sessed with an incurable political fever like model Chartists in novels; neither do they surpass their neighbours in honesty, sincerity, and singlemindedness, as some of us would have the world to suppose. Circumstances alone distinguish them, as it is circumstances which distinguish the other extreme of society. Some of these we have already pointed out. A life which has to be lived in the face of hard practical difficulties, and under the constant pressure of manual toil-an acquaintance with the world necessarily limited and narrow, and destitute of those experiences which force many men, no wiser by nature, into a more just estimate of themselves-education which, in most cases, cannot choose but be superficial, and which, striving with vain emulation over the widest area, drops the quality of depth altogether; all these accidents of their condition give colour to the character of the masses, and are faithfully reflected in the literature they patronise. For these reasons it is that political nostrums, warranted, by one arbitrary Act of Parliament, to cure everything, find ready acceptance among them. Their limited opportunities of observation have a constant effect of youth upon the whole class, and confer upon them all a certain class inconsequence and want of logic, which everybody must have perceived one time or another a propensity to blame somebody for every grievance or hardship they experience, and to expect perfectly unreasonable results from every exercise of that power which they do not possess;-all these impatient qualities of mind forbid patient reading, or a modest complexion of literature; and we find, accordingly, that the merest and slightest amusement overbalances, to the most prodigious extent, everything else attempted by this reading for the million. As a general principle, they have no leisure to concern themselves with those problems of common life which all the philosophers in the world cannot solve, nor to consider those hard conditions of existence under which they and we and all the race labour on towards the restoration of all things. It is much easier

to conclude that something arbitrary can mend all, and to escape out of the real difficulties into those fictitious regions of delight, where every difficulty is made to be smoothed away-those superlative and dazzling regions of wealth and eminence, where, to the hard-labouring and poverty-pinched, it is hard to explain where the shadows lie.

Whether the existing literature of the multitude is improvable, we will not take upon us to say; but certainly no one ever will improve it efficiently without taking into full account all the class-characteristics which have helped it into being. Once we were deeply impressed with the idea that, to reach this class most effectually, one needed to enter into their own life, and make them aware of one's thorough acquaintance and familiarity not from a "superior" elevation, but on the same level with the everyday circumstances of their existence. Now our opinion is changed; we trust we have too much candour of mind to hold by our theory in the face of so many demonstrations to the contrary. No; let us change our tactics. The masses find no heroes among themselves; it is easy to do a little vapouring on the subject of aristocracy, and maintain against all the masters and all the rulers, natural antagonists of this perennial youth of civilisation, the innate superiority of the working man. But somehow a much more subtle evidence remains against him. No hero labouring with his own hands, no household maintaining its humble honour on the week's wages, no serving maiden, fair in her homely duties, conciliates in their own chosen medium of story-telling the favour of the multitude. The workman is no hero to the shop-girl, nor the poor seamstress to the workman-so the real hero dashes forward in his cab, and the true heroine tells her footman where the carriage is to meet her-and the one has five thousand a-year, and unlimited possibilities, while the other is troubled with the shadow of a coronet-and they talk of Shakespeare and the musical glasses, and see no end of fine society; and the penny magazine which contains their

history circulates so widely that it has to go to press three weeks before the day of publication-and so, with a triumphant demonstration not to be disputed, we learn the likings of the multitude.

Let us take warning, and be the better for the lesson;-but notwithstanding, we cannot help going back to that sunny afternoon in the sultry summer stillness of the cathedral close. The men who built that fair cathedral, and the women who ministered to them, had haply only legends of the saints, and far-away ballads of a forgotten antiquity, for their solacement and pleasure. We are severely, steadfastly, unshakably orthodox. "The Paip, that pagan full of pride," has never charmed our Protestant imagination, and we are ready to defy all the united attractions of the Belgravian Paul and Barnabas. Nevertheless the hero in his cab, and the heroine whose footman waits outside the ragged school -are they, think you, such a long way superior to the saintly Catherine and the maiden Margaret-stout old Christopher with his giant's heart, and gallant young Sebastian among

the arrows? Oh, still immovable old houses, where troubles never come! oh, life becalmed among those sabbatic walls, free of the passions and the sorrows which are abroad in this unquiet world!--which is the best? The burdened wheels of this common existence roll easier, the road is smoother, the heavy old vehicle hangs on springs, the passenger has cushions and contrivances of comfort unknown to these old times-but the grass is no greener, the daisies no fairer-and there they cluster close in their long worship, those fair religious walls, to which all these years can bring no superseding beauty. No, this human nature is bigger than Progress, greater than Time, an unprogressive arbitrary soul. All other matters may obey a law, but Art and Man only a glorious unexplainable caprice, whose coming and going God alone determines; and so it is that the new goes on bettering the old, and the old stands up triumphant over the new, and that neither the one nor the other, but both together, the defects and the improvements, the dulnesses and the glories, make up the perfect world.

WHEREIN lay the power and merit of the Greek poets? What had those old heathens in common with us? What was the spirit which clothed itself in works which we moderns, heirs of long centuries of thought, propose to ourselves as models, and find ever unattainable? Such are the questions which occur to many intelligent people, some even of considerable classical attainments, when noting the influence of ancient Greece on modern art; to whom Kingsley's Andromeda, rightly considered, gives, in some sort, a response.

The vestibule of every art-poetry, painting, sculpture, music-is illuminated by a flood of glory. There sits the Muse, heaven-born genius of the place, and whispers to the first comers divine precepts, giving them strength, so that they faint not at the marvels that crowd on the soul; faith, so that they believe in their own inspiration; and instinct, to choose aright from the wealth of material before them. Every breeze brings the freshness of eternal youth-the air swarms with magic sounds-all objects at the touch of the artist turn to gold, as he revels amid the pomp and prodigality. Rules do not trammel him, for he will unconsciously originate rules for others to expound. Criticism chills him not, for the thirsting crowd outside, just wise enough to be eager and thankful, wait on his accents as on those of a divinity, and receive each message with triumphal shouts. And so from the first bloom and fragrance of art is distilled the essence of immortality.

Those who come after find the Muse gone, and in her place her statue-beautiful, but unanswering. The air of the place is still enchanting, but it has lost its first freshness, overpowering some, intoxicating others, while many find it poisonFalse and earth-born accents mingle with, and almost overpower, the celestial utterances, bewildering the adventurer, till, like the prince of the Arabian tale, he stands still, and is turned into stone: nevertheless,

ous.

divine echoes still haunt the walls, which, when they strike a true ear, are shaped into thoughts that never die. But at last all the region is explored, mapped, parcelled, settled; and though, by industrious cultivation, new, strange, and sweet flowers spring up, who shall wonder that the amaranths and asphodels are gone for ever?

Before poetry first took form in Greece, its elements existed in rich profusion. Such was the beauty of the isles, lying amid summer seas, in that golden clime, that the inhabitants conceived them to be no unworthy dwelling-place for the immortal gods. These were no dim mysterious abstractions, far removed from the interests and passions of men. The influences, on whose currents men are tossed like straws or feathers, were supposed to be direct emanations from living and presiding powers. Man's inner and outer worlds were both territories partitioned among immortal rulers. It was not merely that Zeus held dominion in the skies, Poseidon in the seas, and Pluto in the realms of the dead, but the caves, woods, and streams, were all the abodes of superhuman powers. Pan and his sylvan attendants roamed through the glades and thickets; the sweet fountain, that bubbled in far recesses where man seldom set foot, did not sparkle on its way merely to slake the thirst of the boar and the deer-it was the haunt of a nymph not always invisible to human eye. The majesty and luxuriance of the forest were attributes of an informing spirit; and "that which breathed within the leaf could slip its bark and walk," in the form of a dryad. The crafts and arts of daily life were first practised and taught by divinities. The God of Light and the Goddess of Wisdom lent to the unravelment of man's affairs the aid of their divine intelligence; and the rulers of Olympus took part in the factions and jealousies of mortals.

So splendid in intellect and beauty was the race that tenanted the clime,

that these superintending deities were believed to have held familiar converse and counsel with its heroes and sages, and to have been rivals with earthly lovers for the embraces of its daughters. So the whole land was filled with traditions of what had been done by godlike men, directed by their divine patrons, to whom some of them owed even their birth. And as the Greek, with all his sense of beauty and enjoyment, felt keenly the adverse influences whose shadows give to humanity its dark side, so he believed readily in cruel Fates, avenging Furies, and Titans who warred against gods, and even ascribed to gods themselves frequent caprice and injustice. And seeing that, when he left his own beautiful and blessed isles, he came upon strange shores, where tempests, volcanoes, whirlpools, monsters, and shattering rocks threatened, and often inflicted, destruction, he figured, as the inhabitants of those regions, Harpies, Gorgons, Sirens, and dire Chimæras, terribly powerful, and implacably hostile to man; and the business of heroes was then, as it is now, to wage against such hateful foes perpetual war.

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Thus the old Greek walked in his fair country surrounded by another world, whose influences pervaded his daily life, his actions, and his discourse. And thus the old poets, secure of their audience, set no trammels to their invention, but let their winged thoughts roam at will; not like we poor moderns, "cabined, cribbed, confined," by a decorous credibility, but wide and general as the casing air;" and they boldly and rightly called in supernatural aid in inventing fables and situations which should most strongly stir the sympathies of men. Thus there came floating down the stream of tradition, from sources lost in distance and darkness, the tales of love and adventure, of crime, remorse, and retribution, of heaven-scaling ambition and godlike power, which delighted and inspired all heathendom.

The mere framework of these was of such excellent materials, that even, all unclothed and unadorned, it still had potent influence. Take, for instance, in its mere simplicity, this

story of Andromeda. Queen Cassiopeia, in her love for her beautiful daughter, said she was fairer than the Goddess of Beauty. Therefore the goddess, in revenge, sent a sea-monster to ravage the coast. The priests were consulted, and cast lots to divine the cause of the immortal's wrath : the lot fell on Cassiopeia, who was doomed to expiate her offence against the majesty of the goddess, by exposing her daughter on the rocks, as an offering to the monster So Andromeda was bound, and her mother, wailing over her, at length departed, and left her alone all night. In the morning came young Prince Perseus over the sea, his feet bound with the magic wings of Hermes, and bearing with him the head of Medusa the Gorgon, whom he had slain, the sight of which was death. Cheering the virgin with his words and caresses, he met and slew the monster, uncovering the deadly visage of the Gorgon: then, freeing the virgin from her bonds, he took her to his own country, and married her.

This Atergatis was the Syrian Venus or Aphrodite-and in those days the Goddess of Beauty was acknowledged as a potent divinity. Now, were she to reappear, where would be her shrine or worshippers? Daughter of Jove!-Queen of the Laughing Eyes!

Cestus-wearer!-divinity, indeed! ah, disreputable impostor, despised by the respectable, ignored by the world, where will you hide the laughing eyes? Social evil that you are, you must exchange the heights of Olympus for the pavement of the Haymarket, and instead of Paphos must make your haunt in Cremorne.

But where was the use of any ancient Greek, male or female, denying the power of Aphroditè? Ask any Spartan, Theban, or Athenian, between fifteen and fifty, whom he considered the most blest of mortals, and what name would be universally uttered? Why, Anchises, to be sure. Not only do the laughing eyes gleam through the slumbers of half the youth of Greece, but the goddess lends often to mortal beauty her subtle mighty power. Look at that statesman with the lofty forehead, dome of the astutest brain in Athens

-ruler of a people's destiny--nurser of new-born art-moulder of undying policy-yet now utterly besotted, as is notorious to the whole city, because Aspasia has given him a philtre. Why lingers Alcibiades when the trumpet calls the youth to the field-why, but that his hero-spirit, like that of the Achilles whom men believe in when they look on him, is lulled in the charmed lap of another Briseis. The mother who sees her boy pale, worn, sleepless, unanswering, careless of food, forgetful of kindred, sighing away his existence, attempts no feeble palliative of precept or advice, knowing that he is but struggling in the inevitable net that is spread on the threshold of manhood by that gay, smiling, almighty divinity. And the forsaken virgin, watching the averted eye of him who was her lover, knows that he is the sport of a mighty power, and goes, with many tears, to lay a propitiatory garland on the altar of the terrible Aphroditè,

Believing these passions to spring from a divinity, and knowing well how irresistible they were, it is no wonder that the trembling pagans, who had either felt their effects or seen them exhibited in others, should have feared to incense the goddess. And therefore the Greek mother, hearing that old tale of Andromeda, and remembering, perhaps, how she had half-whispered to herself that her own dark-haired and white-limbed daughter was fair as the Queen of Love, would shudderingly and remorsefully recall the impious thought, and feel her heart pause as she thought of the parting between Cassiopeia and her child on the wave-worn rock. So the tale of Andromeda may have gone on for centuries, exciting even in that simple form pity, awe, and love. Still, common natures, even among a poetic people, require to have these things strongly presented. So some ancient bard, some Greek Blondel or Joyeuse, sitting at a great festival, or in the hall of a chieftain, would enlarge on the theme, chanting, with rude inartistic eloquence and much irrelevant matter, the mother's sorrow, the virgin's despair, the de

liverer's valour, till the rooftree rang with applause, or till silence and tears gave truer proof of the sympathy of his untutored audience.

But at last there came a Poet-a man of Eolian heart-whose chords, vibrating at the breath of these old traditions, gave forth music which was to reverberate through the furthest arches of time. Full to overflowing of sympathy for all that was tender, passionate, and adventurous, his was also an imagination so teeming, that a touch, a sound, a passing thought, evoked persons, incidents, and scenes. In the thunder he heard the voice of the angry Zeus; in the rising sun he beheld a heavenly archer splintering his bright arrows on billow and headland. Solitary places were for him peopled with informing spirits: when he sat on the shore watching the long roll of the waves, and listening to their gurgle as they fretted the pillars and sapped. the caverns beneath the cliffs, he saw not only the deep, but its mystic inhabitants-"had sight of Proteus rising from the sea, and heard old Triton blow his wreathed horn." Teeming with these sympathies and these thoughts, he had also the art, or, better still, the instinct, which it is the business of art to study and imitate, to communicate to colder and duller natures some of his own ardour, and power of seeing and feeling what, but for him, were unfelt, invisible, and untold. When such gifts go to make a poet, what wonder that he should be among the rarest of men, and that the race should be eager to do him honour!

Seizing, then, some familiar theme, he, by the magic which we call art, presents it in that aspect which is most forcible, affecting, and enduring. Suppressing all that was unnecessary, bringing the characteristic features into strong relief, he rounds the whole into symmetry and harmony, supplying such natural, familiar touches as cause abstractions and airy nothings to live and move and have being. Such is the process by which thoughts are embalmed by art.

But not only did the poet's power in those times come from withinhe was surrounded by influences full