serves; but, throughout his career, the powerful though secret influence of his wife can be detected. Elizabeth's character was little understood during the time of her reign as queen. Her mind in its truth and purity refused to descend to the flattery, to the idle and frivolous conversation required by the mass. For sixteen years she was permitted to enjoy her married life before the diadem of royalty was placed upon her head; but whatever might be the harassing difficulty of the times, the domestic happiness of the royal couple remained undisturbed. When the king's brow darkened the queen knew how to dispel the cloud with womanly tact. One day, annoyed by the carelessness of a servant, he burst into passionate invective. The queen allowed her eyes to wander round the room, as if in search of some object. "What do you want? What are you looking for?" he asked. "I am looking for the king," she replied, calmly. All impatience was gone. Frederick William IV. had understood his wife, and told her so by a grateful smile and quiet nod. "It was a pleasing picture to see them together," says one who knew them. The king, lively, witty, and full of humor; the queen, quiet, thought ful, and unchanging; the king's features and deportment mobile, and often excited; the queen always unimpassioned, without being cold, for a gentle amiability smiled in her large, open, beautiful eyes." During the king's illness in the autumn of 1857-an illness that terminated fatally on the 2d of January, 1861-Elizabeth's piety and devotion were first appreciated. The remembrance of those three years of ill-health is still fresh in the minds of the people, the few days that he spent in Sans Souci appearing as bright spots when contrasted with his frequent absences in Italy. Life grew darker and more painful, but, still faithful in joy and sorrow, Elizabeth tended him untiringly by night or by day. The difficulty of movement she experiences in her old age is, no doubt, attributable to her excessive efforts in nursing her sick husband. How he had loved her, he could only express at the close of his life by a look, but his last articulate words, in answer to her agitated in quiry, "Have you no word, no token for me!" were, "My dearly loved wife!" In his will he writes, "In the tomb I wish to rest by her side as near as possible. Ever since the death of her consort, the widowed queen has lived in peaceful retirement; a life by no means of gloom, for she believes, with a clear faith and joyful assurance, that he in whom her heart was bound has passed to an eternal and imperishable joy. Everything that the king loved, the lonely wife preserves. Every honored friend and servant receives frequent invitations from her. Her chief occupation is to visit the widows and children in their affliction, to relieve and alleviate their distress. Three days in each week are set apart for the discharge of the business of charity, when she receives every petition addressed to her, reads it, and investigates it, giving liberally where no want of worth is proved. Besides these charities, which extend over every province in the kingdom, she has established asylums for young children, asylums for the blind, the deaf, and the dumb. The queen had passed her happiest days in Sans Souci, so she has there established her home. The church containing the earthly remains of her husband is there, and she often seeks this spot, dearest to her on earth. Kind hands have worked white carpets to spread over the steps leading to the tomb, so that her feet may not rest upon the cold marble, and in a quiet niche a chair is placed, with an embroidered footstool before it. Around the vault itself are the green boughs of the palm, while every other space is filled with flowers full of deep meaning. The queen lives in the same room she had occupied in his husband's lifetime, and near it is her former work-room, which was also the scene of his death. Not a piece of furniture, not a picture, has been removed from the old-accustomed place. Upon the writing-desk stands the king's portrait, so successfully painted by Otto; flowers adorn the table, while the view from the windows is the pride of Sans Souci. Quitting the flowers and orange-trees, entwined together with ivy planted by the Empress of Russia and her children, the eye rests upon green turf and blossom ing fruitful fields, still farther off on town and country, and on Havel, where the sun shines upon blue floods studded with white sails. In the king's room, also, nothing has been altered. The only good portrait of the queen, obtained by Stieler, of Munich, has its place here, and upon the writing-desk stands the bust of King John of Saxony, whose queen, the twin-sister of Elizabeth, so resembles her, that the two sisters have been mistaken for one another even by their old servants. In one corner, where the wire bell of the first Frederick, with its red wooden handle, is suspended, stands the king's bed, with the wreath of palm to denote his dissolution. Near it are placed the chairs in which he was wheeled into the garden, his darling creation. His stick, cap, and gloves, have each of them found a permanent resting-place as tender mementoes. The order of the day is strictly regulated by the queen. At nine o'clock in the morning prayers are read during the summer months at Sans Souci, by the court preacher, Heym, and during the winter at Charlottenhof, by one of the candidates for the cathedral staff. Every member of the household has the option of joining in these prayers or remaining absent, but it is considered by all a privilege to attend. After these devotions, the queen remains in her study, reading, or examining the letters and petitions sent to her, till one or two o'clock in the afternoon, at which time any one may obtain a hearing. Toward two o'clock she takes her daily exercise in the open air with one of the ladies of the court, and wherever these excursions may lead her, she meets the skilful hand of Frederick William IV., who had done so much toward the embellishment of Potsdam. Before dinner, which is served at four, the queen returns to receive any persons renowned either for their services in the state or for intellectual acquirements. After dinner, she converses with her guests until five o'clock, when she retires to her room, remaining there until half-past eight, at which hour she partakes of tea with the ladies and gentlemen of the court, intimate friends only being admitted. When King William lived at Babelsberg, he often came to take tea with her; and on particular days the children of Prince William Charles are allowed to see the queen, when she enters into their little sports with maternal solicitude. After tea, which lasts until half-past eleven, one of the ladies frequently reads aloud to the queen, who is employed in needlework, her majesty remaining sitting up to a late hour, answering her correspondents, about which she is most scrupulous. When autumn has shaken the last leaf from the saplings of the great Fritz, the mighty trees of Sans Souci, the court of Queen Elizabeth repairs to Charlottenhof, and Lorchen, the beautiful parrot given them by Queen Augusta, and the pet of the family, is carefully wrapped up and taken with them. King William IV. had prepared a comfortable home in Charlottenhof. The windows look out upon the lovely green of a splendid orangery, laden with golden fruit for winter enjoyment. There Queen Elizabeth receives her relations from Berlin daily, spending many hours in visiting collections of art, schools, and benevolent institutions. Here, too, there is a Christmas distribution of presents to poor children invited and welcomed by the widowed queen. For two years, unhappily, the queen has been unable to move without assistance. She is now conveyed in an easy-chair from room to room, and carried up the steps into her carriage. Her sufferings are severe, but no complaint escapes her. She waits patiently for the hour which shall change the twilight of this day into the dawn of the next. JOHN RUSKIN. WE subjoin, in connection with our beautiful portrait of this distinguished author, a brief outline of his life: JOHN RUSKIN, art critic, is the son of a London merchant, and was born in London in February, 1819. Having been educated as a gentleman-commoner at Ch. Ch., Oxford, he gained the Newdigate prize for poetry in 1839, but subsequently devoted himself to the culti vation of the pictorial art, which he practised with success under Copley Fielding and J. D. Harding. A pamphlet in defence of Turner and the modern English school of landscape-painting was his first effort in the cause of modern art, and this brochure eventually swelled to a standard work entitled "Modern Painters," the first volume of which appeared in 1843. The author's success as a writer on art was decided by the warm reception the public accorded to this volume, of which several editions have since been called for. Mr. Ruskin's views, however, were combated with bitter asperity by some of the art-critics of the day, who resented with an affectation of contempt his free expression of dissent from the trammels of their school. In his second volume of “Modern Painters," written after a residence in Italy, and published in 1846, he took a much wider survey of the subject originally entered upon, including the works of the great Italian painters, and discussing at length the merits of their respective schools. This, his chief work, has been since completed by the publication of three more volumes, the last of which contains illustrations by himself. Mr. Ruskin temporarily diverted his attention from the study of painting to that of architecture, giving, in 1849, "The Seven Lamps of Architecture" as a first result, a work followed in 1851 by the first volume of "The Stones of Venice," the second and third volumes of which appeared in 1853. The illustrations in these last-named productions, which also excited some of the same professional hostility that his first publication met with, displayed to much advantage his artistic powers. Mr. Ruskin has also expounded his views both in lectures and the pages of newspapers and reviews. In 1851 he advocated Pre-Raphaelism in letters to the Times; he lectured in Edinburgh on Gothic Architecture in 1853, having previously (1847) contributed articles to the Quarterly on Lord Lindsay's "Christian Art." Topics of the hour likewise occupied his pen from time to time: one on the "Construction of Sheepfolds" (the Discipline of the Church), appearing in 1851; another on the "Opening of the Crystal Palace" in 1854; and in 1855, "Notes on the Academy Exhibition" of that and the following year. A notice of "Giotto and his Works" is also from Mr. Ruskin's pen, having been written for the Arundel Society, of which he is a member. In ad dition to the above-mentioned works, he wrote for the Cornhill Magazine four essays on the Relations of Employers and Employed, under the title of "Unto this Last" (reprinted in 1862); he has also published "The King of the Golden River," illustrated by Doyle; various separate lectures on art subjects; in 1861 a selection from his own writings; and in May, 1865, "Kings' Treasuries and Queens' Gardens." Mr. Ruskin is at present engaged on a series of essays for the Art Journal, entitled "The Cestus of Aglaia.” The London Review. 'MATTHEW ARNOLD'S NEW POEMS.* MODERN poetry seems to be more and more divorcing itself from the work and thought of the day. Our poets set their songs to the music of the past. They see the splendors of the setting and not of the rising sun. In the twilight of the evening, and not in the clear dawn of morning, is Memnon now vocal. Enchanted by the melody of Tennyson's verse, we have become, in poetry, mere lotus-eaters. Never, perhaps, has form been carried to such perfection as in his lines. Never before have words been married to such subtle rhythm. Never has still-life been so exquisitely painted. Yet the one thing needful has been omitted. The spirit of the age-that which makes all our modern greatness-finds scarcely any reflex in his lines. The mighty enterprises of commerce — our docks, our steam fleets, our gigantic towns-the world's workshops blast furnaces that light up our northern counties by night, the tunnels piercing through our hills, the viaducts spanning our valleys-might just as well have never been, as far as modern poetry is concerned. Once or twice, perhaps, Tennyson has alluded to them, as in "Locksley Hall." But the railroad and the steamship, and, most of all, “the thoughts that shake mankind"- the new views of philosophy and the discoveries of science, are all unsung. It has been well said that Milton, with our present geological knowledge, could not now have written his "Paradise Lost." By Matthew Arnold. London : Ticknor & Felds: Boston. * New Poems. Macmillan & Co. the Possibly so. Yet in "In Memoriam we may witness the touching spectacle of the poet, though acknowledging the truths of science, yet still combating them, not indeed offering any solution of the "painful riddle of the earth," but simply crying out, "Behind the Veil, behind the Veil;" may see him, as in "The Two Voices," finding refuge, not in practical action, but in a vague mysticism which appeals to the senses. Once indeed Tennyson took for his theme the one great event of the moment, but it was unfortunately only to throw himself on the side of passion, and to preach the gospel of the sword. Whilst Mr. Mill was upholding the doctrine of self-government and of liberty, the poet laureate set up in "Maud" the curse of war as the cure for the nation. And in many respects Mr. Matthew Arnold approaches Tennyson, if not in luxuriance of imagery and richness of coloring, yet certainly in delicacy of language, exquisiteness of polish, and harmony of rhythm. But it is not so much in form as in spirit that Mr. Arnold resembles the elder poet. The form is different, but the spirit is the same. Mr. Arnold, perhaps, even more clearly than the laureate, discerns the signs of the times, yet he makes but a faint attempt to solve any of our modern problems. He knows them well, as the following piece entitled "Pis-Al ler" shows: "Man is blind because of sin; Revelation makes him sure. Without that, who looks within Looks in vain, for all's obscure." "Nay, look closer into man! Tell me, can you find indeed Nothing sure, no moral plan Clear prescribed, without your creed?" "No, I nothing can perceive; Without that, all's dark for men, That, or nothing, I believe.' 'For God's sake believe it then!'" Here the answer answers nothing. It is for the man who does not believe, that some answer is required. And in Mr. Arnold's new sonnets we find the same uneasy antagonism with the spirit of the age, the same cry "de profundis," the same "Behind the Veil, behind the Veil," which meets us in "In Memoriam." The poet indeed sings in vain who does not bring some comfort with him. And both Mr. Arnold and Mr. Tennyson, when they touch upon the subject of our most earnest inquiries-of our minds' misgivings, mock us with the cynicism of futile answers. Mr. Arnold knows well the heart's perplexities in these days of unbelief, and yet only once or twice does he preach, even when evading the main question, some positive philosophy, as in "Anti-Desperation :" "Long fed on boundless hopes, O race of man, How angrily thou spurn'st all simpler fare! Christ, some one says, was human, as we are; No judge eyes us from heaven, our sins to scan: We live no more, when we have done our span. 'Well, then, for Christ,' thou answerest, who can care? From sin, which Heaven records not, why forbear? Live we like brutes our life without a plan!' And yet how poor is this beside that magnificent passage with which Mill closed St. Andrew's address-a passage which must have comforted thousands of desponding minds, and braced them up to the practical duties of life. And we have called attention to this deficiency of moral courage in our modern poetry because it is so much on the increase. We do not face the problems of the day, but take refuge in a vague mysticism, and lull our thoughts to rest with picturesque analogies. Yet once or twice, in spite of the general tone of the poems, in spite of such phrases as "men's impious "brutal uproar, world," and others conceived in Wordsworth's narrowest mood, Mr. Arnold every now and then strikes the true chord-of the necessity of free-will and the unspeakable value of energy and self-government. In this strain he concludes a poem on " Youth and Calm": "Ah no, the bliss youth dreams is one Calm's not life's crown, though calm is well.” And it is this strain which we should have wished to have oftener heard in the "New Poems." But we gladly accept this and other pieces, which we might quote, as an earnest of the change of thought in modern poetry. As to workmanship, the poems are nearly perfect. Like everything which Mr. Arnold writes, they are, as far as form goes, nearly flawless. Mr. Arnold's ear is as delicate as Shelley's, and his taste as exquisite. How well he understands Milton's definition of poetry may be gather ed from the following sonnet: "That son of Italy who tried to blow, Ere Dante came, the trump of sacred song, A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin. Mr. Arnold's muse is such. His verse is marked by that art which is last acquired-the art of self-restraint. And yet there are one or two passages which might have been improved by a still further obedience to that great law. Take the following passages descriptive of the fine view from Kensington Bridge: "Down o'er the stately bridge the breeze We may be over-fastidious, but, in our opinion, the view is here spoilt by the introduction of the "mimic boats." It is quite true that the children's toy vessels are sailing on the Serpentine, but the mind does not wish to be disturbed by them. It sees only the mighty towers of St. Stephen's and Westminster Abbey. It broods only upon them. All else is forgotten in the thought of the mighty men who have spoken in the one, and who sleep under the roof of the other. We have, too, to and such a provincialism as "lief,” though it has the sanction of Shakespeare. We must, however, pass on to a fault of a very different order. Mr. Arnold is evidently a most close observer of Nature. Many of the descriptions are perfectly pre-Raphalite. Thus he speaks of the moon-blanched sand," and the "gold-dusted snap-dragons." But in one or two passages his accuracy has quite deserted him. Thus to take the following lines "From bush to bush the cuckoo flies, The orchis red gleams everywhere; The "blue-bell," as Mr. Arnold, following the common nomenclature, calls the hyacinth (Hyacinthus non scriptus), has scarcely any smell. He probably meant to say the furze, which will often fill the whole country round with its delicate peach-like perfume. Again let us take another picture, this time not of spring but of harvest: "Deserted in the new-reaped grain, Silent the sheaves! the ringing wain, |