ferent statement. At a certain point art | This is because the two so-called æsthetic must make common cause with morality, senses are links between what is spiritual and the plastically beautiful has to be lim- in us and external nature; we use them in ited by ethical laws. Man is so complex a being, and in the complex of his nature the morally trained sensibilities play so prominent a part, that art, which aims at giving only elevated enjoyment, cannot neglect ethics. Without being didactic it must be moralized, because the normal man is moralized. If it repudiates this obligation, it errs against its own ideal of harmony, rhythm, repose, synthetic beauty. It introduces an element which we seek to subordinate in life, and by which are afraid of being mastered. It ceases to be adequate to humanity in its best moments, and these best moments art has undertaken to present in forms of sensuous but dignified loveliness. we the finer operations of our intelligence. The three non æsthetic senses serve utility and natural needs; they have not been brought into that comity where thought and emotion can be sensuously presented to the mind. It is only by the faintest suggestions that a touch, a taste, a smell evokes some spiritual mood. When it does so the effect is indeed striking; we are thrilled in our very entrails and marrow. But these suggestions are, in our present condition, so vague, so elusive, so evanescent, so peculiar to the individual, that no attempt has been made to regard them as a substantial ground-work for the edifice of art. In man we find an uninterrupted rhythm from the simplest to the most complex states of consciousness, passing from mere sensation up to elaborated thought. No break can be detected in this rhythm, although psychologists are wont to denote its salient moments by distinctive names. They speak of sensation, perception, emotion, will, reason, and so forth, as though these were separate faculties. But the infinite subtlety of nature eludes such rude attempts at classification. Art finds its proper sphere of operation only in the middle region of the scale. The phys Most people will agree upon this point. There remains, however, considerable difference of opinion as to the boundaries which art dares not over-pass as to what deserves the opprobrious title of indecency in plastic or poetic presentation. Some folk seem inclined to ban the nude without exception, relegating the grandest handiwork of God, the human form divine, to the obscurity of shrouded vestments. Disinclined as I am to adopt this extreme position, I admit that just here the cleanness or uncleanness of the artist's mind, as felt in his touch on doubtful subjects, be-ical rudiments of consciousness are not comes a matter of ethical importance. All depends on taste, on method of treatment, on the tone communicated, on the mood in which matters of delicacy have been viewed. Tintoretto elevates our imagination by his pictures of Eve tempting Adam; Michael Angelo restrains and chastens wandering fancy; Raphael removes the same theme beyond the sphere of voluptuous suggestion, while retaining something of its sensuous allurement; Rembrandt produces a cynical satire in the style of Swift's description of Yahoos; Luca Giordano disgusts by coarse and full-blown carnalism. V. THESE Considerations lead us finally to inquire in what sphere of human sensibility the arts legitimately move. It is usual to distinguish between æsthetic and non-æsthetic senses - meaning by the former sight and hearing, by the latter touch, taste, smell. In truth, no great art has yet been based upon the three last-mentioned senses, in the same way as painting and sculpture have been based on sight and music upon hearing. æsthetic, because they bring our carnal functions into play, and only indirectly agitate the complex of our nature. The more abstract modes of thought are not æsthetic, . because they have renounced the element of corporeity and sense; and art has to fulfil its function through sensuous presentation. Art is therefore obliged to cast roots down into sense, and to flower up into thought, remaining within the province where these extremes of consciousness interpenetrate. This is what Hegel meant when he called beauty die sinnliche Erscheinung der Idee (the apparition, to sense and in sense, of the idea) a definition which, in spite of its metaphysical form, is precisely suited to express the fact. Poetry, if I may apply these conclusions to the most purely intellectual of the arts, makes an appeal to thought, emotion, sense, together, in one blended harmony. If thought predominates too crudely, as in some cantos of Dante's " Paradiso," in some books of Lucretius, in many pas sages of Milton's and of Wordsworth's verse, then the external form of metre and poetic diction does not save the product from being prosaic. On the other hand, and a grove of slender trees. Across the if a coarse appeal be made to sense through road the country, chiefly green pasturage, sound, as in a large portion of Marino's sloped softly away to the south-west, "Adone," we are cloyed by sweet vacuity. where, dim in the distance, brooded a Or if, as in the case of Baffo's Venetian grey haze which held the town of Alncaslyrics, the contents be deliberately pruri- ter, whilst further on the horizon glinted ent, awakening mere animal associations, a silver rim, showing where the sea was then no form of sonnet, madrigal, or ode "breathing in his sleep, heard by the saves this poetry from being prosaic. It land." Even up here a tinge of ocean meets the same condemnation at the lower freshness underlay the scent of the newly end of the scale as we passed on parts of opened hawthorn and lilac blossoms, which Dante, Lucretius, Milton, Wordsworth, at hung on the stirless air, thrilled by the the higher end. Purely intellectual and "blisful birdës" song. The sun was still purely sensual poetry fail alike by contra-low enough - a neighboring church clock dicting the law of poetry's existence. They are not poetry, but something else. Neither unmixed thought nor unmixed sense is the proper stuff of art. Still we must remember that art, occupying the middle region between these extremes, has to bring the manifold orchestra of consciousness into accord. Nowhere is there an abrupt chasm in man's sentient being. Touch, taste, smell, sex, must be made to vibrate like the dull strings of bass-viols, to thrill like woody tubes of hautboys, to pierce like shrill yet mellow accents of the clarionette, to stir the soul like the tumultuous voices of brass instruments. Sight and hearing, through their keener intellectual significance, dominate this harmony; even as treble and tenor chords of violin and viola control a symphony. The final object of the whole concert is to delight and stimulate the mind, not to exercise the brain by logical propositions nor to excite the appetite by indecent imagery. Precisely in this attunement of all the senses to the service of impassioned thought lies the secret of the noblest art. JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS. had just struck seven-to shine with those dazzling effects of gleam upon gloom which are only possible when his rays fall obliquely. They flashed bewildering amid the long trunk shadows, polishing the very straws on the road, turning the dewdrops on the twinkling leaves into iridescent globules, out of which the floating gossamer threads seemed to have been spun; giving a russet richness to the brown vel. vet moss of the thatch, and kindling golden lights in John Stelwyn's red beard, as he leaned on the field gate taking a first look at his old home after ten years' absence in the far West. He was rather a thick-set man of about thirty-five, with a blunt-featured, honest, good-natured face, and the general appearance of a well-to-do gardener in his best clothes. In his hand he carried a small shiny bag containing sundry little presents for his brother and sister-in-law and their children, which his impatience for the pleasure of bestowing had not permitted him to leave with the rest of his luggage at Massing, six miles away. As he gazed towards the cottage with a curious expression of doubtful joy, his thoughts ran somewhat thus: "Well, everything looks right enough outside the old place any way, and, as far as I know, Mary they're right enough inside too. said they were all finely." Here he took out of his pocket an envelope, very grimy at the folds with long portage, and read HE time was early on a bright morn- the post-mark: "Alncaster, April 9th." ing late in May; the place a rectangular" Not much better than six weeks back; bend of a lonely country lane, where, in the angle, on the right hand as you look south towards Alncaster, stood an old thatched cottage, a rambling, one-storied building, covering a considerable space of ground, with creeper-clad walls, surrounded by a trim flower and vegetable garden. On one side the garden was prolonged into a narrow strip of sward, separated from the lane by a grassy bank starred with primroses, and from a field of glossy young wheat by a tall hedgerow TO ALNCASTER. A WAYSIDE TRAGEDY. From Time. what should ha' happened them since then? I wonder if Mary's as pretty as she was last time I seed her; Dick said she was last time he wrote, but I expect it's hardly likely. Bless me, to think that they've been married ten years this day, and I haven't set eyes on 'em since! Why, the oldest of the childer must be getting quite sizable. The only thing that seems to be going contrary at all," he went on as he replaced the letter in his pocket, "is that brother Mark of hers; I'm afeared he's noways steady. But, sure, the lad's only young yet, and now I'll maybe be able to gi' him a lift." His face cleared at this reflection, and he took his arms off the gate. "Seems to me," he said, "that considering I've nought but good news to hear and tell, I might as well be stepping in as loafing around outside, arter getting up at all hours sooner than wait for the carrier. And, my goodness! Look at the childer yonder them must be Dick's." A group of children were sitting on the bank at a little distance, against a gorgeous background of golden laburnum. There were six of them, the youngest not much more than one year old, the eldest a girl of eight or nine, who apparently was not on good terms with the rest of the party, for she crouched with her back to them, leaning an elbow on the bank, and pressing a hand on each side of her head. The others, four boys and a girl, were deeply absorbed in erecting some amorphous structure composed of broken flower-pots, twigs, and pebbles, their labors being diversified by interludes of that primitive scuffling and squabbling, which, at a further stage of evolution, differentiates into war offices and standing armies. They were all pretty-looking, fair-haired little things, and were set off by a gayness of bright-colored frocks and ribbons, and snowy pinafores, which caught even John Stelwyn's uncritical eye. "Mary was always one for having things nice about her," he said to himself, "but I'd never ha' thought she could ha' kept 'em so spick and span on a week-day. Why, they might be young lords, look at 'em." He was not accustomed to youthful society, and he stood watching them silently for a minute or two before he thought of an appropriate opening speech. Then he said, "Well, young ones, you're having a fine game." The builders immediately suspended operations, and concentrated all their energies upon wide-eyed stares at the stranger, the six-year-old eldest boy alone retaining sufficient presence of mind to answer, Ay." "And I expect you live yonder?" John Stelwyn said, pointing to the cottage; whereupon the stares took a somewhat contemptuous expression, and Bob once more assented briefly. "I thought so," said John, smiling down pleasantly on the row of upturned faces. And where are father and mother? Are they within?" At this question the children suddenly became much more communicative. Naughty father killed mother," pursued Jack meditatively, "so he's going to be hunged to-day away in town. And granny says he'll not come back again. S'pose people never do come back when they've been hunged." He seemed to fall into a reverie over this point, while threeyear-old Tom began to chant to himself, Naughty farder killed mudder-naughty mudder's to be hunged," accompanying this pleasing ditty by beating time on the ground with a large tin spoon. 66 "That's why granny made us these bowses," said the little girl confidentially, pointing to the big knots of bright blue ribbon, mixed with black crape, which adorned the front of her own pinafore and those of her brethren, "The pooty ribbing's for poor mother, and the nasty black stuff's for father." "No, it ain't, Miss Cleverboots," interrupted Bob, in whose mind her former correction was evidently rankling, "the ribbing's for father, 'cause it's a good job, and the black thing's for mother, 'cause "I declare to God,” said John, who had hitherto been listening dumbfoundered, "I dunno what sort of talk you have at all. Little lass, little lass," he continued, raising his voice and calling to the eldest. child, who had not stirred from her crouching posture, "what is it these young ones are talking about?" "Oh, there's no good speaking to Allie," said Bob with scorn," she's stopping her ears not to hear the, clock strike, I know, great silly." Then, grasping her arm, he tried to pull down her hand, shouting, "Allie, Allie, listen, will yer? There's a man speaking to you, and the clock won't strike this ever so long, you gaby!" The little girl flashed round upon him a face white with a most unchildlike wrath and anguish. "Let me alone," she cried, shaking him off fiercely, "you're a wicked, cruel boy; you don't care; you're all glad; and father, who used to carry you on his shoulder and bring you home cakes from town, he'll never come home again. They're killing him this minute, maybe, and you don't care. I hate you; I hate you! Don't touch me." Bob shrank back rather appalled, as "I'll tell you what it is," said John, whose ruddy face looked bleached and drawn, as if a withering blast had gone by; "you're very bad, ugly-spoken childer, and I'm glad, that I am, that you're no belongings of mine. I dunno what my brother Dick 'ud say to your sitting about his place." So saying, he turned to go towards the cottage; but catching his breath with a groan, he stood still and muttered, "God help me; the little chap's the image of his father." "Now, if that ain't a queer kind o' welcome for a man come home arter ten years!" said John with a forced laugh. "Where might my brother and your daughter be, Mrs. Hovenden? May happen they'll find something pleasanter to say." "Oh, Lord! hark to him!" exclaimed the old woman, clasping her hands and turning up her eyes, while the doctor said, in a tone of dismayed surprise, "Richard Stelwyn's brother? What? Is it possible that you haven't heard?" I've heard naught," said John, "barring, it might be, a pack o' crazy childer talking foolish over yonder. I landed in Liverpool only yesterday, and ha' been travelling most ever since. What should I hear?" he said defiantly, but beginning to tremble very much. What I ask you is, Where are Dick and Mary?" At this moment the door of the cottage "And that's easily answered at any opened, and there came out a short, dark, rate," shrilled the old woman, interposing alert-looking young man of professional with a swift thrust forward of head and aspect, followed by a tall, gaunt old woman throat between John and the doctor who with thick iron-grey hair and piercing was about to speak. "My daughter Mabrown eyes. Her white cap was resplendent with pink ribbons, and so was her black silk gown. As the young man stepped out of the porch he caught sight of the group on the bank, and said in a tone of disgust, "I must say, Mrs. Hovenden, that under the circumstances it would be more decent to keep those poor children indoors this morning than let them play on the roadside; bedizened in that fashion too." ry's in her grave, murdered; and your brother Dick'll be a dead man, please God, in another half-hour for the murder. ing of her. If you want to see him you'd better be off to Alncaster jail, and make haste about it too. You may happen to be in time for t' inquest." John Stelwyn staggered and clutched hold of the porch's trellis-work, as if his world had given that dizzying, semi-circular swing which dulls the edge of sense for a moment; and the doctor said angrily, "Hold your tongue, you wicked old woman." Plain speaking was evidently in the "And what for shouldn't they have their play this morning as well as another, Dr. Ashe?" said the harsh-voiced old woman, whose wrinkled face was twitch-air that morning. ing with some form of excitement. "It's a good day for them, deny it who will, and I'd have them to know it is. They'd honey to their bread at breakfast this morning, every one o' them, 'cept that crabbed little toad Allie, who wouldn't touch a mouthful; and not a scrap of dinner she'll get this day for that same, I can tell her." "Oh, ay, wicked, wicked! that's the word with all of you," she said resentfully. "There's parson comes prating about ‘a more Christianable sperit;' and even Mrs. Carson herself, and we've been neighbors these twelve years, stood me out yesterday that I oughtn't to be so glad o' the hanging, but I soon showed her the door. Wicked, says you? And if I was "You'd better mind what you're about," mad wi' wickedness, who'd blame me? the young doctor said severely; "I'll take It's little notion you have what you're very good care, I assure you, that the talking about, sir, or you'd know very well child isn't ill-treated. We could easily that in my place you'd be as glad as I have her put in charge of one of her am to think o' the life being choked out uncles." of him over yonder." She pointed with Before she could reply John Stelwyn a shaking hand to where beyond the came striding up, and the old woman greeted him with a hoarse shriek. "And is it you, John Stelwyn, setting foot within this gate? A fine day you've chosen to be showing your face here. Is there no shame in you?” breadths of green land and golden air the dim town lay, and went on more vehemently: "Wouldn't it be enough to drive any woman demented to think of my two pretty children and the two that I set most store by of them all to think what's put the bit of money I've made in the States into land - Shortt's fields up Massing ways are to be had, Dick says, and a capital house and offices, and we're thinking o' moving up there at Michaelmas, and he and I'll try what we can do wi' the farm. Why, look here, sir," he said, beginning to fumble with clumsy fingers at the straps of his bag, "here's even the trifles o' presents I've brought 'em. This queer-looking pipe's for Dick - he always had notions about his pipes and here's some toy-things and chains and trinkumtrankums for the childer, and this little clock for Mary-it strikes the half-hours beautiful." come o' them? There's Mary, that every | home, and she said they couldn't be betperson allowed to be the prettiest girl i' ter. And from Dick I did be hearing the parish, gentle or simple-it 'd take continual. We have it all settled. We'll you the best part o' half an hour to plait the length o' her hair-nought 'ud suit her, and she a minister's granddaughter on the father's side, but to marry a common low fellow as worked i' the fields like any laboring man, -a cowardly villain that killed her for the sake o' her poor uncle's bit o' money. You saw her yourself in her coffin, doctor, and I wonder to hear you speaking up for the brute that murdered her. And Mark, my handsome lad, that's the youngest I have, and that I looked to keeping a little house for me one o' these days- there's he the very day his poor sister was murdered, driven out of his place where he was earning his bread, and is away off I dunno where, unless he's gone to his friend Dunbar up beyant Caldwick; I've niver heard tale nor tidings of him since. But I've posted the newspapers to him there, doctor, on chance, so I have, wi't' accounts o' the trial and sentence and all, that he may see the sort o' man Richard Stelwyn war, who he thought such a sight of. For Mark's allers had the greatest opinion o' that murdering villain, and ud stand up for Mary's marrying ever since he was on'y a slip of a boy; just for the sake of thwarting me, I do believe. Maybe he ain't so pleased wi' the thought o''t now; maybe that's why he's ashamed to be showing his face here, though it seems there's others that'll brazen it out." She ceased, breathless, and leaned against the doorpost, only capable of darting furious glances and an occasional muttered ejaculation at the two men. "We've a chance now o' hearing our ears awhile," said John Stelwyn, turning with what he meant for a smile to Dr. Ashe, and continuing to look very hard at him, whilst the doctor for sheer pity remained cruelly silent. "It seems like as if the woman and childer had gone clean off their heads this morning," John went on after a pause, "but she always was a camsteery old body; I've seen her as bad before about nothing at all—oh, ay, many's the time." "I wish to Heaven I could tell you it is about nothing"-the doctor was beginning, but the other interrupted him, laying a heavy hand on his arm. "You know the thing's not possible," John said. "Why, man, he thought her equal wasn't in this world. And I heard from her from my sister-in-law only a couple o' days afore I started to come The doctor did look at these pitifully illogical arguments, and felt that a pointblank statement was to be avoided. "When your sister-in-law wrote," he said, "did she mention a small legacy which she had been left a short time ago?" "She did," said John, "from her old Uncle Madden; a matter of fifty pound. That was another piece o' good-luck for them." "It was not," said Dr. Ashe signifi cantly. "It would be truer to say that it brought ruin and destruction upon them." John feigned to be busied with the fastening of his bag, but the doctor saw that he was listening intently, and continued: "It was early last April when they heard of this legacy, and on the 8th of the month your brother and his wife went to Alncaster on some business connected with it. They stayed for the night at the house of a friend of hers at a little place called Hilstead, about two miles from the town." "'Twas from there she wrote," said John. "In the course of the next morning some kind of altercation was overheard passing between them, apparently upon money matters. Mrs. Stelwyn seemed to be urging some arrangement about the legacy to which Stelwyn would not agree, and they say that he quite lost his temper, and was heard storming and stamping about the room." "This might be it might be," said John, looking up haggardly, "though I never knowed him to be like that. I don't say but Dick was a trifle hasty now and again, and might speak sharp like." "That afternoon," the doctor continued, "they started together for Alncaster, ap parently on the best of terms. Mrs. Stel |