the main portion of the "Seven Lamps | ship with a stately magnificence, he of Architecture was written at a time would rather see them engaged in acts when Mr. Ruskin was under the dom- of practical beneficence. You might ination of anti-ecclesiastical ideas, he sooner get lightning out of incense speaks thus: "I say this emphatically smoke than true action or passion out that the tenth part of the expense of your modern English religion," he which is sacrificed in domestic vanities, says, in "Sesame and Lilies." "You if not absolutely and meaninglessly had better get rid of the smoke and the both in domestic discomforts and organ pipes, both; leave them, and the incumbrances, would, if collectively Gothic windows, and the painted glass, offered and wisely employed, build a to the property man; give up your humble church for every town in En- carburetted hydrogen ghost in one gland, such a church as it should be a healthy expiration, and look after Lazjoy and a blessing even to pass near in arus at the doorstep. For there is a our daily ways and walks, and as it true church wherever one hand meets would bring the light into the eyes to another helpfully, and that is the only see from afar, lifting its fair height holy or Mother Church which ever above the purple crowd of humble was, or ever shall be." In short, he roofs." The inconsistency disappears if we note in this place that churches are regarded as national rather than ecclesiastical structures, and that it is the idolatry of sacred places at the expense of sacred human beings, and the building up of stately edifices instead of edifying humanity, which Ruskin attacks. He pronounces his severe strictures on the neglect of natural and domestic sanctities on the part of those who, in their eagerness, and at great expense, provide spiritual sanctuaries. As it often happens, in such attacks by men of strong feeling and convictions against the abuse of a thing, they unconsciously omit to do full justice to its legitimate uses. know," he says himself, by way of apology, in the fourth lecture, "that I gave some pain, which I was most unwilling to give, in speaking of the possible abuses of religious art; but there can be no danger, if any, so long as we remember that God inhabits villages as well as churches, and ought to be well lodged there in thus putting the arts to universal use, you will find also their universal inspiration, their benediction." So far from being not practical enough in this way of subsidiary art-teaching, Mr. Ruskin is almost more practical than the most practical people themselves in his wrath against their fussy and fidgety methods of adorning religion externally, and, surrounding religious wor

prefers holy work to holy worship, the cultivation of virtue to religious cultus. He sees the great danger of modern religion becoming simply a graceful occupation of the mind, heart, and senses, an absorption in problems that interest, in emotions that please, and in religious observances which simply delight, and in the following of which the weightier matters are omitted or neglected; in short, he is deeply impressed by a sense of danger lest a graceful religionism should serve as a substitute for practical piety. 'The greatest of all the mysteries of life,' he says, "and the most terrible, is the corruption of even the sincerest reli"Igion, which is not daily founded on rational, effective, humble, and helpful action.” This, again, we submit, is a very practical view of the matter.

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We may leave here the subject of the relation of art to religion, morals, and use, and dwell in what remains of our space on the relative duties of men and women in self-culture, "social action and affection," and their common mission of life, taking here "Sesame and Lilies," perhaps the most popular of Mr. Ruskin's works, for our text. The substance of the first lecture may be described in the words of Bacon's aphorism, "Knowledge is power." Its purport is to show, besides, that companionship with the royal leaders of. thought, hence the title, "King's Treasuries," is the most ennobling con

author of the words in his own domestic life, his ill-fated love for the beautiful Scotch lady whom he married, aud the other whom he did not marry, but neither of whom were destined to be to him what he yearned after in the desire of a wife, a subject delicately skimmed over by his biographer, and which we must pass over in the same spirit:

dition of humanity. Rules are laid ber of the Commonwealth, is to assist in down accordingly for a careful selec- the ordering, in the comforting, and in the tion of books, and the manner of read-beautiful adornment of the State. ing them. If we cannot quite reach It is touching to read the following Mr. Ruskin's own standard of minute words, too, on the true wife. and the analysis in reading, or his curious ministry of women, when we remember trick of nice discernment for the multi-some of the sad experiences of the farious shades of meaning in every single word, and even syllable, of the books of great authors, we can at least see here the practical tendency of the specialist combined with both elevation and catholicity of thought. The advice he puts into the mouth of the great teachers of mankind, as addressed to small learners: "You must rise to the level of our thoughts if you would be gladdened by them, and share our feelWherever a true wife comes, this home ings if you would recognize our pres- is always round her. The star may be ence,' " is an instance illustrating the only over her head; the glowworm in the latter. And it is the absence of this night-cold grass may be the only fire at her higher sense, as distinguished from foot; but home is yet wherever she is ; and common sense, which no doubt pre- for a noble woman it stretches far round vents the best ideas from gaining cur- her, better than ceiled with cedar, or rency among the literary mob, and painted with vermilion, shedding its quiet which renders the works of Mr. Rus-light far, for those who else were homeless. kin himself caviare to the mixed multi

to the weighty words of a man like Ruskin, who, whatever his faults and heresies as an economist or art teacher may amount to, commands reverential respect when he speaks on the significance of life as a whole, and the conclusion of this book contains the gist of the matter.

tude of general readers. These lack On life in general it is well to listen "spiritual understanding." And to give another instance to show the practical nature of his teaching as an apostle of self-culture, like Matthew Arnold, understanding thereby literary culture as "the study of perfection" in the best authors, "Consider," he says, "all great accomplishments as means of assistance to others." Literature is not to serve the purpose of self-indulgent intellectual luxury, but to become the instrument for effecting the general good, mentally and morally.

"Whatever our station in

can

life may be," he says in the last chapter, headed "The Mystery of Life and its Arts," "at this crisis, those of us who mean to fulfil our duty, ought first to live on as little as we can; and secIt is needless to dwell on Mr. Rus- ondly, to do all the wholesome work for kin's definition of the duty of men it we can, and to spend all we and women respectively; suffice it to spare in doing all the sure good we Thus, he thinks, the mystery of quote a passage recalling some well- can.' known lines of Schiller's " Glocke," life may be solved in performing life's though, if space did permit, we should common duties, and by means of harmuch like to quote an expansion of the monious self-development to enrich the It is the gospel of whole idea it conveys in the sixty-life of the race. eighth paragraph of "Queen's Gar- work by those well-furnished by selfculture that is preached here, so it is dens : ” The man's duty, as a member of the in Goethe's second part of Faust, as Commonwealth, is to assist in the main- pointed out by the present author in a tenance, in the advance, in the defence of previous paper in this review, it is the the State. The woman's duty, as a mem-religion of the cultured of the nine

teenth century. But whatever we may | much will-force may be sacrificed in think of it from a theological point of the excessive development of our review, it is eminently practical as a the- ceptive and æsthetic faculties; how we ory of life. It brings again Ruskin be- may maintain a right balance between fore us as a practical teacher, and this active energy and passive enjoymentis all we try to prove in this paper. On these are some of the practical questhis "sacredness of work" he dwells in tions which are suggested here, but not the "Crown of Wild Olive" as when answered. Mr. Ruskin does not prohe says thus, that the best grace before fess to answer them fully or finally. meat is the consciousness that we have But we owe much to him for suggesting justly earned our dinner. What he them, and stimulating inquiry in order says of the crown of wild olive, the to their ultimate elucidation and solureward of our labors, is true of his own tion. He has done so effectually by the work, which is to teach a practical age freshness of his treatment, the simplichow to combine what is best and most ity of his statements, the clearness of elevating in labor and leisure, both his reasoning, the fervid earnestness, being "serviceable for the life that scholarly integrity, and enticing truthnow is; nor, it may be, without prom- fulness in style and treatment. In the ise of that which is to come. "pursuit of high aims and a noble purThroughout these voluminous writings pose in life, he has helped as few have we shall find the same lesson taught, done in this practical age in transformthe importance of practical every-day ing the common into the divine by the duty, and the importance, too, whilst force of commanding genius, the rhythkeeping to the firm ground of the real, mical cadence of his inimitable word never to lose sight of the deeper sig- music, itself, becoming symbolical of nificance of life and its aims, its final the chief endeavor of his life and work, goal. The useful arts of life, the ideal to resolve the discordant tones of modarts of the higher life, all human ern life into something approaching to effort, in practical appliances and moral harmonious unity. M. KAUFMANN. aspirings, religious inspiration and striving after spiritual excellence, in the opinion of Ruskin, serve the purpose, singly and collectively, of discipline for some distinctive good, making the increase of healthy life and development in the individual subservient to THE Mill of Minuony existed only in the progress and well-being finally of name. It once had done work, and the race. For in spite of many mel-characteristic traces were left. The ancholy and desponding utterances, old wheel at the corner stood half Mr. Ruskin is all the time inspired dilapidated and wholly picturesque. "by a solemn faith in the advancing On windy nights it creaked and moved power of human nature," and "in the promise, however dimly apprehended, that the mortal part of it would one day be swallowed up in immortality.' A complete solution of the enigmas of life we must not expect from him. New questions rise at every turn, demand-ing water for the mill. ing a practical reply which is not always forthcoming. To what extent the refinements of art and culture incapacitate man for the rough encounters of daily competition, how far in quickening the finer sensibilities of man we may weaken his moral fibre, and how

From All The Year Round.

THE MILL OF MINNONY.

A COMPLETE STORY.

fearfully round, but for the most part it realized that its part was played. The mill-lade that led to it was rotten, and the mill-pond that fed the stream was drained, and grew weeds, and flowers, and rushes instead of provid

The

The banks at each side were a tangle of honeysuckle, and the meadowsweet and the buttercups alternated and succeeded each other every season. Mill House was a house of angles, redtiled, and apparently thrown against the mill-wheel. On the top a rusty

a

Rats ran over the tumbled-in granary floor with an hereditary instinct of the fitness of things.

weathercock creaked and groaned. "I wouldna promise," said the old woman obstinately. "I hae a notion o' making things siccar, and nae deleeberately trying to upset them. Life Behind the house was a steep brae. is gey chancey." She shook her head, It was a brae of early primroses, strag-and added: “And George is but a gly briar trees, and long trails of bram- man." ble. It was fringed by weeping birches, and the river ran below it and skirted the old mill-dam.

At the top of the hill stretched a line of Scotch firs. The evening glow shone through the trees, sometimes yellow, sometimes red. The fir-trees stood dark and straight, even when the mist rose off the water merging everything into a hazy general "value" of grey atmosphere.

Joan MacLeod stood at the little window of the mill-kitchen on one of these evenings. A crescent moon was in the sky. It appeared to hang in the grey mist. She turned a penny in her pocket, as she looked mechanically out, and thought of a wish.

66

"Dinna ye, lass," said her mother sharply from the fireside. Things gang wrang o' themsel's wi'oot fairly temp'in' Providence yon wye."

"Which wye?" said the girl, still staring out of the window.

"Yon's the new meen, and ye are looking at her thro' glass," said the old woman severely. "Ye winna get your wush, and ill may happen o' it."

The girl laughed.

"It disua mak'," she said. wisna muckle o' a wush, ony wye." "Had it to do wi' George?"

"It

Joan turned from the window and sat opposite her mother on the oak settle by the fire. She knitted placidly. The old woman rambled on.

"Your feyther often tell't me if it hadna been for me he wud niver have thocht o' me. I pit the notion into his heed, and syne I keepit it there. Noo, it's this and it's that, and I tell ye it disna dee. I dinna haud wi' notions o' that sort, and it's time ye tell't George to sattle things."

The girl looked up.
"I winna," she said.

Her tone had the sharp, incisive ring of determination. It cowed the old woman for a moment.

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Weel, Joan, gang your ain gait. Mony hae deen that afore you, and found themselves left. I hope it winna be too late, or that I'll hae the satisfaction o' seein' my words proven."

There was silence after that. Old Mrs. MacLeod deftly wove colored scraps of material into a mat. Grey double dahlias and magenta roses grew out of the remnants of flannel and stuffs, surrounded by lesser flowers of nondescript hues.

"It's gey lonely here," she said, with a sigh.

"If ye wad stir yersel', Joan, it wad

Joan looked up from her knitting placidly.

The old woman asked it sharply. | be better." She was a withered old woman, with sharp features and bright eyes. Her hair was tucked away under a grey white cap. A shawl was pinned across her shoulders. She wore a stuff apron over her short woollen skirt.

"Ye mark my words," she repeated impressively. "Ill wull come o' it. I wouldna trust ony man."

Joan smiled in reply. She was used to the pessimistic utterances of her mother. "Ye are aye hintin' at that, mither,' " said Joan lightly. "And if onything is gaun to happen, it'll come wi'oot sic nonsense."

"It's nae different to general," she said, and went back to her stocking. Her mother snorted.

"And ye are as happy there, and wad be, if ye were gaun to sit there and knit a' your life. It niver seems to strike ye that we twa lonesome bodies here might be murdered in oor beds ony nicht, and naebody ken for days. It wad be different if there was a man aboot. It wad be mair shortsome, and the mull micht be set a-going again. In your feyther's time there was aye

cairts o' corn coming, and the mull | jests to him, and laughed as they aye grinding, grinding, and the watter moved down the field. Joan alone said splashing. Yon was living." nothing. She smiled at him as she passed. Her smile set him thinking. He still stood there, for a momentary glimpse of an ideal had come to him. It was one of those moments that come at least once in a man's life. It was a touch of the home atmosphere, the simple labor, the sunshine, and a woman's smile that prompted it. It did not last long, but out of it grew an idea that dominated three lives.

It was a time-worn complaint. Joan had grown callous to it. The past glories of the mill did not appeal to her. She was perfectly happy with her life as it was. This was a particular grievance of her mother's. Another was Joan's plainness. Joan was a tall woman, with strong, vigorous features and limbs. She had a low brow, with black hair which grew off it; steadfast brown eyes, a straight nose, and a large mouth. She was absolutely colorless. The neighbors agreed with Mrs. MacLeod that her daughter was regrettably plain. Joan was singularly free from vanity. She never troubled to consider her looks.

I ken thinkin' on't winna add or like this for about eighteen months. tak' a cubit from oor stature."

Mrs. MacLeod was wont to say pressively :

George and Joan both showed a philoim-sophical calm about their engagement. Old Mrs. MacLeod was the only one who agitated over the matter at all. She began to be afraid that left to themselves they would drift apart, and that Joan would do nothing to prevent it.

"But it wad dee a lot to mend matters. It's only a weel-faured face can dee wi'oot thinking. And a new hat dis wurk wonders."

One evening George came in after Joan had been peculiarly aggravating on the subject of their marriage.

"It's nae wonner ye hae a cauld," said George affably, "wi' a climate like this."

It had been a great surprise to Mrs. MacLeod to find that Joan had found favor in any man's sight. The fact of her engagement to George Alexander had given Joan's mother endless sub- "It's a fine nicht," he said, as he ject matter to reflect on. George was sat down and looked at the fire. a sort of connection of their own. He Joan nodded. Mrs. MacLeod tossed had knocked about in Australia several her head and coughed. It did not years, and had come back at twenty-occur to either of the others that a eight with an affectation of indiffer- reply was necessary, so this passed ence towards his native land the unnoticed. Mrs. MacLeod coughed result of thirsting for it every day of again a little louder. his absence. He had returned in late summer when the barley harvest was in full swing. George had sauntered into the field. Joan was among the gatherers. Her hair was gathered up into a big knot tightly twisted up behind. Her sun-bonnet had fallen off. Her sleeves were turned up; she looked a strong, capable woman. She stood apart, resting for a moment. The sun shone in its full force ; the heavy "swish" of the ripe yellow barley as it fell, formed a framework to her as she stood there. George stood idly looking at the reapers; they threw

This was too much for Mrs. MacLeod.

“Cauld, indeed; I nivver was better in my life. Fat I meant was if a fine nicht' wis a' ye had to say, there wisna muckle ees o' ye coming to say it."

George stared. quickly.

Joan looked up

Ay, I mean it, and I hae meant it some time," continued Mrs. MacLeod. She had made her start, and she was