tidious imagination. Primitive or childish art exists usually in order to exhibit to such men a likeness, or a symbol, of something which they worship. The most uncouth likeness, the rudest symbol, serves at once to inform their curiosity, to command their awe, and to content their fancy; it is an object of science, of religion, and of art all together. But a riper civilization differentiates men's faculties, and develops the means proper for severally exercising them. The intelligence disciplines itself and grows into a separate province of the mind, with science as a separate instrument for its cultivation: the moral sense develops itself, and finds in religion its appropriate stimulation; the imagination and its sensibilities ripen, and to cultivate and exercise these is the business of the fine arts as they acquire perfection. In the course of this development the curiosity or scientific sense, the moral sense, and the imaginative or artistic sense, severally become more exacting. At first it was easy to satisfy them all three at once; later they can only be fully satisfied separately, and each by its appropriate means. The exactions of a highly disciplined curiosity, the exactions of a moral sense highly exalted and spiritualized, art can never directly satisfy; nay, its business, in a ripe and natural state, is not to speak directly to these faculties at all; to speak directly to the imagination, and satisfy the exactions of that faculty, is its business. Enough if, for the indirect satisfaction of the other faculties, art takes up as it finds them the current facts of science and the current conceptions of religion and morality. These are phenomena of the universe like any other; by realizing these in their most striking or most delightful essentials to the imagination, just as by realizing to it aspects of nature, this or that cut of a myriad notes in the human spirit can be struck; this or that out of a myriad virtues of things can be expressed; this or that out of a myriad modes of harmonious pleasure can be given. And to "teach the lesson" of a phenomenon

in this sense is indeed art's mission. But in the case before us an artist, faithful above others to art's mission as he interprets it, has had the misfortune to interpret it wrong. He has thought first of the instructed religious feelings and the inquisitive reason of his time, and has desired to teach a lesson to these. For this end he has worked with the determination of a temperament that nothing daunts, with the thoroughness of a conscience that is the sternest task-master, with an ability which would have achieved success in almost any endeavour. But this endeavour is contrary to the laws of things. The best success in it is failure. It is the sacrifice of art, by an artist, to that which after all is not science. For in this domain the inquisition and asseveration of mere facts is not really science, it is only the contrary of art; it is not a lesson in knowledge, it is only an infliction to feeling; it is not modern love of truth, it is only-the word has already gone out

-it is only modern prose. The incidents of the reed, the hammer, auger, and nails, the image of a cross, the light framing the head of Christ like an aureola-all these symbols of Christ's divinity and passion have significance for the imagination, and, like symbols in general, for the imagination as a faculty distinct from reason. Old art, by devotionally collecting these symbols about the person of Christ without regard to time, place, and circumstances, used to make its appeal frankly to this faculty. This modern art, by contriving to collect the symbols with an ingenious deference to time, place, probability, and the laws of nature, gives the imagination no play, and stifles in it the power of acknowleding any significance at all in such symbols. And so with the work in all its parts. That the modern spirit should confess this confusion of its faculties, should thus zealously put forth activities of one order in a field properly given over to activities of another order-is not this in some sort a return of childhood, and of a childhood not due and in season as was the first ?

And now we have turned over the matter in all ways, not without repetitions, but they were for the sake of making our meaning clear. If I should seem to have spoken disrespectfully of labours for which I feel all respect, let that too be set down to the wish of bringing out the point of the discussion so as to admit no ambiguity. those most conversant with art, and most alive to its emotions, work so devoted, so sincere, and in many points so masterly as that of Mr. Hunt can be a source not of delight but of distress, it is best to try and understand the reason why. That the fact is so, I am

If to

very sure; and now I think we see the justification of the fact. The happiest, the only happy, exercise of the critical faculty is in doing and helping others to do reverential homage to the creative faculty; but when the creative faculty is ill inspired, when that master force wastes and neutralises itself in the service of confused inspirations, and for the appeal to indiscriminate perceptions, it is the part of criticism not to shrink from saying so. Where our instincts are once wrong, by instinct alone we cannot right ourselves: then to try and right ourselves by criticism is our only chance.

SIDNEY COLVIN.

In the month of February, 1874, there died, within a few hours of each other, two men, who, though widely different in character, talent, and ideas, had both exercised considerable influence, not merely in their own countries, but throughout the whole of Europe.

Dr. Strauss, the author of "The Life of Jesus," died at Stuttgart on the 8th of February, having proclaimed, but a few months before, the overthrow of all Christian beliefs, and the new Gospel of Science, which limits the desires and hopes of men to the short term of an earthly life.1

He was true to his own teaching, and showed by the stoicism of his death that he had learnt resignation if he had not found happiness.

Jules Michelet, the author of "L'Histoire de France," "L'Histoire de la Révolution française," and "L'Oiseau," "L'Insecte," and "La Mer," died at Hyères, on the 9th of February. The misfortunes of his country broke his heart; but they could not destroy his joyful hope in the future, or shake his firm belief that in the other world the sorrows and injustices of this life will all be forgotten, and our liberated souls draw nearer to that perfection which is the object of their highest aspirations. It was strange that while Germany, the home of sentiment, of metaphysical speculation and lofty religious yearnings, lost in Strauss -a man of a stern, proud nature—a logician who stifled his emotions as signs of weakness unbefitting modern times, and acknowledged no God but science and reason; France, whose great intellectual qualities, precision, finesse, moderation, and logical clearness, are often accompanied by a certain dryness of heart and poverty of imagination, lost in Michelet the most tender and 1 "Der alte und der neue Glauben."

religious character that ever breathed, refusing to find satisfaction in mere science, and for ever letting himself be carried away by his feelings and imagination. The influence of Strauss was greater and wider than that of Michelet, but it was almost wholly negative and destructive. To minds harassed by doubt and anxiously seeking for truth, he offered the repose of universal negation; whilst Michelet revived the sad and aching heart, and when weary with doubt, supplied it with fresh reasons for loving and believing. Both were great and noble-minded men; and at their death many a German and many a Frenchman must have asked, "Who is to succeed them?" It is a question which may well be put to the rising generation each time that one of the men who have been the glory of the century passes away. The poets, artists, scholars, and writers who made its springtime beautiful are now nearly all dead, but its autumn is still enriched by the works they have left behind them. few, like Guizot, Carlyle, Victor Hugo, and Tennyson, remain, but they are ghosts rather than representatives of an age that is past. Where are the men, in Italy, to replace Léopardi, Bellini, and Manzoni?-in France, Lamartine, Delacroix, and Aug. Thierry ?-in Germany, Goethe, Mendelssohn, Schumann, Grimm, or Ranke ?-in England, Shelley, Thackeray, Turner, or Macaulay? If our times are too barren to produce men worthy to be named with these, let us do what we can to keep alive the worship of their memory, and fix their image in our minds before time has effaced it!

A

My purpose is to sketch in broad outline the life and character of Jules Michelet, the great Michelet, the great writer whom France has just lost. His own talent and style are needed to describe so

gifted and powerful a nature; my only claim to be heard is that I had the privilege of knowing him personally for more than ten years, and have made his works my careful study. I shall endeavour to describe him as I knew him and loved him; and I trust to be forgiven if the vivid memory of what he was, and my grief for his loss, should lead me to overlook any blemishes in his talent, and to dwell chiefly on the great qualities of his mind and heart.

In

Michelet gives an admirable account of his own early education, in the preface to "Le Peuple," and describes in a graphic manner the vivid impressions of his childish days. His mother was a native of the Ardennes, the stern and rugged home of a race which he designates as distinguée, sobre, économe, sérieuse, où l'esprit critique domine." His father was from "l'ardente et colérique Picardie," which has produced enthusiasts and orators like Peter the Hermit, Calvin, and Camille Desmoulins. After the Reign of Terror, the Michelet family came to Paris and set up a printing-office, and here he was born on the 21st of August, 1798, in the choir of an old church, used as a workshop by his father, "occupée," he says, "non profanée; qu'est ce que la Presse au temps moderne, sinon l'Arche Sainte? "1 this fact there was an omen of the future. His first years were hard and joyless; he grew 66 comme une herbe sans soleil, entre deux pavés de Paris." The suppression of the newspapers by Napoléon in 1800 and the restrictions of every kind which he placed upon the booktrade reduced the Michelets to poverty. They had to send away their workmen and do the work themselves as best they could, Jules taking his share, with his parents and grandfather. For the child it was labour far beyond his years, and certain, one would think, to have nipped his awakening faculties in the bud. Quite the contrary. Whilst his small fingers were mechanically engaged in putting dull books into type, his imagination was trying its wings. That wonderful gift which in later life 1 "Le Peuple," p. 22.

enabled him to make the ashes of the past glow with new life, and to awaken a soul and heart in all things, was the ruling faculty of his mind, and the first to awaken there. "Jamais je n'ai tant voyagé d'imagination que pendant que j'étais immobile à cette case. Très solitaire et très libre, j'étais tout imaginatif." He was not able to follow any regular course of instruction: before the morning work began he used to have lessons with an old bookseller who had formerly been a schoolmaster, "homme de mœurs antiques, ardent révolutionnaire;" from him he imbibed his worship for the Revolution, which he looked on as France's greatest achievement in history, and a revelation of justice. His reading was confined to two or three books. One of these produced a singularly deep impression upon him, and awoke the religious sentiment and the belief in God and immortality which never afterwards forsook him, and, in spite of all the variations of his mind, are discernible in everything he wrote. This book was the "Imitation of Christ." "Je n'avais encore aucune idée religieuse.... Et voilà que dans ces pages j'aperçois tout à coup, au bout de ce triste monde, la délivrance de la mort, l'autre vie, et l'espérance. . . . Comment dire l'état de rêve où me jetèrent ces premières paroles de l'Imitation? Je ne lisais pas, j'entendais. . . . . comme si cette voix douce et paternelle se fut addressée à moimême. Je vois encore la grande chambre froide et démeublée; elle me parut vraiment éclairée d'une lueur mystérieuse. Je ne pus aller bien loin dans ce livre, ne comprenant pas le Christ, mais je sentis Dieu."

At this time his love of history also began to show itself and indicated his future calling. "Ma plus forte impression," continue-t-il, " après celle-là, c'est le Musée des Monuments Français.. C'est là, nulle autre part, que j'ai reçu d'abord la vive impression de l'histoire. Je remplissais ces tombeaux de mon imagination; je sentais ces morts à travers les marbres; et ce n'était pas sans quelque terreur que j'entrais sous les

voûtes basses où dormaient Dagobert, Chilpéric, et Frédégonde."1

But

The child's remarkable abilities did not escape the notice of his parents. His father was all but destitute and his mother an invalid, but their last resources were employed in sending him to college. There, in MM. Villemain and Leclerc, he found distinguished teachers who supported him by their liberality, and also companions who taunted him with his poverty. He grew shy and timid-"effarouché comme un hibou en plein jour "2—shunned society, and lived with his books. such trials served only to temper his spirit; he felt that he was worth something, and began to have faith in himself. "Dans ce malheur accompli, privations du présent, craintes de l'avenir, l'ennemi était à deux pas (1814), et mes ennemis à moi, se moquant de moi tous les jours. Un jour, un jeudi matin, je me ramassai sur moi-même, sans feu (la neige couvrait tout), ne sachant pas si le pain viendrait le soir, tout semblant finir pour moi; j'eus en moi un pur sentiment stoïcien; je frappai de ma main, crevé par le froid, sur ma table de chêne (que j'ai toujours conservée), et je sentis une joie virile de jeunesse et d'avenir." The moral energy that triumphs over external evils upheld Michelet during his whole life. Physically very feeble, and always in bad health, his mind sustained his body. His life was one continued struggle, which would seem to have inspired the general view he takes of history: in both he saw liberty and fatality constantly at strife. The bitter experiences of his early years remained indelibly imprinted on his memory. Later on he attained glory and fortune, but he never forgot that he had risen from the people, and that to his humble origin he owed some of his finest qualities. "J'ai gardé l'impression du travail-d'une vie âpre et laborieuse. Je suis resté du peuple. . . . Si les classes supérieures ont la culture, nous avons bien plus de chaleur vitale. Ceux qui arrivent ainsi,

1 "Le Peuple," p. 26. 2 Ibid. p. 30.

avec la sève du peuple, apportent dans l'art un degré nouveau de vie et de rajeunissement, tout au moins un grand effort. Ils posent ordinairement le but plus haut, plus loin que les autres, consultant peu leurs forces, mais plutôt leur cœur." In fact, he attributed the warmth and tenderness of heart, which were the inspiration of his life, to his plebeian extraction; and though poverty and the sneers of his college companions made him for a time shy and miserable, they never aroused in him the smallest feeling of envy. No sooner did he re-enter the college as Professor, and find himself in a position to do something for others, than his whole being expanded. "Ces jeunes générations qui croyaient en moi, me réconcilièrent à l'humanité." He was made professor at the college of St. Barbe in 1821. In 1827 he published an analysis of Vico's History and Philosophy, and an Epitome of Modern History, which is a masterpiece, and in which, even after the lapse of forty-six years, not one page is out of date.

He was appointed Professor of History and Philosophy at the Ecole Normale, and remained there till 1837. These were perhaps his happiest years. He married at twenty-five, and led a studious and retired life, communicating with the outer world solely through his pupils. In after days he was fond of dwelling on the enjoyment he had found in teaching, and would relate how in the sharpest winter weather he was in the habit of walking up the Rue St. Jacques in his tail-coat and thin shoes, without an overcoat, quite insensible to the north wind and cold, "tant était ardente la flamme intérieure." Those who had the privilege of hearing him then have preserved a lasting remembrance of his eloquent and suggestive lectures, in which he succeeded so well in imparting to others the passion which animated himself. He, on his side, acquired from the act of teaching and from the affection and sympathy of his pupils, a strength which supported and inspired him in all his work. j'avais comme historien," said he after

"Si