencing with an estimate of the _mise en scène_ and the spectacle whose fairy-like pomp and immense popularity we have just taken in view.

The dramatic writers and the managers of the "mysteries" were well aware that to move the multitude the eye is of greater power than the ear. We have seen that they directed all their energies to the marvels of stage effect. But they did not listen to the precept of the poet, a precept founded on the very nature of art, which enjoins that only those things should be interwoven into the composition which can be witnessed without incredulity and without disgust. If the devils intervene, they must be introduced with their bat-shaped wings ever moving, and fire issuing from their nostrils, their mouth, and their ears, while they held in their hands {589} fiery distaffs shaped like serpents; that Cerberus, porter of hell, should have on his helmet three heads emitting flame, and that the keys he carried in his hand should seem to have just issued from a furnace, they sparkled so; that the long and hideous breasts of Proserpine should drip incessantly with blood, and with jets of fire at intervals; that Lucifer should have a casque vomiting forth flames unceasingly, and should hold in his grasp handfuls of vipers which moved in fiery twists. It was then everywhere fire, and, above all, real fire--for the contemporary authority who furnishes us with the details is particular to tell us, two several times, that there were people employed to feed this fire.

The fire thus carried about by the devils in all their goings and comings, and ever bursting from the mouth of hell when opened, became naturally the occasion of numerous accidents. We have an example of this nature which might have been tragical, but by good luck was only ludicrous, in the performance of the "Mystery of St. Martin" at Seurre, in 1496. At the commencement of the spectacle, which lasted three days, and opened with a scene of _diablerie_, the man who held the rôle of Satan having wished, says an official report of this epoch, to ascend to earth, caught fire in his nether garments, and was severely burnt. But he was so suddenly rescued and reclothed, that, without any one being aware of the accident, he went through with his part and then retired to his house. The affair had occurred in the morning between seven and eight o'clock. When he returned at one in the afternoon, the interval allowed, according to usage, for the audience to dine in being now over, he addressed to Lucifer, who was the cause of his misadventure, four impromptu verses that the public applauded exceedingly, but their grossness prevents our reproducing them.

These material imitations of physical nature and these exaggerations of the spectacle appear everywhere. When they wished, for example, to represent a martyr, it was necessary that the victim should be visibly tortured. We have even, in the representation of the "Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles," St. Barnabas disappearing adroitly and leaving his counterfeit presentment in the hands of the executioner, who binds it upon a wheel and sets it revolving over a burning brazier before the eyes of the spectators. When St. Paul was decapitated, it was requisite that his head, as it fell to the ground, should leap three times, and that at each bound, in accordance with the tradition, a fountain should gush forth. When they represented the crucifixion of our Lord, and the despair of Judas, it was necessary that the Saviour of the world should be seen nailed to the cross for the space of three hours, and that the traitor be hung miserably from a tree. On the performance of the "Mystery of the Passion" before the people of Lorraine in 1437, God, according to a chronicler of the time, was impersonated by "Sir Nicole don Neuf-Chastel, who was curé of St. Victor at Metz, and would have nearly died on the cross, had he not been succored; and another priest had to be put in his place to perfect the representation of the crucifixion. The next day the said curé, after having reposed, played the resurrection and bore his part superbly. Another priest, who was called Messire Jehan de Nicey, and who was chaplain of Metrange, acted Judas, and was almost killed by hanging, for his heart failed him, and he was right speedily cut down."

The taste of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries for these materialistic representations was such that for the scenic features of the longer mysteries they contented themselves sometimes with a simple pantomime. Indeed, on September 8, 1424, at the solemn entry of the Duke of Bedford, the English Regent of France, the children of Paris, to adopt the expression of Sauval, played the Mystery of the Old and New Testament without {590} speech or sign, as if they had been images carved on a frieze.

The infancy of art, which appeared everywhere at this epoch in the representation of the "Mysteries," was especially visible in their style and in their composition. A rapid examination of its literary faults will suffice to show that the French drama of the middle ages, progressive, if not as regards its truthfulness, at least in the pomp of its spectacle, was in rapid decline in respect to poetry.

The first and gravest literary fault of this drama in its decadence--that which includes all the others--is the absence of all that makes the soul and life of the drama--of everything which distinguishes it most essentially from history. There is neither plot, nor peripetia, nor characters, nor passions. In the thirteenth century, Ruteboeuf, in the Miracle of Theophilus, bestows on his hero a passionate nature, and develops the action not by events in their ordinary sequence, but by the stormy struggles of the heart and the agitations of conscience. One principal personage is put upon the stage, and a single incident carries the play rapidly forward to a unique denouement. Jean Bodel, in the "Play of St. Nicholas," less skilled than his contemporaries in making his intrigue keep step to the movements of passion, consoled himself with laying violent hands on the legend, to which he gives an entirely new form. In the fourteenth century we find no longer, it is true, in the anonymous authors of the "Miracles of Notre Dame" either that creating power, or those passionate intrigues, or that simple and rapid movement, but at least we meet with some true pathos in certain scenes, and in a great number of monologues there are pronounced and well-sustained characters in the female parts, especially while the dramatic interest concentrates on one person. Open the two most celebrated works of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries--the "Mystery of the Passion" of the two Jehan Michels, and the "Triumphant Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles" of the brothers Greban--there is nothing more than a pure and simple _mise en scène_ of history or of legend, unrolling itself slowly as the events arrive in their chronological order. There is no unity either of time or of place, as in the past; nor is there unity of action. Personal interest has ceased; the passions have ceased; vigorous characterizations have ceased. Everybody speaks frigidly from one end of the piece to the other, and for forty days, and one can scarcely find throughout the plays a terse or impassioned line. There is no progression in the movement; no advance in intrigue; no fresh complication; the tiresome dramatist jogs along without troubling himself about denouement.

This drama, which has no longer a dramatic art save in its dialogue and its spectacle--is it then absolutely without poetry? Some critics seem to have thought so, since they dwelt only on its absurdities and its literary poverty. And it must be avowed that puerility, triviality, indecency even, so dominate there, that it is easy, when approaching it, to give one's self over to a universal disgust. Others, recognizing its poverty as a whole, have found some redeeming features. Of this number are M. Onesime Le Roy, whose patriotic admiration of the Artesian works has perhaps led him too far, and M. Douhaire, who has better controlled his enthusiasm. M. Douhaire is, in our opinion, the critic who was not only the first to study, but has also most clearly comprehended the religious beauties of the later mediaeval "mysteries." "We appeal," he says in 1840, in his lectures on the History of Christian Poetry,--"we appeal to the memory and the emotions of the reader. Who is there that does not recall with the most ineffable sentiments of joy those graceful scenes of the gospel of the Nativity of our Lady, the interior of the house of Joachim, his retirement among the shepherds, the triumphal song of St. Ann after the birth of Mary, the life of the {591} Virgin in the temple? Who has not present in his memory the grand pictures of the Gospel of Nicodemus, the conversations of the patriarchs in limbo, the descent of Jesus Christ into hell, the silent apparition of Charinus and Leucius in the Sanhedrim, the terrible portrayal of the last days of Pilate, and that personification of the Jew in Ahasuerus whose grandeur surpasses the loftiest conceptions of profane poetry? But it is not alone for its depth, it is also for its form, or at least for the arrangement and effect of its combinations, that our mysteries are remarkable. Doubtless in respect to theatrical art they are more than defective. They have indeed, to speak truly, no art at all. The events are not co-ordinated with a preconceived idea, and distributed in a manner to lead forward to a catastrophe or to a final peripetia. The order of facts is habitually that of time. They are historic dialogues and nothing more. But as in history the divine and the human, the supernatural and the real, are almost always blended together, the composers of the 'mysteries' have diligently worked out this interrelation. Aided by the construction of their theatres, which permitted them to move many scenes, they combined these actions in a manner to elicit extraordinary effects, unfolding simultaneously to the eye of the spectator heaven, earth, hell. They initiated him into the secret of life, showed to him the mysterious warfare of souls, and by this spectacle made his spirit pass through terrors that any other drama would be powerless to produce."

Subscribing entirely, and it is an easy thing for us, to the judgment of the author of the "Course upon Christian Poetry," let us guard ourselves from going too far by extending the conclusion beyond the premises. Where does M. Douhaire find these poetical beauties which he offers for our admiration? In the trilogy of the "Mystery of the Passion." Now this vast dramatic composition is nothing more, in fact, than an agglomeration of the "mysteries" which preceded the work of the two Jehan Michels. These charming scenes, these grand pictures, which are met with here and there, are only the fragments of a more ancient poetry, that have been gathered up anew. When the dramatists of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries enter upon original composition, the decline of poetry is seen everywhere, in the detail as well as in the whole, in the style as in the conception. We know of but one merit which truly belongs to them--it is the happy development they have given to stage effect by a simultaneous presentation of heaven, hell, and the earth--shadowing forth by this triple theatrical action the incessant intervention of the supernatural powers in the destinies of humanity. But while this conception is majestic, its literary execution is wretched. We have a proof in the "Triumphant Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles," written from beginning to end without verve, or coloring, or nobleness, by the two most celebrated dramatic poets of their age, whom Marot calls--

"The two Grebans of high-resounding line."

Having noticed the literary poverty of the dramatic poetry of this epoch, we will now point out the principal sources of its faults. They are two. The first is a misconception of the dramatists respecting the nature of the types proposed for the imitation of art. The second is a consequence of the popularity and the indefinite length of their spectacles.

It is impossible to compare the meagreness, the languor, and the stupidity of the two brothers Greban with the bright and graceful vivacity of the writer who praises them, without being amazed at the eulogies he bestows, and demanding what can be the reason of this misjudgment on the part of a poet, the most spiritual and the most delicate of the reign of Francis I. It comes from the false idea which the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries formed of the dramatic style, or, to speak more {592} exactly, of the entire dramatic art. In place of seeking the ideal, they sought reality, and, what is worse, it was in the commonest realities that the dramatists of that time searched after the type of their language and the morals of their heroes. We have already remarked the same aberration of public taste in the far too materialistic imitations of the spectacle.

"Under a literary and dramatic point of view," says M. Sainte-Beuve, "that which is the essential characteristic of the mysteries of the sixteenth century is its low vulgarity and its too minute triviality. The authors had but one aim. They sought to portray in the men and events of other times the scenes of the common life which went on under their eyes. With them the whole art was reduced to this imitation, or rather to this faithful _facsimile_. If they exhibited a populace, it was recognizable at once as that of the market-places or of the city. Every tribunal was a copy of the Châtelet or of the Parliament. The headsmen of Nero, of Domitian, Daru, Pesart, Torneau, Mollestin, seemed taken from the _Place du Palais de Justice_ or from Montfaucon. . . . What the public above all admired, was the perfect conformity of the dialogue, and of the other features of the play, with everyday realities. The good townsmen could not cease gazing at and listening to so natural an imitation of their daily customs and their domestic bickerings. All contemporary praise bears upon this exact resemblance. It is in this way that common and uncultured minds--strangers to the intimate and profound joys of art--readily accept false coin, and content themselves with pleasures at a low price."

This habitual imitation of the common life and of everything trivial is found even in scenes of a wholly ideal nature in heaven and in hell. The language of God and of paradise is vulgar; that of the devils is grotesque, sometimes even indecent. At the commencement of the mysteries of the brothers Greban, while the apostles have assembled together in an upper chamber to elect St. Matthias, Lucifer orders the demons to wander over the earth, and before going the evil spirits request his benediction. He replies to them:

"Devils damned, in malediction O'er you each, with power blighted, My paw I stretch, of God accursed, From sins and misdeeds all absolving, Up! Set forth!" etc.

When Satan and Astaroth bring the souls of Ananias and Saphira to hell, Lucifer is so transported with joy that he bids the demon hosts exult:

"Let the crowd of the damned, Here, before my tribunal, Sing an anthem infernal!"

Belial and Burgibus, he adds, will lead the treble: Berits, Cerberus, and some others, the tenor; Astaroth and Leviathan, the bass. At once they all begin to chant in chorus:

"The more he has, the more he asks for Our grand devil, Lucifer. Does he wish the sky to pour Souls by thousands running o'er? The more they come, he longs for more, For his appetite is sore. The more he has, the more he asks for, Our grand devil, Lucifer."

Lucifer, deafened by their hubbub, stops his ears, and tries to silence them. Impossible! "On with the song!" cries Belial, and the uproar continues.

The "Mystery of the Passion" also commences with a scene in hell, the tone of which appears still more singular. God is in consultation with the heavenly court upon the redemption of the human race. Lucifer, alarmed, convokes his assembly.

"Devils of hell-fire, horned and terrible, Infamous dogs, why sit ye idle? Start up, ye fat ones, young, old, and naked; Serpents atrocious, hump-backed and twisted."

The devils hastily assemble. Satan is the first to respond to the gracious appeal.

"What is't thou wishest, bull-dog outrageous-- Fetid, infected, abhorrent, mendacious? For thee we have forfeited heaven and all, To suffer such evils as no one can measure-- And now, is cursing your only pleasure?"

Belial calls Lucifer a _bag full of rottenness,_ whose only food is toads, and {593} complains also that it is his nature to torment them.

"This constant habit with the mystery-makers of representing the demons as insulting each other in their colloquies," says M. Douhaire, "is born of a profound thought. We are told that the wicked despise each other. It is this which the Christian dramatists put into action. Nothing can give a more terrible idea of hell than these disputes, where the demons mutually accuse each other of sufferings which cannot be abated."

Here is a reflection full of justice, and indispensable for a right interpretation of the moral aim of the "mysteries." But there still remains the literary and philosophical remark of M. Saint-Beuve upon the general tendency of this epoch to a reproduction of the morals and language of the most common and vulgar life. For the dramatists might have represented the wickedness of the demons--the horror and disorder of hell--without seeking their phrases in a vocabulary of the lowest stamp.

The frequent change from seriousness to buffoonery, from the beautiful to the burlesque, has a similar origin in the tastes of our ancestors for the actualities of ordinary life, where these transitions are habitual. But it also rose out of the necessity of keeping up the interest of a spectacle which continued many days, sometimes many weeks. Variety was a necessity. That popular assembly would consent to weep or even to be serious morning and evening for a month? Let us take an example where triviality, liveliness, and morality are all united together, We borrow it from M. Onesime Le Roy, who found it in an unedited "Mystery of the Passion." and published it in 1837.

The anonymous dramatist, after having depicted in beautiful and touching scenes the sweet virtues and good deeds of St. Joachim and St. Ann, brings on the stage two knaves who wish to make experiments on their pious simplicity. "The fellow, who has more than one trick in his bag," says the learned critic from whom we transcribe the analysis, "pretending that cold weather makes him insane, styles himself Claquedent [chatterer]; and the other is called Babin, which word, according to the lexicographer Rouchi, signifies 'foolish,' 'imbecile.' Babin, despite his name and simple air, is more artful than even Claquedent, whom he persuades to imitate madness and to let himself be bound, the better to excite compassion. Claquedent, tied up with cords by Babin, begins to gnash his teeth and to utter piteous cries, which bring the wife of Joachim. This holy woman wishes to relieve him. Babin shouts out not to touch him:

"Ha, good dame! be wary, Touch him not, I pray thee, Lest, perchance, he slay thee!"

After a long scene of horrible contortions on one side, and of tender compassion on the other, Babin says he is going to lead away Claquedent, and receives money from the charitable dame, who bids him take good care of his friend, and to return _when the money is gone_. Babin, upon the latter part of this advice, replies pleasantly, "O madame, _without fail!_" As soon as Ann has gone away, Claquedent says to Babin, "Quick, untie me!" But the latter, wishing to profit, like Raton, from the misfortune which another Bertrand has brought on himself, says to him,

Wait awhile, I beg you, do; You have what is best for you; And since I am a trifle clever, I will manage all this silver.

Claquedent, who sees himself caught in a snare, fills the air with his shrieks, which have no sham in them now. Babin is not at all frightened, and tells him, with a remarkable allusion to the fable of the fox and the goat,

Adieu, good Claquedent. In the well Till to-morrow you must dwell.

"Murder! a thief, a thief!" cries the entrapped rogue, while the other, as he runs off, doubtless tells {594} everybody he meets on the way not to approach the infuriated man. "Don't touch him. He will bite you!" Finally, they come to Claquedent's assistance, and when they inquire who put him in this condition, he replies:

_Un laroncheau, plein de malfalct_. (A roguish fellow full of mischief).

"All the comedy of this scene," says M. Onesime Le Roy, "lies in this single word, _un laroncheau_" a diminutive of _larron_ (rogue), who has taken in a triple scamp, who thinks himself past mastery! It is thus that Patelin says of another scamp, his younger brother, "He has deceived me, who have deceived so many others." "Is there not," adds M. Douhaire,--"is there not, moreover, in this burlesque and merry episode, a lesson for those very foolish persons who from excess of goodness are so easily victimized by the ruses of professional beggars?"

These gay scenes quite naturally turn to farce, and these moralities degenerate into satires. This occurs, and in a deplorable manner, even in the representation of the gravest and most solemn "mysteries." The Fraternity of the Passion, perceiving that the people grew tired of their pious spectacles, called to their rescue a mischievous and merry troupe, whose duty it was to attract the crowd to their hall at the Hospital de la Trinité. It was the _Enfants sans souci_ company, celebrated at the end of the fourteenth century, and composed of young gentlemen of family, who, having invented a kingdom founded on the faults and vices of the human race, called it the Fool's Kingdom, named as its king the Prince of Fools, and styled their plays "Fooleries" (sotties)--plays which they made upon everybody, in a fantastic and allegorical form. At the court and among the subjects of the prince figure his well-beloved son, the "Prince of Jollity," the "Mother Fool," the "Affianced Fool," the "Fool Occasion," the "Dissolute Fool," the "Boasting Fool," the "Cheating Fool," the "Ignorant Fool," the "Corrupt Fool," and twenty other personages whose names and qualities vary according to the requirements of the farce, and of a satire which spared none. In a _sottie_ played on Shrove Tuesday, in 1511, and directed against Pope Julius II., then at war with Louis XII., the "Mother Fool" represents the Church. In another _sottie_ where _l'ancien monde_ is introduced, the "Dissolute Fool" is dressed as a churchman, the "Boasting Fool" as a _gendarme_, and the "Lying Fool" as a merchant. It was the scandalous conduct of these young Aristophaneses, whose licentiousness equalled their boldness, which, in 1547, provoked the order of the Parliament against the representation of "mysteries." The Hospital de la Trinité reverted to its first destination, and the Fraternity of the Passion, driven from their theatre after a century and a half of popularity, could only obtain permission on the following year to construct a new stage at the Hotel de Bourgogne, on the express condition that they would play only profane subjects, which should also be lawful and proper. They accepted this new mode of existence; but their time was past, and their glory was constantly in a decline. However, they held out bravely till 1588, at which period they leased their theatre to a company of travelling comedians, who for some years had been trying to establish themselves in Paris. The cleverest of them, we are told by the brothers Parfait, attempted to preserve their fame by giving out that the religious title of their fraternity did not permit them to play profane pieces. They had realized this a trifle late in the day; some forty years too late indeed!

The resuscitation of the Greek theatre, four years after the parliamentary decree, completed the ruin of the medieval spectacles. They still played the miracles in the provinces, they even composed new ones. But the pious representations went out, changing more and more; and the {595} next century, which was that of Boileau, merely amused itself with ridiculing them. However, in the very simplicity of the miracles there was something too popular to be completely forgotten, in countries where the faith and the innocent manners of our good ancestors survived. On May 18, 1835, M. Guizot, then minister, recommended to the attention of his historical correspondents the still surviving traditions of the moralities and mysteries of the middle ages. "There are yet preserved on festal days, in certain districts of France," said he, "certain popular dramatic performances. It will not be a useless labor to examine and note down these relics of the past, before modern civilization and the usages of the common language cause their disappearance."

The author of "Researches into the Mysteries which have been represented in Maine," Dom Piolin, has traced these performances from the end of the sixteenth century up to the present time. He finds the last one at Laval, during the procession of Corpus Christi. "At its origin," he says, "one of the principal features of this fete, the one, at least, which peculiarly attracted the attention of the mob, consisted in scenes from the Old and New Testament which were represented on theatres erected along the route of the procession, but chiefly at the main court of the Convent des Cordeliers, they belonged, unquestionably, to the miracles' proper, having retained that characteristic simplicity and brevity which is found in the most ancient pieces. We know that King René established a similar custom in the city of Aix. Afterward, when the _marionettes_ were introduced into France by Catharine de Medicis, puppets were substituted for the players. This theatre--a remnant of the ancient manners--continued until the end of the restoration, the last performance being in ??37."

M. Douhaire closes his "Course upon the History of Christian Poetry" by account of a foreign performance, extending from the creation of the world to the resurrection of the dead, of which he was an eye-witness. It was in 1830, at a small town on the banks of the Loire. "What I came to see," he adds, "was the 'Mystery of the Passion' played by puppets. I did not suppose, before this curious adventure, that there could be any existing trace of the scenic plays of the middle ages; but I have since learnt that there still remain many considerable vestiges in our western and southern provinces--where not only professional actors and puppets represent the principal scenes of both Testaments, but even families amuse themselves with this holy recreation on days of solemn feasts."

Permit us to mention, in our turn, the performance of a mystery witnessed by men still alive, and whose simplicity carries one quite back to the middle ages. We get the fact from the president of the modern Bollandists. At the commencement of our century a good priest of French Hainaut took upon himself to bring out the "Mystery of the Passion," for the welfare of his flock. An appeal was made to all well-disposed people, and, as at Paris in 1437, for the "Mystery of the Acts of the Apostles," the parts were distributed to the burgesses and artisans of every description, according to the measure of their talent in such case required. A Judas was wanting. The priest at once hit upon the apothecary of the place, whose modesty kept him in his laboratory, and he went in search of him. "My friend," said he, "we are going, as you know, to represent a fine 'mystery,' and it is necessary, for the common good, that you should do something. I have found your place. Your rôle is Judas." "But M. le curé, my memory is not worth a sou, and you would never be able to stuff so many words into my head." "Exactly so, my friend. I have selected for you the shortest part, and I pledge myself to teach you it in no time." Straightway our man is enrolled in the {596} company. The solemn day arrives. The parish and all the country round are there. The spectacle commences, and the actors, duly costumed and seated on benches along each side of the stage, rise in turn to go through with what they have to say. The moment of the kiss of Judas is at hand. The poor apothecary remains glued to his chair, pale with terror. The priest, who is all eyes, hastens to him, and forces him to get up. Arrived before the person who represents Jesus Christ, he falls on his knees, trembling in every limb, and crying with joined hands, "Oh Lord! thou well knowest it was not my fault! It is monsieur the curé who forces me."

This grand trilogy of the "Mystery of the Passion"--which history exhibits as closely connected with puppet shows and village performances, naïve even to the grotesque--has quite another importance and quite another destiny in the eyes of philosophy, which discerns therein the principal features of the modern dramatic art. Let us not quit this subject before presenting a confirmation of the thesis which the readers of these essays have already seen maintained in an article where Corneille, Racine, and even Voltaire himself were shown to be unconsciously the lineal successors of our old dramatists far more than of AEschylus, of Sophocles, and of Euripides. The father of French tragedy, who discoursed upon his art with so much philosophy and toiled night and day to make our poetry Aristotle's--Pierre Corneille, after having for half a century attempted himself, and seen attempted around him, every possible denouement, was led to recognize the necessity in this particular of going contrary to the tragic art of the Greeks. "The ancients," he wrote at the close of his career, "very often content themselves in their tragedies with depicting vices in such a manner as to cause us to hate them, and virtues so as to cause us to love them, without troubling themselves with recompensing good actions or punishing bad ones. Clytemnestra and her paramour slay Agamemnon, and go free. Medea does the same with her children, and Atreus with those of her brother. It is true that by carefully studying the actions which were selected for the catastrophe of their tragedies, there were some criminals whom they punished, but by crimes greater than their own. . . . Our drama hardly tolerates such subjects. . . . . It is the interest which we love to extend to the virtuous that has obliged us to resort to this other mode of finishing the dramatic poem by punishing the bad actions and by recompensing the good. It is not a precept of art, but a custom, which we have observed."

Whence originated this custom Corneille gave his own century the credit of it; but it is from the middle ages that it dates. What tragic drama was it which was the most important--the most popular--the longest played--of that first epoch of the modern theatre? Was it not the "Mystery of the Passion," which we have seen commencing with a simple dramatizing of the gospel--growing century by century--and ending with an immense trilogy, extending from the fall of man to the birth of our Saviour, from the passion and the death of the Saviour to his resurrection, from the establishment of the Church to the last judgment--that solution of human doctrines which regulates all things retribution for the wicked and recompense for the good, and by making virtue rise victorious from its battle with the passions? What the middle ages show us in the "mystery" which was its masterpiece, appears without exception in all those dramatic compositions which have come down to us. We have already remarked, and it is moreover a fact recognized by all scholars, that there is not a tragic drama of this epoch, whatever may be its subject, which does not close with the _Te Deum_ or with some other chant of joy, of triumph, or of forgiveness. Its denouement is always homage rendered by the justice {597} heaven avenging innocence, or by mercy bestowing on the guilty repentance and pardon.

In speaking three years ago upon the liturgic origin of the modern tragedy, and the influence of Christianity on the dramatic passions, we ended by saying that we need no longer seek, as has been too often done, in Corneille or Racine for the restorers of the ancient tragedy; that those great dramatists, it is true, received from Greece the science of the pageant and the _mise en scene_; but that as much as they approach the Greek art in their literary form, so much they depart from it not only by their denouement but also by the moral character of their intrigue. It was impossible, in fact, to change the nature of the tragic denouement without changing that of the passions and of the events which led to them. Let us develop this conclusion of our essay by showing what it is that prevents our comprehending French tragedy and defining it.

Voltaire has said, "To compress an illustrious and interesting event into the space of two or three hours, to introduce the _personae_ only when they ought to appear, to never leave the stage empty, to construct an intrigue which shall be probable as well as striking, to say nothing useless, to instruct the mind and to move the heart, to be always eloquent in verse, and with an eloquence appropriate to each character represented, to make the dialogue as pure as the choicest prose, without the constraint of the rhyme appearing to fetter the thoughts, and never to admit an obscure or harsh or declamatory verse--these are the conditions which are exacted from a tragedy of _our_ day, before it can pass to posterity with the approbation of critics, without which it can never have a true reputation."

This definition, or rather this exposition, otherwise so clear and so elegant, of the demands of our Melpomene, are far from being complete. In the time of Euripides, a Greek could have said almost as much. It is because Voltaire has only taken into account the style and the _mise en scène_, the laws of which were at Athens what they are at Paris. The difference between the ancient tragedies and the modern tragic art consists essentially in their moral character and in that alone. Christianity, by modifying the passions of the human heart, has been able to modify them on the stage likewise. It is, then, from the philosophy of the drama that we ought to set out with Aristotle to study its nature.

The French tragedy, such as our own great century has made it, is the representation of an action more probable than real, more ideal than historic, wholly noble, serious, and becoming, restricted to one place, accomplished in a few hours, without any interruption, except the interval of the acts, constructed with the majestic simplicity of the epic, drawing its startling changes from the play of passions rather from that of events, and leading forward the mind by admiration and enthusiasm to emotions of pity and of terror.

It is not the Greek tragedy--although the ancient Melpomene has transmitted to our time its _cothurnus_, its _mise en scène_, its triple unity, its heroes themselves, with their terrors and their tears. The poetic form is the same, the moral force is entirely different. On the Athenian stage, the will was subjugated by a brutal fatality; upon ours, the will makes the destiny. Vice becomes more terrible, virtue more magnanimous, and the struggles of the soul hold a larger place than the tricks of fortune. The heroes of the ancient tragedy, to become endurable with us, would have not only to take on something of our character, of our manners, of our sentiments, and, above all, of our conscience, but it would be necessary to change their mode of action, and to lead them to a denouement by paths wholly new.

Returning to the trilogy of the Passion, let us conclude this essay with a {598} reflection which appears to us of a nature to throw great light upon the popularity and the gigantic proportions of this "mystery." The middle age, so penetrated with Christian beliefs and ideas, loved it only because it found there the supreme manifestation of Divine Providence, at once merciful and just. It had been induced to thus represent the whole history of the human race, only to give to that manifestation all the development demanded by the religious conscience and the ethics of nations. There was needed the representation of sin and the fall of the first man to explain the justice and the pardon of Cavalry: there was needed the spectacle of a universal judgment to solve the grand tragedy of human destinies.

We may blame the literary tastes of our good ancestors, but not their philosophy. It has established on an immovable basis the fundamental laws of our dramatic art. We may laugh at the puerile simplicity of their theatre, but let us laugh reverently, since we find in their literary infancy the germ, the strength, the character of the manhood of the great century.

Translated and Abridged from the Civiltà Cattolica.

ANTONIO CANOVA.

_Memorie di Antonio Canova, scritte da Antonio d'Este, e publicate per cura, di Alessandro d'Este_. Firenze: Felice Le Monnier. 1864.

"It must be known," says Signor Antonio d'Este, "that when the learned Missirini undertook to publish the artist-life of Canova, he had recourse to me as the only person living who could inform him thoroughly and truly of the principles of the Venetian artist, and instruct him in some details of a life which I had known intimately for the space of fifty years. . . . I put upon paper whatever might serve to illustrate not only the disposition and character of my friend, but also the excellent qualities of his heart. . . . I was disappointed when the illustrious writer, in sending back my manuscript, said: 'I have made use of many things, and of some anecdotes, but not of all, since they appeared to me too familiar.' To tell the truth, such an answer hurt my self-love, and offended the unquenchable affection which I felt for Canova."

Hence the book before us. The author has apparently endeavored chiefly to exhibit Canova the artist as a model for the studious, but he has not overlooked Canova the citizen and the Christian. He begins with him in the humble Possagno, and shows us his life in Venice, where his genius first displayed itself, even in the degenerate school with which alone he was then acquainted. It was in Rome that the young sculptor saw the ancient purity in its full splendor. It burst upon him like a sudden revelation. For several days he was like one in a trance. Then, with his conceptions enlightened, his manner fixed, and his aim determined, he threw himself into his work. Yet he was never a servile copyist of Greek or Roman models. He imbibed the spirit of the classical school, but his genius never was trammelled by imitation. The last group which he carved under the inspiration drawn from the ancient masterpieces,--his _Daedalus and Icarus_,--compared with his _Theseus_, the first work which he executed in Rome, shows in a marked {599} manner the change in his style--we might almost say his conversion to the true principles of art.

From this time Canova, though endowed with rare modesty, and always ready to take advice, showed a fixed resolution to free sculpture from the mannerism then so common; and neither the advice of friends nor the abuse of evil-minded critics could shake his purpose.

Nature undoubtedly lavished talents upon him with unsparing hand; but he was without a parallel in the industry and care with which he fostered the divine flame. His whole time not passed in labor was devoted to monuments and museums of art. With his friend d'Este he often paid a reverential visit to the famous horses at the Quirinal, before which he gave free vent to his fancy. He used to spend many hours in contemplating these masterpieces. Long before sunrise he would spring from his bed and shut himself up in his studio. He took no relaxation--scarcely even food and rest. After hammering at the marble all day, he examined it by candlelight, and dreamed about it at night. He so consumed himself in work that his friends had to wrench the tools from his hands by force. But if he laid down the chisel, it was only to return to the study of ancient masterpieces. Not content with contemplating the works themselves under every possible aspect, he tried to study out what instruments the artists probably made use of. He would throw open his studio, and then hide or disguise himself in order to overhear the honest opinions of his visitors. Extravagant praise always made him suspicious. Once he was so much pained at a lavish eulogium upon one of his works that he ran, all trembling, to his friend Hamilton, and begged him to point out some defect in it; and having obtained the criticism that he asked, he ran home again in great glee to correct the fault. He gladly accepted criticism from the ignorant as well as the learned. One day, when he was quite old, and recognized as the first sculptor of the time, he begged d'Este to move to a certain spot a beautiful group that he had finished. Several laborers were called in to move it. When they had done their task, one of them, with that connoisseur-air which the Roman laborer knows so well how to assume, shrugged his shoulders and exclaimed:

"Well, perhaps the marchese" (Canova bore this title in his later years) "knows best; but to me this statue seems to have the goitre."

The pupils in the studio sprang up in a rage and loaded the poor man with abuse, and in the midst of the noisy dispute Canova rushed into the room, and with some difficulty learned what was the laborer's offence. He darted a glance of fire at the marble.

"Bravo!" he exclaimed after a moment's pause. "You are right. 'Take this watch--it is yours--you have done me a great service."

So saying, he threw his watch and chain upon the man's neck; and taking up a chisel began immediately to retouch the statue.

At the age of twenty-five, Canova was selected by Volpato to execute the monument of Clement XIV., and it is not too much to say that the restoration of the art of sculpture dates from this immortal work. The governments of Venice, Russia, Austria, and France invited him to take up his residence in their respective capitals; but he was never happy out of Rome; the ground seemed to burn under his feet whenever he was away from his beloved studio and the great works of the ancient sculptors. Few artists ever enjoyed so high a reputation in Europe during their lifetime as Canova, and few certainly ever sought it less. He was wholly absorbed in love for his art. and eagerness for its advancement.

But the character of a great artist, according to the Italian ideal, is not complete without a touch of oddity, and Canova was not free from some amiable eccentricities. His love passage with the Signorina Volpato, and the {600} way he got out of it, will perhaps furnish the subject for a poem by some future Goldoni; but we have no space to tell of it here.

D'Este describes the moral character of Canova extremely well. He was upright, brave, and sincere, an ardent patriot, and a sensible, practical Christian. In the midst of his labors he was not insensible to the dark clouds which obscured the political horizon, and he felt so deeply the misfortunes which threatened his country that he took the pains to retouch his _Dancing Girls_ because their expression was too joyful to accord with his own sadness of heart. He was still employed on this work when the pope was carried into captivity. He felt the misfortune as a personal affliction, and on the statue wrote these words: "Modelled in the most unhappy days of my life, June, 1809."

A few weeks after the establishment of the Roman republic, a National Institute was erected, and Canova was chosen a member. He accepted the appointment willingly, in the hope of being useful to Rome and to her artists; but when, on the evening appointed for his formal admission, the oath of membership was tendered to him, and he heard the words, "I swear hatred to princes," etc., he sprang to his feet, cried out in his Venetian dialect, _"Mi non odio nessun!"_ (I hate no one), and left the hall.

From The Month.

CONSTANCE SHERWOOD.

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY. BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.