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is, however, also noted for a relic of the following morning, being bent on considerable interest. In one of its their mission, they met and narrated churches is a silver-gilt shrine which is their dreams to one another. They said to contain the body of St. Sim- then went to the cemetery, where they eon, the prophet who sang the Nunc found the monks already digging for Dimittis. It is not exactly known the corpse. The governors told their when the body of the saint was brought dreams, and easily persuaded the monks to Zara, but tradition says that it was to allow the body to be taken into the conveyed there by sea from Palestine town, where it was exhibited in one of by a knight on his return from the the churches, and many miracles being Crusades. According to tradition, the wrought by means of it, its fame soon devil raised a storm and attempted to spread throughout Dalmatia. In the sink the ship, but the Crusader, by year 1371, Queen Elizabeth, the wife of throwing all his property overboard, Louis I. of Hungary, visited Zara, and, managed to keep it afloat, and when wishing to possess some relic of the the gale ceased, the ship was drifted saint, she broke off the forefinger froni in a dilapidated condition, into the port the left havd. No sooner had she of Zara, Whilst staying there for re- done so than she lost her sight, and pairs to be made to the vessel, the was unable to find her way out of the knight was taken ill, and was conveyed church. Prostrating herself before the to the hospital of the monks, situated altar, the queen openly confessed her on the outskirts of the town. He gave sin and replaced the finger, which imout that the corpse was that of his mediately united again to the hand, brother, and caused it to be buried in and the queen's sight was restored,
but the cemetery belonging to the monas- her own hand, touching the body of tery. Gradually becoming worse, the the saint, became withered. For a secknight, when on the point of death, ond time the queen craved pardon divulged to the monks that the body from the saint, and offered as a penalty was that of St. Simeon, and all neces- for her sins, to present him with a sary proofs would be found amongst silver shrine to replace the wooden one his documents. The monks, pleased in which his body was then encased. at their good fortune in obtaining such Her prayer being heard, the queen a valuable relic, determined to keep the commissioned five noblemen of Zara to body of the saint; but the same night have the shrine made ; and they enon which the Crusader died a celestial trusted Francesco da Milano, son of a being appeared in a dream to the three Milanese silversmith, named Antonio, yovernors of the town of Zara, and living at Zara, to execute it. Franannounced to each of them that the cesco completed the shrine in 1380, and body of St. Simeon had been buried received twenty-eight thousand ducats in the cemetery of the monks, and for his labor. bade then go and search for it. On
H. M. CUNDALL, F.S.A.
THE PHONOGRAPH IN THE CLASS-ROOM. tinctly heard in every corner of the class- Professor McKendrick, of Glasgow Uni- room. Of late, suggests the Christian versity, carried out an interesting experi- Commonwealth, such " demonstrations ment in his physiology class one day last on the part of noisy students have ocweek. The occasion was the formal clos- curred and recurred in certain of the ing of the summer session, and the pro- medical classes in the university that the fessor gave a practical demonstration of suggestion to substitute the phonograph the ability of the phonograph to deliver the for the personnel of the lecturer may not lecture which he had previously spoken seem altogether far-fetched. into the instrument. The words were dis
No. 2636. – January 12, 1895.
CONTENTS. I. MR. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. By Stephen Gwynn,
Fortnightly Review, .
Contemporary Review, VIL. THE PRESSGANG AND ITS HISTORY, Chambers' Journal, .
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TO A BABY KINSWOMAN,
Needs must burn and tremble; thou
Knowest not, seest not, why nor how, LOVE, whose light thrills heaven and earth, More than we know whence or why Smiles and weeps upon thy birth,
Comes on babes that laugh and lie Child, whose mother's love-lit eyes
Half asleep, in sweet-lipped scorn, Watch thee but from Paradise.
Light of smiles outlightening morn, Sweetest sight that earth can give,
Whence enkindled as is earth
By the dawn's less radiant birth
When the rose-red hands would fain
Reach the rose-red feet in vain. Holier, happier, heavenlier love
Eyes and hands that worship thee Breathes about thee, burns above,
Watch and tend, adore and see Surely, sweet, than ours can be,
All these heavenly sights, and give Shed from eyes we may not see,
Thanks to see and love and live. Though thine own may see them shine
Yet, of all that holds thee dear, Night and day, perchance, on thine.
Sweet, the dearest smiles not here. Sun and moon that lighten earth
Thine alone is now the grace, Seem not fit to bless thy birth :
Haply, still to see her face ; Scarce the very stars we know
Thine, thine only now the sight Here seem bright enough to show
Whence we dream thine own takes light. Whence in unimagined skies
Yet, though faith and hope live blind, Glows the vigil of such eyes.
Yet they live in heart and mind Theirs whose heart is as a sea
Strong and keen as truth may be ;
Yet, though blind as grief were we
Sorrow's self before thy smile
Smiles and softens, knowing that yet, Sleeping or awake : but ours
Far from us though heaven be set, Can but deem or dream or guess
Love, bowed down for thee to bless, Thee not wholly motherless.
Dares not call thee motherless. Might they see or might they know
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE. What nor faith nor hope may show,
Nineteenth century. We whose hearts yearn toward thee now Then were blest and wise as thou. Had we half thy knowledge, - had Love such wisdom, – grief were glad, Surely, lit by grace of thee; Life were sweet as death may be.
THE CHEVIOTS SEEN FROM THE NORTH. Now the law that lies on men Bids us mourn our dead : but then
O LAND of the south, rising up Heaven and life and earth and death,
Like wine to the brim of a cup !Quickened as by God's own breath,
Have I loved my land enough? All were turned from sorrow and strife :
I who loathe her shams and shows, Earth and death were heaven and life. All too far are then and now
I who love so well her foes,
As soon as the Cheviots rose
And I felt beyond that gray
Reef of hills — oh, I cannot say,
But even the clouds that lay
Over bits of English plain
Seemed the veritable main, Comfort, faith, assurance,
Rich clouds of the harvest rain.
And the light beyond ! O land,
I begin to understand Yet in ours the tears unshed,
Th' insensate love of the banned. Child, for hope that death leaves dead, Academy.
From The Fortnightly Review. work developed itself, it displayed au IR ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. ideal of art which has never been popA CRITICAL STUDY.
ular in this country. The character, The collected edition of Mr. Steven- istic English opinion makes art a son's writings, which is in process of matter of inspiration ; and the public publication in several luxurious vol- rather resepts it when Mr. Stevenson umes, makes what one may call the comes and tells them that an art must author's formal diploma of renown; so be learnt like any other trade, and far as contemporary opinion can affirm, even exposes his own procedure. In he becomes a classic. It is a verdict that very interesting essay, “A Colwhich I for one would never chal- lege Magazine," he has related how he lenge ; Mr. Stevenson belongs to that learned to write by incessant practice, class of writers, who, with Horace at above all by sedulous mimicry of great their head, have possessed, over and models. “I lived with words," he above their other gifts, the peculiar says; and the result is that formal expower of enlisting our affections. cellence to which we have now grown Whenever a new volume of his has accustomed, but which dazzled our appeared the pathetic preface to judgment at the outset. Again, upon "Prince Otto " has never failed to run the vexed question of the artist's perin my head :
sonality and its right to appear, Mr.
Stevenson sides with the French rather Well, we will not give in that we are than the English authorities. If you beaten ; I still mean to get my health want to display grief, Mr. Irving would again ; I still purpose, this book or the next, to launch a masterpiece.
say, you must feel inclined to weep.
An actor who should so far forget himThat his purpose has been accom- self as really to grieve, M. Coqueliu has plished few would deny ; these vol- said, would be apt to weep unbecomumes will contain not one masterpiece ingly and produce the wrong effect; in but several in different kinds. Yet-short, an artist must keep himself conand the cry is loudest where Mr. Ste- stantly in hand rather than let himself . vensou's admirers are most devoted be carried away. This self-suppression we thought he might have done some- Mr, Stevenson has rigidly practised ; thing more.
the moralizing vein, inherent in his Partly this is the unjust but natural Scotch blood, has found an outlet only recoil from an over-estimate, caused in his essays ; but in all probability the by unfamiliar excellence. " Treasure public would bave loved him better if Island,” if one considers it fairly, was he had interspersed his narrative with the high-water mark of technical per- passages from “ Virginibus Puerisfection among romances of this cen- que.” The public is unreasonable ; tury. Scott never cared, as he frankly still, if I were hard pushed with a admits, to take much pains either with comparison between the “ Master of his style or his story, writing very Ballantrae" and a good Waverley rapidly and inventing as he went novel, I should have to admit that Mr. along. Thackeray, Mr. Stevenson's one Stevenson's work looks like a racer in superior iu finish and felicity of man- hard training. Every proportion is per, never troubled much about con- exact, every redundancy removed, and struction. Accordingly, when it was the result is admirable, but, if you wish remenibered that the author of this dra- to be malignaut, a trifle artificial. matically simple narrative had shown, Perhaps Mr. Stevenson las lived a in essays and minor stories, consum- little too much with words. If you set mate mastery of a singularly ornate him by the unchallenged great oues, style, it seemed that a man who thus Scott, Dickens, and Thackeray, he is from the very outset united all the light apd thin, he lacks their weight of excellences, might attain to any imagi- human experience. His work does not nable height. But, as Mr. Stevenson's ! seem, like theirs, to spring from the
writer's very existence. The novel peculiar to no age or couutry. If I must ultimately rest upon experience, wished to summarize his defects in a and the nature of the experience will word, I should say - unlomeliness. determine the nature of the work. He Yet there is one reservation, and an has not the intensity of the Brontës, important one, to be made. The later from whose strangled lives passion books, the “Ebb Tide,” the “Balshot up like water from a fountain- lads,” the “ Island Night's Entertainpipe ; he has not the serious reflective ment,” and (to some degree) the wisdom of George Eliot, nor her sense Wrecker," do associate themselves of the tragic issues that fill common with a certain place and mode of life. life. He lacks the wide human expe- What Mr. Kipling has done for British rience, the personal contact with life, India, Mr. Stevenson is doing for the which informs the work of other great Southern Seas. He is peopling a definovelists. Fielding learnt more in his nite field in our imaginations ; there at police court than he ever did from least his work takes root in life ; and if
: ; books, good scholar though he was. I mistake not, to future generations his Scott, like Mr. Stevenson, depends name and personality will suggest these much upon the experience of the im- islands of the Pacific, as Smollett makes agination, his antiquarian lore ; yet us think of a ship, Fielding of the Fleet Scott himself declared that his official or an inn, Thackeray of London, Scott duties were a help, not a hindrance ; of the Border, George Eliot of the they made a corrective to bookishness Midland Counties. Yet the life he and kept him in touch with life. Be- describes there is the life of a fleeting, fore Dickens bėgan writing be learnt shifting, longshore population, a life the world by the struggle to exist; and strange to us, scenes that not one in he, like Thackeray, was till his death ten thousand can hope to behold, a occupied with the business side of lit- dialect mixed of half-a-dozen lingoes ; erature, editing magazines and papers. a life, a scene, a dialect that is, far But Mr. Stevensou probably has not more than anything in Mr. Kipling's even to sell his own writings ; his India, uuhomely to us. whole and sole business in life is to Now there are many people so oddly write; in short, he lives completely, as constituted (as I must think) that they few literary men have done, the artist's prefer to read of experiences which are existence. Tennyson did the same; not only conceivable, but positively but then Tennyson did not write nov- familiar, to theinselves. Que of the els. Mr. Stevenson has gone about critical essays in “ Memories and Porlike the artist in search of picturesque traits” lays great stress upon the direct grouping; interested in his fellow appeal to interests which we inherit men, but standing a little way off to from a remote forefather, “probably see them better; gregarious enoughi, arboreal in his habits.” But in a very but only with his congeners ; a gipsy, a large section of mankind a section vagrant, a Bohemian, and not a citizen, for which the author of " "Treasure except in so far as the tax-collector has Island” has scant respect — this recompelled him. Doubtless ill-health mole ancestor is not merely disaphas kept bim away from the active proved of, but obliterated. They think business of life ; in Samoa hebas Mr. Stevenson tiresome with his pirates, shown himself willing to stir against his beachcombers, and his catamaoppression. Whatever the cause, from rans; they want to hear what happens choice or chance, the fact remains that in the drawing-room or behind the after all the years he has lived among counter. It is a perfectly genuine disus, he writes as a sojourner, an Egyp- taste, and, like all unaffected criticism, tian, having no fixed foot, no strong bas something in it. The truth is that ties, to any place or employment save Mr. Stevenson's range of characters his art. He is elusively cosmopolitan, and sympathies is not nearly so wide the aspects of life that interest him are l as it seems. One cannot say he under