LINES WRITTEN ON THE WALLS OF

HARLECH CASTLE.

GOD! We are but the remnant of those men

That thus with might

Fenced them the secret of their being, when,
As now, 'twas night.

Though we have lost their aim of life, nor need

This rock of hands,

'Tis theirs, our bonds of man to man, our creed,

Our laws, our lands;

Through greed laid heavy on this time, that bears
The pain thereof.

Show us again thy purpose from afar

Starred in the inane;

We have no end, nor reason why we are,

But lust and gain.

H

HERBERT P. HORNE.

ARTHUR BURGESS.

Do not know how many years ago, but sadly many, came among the morning letters to Denmark Hill, one containing a richly wrought dark woodcut,-of-I could not make out exactly what,—and don't remember now what it turned out to be, but it was by a fine workman's attentive mind and hand, that much was certain; and with it was a little note, to this effect, in words, if not these following, at least as modest and simple. "I can cut wood like this, and am overworked, and cannot make my living,-can you help me?—Arthur Burgess." I answered by return post, asking him to come and see me. The grave face, honest but reserved, distressed but unconquerable, vivid yet hopeless, with the high-full-forward but strainedly narrow forehead, impressed me as much as a face ever did, but extremely embarrassed me inexplicable as the woodcut; but certainly full of good in its vague way. After some talk, I found that though he had original faculty, it had no special direction, nor any yet well struck root; he had been variously bound, embittered, and wounded in the ugly prison-house of London labour-done with all the strength of nerve in him, and with no help from his own heart or anyone else's. I saw the first things he needed were rest, and a little sympathy and field for his manual skill. It chanced that I was much set on botanical work at the time; so I asked him to come up in the forenoons, and make drawings from my old fashioned botanical books, or from real flowers, such as he would have pleasure in engraving, for Proserpina.

I went down

And soon we got into a quiet and prosperous way of work together: but there was always reserve on his side-always puzzlement on mine. I did not like enslaving him to botanical woodcut, nor was I myself so set on floral study as to make it a sure line of life for him. Other chances and fancies interfered, dolorously, with the peace of those summers, between 1860 and 1870,-they were, when I had finished Modern Painters, and saw it was not of the least use: while the reception of the more serious thought I had given to Munera Pulveris angered and paralysed me-so that I had no good spirit to guide my poor friend with: in 1867, the first warning mischief to my own health showed itself; giddiness and mistiness of head and eyes, which stopped alike my drawing and thinking to any good purpose. into Cumberland and walked and rowed till I was well again, but don't know what poor Burgess did, except that-so far as I know-he would not have fallen into extreme distress without telling me. In 1869, after much vacillation and loss of impetus, I went to Verona to study the Scala tombs, and took Arthur with me. Partly by his own good instincts and power, partly-I am vain enough to think, under my teaching, he had become by that time, such a draughtsman in black and white as I never knew the match of, with gifts of mechanical ingenuity and mathematical intelligence in the highest degree precious to me. If he had been quite happy in his work—and I quite resolute in mine; and we had settled ourselves to do Verona— Padua―Parma-together-there had been good news of us-there

and elsewhere.

"Dis aliter?"-by no means; "Daemonibus aliter"-I should once have said; but my dear friend Henry Willett declares there is no Devil,—and I am myself of the same mind so far at least as to be angry with myself instead of Him :-and sorry, only for the want of

Vision in my own mind, not in the least reproaching the Vision of Fate. Arthur did everything I wanted of him at Verona in perfectness. He drew the mouldings of the Scala Tombs as never architecture had been drawn before-he collated and corrected my measurements; he climbed where I could not, and at last made a model in clay of every separate stone in the Castelbarco Tomb, showing that without any cement the whole fabric stood on its four pillars with entire security,—the iron binding bars above the capitals being needful only as security against vibration. But all this he did without joy, with beautiful fidelity and pride in doing well, but not seeing what the work might come to, or perhaps too wisely foreseeing that it could come to nothing. At last-on an excursion to Venice -his small room opening on a stagnant canal, he fell into a fit of delirious fever, through which my servant, Frederick Crawley, nursed him bravely; and brought him back to me, but then glad to be sent home. For the rest, I had received at Verona the offer of the Slade Professorship and foolishly accepted it. My simple duty at that time was to have stayed with my widowed mother at Denmark Hill, doing whatever my hand found to do there. Mixed vanity-hope of wider usefulness and, partly her pleasure in my being at Oxford again, took me away from her, and from myself.

Mr. Burgess came down sometimes to Oxford to help me in diagram and other drawing, and formed his own circle of friends there; I am thankful to associate with the expression of my own imperfect, blind, and unserviceable affection, that of the deeper feeling of one who cared for him to the end.

"I remember well the first time that I met Arthur Burgess, one evening at a man's rooms in Queen's. He asked me to breakfast with him, I think it was the next morning, at the Roebuck. I not