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No. 10.] 


[APRIL, 1888. 






The aim of the Century Guild is to render all branches of Art the 
sphere, no longer of the tradesman, but of the artist. It would restore 
building, decoration, glass-painting, pottery, wood-carving, and metal¬ 
work to their rightful place beside painting and sculpture. By so 
placing them they would be once more regarded as legitimate and 
honourable expressions of the artistic spirit, and would stand in their 
true relation not only to sculpture and painting but to the drama, to 
music, and to literature. 

In other words, the Century Guild seeks to emphasize the Unity 
of Art; and by thus dignifying Art in all its forms, it hopes to make it 
living, a thing of our own century, and of the people. 

In the Hobby Horse, the Guild will provide a means of expression 
for these aims, and for other serious thoughts about Art. 

The matter of the Hobby Horse will deal, chiefly, with the 
practical application of Art to life; but it will also contain illustrations 
and poems, as well as literary and biographical essays. 

All communications to be addressed to the Editor, care of 



To be had of all Booksellers. 



Frontispiece: “Miranda:” being a reproduction in photo¬ 
gravure of the chalk drawing by Frederick Sandys. 

By the kind permission of J. Anderson Rose, Esq. 

“A Hope Carol.” Christina G. Rossetti . . . . . 41 

“Is Music the Type or Measure of all Art?” John 

Addington Symonds ...... 42 

“Amata Loquitur.” Herbert P. Horne.52 

“ On some old Title-pages, with a sketch of their origin, 

MODERN ONES.” Alfred W. Pollard . . .57 

Facsimile of the Title-page of a Roman Missal, printed by 
Lucantonio de Giunta at Venice, 1509 

To face page 57 

Facsimile of the Title-page of an edition of the Commen¬ 
taries of Simplicius on Aristotle’s Categories, 


Blastos, at Venice, 1499 . . To face page 60 

“In the Days of the Philistines.” Selwyn Image . . 64 

“ The Present Condition of English Song-Writing.” C. 

Hubert H. Parry ....... 69 

“ Marie at the Window.” A Song, composed by Arthur 

Somervell .... To face page 70 

“On Revisiting Lichfield Cathedral.” R. Garnett . . 71 

“The New Reredos at St. Paul’s considered in its relation 
to the whole design of that Cathedral.” 
Herbert P. Horne ...... 72 

The Initial Letters and Tail-pieces are from designs by 
Herbert P. Horne. 

Vault Collection 

L. Tom Perry Special Collections 
Harold B. Lee Library 
Brigham Young University 

. H7 
no . 1 0 


1197 23968 84 

Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2019 with funding from 
Brigham Young University 


A night was near, a day was near, 

Between a day and night 

I heard sweet voices calling clear, 

Calling me: 

I heard a whirr of wing on wing, 

But could not see the sight; 

I long to see my birds that sing, 

I long to see. 

Below the stars, beyond the moon, 

Between the night and day 

I heard a rising falling tune 
Calling me: 

I long to see the pipes and strings 
Whereon such minstrels play; 

I long to see each face that sings, 

I long to see. 

To-day or may be not to-day, 

To-night or not to-night, 

All voices that command or pray 
Calling me, 

Shall kindle in my soul such fire 
And in my eyes such light 

That I shall see that heart’s desire 
I long to see. 

Christina G. Rossetti. 




Mr. Matthew Arnold’s definition of Poetry 
as “ at bottom a Criticism of Life,” insisted 
somewhat too strenuously on the purely 
intellectual and moral aspects of art. There 
is a widely different way of regarding the 
same subject-matter, which finds acceptance with many 
able thinkers of the present time. This ignores the criti¬ 
cism of life altogether, and dwells with emphasis upon sen¬ 
suous presentation, emotional suggestion, and technical 
perfection, as the central and essential qualities of art. In 
order to steer a safe course between the Scylla of excessive 
intellectuality, and the Charybdis of excessive sensuousness, 
it will be well to examine what a delicate and philosophical 
critic has published on this second theory of the arts. With 
this object in view, I choose a paper by Mr. Walter Pater 
on “The School of Giorgione .” 1 The opinion that art has 
a sphere independent of intellectual or ethical intention is 
here advocated with lucidity, singular charm of style, and 
characteristic reserve. 

Mr. Pater opens the discussion by very justly condemning 
the tendency of popular critics “ to regard all products of art 
as various forms of poetry.” “ For this criticism,” he says, 
“poetry, music, and painting are but translations into different 
languages of one and the same fixed quantity of imaginative 
thought, supplemented by certain technical qualities of 
colour in painting, of sound in music, of rhythmical words 
in poetry.” “ In this way,” he adds, “ the sensuous element 
in art, and with it almost everything in art that is essentially 
artistic, is made a matter of indifference.” He then pro¬ 
ceeds to point out that each of the fine arts has its own 
sphere, its own untranslatable mode of expression, its own 
way of reaching the imaginative reason through the senses, 
its own special responsibilities to its material. 

So far, every intelligent student of the subject will agree 
with him. Nor will there be any substantial difference of 

1 “ Fortnightly Review,” October, 1887. I should not have thought it proper 
to deal with a single article of this kind, which, so far as I know, has not been 
reprinted by Mr. Pater, unless the views here set forth were current among 
persons worthy of respect. 


opinion as to the second point on which he insists—namely, 
that each of the arts, while pursuing its own object, and 
obeying its own laws, may sometimes assimilate the quality 
of a sister-art. This, adopting German phraseology, Mr. 
Pater terms the Anders-streben of an art, or the reaching 
forward from its own sphere toward the sphere of another 
art. We are familiar with the thought that Greek dramatic 
poetry borrowed something of its form from sculpture, and 
that the Italian romantic epic was determined to a great 
extent by the analogy of painting. Nor is it by any means 
an innovation in criticism to refer all the artistic products of 
a nation to some dominant fine art, for which that nation 
possessed a special aptitude, and which consequently gave 
colour and complexion to its whole aesthetical activity. 
Accordingly, Mr. Pater, both in the doctrine of the indepen¬ 
dence of each art, and also in the doctrine of the Anders- 
streben of one art toward another, advances nothing which 
excites opposition. 

At this point, however, he passes into a region of more 
questionable speculation. Having rebuked popular criticism 
for using poetry as the standard whereby to judge the arts, 
he proceeds to make a similar use of music; for he lays it 
down that all the arts in common aspire “ towards the prin¬ 
ciple of music, music being the typical, or ideally consummate 
art, the object of the great Anders-streben of all art, of all 
that is artistic, or partakes of artistic qualities.” 

The reason for this assertion is stated with precision : 1 

“All art constantly aspires towards the condition of music. 
For while in all other works of art it is possible to distinguish 
the matter from the form, and the understanding can always 
make this distinction, yet it is the constant effort of art to 
obliterate it. That the mere matter of a poem, for instance, 
its subject, its given incidents or situation; that the mere 
matter of a picture, the actual circumstances of an event, the 
actual topography of a landscape, should be nothing without 
the form, the spirit of the handling; that this form, this 
mode of handling, should become an end in itself, should 
penetrate every part of the matter;—this is what all art con¬ 
stantly strives after, and achieves in different degrees.” 

1 “Fortnightly Review,” p. 528. The italics are Mr. Pater’s. 


Having illustrated the meaning of this paragraph by 
references to painting, poetry, furniture, dress, and the details 
of daily intercourse, Mr. Pater proceeds as follows :— 1 

“ Art, then, is thus always striving to be independent of 
the mere intelligence, to become a matter of pure perception, 
to get rid of its responsibilities to its subject or material; 
the ideal examples of poetry and painting being those in 
which the constituent elements of the composition are so 
welded together that the material or subject no longer strikes 
the intellect only; nor the form, the eye or ear only; but 
form and matter, in their union or identity, present one single 
effect to the imaginative reason, that complex faculty for 
which every thought and feeling is twin-born with its sensible 
analogue or symbol. 

“ It is the art of music which most completely realises this 
artistic ideal, this perfect identification of form and matter, 
this strange chemistry, uniting, in the integrity of pure light, 
contrasted elements. In its ideal, consummate moments, 
the end is not distinct from the means, the form from the 
matter, the subject from the expression; they inhere in and 
completely saturate each other; and to it, therefore, to the 
condition of its perfect moments, all the arts may be sup¬ 
posed constantly to tend and aspire. Music, then, not poetry, 
as is so often supposed, is the true type or measure of con¬ 
summate art. Therefore, although each art has its incom¬ 
municable element, its untranslatable order of impressions, 
its unique mode of reaching the imaginative reason, yet the 
arts may be represented as continually struggling after the 
law or principle of music, to a condition which music 
alone completely realises ; and one of the chief functions of 
aesthetic criticism, dealing with the concrete products of 
art, new or old, is to estimate the degree in which each of 
those products approaches in this sense to musical law.” 

If this means that art, as art, aspires toward a complete 
absorption of the matter into the form—toward such a blend¬ 
ing of the animative thought or emotion with the embody¬ 
ing vehicle that the shape produced shall be the only right 
and perfect manifestation of a spiritual content to the senses, 
so that, while we contemplate the work, we cannot conceive 
their separation—then in this view there is nothing either 

1 “Fortnightly Review,” p. 530. 


new or perilous. It was precisely this which constituted 
the consummate excellence of Greek sculpture. The sculptor 
found so apt a shape for the expression of ideal personality, 
that his marble became an apocalypse of godhood. It was 
precisely this, again, which made the poetry of Virgil artisti¬ 
cally perfect. In the words of the most eloquent of Virgil’s 
panegyrists : “ What is meant by the vague praise bestowed 
on Virgil’s unequalled style is practically this, that he has 
been, perhaps, more successful than any other poet in fusing 
together the expressed and the suggested emotion; that he 
has discovered the hidden music which can give to every 
shade of feeling its distinction, its permanence, and its charm; 
that his thoughts seem to come to us on wings of melodies 
prepared for them from the foundation of the world .” 1 

But it does not seem that Mr. Pater means this only. We 
have the right to conclude from passages which may be 
emphasised, that he has in view the more questionable notion 
that fine arts in their most consummate moments all aspire 
toward vagueness of intellectual intention—that a well-defined 
subject in poetry and painting and sculpture is a hindrance 
to artistic quality—that the lust of the eye or of the ear is of 
more moment than the thought of the brain. Art, he says, 
is “ always striving to be independent of the mere intelli¬ 
gence, to become a matter of pure perception, to get rid cf 
its responsibilities to its subject or material.” “ Lyrical 
poetry,” he says, “just because in it you are least able to 
detach the matter from the form without a deduction of some¬ 
thing from that matter itself, is, at least artistically, the 
highest and most complete form of poetry. And the very 
perfection of such poetry often seems to depend in part on 
a certain suppression or vagueness of mere subject , so that 
the definite meaning almost expires , or reaches us through 
ways not distinctly traceable by the understanding.” 2 

This is ingenious ; and it cannot be denied that the theory 
has a plausible appearance. Yet, were we to carry Mr. Pater’s 
principles to their logical extremity, we should have to prefer 
Pope’s Verses by a Person of Quality to the peroration of 
the Dunciad, and a fine specimen of Japanese screen- 

1 Essays, Classical, by F. W. H. Myers, p. 115. 

2 “ Fortnightly Review,” p. 529. Here the italics are not Mr. Pater’s, but 


painting to Turner’s Tdmdraire or Raphael’s School of 

So far as the art of poetry goes, he seems to overstate a 
truth, which is finely and exactly expressed by Mr. Myers in 
the essay on Virgil from which I have already quoted. The 
passage is long; but it puts so well the point which Mr. 
Pater has perhaps exaggerated, regarding the importance 
of the sensuous and suggestive elements in poetry, that 
I venture to think my readers will be glad to be reminded 
of it P 

“ The range of human thoughts and emotions greatly 
transcends the range of such symbols as man has invented to 
express them ; and it becomes, therefore, the business of Art 
to use these symbols in a double way. They must be used 
for the direct representation of thought and feeling; but 
they must also be combined by so subtle an imagination as 
to suggest much which there is no means of directly express¬ 
ing. And this can be done; for experience shows that it is 
possible so to arrange forms, colours, and sounds as to stimu¬ 
late the imagination in a new and inexplicable way. This 
power makes the painter’s art an imaginative as well as an imi¬ 
tative one ; and gives birth to the art of the musician, whose 
symbols are hardly imitative at all, but express emotions 
which, till music suggests them, have been not only unknown 
but unimaginable. Poetry is both an imitative and an ima¬ 
ginative art. As a choice and condensed form of emotional 
speech, it possesses the reality which depends on its directly 
recalling our previous thoughts and feelings. But as a 
system of rhythmical and melodious effects—not indebted 
for their potency to their associated ideas alone—it appeals 
also to that mysterious power by which mere arrangements of 
sound can convey an emotion which no one could have pre¬ 
dicted beforehand, and which no known laws can explain. 

“ And, indeed, in poetry of the first order, almost every 
word (to use a mathematical metaphor) is raised to a higher 
power. It continues to be an articulate sound and a logical 
step in the argument; but it becomes also a musical sound 
and a centre of emotional force. It becomes a musical sound ; 
—that is to say, its consonants and vowels are arranged to 
bear a relation to the consonants and vowels near it,—a rela- 

1 Essays, Classical, p. 113-115. 


tion of which accent, quantity, rhyme, assonance, and allitera¬ 
tion are specialised forms, but which may be of a character 
more subtle than any of these. And it becomes a centre of 
emotional force; that is to say, the complex associations 
which it evokes modify the. associations evoked by other 
words in the same passage in a way quite distinct from 
grammatical or logical connection. The poet, therefore, 
must avoid two opposite dangers. If he thinks too exclu¬ 
sively of the music and the colouring of his verses—of the 
imaginative means of suggesting thought and feeling—what 
he writes will lack reality and sense. But if he cares only 
to communicate definite thought and feeling according to the 
ordinary laws of eloquent speech, his verse is likely to be 
deficient in magical and suggestive power.” 

This is right. This makes equitable allowance for the 
claims alike of the material and the form of art—the intel¬ 
lectual and emotional content, the sensuous and artificial 

But to return to Mr. Pater. His doctrine that art is “ always 
striving to be independent of the mere intelligence,” his 
assertion that the perfection of lyrical poetry “ often seems to 
depend in part on a certain suppression or vagueness of mere 
subject,” contradict the utterances of the greatest craftsmen 
in the several arts—Milton’s sublime passages on the function 
of Poetry, Sidney’s and Shelley’s Defences of Poesy, Goethe’s 
doctrine of “ the motive,” Rossetti’s canon that “ fundamental 
brain-work” is the characteristic of all great art, Michel¬ 
angelo’s and Beethoven’s observations upon their own em¬ 
ployment of sculpture and music. Rigidly applied, his prin¬ 
ciples would tend to withdraw art from the sphere of 
spirituality altogether. Yet, considered as paradoxes, they 
have real value, inasmuch as they recall attention to the 
sensuous side of art, and direct the mind from such 
antagonistic paradoxes as the one propounded by Mr. 
Matthew Arnold in his preface to Wordsworth. 

It is difficult to see in what way Mr. Pater can evade the 
strictures he has passed upon his brethren, the popular 
critics. Whether a man selects poetry or selects music as 
the “ true type or measure of consummate art,” to which “ in 
common all the arts aspire,” will depend doubtless partly 
upon personal susceptibilities, and partly upon the theory he 


has formed of art in general. Both the popular critics and 
Mr. Pater take up their position upon equally debatable 
ground. The case stands thus. Mr. Pater is of opinion that 
the best poetry is that in which there is the least appeal to 
“ mere intelligence,” in which the verbal melody and the 
suggestive way of handling it are more important than the 
intellectual content. He thinks that the best pictures are 
those in which the “ mere subject” is brought into the least 
prominence. Holding these views, he selects music as the 
“ true type and measure of consummate art.” Herein he is 
consistent; for music, by reason of its limitations, is the least 
adapted of all arts for the expression of an intellectual 
content. The popular critic, on the other hand, is of opinion 
that the best poetry is that which has the clearest, the most 
human, and the most impressive motive. He thinks that the 
best pictures are those which, beside being delightful by 
their drawing and colour, give food for meditation and appeal 
to mental faculty. Holding these views, he selects poetry 
as the “ true type and measure of consummate art.” Herein 
he too is consistent; for poetry, by reason of its limitations, 
is the best adapted of all arts for appealing to intelligence 
and embodying motives with lucidity. 

Mr. Pater and the popular critic are equally right or equally 
wrong. We are, in fact, confronting two different concep¬ 
tions of art, each of which is partial and one-sided, because 
the one insists too strongly on the sensuous form, the other 
on the mental stuff, of art. 

Supposing a man does not accept Mr. Pater’s doctrine ; 
supposing he starts from another point of view, and demands 
some defined conception in a work of art as well as a sen¬ 
suous appeal to our imaginative reason ; supposing he re¬ 
gards art in its highest manifestation as a mode of utterance 
for what is spiritual in man, as a language for communi¬ 
cating the ideal world of thought and feeling in sensible 
form ; then he will be tempted to select not music but poetry 
as his type and measure. Thus it is manifest that critics 
who refer to the standard of poetry, and critics'who refer to 
the standard of music, differ in this mainly that they hold 
divergent theories regarding the function of art in general. 

The debatable point for consideration is whether either 
the popular critic rebuked by Mr. Pater or Mr. Pater him- 


self can legitimately choose one of the arts as the “ type 
and measure ” for the rest. I maintain that both are ex¬ 
pressing certain personal predilections, whereby the abiding 
relations of the arts run some risk of being overlooked. 
What the matter really comes to is this : while the one 
proclaims his preference for sensuous results, the other pro¬ 
claims a preference for defined intelligible content. Each 
does violence by his selection to one or other of the arts. 
The critic who demands a meaning at any cost, will find it 
hard to account for his appreciation of music or of archi¬ 
tecture. Mr. Pater, in order to complete his theory, is 
forced to depreciate the most sublime and powerful master¬ 
pieces of poetry. In his view drama and epic doff* their 
caps before a song, in which verbal melody and the com¬ 
munication of a mood usurp upon invention, passion, cere¬ 
bration, definite meaning. 

Just as the subjectivity of any age or nation erects one 
art into the measure of the rest, so the subjectivity of a 
particular critic will induce him to choose poetry or music, 
or it may be sculpture, as his standard. The fact remains 
that each art possesses its own strength and its own weak¬ 
ness, and that no one of the arts, singly and by itself, 
achieves the whole purpose of art. That purpose is to 
express the content of human thought and feeling in sen¬ 
suously beautiful form by means of various vehicles, impos¬ 
ing various restrictions, and implying various methods of 
employment. If we seek the maximum of intelligibility, 
we find it in poetry; but at the same time we have here the 
minimum of immediate effect upon the senses. If we seek 
the maximum of sensuous effect, we find it in music; but 
at the same time we have here the minimum of appeal to 
intelligence. Architecture, in its inability to express definite 
ideas, stands next to music; but its sensuous influence 
upon the mind is feebler. As a compensation, it possesses 
the privilege of permanence, of solidity, of impressive 
magnitude, of undefinable but wonder-waking symbolism. 
Sculpture owes its power to the complete and concrete pre¬ 
sentation of human form, to the perfect incarnation of ideas 
in substantial shapes of bronze or stone, on which light and 
shadows from the skies can fall: this it alone of all the arts 
displays. It has affinities with architecture on the one 

49 h 

hand, owing to the material it uses, and to poetry on the 
other, owing to the intelligibility of its motives. Painting 
is remote from architecture; but holds a place where sculp¬ 
ture, poetry, and music let their powers be felt. Though 
dependent on design, it can tell a story better than sculp¬ 
ture ; and in this respect painting more nearly approaches 
poetry. It can communicate a mood without relying upon 
definite or strictly intelligible motives; in this respect it 
borders upon music. Of all the arts painting is the most 
flexible, the most mimetic, the most illusory. It cannot 
satisfy our understanding like poetry; it cannot flood our 
souls with the same noble sensuous joy as music; it cannot 
present such perfect and full shapes as sculpture; it cannot 
affect us with the sense of stability or with the mysterious 
suggestions which belong to architecture. But it partakes 
of all the other arts through its speciality of surface-delinea¬ 
tion, and adds its own delightful gift of colour, second in 
sensuous potency only to sound. 

Such is the prism of the arts ; each distinct, but homo¬ 
geneous, and tinctured at their edges with hues borrowed 
from the sister-arts. Their differences derive from the 
several vehicles they are bound to employ. Their unity is 
the spiritual substance which they express in common. 
Abstract beauty, the IS ex rod xxXou, is one and indivisible. 
But the concrete shapes which manifest this beauty, decom¬ 
pose it, just as the prism analyses white light into colours. 
Multae terricolis linguae coelestibus una. 

It is by virtue of this separateness and by virtue of these 
sympathies that we are justified in calling the poetry of 
Sophocles or Landor, the painting of Michaelangelo or 
Mantegna, the music of Gluck or Cherubini, sculpturesque; 
Lorenzetti’s frescoes and Dantes Paradiso, architectural; 
Tintoretto’s Crucifixion and the Genius of the Vatican, 
poetical; Shelley’s lyrics in Prometheus Unbound and 
Titian’s Three Ages, musical; the fagade of the Certosa at 
Pavia, pictorial; and so forth, as suggestion and association 
lead us. 

But let it be remembered that this discrimination of an 
Anders-streben in the arts, is after all but fanciful. It is 
at best a way of expressing our sense of something subjec¬ 
tive in the styles of artists or of epochs, not of something 


in the arts themselves. Let it be still more deeply remem¬ 
bered that if we fix upon any one art as the type and 
measure for the rest, we are either indulging a personal 
partiality, or else uttering an arbitrary, and therefore incon¬ 
clusive, aesthetical hypothesis. The main fact to bear steadily 
in mind is that beauty is the sensuous manifestation of the 
idea—that is, of the spiritual element in man and in the 
world—and that the arts, each in its own way, conveys this 
beauty to our percipient self. We have to abstain on the 
one hand from any theory which emphasizes the didactic 
function of art, and on the other from any theory, however 
plausible, which diverts attention from the one cardinal 
truth: namely, that fine and liberal art, as distinguished 
from mechanical art or the arts of the kitchen and millinery, 
exists for the embodiment of thought and emotion in forms 
of various delightfulness, appealing to what Mr. Pater has 
well called the imaginative reason, that complex faculty 
which is neither mere understanding nor mere sense, by 
means of divers sensuous suggestions, and several modes of 
concrete presentation. John Addington Symonds. 



Again, O Christ, the bell at Llanagryn! 

I heard aright? No, no ! the hills are high, 

Too high for any wind of earth to bear 

The sound across the rush-pools on the heights, 

The circle of bleached stones, the early way, 

The fallen cromlechs, and the miles of waste : 

It cannot be. Yet, hush !—again, twice, thrice. 
Fool, that I am ! my conscience’s in my ears ; 

It is not full time for the Angelus, 

It is not six. And yet ’twas thus I heard 
The very sound on Pensarn that foul night 
Which makes all days and nights, that follow it, 
Terrible as itself; for on that night 
I bade Thwane come. Twas he alone of man 
Or living thing I hated. Well he knew 
I loved but Jeffrey, yet he asked my love ; 

Nor asked it only, but he dogged my steps 
And daily made unholy taunts, till he 
Seemed like a storm of slander o’er our heads, 
Ready to burst, and with a flood of lies 
Deluge my love for—nay, ’twas more than love,— 
Myself in Jeffrey. Therefore hour by hour 
A swift consuming hatred grew in me, 

A hatred of his looks, his ways, his words, 

Unbearable and restless, and became 

Stronger than Love, Love that is strong as Death. 

And so I said to him, “ Come, Thwane, to-night 

By Ave-bell at nightfall (for it was 

Well in the waning of the year); come, Thwane, 

To Merlin’s seat on Pensarn, half-way up 

That silent mountain. Know you it ? It hangs 

Over the ocean towards Anglesea.” 

And he replied, “ I know it.” And I said, 

“ Thwane, I will give until you ask no more.” 

Then all that afternoon it seemed the sun 
Scarce journied in the heavens, but held the day 
The space of many days ; and when at length 
He past into the sea the hurrying night 


Dropt oversoon, like Death, upon the land 
And all the ocean. So in haste I sped 
Up Pensarn till I reached old Merlin’s seat, 

And crouched beside it. Then I heard him come 
Over the gorse and bracken ; and I said 
Within myself, “ ’Tis early that he comes.” 

And when he came I feigned a stricken voice, 

“ Hush ! speak not for God’s sake; someone is near. 
And this I feigned, because I inly feared 
That if I heard some word that Jeffrey used 
Fall from his lips, it might abate my purpose; 

So whispered, “ Hush ! ” Nor did I look on him, 
Lest seeing he was flesh and blood as we, 

I should forget my hatred ; so I clenched 
My eyes, and drove my soul into my hands 
And all my fingers : and I spoke again, 

“ The night is cold and biting, you shall have 
My wimple for a neckcloth.” And undid 
Quickly my linen wimple from my face 
And made a neckcloth. He was looking round, 

I think, into the night, perchance to find 
The feigned intruder, and scarce heeded he 
My words : yet I stayed not for yea or nay, 

But threw my linen wimple round his throat 
And tied it thus, and thus, and thus; and he 
Sank like a sleeping child, down at my feet. 

Then knew I I had given as I said, 

Nor should he ask again; and so I laughed, 

And all the hill-side rang out with my laugh. 

Whether it was that I had tied too well 
The neckcloth I had made him ; or that the night 
Grew darker then, so that I could not see 
How I had tied the knot; yet this I know, 

That, fumbling at the wimple, I had bowed 
Myself over his body, and my thoughts 
Presently wandered from my fingers, on, 

On till I found my eyes held by his eyes. 

It was not all at once I knew the truth. 

It came not as the bell’s sound came just now, 


Suddenly, in an instant. It dawned, dawned 
Mysteriously and terribly by degrees 
Upon my half-numbed sense. It seemed as though 
Someone had told it me again, again ; 

And my poor ears had heard again, again, 

What had been told me, but my wretched heart 
Dared not to understand it. Yet, at last, 

The iron truth broke on me that not Thwane, 

Not Thwane—’twas Jeffrey! Then it was I heard 
The Angelus ring out from Llanagryn. 

It must have been the loosening of the knot 
That did release the little dregs of life 
From out his lips; for suddenly I caught 
A struggling word, as yet I knelt by him 
Bowed, like a stone and speechless. Why did he 
Speak as he did ? He should have cursed me there, 
There where I knelt! But no, ’twas not to be ; 

For this poor heart of grief too soon divined, 

From half-said words and broken sentences, 

As life came back in waves to ebb again, 

Ebb unto death, how he had heard it tost, 

For gossip ’twixt the serfs, that I that night 
Should meet with Thwane at some appointed place. 
But here his soul, as if’t had been aware, 

Endeavour as it might, it could but speak 
Once and begone, shook like a winter leaf 
Within its fair-made house of flesh ; and he 
Strained all his passing breath into these words, 
Crying, “ I thought to follow unobserved 
And find the truth; now have I found the truth. 
’Twas but a snare that you might strangle me! 

But I forgive you.” Then the thin life went 
Up from him like a bubble in a stream. 

Whereat my tongue was loosened, and I poured 
The bitter, bitter truth into his ears 
In vain, for he was dead and heard me not. 

But Thou, Christ, Who canst disabuse the soul, 
Wilt Thou permit him in the dismal grave 
To say unto his ever-breaking heart, 


“ Woe! woe ! ’twas but a snare to strangle me I ” 

Still did I pour into his ruthless ears 
My own exceeding love for him, my hate 
Of Thwane; my love, my fear, and my revenge ; 
Until I knew there stood above my head 
A shadow of darkness. And I raised my eyes, 

And it was Thwane ; and Thwane said, “ Even thus 
You would have sated me.” And so I knew 
That nothing of this grief was hid from him. 

And Thwane went on, “Now shall you come with me, 
Into a place where we shall not be found, 

And do my bidding. Come, or I will go 
To Hendre telling all that I have seen.” 

Then I rose up, and with my finger-tips 

Smote him upon the mouth, and answered, “ Go! ” 

Yet neither did he go, nor did he make 

Me any answer ; but from Jeffrey’s neck 

He took my wimple, and he bound instead 

His leathern girdle, and he gave to me 

My wimple, crying, “ Haste, or I will do 

More evil to you than you would. Haste, get 

To Hendre, and keep silence ; for’t shall be, 

When they shall find my girdle at his throat, 

I shall have past into another land 
And in no place be found. Then will they say 
Jeffrey by Thwane was killed ; but you shall keep 
The secret of this evil in your heart, 

And day by day its weight shall grow on you, 

Till life become as grievous to be borne 
As love was sweet.” 

Then thought I, “ I will go 
Swiftly to Hendre, and arouse the serfs ; 

And they will overtake him on the hills, 

And he will suffer what my hate of him 
Has brought to pass.” So I, without a word, 

Turned like a hind to Hendre, and I ran 
Into the Hall dishevelled, and in my hand 
My wimple, and a lie upon my lips, 

Crying, “ Lo ! I was walking by the beach 
And heard a shriek as of a murdered man 
Come from the hills towards Pensarn ! ” 


Then they rose, 

Each knight and serf of Hendre, and they searched 
Height after height, even until they came 
To Cader Idris ; yet they found no man, 

But only one chill body ; and round the neck 
Thwane’s leathern girdle wound. And so it was, 

As he had said, they called him murderer. 

But I still keep the secret of these things 
Deep in my heart, untold to any man, 

For none may understand it. So the pain 
Of these things grows with me, grows for I hear 
The daily tattle call him murderer, 

Who only loved—Loved? Nay, speak Christ! Thou 

Had I but loved as he, Jeffrey had lived. 

Herbert P. Horne. 


gflate ’ftom an u:mulri5 Jngtjs/i'ma' 
ginibus/ac Ominefcripturc-r 
croat toctozdauctodtartbus 
ad fcftroitatu cogracrv 
dam Dccozamm: 



In the year 1650 was born John Bag- 
ford. His father apprenticed him to a 
shoemaker, but Nature had intended him to be the minister 
and scourge of bookmen, and to this end it was necessary 
for him to leave his last and seek his living as a caterer for 
the libraries of great men. He served his patrons honestly 
and well. His most embittered biographers do justice to 
the untiring zeal which made him take walking tours 
through Holland and Germany in search of bargains, and 
so little profit did he make from his business that it was 
only a nomination to the Charterhouse that saved his old 
age from penury. He was one of the resuscitators of the 
Society of Antiquaries ; he made a famous collection of old 
ballads ; and his contemporaries, when he died in 1716, paid 
elaborate compliments to his memory. Yet that memory 
has ever since been execrated, and the justice of the execra¬ 
tion is indisputable. When the name of John Bagford is 
mentioned book-lovers hiss through their teeth the word 
Biblioclast, and in that mysterious expression lies the secret 
of his misdoing. “ He spent his life,” says his latest biogra¬ 
pher with terrible judiciality, “ in collecting materials for a 
history of printing which he was quite incompetent to 
write.” His materials were title-pages, and it is probably a 
moderate estimate which places the number of them at 
about five-and-twenty thousand. About ten thousand of 
these are pasted into nine large folio volumes which now 
belong to the Department of Printed Books in the British 
Museum ; the rest form part of the one hundred and ninety- 
eight volumes of his Remains in the Harleian Collection 
in the Department of Manuscripts of the same institution. 
Specimens of Chinese paper, fragments of rare bindings, 
engravings, initial letters, publishers’ marks, literary corre¬ 
spondence, lives of the early English printers in Bagford’s 
manuscript, make up the other volumes of this melancholy, 
yet profoundly interesting, collection ; and if there be any 
reader of this paper possessed of a little learned leisure, it 

57 1 

is suggested to him that he might employ it to many worse 
purposes, than in working at this vast collection, and ascer¬ 
taining if no useful results can be extracted from the 
materials so laboriously amassed. The title-pages, with 
which we are here concerned, have already been to a con¬ 
siderable extent arranged in rough chronological order under 
the towns at which they were printed. A glance through 
the earlier volumes may incline the student to take a some¬ 
what lenient view of Bagford’s misdoings. A book is always 
a book, but if any are to be selected for mutilation it would 
be hard to make a better choice than Dutch and German 
works of theology. Even the first volume of English relics 
awakes nothing ferocious in the way of indignation, though 
it contains spoils from Florio’s “ Montaigne,” from Withers’ 
“ Fidelia,” from Cotgrave’s Dictionary, and from the 
“ Declaration of Popish Imposture,” this last a work which 
we know that Shakespeare read, and haply in this very copy. 
But further investigation discloses whole volumes of the 
charming title-pages of Jean Petit and of our own special 
favourites the Juntas; even Wynkyn de Worde is not 
sacred from this destroyer, and as we turn the pages we 
tremble with mingled fear and hope lest we should light 
upon the colophon of a Caxton. To say this is to acquiesce 
in the strongest denunciations that have been launched at 
Bagford’s unlucky head, and there is nothing left but a 
mournful wonder that in days when old books were so 
cheap that a needy book-agent could afford to deal as he 
would with more than twenty thousand of them, such price¬ 
less opportunities should have been used for destruction 
rather than preservation. 

The earliest title-page which we have noted in Bagford’s 
collection is dated 1509, or just half a century after Fust 
and Scheffer set up their press. As is well known, in the 
evolution of the printed book from the manuscript, the title- 
page was the final complement. Not that all manuscripts 
are destitute of everything in the shape of a page specially 
set apart for the title of the work, but that the bibliographer 
demands from the title-page proper that it should contain 
not only the name of the book, but that of its printer or 
publisher, the town at which it is issued, and the date of 
publication ; information which in early books was reserved 


exclusively for the colophon. In the case, indeed, of very 
early books, without the colophon all but the most learned 
readers would be hopelessly at sea. Thus, when we open a 
book printed by Nicholas Jenson we find at the top of the 
first page : [C]um multi ex Romanis etiam consularis digni¬ 
tatis uiri, &c. &c., and are plunged at once into a lengthy 
historical work, which we may or may not be able to identify 
for ourselves. But when we turn to the end of the volume 
a double explanation is offered us; the first, according to a 
pleasant old custom, in verse, the second in prose. 

Historias ueteres peregrinaque gesta reuoluo 
Iustinus, lege me : sum trogus ipse breuis. 

Me gallus ueneta Ienson Nicolaus in urbe 
Formauit Mauro principe Christophoro. 

Justini historici clarissimi in Trogi Pompeii historias liber 
xliiii. feliciter explicit mcccclxx. From this we learn that 
the work is the abridgment by Justinus of the Histories of 
Trogus Pompeius, and that it was printed in Venice by 
Nicolas Jenson, a Frenchman, in the year 1470, when 
Cristoforo Mauro was doge. Here we have information in 
plenty, but to be obliged to turn to the end of a book to 
know its subject was intolerable, and was soon felt to be so. 
Even in very early books we sometimes find the title printed 
like a label on the first leaf, but the commonest plan was to 
head the first printed leaf with an explanation of the nature 
and contents of the book. This time we will take our 
example from a work printed by our own William Caxton 
in 1483. Here the first leaf is blank, the second has at its 
head: “ This book is intytled the pilgremage of the sowle, 
translated out of Frensshe in to Englysshe. Which book 
is ful of deuoute maters touchynge the sowle, and many 
questyons assoyled to cause a man to lyue the better in this 
world, And it conteyneth fyue bookes, as it appereth 
herafter by Chapytres.” At the end of the work this infor¬ 
mation is repeated, and the bibliographer also is given the 
details which he desires. Thus the colophon runs : “ Here 
endeth the dreme of pylgremage of the soule translated oute 
of Frensshe in to Englysshe, With somewhat of addicion, 
the yere of oure lord mcccc. & thyrten and endeth in the 


vigyle of Seynt Bartholomew. Emprynted at Westmestre 
by William Caxton and fynysshed the sixth day of Juyn 
the yere of our lord mcccclxxxiii. and the first yere of the 
regne of Kynge Edward the fyfthe.” On the verso of the 
first leaf of the British Museum copy of this Caxton the 
short title of the book is written in manuscript, and it is 
probable that the slow growth of the title-page is best to be 
explained by that same humility before the ornate and 
gorgeous flourishes of the scribe, which caused the early 
printers to leave blanks for the initial letters and chapter- 
marks to be filled in by hand. But as printers grew in 
pride they scorned dependence on any but themselves, and 
from 1490 onwards the appearance of the short title of the 
work on the first leaf begins to be the rule. Thus, in 
Vdrard’s edition of the French work from which Caxton’s is 
translated the title-page reads: “Le pelerinaige de lame,” and 
so with many other of his works. In one instance as early 
as 1493 the place of imprint is already added to the title- 
page, which runs: “ Des deux amans translate de latin en 
fracois et imprime a paris nouuellement.” This, however, is 
an exception, and down to the end of the fifteenth century 
what we may call the label title-page continues to be the 
rule, but occasionally embellished, sometimes by a printer’s 
emblem, sometimes by an ornamental wood-cut. 

To the two different methods of embellishment indicated 
in the last paragraph, the right-thinking book-lover will 
attach very different values. Both in Italy and France the 
addition of an ornamental wood-cut has produced some very 
beautiful title-pages. One of these is given as an illustra¬ 
tion to this article, partly for its intrinsic beauty, partly 
as a protest against the prevalent idea that the only pos¬ 
sible illustration to a title-page is a small steel-engraved 
vignette placed in the middle of the page. But though 
wood-cuts, if in themselves beautiful and in due relation 
to the subject of the work, form a very delightful embellish¬ 
ment, it is evident that they will vary in goodness with 
the condition of arts with which printers have nothing 
to do, that they form a serious addition to the cost of pro¬ 
duction, and also are incompatible with the presence of any 
but the least pretentious of publishers’ or printers’ devices. 
These last, on the other hand, are thoroughly in place on 




every title-page; they form an item of expenditure which 
need only be incurred once, and with the scores of good 
examples from which it is open to modern publishers to 
borrow, it can only be a certain perversity which even in 
the most degraded state of art can fail in securing a reason¬ 
ably good one. The addition of the publishers device to 
every book which is considered worth decent paper and 
decent print, is thus the first of the few suggestions which it 
is part of the design of this article to offer. The splendid 
device of Nikolaos Blastos (1499), which we give as one of 
our illustrations, errs indeed on the side of excess, since 
it dwarfs the title of the book into insignificance; but 
this makes it only the better example of the fearlessness 
of the old printers in their employment of this form of 

Of the last stage in the evolution of the title-page little 
need be said. By the addition of the publisher’s device the 
contemporary book-lover was informed both of the publisher 
and the place of imprint, and to this day the title-pages of 
the books of certain firms, who may have their own reasons 
for omitting the year of publication, tell their purchasers no 
more than this. Throughout the sixteenth century the use 
of colophons continued general, and during the years 1510- 
1540, while the full title-page was growing up, the amount 
of information repeated from the colophon is very arbitrary, 
consisting sometimes of date and place, sometimes of place 
and publisher’s name, sometimes of publisher’s name and 
date. By 1540 the full title-page had become the rule, and 
it is sad to have to state that the results of this laborious 
growth, especially in England and Germany, were singu¬ 
larly hideous, and became increasingly so during the next 
century. The causes or symptoms of this decadence may be 
reduced to three heads : (1) the disuse or decreased impor¬ 
tance of the publisher’s device, owing to the presence on the 
title-page of the imprint previously only given in the 
colophon ; (2) the desire to state too much ; (3) the desire to 
emphasize certain words in the title, which gradually degene¬ 
rated into an inane ambition on the part of the printer to 
show off the multiplicity of his types. On the second and 
third of these causes it is necessary to say a few words. 
The earliest titles were as a rule quite short, and readers 


were left to discover the names sometimes of authors, and 
almost invariably of editors and translators, from prefatory 
or commendatory epistles. But as editions multiplied such 
information as this had necessarily * to be placed on the 
forefront of the book, and soon we have elaborate explana¬ 
tions of how commentator B has improved upon the 
labours of commentator A, and how everything has been 
‘ diligentissime castigatum ’ and is now ‘ multo quam antea 
accuratius.’ The habit of ‘ book-building ’ also soon came 
into existence, and the problem had to be faced of duly 
informing purchasers of the contents of a volume made up 
of several parts, each by a different author. Two Aldine 
title-pages may serve as examples of how the elder printers 
met this difficulty of long titles. ‘ In hoc libro haec con¬ 
tinents’ runs the head-line of a title-page 1495; and 
then follow in eight successive paragraphs, ‘ Constantini 
Lascaris Erotemata cu interpretatione latina,” and a list 
of seven other works. Again, in a Horace of 1519 the 
title “ Q. Horatii Flacci Poemata Omnia” in large type, 
is followed by a long list of editors, index-makers, etc., 
printed in small italics arranged triangularly. In both 
cases the title-page keeps its antique massive appearance, 
while full information is given with all possible clearness. 
But such simplicity was not to the taste of later printers, 
and the titles of similarly composed books are soon spread 
over the whole page, with a painful repetition of every pos¬ 
sible synonym for the phrase ‘To which is added.’ To 
further assist the reader in detecting the merits of the book 
offered for sale, the important words in the title were now 
brought into prominence by the use of different types, or by 
the interchange of red and black ink. These alterations 
made woful havoc with the beauties which had characterized 
the old title-pages, but at least they were prompted by a 
reasonable aim, and were, therefore, to be excused, if 
regretted. But with the continued decadence of the art of 
printing, all method was lost in the madness which seized 
on those responsible for sixteenth- and seventeenth-century 
title-pages. When red ink was used at all it appeared in 
alternate lines with black; the size of types was regulated 
sometimes by a desire to begin with the largest, at others 
without even this show of reason. In an edition of “A/ 


Second/ part of Essayes/ by Sir W. Cornwallis,” the word 
‘ Second ’ is twice the size of any other; so in the title- 
page of ‘ Certaine Miscellany works of the Right Honour¬ 
able Francis, Lo. Verulam, Viscount St. Albans,’ the 
words ‘ The Right Honourable ’ are large enough to swallow 
all the rest. Along with these absurdities another custom 
may be mentioned by which, the necessity of a multiplicity 
of types being regarded as over-riding the requirements of 
sense, one half of a word would often be printed in large 
type, the other in small. Examples of this arrangement 
maybe found in the advertising columns of most newspapers, 
and therefore need not be given here. 

The above brief summary of the misdoings of Elizabethan 
printers justifies some measure of congratulation that at 
least in this respect we are better than our fathers. But the 
repentance of modern printers and publishers is marked by 
much timidity. The merits of the old title-pages may be sum¬ 
marized as consisting in : (i) the quaintness and beauty of 
their printer’s emblems ; (2) the restriction of the number of 
types to a minimum, which usually allowed only one, and 
seldom more than two; (3) the massive arrangement of 
these types either in rectangles like those now used in this 
magazine, or triangles, as in our Junta illustration; (4) the 
skilful use of red ink. During the last few years our leading 
publishers have revived the use of emblems, but with an 
obvious alarm lest they should appear too conspicuous on 
the title-page. The multiplicity of types continues an evil. 
A book published the other day, and printed by one of the 
best firms of printers, has no less than twelve varieties on 
its title-page, and six or seven are not an uncommon number. 
The massive arrangement of the words of the title has ap¬ 
peared not only in this magazine, and in the publications 
of the Villon Society, but even in some stray volumes of 
shilling reprints. As for red ink, everybody uses it, but 
alas, without much discretion. To fall into a form of expres¬ 
sion which has closed many a preface: if the beauty of our 
illustration shall persuade but a single publisher to mass all 
his red (N.B. not pink) in one portion of the title-page, and 
leave the rest in the simplicity of sables, “this article will 
not have been written in vain.” Alfred W. Pollard. 



A friend of mine was shewing me the 
other day some charming verses, which 
he had just finished; and their moral, 
certainly, was not less excellent than their 
rhythm. Why should we lament Greek 
Helen, they said, and those wonderful loves of Horace and 
Catullus ? If only we have eyes to see, and will keep them 
open, in London we shall meet with ladies as beautiful as 
they were, and our experiences may prove as romantic as ever 
the most poetical spirit can wish. 

So Lawrence Burton, the artist, seems to have found. 
His twelve-month’s worship of Ethel Calderon grows deeper 
day by day. That her beauty has taken possession of him, 
anybody who calls him friend, and watches the develop¬ 
ment of his work, may see easily enough. Not that 
Lawrence raves about her, or pesters his acquaintance with 
sonnets written to her eyes and hair: but sometimes in the 
confidence of an evening’s smoke together our talk has fallen 
upon Ethel: and then one may learn what she is to him by 
hints assuredly significant; while in the faces and figures of 
his drawings we are struck by perpetual reminiscences, 
consciously and unconsciously recorded, of the girl’s curious 

Yet, would everybody be charmed by her, or even allow 
that she was beautiful ? Let me try and draw you a sketch 
of the young lady, that held out her hand to me with just 
the slightest smile, when one day a few months since 
Lawrence was good enough to introduce us. Tall, and 
singularly slight in figure, she was dressed in a plain, dark- 
blue serge, that fitted closely; and her hat of the same 
material was trimmed with dark blue ribbon. The effect of 
such austere adornment was certainly to emphasize both her 
features and the finely curved lines of her figure. The dark- 
brown eyes, as you first met her, were what struck you at 
once : they appeared even extraordinarily large : but almost 
immediately, as she kept looking out on you frankly with 
them, you felt that this appearance of largeness was not 
wholly dependent upon actual size, but upon the iris and the 
pupil being almost of a single shade, recalling to you irre- 


sistibly the blank, patient, pathetic look of some beautiful 
animals. Above them the brow sloped back with the subtle 
curve, which characterizes the heads of Hera or Athene on 
ancient coins; the low, white brdw, passing into delicate 
gray beneath a cluster of little, brown curls, which just 
showed themselves from under the blue serge of her simple 
hat. It was not of a Greek, however, that the girl’s slightly 
aquiline nose reminded you, but of a Florentine relief of the 
Renaissance : the sensitive curl of the nostril leading you, 
as by an artistically considered transition of Nature herself, 
on to the wide and perfectly struck curve of her full, ripely- 
coloured lips: the full brown of the large eyes, the full red¬ 
ness of the large mouth, being at once, and almost weirdly, 
emphasized against the general paleness of the flesh. The 
whole head was small, and set daintily forward on a long, 
slender neck. Donatello would have seized on such a model 
at once. With what loving subtlety would his delicate fingers 
have left us a portrait of her to wonder at in the low, 
marble relief! I think he would have altered little : I think 
he would have recognized a “subject made,” as if by an 
immediate providence, “ to his hand.” 

When Burton first came face to face with Ethel Calderon, 
she was quietly strolling up and down one spring evening, to 
the strains of that mysterious music of a valse, which, how¬ 
ever faulty may be the execution of the orchestra, is always 
irresistibly seductive. Their eyes met full : but they did 
not speak, or even smile. Physically they did not either of 
them pause for the infinitesimal fraction of a moment. But 
the delicate, intimate affinities of Love are not necessarily 
dependent upon conditions of time or touch: and after 
staying in the crowd a minute or two longer, as it were for 
the mere purpose of recovering himself, Lawrence walked 
out into the sharp April air, possessed. In his diary for 
that evening there is a short, perfervid entry. It is partly a 
cry of pain, a cry certainly of wonder; the cry as of a man, 
who has been wandering about, not aimlessly, but with a 
dread upon him that this wandering may prove aimless after 
all in the end ; and who then comes suddenly full on his 
dream and desire there actually before him. In a moment 
there is a sense of God,'and he is down upon his knees very 
humbly, and in thanksgiving. 


I have hinted that Burton was not a man to carry his 
heart upon his sleeve. His most intimate friends did not 
immediately recognize by any word or manner of his the 
visitation of this new experience. His tall, powerful figure 
moved easily amongst us as usual. If anything, his careful 
dress was a little more careful; his grave face, and quiet 
behaviour, a little more grave and inward: as one thinks 
now, a sort of silence hung about him, such as becomes a 
man in some sacred spot full of subduing yet incentive 
influences. But this change, quite real certainly, was out¬ 
wardly so slight, that, though now we can recall it, at the 
moment it passed amongst us unobserved. For Burton 
himself, however, the heavens and the earth had opened 
their secrets: and in the centre of a new world of things 
stood the Lady, across whom Love had brought him that 
evening, transfiguring its objects and its aims, and inducing in 
him strange, new fancies, and determinations towards them. 

But the nature of every real artist is sensuous: it is not 
content with the contemplation of life’s secrets as ideas, but 
desires veritably to touch and handle them. And so it was 
inevitable, that Lawrence Burton should set himself to meet 
Miss Calderon, to become acquainted with her, to let her 
know, whatever might be the manner of her accepting the 
intelligence, what a significance her existence had for him. 
And assuredly in this case there did not seem to be those 
initial difficulties, with which the conventionalisms of society 
hedge around the first advances of an acquaintance. The 
difficulties were rather such as sprang from Burton’s own 
self-consciousness, from his overstrained fear of being 
jestingly, even, as was not at least impossible, with some 
coarseness, repelled; or of a shocking disappointment, 
supposing the feelings or the words of the girl should not 
be such as were the proper complement of her physical 
beauty. For many days together he sought her at the time, and 
in the places, that he fancied were likely again to bring them 
face to face. Yet face to face they came more than once, * 
and passed one another by. The man’s sensitive horror of 
repulse or of disappointment rendered him quite foolishly 
vacillating; as it is with us when we fear to move close up 
to a beautiful bird or butterfly, lest we should frighten the 
fairness away, and wholly lose it. 


Their acquaintance came of course finally, came one 
evening in a manner almost as sudden as was that of the first 
meeting. Burton’s eyes met Ethel’s not for the first or the 
second time; and the faint, nervous smile, which gathered up 
her lips into an even more beautiful curve, was surely Love’s 
own call of recognition and acceptance. As he raised his 
hat and spoke to her, his first sensation was one of wonder 
as to what it was, that could have kept them so long apart: 
his own sister seemed scarcely better known to him ; nor 
was his behaviour towards Ethel, unspoiled by any taint of 
shyness, less easy than would have been natural in a brother. 
Miss Calderon lived down by the river at Chelsea: and in 
a week’s time Lawrence Burton might have been found there 
spending the afternoon with her, and her friend, Catarina; 
with a little pencil sketch of that exquisite renaissance head 
in his pocket-book, drawn hastily, but not without care, in 
the half-hour that they had been alone together, before after¬ 
noon tea came in, and they could be alone no longer. 

A week, a month, three months passed, and Burton seldom 
visited, or even saw, Ethel. The dear child had grown 
more dear to him ; but he doubted seriously, whether on her 
part she had any care for his existence. Moreover there was 
this characteristic scrupulosity about the way of his affection 
for the girl, that, whenever he called at Chelsea, or went 
wandering to meet her elsewhere, he would not willingly 
present himself without some sweet sacrament, as he un¬ 
affectedly held it to be, of his devotion ; at the least a 
daintily-tied box of sweetmeats ; a soft, silk handkerchief to 
guard the slim neck and lie amid the warmth of the low 
bosom; or, more frequently, a delicately arranged bunch of 
choice and fragrant flowers, with their natural leaves, which 
he would pin against the white frills of her tightly-fitting 
dress, as a piece of positive colour, that made even more 
seductive the pearl tints of her throat and shell-like ear; and 
over which, as he left them there, his kiss, while their lips 
pressed full on one another, was to his fancy a religious, 
consecrating ceremony. But choice offerings, however 
small, selected here and there with no little thought as 
to their appropriateness, we cannot lay frequently at the 
shrines of our devotion without a sensible drain on our 
resources: and Burton’s resources were far from inex- 


haustible. He forced himself therefore into a state of 
self-denial, and tried hard to be content with memories and 
dreams. At the end of three months’ time he went for a 
long-promised visit into the country. It would have been 
different, had he been certain of any desire on Ethel’s part 
for his companionship; had his natural over-sensitiveness 
allowed him even a serious fancy, that such a desire might 
gradually be possible for her. But without certainty, and 
except under exciting, evanescent conditions of emotion 
nearly without hope, he kept himself steadily out of her way. 

On the afternoon that he returned home he found awaiting 
him a letter, directed in a strange hand. Opening it he 
found to his astonishment that it came from Catarina: its 
date was ten days old: by some stupid mistake it had never 
been forwarded to him. “ Ethel has been very ill, almost 
dead,” she wrote. “ She has asked me to send this, and beg 
you to come and see her.” 

In as short a time as a hansom could take him in 
Lawrence stood by the dear girl’s bed. “ How cruel you 
must have thought me,” he cried, “ I have been away: only 
this moment has the letter reached me.” “ I knew; I knew 
it must be so,” Ethel quietly answered. A faint perfume of 
violets filled the warm, dimly-lighted room. “ My child,” 
he said very softly, “ my child! ” And as their lips met and 
clung to one another in a long silence, I think that Hope was 
born into Lawrence Burton’s life. Selwyn Image. 



Songs are more generally diffused than 
any other form of Musical Art, and 
penetrate into the domestic privacy of 
more homes than any other kind of 
Music whatever; and consequently the 
condition of that branch of Art is a sort of barometer for 
the state of public taste in its widest sense. In a country 
where the most successful songs show delicacy and refine¬ 
ment of thought, neatness of treatment, rhythmic and con¬ 
structive interest, genuine sentiment and musical variety, 
taste may be expected to be healthy and musical intelligence 
high ; and in proportion as these things are absent must they 
be low. Of course barometers are not to be too implicitly 
trusted without knowledge of some other signs and tokens, 
in the heavens and elsewhere; and so may it be with the 
Song-barometer. Rut there is a good deal to be judged from 
both; and as far as the latter indicates anything, it must be 
judged that the great mass of the public in this country have 
for the past thirty years or so been sunk in a Slough of 
Musical Despond, such as can rarely have been provided 
for any other nation under heaven. The very facilities 
which song-writing has offered for making money with the 
very least trouble has been its curse ; and it has conse¬ 
quently become a sort of business, by which a lazy and 
slatternly taste is fostered in the public, and then fed with a 
perfect flood of insipid and commonplace concoctions, which 
have been consumed by the gallon, with the most pernicious 
effects to art. The makers of the patent trade-song, from 
which one may exclude successful composers in other 
branches of art, have been for the most part helpless 
dullards whose sentiment is sodden with vulgarity and 
commonness, whose artistic insight is a long way below 
zero, whose ideas of declamation are an insult to the 
language, and whose musical incapacity is tragi-comic; and 
these have been thy gods, O Israel ! 

But strange to say, while things are almost at their worst, 
hopeful signs of a change begin to show themselves. In 
default of a ready artistic supply of home growth, there has 
sprung up a very fair sale of first-rate foreign products ; and 


a few brave publishers have risen above the pessimism of their 
order, and made up their minds to encourage things which 
are artistically meant, and musically healthy—and last, but 
certainly not least, there are most encouraging evidences of 
the beginning of a new outburst of lyric energy among the 
very young rising composers. It is really surprising to see 
how they come on. A few have already made their appearance 
who show to an extraordinary degree the delicate quick¬ 
ness of perception, and the instinct for rounding off and 
completing the musical presentation of a first-rate poetical 
lyric such as is among the rarest of gifts—while those who 
have a healthy feeling for declamation of their own language, 
and are capable of being inspired by genuine poetry, and doing 
things which are musically interesting and refined, look quite 
a promising troop. How they will stand the difficulties and 
dangers of the way remains to be seen. Meanwhile the 
Hobby Horse hopes to have opportunities of nowand then 
carrying round a specimen of genuine English Musical 
Song—such as has artistic point, and delicacy, and purity 
of sentiment, or any of those many charms which lie in the 
province of the genuine song-writer; and he starts with a 
delicate and refined specimen by one of the foremost in the 
ranks of the newly-rising band, whose lyrics are beginning 
to be prized and welcomed by those who take pleasure in 
what is genuinely artistic. C. Hubert H. Parry. 




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The triple spire springs heavenward as of old ; 

The bordering limes stand touched by no decay 
Save Autumn’s ; still the gathered people pray; 

And ancient chants through ancient aisles are rolled 
Yet hath not Time even here, his wings to fold, 
Paused ; the hoar fane is full of yesterday; 

New blazonries dye sunlight; new array 
Of kings and saints the storied niches hold : 

Pilgrim, that hither stealest to behold 
The spot of thy departure on Life’s way, 

Clings a like garland to thy temples grey ? 

Is a like record of thy travel told ? 

Rich in the new, nor rifled of the old, 

Seek’st thou these precincts fortunate as they ? 

R. Garnett. 

September 23, 1887. 



Perhaps the one element of the art of 
Sir Christopher Wren, which abides with 
us above any other of the many and 
the art of that master, the one element in 
all his designs which, study we them never so often, occurs 
and reoccurs to us with new wonder and unfailing delight, 
is his unparalleled command over scale : I mean that felicity 
of his in so relating the proportions of the masses and lines 
of what is far away to what is near the eye, that the whole 
composition appears vaster and more sublime than it really 
is. The precise quality of this aspect of his art is of a nature 
so subtle and evasive, that it is to be suggested rather than 
defined however delicately. Indeed it is better that it should 
be sought out every man for himself, than that I or any other 
writer should attempt to give in words, what can only be 
completely expressed in Architecture, and is proper to that 
art alone. I will therefore make but one attempt to convey 
to you my sense. St. Paul’s is to our hand, and we can wish 
for no better example than the western front: so let us en¬ 
deavour to stand apart from the traffic under the low archway 
of Doctors’ Commons, and watch whoever may chance to pass 
on the opposite pavement: or perhaps we may be more fortu¬ 
nate, and find a man leaning against the south-western angle 
of the cathedral. His height, as he leans there against the 
plinth, will give us a certain unit of measurement by which 
we shall be enabled to form a lively sense of the height of 
that member. In like manner, knowing the invariable pro¬ 
portion of the plinth to the pilasters and entablature, we gain 
thesamesenseof the entireorder, and so of the second or super¬ 
imposed order. Only observe that I say a lively sense, not an 
exact knowledge, a sense that the dimension of this or that 
order is so many times the height of a man, not a knowledge 
that it is so many feet high, which tells us no more than any 
other mathematical conclusion. But I am digressing,and have 
carried you no farther than the upper order, while my thoughts 
lie with the colossal statues which stand about the bases of 
the campanili. We know but too well that these figures are 


colossal, and yet are but too well content, if so far the spirit 
of Wren has taken hold on us, to think of them as figures 
of men only a little above the life. We may see in it 
the ‘ ultima manus,’ or if we are people entirely of this 
century, a mere trick; but in the transition to these statues 
from the endeavour to estimate the upper order the eye is 
given unwittingly a new unit of measurement, and beholds 
in the campanili a visionary grandeur, which, had the figures 
been of another height, it would not have divined in them. 
In this indefinable relation, effected by these statues, between 
the western steeples and the men and women moving about 
the portico, Wren evinces one of the finest touches of his 
genius in its mastery over scale. 

It is doubtless a desirable and noble endeavour to make 
the cathedral of St. Paul’s a more beautiful house for the 
offices of the Church, and therefore, because of this added 
beauty, more winning to the people, that they should elect 
to worship there. In the reredos lately completed we have the 
first attempt of any significance to bring such an aim to pass ; 
and in this it is worthy of all commendation. Yet if we 
have any care for Wren’s work as a piece of art admirable 
in itself, the beauty of which is rather to be increased than 
out-done and set on one side, we must before all things 
observe the principles that he observed, the subtlest of 
which I have sought to point out to you in the foregoing 
passage. We must relate to the whole building whatever 
sculpture or decoration we may bring into the church, in pre¬ 
cisely the same manner as he related his statues on the west 
front to the dome and the campanili, and, indeed, all parts 
to the grand idea of his composition as a whole; for if we 
once break this harmony of subordination which runs through 
the entire fabric, there must needs follow as pitiful a result, 
as if the hand of the painter had erred in touching a mouth 
or an eye, or the finger of the musician in the midst of one 
of the fugues of Bach had faltered upon the clavichord. 

The matter then, which I propose to myself, is to inquire 
how far the method and temper of the designer of this new 
reredos is in accordance with the method and temper evinced 
by Wren in composing his cathedral ; to which end I shall 
first consider the plan of the reredos, and then pass on to 
the elevation. In the plan the main idea is that of a central 

73 l 

altar piece upon an oblong base, with a curved wing on 
either side. These in the elevation produce an effect as of 
one curved surface ; and placed immediately in front of the 
semicircular apse, the impression of the east end is that of 
curve against curve. But the unvarying practice of Wren, 
and indeed of all the masters of Renaissance art, is to 
counteract every curved form by a rectangular form, and 
every rectangular form by a curve either of a circular or 
other nature. His was too keen an instinct not to show 
him in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, that curve 
balanced only by curve, or line by line, produces a weak im¬ 
pression : and I think it requires very little discernment to 
perceive how feeble and unscholarly the effect of the apse 
has been rendered by the introduction of these curves in the 
plan of the reredos. But to appreciate this distinction more 
clearly let us turn to the “ Parentalia,” and learn Wren’s own 
intention in the matter. He had conceived, we are told, “ a 
Design of an altar-piece consisting of four Pillars wreathed, 
of the richest Greek marble, supporting a canopy hemis¬ 
pherical with proper decorations of architecture and sculp¬ 
ture.” In such a design, the rectangular form of the 
entablature, as it rested upon the columns of Greek marble, 
would have given the necessary foil to the apse ; while the 
hemispherical roof would have connected these two forms, 
and so have brought the east end of the church into a 
harmony; and I cannot conceive of any other form of 
altar-piece, save that of a Baldachino, which would have 
exactly fulfilled the conditions necessary to produce such an 

It has been noticed that in Gothic architecture the hori¬ 
zontal lines are always subordinated to those that are up¬ 
right, but that in the Classic styles the contrary principle is 
observed. One might refine this criticism still further by 
pointing out that though in the true Antique, as well as in 
the Renaissance buildings, the upright lines were never 
allowed to break the horizontal lines, yet in the later work, 
following, as it did, the Gothic spirit, and especially in the 
work of Wren, the total impression is no longer that of 
the horizontal lines lying grandly upon the earth as in the 
finest of the Roman theatres and temples, but eminently 
and essentially that of the Mediaeval churches rising with 


surprising height and spirituality of temper; for the old 
ordprs of Vitruvius had been informed with a new spirit, 
the spirit of movement and aspiration. If we would come 
to examine this sense of movement and see how it is 
attained, we should find that such an analysis is only to a 
certain extent permitted us, for the true secret of its nature 
doubtless is one with that of the inscrutable presentation of 
spirit understood in Literature, but misunderstood in Archi¬ 
tecture, as style. 

So far, however, as it is possible, I will endeavour to 
trace how Wren effected this. In the nave of St. Paul’s, as 
indeed in the choir and transepts of the church, the main 
pilasters, rising directly from low bases, are carried up with¬ 
out any break to the great height of the main entablature. 
The loftiness of these pilasters is insisted upon chiefly by 
two things, the omittance of any plinth, and the immediate 
imposition of the vaulting upon the attic of the great order; 
yet in the subtle management of these simple elements Wren 
obtains much of the sense of movement in that part of the 
cathedral. But I am wrong in saying that he entirely 
avoided the use of a plinth, for he has carried along the 
walls of the aisles, and between the pilasters of the arcade, 
a band of ornament at that height from the ground, which 
would properly have determined the height of the plinth of 
the great order. Wren has not, however, as an architect of 
to-day would have done, ruled this band of ornament where- 
ever it could reasonably be drawn on his elevation, but he 
has used it here and there only as he instinctively felt it was 
needed: and yet by this band of ornament he gives us all 
the advantages of a plinth, such as the sense of a solid base 
upon which the fabric rests, or the sense of a unit of 
measurement whereby we can scale the building, without 
any of the disadvantages which would follow in this instance 
from an interference with the essential idea of the upward 
movement of the great pilasters, consequent on the received 
employment of such a member. 

If entering by the west door we should chance for the first 
time to see the new reredos on a fair day, the impression of 
the whole, after the eye has become a little accustomed to 
the brilliance of the gold on the white marble, is that of a 
confusion of many columns and much sculpture resting 


upon a double plinth. Nor is the designer content with 
introducing a double plinth into a building of an acknow¬ 
ledged master, where this member is only suggested, and 
that with the most subtle and delicate art, but he must 
insist on their horizontal lines by introducing bands of dark 
coloured marble which stand out with astonishing signi¬ 
ficance, inlayed as they are in the crystalline splendour of 
the white marble. The result is an effect contrary to that 
which Wren has striven to obtain ; and instead of move¬ 
ment and sublimity we receive a painful sense of a deadness 
and lateral spread. 

i spoke a few lines since of the confusion of many columns 
and much sculpture ; to make my meaning clear, let us walk 
to either side of the dome so that we can see the wood-work 
of the choir-stalls. Here also is much ornament and of a 
most florid kind, the naturalistic carving of Grinling 
Gibbons. Technically it is very wonderful; but wonderful 
only as that pot of flowers by him, which shook surprisingly 
with the motion of the coaches passing by in the street 
below, was wonderful. Yet in this wood-work is neither 
confusion nor restlessness, because this wealth of ornament 
is never allowed to break or interfere with the chief lines, 
which are always of the simplest and severest nature. In¬ 
deed this florid ornament is subordinated to these simple 
and severe lines in the same manner as the lines themselves 
are subordinated, both in their kind and proportions, to the 
chief lines of the building. But in the reredos all these prin¬ 
ciples have been passed over; the chief lines are wanting in 
simplicity; the sculpture and ornament are neither subor¬ 
dinated to these chief lines nor in themselves finely dis¬ 
posed ; and lastly, the design of the reredos as a whole is 
not related to the design of the cathedral so as to become a 
part of it, as the choir-stalls and the screens of the side 
chapels are a part of it. 

The chief lines are wanting in simplicity. If we consider 
the lesser order of the colonnade in relation to the wreathed 
order of the altar-piece proper, we miss that perfect sense of 
union between the two orders which is distinctive of the 
finest work ; but if we pass on to the consideration of the 
lesser order of the wings in relation to the double plinth, we 
are distressed by a most unpleasing disproportion, an entire 


want of harmony; and without true harmony it is impossible 
to obtain true simplicity, else were baldness simplicity. 
But, moreover, there is a want of simplicity in a more 
definite sense ; for a double plinth and a double order has 
been used, where in such instances Wren has employed but 
a single order with the usual plinth. 

The sculpture and ornament are neither subordinated to 
these chief lines, nor in themselves finely disposed. I must 
confess I have been unable to discover what we are to under¬ 
stand by the term “ Greek marble,” of which Wren intended 
to fashion the four wreathed columns of the Baldachino: 
but from being spoken of as u the richest,” it would seem to 
have been of a deep colour, and not the marble of Pentelicus, 
or some other of an ivory sort. However, I am certain it 
was of such a kind, that viewed from a distance it would have 
appeared of a uniform tone : for a marble of a very pro¬ 
nounced figure would ill agree with the elaborate lines of this 
form of column. But the architect of the reredos has not 
only overlooked this nicety, but he has garlanded his columns 
with gilt leafage work; so that when we look at them from 
a distance the outline of the columns is lost in the sheen of 
the gilding and the mottling of the marble, and we do 
not receive from them that impression, which is the first 
thing to be demanded of a column, the sense of support. 
This is but one instance of a want of due subordination in 
the ornament to the chief lines of the design. But touching 
the disposition of the sculpture ; let us consider the central 
subject, the Crucifixion, as a mere arrangement of white 
masses against a dark background, and then turn to a fine 
example of the Florentine art it would emulate, such as that 
altar-piece by Andrea della Robbia in the cathedral at 
Arezzo, and how insipid an imitation does it appear by the 
contrast! What variety is there obtained by the simple 
balance of the crucified Christ against the two kneeling 
figures! With what delicacy are the three groups of angels 
on either side of the cross given their right degree of 
prominence; with what mastery are the winged heads dis¬ 
posed ! But here there is neither variety, nor a musical 
arrangement of the masses. 

Lastly, the design of the reredos as a whole is not related 
to the design of the cathedral so as to become a part of it, 


as the choir-stalls and the screens of the side chapels are a 
part of it. By placing the lesser order of the wings upon 
the double plinth, the highest member of its cornice is 
brought on a level with the corresponding member of the 
cornice of the pilasters that support the arcade; by this 
device not only is Wren’s practice in the use of a diminu¬ 
tive order inverted, but the whole effect of the arcade of 
the choir is dwarfed, and all the finest touches of his art to 
give that essential impression of movement and sublimity 
rendered of no avail. And this brings me to the considera¬ 
tion of the most serious defect of the whole design, its 
excessive height. Seen from the nave of the cathedral, we 
have in the apse an echo of the lines of the dome, and a 
beautiful close of the many lines of the building. It was 
desirable to hide as little of this by an altar-piece as possible, 
and so for this reason the form of a Baldachino especially 
commended itself. But now the apse is practically cut off 
from the rest of the church, and the reredos, from its great 
height and extent, becomes a portion of the structure, 
instead of the design of the cathedral. 

It would seem to me, so far as I have been able to 
discover, that the architect of the new reredos has en¬ 
deavoured to produce an effect of light and shade upon the 
white marble columns and golden capitals as they mingle 
with the perspective of the apse beyond, an effect akin in 
temper, though but superficially, to the temper of Gothic 
tabernacle-work with its want of restraint and its freedom 
from premeditation. But the mysterious effects of Wren 
were very differently produced. A critic, perhaps the 
subtlest of our age, has observed of Leonardo da Vinci that 
he was always desirous of beauty, “ but desired it always in 
such definite and precise forms, as hands or flowers or hair.” 
And so it was with Wren, who was always so desirous of 
mysterious beauty, of vast sublimity, but desired it not only 
in the definite and precise forms of the architecture of that 
time, but in these forms used so logically that we can say 
why each is used as it is, and not otherwise: indeed, there 
is no whit of his detail which he has not argued out to its 
last conclusion. Of these mere externals of his art we can 
speak with precision, as one might gather up in one’s hands 
the abundance of a woman’s hair; yet the inscrutable spirit 
of the thing evades us, and we cannot divine, even in our 



own hearts, of what its mysterious beauty really consists; 
and who, then, shall speak of these things ? 

The day is almost too late to put forth any suggestions 
concerning the decoration of St. Paul’s : besides my re¬ 
marks are likely to be the most unpopular in this age of 
extravagances ; but this, by the way, is a reason why I 
should hazard them. Excepting, perhaps, some of the 
mosaics in the spandril of the dome, any attempt as yet by 
way of decoration, has been far from satisfactory. The 
gilding of the stonework makes but a tawdry show and is 
little in keeping with the solid magnificence of the masonry; 
and yet the problem is to tone down the cold effect of the 
interior, as we see it at present. If the stonework is to be 
left untouched, this can only be effected by the introduction 
of colour in the glazing of the windows; but here, again, we 
are met by another difficulty: for stained glass is essentially 
mediaeval in sentiment, and the substitution of the irregular 
leading of the modern windows for the square panes of 
Wren’s clear glazing is in result so unhappy, that the mellow 
light thus gained in no way balances the loss of the original 
paning, the effect of which was so finely calculated by Wren. 
There is in the three little eastern windows of the crypt, 
some painted glass which, I am told, has been designed 
and executed, within the last few years, by Mr. Westlake. 
Here the square panes are more or less preserved, and the 
design is freely drawn in a dark, reddish-brown colour, 
regardless in a certain sense of the lead lines; and no 
colour is introduced excepting the occasional use, here and 
there, of a simple yellow stain. Windows such as these, if 
we will only make clear to ourselves the difference between 
painted and stained glass, and the necessary conditions 
proper to the production of each, may be made as fine and 
legitimate examples of art as the Jesse window at York, or 
the windows of some of the French cathedrals. They would 
be sufficient to mellow the cold masses of the stone work; 
they would partake of the temper of the building ; and, above 
all things, the regular paning of Wren, which is so essential 
to complete the full beauty of the whole composition, could 
be exactly preserved in them. 

One word concerning the mosaics and then I have done. 
In spite of all that has been urged against Sir James 
Thornhill’s paintings in the dome, however unworthy they 


may be as paintings, yet considered purely from an archi¬ 
tectural stand-point there is much in them that is eminently 
satisfactory. It is easy to say that it was from no wish of 
Wren’s that their execution was entrusted to Thornhill, that 
the faults of perspective in them are unpardonable, and that 
Wren himself desired that the dome should be covered with 
mosaics. Despite even these objections, I cannot but think 
that their architectural lines were founded on the suggestions 
of Wren, and that any new design which is to replace them 
by mosaics must be based upon some variation of their 
constructional lines, if it is to be permanently admired. To 
me, that extraordinary sense of vastness, which we now feel 
on looking up into the dome, is due in no slight measure to 
the absence of colour; for the sombre tones of the grissaile 
work mingle with that cloud of grey atmosphere which so 
often hovers beneath the cupola, obscuring all, until we 
actually seem to fancy an apprehension of something beyond 
the dome. Cover this retired space with the brilliance of 
many colours, and from being far off and uncertain, its field 
will become distinct, and so appear nearer the eye than it 
does at present. But, after all, do not spaces that are nearer 
the eyes, such as the vaults under the balconies in the dome, 
at the junction of the aisles of the transepts with those of 
the nave and choir, first demand to be filled ? Let these, 
then, be covered with mosaics of a low and mellow tone, 
where neither gold nor vivid hues have too marked a 
prominence; for nothing is farther from the intention of 
Wren than this wealth of sumptuous marbles, this prodigal 
blaze of colour, who much as he delighted in the beauty of 
porphyry and jasper, and in the richness of splendid mosaics, 
spared yet to “ interpose them oft,” and was not unwise. 
He loved these things, indeed, but he used them seldom, that 
thereby they might appear the more precious. We err if we 
think that Wren conceived of his cathedral as ultimately to 
be filled with all the exuberance of the Roman art of his 
time ; it was conceived in the same temper as that in which 
Milton conceived the “ Samson Agonistes”; with the same 
severe restraint, possible only to the greatest spirits, as of 
one working in perpetual awe of the imminent presence of 
God; with the same simplicity and “plain heroic magnitude 
of mind.” Herbert P. Horne. 




We appealed to our subscribers, about a year ago, for a 
memorial to the writers who are connected with the English 
Lakes. The more pressing needs of the Royal Jubilee 
deferred the execution of our scheme; but it has not been 
abandoned, and in July we hope to report well of its further 
progress. We thank those who have already helped us ; we 
remind those who were interested in our plan, that subscrip¬ 
tions will now be thankfully received; and we refer all other 
readers to our number for January, 1887. 

The Century Guild. 


Miss May Morris has recently finished two large curtains, em¬ 
broidered from her own designs, upon a rich brocaded silk of a grayish 
blue colour. A scroll carried along the top of the curtain bears this 
verse, written especially for her by Mr. Morris, which best gives the 
idea of the design :— 

Lo, silken my garden, and silken my sky, 

Silken the apple-boughs hanging on high, 

All wrought by the worm in the peasant-carle’s cot, 

On the mulberry leafage, when summer was not. 

And so in this garden of embroidery a large scroll-like leaf, worked 
in pale green and white silks, mixed with other leaves and flowers, 
meanders over the blue background. On these are placed, in 
decorative masses, the bushes of the garden, or rather Giottesque 
clusters of boughs done in almost a vivid green, some bearing apples, 
others flowers, others fruit and flowers. Embroideries such as these, 
remarkable for the extreme beauty of their design, colour, and execu¬ 
tion, and important on account of their size, almost awake in us the 
hope that the days of the ‘ Opus Anglicum ’ may yet return to us. 

Amongst the many men of ability who gained the wide sympathy 
of Dante Gabriel Rossetti not the least remarkable was J. Smetham 
Allen. His mastery over his art is as wonderful as the means of ex¬ 
pression he employs is singular. Mr. Allen has the curious faculty of 
conceiving a design in silhouette so strongly that he is able, without 
hesitation, to cut it straight away out of a sheet of drawing paper ; nor 
does he first avail himself of any pencil sketch, or other preliminary help. 
These silhouettes sometimes contain six or more figures, and from their 
imaginative qualities, design, and beauty of contour, are, in certain 
ways, comparable to the outlines of Flaxman. They are, indeed, 
illustrations in the best and only admissible sense of the word ; for 
not only, as in a series recently done from ‘A Midsummer Night’s 
Dream/ is every subject thoroughly realized, but each design, from 
its imaginative rendering, becomes in its turn an original conception. 
In the hope that these few words may lead some of our readers to 
take an interest in Mr. Allen’s work, I will add that any inquiries will 
find him at i, Ockenden Road, Essex Road, N. 


The Architects : 

Messrs. Mackmurdo & Horne, 28, Southampton St., Strand, W.C. 

Business Agents for Furniture and Decoration, Tapestries, Silks, 
Cretonnes, Wall Papers, etc. : 

Messrs. Wilkinson & Son, 8, Old Bond St., W. 

Messrs. Goodall & Co., 15 & 17, King St., Manchester. 

Picture Frames designed by the Guild : 

Mr. Murcott, Framemaker, 6, Endell St., Long Acre, W.C. 

Beaten and Chased Brass, Copper, and Iron Work : 

Mr. Esling, at the Agents of the Century Guild. 

In drawing attention to our own work, we have added, with their permission, 
the names of those workers in art whose aim seems to us most nearly to accord 
with the chief aim of this magazine. Our list at present is necessarily limited, 
but with time and care we hope to remedy this defect. 

Embroidery : 

The Royal School of Art Needlework, Exhibition Road, South 
Kensington, W. 

Miss May Morris gives private lessons in embroidery, particulars 
on application, Kelmscott House, Upper Mall, Hammersmith. 

Engraved Books and Facsimiles of the Works of Wm. Blake : 

Mr. Muir, The Blake Press, Edmonton. 

To be had of Mr. Ouaritch, 15, Piccadilly, W. 

Furniture and Decoration : 

Rhoda and Agnes Garrett, 2, Gower St, W.C. 

J. Aldam Heaton, 27, Charlotte St, Bedford Sq., W.C. 

Carpets, Silks, Velvets, Chintzes, and Wall Papers, Embroidery, and 
Painted Glass: 

Messrs. Morris & Company, 449, Oxford St., W. 

Carving, and Modelling for Terra Cotta or Plaster Work : 

Mr. B. Creswick, At the Agents of the Century Guild. 

Designing and Engraving upon Wood : 

Mr. W. H. Hooper, 5, Hammersmith Terrace, W. 

Flint Glass, cut and blown, also Painted Glass : 

Messrs. J. Powell & Sons, Whitefriars Glass Works, Temple St., E.C. 

Painted Glass, and Painting applied to Architecture and Furniture : 

Mr. Selwyn Image, 51, Rathbone Place, W.C. 

Painted Pottery and Tiles : 

Mr. William De Morgan, 45, Great Marlborough St., Regent St., W. 
Picture Frames : 

Mr. Charles Rowley, St. Ann’s St., Manchester. 

Printing : 

The Chiswick Press, 21, Tooks Court, Chancery Lane, E.C. 

All Kinds of Wind Instruments : 

Rudall, Rose, Carte & Co., 23, Berners St., W. 

Reproductions of Pictures : 

Photographs of Pictures by D. G. Rossetti, 

To be had of Mr. W. M. Rossetti, 5, Endsleigh Gardens, N.W. 

Platinotype Photographs from the Works of G. F. Watts, R.A., E. 
Burne-Jones, A.R.A., and others, 

Mr. Hollyer, 9, Pembroke Square, Kensington, W. 

Processes for Reproduction of Pictures and Drawings as used in this 

Messrs. Walker & Boutall, 16, Clifford’s Inn, Fleet St., E.C.