rest I decline to translate into milder terms, but give as it is written : The Lady Jane was tall and slim, And Lady Jane was fair— And she said, with a pensive air, To Thompson, the valet, while taking away, "I've ate; but any "So good ne'er tasted before !— "They're a fish, too, of which I'm remarkably fond— "Poor dear! HE'LL CATCH US SOME MORE !!" The pen that wrote this is not fit to trace the lineaments of the human soul. I would not trust it to record the life of my dog-the poor brute would be slandered. How then shall it dare to scribble of that which is beyond the vail! There was a Dutch painter who is remembered by the name of hell-fire Breughel, because he loved to fill his landscapes with devils. But if we are to have nothing but devils, let them be like those of which we read in Shakespeare, "Black spirits and white, blue spirits and grey." In "Ingoldsby" we cannot see their colour, because they are so unclean. As to the men, they are satyrs: the women we would not acknowledge as our sisters. If there is one amongst the atrocious company that is innocent of actual crime. it is because he is a fool. A rapier may reach the heart and leave scarcely a mark on the white victim's side, but what Hood did with the keen stroke of the rapier or the delicate touch of the scalpel, "Ingoldsby" attempts with the brutal force of the bludgeon or the hammer. What wonder that his garments are so besmirched! How they so softly rest, All, all the holy dead, Now doth my soul draw near! How they so softly rest, All in their silent graves. I am not speaking from any theological sentiment. I do not so much as touch the religious element of the question. I am speaking simply as an Artist on a matter of taste. Whether it be true that "as a morn ing cloud they melt into the azure of the past," or whether There, by the cypresses Softly o'ershadowed, Until the Angel Calls them they slumber in either case alike, it is not for Art to drag forth the poor limbs and assault the memory of the soul with foolish gibes. The Use of the Supernatural is legitimate in Art; but Art should touch nothing except to ennoble or refine. And before all things Art should not be unclean. Its pinions were not given that it might stoop to carrion, nor its eagle glance except that it might behold the sun. Let its flight then be as that of the eagle. When the landscape lies in darkness there is still a light upon his wings. Look up, they are crimson with the glory of the sunset. But It is not for his brood to see the as a vulture, never! His wings also are red, but not with the crimson of the setting sun. Look! they are red with blood. A VI. WITNESSING AGAIN. ND now, before I conclude, let us look back for a moment on the ground we have already traversed. The sheet of white paper lies forgotten on the table, but the unseen words written upon it have become a living reality. The vision that filled the dull waitingroom on the threshold of my story has passed away, but in its stead we have seen many things of which it was only the type. Lo! a field of battle; and "Black Auster" with drooping head looks wistfully into his master's face. Lo! the celestial horsemen, and the rush of the victorious host. Lo! Eurydice, as the stern god lays his hand upon her arm. And yet again behold the splendour of the heavenly legions, the Angel with the lustrous eyes casting forth quivering beams. And as these pass away still other visions crowd before our eyes. It is our mother in the first sweetness of her innocence. It is the two, driven out from Paradise, still clinging to each other's love. It is the human soul-in its conflict with evil-in its mighty passions —in its aspirations after light-in its agony when hurled back into darkness-in its tremulous returnuntil Christ comes; and then, Art, which will touch all things, must lay its hand upon Him too, and nail Him to the cross again, even though itself should die in the act. For Art is a living thing, and can suffer and die -and see corruption-in its miraculous virgins and black Christs as surely as in its great goddess Diana with the ten breasts, or in its Juggernauts and Pashts of the still pagan world. And we have seen also the serener beauty of Landscape Art. The trees of the Lord which are full of sap, and the Cedars of Lebanon which He hath planted-are they not a living background for the rest? Does not the mighty roar of the waters blend its cadence with the cry that has gone up from our race since first man went forth to his labour? But see if there is one amongst the myths cf Greece and Rome that can touch our hearts, it is because it tells the story of some human life. If with Milton and Dante we stand amidst the hierarchy of heaven and are not satisfied, it is because this story of human life is missing. If we strike back the hand that would violate the sanctuary of the grave, it is because the dead have lived and the living have yet to die. If in Art we dare to approach the Divine Being, it is only because He Himself was |