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THE PAGEANT

1896

                                    ❧ THE PAGEANT

                    ART EDITOR                                                                  LITERARY EDITOR

                    C. HAZELWOOD SHANNON                                  J. W. GLEESON WHITE

❧THE BOOK IS PRINTED BY MESSRS. T. AND A. CONSTABLE. THE
LITHOGRAPH IS PRINTED BY MR. THOMAS WAY. THE HALF-TONE
REPRODUCTIONS ARE BY THE SWAN ELECTRIC ENGRAVING COMPANY.
THE COPYRIGHT OF THE PLATES ON PAGES 137, 161, 173 IS THE
PROPERTY OF MR. F. HOLLYER; THAT ON PAGE 77 IS THE PROPERTY
OF MESSRS F. WARNED AND CO.











❧ THE TITLE-PAGE IS DESIGNED BY SELWYN IMAGE, AND THE
     END-PAPERS BY LUCIEN PISSARRO.

❧ LITERARY CONTENTS

                                                                                                        PAGE

    A ROUNDEL OF RABELAIS     .      .      .  A. C. Swinburne     1
    COSTELLO THE PROUD, OONA MACDER-
    MOTT, AND THE BITTER TONGUE     .     .   W. B. Yeats     2
    MONNA ROSA    .      .     .     .     .     .  Paul Verlaine    14
    NIGGARD TRUTH     .     .     .     .     .  John Gray    20
    ET S’IL REVENAIT     .     .     .     .     .  Maurice Maeterlinck    37
    ON THE SHALLOWS   .      .     .     .     .  W. Delaplaine Scull    38
    SONG   .     .     .     .     .      .     .     .  W. E. Henley (1877)    46
    THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES     .     .     .  Maurice Maeterlinck    47
    (Translated by Alfred Sutro)
    DAVID GWYNN—HERO OR ‘BOASTING
    LIAR’?      .     .     .     .     .     .     .  Theodore Watts    72
    THE WORK OF CHARLES RICKETTS  .     .    J. W. Gleeson White    79
    A DUET     .      .     .     .     .     .     .  T. Sturge Moore    94
    TALE OF A NUN  .     Translated by L. Simons and L. Housman    95
    A HANDUL OF DUST     .      .     .     .  Richard Garnett    117
    WILHELM MEINHOLD     .     .     .     .  F. York Powell    119
    FOUR QUATRAINS     .     .     .     .     .  Percy Hemingway    130
    INCURABLE     .     .      .     .     .     .  Lionel Johnson    131
    BY THE SEA     .     .     .     .     .     .  Margaret L. Woods    140
    GROUPED STUDIES     .     .      .     .     .  Frederick Wedmore    142
    THE SOUTH WIND     .     .     .     .     .  Robert Bridges    145
    ALFRIC     .     .      .     .     .     .     .  W. Delaplaine Scull    151
    FLORENTINE RAPPRESENTAZIONI AND
    THEIR PICTURES     .     .     .     .     .    Alfred W. Pollard    163
    THE OX     .     .     .     .     .     .     .  John Gray    184
    EQUAL LOVE     .     .     .     .     .     .  Michael Field    189
    PALLAS AND THE CENTAUR, after a picture
    by Botticelli     .      .     .     .     .     .  T. Sturge Moore    229
    BE IT COSINESS   .     .     .     .     .     .  Max Beerbohm    230
    SOHEIL     .     .     .     .     .    R. B. Cunninghame Graham    236


❧ ART CONTENTS


    THE MAGDALENE AT THE HOUSE   } Dante Gabriel Rossetti   {Fronti-
      OF SIMON THE PHARISEE-     .    .  }                                            {spiece

                                                                                                        PAGE
    MONNA ROSA  .    .     .     .     .   Dante Gabriel Rossetti      .     17
    THE DOCTOR—PORTRAIT OF MY
    BROTHER, an original lithograph     .    James M’Neil Whistler      .     29
    SYMPHONY IN WHITE, NO. III      .     James M’Neil Whistler      .     41
    PSYCHE IN THE HOUSE      .      .     Charles Ricketts   .      .      .     53
    ŒDIPUS, after a pen drawing   .     .    Charles Ricketts   .      .      .     65
    LOVE, a brush drawing   .     .     .  Sir John Everett Millais, R.A. 77
    SIR ISUMBRAS OF THE FORD   .     .    Sir John Everett Millais, R.A. 89
    ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE,
    a chalk drawing      .     .     .     .    Will Rothenstein      .      .     101
    L’OISEAU BLEU, after a water-
    colour drawing  .     .    Charles Conder      .      .      .     113
    SIDONIA AND OTTO VON BORK ON
    THE WATERWAY TO STETTIN, a
    pen drawing     .      .     .     .     .    Reginald Savage      .      .     125
    ARIADNE     .      .     .     .     .    G. F. Watts, R.A.      .      .     137
    PAOLO AND FRANCESCA     .      .    G. F. Watts, R. A.      .      .      149
    THE ALBATROSS (ANCIENT MARI-
    NER) a pen drawing     .      .     .     .     .    Reginald Savage      .      .     161
    THE SEA NYMPH     .     .     .     .    Sir Edward Burne Jones      .     173
    PERSEUS AND MEDUSA   .     .      .    Sir Edward Burne Jones     .     187
    DEATH AND THE BATHER, after a
    pen drawing     .     .     .     .     .     .     Laurence Housman      .      .     199
    A ROMANTIC LANDSCAPE, after a
    water-colour drawing     .     .      .  Charles H. Shannon    211
    PALLAS AND THE CENTAUR   .     .    Sandro Botticelli     .      .     227
    THE WHITE WATCH     .     .      .    Charles H. Shannon  .      .     239

❧ THE MAGDALENE AT THE HOUSE OF
SIMON THE PHARISEE
by
Dante Gabriel Rossetti

❧ A ROUNDEL OF RABELAIS

                              THELEME is afar on the waters, adrift and afar,
                              Afar and afloat on the waters that flicker and gleam,
                              And we feel but her fragrance and see but the shadows that mar
                                                Theleme.

                              In the sun-coloured mists of the sunrise and sunset that steam
                              As incense from urns of the twilight, her portals ajar
                              Let pass as a shadow the light or the sound of a dream.

                              But the laughter that rings from her cloisters that know not a bar
                              So kindles delight in desire that the souls in us deem
                              He erred not, the seer who discerned on the seas as a star
                                                Theleme.

                                                                                                A. C. SWINBURNE.











❧It is particularly requested that this poem should not be quoted as
a whole in any publication.

COSTELLO THE PROUD, OONA MACDERMOTT, AND THE BITTER TONGUE

The square shape around the seriffed letter C is formed out of interlacing ribbons with terminal foliation of acanthus leaves and pomegranate buds. The decoration is created in thin black lines, leaving the letters, vines, and leaves white. It appears to be a wood engraving.

COSTELLO had come up from the fields, and
lay upon the ground before the door of his
square tower, supporting his head upon his
hands, looking at the sunset, and considering
the chances of the weather. Though the
customs of Elizabeth and James, now going
out of fashion in England, had begun to pre-
vail among the gentry, he still wore the
great cloak of the native Irishry; and the
sensitive outlines of his face and the greatness of his indolent body
showed a commingling of pride and strength which belonged to a
simpler age. His eyes strayed in a little from the sunset to where the
long white road lost itself over the south-western horizon, and then
falling, lit upon a horseman who toiled slowly up the hill. A few more
minutes and the horseman was near enough for his little and shapeless
body, his long Irish cloak and the dilapidated bagpipes hanging from
his shoulders, and the rough-haired garron under him, to stand out dis-
tinctly in the gathering greyness. So soon as he had come within
earshot he began crying in Gaelic,

    ‘Is it sleeping you are, Tumaus Costello, while better folk break
their hearts on the great white roads? Listen to me, Tumaus Costello
the Proud, for I come out of Coolavin, and bring a message from Oona
MacDermott, and it is the good pay I must have, for the saddle was
bitter under me.’

    He was close to the door by now, and began slowly dismounting,
cursing the while by God, and Bridget and the devil; for riding in all
weathers from wake to wedding and wedding to wake had made him
rheumatic. Costello had risen to his feet, and was fumbling at the
mouth of the leather bag, in which he carried his money, but it was
some time before it would open, for the hand that had thrown so many
in wrestling shook with excitement.

    ‘Here is all the money in my bag,’ he said, at last dropping a stream
of French and Spanish silver into the hand of the piper. ‘I got it
for a heifer down at Ballysumaghan last week!’ The other bit a
shilling between his teeth, and went on,

    ‘And it is the good protection I must have, for if the MacDermotts
lay their hands upon me in any boreen after sundown, or in Coolavin
                                                                                                     by

                                                                                                        3

by broad day, I will be flung among the nettles in a ditch, or hanged
upon the sycamore, where they hanged the horse thieves out by Leitram
last Great Beltan four years!’ And while he spoke he tied the reins
of his garron to a bar of rusty iron that was mortared into the wall.

    ‘I will make you my piper and my body servant’ said Costello, ‘and
no man dare lay hands upon the man or the goat, or the horse or the
dog protected by Tumaus Costello.’

    ‘And I will only tell my message’ said the other flinging the saddle
on the ground, ‘in the corner of the chimney with a noggin of Spanish
ale in my hand, and a jug of Spanish ale beside me, for though I am
ragged and empty my forbears were well clothed and full until their
house was burnt, and their cattle harried in the time of Cathal of the
Red Hand by the Dillons, whom I shall yet see on the hob of hell, and
they screeching,’ and while he spoke the little eyes gleamed and the
thin hands clenched.

    Costello brought him into the great rush-strewn hall where were none
of the comforts which had begun to grow common among the gentry,
but a feudal gauntness and bareness, and led him to the bench in the
great chimney; and when he had sat down, filled up a horn noggin, and
set it on the bench beside him, and set a great black-jack of leather
beside the noggin, and lit a torch that slanted out from a ring in the wall,
his hands trembling the while; and then turned towards him and said,

    ‘Will Oona MacDermott come to me, Dualloch O’Daly of the Pipes?’

    ‘Oona MacDermott will not come to you, for her father, Teig Mac-
Dermott of the Sheep, has set women to watch her, but she bid me tell
you that this day sennight will be the eve of St. John and the night of
her betrothal to Macnamara of the Lake, and she would have you there,
that, when they bid her drink to him she loves best, as the way is, she
may drink to you, oh Tumaus Costello, and let all know where her heart
is and how little of gladness is in her marrying: and I myself bid you
go with good men about you, for I saw the horse thieves with my own
eyes, and they dancing the blue pigeon in the air.’ And then he held
the now empty noggin towards Costello, his hand closing round it like
the claw of a bird, and cried,

    ‘Fill my noggin again, for I would the day had come when all the
water in the world is to shrink into a periwinkle shell, that I might
drink nothing but the poteen.’ Finding that Costello made no reply,
but sat in a dream, he burst out,

    ‘Fill my noggin, I tell you, for no Costello is so great in the world
                                                                                                     that

4

that he should not wait upon an O’Daly, even though the O’Daly travel
the road with his pipes and the Costello have a bare hill, an empty
house, a horse, a herd of goats and a handful of cows.’

    ‘Praise the O’Dalys if you will’ said Costello as he filled the noggin,
‘for you have brought me a kind word from my love.’

    For the next few days Duallach went hither and thither, trying to
raise a body guard; and every man he met had some story of Costello,
how he killed the wrestler, when but a boy, by so straining at the belt,
that went about them both, that he broke the back of his opponent;
how, when somewhat older, he dragged the fierce horses of the Dunns of
Shancough through a ford in the Unchion for a wager; how, when he
came to maturity, he broke the steel horse shoe in Mayo; how he drove
many men before him through Drumlease and Cloonbougher and Druma-
hair, because of a malevolent song they had about his poverty; and
of many another deed of his strength and pride; but he could find
none who would trust themselves with any so passionate and poor in
a quarrel with careful and wealthy persons, like MacDermott of the
Sheep, and Macnamara of the Lake.

    Then Costello went out himself, and, after listening to many
excuses and in many places, brought in a big half-witted fellow who
followed him like a dog, a farm labourer who worshipped him for his
strength, a fat farmer whose forefathers had served his family, and a
couple of lads who looked after his goats and cows, and marshalled
them before the fire in the empty hall. They had brought with them
their stout alpeens, and Costello gave them an old pistol a-piece, and
kept them all night drinking Spanish ale, and shooting at a white
turnip which he pinned against the wall with a skewer. O’Daly sat on
the bench in the chimney playing ‘The Green Bunch of Rushes,’ ‘The
Unchion Stream,’ and ‘The Princes of Beffeny’ on his old pipes, and
railing now at the appearance of the shooters, now at their clumsy shoot-
ing, and now at Costello because he had no better servants. The
labourer, the half-witted fellow, the farmer and the lads were all well
accustomed to O’Daly’s unquenchable railing, for it was as inseparable
from wake or wedding as the squealing of his pipes, but they wondered
at the forbearance of Costello, who seldom came either to wake or
wedding, and, if he had, would scarce have been patient with a scolding
piper.

    On the next evening they set out for Coolavin, Costello riding a
tolerable horse and carrying a sword, the others upon rough haired
                                                                                                     garrons

                                                                                                        5

garrons, and with their stout alpeens under their arms. As they rode
over the bogs, and in the boreens among the hills, they could see fire
answering fire from hill to hill, from horizon to horizon, and everywhere
groups who danced in the ruddy light of the turf, celebrating the bridal
of life and fire. When they came to MacDermott’s house they saw
before the door an unusually large group of the very poor, dancing
about a fire, in the midst of which was a blazing cartwheel, that cir-
cular dance which is so ancient that the gods, long dwindled to be
but fairies, dance no other in their secret places. From the door, and
through the long loop-holes on either side, came the pale light of
candles, and the sound of many feet dancing a dance of Elizabeth and
James.

    They tied their horses to bushes, for the number so tied already
showed that the stables were full, and shoved their way through a
crowd of peasants who stood about the door, and went into the great
hall where the dance was. The labourer, the half-witted fellow, the
farmer, and the two lads mixed with a group of servants, who were
looking on from an alcove, and Duallach sat with the pipers on their
bench; but Costello made his way through the dancers to where
MacDermott of the Sheep stood with Macnamara of the Lake, pouring
poteen out of a porcelain jug into horn noggins with silver rims.

    ‘Tumaus Costello,’ said the old man, ‘you have done a good deed
to forget what has been, and to fling away enmity and come to the
betrothal of my daughter to Macnamara of the Lake.’

    ‘I come,’ answered Costello, ‘because, when in the time of Eoha
of the Heavy Sighs my forbears overcame your forbears, and afterwards
made peace, a compact was made that a Costello might go with his
body servants and his piper to every feast given by a MacDermott for
ever, and a MacDermott with his body servants and his piper to every
feast given by a Costello for ever.’

    ‘If you come with evil thoughts and armed men,’ said MacDermott
flushing, ‘no matter how strong your hands to wrestle and to swing the
sword, it shall go badly with you, for some of my wife’s clan have come
out of Mayo, and my three brothers and their servants have come down
from the Mountains of the Ox,’ and while he spoke he kept his hand
inside his coat as though upon the handle of a weapon.

    ‘No,’ answered Costello, ‘I but come to dance a farewell dance with
your daughter.’

    MacDermott drew his hand out of his coat and went over to a tall
                                                                                                     pale

6

pale girl who had been standing a little way off for the last few
moments, with her mild eyes fixed upon the ground.

    ‘Costello has come to dance a farewell dance, for he knows that you
will never see one another again.’

    The girl lifted her eyes and gazed at Costello, and in her gaze was
that trust of the humble in the proud, the gentle in the violent, which
has been the tragedy of woman from the beginning. Costello led her
among the dancers, and they were soon absorbed in the rhythm of the
Pavane, that stately dance which, with the Saraband, the Gallead, and
the Morrice dances, had driven out, among all but the most Irish of the
gentry, the quicker rhythms of the verse-interwoven, pantomimic dances
of earlier days ; and while they danced came over them the unutterable
melancholy, the weariness with the world, the poignant and bitter pity,
the vague anger against common hopes and fears, which is the exulta-
tion of love. And when a dance ended and the pipers laid down their
pipes and lifted their horn noggins, they stood a little from the others,
waiting pensively and silently for the dance to begin again and the fire
in their hearts to leap up and to wrap them anew; and so they danced
and danced through Pavane and Saraband and Gallead the night
through, and many stood still to watch them, and the peasants came
about the door and peered in, as though they understood that they
would gather their children’s children about them long hence, and tell
how they had seen Costello dance with Oona MacDermott, and become,
by the telling, themselves a portion of ancient romance; but through all
the dancing and piping Macnamara of the Lake went hither and thither
talking loudly and making foolish jokes, that all might seem well with
him, and old MacDermott of the Sheep grew redder and redder, and
looked oftener and oftener at the doorway to to see if the candles there
grew yellow in the dawn.

    At last he saw that the moment to end had come, and, in a pause
after a dance, cried out from where the horn noggins stood, that his
daughter would now drink the cup of betrothal; then Oona came over
to where he was, and the guests stood round in a half circle, Costello
close to the wall to the right, and the labourer, the farmer, the half-witted
man, and the two farm lads close behind. The old man took out of a
niche in the wall the silver cup, from which her mother and her mother’s
mother had drunk the toasts of their betrothals, and poured into it a
little of the poteen out of a porcelain jug, and handed it to his daughter
with the customary words, ‘Drink to him whom you love the best.’

                                                                                                     She

                                                                                                        7

    She held the cup to her lips for a moment, and then said in a clear,
soft voice,

    ‘I drink to my true love, Tumaus Costello.’

    And then the cup rolled over and over on the ground, ringing like a
bell, for the old man had struck her in the face, and it had fallen in her
confusion; and there was a deep silence. There were many of Macna-
mara’s people among the servants, now come out of the alcove, and one
of them, a story teller and poet, a last remnant of the bardic order, who
had a chair and a platter in Macnamara’s kitchen, drew a French knife
out of his girdle, and made as though he would strike at Costello, but in
a moment a blow had hurled him on the ground, his shoulder sending
the cup rolling and ringing again. The click of steel had followed
quickly had not there come a muttering and shouting from the peasants
about the door, and from those crowding up behind them; and all knew
that these were no children of Queen’s Irish or friendly Macnamaras
and MacDermotts, but wild Lavells and Quinns and Dunns from about
Lough Garra, who rowed their skin coracles, and had masses of hair
over their eyes, and left the right arms of their children unchristened,
that they might give the stouter blows, and swore only by St. Atty and
sun and moon, and worshipped beauty and strength more than St. Atty
or sun and moon.

    Costello’s hand had rested upon the handle of his sword, and his
knuckles had grown white, but now he drew it away, and, followed by
those who were with him, strode towards the door, the dancers giving
before him, the most angrily and slowly and with glances at the mut-
tering and shouting peasants, but some gladly and quickly because the
glory of his fame was over him; and passed through the fierce and
friendly peasant faces, and came where his good horse and the rough-
haired garrons were tied to bushes; and mounted and bade his ungainly
body-guard mount also, and rode into the narrow borreen. When
they had gone a little way, Duallach, who rode last, turned towards the
house where a little group of MacDermotts and Macnamaras stood next
to a far more numerous group of peasants, and cried,

    ‘Well do you deserve, Teig MacDermott, to be as you are this
hour, a lantern without a candle, a purse without a penny, a sheep
without wool, for your hand was ever niggardly to piper and fiddler and
story teller and to poor travelling folk.’ He had not done before the
three old MacDermotts from the Mountains of the Ox had run towards
their horses, and old MacDermott himself had caught the bridle of a
                                                                                                     garron

8

garron of the Macnamaras, and was calling to others to follow him; and
many blows and many deaths had been, had not the Lavells and Dunns
and Quinns caught up still glowing brands from the ashes of the fire,
and hurled them among the horses with loud cries, making all plunge
and rear, and some break from their owners with the whites of their eyes
gleaming in the dawn.

    For the next few weeks Costello had no lack of news of Oona, for
now a woman selling eggs or fowls, and now a man or a woman on
pilgrimage to the holy well of Tubbernalty, would tell him how his love
had fallen ill the day after St. John’s Eve, and how she was a little
better or a little worse, as it might be; and though he looked to his
horses and his cows and goats as usual, the common and uncomely
things, the dust upon the roads, the songs of men returning from fairs
and wakes, men playing cards in the corners of fields on Sundays and
Saints’ Days, the rumours of battles and changes in the great world, the
deliberate purposes of those about him, troubled him with an inexplic-
able trouble; but the peasants still remember how when night had fallen
he would bid Duallach O’Daly recite, to the chirping of the crickets,
‘The Son of Apple,’ ‘The Beauty of the World,’ ‘The Feast of Bricriu,’
or some other of those traditional tales, which were as much a piper’s
business as ‘The Green Bunch of Rushes,’ ‘The Unchion Stream,’ or
‘The Chiefs of Breffany’; and, while the boundless and phantasmal
world of the legends was a-building, would abandon himself to the
dreams of his sorrow.

    Duallach would often pause to tell how the Lavells or Dunns or
Quinns or O’Dalys, or other tribe near his heart, had come from some
Lu, god of the leaping lightning, or incomparable King of the Blue Belt
or Warrior of the Ozier Wattle, or to tell with many railings how all the
strangers and most of the Queen’s Irish were the seed of some misshapen
and horned Fomoroh or servile and creeping Firbolg; but Costello
cared only for the love sorrows, and no matter whither the stories wan-
dered, whether to the Isle of the Red Loch where the blessed are, or to
the malign country of the Hag of the East, Oona alone endured their
shadowy hardships; for it was she, and no King’s daughter of old, who
was hidden in the steel tower under the water with the folds of the
Worm of Nine Eyes round and about her prison; and it was she who
won, by seven years of service, the right to deliver from hell all she
could carry, and carried away multitudes clinging with worn fingers to
the hem of her dress; and it was she who endured dumbness for a year
                                                                                                     because

9

because of the little thorn of enchantment the fairies had thrust into her
tongue; and it was a lock of her hair, coiled in a little carved box, which
gave so great a light that men threshed by it from sundown to sunrise,
and awoke so great a wonder that kings spent years in wandering, or
fell before unknown armies in seeking, to discover her hiding place; for
there was no beauty in the world but hers, no tragedy in the world
but hers: and when at last the voice of the piper, grown gentle
with the wisdom or old romance, was silent, and his rheumatic
steps had toiled upstairs and to bed, and Costello had dipped his
fingers into the little delf font of holy water, and begun to pray
to Maurya of the Seven Sorrows, the blue eyes and star-covered
dress of the painting in the chapel faded from his imagination, and the
brown eyes and homespun dress of Oona MacDermott came in their
stead; for there was no tenderness in the world but hers. He was of
those ascetics of passion who keep their hearts pure for love or for
hatred, as other men for God, for Mary and for the saints, and who,
when the hour of their visitation arrives, come to the Divine Essence by
the bitter tumult, the Garden of Gethsemane, and the desolate rood,
ordained for immortal passions in mortal hearts.

    One day a serving man rode up to Costello, who was helping his two
lads to reap a meadow, gave him a letter and rode away without a word;
and the letter contained these words in English: ‘Tumaus Costello, my
daughter is very ill. The wise woman from Knock-na-shee has seen
her, and says she will die unless you come to her. I therefore bid you
to her, whose peace you stole by treachery—Teig MacDermott.’

    Costello threw down his scythe, sent one of the lads for Duallach,
who had become associated in his mind with Oona, and himself saddled
his great horse and Duallach’s garron.

    When they came to MacDermott’s house it was late afternoon, and
Lough Garra lay down below them, blue, mirrorlike, and deserted; and
though they had seen, when at a distance, dark figures moving about the
door, the house appeared not less deserted than the lake. The door
stood half-open, and Costello rapped upon it again and again, making
a number of lake gulls fly up out of the grass, and circle screaming over
his head, but there was no answer.

    ‘There is no one here,’ said Duallach, ‘for MacDermott of the Sheep
is too proud to welcome Costello the Proud,’ and, flinging the door open,
showed a ragged, dirty, and very ancient woman, who sat upon the floor
leaning against the wall. Costello recognised Bridget Delaney, a deaf
                                                                                                     and

10

and dumb beggar; and she, when she saw him, stood up, made a sign to
him to follow, and led him and his companion up a stair and down a
long corridor to a closed door. She pushed the door open, and went a
little way off and sat down as before. Duallach sat upon the ground
also, but close to the door, and Costello went and gazed upon Oona
MacDermott asleep upon a bed. He sat upon a chair beside her and
waited, and a long time passed, and still she slept on, and then Duallach
motioned to him through the door to wake her, but he hushed his very
breath that she might sleep on, for his heart was full of that ungovern-
able pity which makes the fading heart of the lover a shadow of the
divine heart. Presently he returned to Duallach and said,

    ‘It is not right that I stay here where there are none of her kindred
for the common people are ever ready to blame the beautiful.’ And
then they went down and stood at the door of the house and waited,
but the evening wore on and no one came.

    ‘It was a foolish man that called you Costello the Proud,’ Duallach cried
at last; ‘had he seen you waiting and waiting where they left none but a
beggar to welcome you, it is Costello the Humble he would have called you.

    Then Costello mounted and Duallach mounted, but when they had
ridden a little way, Costello tightened the reins and made his horse
stand still. Many minutes passed, and then Duallach cried,

    ‘It is no wonder that you fear to offend Teig MacDermott of the
Sheep, for he has many brothers and friends, and though he is old he is
a strong man, and ready with his hands.’

    And Costello answered, flushing and looking towards the house:

    ‘I swear by Maurya of the Seven Sorrows that I will never return
there again if they do not send after me before I pass the ford in the
Donogue,’ and he rode on, but so very slowly, that the sun went down
and the bats began to fly over the bogs. When he came to the river he
lingered a while upon the bank among the purple flag-flowers, but
presently rode out into the middle, and stopped his horse in a foaming
shallow. Duallach, however, crossed over and waited on the further
bank above a deeper place. After a good while, Duallach cried out
again, and this time very bitterly:

    ‘It was a fool who begot you and a fool who bore you, and they are
fools of all fools who say you come of an old and noble stock, for you
come of whey-faced beggars, who travelled from door to door, bowing
to gentles and to serving men.’

    With bent head Costello rode through the river and stood beside
                                                                                                     him

                                                                                                        11

him, and would have spoken had not hoofs clattered on the further bank
and a horseman splashed towards them. It was a serving man of Teig
MacDermott’s, and he said, speaking breathlessly like one who had
ridden hard,

    ‘Tumaus Costello, I come to bid you again to Teig MacDermott’s.
When you had gone, Oona MacDermott awoke and called your name,
for you had been in her dreams. Bridget Delaney, the dummy, saw her
lips move and the trouble upon her, and came where we were hiding
in the wood above the house, and took Teig MacDermott by the coat
and brought him to his daughter. He saw the trouble upon her, and
bid me ride his own horse to bring you the quicker.’

    Then Costello turned towards the piper Duallach O’Daly, and, taking
him about the waist, lifted him out of the saddle, and hurled him against
a grey rock that rose up out of the river, so that he fell lifeless into the
deep place, and the waters swept over the tongue which God had made
bitter that there might be a story in men’s ears in after time; and
plunging his spurs into the horse, he rode away furiously towards the
north-west, along the edge of the river, and did not pause until he came
to another and smoother ford and saw the rising moon mirrored in the
water. He paused for a moment irresolute, and then rode into the ford
and on over the Mountains of the Ox, and down towards the sea, his
eyes almost continually resting upon the moon, which glimmered in the
dimness like a great white rose hung on the lattice of some boundless
and phantasmal world. But now his horse, long dank with sweat and
breathing hard, for he kept spurring it to utmost speed, fell heavily,
hurling him into the grass at the road side. He tried to make it stand
up, and, failing this, went on alone towards the moonlight; and came to
the sea, and saw a schooner lying there at anchor. Now that he could
go no further because of the sea, he found that he was very tired and
the night very cold, and went into a shebeen close to the shore, and threw
himself down upon a bench. The room was full of Spanish and Irish
sailors, who had just smuggled a cargo of wine and ale, and were waiting
a favourable wind to set out again. A Spaniard offered him a drink in
bad Gaelic. He drank it greedily, and began talking wildly and rapidly.

    For some three weeks the wind blew still inshore or with too great
violence, and the sailors stayed, drinking and talking and playing cards,
and Costello stayed with them, sleeping upon a bench in the shebeen,
and drinking and talking and playing more than any. He soon lost
what little money he had, and then his horse, which some one had brought
                                                                                                     from

12

from the mountain boreen, to a Spaniard, who sold it to a farmer from
the mountains for a score of silver crowns, and then his long cloak and
his spurs and his boots of soft leather. At last a gentle wind blew
towards Spain, and the crew rowed out to their schooner singing Gaelic
and Spanish songs, and lifted the anchor, and in a little the white
sails had dropped under the horizon. Then Costello turned homeward,
his empty life gaping before him, and walked all day, coming in the
early evening to the road that went from near Lough Garra to the
southern edge of Lough Cay. Here he overtook a great crowd of
peasants and farmers, who were walking very slowly after two priests,
and a group of well dressed persons who were carrying a coffin. He
stopped an old man and asked whose burying it was and whose people
they were, and the old man answered,

    It is the burying of Oona MacDermott, and we are the Macnamaras
and the MacDermotts and their following, and you are Tumaus Costello
who murdered her.’

    Costello went on towards the head of the procession, passing men
who looked at him with fierce eyes, and only vaguely understanding
what he had heard, for, now that he had lost the quick apprehension of
perfect health, it seemed impossible that a gentleness and a beauty
which had been so long the world’s heart could pass away. Presently he
stopped and asked again whose burying it was, and a man answered,

    We are carrying Oona MacDermott, whom you murdered, to be
buried in the island of the Holy Trinity,’ and the man stooped and
picked up a stone and cast it at Costello, striking him on the cheek, and
making the blood flow out over his face. Costello went on scarcely
feeling the blow, and, coming to those about the coffin, shouldered his
way into the midst of them, and, laying his hand upon the coffin, asked
in a loud voice,

    ‘Who is in this coffin?’

    The three old MacDermotts from the Mountains of the Ox caught
up stones and bid those about them do the same; and he was driven
from the road covered with wounds, and but for the priests would surely
have been killed.

    When the procession had passed on Costello began to follow again,
and saw from a distance the coffin laid upon a large boat and those
about it get into other boats and the boats move slowly over the water
to Insula Trinitatis; and after a time he saw the boats return and their
passengers mingle with the crowd upon the bank and all disperse by
                                                                                                     many

                                                                                                        13

many roads and boreens. It seemed to him that Oona was somewhere
on the island smiling gently as of old, and, when all had gone, he swam
in the way the boats had been rowed and found the new-made grave
beside the ruined Abbey of the Trinity, and threw himself upon it,
calling to Oona to come to him. Above him the three-cornered leaves
of the ivy trembled, and all about him white moths moved over white
flowers and sweet odours drifted through the dim air.

    He lay there all that night and through the day after, from time to
time calling her to come to him, but when the third night came he had
forgotten, worn out with hunger and sorrow, that her body lay in the
earth beneath; and only knew she was somewhere near and would not
come to him.

    Just before dawn, the hour when the peasants hear his ghostly voice
crying out, his pride awoke and he called loudly,

    ‘Oona MacDermott, if you do not come to me I will go and never
return to the island of the Holy Trinity;’ and, before his voice had died
away, a cold and whirling wind had swept over the island, and he saw
many figures rushing past, women of the Shee with crowns of silver and
dim floating drapery; and then Oona MacDermott, but no longer
smiling gently, for she passed him swiftly and angrily, and as she
passed struck him upon the face crying,

    ‘Then go and never return.’

    He would have followed and was calling out her name, when the
whole glimmering company rose up into the air, and, rushing together
into the shape of a great silvery rose, faded into the ashen dawn.

    Costello got up from the grave, understanding nothing but that he
had made his beloved angry, and that she wished him to go, and, wading
out into the lake, began to swim. He swam on and on, but his limbs
were too weary to keep him long afloat, and her anger was heavy about
him, and, when he had gone a little way, he sank without a struggle like
a man passing into sleep and dreams.

    The next day a poor fisherman found him among the reeds upon the
lake shore, lying upon the white lake sand with his arms flung out as
though he lay upon a rood, and carried him to his own house. And the
very poor lamented over him and sang the keen, and, when the time had
come, laid him in the Abbey on Insula Trinitatis with only the ruined
altar between him and Oona MacDermott, and planted above them two
ash trees that in after days wove their branches together and mingled
their trembling leaves.
                                                                                                            W. B. YEATS.

MONNA ROSA

                                    Elle est seule au boudoir
                                    En bandeaux d’or liquide,
                                    En robe d’or fluide
                                    Sur fond blanc dans le soir
                                    Teinté d’or vert et noir.

                                    Un pot bleu japonise
                                    Délicieusement
                                    Dont s’élance gaiment
                                    Dans l’atmosphère exquise
                                    Oû l’âme s’adonise

                                    Un flot mélodieux
                                    Selon le rhythme juste—
                                    De roses, chœur auguste,
                                    Bouquet insidieux
                                    Au conseil radieux!

                                    Elle, belle comme elles,
                                    Les roses, n’élit plus
                                    Dans ses cheveux élus
                                    Qu’une de ces fleurs belles
                                    Comme elle, et de ciseaux
                                    Prestes, tels des oiseaux,

                                    La coupe ou, mieux, la cueille
                                    Avec le soin charmant
                                    D’y laisser joliment
                                    La grâce d’une feuille
                                    Verte comme le soir
                                    Noir et or du boudoir.

                                                                                                Cependant

❧ MONNA ROSA
by
Dante Gabriel Rossetti


                                                                                                        19

                                    Cependant que persiste
                                    La splendeur, à côté,
                                    Du plumage bleuté
                                    De l’orgueil, qui s’attriste,
                                    D’un paon jadis vainqueur
                                    Aux jardins de ce cœur.

                                                                                                PAUL VERLAINE.

PARIS, Sept. 1895.

NIGGARD TRUTH

The square shape around the seriffed letter H is formed out of interlacing ribbons with terminal foliation of acanthus leaves and tendrils. The decoration is created in thin black lines, leaving the letter, vines, and leaves white. It appears to be a wood engraving.

HARRIET came of farmers. The stout race
hesitated and hoped in the strong girl; at
last, for she never had any children, finished
with her. Her mother had followed White-
field, and Harriet held to the new Protestant-
ism; the men, decidedly retrograde here,
were all for Pope Denys. At the time
when Harriet first had a real existence,
symbolism might have called the grand-dad
Silenus, the father Gambrinus, the brother Dionysos. These drank
and drank; oftenest in their own complete and scandalous company;
but at all times they drank. She said nothing, there being nothing
to say. Their cult brought her a new, at times harassing, duty:
to see them laid out all three at night in the warm kitchen, their
cravats loosened, and the fire safe extinguished. The disgrace
of her family added little in the country to her own disgrace of
Methodism. Her friends the Methodists found nothing surprising
in the unregenerate state of men who had not come under the
only possible saving influence. The farm went on, in a fashion,
thanks to Harriet. Had she been less active and intelligent than she
was, she might have managed it to profit, and her kinsmen might have
been her terrible luxury. Her activity never hesitated to carry out
what a servant did other than to her liking. Whatever her hands
touched was a pattern. Yes; but the servants—especially as she was
kind, and often, of necessity, ignorant—pandered to her mania to do her
own work herself. The farm, too much for her, had at last to be let to
keep up the mortgages.

    They had been rich, now they were poor. Harriet had nothing in
her hands but work and care. The ‘pretty trio’ had the management
of all else; their management followed its policy unhesitatingly to the
logical end. Then the father and the brother died, and were buried.
Silenus, missing them, became idiotic and eccentric. He took liquor
in sudden aversion as a beverage; but, buying and getting what he
could, he bottled and sealed drams which he buried all over the
country; and then, like a dog who would know how his hidden bone
putrefies, he visited all the nooks strangely, staying out at night even
to follow his poor fancy.

    Harriet never ceased to work, either for gain and living, or for mere
                                                                                                     work’s

                                                                                                        21

work’s sake. Once she had to repair her stays ; she remade them. A
neighbour saw, admired, and had her own renewed. Another and
another commission, and Harriet was proficient with a definite occupa-
tion. She knew not how to mark time. Before long she had dis-
covered an ‘improvement’ which made her wares famous, which later
she sold for a hardly bargained £600. She had her consolation in the
great days of the patent, that she had fought hard for a good price,
bumpkin girl as she was at the time of the sale.

    Old Silenus died at last. Harriet, under contract to refrain from
staymaking, was busy as ever with some equally ingenious labour.
She never stopped to visit or idle, only going out to attend the offices
of her church, or rather ‘chapel.’ There she was most punctual; the
chapels life coincided evenly with hers.

    The first time the new minister preached, Harriet selected him for
a husband. It was Hugh Porter, the young man who came in the face
of so many prejudices, being so young, and ugliness not compensating
as much as it should. He had once had a kick in the face from a
horse, whence a hideous malformation. He preached for an opening
with more than passion, with violence. Afterwards, and for many
weeks, he was quiet, learned. Harriet watched him carefully; com-
pared, heard him critically; at first thought him tactful, executing a
plan ; only found out later that it was all accident, that the heaviness of
his beginnings was but nervous defiance and waste of ammunition.
The sooner he had a calm friend at his elbow the better for him; and
in addition she made a memorandum in her mind—for use in their
married life, recognising a radical fault.

    They became acquainted. Harriet was very submissive to her
‘minister,’ without shyness; in such a way that, in presence of her
humility and deference, he forgot his regret that he was not a clergy-
man. She did not mind his lack of judgment; he would have many
other lessons to learn. She took no umbrage at the rude way in which
he set about his ‘inquiries’ into the conduct of her secluded life; and
he thought himself so wise in this inquisition.

    ‘I never thought I should marry my minister.’ The pitch of her
voice, the smile, the gravity which made her face look thinner as she
said these words, almost gave him a glimpse of the future; but the
marriage took place. It was soon found that he was extremely deli-
cate. And the course of what are called unforeseen circumstances
turned strangely from the time of Hugh Porter’s marriage. Under-
                                                                                                     hand

22

hand measures on the part of his deacons threw him out, made him
redundant for a time, obliged to preach every Sunday from a different
pulpit. Then it was he began to understand Harriet. Then, for the
first time in his life, he wrote out his sermons entire, and again and
again. Then, to patience and kindness in Harriet, he rehearsed
delivery at oration pitch, and noted gesture. Shrewd Harriet! He took
her advice, and refused the first offer of a pulpit as second in a circuit,
alleging that he had some intention of going into a retreat, like Saint
Paul into Arabia. In three months, the fame of his preaching was
ringing every week in The Recorder. Then a remarkable event, what
in business is called a ‘deal,’ took place between the Wesleyans and
the Methodists. A curious notion of Pan-Methodism was abroad, and
a minister was exchanged for a great occasion in either body. Hugh
Porter was to preach in the great Walworth Road Church in London
to Wesleyans. Harriet was present, in a place where Hugh could
not see her. She heard his very low yet distinct preliminary announce-
ment: ‘My text will be found. . . .’ Right! And then she waited for
the opening phrase, almost performing mentally the process of sounding
a tuning-fork. Right again! And he kept it up ; he showed what was
in him. Higher and higher the flood of his oration swelled, and ever
the language grew more precise, the argument stricter. Till the last
sentences came, sinking masterly to the tone on which he began, and
the closing words sounded sweet and distinct as the first. He took the
beef-tea she offered him in the vestry in silence. Harriet could not
trust herself to speak, for joy.

    The Recorder, a well-managed paper, knowing the thoroughness
of the Wesleyan organ, came out on Wednesday, not only with the
sermon at length, but with a leading article upon it, headed: ‘That
Man!’ the phrase Hugh Porter had used and repeated with such great
effect. This moment began Hugh’s life, though he had had a hard
boyhood and harder youth. He thought he had known struggling.
He found out what struggling means before he had learnt from Harriet
where he stood towards his body and towards the world. She had
even in her extremity to use for the first time to him the words:
‘Take my advice.’ He had the wit to be wise. He had imagined,
when he secured the wealthiest chapel in the Society, that the mil-
lennium for him had come; that he had now only to enjoy his income,
have a library, go out to tea, embroil himself with all the quarrels of
the laity under him, and be master in his own house and out of it.
                                                                                                     The

                                                                                                        23

The time he gave to his sophistries, otherwise directed, might have
made him half independent of Harriet; and than this he desired
nothing more dearly. He wanted to love her and direct her. He
aimed higher than he ever reached.

    As it was, he held himself very quiet; it seemed Harriet did not
make mistakes. The jealousies were not long appearing; the mutter-
ings against ministers who interfere; the covert wonderings what he
did with his income. It was hard for Hugh. His policy towards the
members was not of his own invention; he carried it out mechanically,
awkwardly; feared all the time it was right, the only policy. He
never refused invitations to preach out of his own circuit, by Harriet’s
advice. And let him not misunderstand: his sermons were to be
staid, even dull, on no account sensational. He did as he was bidden.
Reasons for all this? A dozen times he had almost asked: ‘And
what then?’ Well that he checked himself. As it happened, it never
came to such a question, but how shocked Harriet would have been!
How could she have told him what might be the Lord’s inscrutable
will?

    Once, vague gratitude supplanting perplexity, he was nigh thanking
her watchfulness. He put down his awful commentary, and pretended
to yawn. Harriet looked up with anxiety. (She was making a pair of
stays.)

    ‘Well, my Hugh, what is it?’ He sighed a little, and smiled
‘My poor Hugh is looking tired.’

    ‘No, Harriet,’ he said sententiously, as though giving out a hymn,
‘not tired.’

    ‘Shall we talk then?’ and with that dawned the most terrible hour
Hugh had ever known; hour which set stormily, misty, and blurred
with tears. In brief, he must resign, give up his chapel. He was
stupid, mouth agog, when he caught the intention of her slow, hard
sentences. She was mad; he said so, at last, after repeatedly checking
the words on his lips. She gave no heed, made no answer; her calm
no whit ruffled. He could not help himself; he thought it seriously.
Through the torrents of his objections to each deliberate phrase he
followed his thought: the possibility that she was a wild woman; like
the mad, gifted with supernatural penetration.

    Give up his ‘position’? Give up his thirty pounds a quarter?

    ‘Oh, Hugh, Hugh!’

    And their little house, so comfortable, with fitted blinds all through;
                                                                                                     to

24

to go to some miserable place in the country, perhaps! Useless to
talk; he knew this fully ten minutes before he ceased to be coherent.
The circuit was too large for him. His early years had been passed in
the country: it would do him good if he were sent back to it.

    Nothing was said next day. It was a Wednesday; and a com-
mittee meeting after the service. Harriet did not wait for Hugh in
the chapel as her custom was. She simply told him, as she gave him
his comforter, that she had something to do; must go home.

    The committee meeting began as usual with a prayer by the eldest
of the deacons. This ceremony passed drily. Hugh proceeded at
once to run over the accounts; threw the book on the table as he
finished. There was the shadow of a pause.

    ‘And now, gentlemen,’ said Hugh, ‘I have something to tell you,
something which lies so heavily on my heart that I shall be easier
when I have told it: it seems the Lord’s will that I should leave this
circuit. The circuit is large, my health is far from good, and I do not
flatter myself that you will have a great difficulty to fill my place. I
hope you will be able to say, gentlemen, that I have been a good
minister among you here present as deacons, and among you all as
members/ He finished, much moved.

    ‘You are young, sir, to be our minister here . . .’ began a younger
deacon.

    ‘Think it over a bit, sir,’ the doyen broke in, roughly. ‘I propose
a committee meeting this day week, while you think it over, sir.’

    ‘No, my brethren,’ said Hugh, more humanly. ‘It is thought over
already. I did not come here myself; I did not seek to come here.
He who sent me hither now sends me hence. If we are allowed to
exercise our judgment, minister and members, in coming together, we
must recognise His will above it all. I have to ask your permission
to resign.’

    ‘Which we all refuse.’

    ‘No, brother, it need not take long; talk it over here and now.
You will find me in the chapel when your decision is taken.’ He suited
his action by leaving the vestry.

    They accepted his resignation.

    Hugh had a moment of satisfaction as he walked home. This
hearty, blunt action of his came at the moment when a long-nursed
grumble of his deacons was about finding vent. But his joy was not
long-lived.

                                                                                                     ‘I

                                                                                                        25

    ‘I have resigned,’ said Hugh. ‘The circuit is large, I don’t say too
large, but they want mere age in their minister, these people.’

    For this announcement, he tried his uttermost to speak without
expression, to leave Harriet in doubt whether he sulked or not. A
touch of her fingers was all Harriet’s reply; save that she was very
motherly that night, appearing almost in a new aspect.

    Hugh was sent to a small west-country village, or rather to two
villages, four miles apart. The Porters found a roomy bright house
for them, rented by the Society, with a certain quantity of solid furni-
ture in it. They felt quite wealthy when they were installed. The
only difficulty was the distances to travel. This was soon felt heavily,
for Hugh began to be suffering and more delicate from the first week.
He lost his spirits, his appetite; grew restless at night. Harriet kept
her head through this trouble; she knew almost all it was necessary
for her to know, to guard him and tend him well. But there re-
mained between them want of familiarity. When his ailing was so far
confirmed that he could look upon it as a definite and more or less
permanent thing, Hugh became nervous on the subject lest Harriet
might think he was malingering. She knew this anxiety of his; for
once was baffled, not knowing how to reassure him.

    Harriet urged her husband to take some pupils, to amuse him. Two
boys were found, of eight and eleven. After a week Hugh refused to
have anything to do with them. Harriet added to her tasks of feeding
and grooming, that of training them. These boys turned out wonder-
fully well. Harriet saw each of them make a fortune in business.

    Time came when Hugh left his wife for a whole week, to conduct
a ‘revival’ at Bristol. When he came back, a shed adjoining the house
had become a stable; the stable contained a mare. He gave himself
over to surprise and delight. It so astonished him that Harriet had
found such a smart, useful animal, that he forgot to ask what had been
the price of her; and he never knew. The pleasure of his new play-
thing made Hugh seem his old self for a time. It was a joy to see him
grooming the mare, spreading her litter, feeding her. At length, in-
evitably, came weariness of the work: the trouble of it spoilt the
advantage and pleasure of riding; Harriet was forced into suggesting
a man to take this duty off Hugh’s hands. Henceforth a man was
supposed to attend to the mare. Hugh never saw this man, nor did
he ever make any inquiry concerning him. One thing remained, for
nearly a twelvemonth at least: the distance between village and village
                                                                                                     was

26

was no excuse between Hugh and the fulfilment of his duties. Of
course, this had to come in the end. It began with obstinacy to go
to the neighbouring village on nights so awful that scarce ten souls
would be assembled for his ministrations in the chill shed they called
a chapel; that, too, at times when his cough was deep, shaking his
poor body, so hidden inside the inches of woollens and cloth in which
Harriet kept him swathed. Then clear, sheer laziness, variously dis-
guised or perfectly frank. Harriet soon exhausted what few words
of persuasion she could afford for such extremities, and passed without
pause to acts. The occasion was repeated when Hugh was disinclined
to go take his service, away over the heath. No word; Harriet was up
to her room and down again in five minutes.

    ‘Hugh, I shall be there before you,’ the thin woman’s voice piped
cheerily, and she was out of the house. A mile and a half of wet road,
and Hugh passed her at a trot; she let the hoof-strokes die quite
away, then, with unaltered brisk step, turned about towards their home;
she had so much to do in the house!

    So Hugh grew more and more a child as he aged and shrunk.
This in his mere personal manliness, for to the outside he was more
and more each year the image of the ideal Harriet had set for him,
though all their life she had never so much as said to him: ‘I am
ambitious for you.’ In town or country pupils were always passing
through his house to success in the ministry, in business, and profes-
sions. He edited Hugh Bourne, and had heard of Fox and William
Law. He composed test papers for sprouting divinity. Above all, he
preached through the length and breadth of England; few preachers
of the denomination were more sought. A wretched block, which the
enterprising Recorder had had cut from a photograph of him, went the
round of the Methodist press for years.

    The Porters hardly took count of time. Their life together had
been so long. The history of the world was narrowed for them into
the span of their married life. Years were passing, though they
seemed to stand still. Not only was Mrs. Porter grown the thinnest
woman imaginable, and her thin voice incredibly thinner, and more
quavering almost than a voice can be; but Sophy, Mrs. Porter’s cousin,
had become Miss Short, and staid at that.

    It was at a period when, for the first time, she had the care of six
pupils. Harriet dearly wanted a female in her house who was not a
servant; some one worthy to receive her tradition, who in case of her
                                                                                                     death

❧ THE DOCTOR — PORTRAIT OF MY BROTHER
an original lithograph
by 
James M’Neil Whistler


                                                                                                        31


death could look after Hugh, in all that phrase implied. She had cast
about in her memory: her cousin Sophy must be fourteen; she gave
days to reflecting on the girl’s ‘breed’ (Harriet believed in breed);
felt sure in the end that, accidents apart, she could make something of
Sophy. The child turned out, as she became a woman, the very finest
bit of mortal clay Harriet had ever had the handling of; so quiet, so
intractable; long-suffering, and so savage. Any impression made on
such a character lasts. So Harriet thought, and was glad because of
Sophy Short. There was always perfect accord between the two, but
never, never peace ; they were destined to be noble friends one day.
Such a pupil for such a mistress!

    The two women became a sort of society. They spoke so little
except between themselves: they treated Hugh with such equal kind-
ness that they were almost to him as one. Whatever he required done
either of them did, with the same readiness, the same silence, the same
perfection. He gave up at length distinguishing their names, using
them indifferently; they fell in with this arrangement. Hugh thought
he had reached beautiful old age. He was very white. Wherever he
went the fuss about him was extraordinary, even for so mild and ugly
an old gentleman, and so renowned a preacher. The Juggernaut
homages he had been accustomed to receive for years (let us say
this was the cause) had led him to make a collection of the most
sickening cliches, to which he made an occasional addition, about
‘getting nearer the light,’ and the like, phrases which sounded like
tinned Longfellow. Poor old Hugh! But in pulpits he was different.
Once above the heads of a thousand listeners, he found old fire to
recite old sermons. Harriet seldom heard him; for one reason that
he rarely preached in his own circuit, where a grateful Society gave
him more assistance than he required. When she did, she was pro-
minent in the chapel, nodded vigorous approval, with more than
punctuality, at each full period, constituting herself a silent claque.

    ‘We shall not have Mr. Porter with us much longer,’ startled Sophy
one quiet morning.

    ‘What do you mean, Auntie?’ asked Sophy angrily. ‘How can
you be so stupid? How do you know?’

    ‘Mark my words, dear, you will see.’

    ‘How do you know?’

    ‘Mark my words.’

    It seemed a foolish prediction, for Hugh had never been better
                                                                                                     or

32


or livelier to Sophy’s knowledge. She drew attention to this next
day.

    ‘That is just it,’ answered Harriet. ‘He is so active.’

    There was not a trace in her manner of any feeling other than
satisfaction in her prophecy. Sophy was far less contented. After
tea, when all three were sitting together, Hugh rose from his chair
rather suddenly, and Sophy, on the watch, burst out at him:

    ‘Don’t be so active, Uncle, you make me cross.’

    Hugh was bewildered, but Harriet laughed:

    ‘Don’t mind her, my dear; she is growing old.’

    ‘Be more careful,’ Sophy persisted sullenly; ‘where’s your skull-cap?’

    Her prophecy came true quickly enough to surprise Harriet her-
self. The very morning following Hugh was not allowed to get up;
congestion, pneumonia. The crowd at his burial was enormous. The
grave-side encomiums were more sincere than grammatical.

    ‘I have only to think now of following him,’ said Harriet. A large
subscription to support her widowhood was raised in the Society.

    Hugh had lain dead a whole week before burial, for certain reasons.
Harriet was glad of this. Day after day the weather seemed so bad
for Hugh to begin his sojourn under clay. Many a troubling phrase
came from Harriet while he still lay upstairs; phrases the heareis
excused, supposing them fruits of her excitement; troubling not in
their sense but in the expression: Hugh among angels the subject,
right and pious enough as a notion; but the thin old woman had a
wild way of knowing what she spoke of. Hugh, bright and young and
ransomed, in spiritual company. But the companions were not so
feathered as sometimes seen, and their locality to Harriet was never
vague or very distant. For her they were in the house or the little
garden ; or against the corpse in prayer. When they were in the
drawing-room, Harriet spoke of them, though not in direct statement
as in a definite part of the room; and talking currently and topically.
Sophy and chance women lost patience at last, though they dared
not show this. Their materialism was low and timid.

    Against this (and the superficial may wonder), the corpse upstairs
was still Hugh. When it had been buried it was still Hugh. Thrice,
while he waited for burial, his grave costume was changed; finally he
went to rest in a long scarlet flannel robe, a passionate Christian symbol
the excuse, that he might be warmer and look more comfortable in the
earth, but chiefly that Harriet might see him better. Hints she dropped
                                                                                                     of

                                                                                                        33


of this intention were far too obscure for Sophy to penetrate. None
remembered that Silenus lived again in his granddaughter: the old
idiot who had intercourse with his dead through the medium of
medicine-bottles full of brandy. But Silenus was crazed; fancy broke
its bounds in his brain, so that he was obliged, with stiff fingers, to
unearth the drams, to see if the dead had drunk, to drink with them.

    Harriet was quite ready to take up her life again the very hour
Hugh was put in the dust. Sophy allowed the household work to
be resumed next day. It passed much as usual, only interrupted by
an occasional snivel of Sophy. Harriet loved facts. Sophy waited
patiently for the old woman to return to such expressions as she had
used during the week her husband lay dead—to criticise them, and
admonish her; but she waited in vain. Only during that week had
any one heard Harriet speak of the dead and glorified as she had then
spoken; both before and since, all her utterances on such subjects were
strictly theological, and very scanty. Her care was always for the
maintenance or improvement of material surroundings. Here Sophy
seconded her with staunch intention. The two women kept up their
house as though its inmates were twice as numerous, with as much
enthusiasm as though they were on the threshold of life. Indeed, now
Hugh was out of the way, there needed no mystery about the turning
out and scouring which he loathed. They might wash the chimney-
pots every day, and no one would scowl and whimper, and take to bed
of ennui. Harriet had attained her very ideal of housewifery, only to
find it hopelessly flawed by the fact that she could not do all herself.
A failing frame fought her ravenous spirit of toil; for hours, literally
straightened limbs forced her to idleness, while Sophy never sat down,
never halted, the long day through: inventing epic tasks, lifetime
tattings and microscopic patchworks, to employ the hours of lamp-
light. The only seeming solace Harriet had was that she might
command idleness in Sophy; but how could she do that? Indeed,
Sophy might refuse to obey her.

    However, she took care to set aside, for the time when she was
forced to sit down, certain employments to which repose was no barrier.
Chief among these was the care of the ‘silver,’ the electro-plate she
possessed. Her malice loved to see as much of the ‘silver’ used as
possible, on all occasions: dishes, covers, forks, spoons, toast-rack,
cruets—such wealth of bright metal as Harriet thought well nigh in-
credible. It was a joy of joys to her to be surrounded with her
                                                                                                     ‘silver’;

34


‘silver’; lovingly to clean and polish, and then wrap each object in
white tissue-paper, just as they had been received from the shop.
‘What beautiful new spoons!’ ‘New spoons,’ she would laugh, ‘well,
they are not very old; I have had them fifteen years.’ With all the
things in the house she valued it was the same. A great jealousy lest
Sophy should interfere with them for any purpose. It would be time
enough for her to touch the precious things when they were her own.
There was never any question on the subject; it was so well under-
stood that Sophy inherited all the possessions. And not exactly
inherit either; the goods, and that vague wealth in the funds, which
she would have at Harriet’s death, would come as a life’s wages de-
ferred. For this she had toiled, brain and hands, to the full of her
powers, for the Porters. For this she had kept herself fast, never
suffering a thought of marriage, for example, to loiter in her mind.
She knew, latterly, as she grew to know Harriet somewhat, that her
legacy would be considerable. She arrived queerly at this knowledge.
Harriet made no secret of the ‘wage’ understanding; she was finically
just; and she set a higher value on thorough manual work than on
most things.

    It seemed near, too, now. Sophy waited from day to day to hear
Harriet say, as she had said before: ‘I shall not be with you long.
She had her angry answer ready, but it was never called for. So
quickly as almost to be noticeable from one week to another, Harriet
spent less and less of her day on her feet. Less and less too was she
able to use her fingers. Her life drifted more every day towards one
chair, one which had been her affectation somewhat, ever since Hugh
was taken away. Sophy thought she had always a strange look when
sitting in it. It was true. Harriet loved, since she must be idle, to be
idle in that chair. From it—for it was never moved—the light of the
little sitting-room favoured her seeing what passed before her mind
when she was reflective. She would pause sometimes in her work of
cleaning the ‘silver,’ and sit with tea-pot and chamois leather quiet in
her hands, and a fixed look in her eyes. She still persisted in cleaning
the ‘silver’; but as she was able to take care of less, less was used.

    When Harriet was in this almost cataleptic condition—and at last
it was characteristic—all offers of ministration, and all inquiries from
Sophy, were met with thanks and: ‘I am just thinking. Sophy would
wait to see if anything would be added. But only a twinkling smile
answered her curiosity, or a vague sentence cut short in the middle,
                                                                                                     changed

                                                                                                        35


changed presently to some matter of fact, to the valuables she would
leave at her death: ‘You had better have all the silver replated, my
dear; then it will last for years. And you must have the drawing-
room clock cleaned. Don’t be afraid to spend money having every-
thing done up. Then it will be as though you were starting for your-
self. I shall come back, perhaps, and see what you are doing; but you
wont see me! Then such a funny little laugh.

    ‘Don’t be so stupid, Auntie. It’s nothing to laugh at.’

    Auntie thought she had the laugh, all the same. ‘Silver’ and clocks
and money in the funds she left Sophy; the rest she took with her, into
the grave and out on the other side. Sophy would not see her; Sophy
would not see anything but house-linen and spoons. Hugh had never
seen anything; question if he saw much now; she saw him.

    ‘Now, Sophy, I want you to do something for me,’ said Harriet.
‘Address an envelope to the manager of the bank,’ Sophy did this.
Harriet slipped into the envelope a folded letter. ‘I want you to take
this to the bank. Give it to one of the clerks and wait for an answer.’

    ‘You will be all right until I come back?’ said Sophy; mere
courtesy, for Harriet wanted little most hours of the twenty-four. She
went out into the scullery where a charwoman was soiling the flags, in
the language of her irony, at two shillings a day, and sent her off. A
cynical precaution; Harriet was practically helpless, and the woman
might ransack the house. Then she went upstairs and dressed herself
out in all the best she had. She had never felt so ‘silly’ in her life; one
moment excessively serious, as though she were going to take posses-
sion of the bank as a symbol of untold fortune; the next, as utterly
conscious before the glass, posing her bonnet upon her flattened hair.
She had never before worn all her best on a weekday. She went off
to the bank without saying good-bye; so much did she realise the
perfection of her appearance. The letter she carried contained only a
blank sheet of paper.

    At the slam of the street door, Harriet was alone in the house;
alone with the accumulations of her life. She looked slowly round the
little sitting-room, resting on each object with the same thought. The
square table would be Sophy’s, the round one too; the china in the
corner cupboard, each piece of china singly. The cupboard itself was
a possession. The canary in its cage before the window would be
Sophy’s, the maidenhair ferns and the variegated houseleek below it.
All would be Sophy’s, every visible object. Through the wall there,
                                                                                                     in

36


in the drawing-room, which she knew so well that the partition wall
scarcely existed, the piano (which would have to be tuned), the
inlaid sideboard, and the candlesticks and stuffed birds upon it, would
be Sophy’s. Hugh’s presentation Bible would be hers; the rugs, the
pictures on the walls, the curtains, the coal-box, the gilt-legged chair,
all must be left behind. Sophy would have all. Down below her feet,
through the floor, all the crockery on the dresser would be Sophy’s.
All the brass on the high black mantelshelf, the warming-pan hanging
by the dresser, the commoner knives, the old clock, all the pots and
crocks would be Sophy’s. A mayor’s dinner might be cooked in that
kitchen. Upstairs, the great bedsteads, the presses full, crammed with
linen, would be Sophy’s. Whatever happened, Sophy would never
want’ linen. She herself would want one nightdress between her bones
and her coffin: they would hide her neck with a napkin, and cover her
feet with another; all in the common way. She left no directions on
this point. The costume of the dead calls for loving invention. Sophy
would not rise to this; she did not know.

    All the silver in the cupboard beside her would be Sophy’s, all
wrapped in tissue-paper and safe inside baize-lined boxes. All would
be Sophy’s; the hassock under her feet, the chair in which she sat, the
clothes she wore, the shawl about her head, her brooch, her mittens,
her slippers. All tangible things in the house were nearly Sophy’s
own now; very nearly. What was all the house, with walls so thin
and frail, as earthly substance is, that her poor eyesight was not
stopped by them, pierced them like clear water or clear air? The lines
of the room threatened to fade altogether at the bold thought. The
lines of the window-frame wavered and curved; the horizontal arched,
the perpendicular lines curved outwards as they dropped. It was not
much she was leaving; perhaps she was not leaving much behind
Something, too, she took away. She had told Sophy where her will
was, that there was money invested. There were other secrets she had
not told her, which Sophy now would never know. Her limbs stiffened,
or were senseless. She had no pain. Only the captivation of her eyes
by the shapeless light through the window troubled her. It called to
her, drew her eyes with magnetic power. Something rose in her
throat; her eyes darkened; and Harriet was gone.

                                                                                                JOHN GRAY.

ET S’IL REVENAIT

                        ET s’il revenait un jour
                             Que faut-il lui dire?
                        — Dites lui qu’on l’attendit
                             Jusqu’à s’en mourir . . .

                        Et s’il demande où vous êtes
                             Que faut-il répondre?
                        — Donnez-lui mon anneau d’or
                             Sans rien lui répondre . . .

                        Et s’il m’interroge encore
                             Sans me reconnaître?
                        — Parlez-lui comme une soeur
                             Il souffre peut être . . .

                        Et s’il veut savoir pourquoi
                             La salle est déserte?
                        — Montrez-lui la lampe éteinte
                             Et la porte ouverte . . .

                        Et s’il m’interroge alors
                             Sur la dernière heure?
                        — Dites-lui que j’ai souri
                             De peur qu’il ne pleure.

                                                                               MAURICE MAETERLINCK.

ON THE SHALLOWS

The square shape around the seriffed letter R is formed out of interlacing ribbons with terminal foliation of acanthus leaves and pomegranate buds. The decoration is created in thin black lines, leaving the letters, vines, and leaves white. It appears to be a wood engraving.

‘RAT-TA-TA, Fa-la-la! Fa-la-fa-la-La! Now
you remember my tune, don’t you, Fan-
tasio?’

    ‘Yes, Lady, I remember it now,’ said the
boy, hesitatingly.

    ‘Listen, my Lord. You were saying
that no woman had ever composed a good
tune, though ’tis every woman’s business to
play. I could touch it lightly on the string
myself were it not that I’ve hurt my finger with a plaguy tapestry
needle. But I am minded to show you a piece of my teaching also.
Fantasio can’t play as Peter does, but Peter was a Court minstrel.
Why don’t you play, boy?’

    For answer came a queer sound from the page’s throat, and an
instant tinkle of the chords. Trembling was the little hand that held
the neck of the cithara, and the fingers of the other wavered as they
pulled at the tight lines, now firmly, now feebly. And as the Fa-la-
fa-la-la hovered over the still water, a long trumpet-call floated through
the air from the castle tower far away across the sand-flats, with a dis-
cordance sufficiently potent to hurt the Lady Joana’s melody.

    At her order then he stopped for an interval, and the slow oars
dipped sluggishly. Once more the far trees on the edge of the cham-
paign seemed to move; once more they passed, one in front of another;
once more the low sound of spent waves turning on the beach was lost
in the gurgle at the boat’s prow; once more the two squires chattered,
in tones becomingly subdued, to the two waiting-maids as the keel
glided over the shallows.

    Far out to sea lay the same slumbrous level, a wonderful shining
floor of tinted silver it seemed as the light flashes of purple came at
times over its dull gleam of gradual blue. There were tawny regions
for miles round the solitary boat, tawny regions of shoal and quicksand,
which melted away into the warm greyish-green of the deeps. And
over all—shallows and deeps—lay the same great peace, until the eye
wandered past one ship lying becalmed and faint, like a summer ghost
of some butterfly dead too soon; past the warm white spot of its distant
sails . . . to the horizon, whose sharp edge would seem to show that
some breeze was passing along it to the unseen countries of the newly-
found West. A dot was on that line, and the dot moved. Mayhap it
                                                                                                     held

❧ SYMPHONY IN WHITE No. III
by 
James M’Neil Whistler


                                                                                                        43

held a band of fiery spirits, who were off on the quest for Eldorado,
mayhap only a cautious crew of merchantmen,—still it moved. But
here all life had become smoothed into a long pause: the white ship
lay motionless, the clarion’s call died away, the water never stirred,
but only slept and shone, the sigh of waves on the sandy shore was as
the scarce-heard breathing of a girl’s repose. . . .

    ‘They have done with their noise,’ said Lady Joana. ‘So play my
tune again, Fantasio, and do it better.’

    ‘Yes, Lady,’ mumbled the boy.

    He had control of himself now, and the dancing notes poured
merrily forth as his nimble fingers shifted over the instrument. Light
and gay it was, this melody of a woman’s composing, and it set one’s
blood on tip-toe with its frolicsome thrill. The women tapped their
shoes instinctively as a current of dance tingled in heel and sole; the
men tattooed with their fingers on the plank. Lady Joana laughed,
they all laughed, and the sound of their laughter blending with the
sigh of the shore seemed to take a dreamy pleasantness that was the
expression of a universal harmony, lying lightly on the shallows.

    ‘You do not say what you think of it, my Lord.’

    ‘Faith, I hardly know what to say,’ replied the young noble, beating
about in the thickets of his mind for a courtly compliment, for he felt
the responsibility of keeping up the Court’s reputation. Alas! it was
a pseudo-glory, the halo of a gay place surrounding the dullest and
most cloddish of its frequenters; but then these country people expected
wit from him, so he must make a great effort, for he did not wish to lose
lustre in the lady’s eyes.

    ‘Faith, . . . it is the brightness of your mind which dazzles my dis-
cernment. It is as though all the groves of Arcadia were open to be
seen, and the sheep cast off their nature and danced with their fair
mistress. It’s such a . . . such a tune as Phoebus might have invented
to charm the frowns of the Muses into smiles . . . it is a music that
might be the very food of love. . . .’

    Lady Joana drank it in with pleasure. Her looks said ‘More!’ but
Lord Bertram could not gratify her; he only continued that it was very
pretty, it was vastly pretty, that it could not but please hugely every
one who had the good fortune to hear it.

    As he said this his eye fell on the page, who still wrought at the
melody with bent head, hiding as well as he could the woebegone
look which he felt to be evident on his face. Suddenly Lady Joana
                                                                                                     spoke,

44

spoke, and the sound of her voice caused the boy to wince slightly, as
if he had memories of a clout on the ear. But it was the faintest shade
of a shrink, and for this time groundless. His mistress was ordering
him to play for her singing, with intent to charm Lord Bertram further.

    Tinkle-tankle, thrum-thrum—and to the accompaniment of the
sweet notes she carolled forth a ditty of birds and groves, and flowers
and loves, with a little chorus of Down, down, derry-down. As Lord
Bertram, with some pains, accomplished another string of compliments,
again the far clarion-call came across the warm air and water.

    ‘There are fresh guests,’ said Lady Joana then, with a pleased look
in her eye, ‘and we will be returning to welcome them. So take the
rudder, Hugh.’

    While Hugh did his mistress’s bidding, the boy Fantasio grew absent
of mind and touched the strings to a little simple tune, very lightly and
low. Lord Bertram listened, nevertheless, and interrupted him with
praise, saying that it was the best of all he had yet played. But
Fantasio, instead of going on, stopped in confusion, and looked uneasy.
‘Boy,’ said Lady Joana, all at once, ‘play my dance to the men’s oars
as they row!’

    And instantly Fantasio obeyed, with the same suggestion of a
shrink. Dip, dip, dip went the blades, and the tune kept time with them.

    ‘’Twas his own tune, that last,’ whispered the farthest rower to his
neighbour alongside him in the broad boat where two men sat a seat.

    ‘My Lady is none too pleased, I warrant.’

    ‘Nay, I like this one also,’ said the other, who had not long been in
this service, ‘a merry tune, that makes me fit to dance.’

    ‘It is the tune to which poor Jack’s father was beaten out of his life,’
whispered the first man. ‘He offended my Lady somehow, and was
basted to satisfy her, there in the castle-yard. And, being weakly just
then, it finished him next day. Made him spit out his heart in blood.
‘Twas then that Jack came into my Lady’s service, and got his new
name. Therefore he remembers the tune.’

    So to the playing of Fantasio the boat glided shorewards, dragging
heavily over the shallows. The party landed and filed over the plain
to the castle, and passed through the great gate.

    And when Fantasio had followed his mistress through her greetings,
and had held her train through court and hall and passage, till they
were alone—he and she,—she turned upon him and dealt his head a
heavy blow with her scented fist—another, and another, to which he
                                                                                                     submitted

                                                                                                        45

submitted silently. ‘Little, low-bred fellow,’ she said, as she viciously
pinched his ear, ‘this is for being too forward.’

    However, when at last she was gone, he rubbed his face quietly and
dried his eyes. Then he took up the cithara, and, peering out to see
that he was quite alone, played softly to himself the thoughts which
came to him in such sorrowful moments—wild little airs and curious
fancies, which were his refuge, his aids to patient silence.

    So for a time he forgot that he was here fast bound on the shallows
a servant to the caprices of a vain fine lady.

                                                                                                W. DELAPLAINE SCULL.

SONG

                                    O HAVE you blessed, behind the stars,
                                        The blue sheen in the skies,
                                    When June the roses round her calls?—
                                    Then do you know the light that falls
                                        From her belovèd eyes.

                                    And have you felt the sense of peace
                                        That morning meadows give?—
                                    Then do you know the spirit of grace,
                                    The angel abiding in her face,
                                        Who makes it good to live.

                                    She shines before me, hope and dream,
                                        So fair, so still, so wise,
                                    That, winning her, I seem to win
                                    Out of the drive and dust and din
                                        A nook of Paradise.

                                                                                                W. E. HENLEY (1877).

THE DEATH OF TINTAGILES

PT 1 FIX

❧ PSYCHE IN THE HOUSE
by 
Charles Ricketts

PT 2 FIX

❧ ŒDIPUS
after a pen drawing
by 
Charles Ricketts

PT 3 FIX

DAVID GWYNN — HERO OR ‘BOASTING LIAR’?

(From ‘Historical Problems’)

I  ‘A GALLEY lie’ ye call my tale; but he
      Whose talk is with the deep kens mighty tales.
   The man, I say, who helped to keep you free
      Stands here, a truthful son of truthful Wales.
   Slandered by England as a loose-lipped liar,
      Banished from Ireland, branded rogue and thief,
   Here stands that Gwynn, whose life of torments dire
   Heaven sealed for England, sealed in blood and fire
      Stands asking here Truths one reward, belief!

II  I see—I see ev’n now—those ships of Spain
      Gathered in Lisbon Bay to make the spring,
   I feel the curséd oars, I toil again,
      And trumpets blare, and priests and choir-boys sing;
   And morning strikes with many a golden shaft,
      Through ruddy mist, four galleys rowing out,
   Four galleys built to pierce the English craft,
   Each swivel-gunned for raking fore and aft,
      Snouted like sword-fish, but with iron snout.

III  And one we call The Princess, one The Royal,
Diana one; and last that fell Basana
   Where I am toiling, Gwynn, the true, the loyal
      Thinking of mighty Drake and Gloriana.
   By Finisterre God sends a hurricane;
      Down comes the captain, and quoth he to me—
   His Hell-lit eyes blistered with spray and rain—
   ‘Freedom and gold are thine, and thanks of Spain,
      If thou canst take the galley through this sea.’

                                                                                                     ‘Ay!

      ❧Professor Laughtons introduction to ‘State Papers relating to the defeat of the Spanish
   Armada’ lends a revived interest to David Gwynns ‘galley yarn,’ which the Professor repu-
   diates. It is treated by Motley as an important episode in the great naval struggle between
   England and Spain.


                                                                                                      73

IV  Ay ! ay !’ quoth I. The fools unlock me straight,
      And soon ’tis I give orders to the Don,
   Laughing within to hear the laugh of Fate:
      Soldiers must go below, quoth I, ‘each one!’
   Death whispers thus: ‘While soldiers sit below
      ‘Twixt slaves, whose hate turns nails and teeth to knives,
   Seize thou the muskets; turn them on the foe;
   But watch with me, before thou strike the blow,
      Till thou canst free the stoutest from their gyves.’

V The four queen-galleys pass Cape Finisterre:
      The Armada, dreaming but of ocean storms,
   Thinks not of British slaves with shoulders bare
      Chained, bloody-whealed, and pale on galley forms.
   Each, as he rows, hath this my whispered plan
      Deep-scriptured in his brain in words of fire:
   ‘Rise every man, and tear to death his man,
   Yea, tear as only galley captives can,
      When “Gods Revenge” sings loud to Oceans lyre.’

VI  Past Ferrol Bay I see each galley stoop,
      Shuddering before the Biscay demons breath—
   Down goes a prow—down goes a gaudy poop:
      ‘The Dons Diana bears the Don to death,
   Quoth I, ‘and, see the Princess plunge and wallow
      Down purple troughs o’er snowy crests of foam:
   See! see! the Royal, how she tries to follow
   By many a glimmering crest and shimmering hollow,
      Where gull and petrel scarcely dare to roam.’

VII  And now Death signs to me mid Oceans din;
      The captain sees the skeleton and pales;
   And when the slaves cry ‘Ho for Drake and Gwynn!’
      ‘Teach them,’ quoth I, ‘the way we swim in Wales!’
   Sweet strokes are they we deal for old loves sake
      When slaves are turned to lords, and lords to slaves.
   When captives hold the whip, let drivers quake!
   Make every Don, athirst for blood of Drake,
      Toast England’s Queen in wine of foaming waves.’

                                                                                                     Far

74

VIII  Far off, the Royal’s captain sees the strife,
      Her slaves see too—see Freedom coming on.
   ‘Ye scourge in vain,’ quoth I, ‘scourging for life
      Slaves who shall row no more to save the Don.’
   ‘Captives,’ I cry, ‘your hour is coming swift:
      Through David Gwynn God frees you from your pain;
   Show Heaven and me your lives are worth the gift!’
   Full soon the captured Royal rides adrift:
      ‘Ask Gwynn,’ quoth I,’for four queen-galleys, Spain—

IX  Spain, who shalt tell, with ashen lips of dread,
      The Welshmans tale—shalt tell in future days
   How Gwynn, the galley slave, once fought and bled
      For England, when she moved through perilous ways!’
   And, now, ye Plymouth seamen, heroes sprung
      From loins of men whose spirits haunt the sea,
   Doth England, she who loves the loudest tongue,
   Remember sons of hers whose deeds are sung
      By yon green billows sworn to hold her free?

X To think the great new thought or do the deed
      That gilds with richer light the mother-land,
   Or lend her strength of arm in hour of need,
      When eyes of Doom gleam fierce on every hand,
   Is bliss to him whose bliss is working well—
      Is goal and guerdon, too, though boasters loud
      Make brazen music for the leaden crowd,
   Dazzled and deafened by the babblers spell.

                                                                                                THEODORE WATTS.

❧ LOVE
a brush drawing
by
Sir John Everett Millais, R.A.

THE WORK OF CHARLES RICKETTS

The pictorial initial P shows the naked figure of Psyche, descending steps against a brick wall, carrying a woven basket with cakes. In front of her, Cerberus, the three-headed dog of Hades, emerges from a dark and enflamed pit. An image of the original drawing for this initial appears in the Pageant vol. 1; the wood-engraved version appears a few months later in The Dial vol. 4 (1896), which reproduced specimen type for the Vale Press.

PRE-RAPHAELITE!—the term is accepted, and
a singularly individual movement of roman-
ticism in literature and art must needs be
content with the ill-formed adjective. But
when one sets out on a career of apprecia-
tion of an artist who restricts himself to
this method of expression that is not, and
never was, sympathetic to the masses, it is
with no hope of convincing any one who
chances to be prejudiced against it. In writing of art, the critic
writes merely to convince himself. When he sees his vague
beliefs formulated in a sort of creed, it strengthens his own
and he feels, no doubt, that he is right; thus he is assured of
one convert at least.

    But although Mr. Charles Ricketts would probably not refuse to call
himself a Pre-Raphaelite, if forced to adopt the nickname of a great
school, yet it is also certain that his definition of the aims and ideals
conveyed by that word would differ entirely from the current accepta-
tion. The original Brotherhood have recorded their own intentions
often enough—a whole literature of misrepresentation has also gathered
round the school—so that it is best here to insist that the Pre-
Raphaelitism of Mr. Ricketts is best understood by study of his work.
In place of attempting to define the expression and show how loyally
the artist obeys its most stringent rules, it were best to call attention to
his method and his achievements, and let those who will deduce the
creed from the practice. For any direct statement of Pre-Raphaelite
aims and ideals seems doomed to be misinterpreted; one has but to
turn to a journalistic notice of the Arts and Crafts movement, or of
the Kelmscott Press editions, or to the criticism of any work concerned
with decorative intention, to discover that all the qualities which chance
to conflict with the writer’s own standard of taste are dubbed impar-
tially ‘Pre-Raphaelite’ or ‘Impressionist,’ although for the most part
unconcerned with either.

    Nor is it needful here to trace the evolution of the Pre-Raphaelite
illustration, under the hands of various exponents, from The Germ
until it was almost totally neglected. The best men of the new move-
ment, that supplanted it for a while, contented themselves with a quiet
effort to attain naturalistic effects without striving to keep their work
                                                                                                     intensely

80

intensely strained in its expression and full of spirituality. The Pre-
Raphaelite ideal has always insisted on a high degree of nervous
tension, and this may be taken as the boundary between two domains.

    In 1870 the Graphic was started, and with it grew rapidly a new
influence which, for a time at least, caused the Pre-Raphaelite ideal to be
no more sought after. No longer was there even a desire to represent
things, with every possible circumstance, closely knit together in a
design meant to be pleasant to the eye. In its stead, character in
isolation was the ruling motive, with just enough actuality in the back-
ground to convey time and space. The pages of Good Words or Once
a Week show this gradual change of front in men working simul-
taneously. The drawings by Boyd Houghton form a connecting link
between the old and new methods, the work of Sir John Millais shows
also instances of both manners achieved with equal perfection; but the
majority are attracted by newer gods. After the death of Boyd
Houghton, Pinwell, and Fred Walker, Charles Keene alone remained
faithful to an entirely naturalistic convention, which at the same time
escaped the mere prettiness that rapidly degraded the style of others.

    The Dalziel Bible Gallery, a monumental attempt to bring black
and white up to the level of its earlier triumphs, must not be forgotten.
It is curious to find how this book, which to-day appears to be what
modern jargon would style an epoch-making document, excited no
great sympathy when it was published in 1881, and apparently failed
to influence the younger men who might have been expected to swear
allegiance to its principles. If you compare those illustrations with the
average work at the moment of its publication, you cannot fail to
realise how wide a field has been traversed by English draughtsmen,
and how often and how irresponsibly they have changed their aims.
For this work, prepared many years previously, and detained by acci-
dental circumstances, retained the stately phrase of a grander style.
Although its contributors showed singularly unequal merit, the best bade
fair, even from their accomplishment therein, to be ranked ultimately
among the great black and white artists, irrespective of locality or date.

    In his children’s toy-books, which have given their author a wider
Continental reputation than most people imagine, Mr. Walter Crane
created a new impulse. Voluntarily enlisting themselves under the
standard he then set up, some twenty years after a school of followers
have tardily sprung into being with alarming fecundity, a school that is
satisfied for the most part if it can be decorative, ingenuous, and quaint.
                                                                                                     Its

                                                                                                        81

Its followers display, it is true, a
certain inept alacrity, and no little
dexterity of a cumbrous sort, but for
the most part lack entirely the real
fancy, or the naive humour which
distinguishes the work of Mr. Walter
Crane’s best period.

    Quite recently we have welcomed
the drawings by Sir Edward Burne-
Jones, cut in wood for the Kelms-
cott Press editions, and here and
there, both in England and on the
Continent, are to be seen the first
attempts at a new renaissance of
the Pre-Raphaelite idea, which,
born in England, and peculiar to
our country, is nevertheless still
regarded as exotic, even by those
who could so easily be better in-
formed.

    The prominent place of Mr.
Ricketts in this movement need not
be discussed here; it is already evi-
dent to many, and because a large
number of these chance to be re-
moved from the parochial influences
of contemporary criticism, it seems only logical to accept their opinion
as the foreshadowing of a futur English verdict. Lookers-on see
most of the game; yet it would be foolish to set the verdict of the Con-
tinent in opposition to that of the current periodical, were it not that
the one is the expression of artists, while the other is chiefly that of
journalists.

    That much of Mr. Ricketts earlier work is not accepted by its
author as representative in any way, need not be urged against him or
it. The unfettered illustrations, produced for no programme, and
regardless of exterior criticism, may be said to begin with The Dial,
                                                                                                     No. 1

82

No. 1, a magazine privately published, in conjunction with some friends,
by the artist, then under the age of twenty-one, at The Vale, Chelsea.
This sumptuous quarto, although technically a private enterprise, was
sold to the public, and its limited edition exhausted speedily. It found
appreciation not merely at home but abroad, and despite its restricted
issue, has had no little influence on contemporary workers. This was
soon followed by The House of Pomegranates, a book which contains
illustrations, together with the rather unsuccessful cover of peacocks in
gold and ivory, entirely (with the exception of the full-page plates)
from Mr. Ricketts hand. These display, no less surely than the Dial
illustrations, the peculiar individuality of his style. Later on, the
Poems of Lord de Tabley, clad in a cover from his design, contained
five elaborate illustrations which show the more dramatic, the more
substantial, and the more really Pre-Raphaelite aspect of his talent, and
are evidence of the survival of the Pre-Raphaelite idea, still possessing
the vigour of its first imagination.

    All these so far are pen-drawings, reproduced by process full of
intricate dexterity, and abounding in elaborate conceits both of idea
and technique. But another side of Mr. Ricketts art that has engrossed
his attention for some years, and still appears to fascinate him most, is
conceived in a very different mood. This work, invariably engraved, by
its author, is imbued with the spirit of early Italian wood-cutting, and
faithful to the convention developed by the artists who illustrated the
Hypnerotomachia, the Quadriregio, and other Venetian and Florentine
books. In the Vale editions of Daphnis and Chloe, a reprint of Thorn-
leys translation of Longus’ idyll, and Marlowe’s Hero and Leander, the
illustrations throughout are not merely designed, but cut in wood, by
the artist; and in their complete unity of idea and handling must needs
prove extremely interesting, even to those who fail to sympathise with
the spirit of their design. The marriage of art with craft is peculiarly
popular among people who talk about the applied arts to-day; but the
union often enough appears to be ill-assorted and temporary. Here so
absolutely integral is the line conceived and the line resulting, that you
cannot dissever them, even in thought. These illustrations are severe
in their direct statement, suave in curve, and full of lavish invention;
yet their effects are always gained by the most reticent expression of
the idea. Courteous and scholarly, they do not aim to astonish, or to
betray mastery of technique. It is surprising, indeed, to compare the
Œdipus (a pen-drawing in the possession of Sir Frederick Leighton)
                                                                                                     here

                                                                                                        83

here repro-
duced, with
one of the
illustrations
to the poem
of The
Sphinx. In
the earlier
work, min-
ute decora-
tion, ela-
borate
symbolism,
exquisite
daintiness of
finish, are carried to their final utterance;
in the other,
the adventurous idea is curbed, and the prodigal imagination brought
within the most restrained limits. The one leaves unrecorded no facet
of the flashing crystal of the idea itself: the most ingenious student
can scarce elucidate the many-sided presentation of the subject
which is always consistently elaborated to develop the central motive
of the composition, while its main intention is apparent at the most
casual glance. In the other, the main purpose of the imagined poem
in line is directly insisted upon, and reiterated without any comments
or similes. Each class appeals to students; but whereas merely intelli-
gent patience may unravel the first, to grasp the intention of the second
demands a poetic vision hardly less keenly sustained than that of its
author. Such work never has been, and is never likely to be, popular
with the multitude. The simplicity of the commonplace they under-
stand; the perplexity of the complex is also sufficiently dazzling to
charm, if not to convince, them; but the final simplicity which is not to
be appreciated without equal renunciation on the part of the spectator
equal knowledge of his unexpressed but deliberate ignoring of all
but the essential that can never appeal to any but those already
in touch with the idea. Merely to be misunderstood is no proof of
                                                                                                     genius;

84

genius; bad grammar, or infelicitous expression, may accomplish as
much; but to be misunderstanded of the careless or ignorant, and
yet understanded of artistic people, has often been the reward of an
artist.

    Leaving for a moment the directly pictorial work, one has only to
study his designs for covers, and the printed pages of books produced
under his direction, to discover even stronger evidence of his influence
upon younger men. True it is, that the new crusade to bring together
the harmony of the type and its decoration cannot be credited solely
to Mr. Ricketts in face of the achievements of the Kelmscott Press.
But the artist, in the daring of youth, has combined intense loyalty to
precedent, with experiment based on tradition. Saturated with know-
ledge of the past, his Pegasus has nevertheless shaken its wings and
essayed fresh flights. For his first manner, one has but to turn to a
prospectus issued to announce the advent of a new Dial, or to the
title-page of Silverpoints, or to still earlier books for which he is respon-
sible, to find absolutely new arrangements of older motives. Fantastic,
bizarre, and with splendid audacity, the unalterable tesserae of the
printers type are arranged in mosaics that depart from no single
tradition, and yet reunite to display a score of fresh devices. In later
examples of this class there is a marked change; despite the success of
his improvisations, the importance of style is now more obviously felt,
obedience rather than invention is the aim. For this newer work,
despite its original appearance, is built on ancient models to an extent
scarce suspected by chance observers, because the artist has explored
the past very thoroughly and discovered new models worthy of revival,
and deduced from them new rules unsuspected heretofore. The
legerdemain of a Houdin, prince of jugglers, dealt with gorgeous but
impossible objects cubes and cones wrought with mystic devices, and
all the tinselled paraphernalia of the property-man; that of the great
modern exponent of sleight-of-hand astounds you the more, although
he juggles with the commonest objects of the household. All your
wonder is called forth by the sheer artistry of the consummate master,
and by no extraneous adjuncts. Mr. Ricketts effects, so far, belong
to the latter class. From the ordinary types of the best founders he
has evolved new triumphs, austere yet seductive, in detail absolutely
obedient to self-imposed rules, but in massing and architectural
arrangement, novel and vivid, as, for instance, in the Silverpoints before
mentioned.
                                                                                                     Cloth-binding

                                                                                                        85

    Cloth-bind-
ing, but lat-
terly a thing
of horror, has
suddenly be-
come illumi-
nated with
intelligence;
and for this
no second
name need be
coupled with
that of Mr.
Ricketts. In
his splendid
decorations
for many mod-
ern books, too
familiar to
people of taste
to need cata-
loguing here,
he has set up
new stand-
ards that have
been largely
appreciated,
and unluckily
as largely imitated. Take, for instance, a beautiful cover to one
of these books, with its three rigidly symmetrical trees, and you will
see that a distinctly Eastern flavour pervades it, yet the spirit of the
Renaissance infuses all to a sober simplicity. The richness is obtained
by using certain contours and forms sublimated to their most naive
expression. The straight lines of the tree trunks, the absence of
any definition of the individual leaves, the domestic fascination of the
                                                                                                     tiny

86

tiny flowers, that might have been raised in the garden oi a jeweller
all are contrived to afford a curiously romantic pattern, that is old-world
in its essence but not in its handling. For these covers contain an
entire rule of his own as to how metal stamps should be understood in
the decoration of a book. If one looks at merely technical facility in
employing the material wisely, the absence of any pictorial detail, the
gorgeous effect of plain masses of gold upon the subtly coloured cloths
chosen to receive the metal stamped upon its surface all these sub-
ordinate items are worthy of appreciative study, for they are not
accidental matters, left to the tradesmans fancy.

In the designs themselves one discovers sufficient material to supply
a whole army of hungry designers, and leave many basketsful of
fragments to be gathered up. Only a fellow-decorator can fully
appreciate this single by-path of Mr. Ricketts art: only one who
has studied pattern-making can entirely realise the new impetus he
has given to the craft. Hence it would be foolish to indulge in
rhapsodies which would be superfluous to those who know, and unin-
telligible to the rest.

    That his work is prized abroad has been stated here before. That
his wood-cutting is a sustained effort to preach anew a truth out of
favour at present, is also patent enough; but in returning to Mr.
Ricketts pictures in black and white, one must not forget to insist on
the importance of recognising in them a gift of narrative that is happily
allied to the research of handling. Invention and technique are poised
in masterly balance. On purely typographical grounds one must dis-
sect them, and note the well-arranged changes of line to suit the type
destined to be set with the woodcut. Thus when the pictures (as in
Lord de Tableys poems) are inserted as full-page plates, they fulfil a
distinct pictorial convention, and hardly consider the type-page; but
when (as in The Sphinx ) they are embedded in the text, they are intensely
conventional, and entirely disdain the naturalistic circumstances and
intricate workmanship of the earlier book. Yet all the same they
equal the earlier fancies in complexity of idea and intensity of situa-
tion. Planted among the type they forbear to arrogate supreme
importance to themselves. Although dominating the page they do so
with a courteous affectation of being merely decorative adjuncts; yet
all the time they maintain their dignity unimpaired. In the illustra-
tions to The Sphinx, where the type, sparsely planned to decorate large
pages, supplies a modicum of text, the pictures are also in delicate
                                                                                                     lines,

❧ SIR ISUMBRAS OF THE FORD
by
Sir John Everett Millais, R.A.

                                                                                                        91

lines, with masses of white to balance and accord with the matter of
the book. The mere spacing of the pages and the placing of the
pictures and text in this one volume would suffice, did space permit, to
demonstrate the principle of balance and harmony which it is the
peculiar aim of Mr. Ricketts to secure.

    So much for their technical fascination. In their pictured fancies
accompanying Poems Dramatic and Lyrical, by Lord de Tabley,
you are not, as it were, confronted by the plane of the white page.
Through it, you gaze into time and space far removed from everyday
associations; and the glimpses of things scarce known before brand
themselves deep into the memory, with all the fascination of things seen
for the first time; for the artists power of re-edifying the crumbled
palaces beyond the gates of ivory is akin to the cunning of a slave of
the lamp. Take, for instance, the ‘Nimrod,’ and note how the impas-
sivity of the stricken hero, with all the accidents of cloud and flame, is
rendered more impressive by the oak-sprig in his girdle, plucked from
the tree which has since fallen behind him. The lightning still playing
on his crown, upon every metallic surface of his spear, and the decora-
tion of his garments, leaves no doubt of the source of the catastrophe.
Nor must one fail to recognise the tact of the artist in closing the eyes
of the man, who seems to be the only thing remaining alive when all
has crumbled about him. To analyse these more minutely, it is
interesting to compare the different treatment of the nerveless hand of
the Nimrod who has dropped his shield with the searching hands
of the figure that represents Death (in the frontispiece ‘Death of
the Old King’). Nor should one fail to notice the fantasy that
depicts this figure picking a laurel wreath to pieces, leaf by leaf, nor
the admirable conceit in crowding his lap full of love-letters and locks
of hair.

    The designs for a forthcoming edition of Apuleius’ Golden Ass,
some of which are here given before being cut on the wood, fulfil
very different conditions. There is an ingenious touch in making
Psyche pensive before the painted representatives of the Loves
of the Gods, and one that does not lack humour, elsewhere a not
unusual quality in the artists work, although rarely evident on the
surface.

    But it would be almost impertinent to attempt to compile a guide-
book to the wonderland of Mr. Ricketts imagination. Only a poet can
fully gauge the whole of a poets meaning. One must remember that
                                                                                                     months

92

months of patient thought in elaborating the germ of an idea, and then
presenting it in a way purposely sublimated and reduced to its most
meagre essentials, leave no result that he who runs may read. Great
ideas slowly shaped require no little study to realise their concealed
variety.

    As a last word, it may be wise to say that, in the illustrations here
reproduced, we see but one side of Mr. Ricketts art. For, with a single
exception, they are all reproductions of pen-drawings made for process,
or drawings intended to be, but not already, cut on wood. The little
dragon on the roof affords a solitary example of his most expressive
manipulation of the yet unappreciated line of the wood-block. The
etchers line has been the subject of many rhapsodies; but the line of
the great wood-engraver is still to be commemorated by a perfect
eulogy. A line that varies from that of Diirer to the white line of
Linton, that can imitate the nervous accent of the brush of Hokosai,
or accord gracefully with the labial fluid curves of the great Italians, a
line that ranges from the wooden inelegance of the journeyman en-
graver to the sentient, emotional touch of Mr. Ricketts, is of no slight
importance. It can be the meanest or the most beautiful of lines,
according to the handling of the one who cuts it, and let us not forget
that, unlike the Japanese engraver and the dexterous American en-
gravers, Mr. Ricketts invents the work to be cut; that, even in the
past, such men are few in number, and that he already has his following.
It is of less importance to decide whether the art of wood-cutting
is dying out for popular use, or is being restricted to the highest
employment only from the commercial rivalry of process work.
While an artist so accomplished and withal so reticent in the
mere virtuosity of his craft handles it as Mr. Ricketts can, one
need not fear for its immediate future, or doubt that the end of the
nineteenth century will leave new masterpieces for the cabinets of
future collectors.

    The apparently unproductive years, since the last Vale books
appeared, do not imply cessation of creative work, but rather denote
the conception and elaboration of a new enterprise. Amid the group
of books not merely illustrated, but planned in every detail by Mr.
Ricketts which are on the eve of publication, with a type of his own
designing, will be found some notable works that will more than justify
the appreciation here set down clumsily, if truly.

    The courage of ones convictions has been unduly praised; the really
                                                                                                     praiseworthy

                                                                                                        93

praiseworthy attitude is surely to possess the undoubted conviction
of one’s courage. Yet as the first person who tells the truth before its
time is usually held to be a proved liar thereby perhaps it would
have been more seemly to refrain from an attempt to formulate opinions
not yet accepted by all men of light and leading, although one has no
doubt of the final verdict. For an artist so individual and distinctly
true to his own ideals, no matter what they may be, as Mr. Ricketts
assuredly is, will certainly receive complete appreciation ultimately from
those who can consider his work dispassionately, with full documentary
evidence of the influence it exerted on his successors, and its relative
position among contemporaneous efforts.

                                                                                                GLEESON WHITE.

A DUET

                                    ‘FLOWERS nodding gaily, scent in air,
                                     Flowers posied, flowers in the hair,
                                     Sleepy flowers, flowers bold to stare—’
                                                      ‘Oh, pick me some.’

                                    ‘Shells with lip, or tooth, or bleeding gum,
                                     Tell-tale shells, and shells that whisper “Come,”
                                     Shells that stammer, blush, and yet are dumb—’
                                                      ‘Oh, let me hear.’

                                    ‘Eyes so black they draw one trembling near,
                                     Brown eyes, caverns flooded with a tear,
                                     Cloudless eyes, blue eyes so windy clear—’
                                                      ‘Oh, look at me.’

                                    ‘Kisses sadly blown across the sea,
                                     Darkling kisses, kisses fair and free,
                                     Bob-a-cherry kisses ’neath a tree—’
                                                      ‘Oh, give me one.—’
                                     Thus sang a queen and king in Babylon.

                                                                                                 T. STURGE MOORE.

  TALE OF A NUN

The square shape around the seriffed letter S is formed out of interlacing ribbons with terminal foliation of acanthus leaves and pomegranate buds. The decoration is created in thin black lines, leaving the letters, vines, and leaves white. It appears to be a wood engraving.

SMALL good cometh to me of making rhyme;
so there be folk would have me give it up,
and no longer harrow my mind therewith.

    But in virtue of her who hath been both
mother and maiden, I have begun the tale
of a fair miracle, which God without doubt
hath made show in honour of her who fed
him with her milk.

    Now I shall begin and tell the tale of a nun.
May God help me to handle it well, and bring it to a good
end, even so according to the truth as it was told me by Brother
Giselbrecht, an ordained monk of the order of Saint William; he, a
dying old man, had found it in his books.

    The nun of whom I begin my tale was courtly and fine in her
bearing; not even nowadays, I am sure, could one find another to be
compared to her in manner and way of looks. That I should praise her
body in each part, exposing her beauty, would become me not well; I
will tell you, then, what office she used to hold for a long time in the
cloister where she wore veil. Custodian she was there, and whether it
were day or night, I can tell you she was neither lazy nor slothful. Ever
was she quick to do her work, ringing the bell in church, making ready
with the ornaments and lights, and causing the whole convent to rise
in due time.

    This maiden was not free from Love, who is wont to work so great
wonders over all the world. Sometimes he bringeth shame and torment
and sorrow ; sometimes joy and happiness. Who is wise he maketh so
foolish that he must needs come to grief whether willing or unwilling.
Another he so vanquisheth that he knows no more whether to speak or
to be dumb be to his boon. Many a one he trampleth under foot, who
may not rise but when he giveth leave. Others Love causeth to be
                                                                                       generous

❧The ‘Tale of a Nun,’ given here in an English form, is translated from the verse of a
mediaeval Dutch legend, written probably about the year 1320 by an author whose name is now
unknown. The origin of the legend is to be found in Caesarii Cisterciencis inonachi in
Heisterbacho, Dialogus miraculorum
, where, in Distinctio Septima, cap. xxxv., a short story
of the Virgin’s miraculous intervention is given. Readers of mediaeval French literature, who
know Méon’s collection of Fabliaux, will be able to compare the French and Dutch versions,
and no doubt will agree that the latter has the better claim to a rendering into English.

96

generous who would fain keep their gifts to themselves, were it not for
Love inspiring them. Also one shall find folk so true one to the other,
that whatsoever Love bringeth them, be it little or great, bliss, joy, or
sorrow, they bear it both together. Such Love I call true.

    Nor could I ever tell you of all the happiness and misery that flow
out of the brooks of Love. Therefore one should not condemn the nun
that she could not escape from Love, which kept her fast in his net. For
the fiend seeketh always to tempt man, and taketh no rest night or day,
but bringeth all his wiles to work.

    By vile cunning, as best he could, so did he tempt the nun that she
believed she must die. Unto God she bade, and implored Him that He
should comfort her by His grace. ‘How burdened I am by strong love
and wounded, He knoweth to Whom all things are open, from Whom
naught is hidden, nor how that this weakness shall lead me astray. I
must lead a new life; I must lay off this garment.’

    Now, hearken, how she fared further on:

    She sent word to the young lord to whom she bore such deep love,
with a letter full of sweet passion, praying him to make haste to come to
her, and it should be to his boon. The messenger went to where dwelt
the young lord, who took the letter and read what his friend had sent
to him. Then he was joyful in his mind and hastened to come to her.
Ever since they had been twelve years old, had these two borne love
together, suffering great dole from it.

    So fast as he could, he rode unto that nunnery where she was to be
found. Before the little window he sat down, and would fain see her and
speak to his love, if that might be. No long time did she tarry, but came
before the little window which was crossed all over with bars of iron.

    Many a time they heaved a sigh, he sitting without and she within,
so deep was the love that troubled them. For so long a while did they
sit there that I could not tell you how oft she changed her colour. ‘Oh,
me!’ she said; ‘Oh, my sweet friend, my chosen love, I am in such grief;
do speak unto me one word or two that may comfort my heart! I am
so longing for thy solace, the arrow of love stings so in my heart, that
heavy dole have I to suffer; never may I be glad again till thou hast
drawn it forth.’

    He answered her soothingly. ‘You know quite well, dear love, how
long we have borne love to each other all our days, and yet never
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was so much leisure ours that we might kiss each other for once. May
God doom our Lady Venus, the goddess who hath so steeped our
senses with this longing, in that she causes two such tender flowers to
fade and to wither away! If only I could entreat you to lay down
your veil and name a set time when you would give me leave to lead
you hence, I would fare out at once and get you made fine costly attire,
of woollen cloth lined with fur—mantle, skirt, and tunic. Never in any
distress will I forsake thee; with thee, my love, will I adventure life,
its sweetness and sourness: take, now, my troth in plight!’

    ‘My well-beloved, dear friend,’ quoth the damsel, ‘most gladly will I
take from thee that pledge, and go so far away with thee that no one
in this cloister shall know whither we have fled. To-night—a week on—
come here, and wait for me outside, in yonder orchard under a sweet-
briar! There wait for me, and I will come out to be your bride, and
go with you wheresoever you choose. Unless it be that sickness
trouble me, or other hindrance make it too heavy for me, be well
assured that I shall be there, and I beseech thee to be there also,
my lief lord!’

    So they made promises each unto other. Then he took leave, and
went where his steed stood saddled, and, without tarrying, took horse
and rode away in haste across green meadows till he came to the city.

    There in naught was he forgetting of his dear love. On the morrow,
going his round of the city, he bought for her blue and scarlet cloth,
and had it made into a fine mantle and cape, with skirt and tunic to
match, each of them well lined, the best that might be. No one ever
saw better stuff worn under lady’s attire; they that looked on it all
praised it. Knives, girdles, pouches, both good and costly, did he buy;
gold rings, head-gear, and many kinds of treasure ; all those treasures
did he purchase that are becoming to a well-bred bride. Also he took
with him five hundred pounds of silver, and one night at dusk went
forth from the town by stealth. All that costly gear he carried with
him, well piled on the back of his steed, and so rode on to the nunnery
till he came into the orchard under a sweet-briar, as she had said.

    Then he sat down on the grass and waited for his well-beloved to
come forth.

    Of him now I shall not speak for a while, but will tell you about
that fair, dainty she.

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98

    Before midnight she rang the bells to first prime, and was in great
dole through love. Then when matins had been sung by all the nuns,
elder and younger of the convent, and when all had retired to their
common dormitory, she alone remained in the choir, muttering her
prayer as she was wont to do. She knelt down before the altar, and in
deep dread spake she:

    ‘Maria, Mother, name sweet, no longer may my body wear this
habit. All ways and at all times thou knowest the heart and soul of
man. I have fasted and prayed and done myself bodily grief, yet it is
all in vain that I chasten myself. Love has me in thrall, and I must
take me to the world’s ways. So verily, as Thou, my dear Lord, hast
been hung between two thieves, and hast been stretched along the Cross,
and hast brought resurrection to Lazarus while he lay a dead man in his
grave, so must Thou know my pains, and pardon my misdoing. I must
fall deeply into heavy sin.’

    After this she turned from the choir unto a statue of Our Lady,
before which she knelt down and said her prayer. ‘Maria,’ spake she
without fear, ‘night and day have I cried, and meekly laid my sorrow
before thee; yet I have never been one straw the better for it. My
mind would give way altogether were I to remain any longer in this
habit.’ So she put off her veil and laid it upon the altar of the Blessed
Virgin; her shoes she untied, and behold, the keys of the Sacristy she
hung before the statue of Mary. This she did, as I will explain to you,
in order that they might be found with ease when sought for at early
prime, for none would ever pass by the statue of Mary but would cast
a glance thereto, and mutter ‘Ave’ before going thence.

    Clad only in her smock, driven thereto by necessity, she went out
by a door which was known to her: she opened it cunningly, and
passed through it by stealth without making a sound. Trembling she
came into the orchard, and was seen then by the young lord, who, draw-
ing near, said: ‘Yea, sweet one, do not fear; it is your friend whom you
meet here.’ But as they were standing thus, she was covered with
shame, because she had on naught save her smock. Howbeit, said he,
‘O body most fair, far better would beautiful attire and rich raiment
befit you: if you will not be angry with me, therefore, I will give them
straightway into your hands.’ So they went together under the sweet-
briar, and there he gave to her whatsoever she might need in two
changes of clothes (blue was the one which there she put on, and well
                                                                                                     it

❧ ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
a chalk drawing
by
Will Rothenstein

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it fitted her). Lovingly looked he on her, and said: ‘My beloved, far
better does the blue suit you than did ever the grey!’ Also she
put on two silk stockings, and two shoes of Cordova leather, that
became her better than the lappet-shoes she had worn before. Also
he gave her a head-gear of white silk to throw over her head. Then
the young lord kissed her lovingly on the mouth; and it seemed to
him while thus she stood before him that the day unveiled itself in
beauty.

    In haste he went to his steed, and made her mount before him in
the saddle; and on they rode together till, in the gathering light, they
saw that none followed after them. And as day began to shine in the
east, she said, O Lord, solace of all the world, now Thou must have
charge of us, for day is breaking! Ah! if I had not come out unto
thee, I should have been ringing the bells for first mass, as I was wont
to do in the convent. Great fear have I that I shall live to repent this
flight. The world holds so ill to its word; ‘tis like the cunning hawker
who sells counterfeit gold rings for true ones.’

    ‘Ah, me! what sayest thou, my pure one? May God damn me if
ever I should forsake thee! Whithersoever we go, I shall not leave
thee, unless it be that Death bring severance between us! How is it
thou shouldst be doubting of my good faith? Thou hast not
found me a man cunning or untruthful toward thee. From that
moment, when I chose you to be my. love, not even an empress could
have won hold on my mind; and even were I worthy of her, I would
not leave thee for her sake. Be full sure of this, dear love! With me
I bear five hundred pounds of white silver: of all these shalt thou be
mistress, sweet. And though we go to a foreign country, we shall have
no need to pledge anything till a seven year be gone.’

    Thus riding on, they came that morning near to a forest wherein
were birds making great melody among themselves. So loudly did
they pipe, one might hear it any way off. Each sang according to its
kind. In the green grass stood beautiful flowers, full-blown, shedding
abroad their sweet scents. The sky was clear and bright; and many a
tall tree flourishing in full leaf stood there.

    The young lord looked at the pure maid, for whom he bore love so
constantly, and said: ‘Dear love, if so it pleaseth thee, why should
we not get down and gather flowers? So fair seems this place, let
us here play the game of love!’ ‘What sayest thou, villain churl?
Shall I lie down on the grass like a vile woman that must sell her body
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                                                                                                        104

for gold; then must I have little shame in me! Never wouldst thou
have spoken to me so, if thou were not basely bred. Well may it
cause me pain; may God damn one who could think of such a thing!
Now, speak not again of it; but listen to the birds in the valleys how
they sing and are glad; and the time shall not be long to thee. When
once I am lying with thee naked on a well-appointed bed, ay then
thou mayst do as thou longest and as thy heart desires; but great pain
have I at heart that thou shouldst have put this to me now.’

    Quoth he, ‘My dear, nay, do not scorn me thus: it was Venus
herself that did inspire me. God may bring me to shame and grief if
ever I let speak of it again! And spake she, ‘Then I will forgive thee.
Thou art my solace above all men that live under Heaven. If fair
Absolom were alive now, and I full sure that I might live with him a
thousand years in exceeding joy and rest, I should not wish for it.
Beloved, so I set thee before all, that nothing might be offered me for
which I would forsake thee. Were I sitting in Heaven, and thou here
on earth, surely I would come down to thee. Nay, God, punish me
not for that I have talked thus foolishly! To the least of the joys of
Heaven no earthly joy may compare; there so perfect is the smallest
joy, that the soul longs not but to worship God without end. All
earthly things are but poor, and not worth a hair as against those one
meets with in Heaven. Well are they counselled that suffer for it,
though I have to go astray and fall into deep sin for thee, my well-
beloved, my beautiful friend.’

    Thus they spake and exchanged sayings as they rode across
mountains and valleys. Naught would it behove me to tell you what
passed between them. On they rode till they were come to a town’s
gate lying in a valley. So well did they like that place that they
remained there for seven years, leading a joyous life in the embraces of
love, and had together two children. Then after those seven years,
when all their money was spent, they had to live on the goods which
they had brought with them; clothes, ornaments, and horses, these
they sold at half their value; and soon they had again spent all. And
now they knew not by what means to live; for not even a skirt could
she spin, or by that something might have been earned.

    And there came a time when meat and wine and provisions and all
things that are for food grew very dear; and much suffering they had
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to bear. Far rather had they died than begged for bread; and poverty
brought parting between them, though it grieved them sore. The
man it was who first broke troth; he left her behind him in heavy
sorrow, and went back again into his own land. Never they beheld
each other again; there remained with her two children very beautiful
to look upon.

    Said she: ‘Now at last that has happened which was ever my
dread early and late; I have remained behind in bitter suffering. He
in whom I had placed all my trust has forsaken me. Mary, Virgin, if
thou would but pray for me and my two little ones, that we may not
perish with hunger! But what shall I, wretched woman, begin to do?
Both body and soul I must foul by wrong-doing. Ay, Virgin Mary,
come to mine aid! Even if I could spin a skirt, I would not make by
it one loaf of bread in a fortnight. I cannot help myself; I must go
outside the walls, and in the fields earn money with my body, where-
with to buy meat. For my two children I may not forsake.’

    And thus she entered into a sinful life. In truth, I have been told
that for seven years she lived as a common woman, and became laden
with many a sin. Dearly did she loathe it, and was hard pushed from
it; but did it for a poor wage, by which she made provision for her
children. What good would come were I to tell you them all—the
shameful and heavy sins in which she thus lived for fourteen years?

    Yet whatever sorrow or repentance befell, never did she forget, but
every day said the Seven Dolours in honour and praise of our Lady,
praying to her to be set free from those acts of sin wherewith she was
burdened.

    Now, when the fourteen years of her sinful life with her beloved
knight, and that which followed, were ended, God put into her heart
such deep contrition that she would rather have had her head cut from
her body by a bare sword than again give up her flesh to sin as she
had been wont. Night and day she cried, with eyes never dry from
tears; and said she: ‘Mary, Cradle of God, highest fountain of all
womanhood, do not thou forsake me in my distress! I call upon thee,
Our Lady, to witness how I sorrow for my sins, and how deep is the
grief they cause me; so many they be, I cannot tell where or with
whom they were done. Alas, what shall be my fate! Well may I
tremble for the last judgment where all sins will appear revealed,
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106

whether of poor or of rich, and all those will be punished that have not
before been told in confession and done penance for. Well do I know
this, and can have no doubt of it; therefore do I live in such great
dread. Even if I went about in sackcloth, crawling upon bare feet and
hands from place to place, I could not win absolution unless thou,
Mary, were to take pity upon me. Fount of Mercy, so many hast thou
stood by! Yea, though I am a sinful woman, a wretched caitiff, yet
remember, Mary, that whatever life I led, never did I forget to read a
prayer in honour of thee. Be gracious unto me, for I am one full of
woe and in great need of thy solace; therefore I do well to implore it.
Thou Bride, chosen of God, thy Son when He made annunciation of
Himself to thee at Nazareth, sent thee a salutation such as never mes-
senger before had spoken; therefore are these same words so well
favoured of thee that whosoever hath it in his heart to say to thee,
“Ave Maria!” to him thou avowest thanks. Were he fallen into deepest
sin thou wouldst gain grace for him, and be advocate for him with thy
Son.’

    To such prayers and bewailings the sinner gave herself for many
days. At last she took a child in each hand, and wandered with them
in great poverty from place to place living upon charity. So far did
she traverse the country that at last she found herself back again near
the convent where she had lived as a nun. At a late hour, after the sun
had set, she came to the house of a widow, and begged that, for the sake
of charity, she might rest there for the night. ‘I could not very well
send you away with your little ones,’ said the widow. ‘How tired they
look! Do you sit down, and take some rest; and I will give you of
what the good Lord has bestowed on me, for the honour of His dear
Mother.’ Thus she stayed with her two children, and would fain have
known how matters stood in her old convent. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘my
good woman, is this a nuns’ convent?’ ‘In truth, yes,’ answered she,
‘and, on my faith, a magnificent one it is, and rich. Nowhere would one
find another to equal it. The nuns that live there have not their like
for virtue; never did I hear tell of any of them a rumour to their
shame.’

    The woman, sitting there beside her children, said: ‘How canst
thou say such a thing? for I have heard much talk of late about a
certain nun; if I mistake not she must have been monitress here. She
that told me spake no lie; fourteen years it must be now since she fled
                                                                                                     from

                                                                                                        107

from the convent, and no one has heard tell of her since, nor knows
where she may have died.’ Then the widow grew angry, and said: ‘It
seems to me as if thou wert mad; nor will I have thee here to repeat
such evil things about the monitress. All that time she has been here,
and never did she fail in her duty unless her health gave way. He
would be worse than a vile dog who could say anything of her but good.
She has as pure a mind as ever nun had; were you to search all the
cloisters that are built between the river Elbe and the Garonne I am
sure you could find no nun that leads a holier life.’

    The woman who had so long been soiled by sin,—ay, how wonderful
this talk seemed to her! And she spake thus: ‘Wilt thou make known
to me by what names her father and her mother were called?’ Then
she named them both, and Beatrice knew well that it was herself that
was meant. O God! how she wept at night, kneeling before her bed,
and praying. ‘No other pledge,’ she cried, ‘but my deep penitence
have I to offer thee; and yet, O Mary, come to mine aid! Such grief
have I for my sins that if I saw a furnace hot and red, so burning and
fiery that the flames tongued out of its mouth, I would be fain to creep
therein, could that but free me from my sins. Lord, Thou art loath to
see man in misery; on this I will put my trust, and will ever hope for
solace, though I be in anguish and great dread. Thy loving-kindness
cannot be brought to an end, no more than one can scoop out the great
sea in one day, and lay bare its nether deeps. Never was sin so terrible
that could not win pardon by Thy grace; how, then, shall I be shut
away from Thy mercy, since my sins are so hateful to me.’

    While she was thus stretched in prayer, a heaviness came on all her
limbs, and, without knowing, she fell asleep. And while thus she was
lying in her sleep, it seemed, in a vision, that a voice called to her:
‘Woman, so long hast thou lifted thy lamentation that Mary has
taken pity on thee, and has prayed for thee that thou mayst be free
from condemnation. Now, get thee in haste unto this cloister; the
doors, the same through which thou fleddest with thy love, thou shalt find
opened wide. And all thine attire thou shalt find lying upon the altar,
the veil, and the habit, and the shoes; thou shalt put them on without
fear. Then for all this thou shalt render Mary high thanks. The keys
also of the sacristy which thou didst lay before her statue on that night
when thou wentest away, so well hath she cared for them that in all
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108

these years no one has found thee missing. So well is Mary thy friend,
that in the very image of thee she took up thine office. This, O
sinner, hath our Lady of Heaven done for thee. By her command
thou shalt return unto thy cloister: there is no one on thy bed there.
Hearken, it is in God’s name that I speak unto thee.’

    It was not long after this that she started out of her sleep. ‘God,
Lord Almighty,’ quoth she, ‘nay, do not let the fiend throw me into
heavier grief than that from which I now suffer! If I were now to go
into that convent and be taken for a thief, then I should be in yet
deeper shame than when first I left the nunnery, I beseech thee, good
Lord, by Thy precious Blood which ran out of Thy side, if the voice
that has spoken be really to my boon, then let it not cease, but make
me to hear it once again; yea, even a third time; then shall I know
that I may return to the cloister, and will extol and praise Mary for
it without end.’

    Now hearken, the next night a voice seemed to come thus
admonishing her: ‘Woman, thou makest too long tarrying! Go
back into thy convent, there God shall solace thee. Do what Mary
commandeth thee. Her messenger I am, Doubt it not any more.’

    But although this was the second message bidding her to return,
even yet dared she not venture. A third night she waited and
prayed. ‘If it be fiend’s folly that is practised upon me, then put an
end to the devil’s power and malice. And if so be he appear again
to-night, Lord, put him to such confusion that he must fly out of the
house, having no power to do me harm. Now, Mary, be thou my
help. If thou hast sent a voice to bid me back into the nunnery, by
thy Child, I beseech thee, make me hear it a third time to-night.’

    So she watched a third night: and a voice came forth from the
power of God, with an all-prevailing light, saying: ‘Thou doest wrong
not to fulfil what I have commanded thee, for it is Mary who speaks
through me. Thou mayst tarry all too long. Go into the cloister
without trembling: the door stands wide open for thee, so thou mayest
pass where thou wilt: and thou shalt find thine attire waiting for thee
upon the altar.’

    When the voice had thus spoken, the sinner beheld the radiance;
and she said: ‘Now I may doubt no longer; this voice is my Lord’s,
                                                                                                     and

                                                                                                        109

and this message is Mary’s. It comes to me in a radiance so beautiful,
well, now, may I feel sure! And therefore I will not be disobedient; I
will go into the cloister and do this with a good faith in our Lady’s
solace. My children I will commend to God, our Father; in His care
they will be safe.’

    Then she took off her clothes and covered them with them silently
so that they should not wake; and kissing them both on the lips:
‘Children, fare you well!’ said she, ‘I leave you here in our Lady’s
good keeping. Had she not pleaded for me and given me release, I
would never have forsaken you for all the riches of Rome.’

    Hear what she did next. In a trance, all alone, she went toward
the nunnery. When she came through the orchard she found the door
open for her, and went in without trembling: ‘Mary, I thank thee,
now I am safely within these walls; may God make good adventure
befall me further on!’

    Wherever she came the door stood wide open for her; and in the
chapel, where on the altar she had laid off her habit fourteen years ago,
truly I tell you, that on the same spot she found it all again, shoes, and
habit, and veil. She put them on in haste, and kneeling down cried:
‘Lord of the realm of Heaven, and thou, Virgin Mary, Immaculate,
blessed must ye be! Thou, Mary, art the flower of all virtue. In thy
pure maidenhood thou borest a Child without sorrow, that shall be
Lord for evermore. Thou art the chosen of Grace; thy Child made
heaven and earth; the Lord, our Saviour, thou mayst command as
Mother, and He may greet thee, His well-beloved daughter. For all this
I live in better ease; for whosoever seeketh grace from thee, he findeth
it though he may come late. Thy help is so high that my sorrow and
grief in which I have been living so long have been changed by thee
into joy and blessing. Well may I give blessing unto thee!’

    And before our Lady’s statue, where she had hung them once, lo!
she found again the keys of the sacristy. She hung them upon her
belt, and went into the choir, where she found the lamps burning in
every corner. Thence she went to the place of the prayer-books, and
laid each one on its own desk, as often she had done before; and again
she prayed to Mary to save her from all misfortune, and have her poor
children in good keeping, whom she had left at the widow’s house in
great sorrow.

    Meanwhile the night had worn away, and the clock began to strike,
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110

sounding the midnight chime. And now she caught hold of the bell-
rope and began to ring for matins, so regularly as to be clearly heard
all over the convent. And those who had been sleeping in the dormi-
tory came down all without tarrying, and none of them knew what had
happened. Thus she stayed in the convent without reproach or dis-
grace. The sinner was saved in honour of Mary, the Virgin of Heaven,
who never forsakes her friends in their distress and anxiety.

    This lady having now turned to be a nun as before, I will not forget
her two children whom she had left behind at the widow’s house in
great need. Neither bread nor money had they; and I could ill tell
you into what deep grief they fell when they no longer found their
mother. The widow came and sat by them in true pity; and said she:
‘I will take these two children to the abbess of the convent; God will
certainly put it into her heart to be good to them.’ Then she dressed
them in their clothes and shoes, and took them with her to the convent.
Quoth she: ‘My lady, see the need of these two orphans; their
mother has left them at my house, and has gone her way—I know not
whether to east or west: and now these poor ones are helpless,
though I would fain do for them what I could.’ The abbess answered,
‘Keep them with you, I will recompense you for it; and you shall not
complain that they have been left with you. Every day they shall
receive of God’s charity. Send some one here daily for meat and
drink, and, should they be in want of anything, forget not to let me
know.’

    Full glad was the widow now that all this had thus come about;
she took the children with her, and cared well for them. And now how
happy was the mother who had nursed them and suffered for them,
when she knew them to be in such good keeping; from that time she
needed no longer to have for them any fear or dread.

    But while she was thus leading a holy life, much sighing and
trembling was hers night and day; for the bewailing of her great sins
lay heavily upon her, yet dared she not avow them, or openly make
confession of them.

    At length one day there arrived an abbot who was wont to visit the
sisterhood once a year to know whether anything shameful had
happened which might bring blame on them. The same day that
he came, the sinner lay down in deep prayer within the choir, wrought
                                                                                                     with

❧ L’OISEAU BLUE
after a water-colour drawing
by
Charles Conder

                                                                                                        115

with doubt and inward struggle. But the devil so pressed her with heavy
shame that she dared not lay bare her sinful deeds before the abbot.
While thus she lay and prayed, she saw moving toward her a youth
who was all in white. Naked in his arms lay a child that to her
seemed to be quite dead. The youth was throwing an apple up and
down and catching it before the child, playing to it. This the nun at
her prayers saw well, and said: ‘Friend, if so be thou art a messenger
of Heaven, in God’s name I do beseech thee to tell me and not hide
from me why thou art thus playing to the child with yon fair red
apple, while yet it lies a dead body in thine arms? Thy playing,
therefore, cannot move it one hair.’ ‘Forsooth, dame, thou speakest
truly; the child does not know of my playing little or much. It is
dead, and hears not nor sees. Even so, God knoweth not how thou
prayest and fastest. It is all labour lost to chastise thyself. So deeply
art thou buried in sin that God cannot hear thy prayer. I admonish
thee, go straightway to the abbot, thy father, and make confession of
all thy sins without cloak or deceit. Do not be misled by devils
prompting! Absolution of all thy sins shalt thou receive from the holy
abbot. Shouldst thou not dare to speak, the Lord will punish thee
heavily for them.’ With that the youth disappeared, nor even showed
himself again.

    Well had she understood all that he said. So, early the next morn-
ing, she went and found the abbot, and prayed him to hear her con-
fession from word to word. The abbot was a full wise man, and said
he: ‘Dear daughter, I will certainly not refuse this. Examine thyself
well of all, so that thou hide from me nothing of thy sins.’ Then, at
that moment she went and set herself down by this holy father, and
opened to him her whole life. Whatsoever thing had befallen her she
hid it not then; and what she knew in the depth of her heart, she
made it all known to the wise abbot. When she had now finished her
full confession the abbot spoke: ‘Daughter, I will give thee remission
of the sins that trouble thee, of which thou hast now made confession.
Praised and blessed be Mary our Mother, most holy.’ With that he
laid his hand upon her head and gave her pardon. And quoth he: ‘In
a sermon will I tell thy whole story, and devise it so cunningly that on
thyself and thy children no blame shall fall. It would be unjust to
withhold this miracle which God hath done in honour of His Mother.
Everywhere will I tell it, in good hope that thereby many a man may
be converted and learn to honour our blessed Lady.’
                                                                                                     Before

116

    Before he went he told to all the sisterhood what had happened
unto a nun, but there was no one that knew who she was; a close
secret did it remain. And when he made farewell, both her children
he took with him, and clothed them in grey; and both of them became
good monks. Their mother’s name was Beatrice.

    Give praise to Mary and to her Son our Lord whom she nursed,
for that she brought to pass this fair miracle, and freed her from all her
pains. And we all of us that hear or read it, let us pray that Mary
may be our advocate in the sweet valley where God shall sit and doom
the world.    AMEN.

A HANDFUL OF DUST

The square shape around the seriffed letter A is formed out of interlacing ribbons with terminal foliation. The decoration is created with thin black lines, leaving the letters, vines, and leaves white. It appears to be a wood engraving.

A TRAVELLER wandered by night amid the
ruins of an immense forsaken palace.
Through portals, of marble and passages
of porphyry, he at length attained a little
inner court which had been the private
garden of the princess, underneath the
window of her chamber. The degenerated
shoots of the rose and myrtle were still
contending for existence with the strang-
ling crop of wild plants; otherwise, it retained no trace of ancient
culture but a mutilated tomb and a dry fountain. The traveller
seated himself upon the former, and remained absorbed in medita-
tion, until the setting moon admonished him that he must with-
draw if he would not lose the light which had hitherto guided him
among the intricacies of the ruins. Starting up, he sought for some
fragment of agate or malachite from the tomb to bear away as a
relic. Seeing nothing of this kind, he thrust his hand through a
cavity in the side of the sepulchre and seized the first object that
met his grasp, which proved to be a handful of dust. As he with-
drew his hand it was sharply caught by a long ragged briar spring-
ing on an adjoining mound, which seemed to urge its growth
in the direction of the sepulchre, as though to surmount and
clasp it. The smart was so severe that his hand unclosed, and
shed its contents on the hillock, but he instantly stooped and picked
them up, mingled with some of the brown and fetid mould which
bestrewed the latter. He then enclosed the entire handful in a silken
pouch, and quitted the ruins. On regaining his own country he
deposited the sepulchral relic in a jasper urn, and placed this in a
niche in his sleeping apartment.

    The traveller’s dwelling was situated in the midst of a large garden,
remote from the noise of the busy capital. The land was southern,
with a genial climate, and warm, brilliant nights. Hence, he was
accustomed to late vigils — times of meditation on what he had
seen and learned. The seclusion of the site, the tranquillity of the
scene, and the nature of his reflections, contributed to enkindle a
naturally exalted spirit, and to attune perceptions originally refined,
until the mystic harmonies and rarely apprehended accents of Nature
gradually became familiar to him. He would hearken and strive to
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118

interpret the rustling of leaves, the stirring of insects, the vague
lispings of the night wind; nay, he sometimes seemed to surprise
stray notes of the entrancing music which accompanies the sublime,
but for most the silent, procession of the stars. It was, therefore,
with the less astonishment that he one night heard tones distinctly
proceeding from the jasper urn that contained the handful of dust. He
listened intently, and clearly distinguished two voices: one a woman’s,
plaintive and distressed; the other a man’s, imperious and exulting.

    ‘Little, disdainful Princess, didst thou deem that it would ever
be thus!’

    ‘Alas, no!’ sighed the other voice.

    ‘The slave thou didst so scorn is now as closely blended with thyself
as thy spirit with thy frame. The eyes are as the eyes on which they
gazed, the neck is as the foot that trod it into the dust.’

    ‘Wretch!’ rejoined the other speaker. ‘Know that whatever disaster
may have overtaken the Princess’s frame, her spirit is still her own
and lives on to spurn, to detest, to defy thee.’

    ‘Detestation and defiance sound marvellously well in my ears,’
rejoined the slave. ‘Time was when thou didst but despise.’

    ‘As I do now,’ replied the Princess.

    ‘Not so. Detest thou mayest, despise thou canst not. Thy
bondage galls too sore, and escape from it there is none. Were our
atoms flung upon the hurricane, mine should pursue thine upon its
wings; were we strewn upon the ocean, its billows should bear us
away together. Nothing can wholly sunder us but that which shall
one day subdue all, the elemental strength of Fire.

    ‘O, Fire!’ exclaimed the Princess, ‘at whose bidding wilt thou resolve
me into my essence, and purge me from the stain of this abhorred
companionship?’

    ‘At mine!’ cried the traveller; and, arising hastily, he seized the
urn, and poured the contents into the flame of his lamp. A jet of
light flashed up, and immediately divided itself into two fiery tongues,
one white with a dazzling lustre, the other murky and lurid. For a
moment the traveller seemed to have a confused perception of some-
what ethereal borne upwards, and of some wingless thing falling heavily
to earth; but instantly the flames sank, his lamp resumed its accustomed
steady radiance, and no sound disturbed his musings as he sat gazing
on the jasper urn, now devoid of every particle of dust.

                                                                                                R. GARNETT.

WILHELM MEINHOLD (27 Jan. 1797 — Nov. 31, 1851)

The square shape around the seriffed letter T is formed out of interlacing ribbons with terminal foliation of acanthus leaves and pomegranate buds. The decoration is created in thin black lines, leaving the letters, vines, and leaves white. It appears to be a wood engraving.

THE historic novel might be set aside as
wholly inartistic and impossible were it not
for a few examples of distinct beauty and
power in this singular form. Defoe’s
Memoirs of a Cavalier, though not one of
his finest works, is yet excellent in parts.
Balzac has greatly triumphed in this style.
Scott does not approach the intensity of
Balzac, though his historic novels made
an epoch and are, of course, remarkable. With Dumas the local
colour is barely more than a convention. The essence of the Three
Musketeers is not their costume but the play of incident and charac-
ter. Some of our modern English hands have essayed the adventures
of the historic romance with quite respectable success, but scarcely
with complete victory. As far as we know, neither in Italy nor
Spain has any man gone near these in excellence; but, and this is
passing strange, considering the signal badness of German novels (that
most miserable Ekkehart, for example), a Pomeranian pastor of this
century has written two of the very first rank. Naturally, with German
taste as it is—and as, in spite of French and Norwegian influence, it is
likely to be for some time—Meinhold has been little honoured in his own
country, though Göthe gave him sound advice when he asked for it; and
Frederick William IV. of Prussia not only understood the wonderful
power of his work, but with princely courtesy printed one of his two
great stories for him unasked. The Bavarian king has earned the
poet’s praise and the musician’s love by his real sympathy with the
highest art, but cases such as this and that of Rückert should plead
favourably for the Hohenzollern.

    Wilhelm Meinhold’s was a curious personality: fiercely individual as
Beddoes, with an instinct that brought him not only to assimilate details,
but to enter easily into the very life and feeling of the past, as it has
been given to few men to do. One, too, that saw through the vulgar
popular ideas of his day, and took refuge from cant and noisy insincerity
and cowardly lack of patriotism in historic studies and intellectual
interests, not without turning occasionally to smite the yelping curs
he despised. Small wonder that a man of his sympathies, who of
course scorned the futilities of Lutheran apologetic, should have felt
drawn toward the old Church of the West, with its more antique,
                                                                                                     more

120

more dignified, more mysterious associations. He wanted an atmo-
sphere more highly charged with the supernatural than the hard, dry,
cast-iron traditions of his own sect could supply.

    The portrait (prefixed to the edition of 1846 of his collected works)
shows a type not uncommon in Ireland: round head domed up from
a fine brow; keen level eyes behind the student’s glasses; straight
well-shaped nose, not of the largest; good firm mouth, and well-turned
chin. Shrewd, obstinate, not to be convinced save by himself, persistent,
observant, and keen in feeling and word and deed—so one would judge
the nature from the face.

    That Meinhold should have deigned to use his two notable stories as
controversial weapons against his uncritical and bemused adversaries is
curious enough, but it is not necessary to suppose that Sidonia and
Maria were composed for the sole purpose of puzzling the Sadducees. In
the case of the Cloister Witch, he had the story in hand as far back as
1831, and two of his early poems come from the drama he had first
written; while the censor, with instinctive dread of true talent, of course
withheld his favour from the Pastor’s Daughter, a play founded on the
story that was to grow into the Amber Witch.

It was not till after a fair amount of poetical and controversial work
that our author, in 1843, issued his Amber Witch in book-form, and had
the wonderful luck to find a gifted woman to clothe it in appropriate
English form. There is lying at my hand a little pocket Tasso, with
the pretty autograph, ‘Lucie Duff Gordon, Wurtzburg, 1844,’ a relic of
the girl whose pen naturalised at once a work that is probably more
widely known here, and far better appreciated, thanks to her, than in
Germany. Meinhold gracefully appreciated his translator’s skilful work,
and Sidonia was dedicated, on its first appearance in 1848, to


            der jungen geist-reichen Uebersetzerin
                        der Bernstein-Hexe.

    It was not Sarah Austin’s daughter, but Mrs. R. W. Wilde, the
Speranza of the Nation, who turned the Cloister Witch into English, and
she, too, had well earned a dedication if the novelist had lived to com-
plete his last work—’Der getreue Ritter oder Sigismund Hager von
und zu Altensteig und die Reformation, in Briefen an die Gräfin Julia von
Oldofredi-Hager in Lemberg’—which was issued at Regensburg in 1852
with a preface by Aurel, his son, and has not yet, to our knowledge,
found a translator.
                                                                                                     So

                                                                                                        120

    So much for the circumstances and the man. As to his two famous
romances, it would be difficult to over-praise them; within their limits
they are almost perfect; and of what work of art can more be said ? The
life of Maria Schweidler, the Amber Witch, is supposed to be told by her
father—a kindly, cowardly, honest old creature, who writes the story of
the providential escape of his beautiful, brave, and clever daughter from
the fiendish malice of her enemies at the time of the Thirty Years’ War.
The plot is the simple scheme of an English melodrama (as Mr. Jacobs
has noticed), where villainy uses occasions to drive an innocent heroine
into dire stresses, till the lover, long delayed, manages to rescue her
at the eleventh hour. It was, however, necessary that the plot should
be simple and easy to grasp, when there is so much action in the
detail. Appropriate setting, delicate touches of character, most skil-
fully enhance the nobility of the helpless innocent child, and draw the
warmest sympathy from us for her unmerited suffering from the ignor-
ance, envy, and lust of her persecutors, who urge her charity, her
learning, and her courage against her as proofs of the horrid guilt of
which they accuse her. The pretty episodes of the glorious Swedish
king, and of the ring of Duke Philippus, the grim matter-of-fact narra-
tive of the famine, are in Defoe’s vein; but the serious, beautiful charm
of the girl is somewhat beyond his range, though the method by which
it is indicated is one of which the author of Robinson Crusoe and Moll
Flanders was a past master. It would be interesting to learn what
knowledge of his famous predecessor Meinhold possessed; he must at
least have read of ‘poor Robin.’ But the Pomeranian has qualities the
Briton never possessed; Defoe’s ghosts and spirits are vulgar, and he
cannot deal with the supernatural so as to arouse horror or terror; he
does not meddle save with sordid crime, which remains sordid under his
hand. Meinhold has the true Elizabethan power of shocking the reader’s
soul with the repulsion and the sympathy he can arouse by his present-
ment of depths of sin and abysses of dread. And this without Tour-
neur’s extravagance, without the mere sham and unreal taste for blood
and bogeys that long haunted the childish Teutonic mind, and inspired
the absurdities of the German romantic drama. This man is no Walpole
with vapid, ill-begotten rococo invention; no Monk Lewis with crude,
Surrey-side imaginings. He is of the true stock of Kyd and Webster
and Shakespeare. He can mix you broad humour with horror, and
banal incident with the most pitiful tragedy, so that the relief enables
the catastrophe to tell the more surely and vividly.
                                                                                                     Sidonia

                                                                                                        122

    Sidonia is far more ambitious, certainly in some respects finer than
the Amber Witch, illustrating its author’s rare qualities in fuller mea-
sure. Astonishing for breadth and power is the conception of Sidonia
herself—the true adventuress nature—with her hatred for the pretences
about her, proud of her own birth, and full of disdain for those below
her, with eager greed and envy for all that was out of her reach, but
had come to others without an effort, and armed in that selfish, revenge-
ful cruelty and callousness for others’ sufferings that belong to the
habitual criminal, who urges pretended right to punish a society so
constituted as to show symptoms of not existing mainly for his ease
and comfort. There is something of Becky in her petty malignity, her
indomitable courage, her elaborate and long-prepared schemes, her
quick change of plan when it becomes obvious she is on the wrong
track, her contempt for plain-dealing and honesty, which she accounts
crass animal stupidity. Yet Meinhold rises far higher than Thackeray
ever could; the little Mayfair tragedy shrinks beside the monstrous
crime of Saatzig; even Regan or Goneril might have recoiled from
ordering the merciless torment that Sidonia never scrupled to inflict.
It is a feat to have imagined and put into being a creature so devilish
and yet so human as the Cloister Witch. For such is Meinhold’s
marvellous skill that he forces us to pity her, and rejoice that Diliana’s
pleading won a painless death for the wretched old sinner who had
suffered so terribly, both in soul and body, before the inevitable end
came. Dr. Theodorus Plonnies is a less pronounced figure than Pastor
Schweidler, and this rightly, for the story he has to relate is twice as
lonog as the Caserow cleric’s, and the adventures of his incomparable
heroine fill his canvas; but his dogged fidelity to the bestial hog-like
brood of dukes that reign over Pomerania, and his infantile credulity,
are distinctly marked. One recalls scene after scene of wonderful
graphic force, ingeniously various in tone, but always lit with that spark
of humour which alone could make so much horror endurable—the swift
and unforeseen end of the mighty young standard-bearer on the ice;
the aimless beery revolt of the town rascalry; the squalid encounters
on the boat by which the outraged father and the brutal paramour
are brought to their deaths: the devout ending of young Appelmann;
the boisterous horseplay of the castle, with death ever close at the
heels of drunken idle mirth; the futile squabbles of the peasants
and the hangman over the gipsy witch; the bear-hunt; the ridiculous
fray with the treacherous malignant Jews, followed by the impres-
                                                                                                     sive

❧ SIDONIA AND OTTO VON BORK ON
THE WATERWAY TO STETTIN
a pen drawing
by
Reginald Savage

                                                                                                        127

sive conjuration of the Angel of the Sun; the bits of half-comic,
squalid convent-life; the haughty ceremonies of the feudal court ; the
cruel martyrdom of the innocent ‘dairy-mother,’ and the vulgar
quarrels of the girls in the ducal harem. But wherever the uncon-
querable Sidonia comes on his scene the author rises to tragic heights,
and his work grows in power and gains in colour. Admirably rendered
is the mischievous fooling and insolent mockery of the wanton
artful beauty who brings lust and hate and impiety in her train, wither-
ing all that is good wherever her influence spreads, so that, till accident
foils her, she pulls the wires of the wooden-headed court-puppets, defies
Her silly Grace and the honest chamberlain, and is blessed by the very
victims she has bespelled. That midnight incident should surely find
an illustrator where the brave-hearted maiden, cross in hand, has
chased the werewolf out of the church into the churchyard, and lo! at
the touch of the holy symbol, the foul beast has suddenly disap-
peared, and there stands Sidonia trembling, with black and bloody lips,
in the clear thin moonlight beside an open grave. The climax of her
career is reached with the coffin-dance, when the ‘devil’s harlot’ sang
the 109th Psalm, and took her revenge while the hymn was pealing
through the church above, and the plank beneath her feet quivering
with the death-agony of the girl-mother who had stood her friend in
the midst of her disgrace when even her own kinsfolk had cast her off.

    Nor is it possible to forget Sidonia, crouching in her wretched
cell in the witches’ tower, with the black scorched half-roasted head
and cross-bones of her miserable accomplice flung on the floor beside
her; Sidonia writhing and shrieking in impotent rage and agony on
the rack at Oderburg; Sidonia, perhaps even more pitiful to remember,
as she curses and blasphemes in her despair over her lost beauty
and ruined life, when the court painter, Mathias Eller, brings the por-
trait of her youth to be completed by the likeness, at sixty years’
interval, of her hideous senility. Sidonia, it is always Sidonia! She
haunts the mind and shakes the imagination, long after one has laid
down the book that has created her. She is complete; her awful life
from childhood to age one unbroken tissue of impressive wickedness,
with only the gleams of courage and wit and recklessness, and instinctive
loathing for pretentious folly, to lighten its dark web. Once only is she
repentant; for a brief moment she pities the child she has orphaned.
But her end is a relief, when, not without the kind of dignity with which
Dekker or Webster can bestow upon the foulest criminal, Meinhold’s
                                                                                                     fearful

128

fearful heroine makes her last exit. ‘ At length the terrible sorceress
herself appears in sight, accompanied by the school, chanting the death-
psalm. She wore a white robe seamed with black [the death-shift that
her worst sin had brought her]. She walked barefoot, and round her
head a black fillet flowered with gold, beneath which her long white
hair fluttered in the wind/ So she passes to her doom.

    After which, most fit and congruous is the epilogue, wherein, with true
Shakesperean craft, Meinhold soothes his readers’ tense nerves with soft
melancholy, and shows us the faithful servant by his master’s coffin in
the vaults of the castle-church of Stettin on the anniversary of his
burial, with the paper bearing the record of that burial in his hand.
‘But my poor old Pomeranian heart could bear no more; I placed the
paper again in the coffin, and, while the tears poured from my eyes as
I ascended the steps, these beautiful old verses came into my head,
and I could not help reciting them aloud:—

‘So must human pride and state
In the grave lie desolate.
He who wore the kingly crown
With the base worm lieth down,
Ermined robe and purple pall
Leaveth he at Death’s weird call.

Fleeting, cheating, human life,
Souls are perilled in thy strife;
Yet the pomps in which we trust,
All must perish!—dust to dust.
God alone will ever be;
Who serves Him reigns eternally.’

    Has such weird tragedy been written in Europe since the Elizabethan
stage was silenced by the Puritan, as this of Sidonia? When we
compare it with Victor Hugo’s Notre Dame de Paris the Frenchman’s
raw colouring is almost ludicrous, and his coarse conventional scene-
painting ceases to impress. Scott’s diablerie and magic is child’s play,
mere gossamer, beside Meinhold’s firm, strong, natural work. Marryat
has produced some coarse half-wrought effects; Barham and Stevenson
have done well within restrained limits; Poe is too fantastic, for all his
talent ; Emily Bronte had the requisite power, but hardly attained to
the exquisite art. Not Michelet with the splendid glow of his romantic
effects, not Flaubert for all his rich and elaborate prose, not Huysmans
with his artful chameleon embroidery of phrase and shrill neurotic
                                                                                                     narrative

                                                                                                        129

narrative, have been able to attain to Meinhold’s marvellous creations.
Only Balzac’s Succube ceste ange froissée par des meschans hommes’
—a tale (like Maria Schweidler’s) of pitiful charity brutally betrayed
to torture and death,—this tiny masterpiece of a great master, is fit to
stand beside them. It would seem that upon this German pastor of
the nineteenth century there had descended the skirt of Marlowe’s
mantle. He who drew the pride of Tamerlane, the ambition of Faust,
the greed of Barabbas, was the true ancestor of the creator of Sidonia,
and we must go back to the time of Ford to find a right parallel
among English men of letters to him that portrayed the meekly borne
sufferings and soft courage of the Amber Witch.

                                                                                                F. YORK POWELL.

FOUR QUATRAINS

YE cannot cheat the Master of your fate!
   Proclaim the goal to which your feet are set,
He who knows all is the Compassionate,
   Often His wisdom prompts Him to forget.

                                    ❧

WHY weep for days irrevocably dead,
   For flaunting hopes in envious battle slain?
The bravest soldier frankly looks ahead,
   Knowing he dare not fight the past again.

                                    ❧

TO-NIGHT old poets through the city go,
   Doors shake and windows rattle at their tread,
The empty streets are noisy with the woe
   Of sad immortals banished to the dead.

                                    ❧

THE future lies before us rich with gold,
   Only the foolish backward gaze and fret:
What laughter lurks in stories still untold,
   What solemn songs await the singer yet!

                                                                                   PERCY HEMINGWAY.

INCURABLE

MIST hung gray along the river, and upon the fields. From the
cottage, little and lonely, shone candlelight, that looked sad to the
wanderer without in the autumnal dark: he turned and faced the
fields, and the dim river. And the music, the triumphing music, the
rich voices of the violin, came sounding down the garden from the
cottage. His mood, his mind, were those of the Flemish poet, who
murmurs in sighing verse:

Et je suis dans la nuit. . . . Oh! c’est si bon la nuit!
Ne rien faire . . . se taire . . . et bercer son ennui,
Au rhythme agonisant de lointaine musique. . . .

    For this was the last evening of his life: he felt sure of that: and,
foolish martyr to his own weakness that he was, he fell to meditating
upon the sad scenery and circumstance of his death. The gray mist
upon river and field, the acrid odours of autumn flowers in the garden,
the solitariness of melancholy twilight, these were right and fitting: but
there, in the cottage behind him, was his best friend, speaking with
him through music, giving him his Ave atque Vale upon the violin. A
choice incident! And instinctively he began to find phrases for it,
plangent, mournful, suitable to the elegiac sonnet. True, his friend was
not all that he could have wished: an excellent musician of common
sense, well dressed and healthy, with nothing of Chopin about him,
nothing of Paganini. But the sonnet need not mention the musician,
only his music. So he looked at the dim river and the misty fields,
and thought of long, alliterative, melancholy words. Immemorial,
irrevocable, visionary, marmoreal. . . .

    The Lyceum was responsible for this. That classic journal, reviewing
his last book of verses, had told him that though he should vivisect
his soul in public for evermore, he would find there nothing worth
revealing, and nothing to compensate the spectators for their painful and
pitying emotions. He had thought it a clumsy sarcasm, ponderous no
less than rude: but he could not deny its truth. Tenderly opening his
book, he lighted upon these lines:

Ah, day by swift malignant day,
Life vanishes in vanity:
Whilst I, life’s phantom victim, play
The music of my misery.
Draw near, ah dear delaying Death!
Draw near, and silence my sad breath.
                                                                                                     The

132

The lines touched him; yet he could not think them a valuable utter-
ance: nor did he discover much fine gold in his sonnet, which began:

Along each melancholy London street,
Beneath the heartless stars, the indifferent moon,
I walk with sorrow, and I know that soon
Despair and I will walk with friendly feet.

    It was good, but Shakespeare and Keats, little as he could comprehend
why, had done better. He sat in his Temple chambers, nursing these
dreary cogitations, for many hours of an October day, until the musician
came to interrupt him: and to the violinist the versifier confessed.

    ‘I am just thirty,’ he began, ‘and quite useless. I have a good
education, and a little money. I must do something: and poetry is
what I want to do. I have published three volumes, and they are
entirely futile. They are not even bad enough to be interesting. I have
not written one verse that any one can remember. I have tried a great
many styles, and I cannot write anything really good and fine in any one
of them.’ He turned over the leaves with a hasty and irritated hand.
‘There, for instance!’ This is an attempt at the sensuous love-lyric:
listen!

Sometimes, in very joy of shame,
Our flesh becomes one living flame:
And she and I
Are no more separate, but the same.

Ardour and agony unite;
Desire, delirium, delight:
And I and she
Faint in the fierce and fevered night.

Her body music is: and ah,
The accords of lute and viola,
When she and I
Play on live limbs love’s opera!

    It’s a lie, of course: but even if it were true, could any one care to
read it? Then why should I want to write it? And why can’t I
write better? I know what imagination is, and poetry, and all the rest
of it. I go on contemplating my own emotions, or inventing them, an
nothing comes of it but this. And yet I’m not a perfect fool. That,
said the musician, ‘is true, though it is not your fault: but you soon
                                                                                                     will

                                                                                                        133

will be, if you go on maundering like this by yourself. Come down to
my cottage by the river, and invent a new profession.’ And they went.

    But the country is dangerous to persons of weak mind, who examine
much the state of their emotions; they indulge there in delicious
luxuries of introspection. The unhappy poet brooded upon his futility,
with occasional desperate efforts to write something like the Ode to Duty
or the Scholar Gypsy: dust and ashes! dust and ashes! Suddenly the
horror of a long life spent in following the will-o’-the-wisp, or in questing
for Sangrails and Eldorados, fell upon him: he refused to become an
elderly mooncalf. The river haunted him with its facilities for death,
and he regretted that there were no water-lilies on it: still, it was cold
and swift and deep, overhung by alders, and edged by whispering reeds.
Why not? He was of no use: if he went out to the colonies, or upon
the stock exchange, he would continue to write quantities of average
and uninteresting verse. It was his destiny: and the word pleased him.
There was a certain distinction in having a destiny, and in defeating it
by death. He had but a listless care for life, few ties that he would
grieve to break, no prospects and ambitions within his reach. Upon
this fourth evening, then, he went down to the end of the garden, and
looked towards the river.

    The sonnet was done at last, and he smiled to find himself admiring
it. In all honesty, he fancied that death has inspired him well. He had
read, surely he had read, worse sestets.

‘I shall not hear what any morrow saith:
I only hear this my last twilight say
Cease thee from sighing and from bitter breath,
For all thy life with autumn mist is gray!
Dirged by loud music, down to silent death
I pass, and on the waters pass away.’

    A pity that it should be lost: but to leave it upon the bank would
be almost an affectation. Besides, there was pathos in dying with his
best verses upon his lips: verses that only he and the twilight should
hear. Night fell fast and very gloomy, with scarce a star. Leaning
upon the gate, he tried to remember the names of modern poets who
have killed themselves: Chatterton, Gerard de Nerval. They, at least,
could write poetry, and their failure was not in art. Yet he could live
his poetry, as Milton and Carlyle, he thought, had recommended: live it
by dying, because he could not write it. ‘What Cato did and Addison
approved’ had its poetical side: and no one without a passion for poetry
                                                                                                     would

134

would die in despair at failure in it. The violin sent dancing into the
night an exhilarating courtly measure of Rameau: ‘The Dance of
Death!’ said the poet, and was promptly ashamed of so obvious and
hackneyed a sentiment. At the same time, there was something strange
and rare in drowning yourself by night to the dance-music of your
unconscious friend.

    The bitter smell of aster and chrysanthemum was heavy on the air;
‘balms and rich spices for the sad year’s death,’ as he had once written:
and he fancied, though he could not be sure, that he caught a bat’s thin
cry. The ‘pathetic fallacy’ was extremely strong upon him, and he
pitied himself greatly. To die so futile and so young! A minor Hamlet
with Ophelia’s death! And at that, his mind turned to Shakespeare,
and to a famous modern picture, and to the Lady of Shalott. He
imagined himself floating down and down to some mystical mediaeval
city, its torchlights flashing across his white face. But for that, he
should be dressed differently; in something Florentine perhaps: certainly
not in a comfortable smoking-coat by a London tailor. And at that, he
was reminded that a last cigarette would not be out of place: he lighted
one, and presently fell to wondering whether he was mad or no. He
thought not: he was sane enough to know that he would never write
great poetry, and to die sooner than waste life in the misery of vain
efforts. The last wreath of smoke gone upon the night, not without a
comparison between the wreath and himself, he opened the garden gate,
and walked gently down the little field, at the end of which ran the
river. He went through the long grass, heavy with dew, looking up at
the starless sky, and into the impenetrable darkness. Of a sudden, with
the most vivid surprise of his life, he fell forward, with a flashing sensa-
tion of icy water bubbling round his face, blinding and choking him; of
being swirled and carried along-, of river weeds clinging round his head;
of living in a series of glimpses and visions. Mechanically striking out
across stream, he reached the bank, steadied and rested himself for an
instant by the branch of an overhanging alder, then climbed ashore.
There he lay and shivered; then, despite the cold, tingled with shame,
and blushed; then laughed; lastly, got up and shouted. The shout rose
discordantly above the musician’s harmonies, and he heard some one
call his name. ‘It’s that moon-struck poet of mine,’ said he, and went
down to the gate. ‘Is that you?’ he cried, ‘and where are you?’ And
out of the darkness beyond came the confused and feeble answer
fell into the river—and I’m—on the wrong side.’ The practical man
                                                                                                     wasted

❧ ARIADNE
by
G. F. Watts, R.A.

                                                                                                        139

wasted no words, but made for the boathouse, where he kept his punt:
and in a few minutes the shivering poet dimly descried his rescuer in
mid-stream. The lumbering craft grounded, and the drowned man, with
stiff and awkward movement, got himself on board. ‘What do you
mean,’ said the musician, ‘by making me play Charon on this ghostly
river at such an hour?’ ‘I was—thinking of things,’ said the poet, ‘and
it was pitch dark—and I fell in.’ They landed; and the dewy field, the
autumnal garden, the rich night air, seemed to be mocking him. His
teeth chattered, and he shook, and still he mumbled bits of verse. Said
the musician, as they entered the little cottage: ‘The first thing for you
to do is to take off those things, and have hot drinks in bed, like Mr.
Pickwick.’ Said the doomed man, quaking like an aspen: ‘Yes, but I
must write out a sonnet first, before I forget it.’ He did.

                                                                                                LIONEL JOHNSON

BY THE SEA

THE mariners sleep by the sea.
The wild wind comes up from the sea,
It wails round the tower and it blows through the grasses,
And it scatters the sand o’er the graves where it passes,
And the salt and the scent of the sea.

The white waves beat up from the shore,
They beat on the church by the shore,
They rush round the gravestones aslant to the leeward,
And the wall and the mariners’ graves lying seaward,
That are banked with the stones from the shore.

For the huge sea comes up in the storm,
Like a beast from the lair of the storm,
To claim with its ravenous leap, and to mingle
The mariners’ bones with the surf and the shingle
That it rolls round the shore in the storm.

There is nothing beyond but the sky,
But the sea and the slow-moving sky,
Where a cloud from the grey lifts the gleam of its edges,
Where the foam flashes white from the shouldering ridges,
As they crowd on the uttermost sky.

The mariners sleep by the sea.
Far away there’s a shrine by the sea;
The pale women climb up the path to it slowly
To pray to Our Lady of Storms ere they wholly
Despair of their men from the sea.

                                                                                                     The

                                                                                                        141

The children at play on the sand,
Where once from the shell-broidered sand
They would watch for the sails coming in from far places,
Are forgetting the ships and forgetting the faces
Lying here, lying hid in the sand.

When at night there’s a seething of surf,
The grandames look out o’er the surf,
They reckon their dead and their long years of sadness,
And they shake their lean fists at the sea and its madness,
And curse the white fangs of the surf.

But the mariners sleep by the sea.
They hear not the sound of the sea,
Nor the hum from the church when the psalm is uplifted,
Nor the crying of birds that above them are drifted.
The mariners sleep by the sea.

                                                                                                MARGARET L. WOODS.

GROUPED STUDIES

Mildred.

    Four various impulses do battle in the heart of Mildred—wage
in that breast of hers their long, uncertain fight. A girl of her
intelligence must crave, at times, for steady intellectual progress. It is
natural that she should feel the fascination of present pleasure. All the
best of her womanhood finds itself at peace in the consciousness of
tender deeds. Blind instinct drives her to be fashionable. Charged
with ideals so unstable, so many, and so much at variance, how can she
quite succeed? May not life, so weighted, tend to be little else than an
unwilling compromise—a concession, graceless after all, and finally
barren?



The Basis of Friendship.

    Heyburn’s remark to me that ‘a community of intellectual interests
is the real basis for friendship,’ has, of course, its truth; yet it shows
too, to some extent, the limitations of the person who makes it—shows
most of all the absence in him of imperious instinct or profound
emotion. Friendly acquaintance, not real friendship, is that which is
based, oftenest, on ‘community of interests,’ whether ‘intellectual,
the condition Heyburn, to do him justice, bargains for or whether,
on a lower level, merely material. On common intellectual interests,
no doubt, some friendships are established; but with how many have
they nothing to do! Instinctive liking, the discovery, either slow or
immediate, that your temperaments understand one another, that your
natures can fuse—this, more than anything you can define or intel-
lectually justify, is the basis of associations in which affection must
have a large, unstinted part.



A Living Sacrifice.

    They sit, row after row—those common women penitents—in their
own corner of the church, never looking to this side or that. There
stay they, rarely lifting an eye-some of them pasty, some of them
fresh coloured; all of them in their dull brown shawls and plain
unribboned bonnets; their clothes, their ways, and most of their
dull lives a continuous unsuccessful apology for the things of which (by
some mistake of Providence) Humanity too much consists.



                                                                                                     Patriot.

                                                                                                        143

Patriot.

    The man has been so desperately busy in merely getting his
place, it would be unreasonable to expect that he should have had
any time in which to make ready to fill it.



Lover.

    I see—he likes resistance; and, though it would vex him in the
end if the woman of his ideal should prove impregnable, it would
disappoint him in the process did he discover that she was not strongly
fortified.



Critic and Painter.

    Yet, after all, is there a straw to choose between the two? For,
though you know the painter to be indeed a blithe, degraded com-
pound of ingratitude and vanity, the worst has not been said of his
critic when you have called him—and have called him accurately—
unsatisfactory and diffuse. He is much more than that. It is his
destiny to quit the commonplace, only to arrive at the untrue.



Provence: Morning.

    ‘La terrible lumiere du Midi’—Barbey d’Aurevilly’s phrase-
gleams to-day at its fiercest, though it is early yet. From the
eucalyptus that rises by the window, and all along the plain to the
great sapphire water and the two islands, whitened gold, upon the far
horizon, everything is positive, no detail unrevealed. The wind from
the north-west—invisible but potent visitor—has swept and scoured the
world, and, in white glare and throbbing heat, the shining land—a
rapture of pure colour—burns itself away.



Provence: Evening.

    The chain of mountains—the whole jagged Esterel, stretched to
the sea—looks, from the place whence I behold it, a great peaked
promontory; and, now the sun is down, the whole chain, flushed before
with dusty gold, turns in an instant one chill, ghastly grey—like a
sad woman’s face on which there falls, quite suddenly, the shock of
irretrievable, unlooked-for loss.

                                                                                                     Sufferers.

144

Sufferers.

    Commonplace folk air their kindness of heart by pitying profusely
the incompetence of fools. Had Heaven granted them a wider vision,
they would have some pity to spare for the capable, on whom fools
wreak their mischief.



A Death.

    She lay so quiet: stately almost, for it was not only still. On
features wont to be changeful-responding quickly to the action of
her mental life—the soul had thrown its last mould : the last of all its
impulses had settled and stayed. An aspect of suffering, was it?—of
sorrow, regret at the leaving? Scarcely. Yet much was abandoned.
And she lay quiet—content, one must think, with the change.


                                                                                                FREDERICK WEDMORE

THE SOUTH WIND

I    The south wind rose at dusk of the winter day
  The warm breath of the western sea
  Circling wrapp’d the isle with his cloke of cloud,
  And it now reach’d even to me, at dusk of the day,
  And moan’d in the branches aloud:
  While here and there, in patches of dark space,
  A star shone forth from its heavenly place,
  As a spark that is borne in the smoky chase;
  And, looking up, there fell on my face—
  Could it be drops of rain
  Soft as the wind, that fell on my face?
  Gossamers light as threads of the summer dawn,
  Suck’d by the sun from midmost calms of the main,
  From groves of coral islands secretly drawn,
  O’er half the round of earth to be driven,
  Now to fall on my face
  In silky skeins spun from the mists of heaven.

II    Who art thou, in wind and darkness and soft rain
  Thyself that robest, that bendest in sighing pines
  To whisper thy truth? that usest for signs
  A hurried glimpse of the moon, the glance of a star
  In the rifted sky?
  Who art thou, that with thee I
  Woo and am wooed?
  That, robing thyself in darkness and soft rain,
  Choosest my chosen solitude,
  Coming so far
  To tell thy secret again,
  As a mother her child, in her folding arm
  Of a winter night by a flickering fire,
  Telleth the same tale o’er and o’er
  With gentle voice, and I never tire,
  So imperceptibly changeth the charm,
                                                                                                     As

146

  As Love on buried ecstasy buildeth his tower
  —Like as the stem that beareth the flower
  By trembling is knit to power:—
  Ah! long ago
  In thy first rapture I renounced my lot,
  The vanity, the despondency, and the woe,
  And seeking thee to know
  Well was’t for me; and evermore
  I am thine, I know not what.

III    For me thou seekest ever, me wondering a day
  In the eternal alternations, me
  Free for a stolen moment of chance
  To dream a beautiful dream
  In the everlasting dance
  Of speechless worlds, the unsearchable scheme,
  To me thou findest the way,
  Me and whomsoe’er
  I have found my dream to share
  Still with thy charm encircling; even to-night
  To me and my love in darkness and soft rain
  Under the sighing pines thou comest again,
  And staying our speech with mystery of delight,
  Of the kiss that I give a wonder thou makest,
  And the kiss that I take thou takest.

                                                                                                R.B.

❧ PAOLO AND FRANCESCA
by
G. F. Watts, R.A.

ALFRIC

The square shape around the seriffed letter T is formed out of interlacing ribbons with terminal foliation of acanthus leaves and pomegranate buds. The decoration is created in thin black lines, leaving the letters, vines, and leaves white. It appears to be a wood engraving.

THERE were shouts that horribly clove the
night air—the ring of axes on heavily
smitten shields—every now and then a crash
that meant a crushed head, and a cry that
was not the full, defiant voice of onset but
the stifled note of one who sinks earthward.
And then Alfric saw that in a short while—
a moment or two at most—he would be
ringed round by the men whose ill-fame
had come swiftly from Northumberland—the torturers of King Ella.
He had fought hard while his friends remained standing, and had seen
them go down one after another, a fate which is good and honour-
able for every one, and which he himself would have chosen as his
own, had choice been. But now, that for a breathing-space he stood
over the body of the Dane he had cut down, he had a vision of the
story that had come from the North, of Ella lying face downwards
alive—while his exulting foes opened his ribs into the form of a spread
eagle . . . and then he swore mightily that never should these men
have that triumph over him.

    Swift was the thought, and instantly he hurled shield and bill at
the oncoming assailant, smiting him backward; then turned, with his
knife between his teeth, fled like a hare to the water’s edge, out of the
fiery circle shed by the burning homestead; then shot out into the
black water and thick fenland mist, followed by all who dared, and
they were very many.

    With an instinctive cunning which is bred in the bone by such
ravagous times, he turned the very instant he had come to the end of
his long forward shoot, and dived sharply to his right hand, swimming
under water as far as his breath would hold out. He did this as one
who had lived an amphibious life ever since his birth, and who was
not afraid of any strange things that might be sleeping in the depths
he threaded, who wished to get away from his fellow-men who had
burnt his home, cut his friends to pieces, and intended in all likelihood
a disgraceful end for himself.

    And as he twisted and kicked his feet out of the water with the
dive, as a duck turns up its tail, there came what he had forethought
a sleet of arrows pelting fast, cutting the water with a sharp ‘phit-phit,’
along the oily wake he had left behind, and far out beyond it into the
                                                                                                     darkness.

152

darkness So very prompt had the Northmen been with their bows,
and so very nearly had they guessed his exact whereabouts that one
of these messengers of the Raven stuck quivering into the sole of his
upturned foot as he went down, and five or six more clove the place
where his head had been an instant previously. He felt the sting in is
heel and snorted angrily at it, trailing behind him and wagging its
point about in his wound as he swam on in the depths; soon, doubling
together for a second, he plucked it out of the leather shoe that ha
stayed the steel from inflicting a serious hurt, and stuck it in his gird
for further use; then feeling his pent-up breath becoming a painful
weight at his heart, he rose and swam stealthily as an otter, holding
little more than his nose above the surface, with a pang of wrath
losses, and exultation at his escape.

    Not one of those who had entered after him could he see.

    So he swam on and on, thinking of nothing but speed and silence,
for he knew they would row over a wide surface if they could find the
boat betimes—still, it was well hidden. The mist was heavy on the
face of the great mere, he could hardly see a hand’s-breadth before
him but from behind he heard faint whooping and yelling, and a splash
of oars that died gradually as he slid along. So they had found that
boat, and were exploring. They were prompt indeed but his trick had
succeeded, evidently; they were on the wrong track. Therefore he
took his knife from his teeth and placed it in his girdle, as being no
longer needed for instant use, then raised his head out of the water and
settled down to a swinging stroke that could be kept up for a very long
while.

    Once he brushed against some great soft mass that quivered
suddenly and swished away in a hurry; once as he skirted a thicket of
deep-growing rushes, where of old an island had been, some writhing
thing began softly to twine round his leg, and instantly he drew back
his limb with a swift twist, and darted off at full speed. After a long
interval of strokes that seemed to bring him nowhere, he slid quietly
into a group of some great waterfowl, sleeping with their huge bills on
their backs. One or two awoke, and brandished these formidable things
as a man will wave a broad blade, but quickly he sank below the
surface, and there was no cry of surprise from them. Perhaps they
thought him only a floating corpse—such a sight being too
common to arouse appetite in birds who had supped well—anyhow,
he rose beyond them, and renewed his course into the unknown with-
                                                                                                     out

                                                                                                        153

out their betraying his whereabouts to any who might yet be after
him.

    Into the Unknown.

For he had quite lost his bearings, and could only hope he had not
taken some unnoticed turn and was not going back to the ravaged
shore. . . . The submerged islet he seemed to know, but even that
indicated the edge of a region whither he had never extended his
fishing journeys—a place of water—water, and little else, on whose
farther side the moon arose at this time of the year; a place said to be
haunted by a Grendel, which had so far met with no Beowulf to
destroy it . . . and as he thought of these things, lo! his fenland eye
felt a slightly lesser darkness over against his face, and he knew, as no
dweller inland could have known, that the moon was there, and that he
was indeed swimming out into the region of Fear.

    Yet little he cared for Grendel in his present mood of fury against
those he had eluded; to meet the Marsh Demon in all his dreadfulness
of clutching arms and serpent head would be but the honourable end
of a warrior: as he swam he growled in fierce grief to think of the
spread eagle which, perhaps, was even then being inflicted on some
wounded friend. Visions of return at the head of a troop, and the
sweet word Revenge, danced about in his head, until the hopelessness of
them trailed its chilling certainty across all such rosy dreams. The
fever of fighting was being cooled by the autumn water, and he fancied
every now and then that henceforth he must be a dweller among
strange faces, content if he could keep unharmed. So suddenly came
this spasm of cold upon him, that he felt as if some weight were
pressing his shoulders and trying to drown him . . . Grendel, perhaps!
stealthily arisen behind . . .?

    Sturdily he plucked his knife from his girdle and twisted round
with all the force of his body. No! there was no claw on his back, no
Grendel with eyes like torches, as the tale went. It was all fancy; he
was still alone on the face of the deep mere, with nothing visible
above or around, just as if he were hung in the middle of the sky.
However, that vigorous twist had sent his blood stirring up and down
him; he pushed the knife again into his girdle, and forward once more
with the long, steady stroke, keeping on towards the feeble greyness,
which he felt rather than saw, in that one spot of the thick fen mist.
How long he thus persevered he could not tell—hours, it seemed.

    Until something black arose before him, came close, and looked into
                                                                                                     his

154

his face. It was very large, its big eyes were mild and wondering, also
it had a pair of tusks, and moustaches long and sweeping-white, like
the lip-clothing of some barrow-ghost that once had been a king of the
northern seas. Whether it were man, or beast, or Grendel, it gazed
awhile at Alfric as he hung there in the water with a beating heart,
overshading him with its bulk. Then, instead of attacking him, it
went again on its way, uncertainly, as one that is far from home and
lost, with a gentle groan, so that Alfric felt a sorrow for it which he
could not understand, but which might be of his own thought that he
also had lost his kinsfolk: and he knew that it was no Grendel, what-
ever else it might be.

    After which, the chill of the water came creeping into all his bones
and weighed upon him as before, until he kicked and twisted smartly,
recovering his strength with difficulty for the task of going onward to
a place he did not know. Once or twice he felt a sudden anger at all
his swimming being so apparently vain, and beat the water furiously,
lying on his side as a ship does when the wind blows strongly abeam,
cleaving the cold surface with a great rush and bubbling; but at last
he had to pause, and turn over to float and get a little rest, feeling in
those intervals as if the slightest hair-weight more would send him down
to the bottom like a stone, without his being able to move a finger.

    But then he would recover from staring up into the grey nothingness
aloft, struggle round on his face, and toil on, though now it was as if he
were pulling himself with difficulty through a vast heap of wet wool, so
spent did he know himself to be after the fight and the long swimming.

    And still he came to nothing—nothing at all; still the everlasting
grey mist; still he hung poised, to all seeming, in a sky with nothing
all round him, though the end was below if he were to hold up his
hands and take no breath.

    Then he felt a mortal weariness of moving, and wondered why he
so persisted in the strife for what he did not know, when all he cared
for were lying with cloven skulls on the far sandbank. Straight at
that thought he held up his arms, and sank like a stone. . . .

    All at once, as the water covered his descending head, his foot
touched soft mud. He might have stayed there to drown, but the
feel of earth in those depths stirred in him a fresh desire of life; and a
beat of his hand, weak though it was, brought him again to the
surface.

    And now, as once more he painfully drew in his arms and put them
                                                                                                     forth

                                                                                                        155

forth through the entangling water, he saw a great reed standing
sentinel in front, causing the life-longing to glow red within him. Soon
he reached it, and was aware of many others behind—huge stems, with
purple tassels high over him. Never before had he seen such giants,
standing like a water-forest, drooping their sword-like blades. He
grasped one, and it cut his softened flesh, but he was very glad, and
catching at each stem helped himself on into shallower water. So at
last he wound his way through them into a swamp, lying flat on his
back to keep from the sucking mud, and slowly dragging himself along.
Thus he came to lumps of earth on which grew grass, over which he
crawled, sinking a little at times, until it was firmer under him, and the
soil appeared dry between the rushes, which here were small and low.
And then he tried to stand upright, but fell again with a sting in his
heel and lay there exhausted, at last to sleep heavily. . . .

    The daylight filled his eyes as he awoke. There was a hand upon
his shoulder, lightly pressing—the hand of a woman. Wonderingly
he gazed up at the tall figure of a maiden dressed in some grass-woven
garment, a cross dangling from her breast, her hair hanging down to
her waist, and waving over him like a golden veil as she stooped to
look at his face. Her blue eyes showed the good Saxon blood; she
was very beautiful to see, much as the angels the priests had discoursed
of when he was in the land of living men. ‘It is Saint Alchfrida,’
murmured he.

    ‘Who are you?’ she asked. ‘Whence come you?’

    ‘I was Alfric, son of Beortric, till I came to my end in the deep
water. The Danes broke in upon us, and I slew my man, maybe more.
Nor were they able to take me, O Saint. Have I not done rightly?’

    ‘Indeed I know not,’ she said, wondering also and with pity.

    Then she vanished, as it seemed, and he slept.

    But again he awoke, and she stood there once more, with a white-
headed man by her side, dressed in an old grey cassock. ‘Canst rise,
stranger, and come with us ?’ said this figure; ‘or is thy body too weak
for one more trial? It is but a little way.’

    At that Alfric arose with difficulty, and went with the pair as one
in a dream, over the grass and through a reedway, until he came to a
cleared space where stood a hut, on whose roof was a rude cross of
osier, of which material the dwelling also was made.

    He now knew that he was alive, and that these were of his race,
living here unknown and unmolested.

                                                                                                     They

156

    They gave him food and water, and made him rest all that day on
a couch of leaves in the corner, whence at times as he lay he saw the
maiden passing to and fro. And once, when his eyes were nearly
closed, so that one might think he slept, she came and stood at the
door with hands pensively clasped, watching him with a face full of
pity, until he looked up, when she withdrew to some labour in the
border of the clearing.

    After a while, as evening came on, she entered and prepared the
meal, and he spoke to her to hear her voice, the sound of which was
low and peaceful as a morning breeze between the green waterways.
She asked him of his home, and he told her; but his place was not
known to her, nor was his name, nor that of any of his kin, nor any-
thing that he knew. So, too, in her turn she could tell him nothing,
save that she had always been here since the Day of Flame, as she
called it, and had no desire to go elsewhere than where her father was.

    These things Alfric heard gladly, because of the sweetness of her
voice, though it made him think for a while of his homestead and of
other good things lost. Then as his heart came back to peace from that
thought, and he watched her placing food in the bowls, the old man
entered and greeted him Christianly, turning next to bless the board.

    Tell me, Father,’ said Alfric, ‘is there any truth in what men say of
the Grendel that haunts these fens?’

    ‘I know not, my son,’ replied the priest. ‘The Lord allows strange
things to be, and so that may be of them. I have been here for
twenty years with this child of a murdered kinsman. Only we two
escaped, and our Lord brought us safely here, where we abide gladly,
secure as I trust. Indeed, I had heard of the terrible Grendel, and had
I not been in fear of life for Christiana and myself, might have feared
the Thing that men said was in this place. But in despair I came,
deeming that the Marsh Demon could not be more cruel to us than the
Danes, and have not seen him through all these years; wherefore I
believe that he lets us be, or is not.’

    ‘It is very peaceful to be here,’ said Alfric regretfully; ‘indeed I
would fain stay always, if it were not that my kinsfolk’s blood cries for
avenging at my hand.’

    ‘Yet God is great, and full of purpose. Why shouldst thou go, my
son? To kill many foes will not avail to make thy kinsfolk live.’

    ‘That is true,’ said Alfric musingly, with his eyes on the face of
Christiana.

                                                                                                     So

                                                                                                        157

    So the days passed over the isle in the haunted fen where the
fugitive had found refuge, and as he laboured for the old man of failing
strength and the daughter of his adoption, a peace settled upon his
heart as new bark grows over the gashed tree; sometimes also, when
he spoke to her alone, the thirst for revenge so abated that he almost
felt content to leave it in the hands of God.

    But these were seldom, and at last came an unrest that gave him
trouble. One day he entered the little hut which he had built for him-
self, and sat long in thought, now that he understood what ailed him—
so deep and so full of doubt it was that he forgot to go to the midday
meal with his hosts. Therefore at last a shadow fell over his face—two
shadows; the pair were standing before him in his own hut, and the
radiance of Christiana’s hair seemed to fill its dusk as the light of a
torch. ‘What ails thee, friend Alfric?’ asked the priest.

    ‘I will speak plain words,’ said Alfric huskily as he rose, ‘yet I am
full of more than words can carry forth. I see thy face, Christiana,
wherever I go, though thou be not at hand; it is an angel s face always,
as first I saw it, and yet it is now so dear to me that it gives me a pain
I never felt before. This I have held down with my hand for many
days; but now my hand and my breast are too small for it, and know-
ing that it is love for thee . . . I will say it and then go to the place of
danger and of strange men, leaving thee at peace as thou shouldst be.
For I know also full well of myself that I am not worthy to be a mate
of thine, being rough and blood-stained. Farewell, kind friends!

    He held out his two hands and hung his head.

    The priest took them, while Christiana stood apart with fingers
clasped and bent face. ‘Nay,’ said he, ‘this is a strange thought.
Canst thou not forget the ills that are past, and wouldst thou seek
again the dangers that have allowed thee to escape? The times over
there are very evil.’

    ‘True’, said Alfric, ‘but I am of them, not of you, and I would not
bring them here to those that have befriended me ; and for all I desire
I cannot keep wild thoughts out of me. The wolf cannot live with the
deer. She is too tender a flower for my rough grasp. Let me go,
Father.’

    ‘Yet if she would teach thee ways of peace, thinkest thou she could,
my son?’

    ‘Ay, . . . ay, indeed. I would be as patient a scholar as a man
can be. I would do . . . what would I not? . . . But how can that
                                                                                                     be?

158

be? Let me go, Father, for I cannot forget my slain kinsmen. Fare-
well!’

    ‘Nay, let her speak first. Speak, dear daughter!’

    Then the girl raised her face, and met the young man’s disturbed
eyes with a look so frank and kind that the vision of blood faded from
his heart. ‘No, do not leave us, Alfric!’ she said.

    So Alfric stayed; and the priest joined their hands, and the lesson
of happiness lasted for many pleasant hidden years in the isle none
dared approach because of the evil repute it had.

    At Yuletide feasts and other gatherings, when the night drew on
and the mists took weird shapes, men told tales of the fiend that
haunted the water and entered halls in mid-dark and snatched away
the bravest, tearing them to pieces as he went — a monster with eyes of
flame and dragon claws. And all believed and shuddered and repeated
these things . . . while Alfric and Christiana sat hand in hand over
their lesson in the twilight.

                                                                                                W. DELAPLAINE SCULL.

❧ THE ALBATROSS (ANCIENT MARINER)
a pen drawing
by
Reginald Savage

FLORENTINE RAPPRESENTAZIONI AND THEIR PICTURES

BETWEEN the twelfth and the six-
teenth century nearly every country
in Europe possessed some sort of a
religious drama, which in many cases
has lingered on, nearly or quite, to
the present day. Even in England—
in Yorkshire, in Dorset and Sussex,
and perhaps in other counties—the
old Christmas play of St. George and
the Dragon is not quite extinct,
though in its latter days its action
has been rendered chaotic by the
introduction of King George III.,
Admiral Nelson, and other national
heroes, whose relation to either the Knight or the Dragon is a little
difficult to follow. The stage directions, which are fairly numerous
in most of the old plays which have been preserved, enable us to
picture to ourselves the successive stages of their development with
considerable minuteness. In some churches the ‘sepulchre’ is still
preserved to which, in the earliest liturgical dramas, the choristers
advanced, in the guise of the three Maries, to act over again the scene
on the first Easter-day; while of that other scene, when at Christmas the
shepherds brought their simple offerings, a cap, a nutting stick, or a
bob of cherries, to the Holy Child, a trace still exists in the representa-
tion, either by a transparency or a model, of the manger of Bethlehem,
still common in Roman Catholic churches, and not unknown in some
English ones. When the scene of the plays was removed from the
inside of the church to the churchyard, we hear of the crowds who
desecrated the graves in their eagerness to see the performance; and
later still, when the craft-guilds had burdened themselves with the
expenses of their preparation, we have curious descriptions of the
waggons upon which each scene of the great cycles ‘of matter from the
beginning of the world to the Day of Judgement,’ was set up, in order
that scene after scene might be rolled before the spectators at the street
corners or the market place, throughout the length of a midsummer
day. Artists with an antiquarian turn have endeavoured to picture
                                                                                                     for

164

for us these curious stages. In Sharp’s Dissertation on the Coventry
Mysteries there is a frontispiece giving an imaginary view of a perfor-
mance; and only a few years ago an article was published in an
American magazine, with really delightful illustrations, depicting the
working of the elaborate stage machinery behind the scenes, as well as
the effects with which the spectators were regaled. But of contempor-
ary illustrations the lack remains grievous and irreparable. In England
we have nothing at all for the Miracle Plays, while for the moralities
by which they were superseded, the only manuscript illustration is
a picture of the castle in the Castle of Perseverance, in which, with the
aid of his good angels, its occupant, Man, was set to resist the attacks
of the deadly sins and all the hosts of hell! The later moralities,
printed by Wynkyn de Worde and his contemporaries early in the six-
teenth century, have occasionally a few figures on the face or back of
the title-page, to which labels bearing the names of the characters are
attached. But these were venerable cuts, which had done duty on
previous occasions for other subjects; and so far from being specially
designed to represent the players on an English stage, were really
French in their origin, and only imported into England from the old
stock of Antoine Verard.

    In France we have much the same tale. It is true that so many of
the old French Mysteries still remain in manuscript, unexplored, that
there is a possibility of some pleasant surprise in store for us. But the
printed plays were either not illustrated at all, or sent forth with only
a handful of conventional cuts, some of which, as we have seen, soon
afterwards found their way to our own country. One little ray of light,
however, we have in the pictures, especially of the Annunciation to the
Shepherds and their Adoration, in many of the numerous editions of
the Hours of the Blessed Virgin (the lay-folk’s prayer-books, as they
have been called, of those days), which, from 1490 onwards, attained
the same popularity in print which they had previously enjoyed in
manuscript. In these illustrations we see the shepherds, with their
women-folk about them, as they watched their flocks, till startled
by the angel’s greeting, and again crowding round the manger at
Bethlehem. In one edition they even bear on labels the names Gobin
le gai, le beau Roger, Mahault, Aloris, etc., by which they were known
in the plays.

    But however ready we may be to trace the influence of the miracle
plays in these pictures, as illustrations of the plays themselves they are
                                                                                                     very

                                                                                                        165

Il Opretta di frate Girolamo de ferrara della ozatione mentale della ozatione mentale

I

very inadequate;
and the fact re-
mains that in only
one country, and
practically only
in one city in that
country (for the
Sienna editions
are merely re-
prints) did the
religious plays,
which in one
form or another
were then being
acted all over
Europe, receive
any contemporary illustration. This one city was Florence; and
alike for the special form in which the religious drama was there de-
veloped, for the causes which contributed to its popularity at the turn of
the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries, and for its close connection with
the popular art of the day, the subject is one of considerable interest.
On its literary and religious side, the late John Addington Symonds dis-
cussed it in Studies of the Italian Renaissance with his usual ability,
and many of the plays have been reprinted by Signor Ancona. Of late
years the little pictures by which they are illustrated have also received
attention, a fact amply attested by the extraordinary rise in their
market value. But it is worth while to bring together, even if only in
outline, the pictures and the plays to which they belong, more closely
than has hitherto been attempted, and this is my object in the present
paper.

    Book-illustration in Italy began very early with the publication in
1467, by Ulric Hahn, at Rome, of an edition of the Meditations of
                                                                                                     Cardinal

166

II

Cardinal
Torque-
mada on the
Life and
Passion of
Christ. For
the next
twenty years
its progress
was only
sporadic, and
though we
find illustra-
tions of
greater or
less artis-
tic value
in books
printed at
Naples,
Rome, Ferrara, Verona and Venice, we can only group them together in
twos and threes; there is absolutely no trace of any school of illustrators.
From this sporadic growth Florence was not entirely excluded, for
besides a treatise on geography we find in the 1477 edition of Bettini’s
Monte Santo di Dio, and the famous 1480 Dante, pictures of very con-
siderable interest. They differ, however, from those of the illustrated
books of other Italian towns, in being cut not on wood but on copper,
and it is a remarkable fact that until the year 1490 no Florentine book
is known which contains a cut. The signs of wear in a woodcut of the
dead Christ which appears early in that year, has given rise to a belief
that there may have been some previous illustrated edition, now lost; but
it is more probable that the picture had only been printed separately for
pasting into books of devotion. In any case, it stands apart, with
but one other cut, slightly later in date, from all other Florentine work,
                                                                                                     and

                                                                                                        167

III

and must be looked
on only as an ex-
ample of the spor-
adic illustrations of
which we have
spoken as appearing
in other districts.
But from the 28th
of September, 1490,
onwards for twenty
years, we have a
succession of wood-
cuts which, amid
all the differences
which give them
individuality, are
yet closely linked
together in style,
and which form, on
the whole, by far the finest series of book-illustrations of early date. The
popularity which these woodcuts attained is attested by the repeated
editions of the works in which they appear; while the suddenness with
which they sprang up, the general similarity of style, and the nature of
the books they illustrate, all suggest that we have here to deal with a
conscious and carefully directed movement as opposed to the haphazard
use of illustrations in other cities during the previous twenty years. The
book in which the first characteristic Florentine woodcut appears is an
edition of the Laudi of Jacopone da Todi, printed by Francesco Buonac-
corsi; and both the choice of the book and the name of the printer
offer a tempting basis for theory-making. Printing, we must remember,
though it had been in use for more than a third of a century, was even
then a new craft, and was still taken up sometimes as a side-employ-
ment by many persons who had been bred to other trades or professions.
Our own Caxton, as we all know, was a mercer; the first printer at St.
Albans, a schoolmaster; Francesco Tuppo, of Naples, a jurist;
Joannes Philippus de Lignamine, of Rome, a physician; and so on. In
                                                                                                     natural

168

natural continuation, however, of the work of the Scriptorium in many
monasteries, we find that a large number of the early printers were
members of monasteries or priests, and it was to this latter order that
the Buonaccorsi who printed the Laudi belonged. Now, the name
Buonaccorsi is the name of the family of Savonarola’s mother. A
few months before the appearance of the Laudi the great Dominican
had been recalled to Florence by Lorenzo de’ Medici, and his first
public sermon there—a sermon which had stirred the whole city
to its depths—had been preached on the previous 1st of August. In

IV

the next year we find Buonaccorsi printing the first edition of
the Libro della vita viduale, the earliest dated Savonarola tract o
which I know; and I have not been able to resist hazarding the
conjecture that between the preacher-monk and the priest-printer
there may have been some tie of blood, and that it was to Savona-
rola that the splendid series of Florentine illustrated books owe
their origin.

    That this should be the case would not be surprising. Savonarola
was no Puritan, or rather he was like the Puritans of the better sort,
and loved art so long as it was subservient to the main object of man s
being. The pamphlets with which he flooded Florence during the next
few years are, for the most part, decorated with a cut on their first page
                                                                                                     or

                                                                                                        169

V

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VI

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

170

or title; and if the subject were ever worked out, it would probably be
found that this was uniformly the case with the original editions, and
those issued with the author’s supervision; while the unillustrated copies
are mere reprints, which the absence of any law of copyright made it
possible for any printer, who thought it worth his while, to issue, with
or without the author’s leave. The woodcuts to the Savonarola tracts
number from forty to sixty, according as we include or reject variants
on the same subject, and fall naturally into three divisions, illustrating
respectively the Passion of Christ, the duties of Prayer and Preparation
for Death, and various aspects of Savonarola’s activity, in which, how-
ever, the representations of him are always imaginary, never drawn from
life. As an example of these cuts, I give that which decorates the title-
page of an undated edition (circa 1495) of the Operetta della oratione
mentale. I have had occasion to use this before in my little work on
Early Illustrated Books, but there is a certain largeness of pictorial effect
about it which gives this cut, I think, quite the first place in the series,
and makes me unwilling to take any other as an example. The cuts in
the Rappresentazioni are seldom quite as good as this, but they form a
parallel series to those of the Savonarola tracts, occasionally borrowing
an illustration from those on the Passion of Christ, and evidently
inspired by the same aims. The same types (our only means of
fixing the printers of these dateless little books), were used in many
of the works of both the series, and it does not seem fanciful to
believe that Savonarola, either directly or through some trusted disciple,
was nearly as intimately connected with the one as he undoubtedly was
with the other.

    We have said that the choice of the work in which appeared
the first typical Florentine woodcut was not without interest for our
subject. Jacopone da Todi, whom the cut exhibits kneeling in an
ecstasy of prayer before a vision of the Blessed Virgin, was a Franciscan
mystic, eccentric to the verge of madness in his manners, but a spiritual
poet of no mean ability, and the reputed author of the Stabat Rater.
He died in 1306, and was probably old enough to have remembered
that strange epidemic of the Battuti, when thousands of frenzied men
and women marched from city to city, scourging themselves almost to
death for the sinfulness of the world, till their career had to be stopped
by the free use of the gallows. When the frenzy was past, those who
survived it formed themselves into companies for the continuance of
their religious exercises in a more moderate form, and from their meet-
                                                                                                     ing

❧ THE SEA NYMPH
by
Sir Edward Burne Jones

                                                                                                        175

VII

ing together to sing their
Laudi, hymns of a peculi-
arly personal fervour, in
the chapels of their
guilds, they obtained the
name Laudesi. Of the
writers of these Laudi,
Jacopone da Todi was
the greatest, and it was
out of the Laudi that the
later Rappresentazioni
were gradually developed.
In his excellent account
of the Rappresentazioni,
to which I have already
alluded, Mr. J. A.
Symonds seems to me
to have laid rather undue
stress on the manner in which this development took place, as offering a
contrast to the history of the religious drama in other countries. It
is true that in England the plays which have come down to us
belong almost exclusively to the great cycles which unrolled the
history of man from the creation till the crack of doom, but we have
mention of several plays on the lives of the Saints—e.g.one on St. George
and the Dragon, and another (which survives) on St. Mary Magdalene,
and the popularity at one time of these Miracle Plays, properly so
called, is witnessed by the fact that it is their name under which the
cycles of Scriptural dramas generally passed. At Florence these longer
dramas were not wholly unknown, but they seem to have been acted
only in pantomime or dumb-show, in the great pageants on St. Johns
Day; the shorter plays developing from the Laudi just as, at an earlier
period, the liturgical dramas had developed in France and England out
of the dramatic recital of the gospel of the day. It is worth noting, by
the way, that the Laudi themselves were not superseded, but continued to
be written and sung when the Rappresentazioni were already becoming
                                                                                                     popular.

176

popular. Two of the writers of them during this period have a special
interest for us—Maffeo Belcari, as the author also of the earliest printed
Rappresentazioni, and Girolamo Benivieni, as the friend and disciple of
Savonarola, whose doctrine and prophecies he defended in 1476 in a
tract, printed, this also, by Buonaccorsi.

    In an edition of the Laudi of the first of these two writers, seen by
Mr. Symonds, but which I am unlucky enough never to have come
across, there is an interesting cut representing the Laudesi, standing
before a crucifix, singing their praise. In course of time dramatic
divisions had been admitted into the Laudi, and under the name of
Divozioni they were recited with appropriate action in dialogue form.
The actors were for the most part boys, who were formed into confra-
ternities, while the expenses of the plays were doubtless defrayed by
their parents. As the dramatic element in the performances became
more decided, the plays came at last to be generally termed Rappresen-
tazioni, and under this name they attained a great popularity during the
last quarter of the fifteenth century, and the first of its successor.

    Unlike the northern Miracle Plays, which are almost without excep-
tion anonymous, the majority of the earliest Rappresentazioni which
have come down to us contain the names of their authors, and in
editions separated by half a century the text remains substantially un-
altered In English plays the text often appears to have grown up by
a process of accretion, so that a cycle, or even a single play, in the form
in which it has survived, could hardly with justice be assigned to a
single author, even if we knew the name of the first writer concerned in
it. The difference is not unimportant, and is one of numerous small
signs which tell us that the religious drama in Florence, at least in this
stage of its development, was less popular, less spontaneous, than in our
own country, and more the result of deliberate religious effort.

    The earliest Rappresentazione printed was the Abraham of the Maffeo,
or Feo, Belcari, whom we have already mentioned. It was printed in
1485 the year after Belcari’s death at a good old age (he was born in
1410), so that the whole of Belcari’s plays were published posthumously.
Among them are plays on the Annunciation, on St.John the Baptist
visited by Christ in the Desert, and on St. Panuntius. Of the last two
of these I have seen fifteenth-century editions—the one at the British
Museum, the other at the Bodleian Library, each with a single charm-
ing woodcut. No less a person than Lorenzo de’ Medici was the author
of the play of S. Giovanni e S. Paolo, which has also come down to us
                                                                                                     in

VIII

178

in its original edition with a graceful cut; and Bernardo Pulci, who died
in the first year of the sixteenth century, produced a play on the legend
of Barlaam and Josaphat. But the most prolific of these dramatists
seems to have been a woman, Bernardo’s wife Antonia, to whose pen
we owe plays on the Patriarch Joseph, the Prodigal Son, S. Francis
of Assisi, S. Domitilla, S. Guglielma, etc. The names of a few other
writers are known; but there were also numerous anonymous plays,
written very much on the same lines, to some of which we shall have to
allude.

    Almost invariably the plays begin with a Prologue spoken by an
Angel, who is represented in the title-cut of Lorenzo de’ Medici’s San
Giovanni e San Paolo as standing behind the two saints in a kind of
pulpit. In other early plays the Angel is represented in a separate
woodcut whose lower border is cut off, so as to fix on to the border of
the special title-cut of the play. Later on, another design was substi-
tuted for this, without any border at all. I think it probable that these
angelic prologuisings were mostly spoken from some machine at the
back of the stage, especially contrived for celestial appearances. In
other respects, the services of the stage-carpenter do not seem to have
been much called for. The plays were acted, we are told, either in the
chapel of the guild or confraternity, or in the refectory of a convent,
and the arrangements were probably very similar to those in modem
school-plays, the imagination of the spectators being often required to
take the place of a change of scene. In the so-called ‘Coventry’ Plays
we hear of a device by which a new scene, or perhaps rather a new
centrepiece, with the actors all in their places, could be wheeled round
to the front; but more often the whole of the dramatis personce were
grouped at the back or sides, and individual actors merely stepped for-
ward when their turn came. In the play of San Lorenso we are
expressly told that two scenes were shown simultaneously on different
parts of the stage, Decius and his satellites offering their heathen
sacrifices on the one side, while Pope Sixtus comforts the faithful against
the coming persecution on the other. This combination of two scenes
in one is a familiar feature in mediaeval art, and is not unknown even in
these Florentine woodcuts, small as they are: witness our fourth cut, in
which the bartering at the pawnshop, and the indignities offered to the
sacred wafer, tell the story of the play by means of its two most
prominent scenes.

    Of the literary value of the Rappresentazioni it is not possible to
                                                                                                     speak

                                                                                                        179

speak with much enthusiasm. From a literary standpoint, indeed, the
lives of the Saints, with which most of them have to do, are a difficult
and not very promising subject. Most stories of heroism are best told
in ten lines at longest; and to attempt to spin them out into several
hundred, without any considerable material in the way of authentic
detail, leads inevitably to weakness and exaggeration. In this respect
the Rappresentazioni are neither much worse nor much better than the
average Legenda Sanctorum in verse or prose. They follow these, in
fact, with remarkable fidelity, and as they are written for the most part

IX

in the familiar octava rima, it is only by the speeches being made in the
first person, instead of in historical narration, that they differ very greatly
from them. Thus, to take the plays from which we have chosen our
illustrations, that of S. Francis of Assisi, by Antonia Pulci, faithfully
records all the main incidents as told in the legends—the colloquy with
the beggar during which he was stricken with compunction, the theft
from his father of money to repair a church, the founding of his Order,
the conference with the Pope, and the reception of the stigmata; this
last being, as might be expected, the subject chosen by the artist for the
woodcut on the title. The play of S. Lorenzo shows us the martyrdom
of Pope Sixtus in the Decian persecution, and then the torture and
                                                                                                     death

180

death of S. Laurence for his refusal to surrender the treasure which the
Pope had bequeathed to the poor of the church. Both of the woodcuts
to these two plays are of great beauty. The first probably follows the
traditions of the many pictures on the subject rather than that of the
stage, though it was, no doubt, for a scene like this that the stage-
managers of the day used their utmost resources. In the martyrdom of
S. Laurence, on the other hand, we may be sure that we have a very
exact picture of the scene as played on some convent stage.

    Both these plays belong to the fifteenth century, and, as is mostly
the case in the earliest editions, have only a rough woodcut each. This
was not invariably so, as in the Bodleian Library there are copies of
editions of the plays of Stella and S. Paulino, which have every appear-
ance of having been printed before 1500, but yet have sets of several
cuts, all obviously designed especially for them. These, however, are
exceptions; and as a rule where we find several cuts, it is easy to trace
most of them back, either to other plays, or to other illustrated books
of the time, such as the Epistole e Evangelii, the Fior di Virtù, Pulci’s
Morgante Maggiore, etc. Thus, of the two cuts given here as illustra-
tions to the curious Rapresentatione duno miracolo del corpo di Christo,
the first alone occurs in the fifteenth-century edition, while in that of
(probably sixty years later) this original cut reappears, with three
others added to it. The first, here shown, representing a drinking
scene, is borrowed, I strongly suspect, from the Morgante Maggiore;
while the second, which shows a man being burnt, and the third, in
which a king is consulting his council, may be called stock-pictures, and
reappear with frequency.

    This play of the Corpo di Christo is an Italian version of a miracle
which was constantly being reported during the middle-ages, and was
often the excuse for a cruel persecution of the Jews. The well-known
‘Croxton’ Play of the Sacrament is cast on the same lines, and a
detailed comparison of the two would yield some points of interest. In
the Rappresentazione the story is well told, and with unusual vivacity.
After the angelic prologue there is an induction, in which a miracle of a
consecrated wafer, dripping blood, is announced to Pope Urban, who
discourses on it with a cardinal and with S. Thomas Aquinas and S.
Bonaventura. The play then begins with a drinking scene, in w ic
a wicked Guglielmo squanders his money, and then takes his wife’s
cloak to the Jewish pawnshop to get more. The poor woman goes
herself to the Jew to try to get her cloak back, and is then persuaded to
                                                                                                     filch

                                                                                                        181

filch a wafer at mass and bring it to the Jew, on his promise to restore
her garment. Her horror at his proposal is overcome by the pretext
that his object is to use the Host as a charm to heal his sick son, and that
if this succeeds he and all his family will become Christians. This, of
course, is a mere fiction, but it serves the woman in good stead; for when
the Jew is discovered by the unquenchable flow of blood from the wafer
he maltreats, he is promptly burnt, while the Judge is warned by a

X

special revelation to spare the life of his accomplice, whose guilt might
easily be represented as the greater of the two.

    An edition of the play of S. Cecilia, probably printed about 1560,
affords a good example of the gradual addition of cuts in later reprints.
This little tract of about twenty pages has no less than eighteen pictures
in it, three of which, however, are only repetitions of one of the most
familiar cuts in the whole series of Rappresentazioni—a Christian virgin
dragged before a king; while three other well-worn cuts are each
repeated twice, so that the number of blocks used was only thirteen,
though these yielded eighteen impressions. As might be expected, the
little pictures are often dragged in with very little appropriateness.
Thus, the Roman soldiers sent to arrest Cecilia gave the publisher an
excuse to show a party of knights riding in the country, and so on. On
the other hand, the little picture here shown of a disputation, though un-
doubtedly executed in the first instance for some other work, probably
                                                                                                     gives

182

gives us a very correct representation of the costume and grouping of
the actors, and the same may be said of the companion picture from the
play of S. Orsola.

    One point in the text of the S. Cecilia deserves noting. In the main
it resembles very closely indeed the legend as it is known to lovers of
English poetry from the version which Chaucer made in his early days
and afterwards inserted, with little revision, into the Canterbury Tales.
But when Cecilia has gone through the form of marriage with the
husband who is forced upon her, and is proceeding with him to his
home, the lads of the neighbourhood bar their passage with a demand
for petty gifts, to which the virgin submits with good grace—a fragment
of Florentine life thus cropping up amid the rather unreal atmosphere
of the old legend.

    Whatever the shortcomings of the Rappresentazioni, their popularity
was very great, and they were reprinted again and again throughout the
sixteenth century. Naturally the woodcuts suffered from continual use,
and the stock-subjects, like that of a general martyrdom shown in cut 8,
are often found in the later editions with their little frames or borders
almost knocked to pieces. Recutting was also frequent, and in the
same edition of the play of S. Mary Magdalene, from which, for the sake
of the unusual freedom in the handling, I have taken the title-cut as
one of our illustrations, it is repeated later on from a new block, clumsily
cut in imitation of the old one.

    As the Rappresentazioni and their illustrations are connected with the
Savonarola tracts on the one hand, so on the other we find them
influencing some less dramatic forms of literature. Thus, among the
early Florentine illustrated books we find a number of Contrasti—the
contrast of men and women, of the living and the dead, of riches and
poverty, etc. These were rather poems than plays, but the name
Rappresentazione is sometimes applied to them in later editions. This
is so, for instance, with the famous Contrasto di Carnesciale e la Quare-
sima, from which the first of the two cuts is here given, the second
representing a visit to the fish and vegetable market for Lenten fare
when the days of Carnival are over. Again we find the same methods
of illustration applied to the Giostre of Giuliano and Lorenzo de’ Medici,
the story of Orpheus, by Angelo Politiano, which forms part of the
former, being adorned with no less than ten admirable woodcuts, of
which the picture here reproduced, of Orpheus frightened by a fury from
attempting a second time to visit Hell in quest of his lost Eurydice, is
                                                                                                     quite

                                                                                                        183

quite one of the finest. The same methods of illustration were also
used in the novelle and other secular chapbooks, which have nothing
either religious or dramatic about them. It is clear, however, that the
religious use was the earlier of the two, and that while the writers of the
Laudi anticipated the practice of later revivalists in adapting profane
songs and tunes into hymns of devotion, it was the secular literature
which was the borrower in the matter of illustrations.

    As to the authors of these charming woodcuts, we know absolutely
nothing. Dr. Paul Kristeller has lately attempted to trace out three or
four distinctive schools of style in them, but no name of any artist can
be connected with them; and we can only conjecture that there were one
or two special workshops in Florence where they were designed and
executed, and that printers and publishers applied to these workshops
when they were in need of cuts.

                                                                                                ALFRED W. POLLARD.

XI

THE OX

                                    THE holy night that Christ was born
                                       The ox stood reverently apart,
                                    Both ruminating eaten corn,
                                       And pondering within his heart.

                                    There be (he pondered) certain beasts,
                                       Which stand about Jehovah’s throne,
                                    Which hearken to the Lord’s behests,
                                       Which have no thought but Him alone.

                                    Now I am surely one of these.
                                       And, since He comes to my abode,
                                    ‘Tis fitting I should bow my knees
                                       Before the Holy Child of God.

                                    I hold it for a solemn troth
                                       I shall no more be sacrificed.
                                    For when to prophethood He groweth,
                                       I cease to symbolise the Christ,

                                    Who is the noble Holocaust
                                       As anciently Himself did plan
                                    Himself to be the Holy Host,
                                       To feed and succour fallen man.

                                    I cannot tell the Mother dear
                                       My joy; but softly if I low,
                                    The noble Infant Christ will hear
                                       His bullock praise him. He will know.

                                                                                                JOHN GRAY.

❧ PERSEUS AND MEDUSA
by
Sir Edward Burne Jones

EQUAL LOVE

BY MICHAEL FIELD

                                    CHARACTERS

JUSTINIAN       .      .     Emperor of the East and West
THEODORA      .      .     His Empress
ZUHAIR .       .      .     An Arab Boy
ANTONIA       .      .     Wife of Belisarius, attending on Theodora
PHOCAS .       .      .     Keeper of the Prisons
A MAGE
GUARDS and ATTENDANTS

SCENE—A private apartment of the royal palace, Byzantium.

It is surrounded by golden columns, from which purple curtains are hung,
    drawn back so as to discover the walls of the apartment that are inlaid
    with mosaics of formal blossoming shrubs on a golden ground. To the
    right , there is a door leading to the Empress’s bedchamber; to the left, a
    little private door. The narrow aisle, running between the walls and
    columns, is continued in front of a row of windows at the back: they
    command a view of Byzantium and the Straits. Oriental Arabesques
    cover the ceiling; the floor is paved with green marble. In front, at the
    extreme right, a bronze statue of Ariadne Sleeping is placed opposite a
    bronze Saint Chrysostom, with gilded mouth, that stands on the left.
    A little table of silver and pearl in the middle of the room supports an
    incense-burner; near it stretches a throne-like couch, resting on peacocks,
    iv r ought in precious stones. A cradle, covered with a pall, has been
    placed toward the farther end of the room, close to another table on
    which are flowers and leaves.

ANTONIA [as she binds a wreath] The child is dead,
    Justinian’s sickly daughter it is well.
    The mother never kissed it, though sometimes
    She would steal in, and ask me with sharp looks
    If it were grown: it should have been a boy!
    But she is timorous and pitiful
    Beside it; and I fear to let her see
    How small it looks and pinched, now it is dead.
    The charge was irksome to me; but a mistress
    Like Theodora must not be denied.

1. The real name of this woman was Antonina.

190

                                    [Enter THEODORA]

THEODORA Is the child still asleep?

ANTONIA [moving between Theodora and the cradle] You must not look.

THEODORA Why are the doors ajar?
    Why is the room so chill? Why have you put
    The food away? And you are binding flowers!
    Give me the violet wreath. [She goes towards the cradle with wreath,
    stops, turns back, and tosses it to Antonia].
    No; take it, girl,
I cannot look on death.

ANTONIA                                     Be comforted.
    It was a babe almost to put away,
    Ill-shapen and a girl; the emperor scarcely
    Had cared to own such issue.

THEODORA                                     It was mine!
    The little sighing breath, and the soft head
    Against my breast. You think the courtesan
    Still lives on in the mother?

ANTONIA                                     No, the pride
    Of a great empress: you had quickly hidden
    My feeble nursling within convent walls.
    I would not be a girl, born of your blood,
    Denied your freedom there is such a force
    Of nature in you. It died quietly,
    Without a struggle.

THEODORA                                     Is there no more hope,
    Antonia, is there no more hope for me?
    The midwife said you put your hand across
    Her mouth; but, oh, I heard it as a curse
    She said I should not bear a child to live.
    If that be so

ANTONIA                                     But once, there is a rumour
    That once you bore a son.

THEODORA                                     A living son;
    Ay, ay, a living son. And what is this?
    A masque, an effigy, an alien,
    That gives no answer to the quivering
    Wild cries and ecstasies within my flesh,
    That disenchants me.


                                                                                                        191

ANTONIA                                     You will soon forget.

THEODORA Those grips, those wanton fondlings?

ANTONIA In a while,
    When you are more yourself.

THEODORA                                     Yes, but the fever
    So clings about me.

ANTONIA     When the milk is gone
    You will grow tranquil. You have evil dreams;
    Last night you woke me, talking in your sleep.

THEODORA Talking!—Of what?

ANTONIA                                     That night before the games. . . .
    You raved and bit the sheets.

THEODORA                                     Oh, I remember!
    I must indeed be sick, so to be haunted
    By those tremendous days of revelry
    In the arena.

ANTONIA     Come, those days were good
    As any days in youth. Why be ashamed
    To speak of them? We had so many lovers,
    We did not stay to choose.
                                    Sweet Cyprian, now,
    When I beheld you, fragrant from the bath,
    On the low bed you love, shaded by plumes
    Of jewelled peacocks, with pearl-braided linen,
    And that dull mantle sewn with golden bees,
    I picture to myself how I have seen you,
    After some signal triumph at the games,
    Wiping the sweat from forehead and from lips,
    To give and take fresh kisses. Mother Ida,
    Those were the days that smacked of very life;
    We may not hope to mend them.

THEODORA                                     I have never
    Dreamed of that past till just two months ago,
    After my babys birth. I hear the cries
    Of ribaldry, the stillness, the applause,
    The leaps of laughter. You must hear these dreams;
    I cannot keep them to myself. . . . Zuhair!—

ANTONIA You speak of him?

THEODORA                                     Yes, in the dream.


192

ANTONIA                                     The wretch
    Who turned you out of doors?

THEODORA     Oh, how I hate him!
    Hate, hate! I have been hating all my life
    The lovers——

ANTONIA     Who rejected you?

THEODORA                                     Not those;
    All who enjoyed my favours, hating them,
    Wishing them ill. But do you say Zuhair,
    That Eastern youth I met in Africa,
    Abandoned me? He drove me from his house
    In a mad pang of jealousy. My child
    Remained with him. You say, a living son:
    But, doubtless, he has perished—how my breasts
     Ache with the milk!—for they would let him starve
    When I was driven forth.
                                    The dream begins:
    I was half-dead with hunger, and the night
    Was drawing on; it was a desert place,
    Lonely as Egypt in its solitudes,
    When suddenly there came a cry; I heard—
    I lying there in Africa—my name
    Borne on in triumph by a shouting crowd.
    Oh, it was breath of life to me! I woke
    So chill and lonely. . . . And my babe is dead!
    Give me the violet crown.
                                    The eyes were dark—
    Do you remember?

ANTONIA                                     Theodora, fair,
    Fair as your own.

THEODORA                                     Then I have quite forgotten. . . .
    A little thing of yesterday, a rose
    How sweet!

ANTONIA Oh, fie! you will forget its sweetness;
    The past is nothing.

THEODORA                                     While the summer lasts:
    Oh, nothing, nothing! How I loved the child!
    [Looking up with a strange illumination on her face]
    My daughter! Ay, the perfect Theodora,

                                                                                                        193

    Born in the purple: there had been romance
    To me in everything she did or said,
    Saw or enjoyed. You see this little cap
    Studded with jewels, so I had it stitched,
    Pearl crushing pearl, to take revenge on fate
    For all the misery thrust on my pride
    When first I found my body beautiful,
    My raiment poor and vile. Antonia, once—
    How children suffer!—I was in such rags
    I crept to a lone garden, where great boughs
    Of yellow roses glittered on a wall,
    And stript myself, and wreathed them in such garlands
    Round waist, and neck, and shoulders, that my breasts
    Took the light shadows of the leaves. The perfume,
    The splendour!

ANTONIA                                     But it was not poverty
    Caused you the pain; I rather think a power
    Wrought in you, craving for expansion, such
    A power as gives a man by miracle
    Grip over hostile kingdoms. I remember
    The day I saw you first, an orphan child,
    Sent with your sister Comito to beg
    For bread in the arena. Both the factions—
    At least, the hated faction of the Greens
    Broke into laughter at the little maids.
    Comito wept, and hid her face; but you
    Said you would entertain the crowd, and after,
    Ask. for their coins. You cleared a little space,
    Then, saying when your father kept the beasts
    That you had learnt their antics, set to gambol
    Like the young lions, gave the languid sprawl
    Of dozing tigers, and the jackal’s laugh;
    Or grew into a serpent, one of those
    With eyes so dead they draw you close to them
    To see if they be very death indeed.
    And then . . .

THEODORA Yes, then the Blues broke in acclaim,
    Poured coin on me; I called to Comito
    To pick it up, but I pressed to their midst


194

    And asked for kisses. Oh, to be caressed
    By very strangers, to be found so sweet
    Just in myself! I never had an art
    To sing or dance; but this pure mimicry,
    This daring to become ridiculous,
    Putting the charms that other women guard
    So jealously to any monstrous use—
    Oh, it worked spells with men!

ANTONIA                                     You need applause,
    The breath of many lovers. Would you listen
    To me, you would not pine to be a mother,
    Diverting interest to a younger race;
    You would again grow beautiful that way
    You cannot master when you give no love,
    Delicious as the ripening fruit to those
    For whom it ripens: drag your worshippers
    From those deep prison-cells to which you fling them,
    For just a glance with speech in it, a breath
    Too hot upon your hand. You must recall them,
    To feed your beauty, or Justinians eyes
    Will mark these wrinkles. I, too, have a husband
    I honour to the full; yet, in his absence—

THEODORA I know how you deceive him. But Justinian—
    Simply to say his name brings back the dream
    For which I live, the dream that he possesses
    Of a pure consort brought him from the gods,
    Herself a deity.

                                    Was he befooled?
    I swear he was not. From the hour he sought
    My love, and laid that awful hand on me
    God lays upon the sinner that he dooms
    To suffer his redemption, I have sinned
    No carnal sin.

                                    And now I fall away,
    And now I feel a riot in my blood,
    Questions that will not be put by, and murmurs
    That breed and breed. It is this motherhood
    Baulked in me. Oh, I fear! A great temptation,


                                                                                                        195

    That I was free to plunge into and live,
    Cut from me in an instant.

                                    [Enter JUSTINIAN]

JUSTINIAN                                     Theodora!

THEODORA [standing between him and the cradle]
    Hush, do not look beyond, the babe is dead.

JUSTINIAN [formally blessing the child]
My child, my daughter. [To THEODORA] Dearest!

THEODORA                                     No; you seem
    Dead like the child; you cannot comfort me.
    I have grown jealous, lonely; a new passion
    Has crept into my nature.

JUSTINIAN                                     All the city
    Will mourn with us.

THEODORA     Pshaw! If Byzantium mourn
    In any wise—what should a city care
    Save for its own prosperity!—but if
    It can conceive of anything beyond,
    It mourns that you, wedding a courtesan,
    Ay, so you treat me, I am that to you,
    If you imagine me incapable
    Of plumbing my own misery; it mourns
    That I, your empress, who by day and night,
    Brood on your hopes, conceive your policy,
    Maiming your enemies, and binding fast
    The nations of your rule, am now the means
    Of drawing your great empire to its close.

JUSTINIAN You do these things, you are the deity
    Bringing these things to pass: our laws will live,
    Men will obey them.

THEODORA                                     Is it possible
    That can content you? And you do not think
    How soon when we are dead—

JUSTINIAN [enfolding her]     Think of the future?
    And you are here, the future!

THEODORA                                     Emperors wed,
    To found great empires.

JUSTINIAN                                     And I wedded you
    Not even to be great, though I had ruled,


196

    Save for the joy you bring me and the force,
    With faltering ambition; wedded you,
    To found a rapture in my life, a glory,
    To travel with the sun. You speak of children,
    Of gifts—

THEODORA I do. How righteously your mother
    Opposed our marriage, and foretold this doom
    Of sickly offspring, or the barren curse.
    My majesty is gone.

JUSTINIAN                                     Your majesty
    Is in my worship, in our constant love.
    Theodora, let us speak of those first days
    We met each other, not as virgin souls,
    As weary, cynical.

THEODORA                                     You speak of them?
    I will not let you speak. My youth is buried
    Entire, as in an instant, by a shock
    Of earthquake a whole city in the gulf.
    I have no past. Justinian, it becomes

    [looking wildly at the cradle, and then out towards the sea]

    Almost necessity I should look out,
    On to the future.

JUSTINIAN                                     Talk to me of love,
    Our love; while that endures there is no time
    Save for the terror that to-day should end.
    Augusta!

THEODORA Oh, that name!

JUSTINIAN                                     We met in God:
    The day is precious to me as to saint
    The day of his conversion. From a troop
    Of libertines, who boasted of your love,
    I heard praise of your beauty, and I came
    Coldly to take my pleasure.

                                    When I saw you
    I wept, and bowed my head.

THEODORA     How tremulous
    The air grew! There was passing of a wind
    That moved like fire between us, and I cried

❧ DEATH AND THE BATHER
after a pen drawing
by
Laurence Housman

                                                                                                        201

    Go from me! As you passed, my soul rose up
    Strong as a fiend to follow you.

JUSTINIAN                                     That look!

THEODORA My women found me senseless on the floor;
    And when at last the light flowed back on me,
    I watched it resting on the vulgar walls,
    The vulgar statues, on the tapestries,
    With all their jaded colour, on my flesh
    Oh, you are pitiless! I turned and fled
    From my polluted house.

JUSTINIAN                                     To find that cell,
    A holy hermits cell, half ruinous . . .

THEODORA Where I took refuge.

JUSTINIAN                                     Where my life began.

THEODORA It was without the city. I could see
    The ring of sombre verdure, the deep curve
    Of palaces and temples: when the lights
    Flashed out, the torch processions, ay, even then,
    I looked on to the sea, and in my heart
    I said, except he find me, there I find
    The grave and fathomless oblivion.
    Oh, I had quickly died—

JUSTINIAN                                     As I, beloved,
    If my mad quest had failed.

THEODORA                                     These weary hours
    Of fasting, diligence, and solitude!
    I bought great bales of wool, I learnt to spin:
    At eventide, when my appointed task
    Was done, I looked forth on the glittering domes
    And tried to pray.

                                    As Danae in her tower
    I prayed, I was shut up.—Deliverer!

JUSTINIAN That hermits cell! Love, we will build a church
    Above the sacred spot where I was guided
    By Him who guides the stars, where solemnly
    I took you for my wife, planting in you
    My hope, my honour, drawing from your love
    The peace man draws when he is told of God
    He is become His servant.



202

THEODORA Give me more,
                                    More of this miracle!

JUSTINIAN                                     One joy remained
    In store for me—to make you fellow-ruler
    With me of half the world. As one who builds
    A temple of rich stones, and in the magic
    Of strange new lights and perfumes pours his prayer,
    I, through the purple and the diadem
    It is my glory to invest you with,
    Find in my faith fresh splendour, further scope
    For adoration.

THEODORA [lying back] You have given me pleasure:
    Dressed delicately, sleeping the long sleeps
    I love, in sunny leisure by the sea
    Idling my hours away—

JUSTINIAN                                     But vigilant
    Each instant for my welfare.

THEODORA                                     What! no more
    Than that scant praise, no more than vigilant?
    And I have cleansed my love each day as gold
    Is cleansed. Oh, you are dull!

JUSTINIAN                                     To apprehend
    All you have suffered?

THEODORA                                     All that you enjoy.
    Mine is a converts strength: most converts fall
    Into strange lapses; I have never lapsed.

THEODORA                                     Antonia, take
    The child and bury it. . . . There! How your wish
    Is my most living will.

                                    [Attendants are summoned , and carry out the
                                    body of the child followed by Antonia]

JUSTINIAN [looking at Theodora with an expression of intense pride]
                                    You cannot fail.
    I am as sure of you as in campaign
    Of Belisarius; but this victory
    Won in my sight—

THEODORA                                     Beloved!



                                                                                                        203

JUSTINIAN                                     Emboldens me
    To pray that you at once should leave these chambers
    Haunted by death. At noon there is a council;
    But it is still fresh morning. . . . Come with me,
    Come with me to our rooms, and let us work
    At the great laws together.

THEODORA                                     I will come.

[She looks round the room; her eyes rest on the child’ s jewelled cap]

    Lift me, I am not strong. Oh, what a toy
    To take such hold of me ! It is not that. . . .
    I need the air—a voyage. How the sails
    Flitter along! There is a little one
    Just on the verge far off. You cannot see. . . .

JUSTINIAN Theodora, it is well the child is dead.

THEODORA You think it would have brought me back to nature?
    Doubtless! To look out on the future now,
    Is looking on a sea that has no sail.

JUSTINIAN The future is not sudden, nor of chance,
    Nor like those gusty waters that are crossed
    As tempests may determine. You and I
    Shall rule on as they cannot rule who put
    Their hope in offspring; rule on as the gods
    Who never derogate. We can ourselves
    Write on the brows of time, Earths wisest sons
    Interpreting our wisdom.

THEODORA                                     So I dream,
    So I have always dreamed. But you must keep me
    Close to your side.

                                    [Re-enter Antonia]

ANTONIA Madam, there is a youth—
    No, a mere boy, almost a child, so slight
    Across the shoulders—who has forced his way
    Far on into the palace and persists
    That he must see you.

THEODORA                                     What! a boy, a child,
    Antonia?

ANTONIA Yes; I caught him by the head,
    And put my arms right round him; for the guards
204

    Had bruised, had even pricked him with their spears.
    His cheek was bleeding.

THEODORA                                     And that frightened you—
    You cannot look on blood.

ANTONIA                                     He did not hear
    Their angry shouts, but from between my hands
    Stared up intently in my face, then smiled.
    No, you are not the Empress; you must promise
    To give me sight of her.

JUSTINIAN                                     The lad is crazed.
    Have him removed.

ANTONIA [appealing to Theodora] But yet to quiet him—
    And I have promised.

JUSTINIAN     You had other charge—
    With spices to prepare for burial—

THEODORA Enough! Antonia, I will see the lad.
                                    [Exit Antonia
    What need of all this violence? I have quelled
    The angriest street tumult as I passed
    By just an instant drawing back my veil.
    Leave us, Justinian; you are grown impatient.
    Those laws! I will be with you in an hour.
    We left off at a knotty point concerning
    The marriage-contract. There must be more freedom
    For women, as I urged. You will return
    And lock me in your study?

JUSTINIAN                                     In an hour.

THEODORA I almost wish I had gone back with him
    To the dear common life where, with our books
    And thoughts and love yes, with our very whims
    And spites and jealousies, we were so happy.
    There is no occupation in the world
    That is not ours. What wars we fight! In those
    I am the general. He is architect
    Of St. Sophia from the base to dome.
    And in theology—the heresies
    I make alluring. But the laws, the laws!
    Those mornings that I cannot wake my soul
    When he arouses his, what narrow edicts
                                                                                                        205

    Are made, what cautious limitations set!
    And then my inroad and the burst of light. . .
    I will not be a fool and let mere nature
    Hold me in slavery.

                                    [Antonia returns with the boy]

THEODORA You kiss my feet;
    You force your way to me. You have some courage!
    [Eyeing him more closely]
    Or are you clinging to me for protection?
    I cannot give protection. If your crime
    Offend the state, or if you have intruded
    Into my palace to fulfil some vow
    And boast that you have touched an Empress robe,
    You shall live long—I will not take your life—
    Beneath those chambers where my prisons stretch.
    Now, answer me! [ToANTONIA] He does not even listen—
    Not hear me—he is mad.

ANTONIA                                     It is your beauty
    Holds him in awe: be patient.

THEODORA [trying not to meet the boy’s eyes]
                                    He is mad.
    Young children sometimes utter prophecies,
    And sometimes they are sent with words of doom
    Their innocence makes awful. Take him off!
    I am too weak to bear this. [To the boy] What! you shed
    Free tears, you let them trickle down your cheek,
    Taking no shame to hide them ? Are you wronged?
    I can be gentle. If you are an orphan—

ANTONIA He sobs!

THEODORA                                     Believe me, half those tears are false;
    The shame hurts and the hunger. Have him fed.

ANTONIA Speak, child!

ZUHAIR I cannot.

THEODORA [as if in the past] But some eyes were kind
    That day I begged; and some one praised my hair—
    Rich silky hair like his. [Stooping over the child and taking his chin]
    You are an orphan?

Come, now your story?

206

ZUHAIR                                     I have none.

THEODORA                                     Then why?—
    [Suddenly softening] Child, you are welcome!

ZUHAIR Ah, at last I hear
    The golden voice! Far off in Araby
    I heard its praise. I was a lonely lad,
    Ill-used, neglected; when I joined in talk
    With other boys, I found they were ambitious
    To dive for pearls, to see the pyramids,
    To conquer Italy. I only thought
    Of seeing you. What mystery of rose
    Flushes across your cheek!

THEODORA                                     You do not mark
    My gems, my palace.

ZUHAIR                                     For I did not hear,
    O Empress, of Byzantium; I heard
    Of a sweet woman with a silver laugh,
    Like Venus laughter.

THEODORA                                     Who should speak of this?

ZUHAIR A stranger who had seen you at the games
    Long years ago. It seemed so wonderful
    That he had heard your laughter. A free girl,
    He said, you stood and simply shook your sides
    With laughter and the whole world echoed it:
    But afterward, when each man had returned
    Into his house, the music came again
    And rippled down his memory. No flute—
    And yet it was not that so much—

O Empress!

THEODORA What is it? Let me look at you ? You come,
    You say, on some great errand.

ZUHAIR                                     Pity me;
    I have no lying words. Give me some comfort,
    Some strength, as if I were your very son.
    I have no mother: I have stood and watched
    How mothers kiss their sons, stood by the tent
    And sobbed and turned away.

THEODORA                                     I have no son;
    But if I had—now tell me all the rest.
                                                                                                        207

    Yes, you may put your arms quite round my neck
    And sit beside me.

ZUHAIR                                     When my father died,
    He drew me to him and he said such things
    Down in my ear, I could not understand;
    If he were raving—

                                    You unloose your clasp!
    Oh then, I dare not speak.

THEODORA [rising]                                     Why should I care
    What any madman says ? You are my son;
    We do not need a slave in evidence:
    This silky hair, and all this mystery
    Of rose that flushes, fades across the cheek!
    You are my son. Is this the news you bring
    Touching the Emperors honour?

ZUHAIR                                     I am yours,
    Your child, O mother!

[Re-enter Justinian]

THEODORA                                     And I give you up.
     [She violently flings ZUHAIR from her and addresses JUSTINIAN]
    I have unbosomed him, an innocent
    Conspirator who comes to claim our throne
    Because I am his mother. It is true;
    I am his mother.

ZUHAIR                                     But it is not true
    That I am come to ask for anything
    That is not mine of right. You loved the Empress
    Before she was the Empress; so I love her,
    So I would fight for her, so die to serve her;
    My life is in her hands.

JUSTINIAN                                     It is well said.
    The Empress shall determine if your life
    Is for her honour and our empires peace.
    Theodora, you are judge of this.

THEODORA                                     How judge?
    I do not judge, I cannot. You, like God,
    Can put my past away.

208

JUSTINIAN                                     Surrounding you
    With its most live temptations.

THEODORA                                     You are cruel.
    How white you stand, like marble. Take your victim;
    I will not flinch.

JUSTINIAN             My victim. Had you been
    As other women, had you felt the instincts
    And honour of my wife, you had not suffered
    My eyes upon the bastard.

THEODORA [defiantly, as she takes the boy by the hand and scrutinises
    him]
                                    He inherits
    My beauty, I am proud of him—those brows,
    Wide as the rim of ocean on the verge . . .
    My brows! And, oh, those eyes of mine, before
    The world had darkened them! You lose your senses
    In jealousy; but, if you had true sight,
    You would behold in him the very prince
    The kingdom craves for, fashioned line by line.

JUSTINIAN His fate is in your hands.

THEODORA                                     You will not sentence:
    That were too great an honour. Then you leave
    The harlot to determine if this piece
    Of lovely flesh and blood shall drink the air
    And ripen in the sun.

                                    You hurt the boy,
    You bring the quick blood to his cheeks; he winces.
    He cannot suffer shame about his life,
    He is too like his mother.

JUSTINIAN                                     Shame! She speaks
    Of shame as unendurable!

THEODORA [dragging ZUHAIR to JUSTINIAN’s feet]
                                    Remove him!
    I give him up. Justinian, on my knees
    I pray you send him to some distant province,
    Train him a soldier, test the make of him,
    Let the young Arab perish, if he must,
    Unknown, on some far field where there are kingdoms
    Still in revolt.

❧ A ROMANTIC LANDSCAPE
after a water-colour drawing
by
Charles H. Shannon

                                                                                                        213

ZUHAIR [flushing] To fight, to earn my death
    On the wide plains a free man!

JUSTINIAN [to Theodora]                                     Excellent!
    Acutely reasoned. From my sombre wars
    I should return to find Byzantium
    Ablaze in celebration of some slight
    Advantage won on Transylvanian hills
    Over the Gepidae; or, worse, be met
    By Theodora abject in petition
    I should adopt her son.

THEODORA                                     You injure me.

JUSTINIAN Then learn the simple truth: one absent look,
    One glance of roving interest in your eyes,
    If once I should surprise it, were enough . . .

THEODORA Yes; I have failed to act my part but once,
    Once in my life. I cannot be forgiven:
    I know the custom—hoot me from the stage,
    Heap shame upon me!

JUSTINIAN                                     Still you speak of shame,
    You who have brought me in estate more low
    Than if I had been drawn on through the streets
    Of my own city by a jeering crowd.

THEODORA Oh, if you wake my hatred, I am back
In the arena! I have seen such things,
As once—a tigress with one paw across
Her last, unravished cub. Ah, there indeed
Was majesty! [Throwing her arms round ZUHAIR]

                                    And I can mimic fools,
Who threaten and do nothing. I could make
Byzantium laugh by just presenting you
Judicial and so lofty. [To ZUHAIR]

                                    Trust to me.
            [As she continues, JUSTINIAN stands rigid with clenched hands,
                        then turns his back on her and walks through the corridor
                        with a beckoning gesture. In a few moments he returns
                        with his guards]

THEODORA I hate to see you standing there and making
    No motion for your life. You do not know
    You have a power—the Emperor standing there
214

    With his fixed eyes and sullen, vacant face,
    Cannot conceive. Oh, you were safe with me,
    If you would try your arts. Ask for your life,
    I prompt you—ask!

ZUHAIR [in a low voice] I do not wish to live:
    If I might choose the manner of my death—

THEODORA A boon! Why, so!—Gods, anything! [He whispers in
    her ear]

                                    My child!
    [Her manner suddenly loses its elasticity , and she says mechanically]
    Remove him, guards; let him be kept in prison,
    The deepest prison, where the jailer feels
    About to find his captive, gropes and gropes
    And murders in a blindness.

ANTONIA [throwing herself before JUSTINIAN]
                                    Never, never!
    Rather despatch him quickly. Oh, my lord!
    My mistress is still weak, delirious,
    Full of repining that her babe is dead.

THEODORA What babe? His babe? I had forgotten it—

JUSTINIAN [pointing to the guard, and addressing THEODORA]
    They wait for your command.

THEODORA [taking the boy by the shoulders and advancing towards the
    guards]                                     Remove him, guards!
    But, if a hair of his be harmed—
    [Passing her hand over the boy’s body, and speaking to him in a
    low, excited voice]

                                    You mean—
    You dare this?

ZUHAIR                                     Oh, be great!

THEODORA                                     With my own hands?
    They tingle—what, to handle you myself!
    [The boy is borne off: she looks after him, a covetous frenzy in her
    face]
    O Mother Ida! I am shaken through
    As by the clash of cymbals!

                                    Ecstasy!
    Ay, so to mutilate myself. [Suddenly, in a loud voice, to ANTONIA]

                                    Oh, see
                                                                                                        215

    That he is safe; he is my only hope,
    The apple of my eye.                                     [Exit Antonia

JUSTINIAN [rising]                                     So you have chosen.

THEODORA Chosen!
                                    Oh, kill me, kill me, make an end!
    I can do nothing.

JUSTINIAN                                     Then we are divorced.

THEODORA Impossible! Divorced? That shall not be,
    That were annihilation. You may kill
    And bear me as a thorn about your heart,
    Long as you live; I have no fear of death:
    But if you dis-espouse me, have you thought
    How I must perish? There will be grey hell
    About me everywhere. And you—divorced!

JUSTINIAN I shall go forth to solitary rule.

THEODORA Forgetting me?

JUSTINIAN                                     No: for my shame is branded—
    Cursing the day we met, razing the churches
    You built, the convents for the prostitutes
    You thought to cleanse; destroying in my empire
    And home each record of you.

THEODORA [wringing her hands] But what more
    Could I have done?

JUSTINIAN                                     Is there no more to do?

THEODORA Kill me—I fail you.

JUSTINIAN                                     No, you do not fail,
    You bring my life to failure I break up.
    I cannot kill you. It has been mirage,
    This dream of mine. I thought you were a gift
    As veritable and as fresh from God
    As Eve herself.

THEODORA [crouching close to Justinian] You thought—say everything
    Before we are divorced: to punish me,
    Say all.

JUSTINIAN I will. I thought you were a woman
    So tempered, so acute she wove the visions
    For unborn eyes to see; a woman swift
    As an archangel to dissever truth
    From heresy, miraculously guided
216

    In her intelligence, and of a beauty
    Thrilling the air as a doves holy wings—
     A woman chosen to present to men,
    Mysteriously, an image of the Church
    Christ waits to greet in Paradise.
            [THEODORA rises, holding his hand, and absorbed by his words]
                                    All this
    I dared to think.

THEODORA [retaining his hands and kissing them]
                                    Would you but give me time—
    Justinian, I am weak, you leave me free?
    If you believed that I could do this thing,
    It would be so much easier.                                    [Bowing her head on Ins arm]

                                    God, divorced!
    [Looking up] Promise, you never will abandon me;
    Never, if I should fail.

JUSTINIAN                                     I cannot pardon;
    There is such justice in me.

THEODORA                                     That is well;
    For now I do not doubt that I shall live
    Through all this day and on through many years,
    Live, by your side, your Empress. [To Attendants] Bid them bring
    The boy back to my presence. [To JUSTINIAN] Do not touch me:
    Tis I myself; you cannot give me help—

JUSTINIAN No help; I shall not even pray for you,
    As if I feared you would not do this thing
    You will not fail, you cannot.
                                    Theodora
    How great I am in you!

THEODORA                                     Lay me some weapon
    For use, beside the throne.
            [Re-enter ANTONIA with ZUHAIR]
                                    What! they have bound him!
    Trust me, you shall not see his face again!
    But leave us.

JUSTINIAN As I leave you with the crowds
    Of courtiers who adore you: you are free
    And in your freedom the security
    You will not fail, you cannot; my worst foe
                                                                                                        217

    Dare not assail my honour.

                                    [JUSTINIAN lays his sword by the throne and goes out]

THEODORA[turning toward Zuhair, and beckoning him to approach]
                                    O my boy,
    How your eyes follow me! Is this the welcome
    After so long a journey? Do the chains
    Gall these young wrists? How soft you are to touch,
    How sweet! Do you rebel?

ZUHAIR                                     Strike off these bonds,
    I will not let you fawn upon a slave.

THEODORA No: as a lioness her netted cubs,
    I fondle you and you are helpless. There! [Loosing his chains]
    Now you can give me free caresses, cling
    Close, close. You thought I should have azure eyes?
    And mine, you see, are grey. I cannot move you:
    What shall I do with you in all the world?
    Why, I might banish you. Arabia
    The sun itself basks there. Will you return?

ZUHAIR Arabia!

THEODORA Does it seem a thousand years
    Back in your life? You sigh so wearily;
    So much has happened since the morning sun.
    Zuhair So much must happen.

THEODORA                                     I have lost a child,
    And my wide realms are left without an heir
    If—

Yet I were a fool to banish you;
    For, if I let you go, this blood of mine
    Would never filter through the arid plains
    And lose itself. The kingdoms would grow dark
    One day about my borders with the pressure
    Of alien tribes and a usurpers sword.

            [Perceiving the passion in ZUHAIR’S face]
What, part with you! put you away! Your name—
I mean the name before you were a prince;
You shall be re-baptized.

ZUHAIR                                     Then you must choose
    My name, you are my mother; and to-day
    My life begins. I have not lived before.

218

THEODORA Can you feel that?
                                    Antonia, take the boy,
    Give him rich clothing and that broidered cap
    Starry with sapphires.

ANTONIA                                     That I begged of you
    In vain.

THEODORA Well, he may wear it.
                                    [Exeunt ZUHAIR with ANTONIA
                                    Why, he has
    My very soul—can take new dignities
    As easily as I. He must not come
    In his young royalties to dazzle me,
    Or I shall hail him THEODORUS—give him
    To one of our great generals to train
    Into a soldier.
    [Going to a secret door and calling] Phocas!
            [He enters stealthily]
                                    Are the prisons
    Quite empty?

PHOCAS Madam, there are still a few
    Sick prisoners it would be more merciful
    To execute at once.

THEODORA There is the sea!
    I know that secret passage to the cliff
    And the blue hollow at the end. Despatch
    Those prisoners: light the passage— I may have
    Myself some business there.

PHOCAS                                     If you would trust me
    With those offenders, they should find their graves
    Within their cells. The stain across the water
Sometimes betrays.

THEODORA             Go forth and murder them.
    I would I had your task. One as another,
    What are these captives to you? Do you ever
    Pause at their cries and tremble?

PHOCAS [with a deep inclination] I obey.

THEODORA [pacing the room distractedly]
    With my own hands! He craved it as a boon;
    I will not falter. I will take him down
                                                                                                        219

    Through the dark rocky fissure to the sea
    And bid him leap! But if his corse should rise?
    Oh, it were best——

                                    Phocas, for all I said,
    Do nothing suddenly. Remain at hand.
    This evening, after I have left my rooms
    Search them. When all you have to do is done,
    Alter the tapestries, let lamps be lit.                                     [Exit PHOCAS
    With my own hand! This deed must be my own;
    I have been left sole mistress of myself
    Since I have been myself.

                                    [Re -enter Antonia]

ANTONIA The boy is lovely,
    Drest in the colours that you love and wearing
    Simply for ornament that broidered cap.
    His one thought is to please you. While I sorted
    His suit of raiment, he was full of talk—
    Oh, your Zuhair, he is the sweetest lad
    Was ever born!

THEODORA Zuhair, is that his name?

ANTONIA The youth you loved
    And prayed to, doting.

THEODORA How I hate Zuhair!
    I will not see the boy; how dare he breathe
    A word to any one but me!

ANTONIA                                     I asked
    His name and kissed him.

THEODORA                                     I have done that too,
    And kissed him after for so sweet a name.

ANTONIA Do not be jealous.

THEODORA                                     He shall die to-night.

ANTONIA He shall not. Theodora, are you mad?

THEODORA Since you have spurred me on!

ANTONIA Come now, what need
    Is there to murder him? I have a son,
    A son my husband has no mind to slay,
    Though he is not his father.

THEODORA                                     Do not speak
    Of those old shameful days.

220

ANTONIA                                     Why, they are here
    In living evidence.

THEODORA The sea will wash
    All clean to-night: you have condemned the boy.
    You think I have such weakness! Do not come
    About me any more.

            [Exit ANTONIA, as if some new thought had struck her:
                        THEODORA opens the secret door

                                    Phocas, I said
    Not till to-night; be vigilant and still.
    Is the Mage in the palace?

VOICE OF PHOCAS                                     On the spot.

[THEODORA follows PHOCAS an instant, then returns]

THEODORA—This Mage, who always has predicted woe
    And peril to the Emperor, if his kingdom
    Should ever find an heir.

            [Re-enter ANTONIA with ZUHAIR]

ANTONIA Madam, the prince
    Prays to attend you.

ZUHAIR                                     Empress!
[He kneels, she holds him up in her arms, going over every point of
his dress as she speaks to him]

THEODORA                                     Have you heard
    I keep my courtiers in dark ante-rooms,
    Patient for days, before I summon them
    Into my presence?

ZUHAIR                                     But I enter it.
    Oh, I have been with you so often, seen you
    On your great days of state, or when the factions
    Were hostile to you. I have heard report
    Of your great courage—

THEODORA                                     Has that passed to you?
D    o you inherit that?

ZUHAIR                                     How you had rather
    Die than survive your honour; how you find
    The throne a glorious sepulchre for kings.
    Yes, I inherit all your qualities,
    But chief your courage.

                                                                                                        221

THEODORA                                     What! you do not mean—
    It is not possible! So mere a boy. . . .

                                    [Re-enter PHOCAS with MAGE]

ZUHAIR Mother, your son!
    {Glancing toward MAGE.] Is there no privacy?
    I would enjoy a little time with you.
    Let us dismiss these mutes.

THEODORA                                     Take all your will.

ZUHAIR [to MAGE] Leave us!

MAGE                                     But I am summoned by the Empress.

ZUHAIR And I, the Empress’ son, dismiss you—go!

MAGE The Empress’ son then that calamity,
    Foretold by mystic science, that the throne
    Should be imperilled by a bastard . . .

THEODORA                                     Stay!
    I will not bear the insult.

ZUHAIR                                     Comes to pass.
    We will avert the danger. [Going up reverently to the MAGE]

                                    By all spells,
    All magic influence, make the coming hour
    Propitious to the sacrifice. [Exit MAGE. ZUHAIR goes straight up
        to the Empress and kisses her]

                                    We lose
    Together our ill names when I am dead.
    Be firm: ere evening you must be restored
    To the great Emperor’s love. I have no fear,
    I die, not by the executioner,
    Not secretly, for we two take together
    An open, frank farewell. We have been spoiled
    As son and mother; I am just the victim,
    And you the priest—the god.

        [Leading her towards her chamber]

                                    I have learnt little
    Of any faith; I knew that for great deeds
    One must be still and arm oneself: prepare!
        [He lifts the arras—their eyes meet. THEODORA passes out]
    How terrible it is to be alone
    In these wide palaces, I almost shriek
    Now I have let her go from me.

222

                                    For ever,
    For ever she is gone; and I am left
    Beside these golden columns. Araby,
    With the black tents I love, the neighing horses,
    With Gamul, my own horse. . . . What brought me here
    I am quite sure she called me in a dream
    Across the desert, for I knew her voice
    Soon as she spoke; she will not speak again,
    She is grown dumb for ever. Oh, to rush
    One instant to the shore and feel the wind!
    She is so long in coming.

                        [Re-enter Antonia]

                                    Are you there,
    My good Antonia?

ANTONIA                                     Why?

ZUHAIR                                     There is a service
    That you must do for me.

ANTONIA                                     My mistress is—

ZUHAIR Within: go to her.

ANTONIA                                     But I dare not go:
    She has forbidden me about her person.

ZUHAIR Go to her, quick! It is so terrible
    To be alone.

ANTONIA             But you are gasping.

ZUHAIR                                     Go!

ANTONIA I dare not.

ZUHAIR                         Dare not! Say I have a boon,
    That she should dress herself in all her state,
    As she comes forth to greet the Emperor,
    Her crown a ruby fire, and all her gems.
    It is my will.

ANTONIA [panic-struck] Give me another message.
    Are you a baby, longing to be dazzled
    By crowns and gems? When Theodora wears them
    They are lost sight of. She becomes a stranger,
    Soon as her hand is on her purple robes,
    The kind of stranger that one dare not question
    Lest he should be a god. You must not do it;
    You cannot face her in her strength and live.
                                                                                                        223

    You think because you dared the guard, and fought
    Your way through to the palace—

ZUHAIR [steadily] I am changed.
    Go to her.

ANTONIA [with a cry] Oh, my child! [Exit

ZUHAIR                                     How I am kindled,
    And yet how weak I am; how mere a mortal
    Waiting to be consumed. I can but pray
    That there may be a moment of clear sight
    Before my blood rush in and cover all.
    [Re-enter Antonia]
    Where is she? I am dazed.

ANTONIA [hurriedly]                                     She cannot come;
    She cannot give you up; you must escape
    With me, it is her will. Phocas will swear
    He flung you from the rocks.

[She struggles with ZUHAIR; he resists]

ZUHAIR                                     She laid no charge
    Upon me to keep silence?

ANTONIA                                     Not a word!
    She is not thinking now about herself,
    Her honour.—Oh, she loves you!

ZUHAIR                                     Then you lied,
    Saying she bade me fly.

ANTONIA                                     She has not spoken
    Except now to dismiss me.

ZUHAIR                                     On what errand?
    No base one—I am glad.

ANTONIA                                     She has no weapon—
    Prince, if you would not kill her, down the stair!

ZUHAIR [going to the centre table]
    Here is a weapon. Take it to the Empress;
    Tell her, I chose.

ANTONIA                                     This is Justinian’s sword.

ZUHAIR Then this is best.
        [Re-enter THEODORA in imperial array . She stands by the columns
            rigid. ZUHAIR, turning round sharply, perceives her]
                                    Oh, stay! she is resolved.

224

        [[She advances . He looks up at her with one look of terrified
            worship, then presents the sword]
    Now we meet worthily.
        [THEODORA takes the sword and stabs him. ANTONIA falls down,
            and hides her face against the couch]

THEODORA                                     How fast the blood
    Keeps flowing, flowing! . . . Now the eyes are blind;
    There is a spasm.—Was it not his voice
    Cried out a moment back, Justinians sword?
                                    [Taking the sword from the wound]
    It is dyed deep.

What! do the eyes unclose,
    Does speech flow through them?
            [She bends over him; he dies; she rises]

                                    I have fixed a smile
    In the dead face. Antonia, cover him!

[THEODORA watches ANTONIA till she has entirely covered the
corpse with a rich mantle that has been lying on the couch,
then she speaks]

THEODORA                                     Summon the Emperor! [Exit ANTONIA
                                    So at last Zuhair
    The infidel has perished.
            [She stands at the right of the corpse. Re-enter JUSTINIAN. She
            presents the sword]

JUSTINIAN                                     O my strength,
    My empire’s strength—ours is an equal love.

❧ PALLAS AND THE CENTAUR
by
Sandro Botticelli
a picture recently found

PALLAS AND THE CENTAUR

AFTER A PICTURE BY BOTTICELLI

                                    ‘CENTAUR, sweet Centaur, let me ride on you!’
                                    Her face set forward t’ward delightful hours,
                                    On feet uncertain as spring’s dancing showers,
                                    This Pallas like pale April finds things new;
                                    Yet, conscious-half of much forgotten too,
                                    Asks sparkling questions—tentative of powers
                                    Visits her doings as bees visit flowers.—
                                    ‘Centaur, sweet Centaur, scatter far the dew!
                                    Round the grey sea, beyond the haunted rocks,
                                    Crunching clean pebbles call on Magdalen
                                    And Egypt’s Mary clothed in woolly locks;
                                    Clamber on clouds to Mary-Mother then,
                                    Who, virgin still, there in a palace dwells,
                                    Its roof one silver mass of mellow bells!’

                                                                                                T. Sturge Moore.

BE IT COSINESS

The square shape around the seriffed letter I is formed out of interlacing ribbons with terminal foliation of acanthus leaves and pomegranate buds. The decoration is created in thin black lines, leaving the letters, vines, and leaves white. It appears to be a wood engraving.

IN the year of grace 1890, and in the beautiful
autumn of that year, I was a freshman at
Oxford. I remember how my tutor asked
me what lectures I wished to attend, and
how he laughed when I said that I wished
to attend the lectures of Mr. Walter Pater.
Also I remember how, one morning soon
after, I went into Rymans to order some
foolish engraving for my room, and there
saw, peering into a portfolio, a small, thick, rock-faced man, whose top-
hat and gloves of bright dog-skin struck one of the many discords in
that little city of learning or laughter. The serried bristles of his
moustachio made for him a false-military air. Was ever such cunning
as twinkled in his narrow eyes? I think I nearly went down when
they told me that this was Pater.

    Not that even in those more decadent days of my childhood did
I admire the man as a stylist. Even then I was angry that he should
treat English as a dead language, bored by that sedulous ritual where-
with he laid out every sentence as in a shroud—hanging, like a widower,
long over its marmoreal beauty or ever he could lay it at length
in his book, its sepulchre. From that laden air, the so cadaverous
murmur of that sanctuary, I would hook it at the beck of any jade.
The writing of Pater had never, indeed, appealed to me,άλλ αίεί, having
regard to the couth solemnity of his mind, to his philosophy, his rare
erudition,τινα φϖτα μέуαν χαί χαλόν έδέγμην. And I suppose it was
when at length I saw him that I first knew him to be fallible.

    At school I had read Marius the Epicurean in bed and with a dark
lantern. Indeed, I regarded it mainly as a tale of adventure, quite as
fascinating as Midshipman Easy, and far less hard to understand,
because there were no nautical terms in it. Marryat, moreover, never
made me wish to run away to sea, whilst certainly Pater did make me
wish for more ‘colour’ in the curriculum, for a renascence of the Farrar
period, when there was always ‘a sullen spirit of revolt against the
authorities’; when lockers were always being broken into and marks
falsified and small boys prevented from saying their prayers, insomuch
that they vowed they would no longer buy brandy for their seniors.
In some schools, I am told, the pretty old custom of roasting a fourth-
form boy, whole, upon Founders Day still survives. But in my school
                                                                                                     there

                                                                                                        231

there was less sentiment. I ended by acquiescing in the slow revolu-
tion of its wheel of work and play. I felt that at Oxford, when I
should be of age to matriculate, a ‘variegated dramatic life’ was wait-
ing for me. I was not a little too sanguine, alas!

    How sad was my coming to the university! Where were those
sweet conditions I had pictured in my boyhood? Those antique
contrasts? Did I ride, one sunset, through fens on a palfrey, watching
the gold reflections on Magdalen Tower? Did I ride over Magdalen
Bridge and hear the consonance of evening-bells and cries from the
river below? Did I rein in to wonder at the raised gates of Queens,
the twisted pillars of St. Marys, the little shops, lighted with tapers ?
Did bull-pups snarl at me, or dons, with bent backs, acknow-
ledge my salute? Any one who knows the place as it is, must see
that such questions are purely rhetorical. To him I need not explain
the disappointment that beset me when, after being whirled in a cab
from the station to a big hotel, I wandered out into the streets. On
aurait dit a bit of Manchester through which Apollo had once passed;
for here, among the hideous trams and the brand-new bricks here,
glared at by the electric-lights that hung from poles, screamed at by
boys with the Echo and the Star—here, in a riot of vulgarity, were
remnants of beauty, as I discerned. There were only remnants.

    Soon also I found that the life of the place, like the place, had lost
its charm and its tradition. Gone were the contrasts that made it
wonderful. That feud between undergraduates and dons—latent, in
the old days, only at times when it behoved the two academic grades
to unite against the townspeople—was one of the absurdities of the
past. The townspeople now looked just like undergraduates, and the
dons just like townspeople. So splendid was the train-service between
Oxford and London that, with hundreds of passengers daily, the one
had become little better than a suburb of the other. What more could
extensionists demand? As for me, I was disheartened. Bitter were
the comparisons I drew between my coming to Oxford and the coming
of Marius to Rome. Could it be that there was at length no beautiful
environment wherein a man might sound the harmonies of his soul?
Had civilisation made beauty, besides adventure, so rare? I wondered
what counsel Pater, insistent always upon contact with comely things,
would offer to one who could nowhere find them. I had been wonder-
ing that very day when I went into Rymans and saw him there.

    When the tumult of my disillusioning was past, my mind grew
                                                                                                     clearer.

232

clearer. I discerned that the scope of my quest for emotion must
be narrowed. That abandonment of one’s self to life, that merging
of one’s soul in bright waters, so often suggested in Paters writing,
were a counsel impossible for to-day. The quest of emotions must be
no less keen, certainly, but the manner of it must be changed forthwith.
To unswitch myself from my surroundings, to guard my soul from
contact with the unlovely things that compassed it about, therein lay
my hope. I must approach the Benign Mother with great caution.
And so, while most of the freshmen were doing her honour with
wine and song and wreaths of smoke, I stood aside, pondered. In
such seclusion I passed my first term—ah, how often did I wonder
whether I was not wasting my days, and, wondering, abandon my
meditations upon the right ordering of the future! Thanks be
to Athene, who threw her shadow over me in those moments of weak
folly!

    At the end of term, I came to London. Around me seethed swirls,
eddies, torrents, violent cross-currents of human activity. What uproar!
Certainly I could have no part in modern life—yet, yet for a time it was
fascinating to watch the lives of its children. To watch the portentous
life of the Prince of Wales fascinated me above all; indeed, it still
fascinates me. What ‘experience’ has been withheld from His Royal
Highness? He has hunted elephants through the jungles of India, boar
through the forests of Austria, pigs over the plains of Massachusetts.
He has marched the Grenadiers to chapel through the white streets of
Windsor. He has ridden through Moscow, in strange apparel, to kiss
the catafalque of more than one Tzar. From the Castle of Abergeldie
he has led his Princess into the frosty night, Highlanders lighting with
torches the path to the deer-larder, where lay the wild things that had
fallen to him on the crags. For him the Rajahs of India have spoiled
their temples, and Blondin has crossed Niagara on the tight-rope, and
the Giant Guard done drill beneath the chandeliers of the Neue Schloss.
He has danced in every palace of every capital, played in every club.
How often has he watched, at Newmarket, the scud-a-run of quivering
homuncules over the vert on horses, or, from some night-boat, the
burning of great wharves by the side of the Thames; raced through the
blue Solent; threaded les coulisses! Is he fond of scandal? Lawyers are
proud to whisper secrets in his ear. Gallant? The ladies are at his
feet. Ennuyé? All the wits, from Bernal Osborne to Arthur Roberts,
have jested for him. He has been ‘present always at the focus where
                                                                                                     the

                                                                                                        233

the greatest number of forces unite in their purest energy,’ for it is his
presence that makes those forces unite.

    ‘Ennuyé?’ I asked. Indeed he never is. How could he be when
Pleasure hangs constantly upon his arm? It is those others, overtaking
her only after arduous chase, breathless and footsore, who quickly sicken
of her company, and fall fainting at her feet. And for me, shod neither
with rank nor riches, what folly to join the chase! I began to see how
small a thing it were to sacrifice those external‘experiences,’ so dear to
the heart of Pater, by a rigid, complex civilisation made so hard to
gain. They gave nothing but lassitude to those who had gained them
through suffering. Even to the kings and princes, who so easily gained
them, what did they yield besides themselves? I do not suppose that, if
we were invited to give authenticated instances of intelligence on the
part of our royal pets, we could fill half a column of the Spectator. In
fact, their lives are so full they have no time for thought, the highest
energy of man. Now, it was to thought that my life should be
dedicated. Action, apart from its absorption of time, would war other-
wise against the pleasures of intellect, which, for me, meant mainly the
pleasures of imagination. It is only (this is a platitude) the things one
has not done, the faces or places one has not seen, or seen but darkly,
that have charm. It is only mystery—such mystery as besets the eyes
of children—that makes things superb. I thought of the voluptuaries I
had known—they seemed so sad, so ascetic almost, like poor pilgrims,
raising their eyes never or ever gazing at the moon of tarnished
endeavour. I thought of the round, insouciant faces of the monks at
whose monastery I once broke bread, and how their eyes sparkled when
they asked me of the France that lay around their walls. I thought,
pardie, of the lurid verses written by young men who, in real life,
know no haunt more lurid than a literary public-house. It was,
for me, merely a problem how I could best avoid ‘sensations,’ ‘pulsa-
tions,’ and ‘exquisite moments’ that were not purely intellectual.
I was not going to attempt to run both kinds together, as Pater
seemed to fancy a man might. I would make myself master of
some small area of physical life, a life of quiet, monotonous simplicity,
exempt from all outer disturbance. I would shield my body from the
world that my mind might range over it, not hurt nor fettered. As yet,
however, I was in my first year at Oxford. There were many reasons
that I should stay there and take my degree, reasons that I did not
combat. Indeed, I was content to wait for my life.

                                                                                                     And

234

    And now that I have made my adieux to the Benign Mother, I
need wait no longer. I have been casting my eye over the suburbs of
London. I have taken a most pleasant little villa in ———ham, and here
I shall make my home. Here there is no traffic, no harvest. Those of
the inhabitants who do anything go away each morning and do it
elsewhere. Here no vital forces unite. Nothing happens here. The
days and the months will pass by me, bringing their sure recurrence
of quiet events. In the spring-time I shall look out from my
window and see the laburnum flowering in the little front garden.
In summer cool syrups will come for me from the grocers shop.
Autumn will make the boughs of my mountain-ash scarlet, and, later,
the asbestos in my grate will put forth its blossoms of flame. The
infrequent cart of Buzzard or Mudie will pass my window at all seasons.
Nor will this be all. I shall have friends. Next door, there is a retired
military man who has offered, in a most neighbourly way, to lend me
his copy of the Times. On the other side of my house lives a charming
family, who perhaps will call on me, now and again. I have seen them
sally forth, at sundown, to catch the theatre-train; among them walked
a young lady, the charm of whose figure was ill concealed by the neat
waterproof that overspread her evening dress. Some day it may be . . .
but I anticipate. These things will be but the cosy accompaniment of
my days. For I shall contemplate the world.

    I shall look forth from my window, the laburnum and the mountain-
ash becoming mere silhouettes in the foreground of my vision. I shall
look forth and, in my remoteness, appreciate the distant pageant of the
world. Humanity will range itself in the columns of my morning
paper. No pulse of life will escape me. The strife of politics, the
intriguing of courts, the wreck of great vessels, wars, dramas, earthquakes,
national griefs or joys; the strange sequels to divorces, even, and the
very mysterious suicides of land-agents at Ipswich,—in all such pheno-
mena I shall steep my exhaurient mind. Delicias quoque bibliothecae
experiar
. Tragedy, comedy, chivalry, philosophy will be mine. I
shall listen to their music perpetually and their colours will dance
before my eyes. I shall soar from terraces of stone upon dragons with
shining wings and make war upon Olympus; from the peaks of hills
I shall swoop into recondite valleys and drive the pigmies to their
caverns; wander through infinite parks wherein the deer rest or wander
at will; whisper with prophets under the elms, or bind children with
daisy-chains, or, with a lady, thread my way through the acacias. I shall
                                                                                                     swim

                                                                                                        235

swim down rivers into the sea and outstrip all ships. Unhindered I
shall penetrate all sanctuaries and snatch the secrets of every dim
confessional.

    Yes! among books that charm, and give wings to the mind, will my
days be spent. I shall be ever absorbing the things great men have
written; with such experience I will charge mind to the full. Nor will
I try to give anything in return. Once, in the delusion that Art, loving
the recluse, would make his life happy, I wrote a little for a yellow
quarterly—and had that succès de fiasco which is always given to a young
writer of talent. But the stress of creation soon overwhelmed me.
Only Art with a capital H gives any consolations to her henchmen.
And I, who crave no knighthood, shall write no more. I shall write no
more. Already I feel myself to be a trifle outmoded. I belong to the
Beardsley period. Younger men, with months of activity before them,
with fresher schemes and notions, with newer enthusiasm, have pressed
forward since then. Cedo junioribus. Indeed, I stand aside with no
regret. For to be outmoded is to be a classic, if one has written well. I
have acceded to the hierarchy of good scribes and rather like my niche.

                                                                                                MAX BEERBOHM

SOHEIL

The square shape around the seriffed letter S is formed out of interlacing ribbons with terminal foliation of acanthus leaves and pomegranate buds. The decoration is created in thin black lines, leaving the letters, vines, and leaves white. It appears to be a wood engraving.

SOHEIL is the Arabic name of the star Canopus,
to which a curious belief attaches. It appears
that in some fashion known alone to Allah,
the fate of the Arab race is bound up with
the star. Where it sheds its light their
empire flourishes, and only there. Why this
is so even faith is powerless to explain, but
so it is.

                                                        Doubts and questionings, changes of
costume and religion, striving for ideals, improvements, telegraphs and
telephones, are well enough for Christians, whose lives are passed in
hurry and in hunting after gold. For those who have changed but
little for the last two thousand years, in dress, in faith and customs,
it is enough to know that Soheil is a talismanic star. Let star-gazers
and those who deal in books, dub the star Alpha (or Beta), Argo,
it is all one to Arabs. If you question knowledge, say the Easterns,
it ceases to be knowledge. If this is so, the empiric method has
much to answer for. Knowledge, and virtue, and a horses mouth,
should not pass through too many hands. Even argument itself, that
argument which is almost deified in latter days, when applied too
roughly, takes off authenticity from knowledge, as the bloom of
peaches falls from rubbing in a basket.

    Of one thing there can be no doubt whatever. When in the Yemen,
ages before the first historian penned the fable known as history-, the
Arabs, watching their flocks, observed Soheil, it seems to have struck
them as a star unlike all others.

    Al Makkari writes of it on several occasions. The Dervish Abder-
ahman Sufi of Rai in his Introduction to the Starry Heavens remarks
that at the feet of the Soheil is seen, in the neighbourhood of Bagdad,
‘a curious white spot.’ The ‘curious white spot’ astronomers have
thought to be the greater of the two Magellan clouds. Perhaps it is so,
but I doubt if the Arabs, as a race, were concerned about the matter,
so long as they saw the star. From wandering, warring tribes,
Mohammed made a nation of them. Mohammed died, and joined the
wife in paradise of whom he said, ‘by Allah, she shall sit at my right
hand, because when all men laughed, she clave to me.’ Then came
Othman, Ali, and the rest, and led them into other lands; to Irak,
Damascus, El Hind, to Ifrikia, lastly to Spain, and still their empire
                                                                                                     waxed

❧ THE WHITE WATCH
by
Charles H. Shannon

                                                                                                        241

waxed even across the ‘Black Waters’ of the seas, and still Soheil was
there to shine upon them. In the great adventure, one of the few in
which a people has adventured, when first Tarik landed his Berbers on
the rock which bears his name; at the battle on the Guadalete, where
the King Don Roderick disappeared from the eyes of men, leaving his
golden sandals by a stream; to Seville, Cortuba, and Murcia, the land
of Trodmir Ben Gobdos to which the Arabs gave the name of Masr,
right up to Zaragoza, Soheil accompanied the host. A curious host it
must have been with Muza riding on a mule and with but two-and-twenty
camels to carry all its baggage. Thence to Huesca of the Bell, where
King Ramiro, at the instigation of good Abbot Frotardo (a learned
man), cut off his nobles heads when they had come to give him their
advice about the celebrated bell, to be heard all over Aragon, across
the Pyrenees to France, to the spot in Aquitaine whence Muza sent to
Rome to tell the Pope he was about to come and take him by the
beard in the name of God. Then the wise men who always march
with armies, looking aloft at night, declared the star was lost. Although
they smote the Christian dogs, taking their lands, their daughters,
horses and gold, on several occasions as Allah willed it, yet victory
was not so stable as in Spain. Perhaps, beyond the mountains, their
spirits fell from lack of sun.

    When the conquering tide had spent itself and flowed back into
Spain, at Zaragoza, almost the first Moorish state that rose to eminence
was founded. A1 Makkari writes that at that time Soheil was visible
in Upper Aragon, but very low on the horizon. Again the Christians
conquered, and the royal race of Aben Hud fled from the city. Ibn
Jaldun relates that, shortly after, Soheil became invisible from Zaragoza.
The Cid, Rodrigo Diaz, he of Vivar (may God remember him), pre-
vailed against Valencia, and from thence the star, indignant, took its
departure. And so of Jativa, Beni Carlo, and Alpuixech.

    Little by little, Elche with its palm woods, and even Murcia, bade it
good-bye, as one by one, in the course of the struggle, prolonged for
centuries, the Christians in succession conquered southward. At last,
the belief gained ground that, only at one place in Spain, called from
the circumstance, Soheil, could it be seen. At Fuengirola, between
Malaga and Marbella, exists the little town the Arabs called Soheil, lost
amongst sand, looking across at Africa, of which it seems to form a
part; cactus, olive, cane, and date palms form the vegetation; in
summer, hot as Bagdad, in winter sheltered from the winds which come
                                                                                                     from

242

from Christendom by the sierras of the Alpujarra and Segura. Surely
there, the star would stop and let the Arab power remain to flourish
under its influence. There, for centuries, did it stand stationary. The
City of the Pomegranate was founded, the Alhambra, the Generalife,
the brilliant Court; the poets, travellers, and men of science, gathered
at Granada, Córdoba and at Seville. Al Motacim, the poet king of
Cordoba, planted the hills with almond trees to give the effect of snow,
which Romaiquia longed for. He wrote his Kasidas, and filled the
courtyard full of spices and sugar for his queen to trample on, when she
saw the women of the brick-makers kneading the clay with naked feet,
and found her riches but a burden. Averroes and Avicenna, the doctors
of medicine and of law, laid down their foolish rules of practice and of
conduct, and all went well. Medina-el-Azahara, a pile of stones where
shepherds sleep and make believe to watch their sheep, where once
the Caliph entertained the ambassador from Constantinople and
showed him the basin full of quicksilver ‘like a great ocean,’ rose
from the arid hills, and seemed eternal. Allah appeared to smile
upon his people, and in proof of it let his star shine. Jehovah,
though, was jealous. A jealous God, evolved by Jews and taken
upon trust by Christians, could not endure the empire of the Arabs.

    Again, town after town was conquered—Baeza, Loja, Antequera,
Guadix, and Velez Malaga, even to Alhama, ‘Woe is me, Alhama’;
lastly Granada. Then came the kingdom of the Alpujarra, with the
persecutions and the rebellions—Arabs and Christians fighting like
wolves, and torturing one another for the love of their respective gods.
The fighting over, tradition said that at Fuengirola the talisman yet
was in view, and whilst it still was seen, there still was hope. A
century elapsed, and from Gibraltar—from the spot where first they
landed—the last Moors embarked. In Spain, where once they ruled
from Iaca to Tarifa, no Moor was left. Perhaps about the mountain
villages of Ronda a few remained, for, even to this day, the peasants use
the Arab word ‘Eywah’ for ‘yes’ in conversation. But they were not
the folk to think of stars or legends, so no one (of the true) faith could
tell if Soheil still lingered over Spain.

    Trains, telegraphs with bicycles and phonographs, adulterated
foods, elections, elementary schools, and other herbage (otras yerbas),
give a sort of superficial air of Europe to the land. The palm trees,
cactus, canes, and olives; the tapia walls, the women’s walk and
eyes, the songs and dances, the Paso Castellano of the horses, the
                                                                                                     Andujar

                                                                                                        243

Andujar pottery, the norias, and the air of fatalism over all, give them
the lie direct.

    The truth is, that the empire of the Arabs, though fled in fact, retains
its influence. The hands that built the mosque at Córdoba, the Giralda,
the Alhambra, and almost every parish church in Southern Spain are
gone; their work is mouldering or struggling with the restorer; and yet
from every ruined aqueduct and mosque they seem to beckon to the
Christian as if derisively. The reason, is it not set forth at length by
economists, ethnographers, tourists, and by those whose business it is to
write, for people who know nothing, of things they do not understand
themselves? The real reason is, because at Cadiz Soheil is still in sight,
though making southward day by day and night by night. That is why
Spain is still an eastern country, and why the ways of Europe have no
real hold upon her. Let her take heart of grace, the precession of the
equinoxes will put things right.

    In the dull future, when stucco is our only wear with Harris-tweeds
and macintoshes, when Juan shall be as Pedro, Pedro as John or
Hans or Pierre, and all apparelled in one livery; when trains shall run
up every hill, and Volapuk be spoken from Hammerfest to Cartagena,
Soheil will cross the straits, and all go as it should in Spain, as now it
does in England, where gloom obscures all stars. There still remains
Ifrikia; at Mequinez and Fez, and in the little towns which nestle in the
‘falda’ of the Atlas amongst the cedar forests, it may be that even the
equinoxes may have mercy on Soheil, and let it rest.

    Long may it shine there, and shine upon the wild old life, upon the
horseman flying across the sands, upon the weddings where the women
raise the curious cry of joy which pierces ears and soul, upon the solemn
stately men who sit and look at nothing all a summers day, upon the
animals so little separated from their owners, and upon the ocean which
is called the desert.

    In the Sahara, Soheil will shine forever upon the life as in the times
of the Mualakat when first the rude astronomers observed the star, and
framed the legend on some starry night all seated on the ground.

                                                                                        R. B. CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM.



                                    THE END

A SELECTION FROM MESSRS HENRY AND COS PUBLICATIONS

SIR ANTHONY VAN DYCK
His Life and Work
By Jules Guiffrey.
Translated from the French by WILLIAM ALISON.
Folio, Cloth.
Edition: 250 Copies, numbered, £4. 4s. net.
10 Copies on Japanese Vellum , £12. 12s. net.
❧This important, exhaustive biography of the great Flemish painter
is based on the researches of the highest authorities, and notably on a
valuable anonymous manuscript in the Louvre, which presents the life
and work of Van Dyck in an entirely new light, and which has been
overlooked by every other historian of the Flemish school of Painting.

    M. Guiffrey’s volume contains a full and complete catalogue of all
Van Dyck’s works—paintings, etchings, drawings, etc. (including many
known only through the engravings of Bolswert, Vorsterman, Pontius,
de Jode, and others), and of all engravings and etchings after his
paintings. This covers a total of over 1500 paintings and 3000 prints.
In every instance the present whereabouts of each picture is stated,
with its number in the latest published catalogue of the collection in
which it is to be found.

    In selecting the illustrations for the text of the book, it has been
thought best, instead of giving reproductions of the numerous masterly
engravings after Van Dyck, which would inevitably have suffered by
reduction, to reproduce in facsimile upwards of a hundred original
drawings from the hand of the artist himself.

    In addition to these facsimiles in the text, the book is illustrated
by a number of important works of Van Dyck reproduced by the
Dujardin heliogravure process, as well as by nineteen original etchings,
which will be of especial interest, inasmuch as they are after paintings
by the master which have never been etched before. These etchings
are the work of such well-known artists as Gaujean, Boulard, Noel
Masson, Courtry, Salmon, Milius, Fraenkel, and Hecht.

                                                                                                THE


❧THE HISTORY OF MODERN PAINTING.

By Richard Mutiier, Professor of Art History at the University of
  Breslau, Late Keeper of the Royal Collection of Prints and Engrav-
  ings at Munich.

Three Volumes, Imperial 8 vo, with 2304 pages and over 1300 illus-
       trations.

    Issued in the following forms:—
In 36 monthly parts, at 1s. net.
In 16 monthly parts, at 2s. 6d. net.
In 3 volumes, cloth, gilt top and lettering, at £2. 15s. net.
     Vol. I. 1 8s. net.
     Vol. II. 1 8s. 6d. net.
     Vol. III. 1 8s. 6d. net. [Feb. 1896.
In three volumes, library edition, half-morocco, gilt lettering and top,
other edges uncut, at £3. 1 5s. net.

❧SOME PRESS NOTICES.

The Times, August 15, 1895.—‘Professor Muther’s elaborate work on
The History of Modern Painting, which has for some years held a posi-
tion of authority on the Continent of Europe, is now being translated
into English by the competent hands of Messrs. Ernest Dowson, G. A.
Greene, and A. C. Hillier, and we are glad to welcome the first volume,
which brings the work down as far as Meissonier and Menzel. It is a
large volume of 600 pages, with some hundreds of “process” illustra-
tions, mostly of small size, which . . . are useful as presenting memo-
randa of the pictures. The English is good, and the book does not
read like a translation, and especially not like a translation from the
German, so that it may be read with pleasure as well as consulted for
the information it conveys. There need be no hesitation in pronounc-
ing this work of Muther’s the most authoritative that exists on the
subject, the most complete, the best informed of all the general histories
of Modern Art. . . . Professor Muther makes the most praiseworthy
attempts to hold the balance with the dignified impartiality proper to
the historian, but, like the majority of modern writers and artists, his
own sympathies are distinctly on the side of the forward movement—
for Delacroix as against Ingres, for Manet as against Bouguereau and
Jules Lefebvre.’

The Magazine of Art, August 1895—‘We have for years been wait-
ing for a history of modern painting—not merely a list of modern
painters, or a réchauffe of biographical notices of the great men of all
                                                                                                     countries,

III
countries, but a careful work which would take in European art of the
present day in its purview, and lay before the reader a systematic criti-
cism of all the modern schools of art, synthetical in arrangement, and
just and unprejudiced in its estimate. Such a work as we have hoped
for promises to be that of which the first two parts lie before us. If it
carries out that promise, it will not only fulfil the conditions we had
laid down, but it will have the further advantage of being thoroughly
popular in tone—popular in the best sense, to the point of attracting by
its inherent interest the general reader, for whom aesthetics are dry, if
not altogether vain and distasteful. Dr. Muther is not better equipped
by his learning than by his natural capacity for taking a broad, critical
view of men and their works, and placing them in their proper place in
his comprehensive survey. . . . Eschewing the refinements of technical
phraseology as far as may be, Dr. Muther sets out on his inquiry on a
clearly defined basis. His plan is to subdivide his subject rather by
movements than men, rejecting the greatest painters of any one country
if they are overtopped by greater in another, judging each man from
the point of view of the aims and aspirations of each, testing the success
of those aspirations closely and strictly, with a judgment philosophical
in its exercise and acute in application. In short, he exercises the
function of a true critic in attractive language—a little flamboyant at
times, it is true, but lively and picturesque, and eminently readable.
Looking on the European art as a whole, Dr. Muther regards England
as the fountain-head of the movement which instituted the line of de-
marcation at which modern art begins, or at least the true demonstrator
of the fact that to nature and not to convention and pure tradition must
the artist go for his inspiration both of subject and treatment. He then
deals broadly with the English school of painters in a way that shows
his mastery of facts and theories, regarding them not with the eyes of a
foreigner, nor quite of an Englishman, but with that cosmopolitanism
and freedom from prejudice of favour which form the chief merit of his
book. . . . We await the completion of the work with interest.’

The Westminster Gazette, August 19, 1895.—‘It is well that we
should have a translation of Professor Muther’s History of Modern
Painting , if only because it is the sole book in existence which professes
to take anything like a historical survey of European art during the last
hundred years. It is not conceivable that any man in existence should
take a balanced and critical view of all the schools of Europe, still less
that he should anticipate permanent judgments on modern art. The
                                                                                                     critic

iv
critic who could be absolutely impartial between Diisseldorfers,
Munichers, modern Frenchmen, and Eighteenth-Century Englishmen
is not born, nor likely to be. But Professor Muther travels over the
ground with great conscientiousness, and he provides material which is
indispensable for students of art history. Though his style and method
are unmistakably German, his way of looking at art is in large part not
at all what the detractors of German art would expect from that source.
He is on the side of the forward movement as against the so-called
classicist, for the free and temperamental as against the strict and
mechanical schools. He is not a little touched with the art-for-art’s-
sake theory. . . . The arrangement is exceedingly German-professorial ;
but within it, or in spite of it, Professor Muther manages to give us good
brief biographies when they are to the point, some useful criticism,
and not a few interesting general remarks. The present volume is a
large and handsome one of 600 pages, and contains many “process”
illustrations.’

The Glasgow Herald, August 29, 1895.—‘This volume, the first of the
three in which he intends to deal in an exhaustive manner with The
History of Modern Painting, is a powerful and effective witness to the
completeness and thoroughness of the Professor’s equipment as an art
critic and art historian. His knowledge is wide and deep; he has sym-
pathy with many varying phases of art expression; he understands the
causes, the meanings, and the limits of what are called “ movements ” in
art, which are sometimes the result of serious aspiration and effort, and
on the other hand are frequently merely the outcome of vague discon-
tent with, and stammering, half-articulate protest against, the conven-
tions of the day. Professor Muther is evidently a man of learning in
the right sense of the word: catholic in his tastes, broad in his outlook,
accurate in his knowledge, and not afraid to set forth the truth accord-
ing to his convictions. . . . The first volume from its excellence certainly
makes us look forward with pleasant anticipations to the remaining two.
Professor Muther states that his book stands alone among similar books
on modern art, in virtue of its “embracing the history of European
painting in the nineteenth century,” and this statement is amply borne
out by the contents of the volume. Chapter I. of Book I., entitled “The
Eegacy of the Eighteenth Century,” deals with the commencement of
modern art in England, and points out the great part played by Eng-
lish artists in cutting out and preparing the way “ along which the nine-
teenth century should advance in art.” . . . The chapters on classicalism
                                                                                                     in

v
in France and Germany, on the art of Munich under King Ludwig I.,
and on the Dusseldorfers are especially valuable, and show that the
Professor can take a very fair view of art and its progress within the
borders of his own country. He is singularly impartial in his judg-
ments. He deals so far with the notable “generation of 1830,” as well
as with some of their forerunners, but for his full treatment of this most
interesting part of his subject we must wait for the succeeding volumes.
The text is profusely illustrated with portraits and reproductions of
pictures. These deserve, as a rule, high praise. . . . The book is
handsomely got up.’


❧Messrs. HENRY have pleasure in announcing that they have made
arrangements to publish

THE COMPLETE WORKS OF FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE.
    In eleven volumes, Demy 8vo.

Edited by ALEXANDER TlLLE, Ph.D., Lecturer in German Language and
Literature at the University of Glasgow, author of Von Darwin bis
Nietzsche, etc. etc.
, and issued under the supervision of the ‘Nietzsche Archiv,’ at
Naumburg.

❧VOL. XI. THE CASE OF WAGNER. NIETZSCHE CONTRA WAGNER.
THE TWILIGHT OF THE IDOLS. THE ANTICHRIST. Translated
by THOMAS COMMON.
            To appear in January 1896. Price 10s. 6d. net.
Vol. VIII. Thus Spake Zarathustra. Translated by Alexander
    TILLE, Ph.D.             To appear in April 1896. Price 17s. net.
Vol. X. A GENEALOGY OF MORALS. Translated by WILLIAM A.
    HAUSSMANN, Ph.D.   POEMS.   Translated by JOHN GRAY.
            To appear in July 1896. Price 8s. 6d. net.
Vol. IX. BEYOND GOOD AND EVIL. Translated by Helen
    ZIMMERN.            To appear in October 1896. Price 10s. 6d. net.
Vol. VI. DAWN OF THE DAY. Translated by JOHANNA VOLZ.
            To appear in February 1897. Price 13s. net.
The remaining six volumes to appear successively within two or three
years.

❧FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE, Ph.D., Emeritus Professor of the University
of Bale, is one of the most prominent representatives of that movement
of contemporary opinion to which Huxley gave the name of the New
                                                                                                     Reformation.

vi
Reformation. Within the last ten years he has acquired an influence
over modern Continental culture equalled by no philosopher since
Hegel. His works have created an independent school of thought;
and in Germany, Austria, Holland, France, and Scandinavia a whole
literature has sprung into existence bearing directly upon his work.
Although his adversaries are as many in number as his followers, his
significance has been recognised by the institution of courses of lectures
on his philosophy at various German universities. Though treating
the same problems of modern civilisation as Spencer, Stephen, Huxley,
Wallace, Williams, Morison, and Balfour in Great Britain, he starts
from a different point of view, and arrives at very different conclusions,
which, should they prove final, will overthrow many pillars of modern
thought, more especially of modern ethics. His endeavours to bring
about a perfect concord between our moral convictions and feelings
and our knowledge of the world lead him to a severe criticism of the
former. In the course of this criticism he re-discovers a morality the
cultivation of which has been neglected by the Germanic nations for
about twelve hundred years; he calls it master-morality, and shows
it to be synonymous with that taught by the modern doctrine of
evolution.

    While engaged upon his great work on the Transvaluation of all
Values, he was surprised by an insidious disease which hopelessly dis-
abled him from completing the task of his life. An aristocratic philo-
sopher in the midst of our democratic age; a master of aphorism such
as Europe has not known since Larochefoucauld, and yet a systematic
philosopher and popular writer of the first rank; a literary warrior and
artist; a dreamer absorbed in thought, and yet the herald of the gospel
of health and the joy of life; mortally hostile to the Neo-Christianity of
Tolstoi, socialism and endaemonistic utilitarianism, and yet pointing to
a higher stage of humanity—he expresses his thoughts in manifold
forms, from the epic prose poem, after the fashion of the Tripitaka, to
lyrical song, learned treatise, and the collection of aphorisms and
apophthegms. Running directly counter to most of the ideas and feel-
ings which pervade British philosophy, fiction and periodical literature,
and yet closely akin to the British national character in its moral
conception of superiority—an ethical genius of immense vigour, and a
strong personality on whose generous character full light is thrown by
his struggles with rationalism, pessimism in philosophy and music,
clericalism and moralism, and yet one who penetrates with rare sagacity
                                                                                                     into

vii
into the most intimate affairs of the time, exposing its pudeurs with
pungent wit; a philosopher of profound learning, and a poet of ravish-
ing lyrical power; he stands a un ique figure in the arena of modern
thought.

    The questions he has raised are the problems of our time imperi-
ously demanding solution. It is no longer possible to neglect and
avoid them; it is preferable to look them straight in the face, and to
accept as the foundation of all our operations those new factors which,
as Nietzsche shows, have now become inevitable. Perhaps the wide
outlook into the future of mankind which he has opened up may help
to lead the race to its final goal.

❧THE PENTAMERONE; or, THE TALE OF TALES. Being
     a Translation by the late SIR RICHARD BURTON, K.C.M.G., from
    the Neapolitan of Giovanni Battista Basile, Count of Torone
    (Gian Alessio Abbattutis).
Two volumes, Demy 8vo.
Edition: A limited Edition, £3. 3s. net.
    150 Large-paper Copies on hand-made paper, £5. 5s. net.

❧FOUR CHRISTMAS BOOKS FOR CHILDREN.
❧STORIES FROM THE BIBLE. By E. L. FARRAR. With an
    introductory chapter on the unspeakable value of early lessons
    in Scripture, by the Ven. F. W. FARRAR, D.D., Dean of Canterbury.
    With 12 illustrations printed in colour, and a binding designed by
    Reginald Hallward. Crown 4to, 5s.
❧THE TYRANTS OF KOOL SIM. By J. M’LAREN COBBAN,
    author of The Red Sultan. With 6 illustrations, and a binding
    designed by J. Brewster Fisher. Large Crown 8vo, 5s.
❧THERE WAS ONCE A PRINCE. By MARY E. MANN, author
    of Susannah. With 6 illustrations by Mary Bertie Mann. Large
    Crown 8 vo, 5 s.
❧THE HAPPY OWLS. By TH. VAN HOYTEMA. With 20 illus-
    trations, printed in six colours, and a pictorial cover designed by
    the Author. Crown 4to, 3s. 6d.


                                                                                                     SIX

❧SIX NEW NOVELS.
Large Crown 8vo, 6s.
THE GODS, SOME MORTALS AND LORD WICKENHAM.
    By John Oliver Hobbes, author of Some Emotions and a Moral.
    With a title-page and binding designed by Walter Spindler.
    ‘To her numerous admirers the statement that this new book of
hers is her best will be in itself sufficient recommendation.’— Mr.
Edmund Gosse in The St. James’ s Gazette.
❧BOCONNOC: A ROMANCE OF WILD OAT CAKES. By
    HERBERT VIVIAN, co-author of The Green Bay Tree.
    ‘This book is at times as beautiful as it is clever.’—Mr. Richard Le
Gallienne in The Star.
❧SUSANNAH. By MARY E. MANN, author of There was once a
    Prince.
    ‘Open it where you will, and you will not fail to find excellent
literary quality, clever characterisation, keen observation and genuine
humour.’—The Daily Chronicle.
❧ A QUESTION OF INSTINCT. By MORLEY ROBERTS, author
    of The Adventures of a Ship’s Doctor.
Large Square 8vo, 4s.
THE HOUSE OF THE STRANGE WOMAN. By F. NORREYS
    CONNELL, author of In the Green Park.
    ‘He is such a comical, quizzical, cynical dog, is Mr. Connell, that
the brutality of his story cannot deprive the reader of a certain keen
enjoyment of this very clever, curious, and audacious book.’—Morning.
❧AN IMPRESSION CALLED ‘THE IMAGINATION OF
    THEIR HEARTS.’ By MICHAEL DURE.

SWAN ELECTRIC ENGRAVING COMPANY,

Northumbria House, 116 Charing Cross Road, London.
❧ Art Reproducers in PHOTOGRAVURE and HALF-TONE, from
pictures, photographs, or drawings.

The highest class of illustration work executed in Great Britain. See
the eighteen half-tone blocks in this volume.

❧ Sir John Millais speaks of the Swan Company’s work in terms of
high praise. His son, Mr. J. G. Millais, writes:—

‘The last of your proofs have arrived to-day, and I can only say how
very much pleased I am with the quality of work which you have main-
tained in reproducing the large number of illustrations I have submitted
to you. The “Electrogravures” are particularly excellent; in fact, my
father, who has had a wide experience in black-and-white illustration,
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ever seen in his life, and that he did not see how any artist’s original
drawing could possibly be more truthfully interpreted. The “Swantype”
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I have just sent your proofs of my father’s drawing, “The Last Trek,” to
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Mr. Rudolf Lehmann, the portrait painter, writes

‘I am delighted with the two photogravure reproductions of my
portraits of Browning and Lady Martin. They are far and away the
best of the many that have been attempted.’

Mr. Joseph Pennell, in Pen Drawing and Pen Draughtsmen (Mac-
millan), says:—

‘This drawing (a George Thomson) was made in pen and wash, and
has been most faithfully reproduced by the Swan Company. Their
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MLA citation:

The Pageant, vol. 1, 1896. Pageant Digital Edition, edited by Frederick King and Lorraine Janzen Kooistra, 2019-2021. Yellow Nineties 2.0, Ryerson University Centre for Digital Humanities, 2021. https://1890s.ca/pag1-all/