irrational as when it becomes sentimental. On such principles, Sir Boyle Roche's memorable rejoinder almost ceases to be an absurdity: "Posterity! I should like to know what posterity has ever done for me!" On the whole, I venture to repeat my position, that our quarrel with the agnostics is not so much that they apply their disintegrating scepticism relentlessly, but that this is precisely what they do not do, that they quietly assume that the moralities of life are to go on when the bases on which they have rested are withdrawn, although this is just the very first point to which they should address themselves. Men are asking, will not your agnosticism unsettle the elementary conceptions of right and wrong, which keep people from being thieves, and liars, and adulterers? and to this they will demand not a slow and tentative reply, but one clear, explicit, and practical. Is it only about theological questions that men differ? Is there a single moral question which is not more or less under discussion at the present moment? Is not the question of marriage a burning question for many minds? Are not men asking for the grounds on which the institution of property rests? We hope much if we can but induce the advocates of nescience to be logical.

You remember, probably, the weird story, how the German student, having fabricated a gigantic human form, succeeded in infusing into it the principle of life, and how this creature stalked through the world, doing the most dreadful deeds, which its maker was utterly powerless to prevent. Before you send your creature agnosticism into the world, you may as well ask whether his power is likely to be genial and beneficent, or baneful and ruinous. You will not convert the world, for your system is an indolent one. "Think," says Mr. Gladstone, "of twelve agnostics, setting out from some modern Jerusalem to do the work of the twelve Apostles." Imagine a crusade to proclaim the progressive, the life-inspiring doctrine that nothing is certain! It may, indeed, do mischief, for, alas ! in this world, it is easy to do mischief. It may, as has been said, inflict upon mankind

a bad quarter of an hour." But one thing is beyond all controversy that the world cannot do without convictions, and that the teachers and the systems which help them to these will, in the long run, sweep before them the teachers and the systems which have nothing but negations to offer, as chaff is swept from the threshingfloor.

THE WRESTLERS.

BY EDWARD FOSKETT.

(Suggested by Shakespeare's "As You Like It;" to follow Act i. Scene 2.)

Near Oliver's House.

A DAM. Alas! to think that these dull ears should hear
Treachery so foul and black. He seeks the life

Of fair Orlando !—all that here remains

Of good Sir Rowland. Yet, my princely boy!
My hands, my heart, my life, shall be renewed
With youthful vigour for thy father's sake,
And for thine own, in whom his virtues shine.
O Oliver! the shadow of a crime

Is hanging o'er thee, and the curse of Cain
Seems, even now, impressed upon thy brow:
Did I not hear thine oily tongue persuade
The stalwart Charles, with black deceit so foul
That I imagined he would turn aside.
With sickened loathing! But deceit more foul
Was in thy heart. I heard thee when alone;

I saw thy features, hideous to behold,

Writhing in ghastly smiles, when thou didst plot-
Should Charles the Wrestler fail to work thine end-
To burn thy brother in his bed to-night!

O heaven! assist my twofold purpose, aid
My failing strength, give sinew to my arm,
And nerve my heart to save Orlando's life,
And so avert the direful curse from him

Who bears the name of old Sir Rowland's son.
Here wait I for the issue of the day

To guide me in mine action.

[LE BEAU passing.

Gentle sir!

Canst thou inform me of the day's events?

LE BEAU. Charles, the Duke's Wrestler, hath been overthrown!

ADAM. By whom? by whom?

LE BEAU. I am in haste the news will soon be spread
Both far and near; the victor's name, I ween,
Grates harshly on the Duke's impatient ears;
It is Orlando! whom I understand
Is youngest son to dead Sir Rowland Bois,
Whose memory the Duke retains with hate.

ADAM.

But tell me, I beseech thee, how the youth
Hath overcome the champion of the lists.
I am an old man, verging on the grave,

Yet to this youth am bound to life's last span,
And know not whether to rejoice or weep

At his great victory.

LE BEAU. Enough! the moisture in thine eye reveals
That thou art near of kin, or, better still,
Allied in deep affection to the youth;
Therefore for this, and weightier reasons too,
I will unfold the issue of the sport.
After successive victories, Charles received
The rising plaudits of the gathered throng,
And none, 'twas thought, would try another fall;
Orlando then advanced, and boldly claimed
To try his skill. The Champion's face relaxed
Into a smile of pity, tinged with scorn.

Anon the Duke strove to dissuade the youth
From his resolve, but failed in the attempt.
Then Celia, and heavenly Rosalind,
Charmed by his courage and his bearing, strove
With woman's pleasing arts to change his whim,
And save him from disgrace, which seemed to all
The certain end of his adventurous task ;-
But forth he goes! and soon the brawny arms
Of Charles enfold him in their tight embrace :
The throng expect to see his victim thrown
With giant ease upon his mother earth,

And, breathless, watch; then wondering scan the form
Of young Orlando, whose upswelling arms

Have grasped his dire opponent's waist; who now,
With one arm prisoner, strives to loose the grip

Which, like a band of iron, circles him :
His shoulders heave, his swelling breast essays
To burst his fetters, but he strives in vain.
The vast assemblage watch with keener sight
The struggling combatants : now to, now fro,
Now high, now low, their forms grotesquely bend :
They dub the youth a modern Hercules,
Though yet all powerless to cast his foe,

And all uncertain still the coming end.
The Champion pauses; and his stalwart frame
Emits a vaporous sweat, whilst huge drops fall,
Revealing the keen anguish of his toil.

But now with strength refreshed, and bitter thoughts
Goading his breast, he summons all his powers
To free himself. His foe for this surprise

Is well alert, but desperation lent

The Champion double powers.-His arms are freed!
And now the thrilling moment comes; the fall

Must follow. Both are writhing, and the youth
One moment seemed to halt, then suddenly,
Amid impatient plaudits, yells, and cries
The Champion is o'erthrown!

* *

So ended this most memorable day!

The weightier reason yet remains why I

*

Have thus responded to thine earnest wish :

6

*

The youth is known to thee; beloved,' thou said'st;

Then, by the love thou bear'st him, use the power

Of love's persuasive art to draw him hence,

For if he stay, the jealous darts of hate

Will stop his bright career, and seal his fate.

ADAM. Hear, noble sir!

LE BEAU.

I wait for no reply:
Guard well the youth, and bid him swiftly fly.

[Exit LE BEAU.

ADAM. Ay, so I will! and with him will I go,
And share my lot with him, come weal or woe,
I am resolved!

THE

UNWRITTEN MUSIC.

BY J. MORISON.

'HROUGH the gates of Sense enters into the soul what gladdens or distresses us. By one and the same sense-gate come the fresh fragrance of new-born flowers and the fetid odour of graves. By the portals of another we keep watch for the rising sun and all that follows in his train,-all that is bright and beautiful, and much that is not so, for by this same eye-gate enter beauty and deformity,Venus and Caliban pass in together. Through the gate of the singers come the mingled sounds of harmony and discord: at no gate do we listen and linger as at this; our sympathetic emotions are taken captive; we beat time to the stately march, dance to the gayer tones, and feel the awe of sound as we feel the awe of storms. strangely touched by the first cry of the new-born babe, and we heave sigh for sigh with the dying. There comes a felt joy from the prattle of young voices on the play-ground, and a deep dread from the simultaneous shouting "A bas l'Empire !" of maddened Communists on the Boulevard. There is deep pathos in the whisk of the lash in the ear of the doomed slave. The sibilation of shell in the air is more telling on the cadet's ear than the appeal of most eloquent thunder, and it strikes pain into the closed wounds of the old campaigner.

Music is the poetry of sound.

sparkling on the cut facets.

We are

Sound is the gem, music the light Sound is speech, music is speech in

rhythm, and the speakers are our singers.

All of us are vassals to the great chiefs of written song: Handel and Mendelssohn rule over more subjects than the Czar. We gladly acknowledge their sway, yet feel ourselves none the less loyal to them, that we love the simple notes of untutored nature, those unwritten and unwritable tones that touch our many-sided sympathies. There is no language like unwritten music; it speaks to the universal ear, lisps with the lisping infant, and thunders with all the eloquence of Demosthenes.

How little has been caught and kept of the unwritten music of the past. Think of all the forgotten voices of those bygone ages, of all the performers in the great opera of time. Think of the multitudinous clear soprano voices chanting of the youth and joy of life, of the soft