of wickedness, which, consistent in evil, is callous to remorse; she was not yet unsexed. In her nature was still that essence, varying and mutable," which distinguishes woman while womanhood is left to her. And now, as she sate gazing on the throng below, her haggard mind recoiled perhaps from the conscious shadow of the Evil Principle which, invoked as an ally, remains as a destroyer. Her dark front relaxed; she moved in her seat uneasily. "Must it be always thus!" she muttered-" always this hell here! Even now, if in one large pardon I could include the undoer, the earth, myself, and again be human-human, even as those slight triflers or coarse brawlers that pass yonder! Oh for something in common with common life!"

Her lips closed, and her eyes again fell upon the crowded street. At that moment three or four heavy vans or waggons filled with operatives or labourers and their wives, coming back from the race-course, obstructed the way; two outriders with satin jackets were expostulating, cracking their whips, and seeking to clear space for an open carriage with four thoroughbred impatient horses. Towards that carriage every gazer from the windows was directing eager eyes; each foot-passenger on the pavement lifted his hat-evidently in that carriage some great person! Like all who are at war with the world as it is, Arabella Crane abhorred the great, and despised the small for worshipping the great. But still her own fierce dark eyes mechanically followed those of the vulgar. The carriage bore a marquess's coronet on its panels, and was filled with ladies; two other carriages bearing a similar coronet, and evidently belonging to the same party, were in the rear. Mrs Crane started. In that first carriage, as it now slowly moved under her very window, and paused a minute or more, till the obstructing vehicles in front were marshalled into order-there flashed upon her eyes a face radiant with female beauty in its most glorious prime. Amongst the crowd at that moment was a blind man, adding to the various discords of the street by a miserable hurdy-gurdy. In the

movement of the throng to get nearer to a sight of the ladies in the carriag this poor creature was thrown for ward; the dog that led him, an ngy brute, on his own account or is master's, took fright, broke from the string, and ran under the horses' hoo snarling. The horses became restive the blind man made a plunge after his dog, and was all but run ove The lady in the first carriage, alaru ed for his safety, rose up from he seat, and made her outriders dismount, lead away the poor blind man, and restore to him his dog Thus engaged, her face shone fill upon Arabella Crane; and with the: face rushed a tide of earlier memories. Long, very long, since she had se that face, seen it in those year when she herself, Arabella Cra was young and handsome.

The poor man-who seemed not to realise the idea of the danger he had escaped once more safe, the lady resumed her seat; and now that the momentary animation of humast fear and womanly compassion passe! from her countenance, its expression altered; it took the calm, almost the coldness, of a Greek statue. with the calm there was a listless melancholy which Greek sculpture never gives to the Parian stone: stone cannot convey that melancholy

But

it is the shadow which needs for its substance a living, mortal heart.

Crack went the whips; the horses bounded on-the equipage rolled fast down the street, followed by its satellites. "Well!" said a voice in the street below, "I never saw Lady Montfort in such beauty. Ah, here comes my lord!"

Mrs Crane heard and looked forth again. A dozen or more gentlemen on horseback rode slowly up the street; which of these was Lord Montfort?-not difficult to distinguish. As the bystanders lifted their hats to the cavalcade, the horsemen generally returned the salutation by simply touching their own-one horseman uncovered wholly. one must be the Marquess, the greatest man in those parts, with lands stretching away on either side that town for miles and miles; a territory which, in feudal times, might have alarmed a king. He, the

That

civilest, must be the greatest. A man still young, decidedly good-looking, wonderfully well-dressed, wonderfully well-mounted, the careless ease of high rank in his air and gesture. To the superficial gaze, just what the great Lord of Montfort should be. Look again! In that fair face is there not something that puts you in mind of a florid period which contains a feeble platitude?-something in its very prettiness that betrays a weak nature, and a sterile mind?

The cavalcade passed away-the vans and the waggons again usurped the thoroughfare. Arabella Crane left the window, and approached the little looking-glass over the mantelpiece. She gazed upon her own face bitterly she was comparing it with the features of the dazzling Marchioness.

The door was flung open, and Jasper Losely sauntered in, whistling a French air, and flapping the dust from his boots with his kid glove. All right," said he, gaily. famous day of it!"

66

A

"You have won," said Mrs Crane, in a tone rather of disappointment than congratulation.

"Yes. That £100 of Rugge's has been the making of me. I only want ed a capital just to start with!" He flung himself into a chair, opened his pocket-book, and scrutinised its contents. Guess," said he, suddenly, 66 Ion whose horse I won these two rouleaux? Lord Montfort's! Ay, and I saw my lady!"

So did I see her, from this window. She did not look happy!"

"Not happy with such an equipage! neatest turn-out I ever set eyes on; not happy, indeed! I had half a mind to ride up to her carriage and advance a claim to her gratitude."

"Gratitude! Oh, for your part in that miserable affair of which you told me ?"

"Not a miserable affair for herbut certainly I never got any good from it. Trouble for nothing! "Basta. No use looking back."

"No use; but who can help it!" said Arabella Crane, sighing heavily; then, as if eager to change the subject, she added abruptly," Mr Rugge has been here twice this morning, highly excited-the child will not act. VOL. LXXXII.-NO. DVI,

He says you are bound to make her do so!"

"Nonsense.

That is his look out. I see after children, indeed!" MRS CRANE (with a visible effort). "Listen to me, Jasper Losely. I have no reason to love that child, as you may suppose. But now that you so desert her, I think I feel compassion for her; and when, this morning, I raised my hand to strike her for her stubborn spirit, and saw her eyes unflinching, and her pale, pale, but fearless face, my arm fell to my side powerless. She will not take to this life without the old man. She will waste away and die."

LOSELY.—“How you bother me ! Are you serious? What am I to do?"

MRS CRANE."You have won money, you say; revoke the contract; pay Rugge back his £100. He is disappointed in his bargain; he will take the money."

LOSELY. "I daresay he will, indeed. No-I have won to-day, it is true, but I may lose to-morrow, and, besides, I am in want of so many things; when one gets a little money, one has an immediate necessity for more-ha! ha! Still I would not have the child die; and she may grow up to be of use. I tell you what I will do; if, when the races are over, I find I have gained enough to afford it, I will see about buying her off. But £100 is too much! Rugge ought to take half the money, or a quarter, because, if she don't act, I suppose she does eat."

Odious as the man's words were, he said them with a laugh that seemed to render them less revolting-the laugh of a very handsome mouth, showing teeth still brilliantly white. More comely than usual that day, for he was in great good-humour, it was difficult to conceive that a man with so healthful and fair an exterior was really quite rotten at heart.

I

"Your own young laugh!" said Arabella Crane, almost tenderly. "I know not how it is, but this day I feel as if I were less old - altered though I be in face and mind. have allowed myself to pity that child; while I speak, I can pity you. Yes! pity-when I think of what you were. Must you go on thus? To

2 Z

what! Jasper Losely," she continued sharply, eagerly, clasping her hands-"hear me I have an income not large, it is true, but assured; you have nothing but what, as you say, you may lose to-morrow; share my income! Fulfil your solemn promises marry me. I will forget whose daughter that girl is-I will be a mother to her. And for yourself, give me the right to feel for you again as I once did, and I may find a way to raise you yet-higher than you can raise yourself. I have some wit, Jasper, as you know. At the worst you shall have the pastime-I, the toil. In your illness I will nurse you; in your joys I will intrude no share. Whom else can you marry? to whom else could you confide? who else could—”

She stopped short as if an adder had stung her, uttering a shriek of rage, of pain; for Jasper Losely, who had hitherto listened to her, stupified, astounded, here burst into a fit of merriment, in which there was such undisguised contempt, such an enjoy ment of the ludicrous, provoked by the idea of the marriage pressed upon him, that the insult pierced the woman to her very soul.

Continuing his laugh, despite that cry of wrathful agony it had caused, Jasper rose, holding his sides, and surveying himself in the glass, with very different feelings at the sight from those that had made his companion's gaze there a few minutes before so mournful.

you always did, and always that is, while we are not tied a each other. Women who once or me, always love me can't help the selves. I am sure I don't know W except that I am what they cal villain! Ha! the clock striking seven -I dine with a set of fellows I have picked up on the race-ground; they don't know me, nor I them; we shall be better acquainted after the third bottle. Cheer up, Crane; and scold Sophy, and make her act if you can; if not, scold Rugge ina letting her alone. Scold somebodynothing like it, to keep other folks quiet, and oneself busy. Adieu! and pray, no more matrimonial solicita tions-they frighten me! Gad added Losely, as he banged the door. "such overtures would frighten Üni Nick himself!"

Did Arabella Crane hear those last words-or had she not heard enough' If Losely had turned and beheld her face, would it have startled back his trivial laugh? Possibly; but it wond have caused only a momentary uneasiness. If Alecto herself had reared over him her brow horrent with vipers, Jasper Losely would have thought he had only to look handsome, and say coaxingly, "Alecto, my dear." and the Fury would have pawned her head-dress to pay his washingbill.

After all, in the face of the grim woman he had thus so wantonly incensed, there was not so much menace as resolve. And that resolve was yet more shown in the movement of the hands than in the aspect of the countenance; those hands,-lean, firm, nervous hands,-slowly expanded; then as slowly clenched, as if her own thought had taken substance, and she was locking it in a clasptightly, tightly-never to be loosened till the pulse was still.

A LIFE of Michael Angelo, if not actually wanted, is at least welcome. A subject so great in itself, and so varied in its relations, may always be thrown into new aspects, and admit of originality in treatment; if already well worn, it can never perhaps be wholly worn out. Roscoe incidentally adorned it; Duppa placed it in some degree on a sound critical basis; Reynolds threw around it the garland of flowery passages; Fuseli, with the bold master-hand of Michael Angelo himself, built into the structure some rough-hewn blocks of granite thought; and now, lastly, comes Mr Harford, and by careful_compilation from all authorities, British as well as foreign, adds completeness and finish to a work which from the hands of the many had been left somewhat rude and fragmentary. Mr Harford's execution, however, though careful, is feeble; though elaborate, his work wants the grasp of thought and mastery of handling specially needed in the treatment of the life, works, and genius of a man so vigorous, stern, and gigantic as Michael Angelo. In like manner, Mr Harford's criticism, in its scope and purpose, though perfectly just, is wholly wanting in vital energy and searching insight; and precisely where originality is specially attempted, and unborrowed strength required for the striking out of new paths over unbeaten ground, does the enterprise break down, and the reader find himself at length landed nowhere. Much material is accordingly thrown together without grouping, connection, or result. Thus, the life of Savonarola is thrust in, and stands apart as a mere disconnected Protestant digression; the charms of Vittoria Colonna were too alluring to be resisted, and so are cast into a romantic episode; and in like manner, the revived Platonic school was a topic tempting to hackneyed philo

sophic disquisition, and accordingly the direct subject in hand is laid aside for the sake of unexceptionable moralising on the truth of the Bible and the purity of the Christian religion. All this is penned with taste and elegance; yet in the meanwhile the life of the hero suffers suspense, and these several digressions are with tedious length brought to a close without purpose or resultit being throughout evident that Michael Angelo was not tainted by Protestantism under the sway of Savonarola, himself no Protestant--was not softened into the lover under the charms of Vittoria-was not one whit less rugged or independent from having fallen into fleeting dreams in Platonic groves. Yet Mr Harford's "Life," we are bound to admit, is redeemed by some more negative merits. We must, at least, acknowledge, that we have not found a single sentence wanting in good taste, scarcely a criticism which ventures to depart from long-established results; the work, indeed, throughout, manifests care, diligence, research, and accomplished elegance. If it contain no facts, if it lead to no results which might not equally well have been compiled in the last or preceding centuries, it is, at all events, free from the affectation, exaggeration, and high-flown rhapsody of the present popular school of artcriticism. In its tone it is calm, dignified, truthful. These more negative merits undoubtedly claim for the work respect, though they cannot save it from oblivion. In short, this portrait of Michael Angelo has all the feeble elegance of a Carlo Dolce execution, all the painstaking elaboration of a Denner detail, and, as such, wholly wants the vigour and the genius of the great original.

Yet, as we have said, this Life of Michael Angelo, if not absolutely wanted, is not wholly unwelcome.

It is wholesome and profitable to revert at intervals to a genius so transcendent, to works of such undoubted mastery, and to a historic period so signally illustrious. We therefore gladly avail ourselves of the occasion Mr Harford now affords us of discussing these high though difficult topics. The genius of Michael Angelo is indeed itself a difficulty and an anomaly. His works long remain to Italian travellers a stumbling-block. Some captiously cavil at the obvious faults and extravagances, others loudly condemn what they have not sufficient mental greatness to grasp; while a few only at length arrive slowly and patiently to a just and complete appreciation of works so portentous in meaning, so mighty in manner. Duly to estimate the genius of Raphael is by no means easy, but far more difficult is it rightly to comprehend the works of Michael Angelo. By vastness and dignity of manner they rise beyond ordinary sympathy, by their frequent fragmentary state they require knowledge to infer and construct out of dismembered and rudelyfashioned portions the originating thought of the projected whole. The connoisseur is in the position of the comparative anatomist studying the remains of extinct giant beings, the spoils and attesting monuments of a world of wonders. Conse quently, as we have said in approaching the works of Michael Angelo, the many scoff, others stand in ignorant amaze, while the few only rightly estimate.

Again, the difficulty is certainly not lessened by the wide diversity of the remains themselves. Architecture original and bold; fortifications which the enemy vainly assails; sculpture foreign alike to Pagan and Christian models; paintings which have the dignity and power of sculpture, with the combined effect of architectural composition; fragments of poetry, inspired now by Christ and then by Plato,-all these multifarious and apparently discrepant works it is difficult to recognise as the offspring of one and the same creative genius. Now, in order rightly to comprehend this genius, not in its

repant variety, but in its con

sistent unity, it is manifestly needful that these seemingly dismembered fragments of poetry and architecture, painting and sculpture, should be fused into one compact and cosistent whole. It has been often said that "unity in variety is the fundamental principle of art: in these works the variety is but too manifest; their unity it is more diffi cult to trace. Yet, that there is beneath these varied manifestations a central and underlying unity, cannot be doubted. It cannot be ques tioned that the creative genius at work was ever consistent with itself; that whether it took words, stones, or colours, as the immediate language of expression, was a matter of minor moment; and that thus, throughout these diversities of form and material, the essential thought, the mov ing impulse, was individually the same. Now, if in order to solve the enigma of a great man's character and works we penetrate to the cɛntral source of power and action, it will be found that the diversified phenomena projected to the outer circumference of life are but the effects of a few central unities. The ultimate elements of earth are few and simple; the ultimate laws which govern the heavens are alike few and simple; and in like manner it may some day be found that the highest and most varied manifestations of mind may be resolved to powers not less elementary. Now, in order to comprehend the works and character of Michael Angelo, it is needful that we should thus reduce their wide and complex diversity to a central focus; express, if it be possible, their varied phenomena by a few simple terms; and then might we be said rightly and fully to grasp the vastness and variety of his wondrous genius, to understand in their causes, no less than in their phenomena, all that he did, all that he failed in doing, all which, if true to himself, and the world true to him, he might and ought to have done.

Accordingly, we think that a strongly-marked unity can be traced throughout the varied works of Michael Angelo. Taking some one figure as the special expression of his genius, we think th lose re