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wanting in a knowledge of the figure, and incapable of portraying " the naked and elevated nature,” of being ignorant of “ the niceties of anatomy and elegance of outline.” The former critic certainly admits that there are few examples of “ naked nature” in his works. We will not argue Hogarth's capability for this description of drawing, no unworthy example, perhaps, of which may be found in the figure of the girl reclining near the priest in the Pool of Bethesda, nor do we deny the taste-educating influence of the “naked and elevated nature.” But must the artist be irretrievably shackled to this in the lessons he has to teach ? Hogarth aimed not to teach us taste, but higher lessons of morality, to show us the sterner realities of life. Instead of a nude Venus he gives us the gin-drinker in her loathsome raggedness. He did not aim to tickle our intellectual palate with visions of impossible perfection and studies of form, but to whip our moral sense with views of the possibilities of degradation; while in the innocence of some baby face, or in a glimpse of better nature, of some generous feeling or sympathy ennobling a woman's face into beauty, he would remind us of the capabilities for goodness. Truly, art is the representation and teaching of beauty ; and what beauty is higher than the beauty of virtue, in contrast to and triumphing over the ugliness of vice?

Deficient in a certain dignity and in imagination of this idealistic order, Hogarth naturally failed in Scriptural painting. His Paul before Felix, Moses and Pharaoh's Daughter, the Good Samaritan, and Pool of Bethesda, border more on the ridiculous than ascend to the sublime, and are, as Ireland remarks of the first

mentioned, “ destitute of elevation and sentiment."

The chief characteristics of his work may be summed up in inexhaustible fund of originality, invention, and variety, a power and force which is to be found in few other artists, and a facility of expression equally rare. Spirit and animation mark every stroke; and though in parts coarse, it must be remembered that the standard of refinement is different now. The teaching, however, is the same for then, now, and ever, though the language in which it is conveyed be obsolete. Not the least remarkable characteristic of Hogarth is his dramatic power. Allan Cunningham said he is "a great dramatist, second only to Shakespeare ;” and the great Drama of Life, that “poor player who frets and struts his hour upon the stage "-life,

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with its toils and troubles, its cankering cares, its grim satires on man's wishings and strivings, its deadening crimes, its sharp punishments and vicissitudes, and, moreover, its little rose-gleams, its byewitnesses of good and joy, its unseen, unnoticed incidents of helping sympathy to the heart,—this is what Hogarth painted.

The test of genius is the sympathy which flows from it through the art—be it book, picture, or music—which it creates. Human nature is universal ; its chords are all attuned to one grand harmony, and that which can evoke music from these is great in a true sense. And this sympathy belongs pre-eminently to Hogarth. We cannot look on his works simply to admire them : they are too true for that. There is a deeper reference to the under-current of character which strikes too near home for dilettante trifling. And if sympathy be the test, enthusiasm must ever be the effect of real genius. The great, the true cannot be flirted with; it must be a grande passion, and such an entire feeling all great masters in art must produce. If Hogarth does possess this sympathy and bring forth this enthusiasm —and who can deny that he does ?—must he not be counted among those for whose living mankind is better, and whose working we can estimate at no cost, because it has no concern with our gettings or belongings, but with our being and nature ?

THE LOST CHILD.

O

UR home was in the wilderness: I dwelt

Far from the rush and roar of city life.
Our neighbours were but few; yet they were kind ;
And ever anxious to assist in all
The little acts of sympathy, which smooth
Life's rugged pathway. We had struggled hard
To earn an honest livelihood; and God
Had prosper'd our endeavours; and our crops,
Our flocks and herds increased abundantly.

One autumn morn I drove a noble herd
Of fifty cattle to the nearest town;
And sold them well; then purchased all the goods

We needed for awhile, and bade them bring
The choicest doll they had in all the store
To please my darling Annie, who could talk
Of nothing else, since I had promised her
That she should have a doll, with waxen face,
And sweet blue eyes, that opened with a smile,
And closed again, as if in peaceful sleep.
And as I came away, the little pet,
Although but three years old, had followed me
Down to the gate; and, as I gallop'd off,
Called after me in her own prattling way :
“Bring me a big one, Pa.” I turned my head,
And kissed my hand, and said, “I will, my lass.”

'Twas sunset ere I started. Oft I thought
Far better stay till morn. For ten long miles
Of rough, wild road, had I that stormy night
To travel; but I wished to be at home
So hastened onward. Scarcely had I left
The town a mile, when every twinkling star
Became obscured, and not a ray of light
Shone on my path. I threw the reins across
My horse's neck : for well I knew that he
Would find his way, through all the blinding rain
And beating storm, far better than myself.
When we had reached the little glen, through which
The mountain-brook was rushing furiously,
Roaring, and boiling in its wild career,
Increased in volume by the heavy rains;
We slacked our speed. The night was pitchy dark,
And little rivulets were rushing down
The road to join the roaring stream below.
Just as we turn'd the corner of the wood,
I heard a feeble cry, as of a child
Weary, and faint. I stopped, and listened long,
Then heard the cry again. Oh, how my heart
Beat with emotion! I was never known
To flinch at danger. Superstitious fears
Were strangers to my bosom, but a host

Of people knew I carried gold, and notes,
The proceeds of the sale. Was this a trap
To lure me to destruction ? And the sweat
Stood thickly on my brow; as, once again,
I heard that cry, so low, and pitiful.
It seem'd so utterly impossible,
On such a stormy night, a living child
Should be in such a place. And yet, once more
Its plaintive voice fell on my listening ear.

Despite my fears, I speedily got down,
And called aloud, “Whosever child thou art,
I'm not the man to leave thee here to die.”
I groped in vain, among the long damp grass ;
And then, bethought me of a hollow place
Against the hill-close by the road : and there
I found a little dripping thing, which sobbed,
And moaned as I upraised it, and returned
To mount my horse, which waited patiently
For my approach. I tuck'd the little one
Within my coat, and promised I would take
The sobbing child to its own dear mamma :
And so, it fell asleep against my breast.

Onward in haste I rode, until I saw
The windows of my house, all lighted up.
I thought my loving wife had, for my sake
Done this to guide me home; but, ere I reached
The door, I heard the voices from within,
And saw the shadows flitting to and fro;
And knew by this, some dire calamity
Had come upon us.

Almost dead with fear,
I stood, all powerless to upraise the latch.
And, when I muster'd courage, I beheld
The room all full of neighbours, and my wife
Sobbing in deep distress : she hid her face,
And said, “ Oh, do not tell him ; it will kill
My husband, when he knows the dreadful truth !"

“What is it, neighbours ?” I exclaimed; when one Old honest farmer said, “Oh, nothing now,

I hope, for what is that within your coat?”
A poor, lost child of someone's," I replied ;
I found it on the road, three miles away,
Moaning and nearly dead.” But, when I gave
The little sleeping thing to one of them ;
And in the blazing light, saw that the child
I saved from death was my own darling pet,
My little Annie; who had wandered out
To meet papa ; and whom, for many hours,
They sought in vain : I fell upon my knees,
In presence of them all, and gratefully
Gave thanks to God, for rescuing my child.

And, though full many years have passed since then,
I often think, how could I bear to live,
Had I not stopped old Rodger when I heard
That baby cry, scarce louder than the chirp
Of a young squirrel in the pathless woods ?
And feelings of the deepest gratitude
Imbue my spirit, as I thank the Lord
For rescuing my darling little one.

JOHN RYLEY ROBINSON.

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REPORTS ON THE PROGRESS OF SCIENCE.

GEOGRAPHY,-By E. C. RYE, F.Z.S., LIBR. R.G.S. FRICA still retains her hold upon the minds of geographers,

and although since our last report there is little of startling novelty to record, the details of various recent explorations which have come to hand will probably be both useful and interesting. A tribute must be paid, in the first place, to the memories of various African geographers recently passed away. Of these, Herr Rebmann is at once the oldest and the most noteworthy; he alone of the sad list has survived the varied dangers attending Æthiopian travel, dying in peace in his native land. Our present knowledge of the great lake system of Central Africa is due to him and Dr. Krapf, they being the first to collect and make known the native reports of the existence of an inland sea. He was sent out in 1846 to thc East

VOL. V.

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