again. There were strange appearances when he rose. A circular rainbow had formed round his torch; there was a blue mist gathering in the hollows of the cave; the very roof and sides began to heave and reel, as if the living rock were a Flushing lugger riding on the ground-swell; and there was a low, humming noise that came sounding from the interior, like that of bees in a hawthorn thicket on an evening of midsummer. Willie, however, had become much less timorous than at first, and though he could not well account for the fact, much less disposed to wonder. And so on he went. He found the cavern widen, and the roof rose so high that the light reached only the snowy icicles which hung, meteor-like, over his head. The walls were formed of white stone, ridged and furrowed like pieces of drapery, and all before and around him there sparkled myriads of crystals, like dew-drops in a spring morning. The sound of his footsteps was echoed on either hand by a multitude of openings, in which the momentary gleam of his torch was reflected, as he passed, on sheets of water and ribs of rock, and which led, like so many arched corridors, still deeper into the bowels of the hill. Nor, independently of the continuous humming noise, were all the sounds of the cave those of echo. At one time he could hear the wind moaning through the trees of the wood above, and the scream of a hawk, as if pouncing on its prey; then there was the deafening blast of a smith's bellows, and the clang of hammers on an anvil; and anon a deep, hollow noise, resembling the growling of a wild beast. All seemed terribly wild and unnatural; a breeze came moaning along the cave, and shook the marble drapery of the sides, as if it were formed of gauze or linen; the entire cave seemed turning round, like the cylinder of an engine, until the floor stood upright, and the adventurer fell heavily against it; and as the torch hissed and sputtered in the water, he could see by its expiring gleam that a full score of dark figures, as undefined as shadows by moonlight, were flitting around him in the blue mist which now came rolling in dense clouds from the interior. In a moment more all was darkness, and he lay insensible amid the chill damps of the cave. The rest of the adventure wonderfully resembled a dream. On returning to consciousness, he found that the gloom around him had given place to a dim red twilight, which flickered along the sides and roof like the reflection of a distant fire. He rose, and grasping his staff, staggered forward. "It is sunlight," thought he; "I shall find an opening among the rocks of Eathie, and return home over the hill." Instead, however, of the expected outlet, he found the passage terminate in a wonderful apartment, so vast in extent, that, though an immense fire of pine trees, whole and unbroken from root to branch, threw up a red, wavering sheet of flame many yards in height, he could see in some places neither the walls nor the roof. A cataract, like that of Foyers during the long-continued rains of an open winter, descended in thunder from one of the sides, and presenting its broad, undulating front of foam to the red gleam of the fire, again escaped into darkness through a wide, broken-edged gulf at the bottom. The floor of the apartment appeared to be thickly strewn with human bones, half burned and blood stained, and gnawed as if by cannibals; and directly in front of the fire there was a low, tomb-like erection of dark-colored stone, full twenty yards in length, and roughened with grotesque hieroglyphics, like those of a Runic obelisk. An enormous mace of iron, crusted with rust and blood, reclined against the upper end, while a bugle of gold hung by a chain of the same metal from a column at the bottom. Willie seized the bugle, and winded a blast, until the wide apartment shook with the din; the waters of the cataract disappeared, as if arrested at their source; and the ponderous cover of the tomb began to heave and crackle, and pass slowly over the edge, as if assailed by the terrific strength of some newly-awakened giant below. Willie again winded the bugle; the cover heaved upward, disclosing a corner of the chasm beneath; and a hand covered with blood, and of such fearful magnitude as to resemble only the conceptions of Egyptian sculpture, was slowly stretched from the darkness towards the handle of the mace. Willie's resolution gave way, and flinging down the horn, he rushed hurriedly towards the passage. A yell of blended grief and indignation burst from the tomb, as the immense cover again settled over it; the cataract came dashing from its precipice with a heavier volume than before; and a furious hurricane of mingled wind and spray, that rushed howling from the interior, well nigh dashed the adventurer against the sides of the rock. He succeeded, however, in gaining the passage, sick at heart, and nearly petrified with terror. A state of imperfect consciousness succeeded, like that of a feverish dream, in which he retained a sort of half conviction that he was lingering in the damps and darkness of the cave, obstinately and yet unwillingly; and on fully regaining his recollection, he found himself lying across the ninth cistern, with the fragments of the broken bottle on the one side, and his buckthorn staff on the other. He could hear from the opening the dash of the advancing waves against the rocks, and on leaping to the beach below, found that his exploratory journey had occupied him a whole day. CARDINAL WISEMAN. Nicholas Wiseman was born at Seville in Spain, of English parents, in 1802. He was educated at St. Cuthbert's College, near Durham. He afterwards went to Rome, and eventually became Rector of the English College there. He returned to England in 1835, and has since held a prominent position as a preacher and writer. Among his works are Hora Syriaca, The Holy Eucharist, Science and Revealed Religion, Fabiola, or the Church of the Catacombs, Recollections of the last four Popes, and Essays from the Dublin Review. He was appointed Archbishop of Westminster, and raised to the rank of a Cardinal in 1852. The extract following is from an able address delivered to workingmen, suggested by the great art exhibition at Manchester in 1857. THE IDENTIFICATION OF THE ARTISAN AND ARTIST. I THINK, among the greatest errors that language has imposed upon us, there is none more remarkable than the sort of antagonism which is established in common language as between Nature and Art. We speak of art as being, in a certain manner, the rival of Nature, and opposed to it; we contrast them we speak of the superiority of Nature, and depreciate Art as compared with it. On the other hand, what is Art but the effort that is made by human skill to seize upon the transitory features of Nature, to give them the stamp of perpetuity? If we study Nature, we see that in her general laws she is unchangeable; the year goes on its course, and day after day pass magnificently through the same revolutions. But there is not one single moment in which either Nature, or anything that belongs to her, is stationary. The earth, the planets, and the sun and moon, are not for any instant in exactly the same relation mutually as they were in another instant. The face of Nature is constantly changing; and what is it that preserves that for us but Art, which is not the rival, but the child, as well as the handmaid, of Nature? You find, when you watch the setting sun, how beautiful and how bright for an instant! then how it fades away! the sky and sea are covered with darkness, and the departed light is reflected, as it had been just now upon the water, still upon your mind. In that one evanescent moment a Claude or a Stanfield dips his pencil in the glowing sky, and transfers its hue to his canvas ; and ages after, by the lamp of night, or in the brightness of the morning, we can contemplate that evening scene of nature, and again renew in ourselves all the emotions which the reality could impart. And so it is with every other object. Each of us is, but for the present moment, the same as he is in this instant of his personal existence through which he is now passing. He is the child, the boy, the man, the aged one, bending feebly over the last few steps of his career. You wish to possess him as he is now, in his youthful vigor, or in the maturity of his wisdom, and a Rembrandt, or a Titian, or a Herbert, seizes that moment of grace, or of beauty, or of sage experience; and he stamps indelibly that loved image on his canvas; and for generations it is gazed on with admiration and with love. We must not pretend a fight against Nature, and say that will make Art different from what she is. Let us therefore look on Art but as the highest image that can be made of Nature. Consequently, while religion is the greatest and noblest mode in which we acknowledge the magnificent and all-wise majesty of God, and what he has done both for the spiritual and the physical existence of man, let us look upon Art as but the most graceful and natural tribute of homage we can pay to him for the beauties which he has so lavishly scattered over creation. Art, then, is, to my mind, and I trust to you all, a sacred and a reverend thing, and one which must be treated with all nobleness of feeling, and with all dignity of aim. We must not depress it; the education of our Art must always be ending higher and higher; we must fear the possibility of our creating a mere lower class of artists which would degrade the higher departments, instead of endeavoring to blend and harmonize every department; so that there shall cease to exist in the minds of men the distinction between high and low art. SIR EDWARD BULWER LYTTON. Sir Edward George Earle Lytton is the son of the late General William Earle Bulwer, but on succeeding to the estates of his mother he was allowed by the crown to exchange the name of Bulwer for that of his mother, which he now bears. He was educated at Cambridge, and gained the chancellor's prize for a poem in 1825. A year after he published some of his early effusions in verse. His novels, however, attracted more favorable attention, and are still widely read, especially by the young and impressible. The first one of note was Pelham, whose hero is a professed dandy, but not without good points. Among other popular works of his earlier days are The Disowned, Devereux, Paul Clifford, Pilgrims of the Rhine, Last Days of Pompeii, Rienzi, Alice or the Mysteries, Ernest Maltravers, Leila or the Siege of Grenada, Night and Morning, Zanoni, and the Last of the Barons. None of these can be commended to the reader without qualification. They are not only unduly romantic, but are pervaded by an unhealthy moral tone. The stories are all constructed with skill, and hold the attention strongly until the climax is reached; but the book once finished has lost its charm. The characters may interest us during the perusal, but not one of them is ever remembered. The author's next successes were in his admirable plays, of which Richelieu, The Lady of Lyons, and Money hold their place on the stage with undiminished popularity. The New Timon, of which short extracts are here given, is a satirical poem, containing the plot of a highly-wrought story, and is not without merit. The reference to the Poet Laureate is a fine specimen of honest antipathy, with perhaps a dash of that old-fashioned envy which we had hoped modern authors are free from. The attack, in fact, is a sad anachronism, belonging to the era of The Dunciad. The retort may be read among the specimens of Tennyson's verse; it is of the Tu quoque sort (as classified by Charles Reade), which may be freely rendered You're another! It differs from the blackguardism of Punch's typical cab driver only in being written by a scholar and in verse. In 1850 Sir Edward wrote a novel called The Caxtons, evidently suggested by Sterne's Tristram Shandy, but of far greater power than his former stories, and mainly free from the moral objections which attach to them. This was followed by My Novel and What Will He Do With It? both in a similar vein, and both deservedly popular. He has been in Parliament for many years, and has gained some credit as a speech-maker; but his political influence has not been greatly effective or conspicuous. [From the New Timon.] WELL, let the world change on - still must endure While Earth is Earth- one changeless race -the Poor! Within that street, on yonder threshold stone, What sits as stone-like? - Penury, claim thine own! She sate the homeless wanderer — with calm eyes Wistful but patient - sorrowful but mild, As asking God when he would claim his child. |
