impossible to me: the more that I perceive the new generation risen round us cares nothing about what its Fathers either did or said. In writing so much as this implies of my own epitaph with my friend's, I am thankful to say securely for both of us, that we did what we could thoroughly, and that all we did together will remain trustworthy and useful-uncontradicted, and unbettered, till it is forgotten.

"THE THOUGHTS" OF MARCUS

AURELIUS.

The gentlest soul that ever ruled mankind
Reveals himself in this immortal book;
O'er life's wild sea his lonely way he took,
A haven of repose and peace to find.

If thou wouldst follow him then rule thy mind,
Opinion curb, and inwards turn thy look:

No earthly trouble his firm soul e'er shook,
And to men's meanness he was deaf and blind.

"Content comes not from palaces or gold,"
He said, "and royal state will soothe no tear ;
Live inwardly, or thou canst not be free."

The storm of life still rages as of old,

But through its tumult his grave voice we hear
Calming the billows of the bitter sea.

ARTHUR GALTON.

ARBITRARY CONDITIONS OF ART.

"Let them make me a sanctuary; that I may dwell among them. According to all that I shew thee, after the pattern of the tabernacle and the pattern of all the instruments thereof, even so shall ye make it."

T

HIS was the message that came to the first artist of antiquity, to him who "was filled with the spirit of God, in wisdom, and in understanding, and in knowledge, and in all manner of workmanship, to devise cunning works." This, too, is the message which comes to each true artist of to-day.

Now, whatever else these words may imply, they at least do carry an injunction, enjoining the artist to execute each work with more than a common care, and with an intentional regard to some inspiring purpose. "Look that thou make them after their pattern which was shewed thee in the mount." Here, at least, Art is considered so important, that some arbitrary guidance is authoritatively stated to be necessary. The artist is not left free to follow any pattern any pattern shown him; whether by the Schoolbred, whether by the Agnew, whether by the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, or by the Academy of his day; but their pattern, their authoritative pattern must he follow which is showed him by Nature, that supreme arbiter of all life's effort. Nor is the pattern his by any peculiar privilege; he has only to rise high enough above commonplace considerations by the scala cœli of Art itself; high enough above the low level of the golden calf worship, and the gift is his. And of the

necessity for this pattern-this singleness and seriousness of purpose that must condition all the Arts, every age, by word and by work, has borne witness. Its importance, then, we dare not doubt, nor should that man hesitate to consider himself as its guardian who is sensible of the value of Art-sensible of the inestimable value of the works of men such as Webb, Watts, and Madox Brown; sensible of the utter worthlessness, as Art, of those works that have never cost their authors a pain, or that have never led us into companionship of large sympathies-works such as the cheaply-painted landscape that passes for a picture, and the cheaply-built villa that passes for architecture. Yet, while aware that the value of Art depends, not upon Art's being what a Sèvres vase is to a wine goblet, but rather upon its being what the goblet, with its graven poetry and full draught of wine is to the mouth and mind of the user: while aware that its value depends, not upon its being an effeminate adjunct of life, but rather upon its usefulness in being a tributary to swell that stream of ideal tendencies which actuates life. This, its chief motive, the most thoughtful of us is liable at times to lose sight of. And when, in London, at this moment, we look about us; when we see artists working without guidance, and designing after no authoritative pattern; when we see Art made the merchandise of Bond Street, the excuse for a lounge at the Academy, and claiming no more respect than that which attaches to those familiar subjects that are discussed at afternoon tea; when we see Art the plaything of indulgence, so effete in influence, and so vague in aim, we cannot doubt the cause. We must have slacked the reins of purpose, we must have fallen away from that which is a chief factor in Art's creation, and a chief cause of Art's influence. Here, then, let us recall to mind this fundamental principle, that we may give to the Arts that great intention which they have had in the