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a type of Religion and Art in their relation to each other -the glory of the right use the shame of the abuse? By virtue of its simple record of a truth in the bowed head, the outstretched arms, the pierced side, Art became the channel of the Divine consolation, lifting the soul from earth to heaven. By virtue also of its grossness, its record only of the lesser truth, its limiting of the Divine Nature to the human, it became the foundation of a lying fable that would drag the Redeemer down from heaven to earth, and there nail Him once more upon the cross.

V.

"KISSING CARRION."

HERE remains for our consideration one more

TH

phase of the subject, namely, the use which has been made of the Supernatural in what is generally known as "Humorous Poetry."

The beautiful cosmos that we call "Art" is commensurate with the beautiful world in which we live ; a world whose foundations, if not of jasper and sapphire and amethyst, are at least very broad. We have seen that it is the King's Garden—that it is peopled with the King's Children, though many of them know not that they are of royal lineage. We have seen that between them and the King Messengers still come and go. We remember that the King Himself once walked there, and although we do not see Him now, we believe that He still hears our voices when we laugh and sing as surely as when we cry to Him for help.

And we believe also that our mirth will not displease

Him. It is not for the hyena or for the baboon alone to laugh.

But in our laughter let us not be as one of these, cruel that is or foolish. Keen-as the lightning's flash; fresh-as a running brook; tender-as the kiss of a mother that wakes her child; innocent-as the love of the child who flings her arms about our neck and lays her golden tresses against our cheek. These, and a hundred words beside that tell of pure pleasure, or delicate perception, or wise satire, find their place within our paper cosmos. The Fairy Tales of Andersen and Grimm are as legitimate a Use of the Supernatural in Art as are the Divine myths of Milton or of Dante.

Nor is it the pen only, but the pencil also, that can revel in this wide range. When the right day comes round once more I would not lighten the postman's burden by the tiniest or the pinkest of Cupids that ever shot a silver arrow through a bleeding heart. Long may such supernatural wonders flourish, with no cruel committee of Academicians to intercept them on their way to the admiring eyes for which they are intended. O sweet St. Valentine-see to it that none of the rare missives committed to thy trust get lost or crushed in over-crowded post-bags. Bad Art they may be, but there clings to them that which is more precious than all the scrip of Lombard-street-that which is sweeter

than any perfume yet distilled by Rimmel-even the love of hearts which are still " as the little children."

So the Supernatural in Art has its lighter as well as its graver uses. With what exquisite taste Charles Dickens has made it the theme of his Christmas stories, "The Carol," "The Chimes," "The Haunted Man." How quickly we alternate from tears to laughter as we read of Tiny Tim, or Tettersby's Baby, or of Scrooge and the Ghost of Christmas. Yet never does that pure-minded author transgress against the finer susceptibilities of our nature, or touch with irreverence that which his fellow-men hold dear. Again, what point the Supernatural suggests to the pretty libretto, where a young husband becomes jealous of the sweet girl he has married, and is tempted to go to a "wise woman" who by incantations can discover the secrets of the heart. But he must take with him some of his wife's hair. So the "rape of the lock" is effected, and with trembling heart the foolish fellow places it in the hands of the enchantress. It is all very well to laugh-but, ah! how terrible is his punishment when he learns the doom of his wedded life. She from whose lovely head that golden tress was severed is pronounced guilty of all the crimes of which woman "whose name is frailty" can be accused. Broken-hearted he returns to his now desolate home. He dare not look again on

the face that he had loved. What but the grave can hide his misery and her shame? When lo! the sequel. The hair was not his wife's at all! He had cut it from her chignon.*

It is not by such a Use of the Supernatural that Art can suffer. Observe how everything is made to keep its place. If we laugh, it is at that which is laughable. If we weep, it is for that which is pitiful. There are however certain minds so constituted that they seem to view everything in an inverted form. With them sweet must be made bitter-though it is gravely to be doubted whether they ever succeed in making bitter sweet. To them Art is always in hysterics—a state that is neither of laughter nor of tears, but only very painful. They may be compared to the hero of Chamisso's storyof which Thackeray has given us a lively and elegant translation:

There lived a Sage in days of yore,
And he a handsome pigtail wore,

But wondered much and sorrowed more

Because it hung behind him.

The parallel is perfect. First wonder, and then regret

The reader must forgive an English author the use of this word. The only equivalent for it in our insular dialect, although sanctioned by no less an authority than Dryden, is altogether wanting in the delicacy and discrimination, to say nothing of the dignity, necessary for a word that signifies so much. It is no doubt something between the cirrus and caliendrum of the Latins.

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