are after the human pattern, but they have the ears and horns of goats, their feet are cloven, and their fingers end in claws. The Russian wood-spirit is in fact the devil of medieval imagination, and nothing else a fact which strongly supports the inference that it is from the wood and from the wind rustling over the tree-tops that the idea of the supernatural agency of devils first took possession of the imagination of mankind. It is in no way inconsistent with this theory that besides devils of the forest there are those of the air or the water. The conception is one which would have met with no barrier to the extension of its dominions, and the devil of the tree or for est would from the first be closely associated with, if at all distinguished from, the spirit that moved in the trees, and was powerful enough to overturn them. In this way the wild spirits of the woods would pass insensibly into those spirits of the air which our ancestors identified with the Wild Huntsman, and which English peasants still often hear when they listen to the passage of the Seven Whistlers. Truth requires that we should have these thoughts in connection with trees, but we may conjure up pleasanter associations by way of antidote. We may dismiss the diabolical aspect of primitive dendrolatry, or the insipid transformation tales of classical mythology, and dwell instead on the share trees have had in human history as the friends or benefactors of our race. The cypress may remind us not only of the tall daughters of Eteocles, or the youth beloved of Apollo, but of the temples of the Persian Zoroaster, before which it stood as the symbol of the sacred fire-flame, and as the emblem of eternity. For the latter reason the ancients used to plant a cypress at the birth of their daughters, by way of wishing them a long life, not, as Signor de Gubernatis suggests (who, where he does not see a solar, invariably sees a phallic emblem), with any reference to their possible masters in the future. Under the broad shade of the plane tree we may think gratefully of Lord Bacon, who is said to have introduced it from Constantinople; or, if statesmen, of Themistocles, the great Athenian, who compared himself to that tree, to which his countrymen would run for refuge in stormy weather, but which they would speedily desert as soon as the sky was clear. Our sycamores may remind us of Mary Queen of Scots, who brought over a slip from which so many others have sprung. The cherry we owe to the Roman general Lucullus, who introduced it into Europe, whence Sir Walter Raleigh im

ported it into Ireland. The yew may speak to us of the famous bows, on which, in former times, our military greatness rested, as the ash tree may of our ancient spears; or, turning from military to literary associations, the beech tree, the German Buche, contains the key to the origin of our word book, for the Buchstabe, or letter, was originally a strip of the beech bark, on which the Germans of old cut signs to represent words, for the better remembrance of events. So, on the whole, the conclusion must be in favor of the advantages as compared with the disadvantages we have derived from the denizens of the forest. The summing-up must be in their favor. It is, of course, conceivable that it might have happened everywhere, as it has in the Russian steppes, that in the vegetable struggle for existence, grasses which grow to thirty or forty feet might have finally triumphed over every form of tree development. How great might then have been the difference in the mental history of mankind! We might have been spared that frightful belief in an ubiquitous personified malevolence which so tortured our ancestors and still tortures too many of our contemporaries; but against this gain, incalculable it may be, we should have to set so many losses that no other conclusion would seem really tenable than that the victory of the trees over the grasses has been to the greater benefit of humanity.—Gentleman's Magazine.

THE MAD MARQUIS.-Once when in London he was returning home at night in a cab, and when he came to pay for his drive he imagined that the cabby overcharged him. Now, this has sometimes happened to mortals not born to be marquises, and they have by angry expostulation done what they could to modify such unreasonable demands. So commonplace a proceeding, however, was all too tame for the fiery spirit and humorous fancy of Lord Sandford. Remembering that he was for the moment the guest of his uncle, the Right Reverend Archbishop of Armagh, Primate of Ireland, he exclaimed, "Wait a minute, you scoundrel; I'll soon settle you; I'll send out the primate to you!" And swiftly his lordship vanished through the hall door. There upon the rack hung the archbishop's right reverend shovel hat, and there, too, was his sable-hued and most clerical coat. In a moment the marquis had invested himself with these solemn episcopal garments, and then he sallied forth to confront the cabby. Now, Lord Sandford was one of the most skilful boxers in England,

and without any preamble he proceeded with a right good will to use his fists upon the objectionable cabman. This latter defended himself with what vigor he could, but being no match for his agile antagonist, was soon sprawling upon the pavement. Gathering himself together as well as he could, he sat on the flags looking up at Lord Sandford with that rueful admiration which a person naturally feels for the man who has just knocked him flat, and said, “Well, ye are the divil's own primate, anyhow!" The marquis's quickly spent anger changed into mirth at the grotesque observation, and he burst into a peal of laughter. Taking a sovereign from his pocket, he bestowed it, along with his blessing, upon the amazed cab-driver, and disappeared from before his bewildered gaze into the house.— Christian Union.

"THE FEAR THAT KILLS."-More temperate diet, more airy bedrooms, better drained houses, and more effectual ablutions, are real improvements on the habits of our ancestors. But the excess to which hygienic precautions are carried, the proportion which such cares now occupy amid the serious interests of life, is becoming absurd, and conducting us rapidly to a state of things, wherein, if we are not "killed" by fear, we are paralyzed by it for all natural enjoyment. The old healthful, buoyant spirit seems already fled from the majority of English homes. Aged people (from this and, no doubt, other concurrent causes) seldom exhibit now that gentle gayety which so often brightened with hues of sunset the long, calm evening of a well-spent life, after the "six days' work" was done. The middle-aged are one and all hag-ridden by anxiety; and as to the young, if we may trust the reports which reach us from the great schools, a very marked change has come over them, curiously indicative of the sensitiveness of young souls to the chill breath of the Zeitgeist. The lads have grown colder and harder, and are interested in pecuniary profits rather than in nobler professional ambitions. Nay, we have been told (it is a large demand upon credulity !) that English school-boys have almost ceased to be reckless about heat or cold, about eating indigestible things, about climbing trees and precipices, about going on deep water in unseaworthy boats; in short, about all those pursuits which excited the perennial alarms of their fond mothers. Many boys are to be found, it is stated (I write always under reservation), who may be described as Molly

coddles, so cautious are they about their health and their limbs. Urchins in round jackets speak of the danger of checking perspiration after cricket, and decline to partake of unripe apples and pastry on the never-before-heardof ground of dyspepsia. Invited in the holidays to the ecstatic "lark" of a long excursion on horseback, they have declined with reference to the playfulness of their pony's heels; and have been seen to shrink from a puppy's caressing tongue, murmuring the ominous word "Rabies." In short, our girls, who are just acquiring physical courage as a new virtue, are sometimes braver than their brothers, who think it "good form” to profess disinclination to risk their valuable persons.—Contemporary Review.

AN OLD FORM OF CAPITAL PUNISHMENT. -Death by precipitation is one of the oldest modes of capital punishment. It prevailed widely over the earth in primitive times. Traces and traditions of it are found here and there in different countries, and in localities far apart. We can easily understand how this should be so, for in ancient times towns and villages were almost exclusively built upon elevated rocks and heights, for the sake of security. The nucleus of a town was usually a large isolated rock, such as the rock of the Parthenon at Athens, the rock of the Palatine at Rome, the rock of the Château at Nice, and the rock of Zion at Jerusalem. Precipitation among the Jews was one form of stoning, which was the recognized legal punishment for blasphemy. Indeed, "stoning," as the Mishna informs us, was regarded as merely a term for breaking the culprit's neck. It was made imperative that "the house of stoning," as the place from which the criminal was cast down was called, should be at least "two stories high ;" and it was the duty of the chief witness to precipitate the criminal with his own hand. If he was not killed at once by the fall, the second witness had to cast a stone on his heart; and if he still survived, the whole people were to join together in putting an end to him with a shower of stones. This precipitation constituted an essential and humane feature in the act of stoning. Both modes we must regard as an exceedingly primitive custom, the most natural method in which a rude people would wreak their vengeance, or inflict deserved punishment. It was of a piece with the prehistoric custom of casting stones upon the place where the dead were buried, and so piling up a cairn there.-Quiver.

I.

SOME years ago I visited an exhibition of Italian pictures at Turin. There was not much to arrest attention in the gallery. Yet I remember two small companion panels by the same hand, labelled respectively L'Ideale and Il Reale. The first of these paintings represented a consumptive, blonde-haired girl of the Teutonic type, in pale drapery, raising her romantic eyes to a watery moonlight sky. She was sitting near a narrow Gothic window, which opened on a garden. From the darkness below sprang cypresses and a tangle of unclassified vegetation in vaporous indistinctness. The second picture introduced the public to a naked woman, flaunting in provocative animalism. She lolled along a bed, with hard light beating on her body, intensified by hangings of a hot red tone. Under the glare of that NEW SERIES.-VOL. XLVI., No. 5

illumination her flesh shone like copper, smooth as satin; and the blue-black curls upon her shoulders writhed like snakes.

Both of these pictures were ugly; but while the Ideal was tamely conceived and feebly executed, the Real displayed enthusiasm, joy in the subject, something of the vigor derived from sympathy and from revolt. The artist had evidently studied this symbolic figure from the life, whereas her foil and pendent, the sentimental maiden, was a figment of his scornful fancy. It seemed clear that he intended to caricature the Ideal, and to record his preference for the Real as men find it in some mauvais lieu.

Here, then, was an allegory of the antithesis between Idealism and Realism, as these are vulgarly conceived. Idealism, a mawkish phantasm of hectic virginity, of moonshine, violet-scent, and dew drops. Realism, a brawny bit of

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carnal actuality, presented with sensual gusto as the truest truth of life and art.

Is there any solid foundation, I asked myself, for this current conception of the antithesis between the Ideal and the Real? Is there at bottom any antagonism between the two terms? Are they not rather correlated and inextricably interwoven both in nature and in art? Suppose we concede for the sake of argument that they may be regarded as exclusive, each of the other, are we therefore to assume that Idealism is moonshiny and insipid, Realism meretricious and revolting? There must surely be some deep misconception of the problem on both sides. Why have the Idealists exposed their principles to such caricature as this by pretending to dispense with nature? Why do the Realists so confidently assert that nothing has truth in it but what is libidinous or ugly, commonplace or vicious?

In the reality of human nature it is certain that beauty and modesty, the chastity of saints and the severe strength of athletes, the manhood of Regulus and the temperance of Hippolytus, are quite as much in their own place as ugliness and impudicity, the licentiousness of harlots and the flaccid feebleness of debauchees, the effeminacy of Heliogabalus and the untempered lusts of Roderigo Borgia. What we call the intellectual and moral attributes of men are no less real than their appetites and physical needs. The harmony of a sane mind in a sane body is as matter-of-fact as the deformity derived from cramping and distorting limitations. All those things, therefore, to which our nature aspires, and which we name ideal, must be the legitimate sphere of a logical and sober Realism. Nay more, it is just these things which are the most real in life, and which realistic art is consequently bound to represent; for they are the source of strength, and permanence, and progress to the species. Science teaches us convincingly that the superiority of each race in the struggle for existence consists precisely in its aptitude for the development of virtues. Badness, in one word, is less real than goodness.

Realism dares not separate itself from the Ideal, because the Ideal is a permanent factor, and the most important factor, in the reality of life. What in

But

deed has the realistic artist to do but to seek out and to represent the whole reality of human nature, extenuating nothing, setting nothing down in malice? His object is to reach and to express the truth. He may not shirk what is ugly and animal in his fellow-creatures. he ought not to dote upon these points. Far less ought he to repudiate those select qualities which men in their long struggle with their environment and with. each other have gained as the most precious spoils of a continued battle.

Furthermore, it is worth considering whether the artist, if he dares and wishes to escape from Idealism, is able to do so. I am convinced that he cannot, and this conviction emboldens me to attempt once more the treatment of a threadbare problem.

II.

He must indeed be a bold man who invites the world to listen while he talks about Idealism and Realism. The very terms have an obsolete scholastic flavor, like those famous hobby-horses of the metaphysicians, Subject and Object. Worse even they suggest the impostures of æsthetic coteries, the sermonizing of self-consecrated priests concerning mysteries no mind has clearly grasped. Plain people are not unjustified in turning from such discussions with a shrug of the shoulders and a yawn.

And yet there still remains something to be studied in this hackneyed antithesis. Just as Subject and Object stand for moments in our apperception of the universe, so the Ideal and the Real indicate conditions under which the arts fulfil their function. It is not therefore a hopeless task, though it may demand a sanguine spirit, to throw light upon the correlation of these terms.

I shall attempt to demonstrate that the warfare waged about them in æsthetic schools arises from a false conception of their mutual relations. In the philosophy of Being, Subject and Object are posed as antithetical only to be resumed as the conditions of experience. Even so Idealism and Realism, in the philosophy of Art, denote an antagonism which is more apparent than actual, and upon the resolution of which in practice excellence depends. Both, in fact, and both together, are present in every

effort which we make to reproduce and represent the outer world through art.

In order to gain limitations for the treatment of this topic, I shall here confine myself to Sculpture and Painting. The principles arrived at will be found applicable in some measure to literature. But music and architecture, as is manifest, do not fall immediately within the sphere of these ideas.

Realism, to begin with, forms the substratum and indispensable condition of all figurative art. The very name figurative, which we apply to Sculpture and Painting, indicates that these arts proceed by imitation of external objects, and mainly by imitation of the human form. Now it would be absurd to contend that imitation is the worse for being veracious, the worse for recalling to our minds the imitated thing, or in other words, for being in the right sense realistic. Nobody wants a portrait which is not as precisely like the person represented, as exactly true to that person's entire appearance, as it can possibly be made. We may want something else besides; but we demand resemblance as an indispensable quality. Nobody again wants the image of a god or saint which is not as accurately adequate to the human form in which that godhead or that sanctity might have resided as knowledge and skill can make it. Whatever else we desire of the image, we shall not think the better of it for being anatomically wrong. In other words, the figurative arts, by the law which makes them imitate, are bound at every step of their progress to be realistic. The painter must depict each object with painstaking attention to its details. He must aim at delineating the caper and the columbine as faithfully as Titian did, armor as accurately as Giorgione, pearls and brocade with the fidelity of John Van Eyck, hands with the subtlety of Leonardo da Vinci, faces with the earnest feeling after character displayed in Raphael's Leo or Velasquez' Philip.

This is the beginning of his task. But he very soon discovers that he cannot imitate things exactly as they are in fact. The reason of this is that the eye and the hand of sculptor or painter are not a photographic camera. They have neither the qualities nor the defects of a

machine. In every imitative effort worthy of the name of art, the human mind has intervened. What is more, this mind has been the mind of an individual, with specific aptitudes for observation, with specific predilections, with certain ways of thinking, seeing, feeling, and selecting, peculiar to himself. It is precisely at this point, at the very earliest attempt to imitate, that Idealism enters simultaneously with Realism into the arts. The simplest as well as the most complex work contains this element of ideality. For when a man reproduces in art what he sees in nature, he inevitably imports himself into the product. Thus the object and the idea exist as twin-born factors in the merest rough sketch pencilled on a scrap of paper. Strive as he will to keep himself out of the imitation, the man is powerless to do so. The thing imitated has of necessity become the thing imagined by the act of his transferring its outline to paper.

We may properly compare chiaroscuro drawings with photographs, since in each case the result is a reproduction of form under certain conditions of light and shadow without color. Now, given the same advantages of illumination, chemicals, exposure, and so forth, twenty photographic cameras of equal dimensions and equal excellence will produce almost identical representations of a single model. But set twenty artists of equal skill in draughtsmanship to make studies from one model, then, though the imitation may in each case be equally faithful, there will be a different intellectual quality, a different spiritual touch, a different appeal to sympathy, a different order of suggestion in each of the twenty drawings. Some specific ideality has formed an unavoidable feature of each artist's work, while all have aimed, in like manner, at merely reproducing the object before them.

This is perhaps the simplest way of presenting the truth that Realism and Idealism are as inseparable as body and soul in every product of the figurative arts. In art it is not a machine but a mind which imitates. Nay, even the hand which draws is itself no mechanical instrument, but part of a living organism, penetrated with intellectual vitality,

instinct with ideas. No