characteristic. Even the single statues have for their outlines curves of contrary flexure, expressing motion; they seem to wave in the air, and their faces to glow with passing emotion. The animals are often uncouth, but the more lifelike; a turn of the head, or of the eye, a restless, unbalanced attitude, brings us nearer to the actual living creature, than the magnificent repose of the antique lions and eagles-as if | they did not trust to our recognizing their character, but were prepared to demonstrate it with beak and claws. Even in the plants, though strictly conventionalized, it is the freedom and spring of their lines that more than anything | else characterizes them and defies copying. In a crucifixion of the twelfth century, life is figured on one side crowned and victorious, and on the other death overcome and slain. The finiteness of the finite is not the barrier, but the liberation, of the infinite. But the statue remains stone; this unmeaning emphasis of weight and bulk, though diminished, is not to be got rid of. It is the struggle against this fixity that gives to the sculpture of the renaissance its aspect of unrest, of disdain of the present, of endless, unsatisfied search. Hence the air of conflict that we see in Giovanni Pisano, and still more in later times-the sculptor going to the edge of what the stone will allow, and beyond it, and, still unsatisfied, seeking through all means to indicate a yet unexecuted possibility. It is this that seethes in those strange, intense, unearthly figures of Donatello's, wasted as by internal fire-the rage for an expression that shall at the same time declare its own insufficiency. ever pre spised the copying of models, as the makeshift That the earlier practice of colouring statues was given up just when the need would seem to be the greatest shows its incompatibility with the fundamental conditions of the art. În the twelfth and thirteenth centuries statues were still painted and gilded. Afterwards colour is restricted to parts not directly affected by the circulation, the hair and the eyes; and at last, when sculpture is given over to pictorial effect and is about to yield entirely to painting, it is wholly relinquished. Evidently it was felt that to colour a statue in imitation of flesh would only enforce the fact that it is stone. What art was now aiming at was not the mere appearance of life, but a unity like that which life gives, in place of the abstractedness and partiality inherent in sculpture. All that is done only makes the failure more evident. The fixity continues, and is only deepened into contortion and grimace. What we see is the effort alone. Hence in modern statues the uneasy, self-distrustful appeal to the spectator, in place of the lofty indifference of the antique. In Michel Angelo the same striving to indicate something in reserve, not expended, led to the exaggerated emphasis of certain parts (as the length of the neck, depth of the eye-sockets, &c.), and of general muscularity a show of force, that gave to the In the earlier Greek statues the head remains Moses the build of a Titan, and to the Christ of lifeless, abstract, whilst the limbs are full of exthe Last Judgment the air of a gladiator. pression. In a contrary spirit, more akin to Michel Angelo often seems immersed in mere modern ideas, the Norse myth relates that anatomy and academic tours de force, especially Skadi, having her choice of a husband from in his later works. He seems to see in the sub- among all the gods, but having to choose by the ject only a fresh problem in attitude, foreshort-feet alone, meaning to take Baldur, got by misening, muscular display-and this not only where he invents, but also where he borrowssometimes most strangely overlooking the sentiment; as in the figure of Christ, which he borrows from Orcagna and the older painters, even to the position of the arms, but with the touching gesture of reproof perverted into a savage menace; or in the expulsion, taken almost line for line from Masaccio, but with the infinite grief expressed in Adam's figure turned into melodrama by showing his face. It was not for the delight of the eye, nor from over reverence of the matter-of-fact. He de take Niordr, an inferior deity. This does not seem so strange to us; but a Greek would have wondered that the daughter of a wise Titan should not know the feet of Apollo from those of Nereus. It was said of Taglioni that she put mind into her legs. But, to the modern way of thinking this is clearly exceptional. It is in the face, and especially in the eye, that we look to see the soul present and at work, and not merely in its effects as character. As types of character, the lineaments of the face were explored by the later Greek art as profoundly as the rest of the body. But the statue is sightless; C its eyes do not meet ours, but seem forever brooding over a world into which the present and its interests do not enter. To the Greek this was no defect; but to us the omission seems to affect the most vital point of all, since our conception of the soul involves its eternity, that is, that it lives always in the present, is not too fine to exist, secure that it is bound neither by past nor future, but capable of revolutionizing the character at all moments. Here is the ground of the remarkable difference that meets us already in the reliefs of the latter classic times. In the reliefs of the best age, the figures are always in profile and in action. Complete personification being out of the question, it is expressly avoided each figure waives attention to itself, merges itself in the plot. Later, when the profounderidea of a personality that does not isolate or degrade has begun to make itself felt, this constraint is given up-the figures face the spectator, and enter as it were into relation with the actual world. The church very early expressed this feeling of the higher significance of the head, by allowing it to be sufficient if the head alone were buried in holy ground In art it is naïvely indicated by the exaggerated size of the head and the eyes-a very common trait of the earlier times, and not quite obsolete at the time of the Pisani, COTTAGE LIFE IN SCOTLAND, CHAP. XIX. PART III. old Ann durst not shew interest in any one Bet Black hated, being herself in awe of the latter's rancorous, meanly revengeful nature. rested at the bottom of a steep circuitous cart Katie ""Twas when the wan leaf frae the birk-tree was road, which she had chosen in preference to the fa'ing And Martinmas dowie had wound up the year, That Lucy rowed up her wee kist wi' her a' in't, And left her auld maister and mistress sae dear." The Martinmas term happened on a Friday, nearly a month after the events related in the first part of the tale, and Nannie Lindsay would have gone to be installed as housemaid at Braehead in place of her sister on the following day, but for the influence of the Scottish proverb. "A Saturday flit has a short sit." Early on the morning that released Nannie from her previous engagement, her good master Mr. Aitken, after a short illness, was called to his "rest," and all that day sympathising neighbours, mourning as if the bereavement were peculiarly their own, vainly endeavoured to console his heart-stricken grandchild, Flora Merton; but no one could comfort the lonely and now homeless girl but Nannie Lindsay, whose grief nearly equalled her own. Nannie's mother had therefore permitted her to remain till night, when her father would go for her. Katie, however, was expected to take her "four hours" or tea with her parents, and her mother had made special preparations in honour of the occasion. In accordance with this arrangement, Katie left Braehead early in the afternoon, loaded with bandbox and bundles which no one offered to assist her to carry. George could not, even if he would, being engaged at his usual work, and path leading by Jenny Black's cottage. Her seat was on a grassy mound beside a rough moss-grown dyke, and there she was musing on a future that was all "couleur de rose," when a man, who was walking on the soft turf skirting the deep muddy road, accosted her, and offered The man's to assist her to carry her bundles. shabby velveteen suit and English accent impressed her with an idea of his gentility, and she at first gratefully declined; but, overcome offer, and had in consequence to answer numeby his persistence, she finally accepted his rous queries connected with the district, about small wayside inn at a toll-bar, from which Tom which he seemed curious, until they reached a Black issued, and insisted on her entering, to rest herself. About an hour afterwards, in the lonely churchyard surrounded by tall trees now bereft of their foliage, the stranger in the velveteen suit threaded his way among the moss-grown tombstones, looking occasionally with deep interest on the names which had been recently engraved. Before an unpretending upright slab the green turf had been removed, and the sexton's tools lay beside it. A remorseful pang passed through the man's heart as he stood looking on these sad tokens of the departure of one who had laboured unsuccessfully to impress religious truth on his heart in boyhood. "It's no use saying there's no goodness in the earth," he muttered, "for he that must lie here was good and merciful, even though he had nothing to gain by it." Just then he observed the sexton Neddy Black and his wife Jenny returning to their work. Jenny paused at the gate to speak to some one; and Neddy, who never considered himself able to work without her, perched himself on a tombstone to light his pipe. Having succeeded in this, he drew forth from his pocket a well-thumbed copy of Moore's Almanack, and was deeply engrossed in its contents when Jenny imperiously ordered him to his work. Old Neddy nervously obeyed, soliloquising as he went, "Howking graves, aye, howking graves! Eh, wow, but we'll sune be a' demolished! I wadna heed if it was Amalekites and Philistines I had to do wi', but I dinna like to pit yird o'er auld freens and get nocht for't. Weary fa' the job for it's dreech and sair, and no that sonsy. Ochone, Jenny, ye keep an unco grip o' the siller." "Ca away and haud yer wheest," cried Jenny, giving him an ungentle pat with her spade. "Dye no see it's pouring and raining, and there will be nae moonlight wi' thae heavy clouds." "I kenned it," cried Neddy, triumphantly. "Did I no tell ye that when the moon had her stroup down, there would be plenty o' water falling." The stranger, who had been listening, laughed aloud at this solution of meteorological difficulties; but Neddy, who had no idea of treating his favourite science with levity, turned his poking red nose in the direction of the laugh, and, glimmering unsteadily with his large black eyes, he continued, "I have a theory o' my ain about the moon, dye ken. I think there maun be some big blads of ice between it and the sun, and when the moon lies on her back she just keps it as it melts, like a handbasin; but when she's on her side, she just dribbles it a' oot again like a watering can." The man listened with much amusement to this superb philosophical theory, when turning from Neddy to his wife, he found her eyes fixed on himself with a puzzled expression, and a look of recognition instantaneously passed between them. "Mistress, your husband is a clever man," sneered the stranger. "Oh! yes, he is a knowledgeable man," answered Jenny calmly, accepting the compliment in its literal sense, and ignoring its very apparent irony, "and mair than that, he's a quate peaceable cratur, and doesna get his bread by harming ither folk, like some I ken." The man slightly winced, but observed, "I am on my way to London, and hearing that your drovers sometimes go that far, I want to know when they are likely to start, that I may have their company." "Andrew Lindsay is gaun in the spring," cried Neddy, hastily, encouraged to volunteer a remark by Jenny's late appreciation of his talents. "Wheest, ye doitet deevil," whispered Jenny; and then added louder, "If ye leeve in London ye'll maybe ken ane Bob McBrade that leeves there. Ye may tell him fra me, that there's folk here that ken him, and they'll no be slow to seek him if ony ill happens Andrew Lindsay, for its well kenned that Bob has sworn to do him a mischief, and Andrew, as a' the world kens, is a gude godly man, that has deserved nocht but kindness at his hands." The man's face paled, and an expression of deep malignant feeling settled on it. "See you this," he said, as he broke off a drooping branch of a tree near him, and snapt it bit by bit to pieces; "this is the way I could break his bones if I had the power. Kindness! yes he was so kind as to break my bones for meso kind as to make me by his devilish treachery a wandering outcast. Yes, he is kind, and I will not forget his kindness. I see you know me; so tell Andrew Lindsay from me, that he has given Bob McBrade his mark, and that Bob McBrade will live to return the compliment yet." "I wish ye luck of your revengefu' natur," answered Jenny. "It's certently a comfortable nursing for ye to carry to yer grave. Gang yer ways, my man; I wad rather hae yer room than with yer company ;" and as he walked away, a moody, abstracted air, she added, "the deil has had a cheap bargain, for I think he has gien him little but an English tongue. Neddy, my man, we maun finish oor wark anither time, or we will be drookit like craws, but of course we couldna expect ocht but rain at this day's wark; for blessed are the dead that the rain rains on, and the life of him that has to be here was love, and his end was peace." "Aye, but Jenny, it's gaun to clear up; see yonder's as much blue sky as would make me a gude greatcoat." 66 "Deed aye," answered Jenny; we had better finish, for it may freeze before the morn, and make it a' the harder work." Leaving them there, we will return to the cottage where Mrs. Lindsay was bustling about, every now and then glancing out to see if she could spy Katie coming over the fields or down the lane. She did not yet feel alarmed, as there was much that might detain her, and besides there was good moonlight, so she did not object to Andrew leaving her, to carry comfort to the mourning and suffering. The house being now put to rights, Mrs Lindsay betook herself to her spinning-wheel beside the cosy fire. was alone, and yet not alone; a sweet little presence seemed always beside her. She "Alas! there is no household howsoe'er defended, But one dead lamb is there." And she had known bereavement. "A cherub babe with angel wings Was floating o'er her, fond and free; And still that glandsome infant sings, 'Weep not, dear mother, not for me'." The cloud of despairing grief that had once overshadowed her mind had passed away, and she now knew and believed that " dust to dust" | that way to make ready the marriage braws." was not spoken of the soul. Her dead were safe, and her fears were now for the living. Time glided on, as her memory dwelt in the far past, and the evening had advanced so far that she now became seriously alarmed, and wandered up and down the lane with a sad terror at her heart. There were not wanting cases of young girls being robbed and murdered for the sake of their 'sair-worn penny fee,' and instances of this would ever and anon recur to her disturbed imagination. Her alarm was at its height when Jenny Black opened the door, and discovered the panic-stricken mother seated on a low stool beside the fire. The cottage had the advantage, or rather disadvantage in this case, of having footpaths leading from it in several different directions, and by one of these Jenny had turned out of her way to discover, for Bet's information, if George Hunter had followed Katie home. Jenny had been professionally employed in the house of mourning, where she had been merciful, active, and sympathising, and was altogether delighted with her own goodness. She had pretty well succeeded in forgetting the misfortunes, as she considered them, of Hallowe'en, and she took it for granted that everyone else had the same kind memory. To a candid friend who alluded to it, Jenny's quick retort was, "The folk that telled ye that, kenned weel it wad please ye, for folk aye hear what they want to hear." When Jenny entered the cottage, she was so much moved by the sight of Mrs. Lindsay's extreme distress, that she put the difficult restraint on herself of concealing the near neighbourhood of the dreaded Bob McBrade. "Toots, woman," she said, "what are ye flayed for? Geordie Hunter and her will be having a crack together beside some beildy bush; no but that she might be in better company. I'm real glad to think that oor Bet has lost notion of Geordie. I was wae to see twa bonny purpose-like lasses like them, glowering at ane anither on Hallowe'en night, just like gleds o'er gore." "I am sure," answered Mrs. Lindsay with a little spirit, "if your Bet has ony notion of George Hunter, she's welcome to him, for oor Katie wad ne'er tak up wi sic like." "Oh dear! but your bairns are the best of china, and ither folk's lasses are just piggy mugs, I suppose. However, Bet has got the right lad at last, for Jamie Brown is a bias lad, and can gie her a gude doon-sitting." "Jamie Brown!" exclaimed Mrs. Lindsay. 'Aye, Jamie Brown. I hope ye have nae faut to find wi' him; but I shouldna have telled, for Bet and him want it keepit quate till he comes back frae sea." Jenny, when she said this, knew perfectly well that she had another listener in Nannie Lindsay, who was standing within the door, and had heard the unpleasant tale; but young as Nannie was, a proud womanly instinct tempted her to say with a forced laugh, "Jenny, it's a benefit to the country side when Bet tells you her secrets; we get plenty of time Mrs. She then turned to her mother and enquired for Katie. Both she and her father, who had come with her, hastily went out again when they heard that Katie had never come home. Lindsay and Jenny went also, but in a different direction, and then Jenny could no longer refrain from beguiling the way by a description of her interview with Bob McBrade in the churchyard, a disclosure full of fearful suggestions to the anxious mother's heart. The weather had of late been moist and misty, but now the night had cleared up into gleaming beauty, and moon and stars shone from the blue depths in tranquil loveliness, the only evidence of recent rains being here and there large sheets of water in the meadows, and the turbid overflowing of the mill stream. There were stepping-stones across this rivulet, but they were now covered by water, and the two women found that they must retrace their steps. "Katie ! Katie ! oh, Katie !" called out the anxious almost-despairing mother. That shrill cry, that tearful wail was heard at a great distance, and it was listened to with joyful emotion by her who had excited this heartrending interest. "Oh! mother, mother, is it you," cried Katie from her hiding-place among the reeds and willows on the opposite side of the stream. "I thought when I heard the voices that it was Tom Black and that fearful man." Jenny Black was not ignorant of the evil reputation of her son, and was glad that the rushing sound of the water might reasonably be supposed to drown the ominous meaning of the words she too distinctly heard. "I'll gang and tell Andrew," said she, "to contrive some plan to get her across," and thus escaped further unpleasant revelations, muttering to herself as she went, "It caps a', how oor Tam could affront Andrew Lindsay's dochter." Tom was near enough to hear Katie's accusing words, and slunk quietly away, aware that a deeper line now marked the designation of "villain" against his name. He had detained the terrified shrinking girl in the little wayside inn, unrestrained by the stolid dropsical landlady, who, though no hindrance to unbecoming words, was yet a check to indecorous conduct. She was at length, however, prevailed on to connive at Katie's escape through a window into a ploughed field, whither she was followed by Tom Black, now frenzied with drink. The desperate girl had contrived to elude him, and was determined to trust the swollen waters rather than his tender mercies when she hid beside the rapid millstream. Andrew Lindsay soon heard and responded to Jenny's energetic call, and the family group quickly found ways and means for Katie's safe transit to the near bank and thence home, where, under her mother's careful and experienced nursing, a genial warmth soon glowed over her nearly-benumbed frame. Her adventure, as well as the ominous meeting in the churchyard, was then discussed, and it was agreed that drunken Tom Black was to be forgiven for the sake of his mother's friendliness, after which this God-fearing family knelt round the family altar, full of gratitude and trust in their Almighty Protector. Meanwhile, Jenny Black pursued her solitary way, a prey to bitter remorse. It is said that mothers are accountable for the characters of the next generation, and Jenny instinctively realised this truth as she thought of her child's neglected childhood. A young soul had been committed to her guardianship, and she had allowed the dark shadow of evil to blight it. CHAP. XX. "He saw his beloved one betwitching as when pared to obey; but Nannie was in too restless a mood to sleep. She did not give Jenny credit for a creating genius, and while she only half believed her tale, she yet suspected that Jamie had been sufficiently inconstant to her to have given Bet Black room to believe that he was attached to her; thus, though she courted sleep in obedience to her father's commands, it was in vain, and the morning found her still wakeful, spiritless, and miserable. How would her young heart have bounded had she known that the handsome young sailor, drawn by a strange attraction, had returned that night, and was at that moment smoking his pipe on the moss-grown dyke beside the Blackrock cottage! On the following morning, as Jamie was retracing his steps in the same direction, he unexpectedly met Bet Black, who was carrying a basketful of delicacies from her kind-hearted mistress to Miss Mertoun, and which I may say had been considerably lightened by the way. 66 'Eh, Jamie, lad !" she cried, "I am glad to see you. Eh, man! I was just like to break my Fresh, fair, round, and lovely, she tripped down the heart when I heard that the ship ye were to sail glen, Her lip like the rose, and her neck like the lily, Her tongue's ready taunt making suitors look silly All suitors but him, and to him the sweet tongue, With accents of tenderness ever was strung." LOVER. "Twas midnight, and through the single pane of glass, now lovely with the quaint traceries of an icy pen, and deeply embedded in the roof of thatch, over which stray fairy-wands glittered as if gemmed with diamonds, the moon softly shone on the cottar's daughters in their | little attic room, with its homely though clean and substantial furnishings. 'Twas then that Katie with burning blushes whispered her secret to her unsympathising sister, who in most emphatic terms disapproved of her choice, ending her condemnatory criticisms with, "Oh! Katie woman, dinna tak him. He's no gude. Oh Katie! I dinna like him." "And wha wants ye to like him, Nan? But, oh! Nannie, I like him-oh! sae weel; and, Nannie, dearly does he like me too. I could kiss the very ground beneath his feet." "Much he would think of yer clarty sel then!" was Nannie's contemptuous rejoinder. "But there's ae comfort-my faither will never let ye tak him." "For ocht ye ken," retorted Katie. "But, Nannie, ye say naething about Jamie Brown, and ye ken ye like him weel too." "Will ye wheest?" impatiently interrupted her sister, turning from her. "I care nocht for Jamie Brown; ye may ask Bet Black about him." "What's you bairns clavering about?" cried a voice from below. "Say yer prayers and gang to sleep." This order the dutiful girls immediately pre in was leaky-ye'll surely never sail in it." Jamie laughed, and told her that the alarm had been false, and that he meant to return toi t that night by a small coasting vessel. "Eh, man! I am sorry to hear that. I aye liket ye, Jamie, and I canna bide to hear ye are gaun again sae soon; and oh dear! ye'll maybe never come back again," and Bet burst into tears; then covering her face with her apron, she continued, to whimper, "If ye could only have waited till after Tam's wedding; I ken he wad like you to be his best man." "Aye," inquired Jamie, "is Tam gaun to be married?” it? "Did the Lindsays no tell yer mother about But, to be sure, neither Tom nor Nannie would like it, and folk are a' privileged to tell lies about a marriage, ye ken." "Do you mean to say that Nannie Lindsay is gaun to be married to Tom Black?" "Aye," asserted Bet, "and glad to get him too; but nae doot ye are surprised, for Nannie would fain hae a' the lads pooking at her as lang as she can. It's no_everybody that's sae simple as mysel," and Bet glanced at Jamie with infantine sweetness. The young sailor, however, knew Bet of old, and was well aware that her words were true only as far as they suited her purpose; still the depths of his heart were stirred by the unexpected report, and he would have enquired further, but Bet thought she had said enough, and dashed into another subject. "Man, Jamie, it's a great misfortune to ane's sel to be tender-hearted. I have just been greeting my een oot about Mr. Aiken's death; he was a model of a man." The young sailor's eyes moistened, and his face flushed as he answered, "Yes, I shall never forget him or his kind teachings. It's wonderful how both good and bad praise him, and yet |