He looked so cunning as he said this, that Arthur burst out laughing.

"You are a cool hand, Mr. MacIntyre. How much would it cost?-five pounds?"

"Now, really, Mr. Arthur, to suppose that a man can run all over London for five pounds! And that to find out the address of your oldest friend."

"Well-twenty pounds?-thirty pounds? Hang it, man, I must know."

"I should think," said the philosopher, meditating, "it might be found for forty pounds, if the money was paid at once.”

Arthur wrote another cheque, which MacIntyre put into his pocket-book as before. "This does not prejudice the fifty pounds in six months' time?" he said. "Very well. I remember now that I have her address in | my pocket. I followed her home, and asked a servant. Here it is-No. 31, Hatherleystreet, Eaton-square."

"Did you speak to her?"

"Is it likely?" replied Mr. MacIntyre, thinking of his boards.

"Confess that you have done a good stroke of business this morning," said Arthur. "Ninety pounds is not bad. You can't always sell an address for forty pounds."

"Sell an address? My dear sir, you mistake me altogether. Do not, if you please, imagine that I am one of those who sell such little information as I possess. Remember, if you please, that you are addressing a Master of Arts of an ancient

You are quite yourself again, Mr. MacIntyre," said Arthur. "Good morning, now. Keep away from drink, and—”

"Sir, I have already reminded you that-" "Good morning, Mr. MacIntyre."

He went away, cashed both his cheques, and, taking lodgings, proceeded to buy such small belongings as the simplest civilization demands such as hair brushes, linen, and a two-gallon cask of whisky. Then he ordered the servant to keep a kettle always on the hob; sat down, rubbed his hands, lit a pipe, and began to meditate.

up, but the manager of the estate was careful to keep it in repair. It all looked as it used to. The canes, clean and well kept, waving in the sunlight, in green and yellow and gray; the mill busier than ever, with its whirr of grinding wheels; the sweet, rich smell of the sugar; the huge vats of seething, foaming juice; and the whirling turbines. But the old verandah was no longer strewn with its cane mats and chairs; and when the doors were opened for her, the house felt chill and damp. She lifted the piano lid and touched the keys, shrinking back with a cry of fright. It was like a voice from the dead-so cracked, and thin, and strident was the sound. In the boys' study were their old school-books lying about, just as they had left them; in a drawer which she opened, some paper scribbled with boyish sketches. One of these represented a gentleman, whose features were of an exaggerated Scotch type, endeavouring to mount his pony. The animal was turning upon him with an air of reproach, as one saying, "Sir, you are drunk again." This was inscribed at the back, Philippus fecit." Then there was another and more finished effort, signed Arthur, of a girl's head in chalk. Perhaps the merit of this picture was slender; but Madeleine blushed when she looked at it, and took both pictures away with her.

There was no other souvenir that she cared to have; and leaving the house, she paid a visit to the garden. Oh, the garden! Where once had been pineapples were pumpkins; where had been strawberries were pumpkins; where there had once been flower beds, vegetables, or shrubs, were pumpkins. Pumpkin was king. He lay there-green, black, or golden-basking in the sun. He had devoured all, and spread himself over all.

So Madeleine came away; and under the maternal wing of the Bishopess-whose right reverend husband, as happens once in two years to all colonial bishops, had business connected with his diocese which brought him to England-was duly shipped to Southampton, and presently forwarded to Switzerland.

Education. Her guardian was a Frenchman by descent, a Swiss by choice. He had enlarged views, and brought up the girl as a liberal Protestant. He had her taught the proper amount of accomplishments. He made her talk English, though with a slight foreign accent, as well as French; and, which

was much more important, gave her ideas as to independence and unconventionality which sank deep, and moulded her whole character. Insomuch that one day she announced her intention of going away and setting up for herself.

"I am of age," she said. "I want to see the world a little. I want to make up my mind what to do with myself."

Old M. Lajardie chuckled.

"See what it is," he observed, "to bring up a girl as she ought to be brought up. My dear, if it had not been for me, you would at this moment be wanting to go into a convent."

"Upon my word, my dear guardian"And then, my child, there is another quality in you, which would have made you the most rapturous of sisters, which will make you the best and most devoted of wives. You will marry, Madeleine."

"It is possible," she said. It may come in my way, as it does in most people's lives. But I do not count upon marriage as a part of my life."

"You are rich, Madeleine. You have well, more than your fair share of beauty. Black hair and black eyes are common; but not such splendid hair as yours, or eyes as bright. There are girls as tall as you, but few with so good a figure."

"Don't, guardian," said Madeleine, with a little moue and a half-blush. "I would rather you told me of my faults."

"I know the sex, I tell you," repeated the old man. "When I was young-ah, what a thing it is to be young!-I made a profound study of the sex. It is quite true, Madeleine, though I am only an old man who says it, that even Madame Recamier herself, in her best days, had not a more finished style than yours. You will succeed, my child. You will be able to marry any one-any one you please."

"You do not imagine, I suppose, that I

am to fall in love with the first rich young man who tells me that he loves me? As if there was nothing in the world for woman to think of but love."

"Most women," went on her critic, "like to be married to a lord and master. I prophecy for you, Madeleine, that your husband will be content to obey rather than to command. So, child, you shall see the world. Let me only just write to our friend, Mrs. Longworthy, who will act as your chaperon. You will find yourself richer than you think, perhaps. All your money is in the English funds, and the interest has been used to buy fresh stock. Go now, my ward-I will think over what is best to be done."

The old man attended her to the door, and, shutting it after her, went through a little pantomime of satisfaction. That done, he took down a volume of Voltaire's "Philosophical Dictionary," and wagged his head over the wisdom that he found therein.

"Independent," he murmured. "Rich, self-reliant, able to think, not superstitious, not infected with insular prejudices, philanthropic, beautiful. She will do. Elle ira loin, mon ami," he said, tapping his own forehead. "You have done well. When revolutions come, and lines of thought are changed, it is good to have such women at hand, to steady the men. France rules the world, and the women rule France. Hein? it sounds epigrammatic. Has it been said. before ?"

So to England Madeleine canie. A chaperon was found for her in the widow of an old friend of M. Lajardie-a certain Mrs. Longworthy, who was willing-and, more than that, able-to take her into society. They took one of those extremely comfortable little houses-the rent of which is so absurdly out of proportion to their sizeclose to Eaton-square: a house with its two little drawing-rooms and greenhouse at the back-a little narrow as regards dining-room accommodation, but broad enough, as Mrs. Longworthy put it, for two lone women.

Madeleine's chaperon was only remarkable for her extraordinary coziness and love. of comfort. A cushiony old lady-one who sat by the fireside and purred; and, when things went bad with her, went to bed and stayed there till they came round again. An old lady who went to church every Sunday, and, like the late lamented Duke of Sussex, murmured after each commandment, "Never did that: never did that." So

that the rules of prohibition did not affect her own conscience. For all the rest, she entirely trusted and admired Madeleine, and never even ventured on a remonstrance with her.

Madeleine was what her guardian described her. In her presence most men felt themselves above their own stratum. There was a sort of gulf; and yet, with all the men's experience, the clear light of her eyes seemed to read so far beyond their actual ken. If she liked you, and talked to you, you came away from her strengthened and braced up. Beautiful, she certainly was, in a way of her own: striking, the women called her a word which the sex generally employ when they feel envious of powers and physique beyond their own. Rolls of black hair; a pale and colourless cheek; a small and firm mouth; clear and sharply defined nostrils; eyes that were habitually limpid and soft, which yet might flash to sudden outbreaks of storm; and a figure beyond all expression gracieuse. A woman who could talk; one whom young warriors, having to take her into dinner, speedily felt beyond them altogether; one who lifted a man up, and made him breathe a purer air. This is, I take it, the highest function of woman. We cannot, as a rule, run comfortably in single harness, but are bound by the laws of our being to have a mate of some kind. It is surely best for us to find one whose sense of duty is stronger than our own, and whose standard is higher. We may have to do all the work; but we want a fellow in the harness to show us that the work is good, and that it behoves us to do it well.

66

Madeleine was not, it is certain, one of the girls whom a certain class of small poets love to style. "darling," pet Amoret," ," "sweet little lily." Not for any man's toy; no animated doll to please for a while, and then drop out of life; nor yet that dreadful creature, a "woman's rights" woman. Perhaps she was not clever enough.

Arthur Durnford called upon her the same day on which he got the address. He was a little prepared to gush, remembering the little sylph with whom he used to play twelve years ago. But there was no opportunity for gushing. The stately damsel who rose and greeted him with almost as much coldness as if they had parted the day before, silenced, if she did not disconcert, him.

"I knew that we should meet again some time," she said; “and I had already written to Palmiste for your address. Mrs. Longworthy, this is my old friend, Arthur Durnford, of whom I have so often told you."

He saw a little, fat old lady, with a face like a winter apple, crinkled and ruddy, sitting muffled up by the fireside.

." Come and shake hands with me, Arthur Durnford," she cried, in the pleasantest voice he had ever heard. "I knew your father when he was a wild young fellow in the Hussars. Let me look at you. Yes, you are like him. But he had black hair, and yours is brown. And you stoop-I suppose because you read books all day. Fie upon the young men of the present! They all read. In my time there was not so much reading, I can tell you, but a great deal more love-making and merriment. Now, sit down and talk to Madeleine."

She lay back on her cushions, and presently fell fast asleep, while the two talked.

They talked of Palmiste and the old days. And then a sort of constraint came upon them, because the new days of either were unknown.

"Tell me about yourself, Arthur,” said Madeleine. "I am going to call you Arthur, and you shall call me Madeleine, just as we used to. Mrs. Longworthy-oh, she is asleep."

"No, my dear-only dozing. Wake me up by telling me something pleasant."

I was going to tell Arthur that I am sure you would like him to come here a great deal—I should."

"That ought to be enough, Mr. Durnford. But I should, too. We are a pair of women, and we sometimes sit and nag at each other. Don't look at me so, Maddy-if we don't actually do it, we sometimes want to. Come a great deal, Mr. Durnford. Come as nearly every day as you can manage. It is very good for young men to have ladies' society. We shall civilize you."

"You are very kind," Arthur began.

"But I must say one thing. Do not come early in the morning. I consider that the day ought to be a grand processional triumph of temper. That is why I always take my breakfast in bed. Handle me delicately in the morning, and a child may lead me all day. Come, if you want to see me, in time for luncheon, at two; if you want to see Madeleine, at any time she tells you."

"And how is Philip?" asked Madeleine. "Who is Philip?" said Mrs. Longworthy. "My cousin, the son of my father's brother."

"Your father, my dear boy, never had any brothers."

"Pardon me, Mrs. Longworthy." She shook her head, and lay back again. "And what is your profession, Arthur?" "I have none."

"What do you do with yourself?"

I

"I waste time in the best way I can. read, write a little, make plans, and the days slip by."

"That seems very bad. Come and help me in my profession."

"What is your profession?" "Come some morning at ten, and I will tell you. Send Philip to call upon me." As Arthur went out of the room, he heard Mrs. Longworthy saying

"I am not wrong. I am quite right. George Durnford was an only son. And so was his father. The De Melhuyns, quite new people, told me all about it."

A sudden light flashed upon Arthur's mind. He knew, in that way in which knowledge of this sort sometimes comes, that Philip was his half-brother. He was certain of it. He reasoned with himself; set up all the objections; proved to himself that the preponderance of chances was against it; marshalled all the opposite evidence; and remained absolutely certain of the truth of his conviction.

PROFESSOR POYNTER, A.R.A., ON OLD ART AND NEW ART.

THE

THE fourth of the winter exhibitions at Burlington House of pictures by the old masters, provided jointly by the zeal and kindness of private collectors and the Royal Academicians, is now opened to the public. We leave the merits of the pictures exhibited to be dealt with by other critics, but the subject suggests the present as an appropriate occasion for a few notes on English feeling for and love of art.

Among the many excellent papers read during the season at the Royal Institution, one of those most worthy of attention was Mr. Poynter's lecture on Art. The general revival of something like a feeling for art for its own sake observable among us, and the good results already attained in the Art Schools throughout the country,

make art-teaching of the higher sort especially valuable at the present time. The improvement in domestic and ecclesiastical architecture, the greater taste displayed in the internal fittings and decorations of houses, the more artistic-i.e., beautifulforms of many articles in common use, the increasing proofs that cheapness needs not always connote ugliness and want of art, show that the teachings of the school of reformers led by Mr. Ruskin have not altogether failed in their purpose. Indeed, it would almost seem that at no very distant day, as far as it relates to manufactured products, the proverb, "cheap and nasty," will be untrue. There is no reason why the old willow pattern plate should not be displaced by a ware the shape, pattern, and colouring of which are pleasing to the eye. There is no reason why paper-hangings that are cheap should likewise be offensive to good taste, or why every article of furniture in use in our houses should be inartistic in design, because it is not made of costly material. Yet such changes can only be brought about by a demand on the part of the public who purchase such commodities. The manufacturer himself, let him be carpenter, cabinet-maker, weaver of textile fabrics, or potter, will never stir himself in the matter. The object for which he exists has been accomplished when he has succeeded in selling for a shilling what it cost him eightpence to produce. Visit any manufactory of inexpensive goods you like—any place where the things bought by the people are produced-and you will be struck by the utter want of taste displayed by the producers. You remark that an elegant shape or a pretty design could be sent into the market in large quantities at as small a cost as unshapeliness and ugliness now are. You are always met by this reply-"I make for my market. My wares suit the customers I supply. The retailers would not take a dif ferent article if I made it. They stick to the old patterns, because they are what their customers ask for. I make to supply orders." This is true; and we may conclude that all pressure must come from without. Reform must begin with the purchaser. A greater knowledge of art will result in a greater love of art. The wider diffusion of art knowledge, the establishment of Schools of Art, with the education they give, must inevitably lead to this. The only question in the case is one of time.

First, perhaps, we ought to look to our painters and architects to accomplish something more than they have yet done. And we hail with pleasure the course taken by so competent a critic of art as Mr. Poynter. In his discussion of the principles of true art-never varying-and in his comparison of old with new art, he has struck at the causes which lie at the root of the national want of appreciation in art.

"The truth is, that any attempt to rival or surpass the chefs-d'œuvre of the past must be made on the same conditions and in the | same spirit that animated the producers of those great works. Were science to discover for us the cause of every natural phenomenon that exists, nay, were it to reach the final cause of life itself, the glow of the evening sky would be none the more or less beautiful, nor the grace of a child's movements one whit diminished or increased. These, indeed, are eternal beauties and unchangeable, and they are what the artist has to treat of; and though he may never be able to arrive at the complete expression of them, he can see to the end of them, for they live for ever for his continued contemplation.

"I have no hesitation in saying that art has lost more than it has gained by our modern modes of thought and feeling, and that if it be asked why we cannot put away the traditions of the past, and work in the modern spirit, the answer is that the modern spirit is becoming daily more opposed to the artistic spirit, and is precisely what hampers its expression; that what is good in the art of to-day, is good in the same way, and for the same reasons, as the old is good; that we have no lights on the subject which were not also clear to the old masters, and that where we seem to have struck out a new path, we have only chosen one which they purposely and rightly rejected-where we seem to have discovered a new truth, it proves to be one beside the question.

"Now there are, I think, two causes to be found for the immense difference in the aim and results of our modern work as compared with that of the ancients. I should have said rather that there are two ways in which the modern spirit is opposed to the artistic spirit; and one of these is in a noble direction, and is due to the spread of a philosophy -I might almost call it a religion-which insists on the recognition of certain qualities, |

moral and Divine, inherent in ideas or impressions of beauty, which recognition is necessary on the part of the artist to the production of a high form of art. The second, or ignoble way, may be broadly stated as due to the fact that artists, from motives of indolence or interest, have allowed themselves to be led by the opinion of the public, instead of being, as of old, indifferent to it, and themselves leading the way to a better appreciation on the part of the public of the capabilities of art.

art.

"Now, both these causes have, curiously enough, led to the same result-I mean, they have both been instrumental in leading to a prevalent belief that the imitation of nature, or perhaps I should say the record of his impressions of nature, is the aim and purpose of the artist. It will be necessary, then, before going further, that we should inquire in what way and how far a mere imitation of nature may result in a work of And in speaking of imitation, I must be understood to use the word in the sense of copying. Fuseli defines the difference between copying and imitation in this way: 'Precision of eye and obedience of hand are the requisites of the former, without the least pretence to choice, what to select, what to reject; whilst choice, directed by judgment or taste, constitutes the essence of imitation, and alone can raise the most dexterous copyist to the noble rank of an artist.' But it seems to me that it is impossible for an artist not to choose what he is going to paint: he may choose stupidly, but a choice of some kind he must make; so with this difference I take his definition of copying as what I mean by imitation.

"This precision of eye and obedience of hand, requisite for the rendering of colour and form, include the whole art of painting, and are found in perfection only in the work of the most highly gifted artists; but they are distinctly only the painter's qualities, and exclude the mental. Moreover, being the qualities which are necessary to his existence as a painter, and without which he is nothing, they take the lowest place among the artistic faculties. But the fact remains, that a mere imitation of nature— what is called realistic painting, though I should be inclined to call it materialisticthe fact remains that this imitative painting may be so admirably done as to become of a high order of merit. It is the essence of