Chapter XII: Found! (3)

But this leads us to a last point which has to be observed. For one cause or another--the one just named is probably the most common--men conceive a discontent with their inheritance in God, and seek to supplement it with possessions which are regarded as more tangible and immediate. This was apparently what occurred with the priests, the Levites. Originally, as we saw in the Deuteronomic code, they were content with the Lord as their inheritance, and were fed with the meat which came from the offerings of the altar. But in a later code we find the Levites claiming cities to dwell in. There were to be forty-eight cities in all, given by the other tribes, cities of considerable size, with their corn lands and meadows (the suburbs) extending 2,000 cubits, or between a half and three-quarters of a mile, on all sides of the city; these were to be the possession of the Levites. And though six of the cities were to serve a certain religious purpose as asylums of refuge for the shedders of blood, the whole forty-eight were to be the landed property of the priests, the Levites. These forty-eight domains constituted a territory scattered throughout the tribes, as solid, and almost as bulky, as the possessions of Dan, or Asher, or Naphtali. But when we come to the book of Ezekiel, this real property of the disinherited tribe is found to be increased and consolidated; a vast district, 25,000 reeds long by 25,000 reeds broad, was to form the oblation assigned to the priests; this would be quite as large as the territory of any except the largest tribes (Ezek. xlviii. 8-30). And thus gradually, they who were to have no inheritance in the land, because the Lord Himself was their inheritance, laid claim to as large an inheritance as the rest of their brethren had.

That is a process to which the whole history of Christianity presents a series of parallels. We begin in God, in faith, in heavenly realities; we decline upon the world, and sight, and the fleeting shows of the earth.

"'Tis the most difficult of tasks to keep
Heights which the soul is competent to win."

When we have got God for our portion and inheritance, we insensibly slip away, and fix our attention on things below. We would make the security of God doubly sure, by having earthly property as well; we would depend upon God, and yet lean on an arm of flesh; we would have our treasures in heaven--for heaven when we get there; but our hoard on earth--for earth while we are here.

Poor human nature! This is our delusion. The two portions cannot be ours. If God is our inheritance, He must be all in all to us. If He gives us Christ, He freely with Him gives us all things. "All this and Christ!"--yes, but in the sense that God in Christ is everything. Never can it mean that our inheritance is partly God and partly this world, that we lean, one arm on Him and the other on uncertain earthly riches.

Therefore the choice lies before us all. Can we choose Him as our portion, can we pray and trust Him to maintain our lot? Can we renounce the arm of flesh as weakness and vanity, can we disregard the alluring securities of what is considered here real property? If so we may have real property indeed: God will be ours, an inexhaustible mine of life and love, of interest and beauty, of peace and joy.

MISS CRANE'S FORTUNE.

A Complete Story. By A. B. Romney.

Miss Crane lived in No. 13, King's Parade. Doubtless at some remote period King's Parade was a street of fashion and celebrity, but at the time we speak of its chief characteristic was that air of shabby gentility inseparable from houses in whose windows at intervals appear cards announcing "Furnished Apartments."

Miss Crane was teacher of music by profession, and had what is termed "a good connection." By turns, music was her chief pleasure and pain. During the day she patiently listened to endless varieties of mistakes in the same exercises and scales; in the evening, seated at her own piano, she forgot all the cares and worries of her daily round of duty.

Everyone has a sacred ambition, as well as a secret romance, hidden in his heart. Miss Crane's ambition was to save up enough money to ensure independence, and she believed that to possess an income of £100 per annum would be the realisation of her dreams. For many years she had steadily saved and worked for this purpose, and now, at the age of forty-five, was not very far from having her desire fulfilled.

Miss Crane was a little woman, with very pretty hands, small and white. Years of patient drudgery had left some lines on her forehead and had taken the colour from her cheeks, but had not been able to spoil the sweet kindliness of her eyes and smile. She usually wore black gowns, made simply of soft, fine materials, her lace frill fastened by a small silver brooch, which she always pinned in with loving care.

One day, towards the end of the summer term, she came in more than usually tired, and sat leaning back wearily in her chair, waiting for the maid to bring in her supper. She heard below stairs the scolding voice of the landlady and the querulous crying of children. Through the open window came the strains of a barrel-organ playing with irritating liveliness. She closed her eyes wearily as the servant came clattering up the stairs and burst open her door with noisy familiarity.

"Please, miss," began the servant, laying down the tray, "there were a gentleman t'see you when you was out."

"Indeed!" cried Miss Crane, opening her eyes with a start and sitting upright. "A gentleman to see me! Did he leave his card?"

"No, miss," answered the girl. "He seemed disappointed like when I told 'im you was _h_out, and 'e said e'd call back again in th' evenin', as 'e wanted to see you particular."

"Very strange," cried Miss Crane. "Well! that will do now. Will you please come up in about ten minutes to clear away the tea-things, as I shouldn't like the room to look untidy if the gentleman calls again?"

Miss Crane drank her tea in great perplexity. A gentleman to see her! Such a thing had not happened for more than twenty years. Who could it be? Miss Crane's hand instinctively touched her silver brooch, as her thoughts turned to days long past.

A knock, a loud and impressive knock, at the hall-door roused her from her reverie. She stood up, listening eagerly, expecting she knew not what. The maid came slowly upstairs from the kitchen and opened the hall-door. There was an indistinct sound of a gruff voice, and then the footsteps of two people coming up the stairs.

The servant opened the door, saying--

"Mr. Spinner, miss."

A tall, imposingly rotund man walked in, hat in hand, his fat and rosy face all smiling affability.

"So sorry to disturb you, madam," he began, bowing.

"Not at all," murmured Miss Crane, wondering greatly who he could be. "Won't you sit down?"

"Thank you. I think I will."

He took a chair, sat down, carefully spreading out the skirts of his frock-coat, and, crossing his legs, looked condescendingly round the room.

Miss Crane, with heightened colour, waited expectantly.

"I am well aware," began Mr. Spinner presently, "that the name of business has to ladies a very unpleasant sound; but I venture to say that Miss Crane will find the little matter which has brought me here this evening far from being a disagreeable subject."

"Indeed!" murmured Miss Crane.

"But before I proceed further, allow me to consult my notes." Mr. Spinner took out a spectacle case, placed his glasses carefully on the bridge of his nose, glanced at Miss Crane through them, then taking a note-book from his breast pocket, opened it, and taking out a paper, cleared his throat and continued: "You are, I believe, Miss Letitia J. Crane, eldest daughter of the late Rev. Joshua Crane, M.A., formerly curate of St. Mary, in the parish of Tulberry."

"Yes, certainly, I am," cried Miss Crane.

"Then, madam, without troubling you about details, partly because business details are unwelcome to ladies, and partly because I am obliged to catch the 7.25 train up to town, I shall briefly tell you what I am certain, from my previous knowledge of human nature, will be welcome news to you, and that is----"

"What?" demanded Miss Crane with some impatience.

"It is that your uncle, the late John Crane, of No. 8, Harbourne Street, Liverpool, who died on the 27th of last month, has left you a sum which, invested as it is at present, brings in an income of £700 per annum--of," reiterated Mr. Spinner with impressive solemnity, "£700 per annum."

Miss Crane was too much astonished to speak.

"It is a fact, I assure you, madam," continued Mr. Spinner, rising from his chair and placing a card on the table. "Allow me to give you my card with the address of my place of business. Perhaps you could find time to call to see me some time to-morrow, when I shall be most happy to show you your uncle's will, and, in short, make myself useful in helping you in any way in my power."

"I cannot believe it," cried Miss Crane. "Are you quite sure there is no mistake?"

Mr. Spinner smiled indulgently.

"None whatever, and if it should be a convenience to you," he said, with a glance round the neat poverty of the room, "I shall be happy to advance you any reasonable sum as a proof of the truth of my statement."

"No, thank you," replied Miss Crane, flushing somewhat proudly. "I do not require it."

"Quite right! Quite proper!" said Mr. Spinner, taking up his hat. "Then I may expect to have the pleasure of seeing you to-morrow at, let us say, 11.30 a.m."

"Yes," said Miss Crane, "I shall certainly call at that hour."

"Then I may say good-bye, and," he added, shaking her hand with impressive fervour, "pray accept my heartiest congratulations on your good fortune."

The bang of the hall-door as Mr. Spinner closed it after him awoke Miss Crane from her stupor of astonishment.

For a few moments she sat motionless. Then she burst into a fit of violent weeping. Good fortune had come at last, but had come too late to bring happiness. All her youth had been crushed beneath the weight of poverty, and, bitterest remembrance of all! she had seen those dearest to her die before their time, fading uncomplainingly away, for want of a little of the sunshine of prosperity. During all these years she had thought of them as happy to be at rest from toil and misery. In her poverty she had never felt as lonely as she did now, in time of her prosperity. Especially, a passionate longing seized her for her mother. What delight to have been able to gratify those simple wishes so often repressed! How happy they could have been together! She had wanted so little, but that little had been ever denied her.

And Frank Whitman! The force of poverty had swept him far apart. He had not been strong enough to battle against the stream. She heard of him sometimes as a man rising in his profession, prosperous and respected. His marriage with the daughter of a rich shipowner had been, everyone said, "the making of him." And yet Miss Crane remembered the evening he had given her that silver brooch, and the words he had then spoken.

"Instead of thanking God for His goodness to me," sobbed Miss Crane, "I am wickedly ungrateful, but I do wish I had mother with me now."

* * * * *

Next morning, Miss Crane took a more cheerful view of things. She sent word to her pupils that she could not see them that day, but she had not yet sufficient belief in her good fortune to feel justified in telling them of it. It was so near the end of term that she did not like putting them to the disadvantage and inconvenience of changing to another teacher, and besides, she had not courage to cut herself adrift from her usual routine. Custom is a very strong rope indeed.

As she travelled up to town, she constructed castles in the air of all the delights now possible to her--the house in the country, the really good piano, a silk dress, a thing she had always secretly desired, for she had an instinctive love of dainty dress, and the sight of a beautiful thing gave her positive joy.

The further she went, the grander she became: until after her interview with Mr. Spinner, she actually felt bold enough to enter a fashionable shop, and, unawed by the magnificence of the attending maidens, she chose, paid for, and put on "the sweetest little French bonnet possible."

On leaving the shop, she met an old pupil, who, after a preliminary stare, greeted her warmly, declaring she had never seen Miss Crane looking so well, and asked her home to lunch.

Altogether, Miss Crane's day in town was a complete success. She had been more wildly extravagant than she could have believed it possible the day before: there was something positively intoxicating in the fact that there was now no need any more to count every penny.

She knew it was false charity to give money indiscriminately to beggars, and yet she could not resist brightening, even for the moment, the face of misery and want. "To-morrow, I shall be prudent again," she declared, as over and over again she stopped to slip a silver coin into some grimy hand.

In the evening, she sat, tired but very contented, considering where she ought to go for her holidays. The world was open to her now; it was difficult to decide which part to visit first. Entrancing visions of Italy especially bewildered her, but she felt still too timid to venture far from home, though that home was but two shabby little rooms in a cheap lodging-house. Like a bird caged for long, though the door stood open, she feared to fly away.

Presently a thought struck her, her cheeks glowed--she stood up and walked uneasily about the room. At length she muttered to herself, "I shall go there! I should like to see him once again!"

The place she had decided to go to was Stockton, the seaside town in which Doctor Frank Whitman lived. She had known his wife long ago, when a girl. She had heard there were a number of children. Perhaps the family would receive her kindly, and she would find in them the friendship and companionship without which her money was valueless.

Stockton was by the sea: to sit in the sunshine, on the sands, looking on the waves, would in itself be a delight. Miss Crane wished she could start on the morrow, but this, of course, was not possible. Ten days more of drudgery must be first endured, then liberty at last!

These last days passed rapidly enough, for they were fully occupied, and at length, on the 1st of August, Miss Crane found herself seated in the train, with a ticket to Stockton in her hand, a new portmanteau beside her, and her heart beating with excitement at being off at last.

When she reached Stockton and was driving from the station to her lodgings, she eagerly looked out of the window, half hoping, half fearing to recognise Frank Whitman in each passer-by.

She remained indoors that evening and the following morning, but in the afternoon she unpacked the contents of the portmanteau and dressed to go out.

"After all, how little dress can do!" she murmured to herself, as she stood critically examining her reflection in the looking-glass. "I wonder if he will remember me!"

The day was brilliantly bright, with a fresh breeze blowing strongly from the sea. The shadows of the fleeting clouds passed swiftly by. The sunshine glittered on the dazzling waters rippling in one long white line along the margin of the bay. Along the horizon stood the ruddy sails of the fishing-smacks.

Miss Crane walked on slowly, enjoying the warmth, brightness, and freshness of the day. She had little difficulty in finding Victoria Villa, the residence of Doctor Frank Whitman. It was a large red-brick house, square, well-built and prosperous-looking, standing in its own grounds, with greenhouses, tennis-grounds, and all the usual belongings of provincial respectability and wealth.

Miss Crane's courage failed her as she came up to its entrance.

"What shall I do," she thought, "if Frank and Bessie have forgotten me, or if they should not like to know a poor little music teacher like me?"

She stood, hesitating, fearing to push open the massive iron gate.

"I cannot go in to-day," she said half aloud, and turned nervously away.

At this moment, a girl came quickly up the road, a pretty girl of some eighteen summers, wearing a white dress and shady hat, and carrying a tennis racket in her hand. As she passed, she glanced at Miss Crane, and the expression of her eyes was precisely like that of Frank Whitman's twenty years ago.

Miss Crane started. The thought, "It is his daughter!" flashed across her brain. She turned and hurried after her. The girl, hearing the footsteps behind, stopped, and looked inquiringly at Miss Crane, who hesitatingly began, "Might I trouble you to direct me to Doctor Whitman's house?"

"There it is," answered the girl smilingly. "And I am almost sure father is in at present. Will you come with me? I am just going home."

She spoke with a strangely familiar accent, she smiled with the same merry glance, quick and soft, which Miss Crane had remembered so long.

By the time they had reached the hall-door Miss Crane had confided how she had come hoping to find old friends, and then had felt too timid to enter their house. "And," she ended, "if I had not met you, my dear, I believe I should have gone straight home."

The girl laughed merrily, and then warmly assured Miss Crane that Mrs. Whitman would be sure to be delighted to see her. "And," she asked, "you said you used to know papa also a little, long ago, didn't you?"

"Yes," replied Miss Crane. "I knew him also."

"Here, mother," cried Miss Whitman, as she opened the drawing-room door; "here is an old friend to see you!"

Miss Crane advanced into the room. A tall, fashionably-dressed woman came to meet her with outstretched hand.

"What!" she exclaimed. "Letitia Crane! Well! I am glad to see you. What a time it is since we've met. But you've hardly changed at all. I should have known you anywhere. Sit down here and let us have a good long chat about the old days. Ida! go and tell your father that Miss Crane is here; I'm sure she'd like to see him."

Miss Crane sat down, grateful for being received with such cordiality. It was difficult to talk, her whole being seemed concentrated in listening. She heard Ida go downstairs, open the study door, and then came the sound of a voice she had not heard for twenty years.

"How silly I am!" she thought, as she tried to concentrate her attention on what Mrs. Whitman was saying.

Presently footsteps came up the stairs. The door opened, and Ida, followed by her father, came into the room. The blood rushed to Miss Crane's face, and for a second she could not see.

"So glad to see you again," said Doctor Whitman, in tones of bland cordiality.

Miss Crane could scarcely reply, her astonishment was so complete. Where was the man she remembered? The young fellow with the merry laughing eyes, the thick curling hair, the careless dress, the active step! The man who now stood before her was a portly, middle-aged figure, all immaculate linen and broadcloth; bald-headed, red-faced, with bland affability smilingly displaying an excellent set of false teeth. The ideal which Miss Crane had worshipped so long faded away for ever like some phantasm that had never had any being, save in her own mind. Only in Ida's eyes and Ida's smile lingered a mocking image of the past.

* * * * *

Miss Crane's time passed very pleasantly at Stockton. Most of the day she sat on the beach watching the children bathe and play about the sands.

Ida came down to bathe every morning, and afterwards used to sit talking to Miss Crane while drying and brushing her beautiful hair in the sunshine. One day, after sitting thoughtfully quiet for some time, Ida, in a somewhat embarrassed tone of voice, began--

"Are you fond of going to evening service, Miss Crane?"

"Well! my dear, you know that usually I have not time to do so on week-days. But why do you ask?" replied Miss Crane.

"Because," said Ida, "there is such a sweet little church not very far from here out in the country, and such a delightful service every evening, and," she added with heightened colour, "the curate, Mr. Archdale, preaches such beautiful sermons that I would like you to hear him!"

"I should like to hear him very much indeed," replied Miss Crane, smiling. "If you will not expect me to praise him too much!" Then, pitying Ida's confusion, she continued: "Perhaps, sometimes, he will allow me to play the organ in his church. It is the only thing I miss here. At home there is a little church quite close by, where the organist allows me to practise whenever I choose."

"Oh! I shall ask Cyril--I mean Mr. Archdale," cried Ida, blushing deeply. "I'm sure he will be delighted to allow you to practise whenever you like."

Thus it happened that almost every evening Miss Crane and Ida walked together to the little country church; and then, after service was over, Miss Crane sat down at the organ and played, while Ida and Mr. Archdale listened to her, as they sat in the porch or strolled about beneath the lime-trees; though it was curious, thought Miss Crane, how seldom it was, for people who professed to love music, that they remembered what she had played. Then in the increasing twilight the three walked back to Stockton together quietly, too happy to talk or laugh much.

The mornings on the beach were spent in talking of "Cyril," for the subject interested Miss Crane almost as much as it did Ida. She was touched by the young people's confidence in her, and their love revealed their characters in the most favourable light to her. Her love for Ida equalled her admiration of her, and she believed Mr. Archdale to be almost worthy of her.

* * * * *

The holidays were drawing to a close, and Miss Crane decided that she ought to delay no longer in telling her pupils of her change of circumstances; but, always reticent about her own concerns, she put off doing so from day to day. Even to Ida she had never spoken of her good fortune.

There was a charming house quite close to the church, which Miss Crane had determined to buy--quite an ideal old maid's cottage, she thought it, with its red-brick walls hidden by climbing roses, its garden sloping down to the riverside, and its cosy little rooms quaintly furnished with old oak. Its late owner had died and it was now to be sold, with all its belongings.

Miss Crane determined to buy it, and then, when everything was arranged, to astonish Ida, Mr. Archdale, and the Whitmans by inviting them to dinner in her new house, and then telling them the delightful news of her good fortune.

She felt very happy in anticipation of this coming pleasure.

She was never tired of imagining the joyful surprise Ida would be sure to show, and the merry days they would have together, arranging the new house.

On the day fixed for seeing the house-agent and finally deciding on the purchase, Miss Crane had asked Ida not to expect to see her, "for," she said gaily, "though but a humble little music teacher, I have some business matters to see about."

"Then," cried Ida, "I shall come and see you in the evening, for Cyril has determined to speak to father in the morning, and I must tell you how everything goes off, though I'm not in the least afraid, notwithstanding all Cyril's forebodings."

"Why? What is he afraid of?" asked Miss Crane.

"Well, you know," said Ida, in melancholy tones, "Cyril is not very rich. Clergymen never are, are they?"

"But," remonstrated Miss Crane, "surely he has some means or he wouldn't think of marrying?"

"He has," answered Ida; "he has £300 a year, which seems to me a great deal of money, but whether it will do so to papa is the question."

"Oh!" cried Miss Crane cheerfully. "Your father is a rich man, and very proud of his pretty little daughter; he will make it all right for you, never fear."

Ida flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, called her "the dearest old thing in the world," and at last, promising to come the following evening, hurried away.

The next day was very stormy. The wind blew in great gusts from the east, rolling the waves in dashing breakers against the rocks. The rain descended in torrents. It was one of those days which sometimes come in autumn, precursor of the deadly tempests of the winter.

Miss Crane sat indoors, a shawl over her shoulders, writing letters round to her various employers and pupils, announcing the change in her circumstances. She had just closed the last envelope, and was putting the stamp on it, when the door burst open, and Ida rushed wildly into the room, her hair blown about her shoulders by the wind, and her waterproof cloak streaming with rain.

"Why, Ida, my dear!" exclaimed Miss Crane, aghast. "What is the matter?"

Ida threw herself on the sofa, sobbing violently.

"Oh! I don't know whatever I shall do," she began, as Miss Crane knelt down in alarm beside her. "Papa has been most dreadfully cross and angry with me, and he called Cyril a----" She stopped, her voice choked with sobs.

"A what?" demanded Miss Crane.

"He--he called him a----" said Ida, with another burst of indignant sobs, "a beggarly curate!"

"Then he does not personally object to Mr. Archdale?" said Miss Crane soothingly.

"How could anybody object to Cyril personally?" cried Ida, angrily rolling up her pocket-handkerchief into a tight, wet little ball and rubbing her eyes with it. "No; it is all on account of him not having enough money. He says he will never let me marry a man that has not at least £1,000 a year. And where is Cyril to get all that! Unless he is made a bishop, and he hasn't a chance of being made that until after years and years _and years_ of waiting, when he is old and quite bald!"

At this mournful idea Ida's face again squeezed up into dismal lines and puckers, and her sobs broke forth with renewed strength.

Suddenly Miss Crane became so motionless, so quiet, that at last Ida's curiosity overcame her grief; she put down her pocket-handkerchief and looked at Miss Crane with pained astonishment at her want of sympathy.

Miss Crane came out of her reverie with a start.

"Don't cry any more, it will all come right," she said, with a forced smile.

"That's what everyone says!" cried Ida in the tone of injured friendship. "But I did think you would have sympathised with one."

She arranged her hair, put on her hat, and stood up as if to go away, expecting Miss Crane would make her stay; but Miss Crane sat motionless, staring fixedly out of the window.

"Good-bye, then!" said Ida stiffly.

"Good-bye, my dear," replied Miss Crane.

"I never saw anyone so horrid and unsympathising," muttered Ida, as she closed the door after her. "I wouldn't have believed it."

Miss Crane sat for more than an hour motionless, thinking. She sighed deeply now and again.

At length she stood up, and, taking the pile of letters she had written, tore them all up into fragments; then, putting on her bonnet and waterproof cloak, she went out and did not return home until late at night.

"Why, miss!" cried the landlady, as she came in white, tired, and wet; "you'll get your death stayin' out of doors such a day as this!"

"No," said Miss Crane gently. "It will do me no harm. I was obliged to go to town on business. I am sorry to have to tell you that I must leave you on Saturday."

"I'm sorry indeed to hear it," said the landlady. "Isn't that very suddint like?"

"Yes," agreed Miss Crane; "it is very sudden."

On Saturday, as Miss Crane was packing her trunk, suddenly Ida came bounding up the stairs into the room, all radiant with smiles and gaiety and flung her arms round Miss Crane's neck, exclaiming--

"What do you think has happened I Oh! it's just too delightful. Somebody has given Cyril £700 a year--somebody who refuses to give his name. We're all dying with curiosity to find out who it can be. I'm certain it is somebody who has heard Cyril preach. Don't you think it is?"

"Yes," agreed Miss Crane. "Very likely it is."

"And now," continued Ida, "everything is settled so nicely, and we're to be married at once. I only wish we had room at home to ask you to stay with us for the wedding. You dear old thing! I believe I was cross and horrid to you the other day, but really I was so distracted that I didn't know what I was saying. And now, dear, I must be off, for Cyril is waiting for me."

She kissed Miss Crane and hurried off.

Miss Crane stood in the window watching, with dim eyes, the young pair walking down the street. A kitten came and, mewing, rubbed its soft little head against her foot. She stooped, stroked it gently, saying--

"Pussy, are you lonely too? for I am--very."

PARABLES IN MARBLE.

A story is told of a late Bishop of Peterborough, to the effect that at a public dinner he said that he once bought a picture of a sunset on a river, which he hung in his study; it was a bad picture, but it had a beautiful influence over him, and he confessed that when he looked at the picture "a curate might play with him."

(_By Alfred Drury._)]

The Bishop without doubt knew a good work of art when he saw one, and his knowledge informed him that technically his "sunset on a river" was bad; but it appealed to his sentiment and occupied its place on the study wall in spite of its defects. In this respect, most people are with the Bishop; it is not so much the quality of a work of art that makes it popular, but the particular strain of sentiment it contains that touches a responsive chord in the hearts of those who look at it. The English public are sentimentalists first and foremost in art, and the artist who receives the greatest acclamation is he who is most skilful in this direction. And if this is so in respect to painting, how much more so is it with regard to sculpture. Public enthusiasm is rarely roused by the sculptor's art. Next to the architectural room at the Royal Academy, the sculpture hall is the least frequented, and we fear it must be said that the majority of those who do go there go because it is the coolest place in the exhibition.

This, of course, is matter for regret, for there are as ennobling and inspiriting works of art to be seen there as in the picture galleries. The sculptor has the power to appeal to our ideals and aspirations to as great an extent as the painter, limited though he be by his materials. (It can at once be realised that the worker in marble has not the same freedom as he who uses paint and canvas--he has greater difficulties to surmount, less subjects to choose from, and far narrower scope in which to express his thoughts.) We have had "sermons in stones" which have been quite as powerful as any preached by painter or poet.

The classical tradition has undoubtedly affected the sculptor more than it has his brother-artist of the brush; it has weighed him down, and made his work cold and lifeless; and men and women of to-day want art that is living, helpful in their daily straggles, responsive to those aspirations which every one of them possesses in a measure. As a distinguished member of the Royal Academy, now dead, once wrote, "We have aspirations, we reverence something more than the ordinary life of mortals; we have before our eyes an ideal of truthfulness, piety, honour, uprightness, love, and self-sacrifice greater than any which exists on earth." To appeal to these emotions by a beautiful and living art should be the object of our artists, and those who do can be sure of receiving the approval and the gratitude of the toilers of the world. This has been proved over and over again by the votes taken at Canon Barnett's picture exhibitions as to the most popular works shown, when men like Mr. G. F. Watts, R.A., and the late Sir Edward Burne-Jones have been first favourites. And this probably accounts in a measure for the public indifference to works of sculpture. The sculptor has for the most part neglected subjects which appeal to the hearts of the people of his day, and based his work on classic models and precepts.

In saying this we do not in any wise belittle the great works of the past. It is impossible to look on the mighty works of the ancient Egyptian workers in stone without feeling the sense of awe which the people of those days must have experienced--and were intended to experience--when gazing upon them. Mystery is the keynote of Egyptian sculpture, mystery deep and unfathomable. Look upon those inscrutable, gigantic faces in the British Museum; coldly inhuman; giants of stone, indifferent to the passions which pulsate in the human breast. Mighty works indeed--parables impossible of interpretation!

Look, too, at the works in the Assyrian galleries of the same collection. Marvellous of execution, they again draw forth admiration for the skill of their creators, for their dexterous records of the life of those far-off days, for the massive and imposing decorativeness of the semi-human lions and bulls. And then, coming down the ages, consider the beauty of form of the works of the sculptors of classic days; the wondrous productions of the Greeks, the perfection of line and grace of these representations in stone of the "human form divine." Masterpieces of the world which will never be excelled as works of art, they, nevertheless, do not appeal to the hearts of the people, and in adhering to the style of ancient Greece our sculptors have themselves to blame for the lack of popular sympathy.

(_By Alfred Gilbert, R.A. In the possession of Sir Henry Doulton._)]

The sculptors of Italy who shared in the revival of art in the fifteenth century understood this. Without sacrificing in the least the beauty of the classic artists, they infused into their work that touch of sentiment--either religious or frankly human--which won for them the admiration of their contemporaries, and enables them, though long since dead, to speak to us through their art. The charming creations of Donatello, the delightful child-forms of Lucca della Robbia, the gigantic creations of Michelangelo--gigantic both in conception and execution--appeal to us primarily for the humanity which they reflect: admiration for their beauty follows in due course.

(_By Warrington Woods._)]

Until comparatively recent years English sculptors have failed to appreciate this public taste, and the public work all through our country has been deplorably lacking either in sentiment or art. The ghastly figures which are exposed in London streets rouse no enthusiasm, and only claim attention because of the men of which they are memorials. Curiously enough the only really beautiful piece of allegorical sculpture in our city is the work of a Frenchman, and that is smothered under a hideous cupola! I refer to the charming little group symbolising "Charity," on the drinking fountain by the Royal Exchange. This beautiful figure of a woman and two children the work of Dalou, was originally shown in stone, but the ravages of the London climate destroyed the features of the figures, and it was only when replaced by a bronze cast of the original model a year or two ago that its full beauty could be appreciated by the present generation. The symbolism is not intricate, the parable can be read by the most ignorant, and understood by all, but it is "a thing of beauty," and therefore a joy for ever.

The English sculptors who are claiming attention to-day are men influenced largely by the spirit of "modernity." They are giving us works which appeal to our sentiment as well as to our sense of beauty. Look, for instance, at the charming group by Mr. Alfred Gilbert, R.A., which is illustrated on page 345. One wishes that the original could be placed in position where people could see it every day. It is a simple subject, but what greater lesson can be enforced upon us than that of the holiness and purity of a mother's love and solicitude for her child? There is in one of the public squares of Paris a group very similar to this by Delaplanche. A mother is again giving her child its first lesson in reading. Tender and pure in sentiment, it is an object lesson to all who behold it.

The nobleness and dignity of labour provide our sculptors with a manifold variety of subjects, but there are not many English artists who have availed themselves of it. Among these, however, is the distinguished Royal Academician, Mr. Hamo Thornycroft. "The Sower Scattering Seed" is but the representation of an English farm "hand," but it would be difficult to find a piece of work among English sculptures to excel it in grace and beauty of line. The artist has executed another work of "A Mower"--again an English farm-labourer, leaning on his scythe--which is another example of his skill in the adaptation of a subject which can be understood and appreciated by every man, down to him who actually wields the scythe.

(_By W. Goscombe John._)]

(_By A. C. Lucchesi._)]

Biblical subjects have found exponents in sculpture to a very large extent from the days of the Renaissance downwards. The old Italians decorated their churches with such to almost as great an extent as the painters of their time did; and many sculptors to-day find their inspiration in Scripture in like manner. We have chosen some for illustration in this paper--two by living artists, and one by Warrington Woods, a sculptor who lived some years ago, when "classic" style and subject were deemed necessary by the workers in the sculpturesque arts. "The Sisters of Bethany" is infected by this spirit, but is, nevertheless, pleasing to a certain extent. The "Faith" of Mr. Alfred Drury, is, on the other hand, distinctly pictorial and frankly illustrative of the subject. The "St. John the Baptist," by Mr. Goscombe John, another of our rising sculptors, is a beautiful figure which belongs to the Marquis of Bute, and stands in the centre of a fountain basin in the garden of St. John's Lodge, Regent's Park.

(_By W. Hamo Thornycroft, R.A._)]

On page 347 is the most ambitious of the allegorical works among our illustrations, and is the work of Mr. A. C. Lucchesi, a young sculptor of whom great things may be expected. "The Mountain of Fame" represents a warrior, who, struggling to acquire the laurel wreath, has in his efforts thrown away sword and shield and is reaching after the honour which is held temptingly before him by the figure of Fame. Almost within his grasp, it yet eludes him, and the rough path up which he has stumbled has not yet brought him to the summit. His weapons, cast aside in the assurance of victory, are left behind; but the wreath is still not his, and he is helpless against further dangers which may await him; the eagerness for fame may prove his ruin and all his strivings end in disaster. Readers of Miss Olive Schreiner's "Story of an African Farm" will remember the beautiful parable upon this subject, and I asked the sculptor if this had influenced him at all in the work. The suggestion was almost a revelation to him, for, although he had read the book and remembered vividly this particular passage, yet confessed that it was quite out of his mind when he modelled this group. But the influence of the story is distinctly visible.

THE NIGHTINGALE MONUMENT IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

(_By Roubiliac._)]

Memorial sculpture, of course, forms a large part of a sculptor's work, and the example by Mr. Armstead illustrated on this page is typical of a great many of the kind. The most beautiful and dignified monument we possess is without doubt Alfred Stevens' great work in St. Paul's Cathedral in memory of the Duke of Wellington--one that can never be sufficiently admired, contrasting as it does with the grandiose monuments of the last century in the same building and at Westminster Abbey.

We illustrate on this page one of the most curious monuments in the latter building. It is the work of Roubiliac, a Frenchman who worked in England in the eighteenth century. The tomb is that of Joseph Gascoigne Nightingale, of Minehead, Somersetshire, and of the Lady Elizabeth, his wife, who died soon after her marriage. From the dark recesses of the tomb below issues the skeleton form of Death, in the act of hurling his lance at the wife, while the husband leans forward with extended arm to ward off the fatal blow from his loved partner, who is sinking to rest beside him.

(_By H. H. Armstead, R.A._)]

Death, however, can be represented far better than by a ghastly skeleton, as Mr. George Frampton, A.R.A., has proved in his dignified "Angel of Death" which stands in the Camberwell Art Gallery. This figure of a young man, carrying the traditional scythe across his shoulder and an hour-glass in his hand, reminds us of Mr. Watts' constant representation of the "grim messenger"--no longer "grim," however, but beautiful, erect, inviting--the harbinger of the land where there shall be no more tears, neither sorrow nor sighing.

ARTHUR FISH.

By Katharine Tynan, Author of "A Daughter of Erin," Etc.