purpose, forgetting that to the inventive or imaginative faculty, the leading feature in the better lines of art, they owe all they value,-the utilitarians tolerate only portrait-painting. Their absorption in the useful is only because it is the profitable in money heaping, though it excludes the product of some of the nobler faculties of the mind. Thus it is opposed to all which is lofty and refined, but flourishes better where, to use the words of the author of "Corinne," ," "Ils n'avaient pas cet aride principe d'utilité qui fertilise quelques coins de terre de plus en frappant de stérilité ce vaste domaine du sentiment et de la pensée."

Our landscape painters take the lead in English art. It is true we have some neat cabinet pictures cleverly executed, but we do not equal the Dutch masters in finishing, if we show more graceful outlines. Landscape-little of the high ideal, but much of the natural and beautiful-is the standing proof that the English artist is able to excel where he finds the encouragement he has a right to expect. Here, in place of being the forced copyist of brainless heads and inane features, he can depict his conceptions, bring into one the more beautiful portions of natural scenery, combining them in a perfect whole, or, in copying nature in some popular domain, be still improving and strengthening his mind with the best things in his own line of art, until he ascends with Turner into the region of pictorial poesy. Yet even here he must be careful to keep English scenery in view, and not go beyond it, lest he be misunderstood. The Englishman only purchases that with which he is familiar. He suspects southern skies in their intense blue, because his own are pale and grey. The pencil of Wilson in his "Niobe," or the style of Gaspar Poussin, or that of Rubens, in landscape, will only answer with a few. Plain English landscape is tolerated, admired by fashion, and received next to the portrait, which exhibits itself, being estimated at a current value by "the general," which, any more than its rulers, has never yet acquired the knowledge how art honours a nation.

The elevation of a superior few is not visible here; the great body of our artists are nearly at the same level—a level more uniform than was ever seen before. We remain in a respectable mediocrity, and send up no lofty shoots to confer honour on British art in the sight of foreign nations, by whom our own self-conceit of excellence will have no consideration. Without onward movement art will become stagnant, cover itself with weeds, or be lost in evaporation. Considering the shackles imposed upon our artists-for there can be no onward movement with ideas ever downcast-and the lamentably defective state of the public mind in judging, it may be confidently affirmed that our artists are not the parties who bring their country under censure for the non-production of worthier works of art. Whatever patient perseverance, very fair drawing, and a perfect mastership of colour can perform, they can execute. The higher walk of art requires, in addition, a peculiar and abstracted mind, an elevation of soul, and a concordance of mind and pencil which are to be obtained only by natural genius, study, and practice, cheered by encouragement. Called upon at a moment's notice to execute works of this character the other day, as in the new Houses of Parliament, our artists were not fairly tried. They cannot leap at once from portrait and fancy-painting to high art. Among the specimens exhibited some time ago in Westminster Hall,

it was in consequence of the foregoing circumstance that works of higher merit were not seen, and yet the exhibition was creditable to our artists. The adjudication of the prizes showed the defective character of the judges. Where the power to determine the question of merit in a work of art is wanting, an essential stimulus to art itself is absent.

In the present state of things, artists-sculptors, for example-may have toiled before the Capitol, and having left Canova and Thorwaldsen, have sat down at home full of hope to end in disappointment. Their works may be exhibited pregnant with genius, and the more they are so. the less will they be inclined to get puffed in newspapers, to intrigue with committees, or struggle to obtain a secret influence over some powerful individual whose dictum in a committee is decisive, without regard to knowledge. The impudent forward blockhead will succeed best. The retiring, shrinking man of feeling and talent will be neglected. The most miserable work mounts its pedestal to the national disgrace. With a true feeling for art in the public this would not occur; without it, any brazen image will answer. It is not the workmanship, but the character of the subject, that stamps its value with ignorance. It is incredible to such how a work of Buonarotti should be valued for the artist's skill in place of the character of the man copied in the marble. The artist's mind stamps the value here; the genius that glows in the performance, the breath of life breathed into the dead marble, are passed over. All this is "to the Greek foolishness." Until the æsthetic, or the theory of the noble and beautiful, is felt and understood by any people, that people must not presume to claim for itself the reputation of a taste for art. It is not a great while ago that we had no native sculptor. Roubiliac, a Frenchman, was the only sculptor worthy of notice in the country. We have in this respect turned over a new leaf. We have sculptors of our own; and if we progress slowly towards a purer taste, we may hope, in the end, to see a change wrought in the public, since there are facilities for it now which we never before possessed; but collections of pictures, good, bad, and indifferent, if innumerable, will not make artists. It is too true that the engrossing attention to gain is opposed to the attainment of mental elevation and to a love for high art, but the large fortunes acquired and acquiring, must fall into hands possessed of leisure by-and-by. Those who are to inherit such means may learn to appreciate works of art as well as to collect them, and thus influence those so fond of imitating persons of rank as the middle classes are, to direct themselves to the attainment of those true principles which will purify the general taste. Thus to their manufactures, so notoriously deficient in taste now, and to their dwellings full of comfort and neatness, all which will gratify the sight accustomed to proportion and grace will be added, and another charm attach to existence that now belongs exclusively to a very few indeed in a rich country possessing great treasures in artistic production.

May-VOL. CXXII. NO. CCCCLXxxv.

A FACKELZUG IN HEIDELBERG.

BY JOHN STEBBING.

I.

In spite of the west wind, which was blowing half a hurricane, and which in Heidelberg is about ten times more than equivalent to the north-east anywhere else,-in spite of the eight inches of snow, and in spite of all sorts of cries of invitation from acquaintances rushing through the Ludwig's Platz (as the Heidelberg Place Royale is denominated) towards some more sheltered quarter, I remained for at least five minutes quietly considering what on earth I should do; for I had done everything that was to be done, and I was exhausted with my day's work. I had smoked, I had attended a lecture on jurisprudence, I had drunk beer, I had been over the water to see some duels, I had run a race back again across the bridge, I had dined at the Badischer Hof, I had drunk coffee at Shifferdecker's, the confectioner's, played dice at the same place for three glasses of punch, and finally retired to the Museum, and gone to sleep over the last number of Galignani. It was now six o'clock, and for the next hour Heidelberg, for all idle as well as for all business purposes, might be considered to be dead. As I looked around me on the solitude of the dimly-lighted square, I recalled to mind Wordsworth's" Sonnet on Westminster Bridge," and said to myself, in solemn accents, "All Heidelberg is at tea!" Within the next hour would be consumed what mighty quantities of pungent Göttingen sausage, of savoury Hamburg beef, of delicious raw ham, of exquisite coffee, and execrable tea!

It might have been some vision of these good things that suddenly put an end to my state of uncertainty. I walked at once into the High-street, and turning to the left, proceeded at a rapid pace towards the west end of the town. How narrow was the pavement, to be sure, and how many were the people who tried to keep their footing upon it! But after many narrow escapes and some few mishaps, I at length succeeded in reaching the famous pump which in summer is surrounded by so many water-drawing, laughing girls, and in winter is environed by so many snowball-throwing, screaming boys. A few steps more, and I had reached my destination. A heavy shove against the coach-house-like door, then a groping journey of discovery down the yard, with right arm stretched out, seeking the house door, then a stumbling ascent up the most awkward stairs in the world, and then a hearty welcome in a cozy

room

Mr. Brander knitting; Mrs. Brander piling logs on, or rather, shoving logs into, the fire; Clement Brander copying the notes of his lecture. Mr. Brander, short, thick-set, sturdy, with an honest, rugged face, of which the predominant lines are the writing of a determined, but easy and honest character, and of which the subordinate lines are the traces of strong sensuous tastes, now either exhausted or subdued. He has taken to knitting to cure himself of taking snuff. Mrs. Brander,

something of the paroquet type of woman, with a strong strain of the tame jackdaw, very pretty to look at, bright-eyed, apt to startle people with words uttered ever so carelessly, but happening to be very à propos to somebody's discomfiture. Clement Brander, broad-browed, shortnosed, animal-jawed, strong-armed, more good-tempered than his mother, with something of her sharpness; more active-minded and eager-hearted than his father, with more than something of his powers of self-denial.

Every one has noticed the peculiar distinctness of every object just before a storm, and it has often occurred to me that, in a somewhat similar way, we are drawn to bestow particular attention on the characters of those around us at moments when anything is about to occur which, without our being conscious of it, may greatly affect our lives. I had known the Branders ever since I had been in Heidelberg, but whenever I remember them now, it always seems as though my acquaintance with them had begun on the evening of which I am speaking.

"Come to see the Fackelzug, I hope, Mr. Beck? We wanted a young gentleman; for we have two young ladies coming, and Clem is going to carry a torch."

"What young ladies, Mrs. Brander-the Miss Fanshawes, I suppose?"

"No, not the Miss Fanshawes. Some young ladies you have not met yet, I think; the Leslies, who live out beyond the Carl-thor. It has been such severe weather that they have scarcely been into the town through the whole winter; but I called there this morning, and the mamma promised to bring them out this evening if it were tolerably fine."

In small towns, where you meet every one about fifty times a day, it is always something to see a new face, to hear a new voice, to have even the chance of meeting with a new mind. But this was not the only reason for the gratification with which I heard Mrs. Brander's announcement. Although I had never seen, or even heard the names of, the Leslies, they had often occupied my thoughts.

I had become acquainted, soon after my arrival in Heidelberg, with a young countryman with whom I soon became very intimate, or rather familiar. There could be no sort of doubt, at the same time, that we neither of us liked or admired the other. He was loud and violent, candid quite to a fault, not at all nice in his language, and so openly selfish, that it almost ceased to be looked on as a vice, and was regarded by his friends more in the light of a mannerism. But, however dissimilar our characters, we had several small or great vices in common, which made it a mere matter of course that we should be a great deal together in so small a community as Heidelberg. We were each of us intolerably idle; we were equally given to strolling about the town, and dropping into all the beer-houses and confectioners' that came in our way; and, greatest bond of all, we were alike in our determination to resist and evade in every possible way the law of the lumpen-glocke, in other words, the summons which is rung out from the steeple of the chief church in the town every evening a quarter before eleven o'clock, warning all good citizens to leave the beer-houses and go home to bed. Leave the beer-houses we did, being compelled thereto nightly by the appear

ance of ferocious-looking constables with cocked-hats and swords, who had not the slightest relish for chaff, whether in bad English or worse German.

The moments of loneliness and depression which are incidental to all idle, vagabondish lives, came upon me and Mr. Potter in due course, and we used to battle with them desperately, but when nothing would do we used to separate till the evil spirit should have passed by, and left us once more disposed for the old routine. On such occasions, I used to go home and have a dry-eyed cry (all the tears being in my heart), or would wander up among the hills till weariness and cold would drive me back as with whips into the town again. But as for Potter. Now, this was the curious part of the matter, that I always knew where he went on these occasions, and he knew that I knew, and that I knew he was unwilling that the subject should be mentioned between us. And yet no word on the subject had ever passed between us.

When Potter was weary of drinking beer, and of smoking, and of me, and of Heidelberg, he used to visit the family that lived beyond the Carlthor. And I knew it.

"There they are at last! Run down and open the door, Clem."

I actually felt nervous; but the feeling only lasted for a moment, and by the time I had been introduced to the tall and gentle and some what sad-looking lady, whose dress showed at a single glance that she was one who had resolved to show outwardly all her life the remembrance of the loved one that always filled her heart,-when I had been introduced to Mrs. Leslie, I say, I had recovered sufficient presence of mind to dispose of my person in such a manner amidst the furniture of the room as to be able to settle down eventually near the one of the young ladies who might the most strike my fancy.

Shall I fall in love at first sight with Miss Mary, the younger? Is there not something exquisitely delightful to me in that brilliantly clear but almost colourless complexion, in those sarcastic grey eyes, in that abundant soft hair of dead beech-leaf colour, in that neat classic head, habitually carried just a little on one side, giving one the impression of a saucy vessel just bending to, but refusing to yield to the wind? Yes, it approaches somewhat my early ideal. But I am too old now for my early ideal-smoked too much, perhaps; drank too much beer, perhaps ; lost too much money, perhaps. It matters not why, but my life is not quick enough now to leap up towards it as it formerly would, and I surprise myself in a quick sigh of pleasure as I turn towards the elder sister, and gaze for a moment, a little too earnestly, on the rich colouring of her rosy cheeks, on the sweet curved fulness of her lips, and the brown softness of her eyes. To look upon her gave me much the same physical feeling of rest and satisfaction as I have felt on throwing myself, after a weary tramp, upon a couch of springy feathers.

But now Babette, the German maid-servant, thrusts her light blue eyes and light pink face into the room to let us know that the Fackelzug is approaching. Whereupon much uprising and thrusting back of chairs and curtains, and throwing open of windows, and then, as though it were a scene upon a stage, suddenly appears before us the silent landscape of the town. The brightest stars of the purple sky hang low amidst its snow-covered roofs; the muffled tread of the passer-by has