the way?"

"No letter?-No." "Tant mieux, I hate them," said the Captain. "I wonder how my sister is this morning."

"Would you like a messenger? I'll send down with pleasure to inquire." "Thank you, no; I'll walk down and see her."

And Lake yawned at the window, and then took his hat and stick and sauntered toward Gylingden. At the Post-office window he tapped with the silver tip of his cane, and told Miss Driver with a sleepy smile

"I'm going down to Redman's Farm, and any letters for my sister, Miss Lake, I may as well take with

me.

Everybody "in business" in the town of Gylingden, by this time, knew Captain Lake and his belongings a most respectable party-a high man; and, of course, there was no difficulty. There was only one letter-the address was written"Miss Lake, Redman's Farm, near Brandon Park, Gylingden," in a stiff hand, rather slanting backwards.

Captain Lake put it in his paletot pocket, looked in her face gently, and smiled, and thanked her in his graceful way--and, in fact, left an enduring impression upon that impressible nature.

Turning up the dark road at Redman's Dell, the gallant Captain passed the old mill, and, all being quiet up and down the road, he halted under the lordly shadow of a clump of chestnuts, and opened and read the letter he had just taken charge of. It contained only these words :

"Wednesday. "On Friday night, next, at half, past twelve."

This he read twice or thrice, pausing between whiles. The envelope bore the London postmark. Then he took out his cigar case, selected a promising weed, and wrapping the laconic note prettily round one of his scented matches, lighted it, and the note flamed pale in the daylight, and dropped, still blazing, at the root of the old tree he stood by, and sent up a little curl of blue smoke an incense to the demon of the woodand turned in a minute more into a black film, overrun by a hundred creeping sparkles; and having com

with his yellow eyes, made a stolen glance around, and lighting his cigar, glided gracefully up the steep road, under the solemn canopy of old timber, to the sound of the moaning stream below, and the rustle of withered leaves about him, toward Redman's Farm.

As he entered the flower-garden, the jaundiced face of old Tamar, with its thousand small wrinkles and its ominous gleam of suspicion, was looking out from the darkened porch. The white cap, kerchief, and drapery, courtseyed to him as he drew near, and the dismal face changed not.

"Well, Tamar, how do you do?-how are all? Where is that girl, Margery ?"

"In the kitchen, Master Stanley," said she, courtseying again.

"Are you sure?" said Captain Lake, peeping toward that apartment over the old woman's shoulder.

"Certain sure, Master Stanley."

"Well, come up stairs to your mistress' room," said Lake, mounting the stairs, with his hat in his hand, and on tip-toe, like a man approaching a sick chamber.

There was something I think grim and spectral in this ceremonious ascent to the empty chamber. Children had once occupied that silent floor, for there was a little balustraded gate across the top of the staircase.

"I keep this closed," said old Tamar, "and forbid her to cross it, lest she should disturb the mistress. Heaven forgive me!"

"Very good," he whispered, and he peeped over the banister, and then entered Rachel's silent room, darkened with closed shutters, the white curtains and white coverlet so like the dark chamber of white death."

66

He had intended speaking to Tamar there, but changed his mind, or rather could not make up his mind; and he loitered silently, and stood with the curtain in his gloved hand, looking upon the cold coverlet, as if Rachel lay dead there.

"That will do," he said, awaking from his wandering thought. "We'll go down now, Tamar."

And in the same stealthy way, walking lightly and slowly, down the stairs they went, and Stanley entered the kitchen.

"How do you do, Margery? You'll be glad to hear your mistress is better. You must run down to the town, though, and buy some jelly, and you are to bring her back change of this."

And he placed half-a-crown in her

hand.

"Put on your bonnet and my old shawl, child; and take the basket, and come back by the side door."

So the girl dried her hands-she was washing the teacups-and in a twinkling was equipped and on her way to Gylingden.

I. THE SUBLIME.

LONGINUS' Treatise on the Sublimethe most splendid and eloquent fragment of ancient criticism which has escaped the fire of the barbarian and the oblivious shadow of time, may, in its present state of imperfection, be compared to one of the ruined temples of Palmyra, in which city it was composed a few columns still stand in marble majesty, a few Corinthian capitals, broken and defaced, strew the ground; a temple in which, while the superb workmanship is in parts worthy of the spirit to whom it was erected, we perceive here and there, on some shattered illustrative pediment, that the artist's judgment was less sound than his imagination was bright and inspired. Though the sublime has hitherto escaped accurate definition, that of Longinus realizes its ideal as fully as any attempt made by subsequent writers to determine its nature; namely, that it elevates the soul above itself, and swells it with a transport and noble pride, as though what it heard was the product of its own invention. Its sources, he says, are-firstly, boldness and grandeur of thought, and the power of producing pathetic effects through the passions both of which depend on natural genius; secondly, on the skilful application of figures of sentiment and language such as Demosthenes' invocation of the heroes who fell at Marathon; thirdly, in a noble and powerful manner of expression; and fourthly, in dignity of composition, grandeur of periods, &c. This is far from a complete definition of the various phases and requirements of the sublime, for he altogether overlooks terror, which Burke considered as one of its chief sources; and in limiting its effects on the passions to the pa

thetic, has displayed but little insight into the capabilities of their spheresome of the inferior and all the nobler passions, when utilized by the conceptions of great imagination, being capable of being rendered sublime. Longinus was, indeed, a man of finer imagination than perceptive æsthetic judgment; hence his criticism is inferior to his eloquence, and images— such as those in which he compares the genius of Homer, as displayed in the " Iliad," to the rising, and in the "Odyssea," to the setting sun, which having lost its meridian glow, still retains its grandeur;-that of Plato, always divine, though sometimes vague, to the ocean and starry firmament, majestic and eternal, though often obscured by clouds ;-that of the grand and concise oratory of Demosthenes, to the thunder-rolling tempest;-that of the grand and diffusive oratory of Cicero, to a spacious conflagration raging on all sides with a sustained splendour. While, however, several of his illustrations realize the idea of the sublime as expounded by him, others well-nigh lead to the belief that he had no accurate conception of its true manifestations. Thus he instances Sappho's ode. As a description of the conflicting emotions of love, nothing can be more animated and natural than this poem; but it is not sublime, as it merely depicts the agitations of a soul conquered by the passion; whereas, if she had portrayed love as outlasting sorrow, death, and time, it would have been so. Longinus follows the method of the philosophers and rhetoricians in attempting to describe the art of the sublime ;-the art consists in great imagination and great nature.

Burke's Essay on the Sublime, which belongs to the Boileau and Du Bos

school, is, in several respects, an advance upon that of Longinus, inasmuch as he numbers terror among its chief elements; but even as a specimen of didactic criticism, it is, nevertheless, very defective. Metaphysicians gifted merely with the analytic faculty make indifferent critics when they do not superadd synthetic perception to analytic distinction. The elements of the sublime, according to him, are-terror, vastness, magnitude, obscurity, infinity; as, doubtless, they are. When, however, he says that "whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime," one recognises in part a truth, but at the same time the limitation and falsity of his definition. Neither pain nor danger are in themselves sublime, as the effect is to depress, not elevate, the mind and passions. Milton, indeed, portrays the pains endured by Satan; but the description of such agonies, the result of his overthrow, could not have been sublime, had he not in connective contrast therewith depicted the immortal courage, "the mind and spirit invincible" of the spiritual being by which they were vanquished. The fire of ambition and revenge with which Satan is inspired annihilates that of the hell in which he is plunged; and with him, as with the other rebel angels, it is the power of exercising their spiritual faculties in the midst of inconceivable torture which renders them sublime. Thus the recuperative logic of the inferior angel, Moloch, kindles hope from the last extreme of ruin :

"What can be worse

Several of Burke's remarks on the effect of obscurity, power, light, &c., are full of acumen, but he sometimes confounds the merely grand or magnificent, as in his instance of Vernon's description of Prince Henry in Shakspeare "all burnished, all in arms," &c.-with the sublime; and would frequently have had a difficulty in discovering illustrations in nature and literature for some of the principles he advances in his treatise.

His examination of the elements of the sublime, however, is marked by much more truth and originality than those which refer to the sources of beauty.

Any object, thought, emotion, or conception which conveys a sense of surpassing greatness, is sublime. In physical nature its sense arises from magnitude, vastness, infinity; in moral and intellectual, from the sense of power, intensity of emotion, from conceptions or combinations of imagination exalted into supernatural power by the expansive inspirations of passion. Before, however, proceeding to exemplify this element, so difficult to define, from literature, let us give a few illustrations from life. When Scipio Africanus, on the occasion of his being subjected to an accusation by the Tribunes, appeared in an assembly of the people, and disdained any other defence than by saying, "This day, twenty years ago, Romans, I vanquished Hannibal, and captured Carthage; let us proceed to the Capitol and offer thanks to the gods"-he was sublime. A priest once narrated the Biblical story of God commanding Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac, to a woman, upon which the latter said, "God would never have ordered a mother to make such a sacrifice" here we have an

condemned

sentiment. Darius offered Alexander half Asia and his daughter in marriage. “Were I Alexander, I would accept his proposals," said Parmenio. "And so would I, if I were Parmenio," said Alexander, to whose extravagant ambition the declaimer referred in the hyperbole "Eundem fortuna victoriæ tuæ, quem natura, finim fecit." This and Cæsar's remark to the terrified Captain of the vessel

"Nihil timeo, Cæsar et ejus fortuna vehas," are instances of the sublime in character. When, in the famous

passage in "Tacitus," Agrippina exclaimed to the centurion, whom her son, Nero, had sent to murder her, as he advanced with drawn sword, "Ventrum feri," we have an instance of the sublime of despair. The following anecdote illustrates one of its phases. A lion once escaped from the menagerie of the Grand Duke of Florence; all the people fled before it. Among them was a woman with an infant in her arms; in her terror and hurry she let it fall; the lion rushed towards it, and seized it in his paws. Suddenly, the despairing mother cast herself on her knees before the terrible animal, and with deep and dreadful cries implored him to restore her child-impelled by love, and nature victorious over reason-by an instinct of anguish, which led her to believe that nothing could be inexorable under such circumstances. Her position at that moment was sublime, and what ensued, no less; for the lion paused, regarded her fixedly for a moment, then, without injuring the infant, laid it gently on the ground, and strode away. She had but a moment-her only weapon a cry; but that cry of despairing affection conquered hunger, fury, death; raised the monster to the level of humanity, and made him by its influence sublime.

The power of producing sublime effects in literature depends, of course, on that of the genius, his mastery and treatment of his subject; but we are inclined to think that the general idea, that its chief source is the terrible-an idea, indeed, derived from the greatest poets hitherto-from Homer's battles, Dante's and Milton's hell, admits of much limitation. The higher the passion, the higher the degree of sublimity of which it is capable when treated by a great genius of this rare order. Let us suppose one with an imagination equal to that of Milton, who instead of depicting the passions of hatred, despair, revenge, would throw his conception into an epic in which the passion of love would constitute the principle of action. Let us suppose an epic founded on the love of an immortal spirit for a lost being, whom he would follow through a series of imaginative trials, adverse circumstances, terrible regions and events, and beings whose influence would be calculated

to destroy its divine inspiration, yet who still conserved its faith with courageous constancy;-such a story, worked out with Miltonic power, would surpass his poem, as a manifestation of the supreme ideal of the sublime.

The sublime, the highest emotion of which the mind is capable, and which has its cognate, but lower phases, such as what we call the grand, majestic, &c., is best illustrated from poetry, in its dramatic and picturesque departments. Before presenting instances of the latter, in which it may be recognised better than in any definition, let us present some of its aspects. As an instance of grandeur of thought, take the lines in which Virgil announces the destiny of the Roman people :

"Tu regere imperio populos, Romane, me

mento

Hæ tibi erunt artes; pacisque imponere

morem

Parcere subjectis, et debellare superbos."

Of the contemplative sublime, Pascal's Thoughts present some majestic instances, such as in those chapters on the nature and position of man, placed between the two abysses of infinity and nothingness, whose very consciousness of misery is a proof of his greatness-of whom he says:"L'homme n'est qu'un roseau le plus foible de la nature; mais c'est un roseau pensant. Il ne faut pas que l'universe entier s'arme pour l'ecraser: une vapeur, une goutte d'eau suffit pour le tuer. Mais quand l'universe l'ecraseroit, l'homme serait encore plus noble que ce qui le tue; parce qu'il sçait qu'il meurt; et l'avantage que l'universe a sur lui, l'universe n'en sçait rien. Ainsi toute notre dignite consiste dans la pensée. C'est de la qu'il faut nous relever-non de l'espace et de la durée." His estimate of the three orders of spirits, of power, genius, and goodness, in the chapter on Christ, is impregnate with his reflective grandeur.-"Les grands génies ont leur empire, leur éclat, leur victories, et n'ont nul besoin des grandeurs charnelles, qui n'ont nul rapport avec celle qu'ils cherchent. Ils sont veus des esprits, non des yeux-mais c'est assez,' &c. The following passage from Tillotson's Twelfth Sermon is noticeable for the moral grandeur of

its ideas, and as an instance of the figure of amplification, where each thought rises above the other to a climax :

""Tis pleasant to be virtuous and good, because that is to excel many others. "Tis pleasant to grow better and better, because that is to excel ourselves. Nay, 'tis pleasant even to mortify and subdue our lusts, because that is victory; and to command our appetites and passions, holding them within due order, and within the bounds of reason and religion-for that is empire."

As Milton's "Paradise Lost" is the finest exemplification of the union of the picturesque and dramatic sublime, let us select therefrom a few instances of the power of this imaginative passion. The description of hell in the first book is the most transcendant instance of the picturesque sublime in poetry. In this dungeon of limitless fire, whose flames shed no light, but rather a darkness visible, that serves but to discover sights of woe, regions of sorrowwhere peace can never dwell, hope never comes, the first view of Satan, hugely stretched on the flood, confounded, but immortal, raising his head above the main "with eyes that sparkling blazed," and his resurrection from the ocean of fire, is a powerful imaginative vision:

"Forthwith, upright he rears from off the pool

His mighty stature; on each hand the flames,

Driven backward, slope their pointing spires, and rolled

In billows, leave in the midst a horrid vale."

instance of the united magnificence of picture and sound:

"That proud honour claimed Azazel at his right, a cherub tall; Who forthwith from the glittering staff

unfurled

Th' imperial ensign; which, full high advanced,

Shone like a meteor streaming to the wind, With gems and golden lustre rich emblazed,

Seraphic arms and trophies; all the while
Sonorous metal blowing martial sounds.
At which the universal host up sent
A shout that tore Hell's concave, and be-
yond

Frightened the reign of Chaos and old
Night."

All Milton's images are remarkable for imaginative combinations, and, when chosen materially to illustrate a material object, they are so managed as to expand our conception of it by some spiritual relation or inference. Such is that in which the ruined archangel, in whom "the excess of. glory obscured" is compared to the sun new risen, that

"Looks through the horizontal misty air, Shorn of his beams, or from behind the

moon

In dim eclipse disastrous twilight sheds On half the nations, and with fear of change

Perplexes monarchs."

The description of Satan's exploring flight around the frontiers and up the firmament of hell, where his form is compared to a fleet descried far off at sea, hanging in the clouds-of Death (the sublime of with Satan-of the course of the obscurity and terror)-of his combat latter through Chaos-of its throne and vast unsubstantial ministersOrcus and Ades, and the dreaded name of Demigorgon-are wonderful conceptions. As instances of the imagination for the picturesque sublime, the following passages, the first chiefly, have no parallel in any literature. is preparing to battle with the angel Satan, surprised in the Garden of Eden,

sentinels: