T

O delineate successfully the workings of conscience requires such high qualities in an artist that even Shakespeare's genius would seem less had he avoided the subject, whereas the existence of "Macbeth" alone would maintain his place in the front rank of the greatest poets. So with the work of Victor Hugo, there is nothing that will prove more enduring than one or two of his short poems that turn on the workings of the conscience. How forcible is the piece in the first part of the Legend of the Ages bearing this title. Cain flies before Jehovah, but cannot sleep, for an open Eye looks at him through the darkness. He awakes his tired family, but wherever they go, the Eye pursues Cain. If he looks behind he finds it watching him from the farthest point of the landscape. His children strive to hide him behind tents, bronze walls, and towers of granite, but the Eye pierces every refuge. They carry the old man down into a deep cavern beneath the earth, but here in the darkness of the tomb the Eye still looks steadily upon him. It is a fine conception, but two centuries earlier Poussin had the same thought and depicted it on canvas. his picture in the Louvre of the incident in the gospels, where the Pharisees brought a woman to Jesus taken in adultery, we see behind the group of accusers, each of whom presents a different form of the workings of conscience, an angry sky ending in a light over the horizon which resembles a stern reproachful eye.

In

The painter in the picture before us attempts no such symbolism, but trusts to the universal acceptance of the well-known illustration of the workings of conscience in the king who ordered the massacre of St. Bartholomew.

This picture, by M. Leopold Frédéric, entitled Roland de Lattre executing the penitential psalms before Charles IX. and Catherine de Medicis, was exhibited at the Exposition Historique de l'Art Belge in 1880.

That Roland de Lattre, or, Orlando di Lasso, as he is more usually called, did actually perform his celebrated composition called "the Penitential Psalms before Charles IX. can hardly be doubted, and that the unhappy king frequently caused his chapel-choir to perform them in his presence during the last months of his career, when his mind was tortured by the remorseful memories of the dreadful days in which he took part, is also in the highest degree probable; nevertheless, to enter fully into the intention of the picture before us, we must suppose Charles IX. to be writhing under the particular memories referred to, and this, though in the highest degree poetically true, could not actually have occurred as here represented, since Orlando di Lasso never himself conducted any music in Charles the Ninth's presence subsequent

to the massacre of St. Bartholomew. However, the whole career of Charles IX., and his admiration for the works of this great composer, and his earnest desire to have Orlando near him in his last days, amply justify an artist in giving dramatic reality to a popular conception founded on poetical truth.

To those who believe with Pope that "the proper study of mankind is man," the history of Charles IX. is painfully interesting; but it must be followed with sympathy, or a monster, that is to say an impossible being, will be the result.

There is a little room in the Louvre filled with the works of Clouet which, taken altogether and seen in the light of history, preach a powerful sermon from the text, "I will visit the sins of the father on the children to the third and fourth generation." The portraits of Francis I., especially the last one, give the key to the history of his unhappy descendants. We understand why his son Henry II. looks as if lethal blood ran through his veins, and why his three grandsons were each the victims of tyrannical propensities. And these three unhappy kings were the victims of not only the sins of the Valcis race, but inherited from their maternal ancestors, the Medicis, habits of thought, and a nature still more profoundly corrupt.

What a heritage, even if in quiet obscurity and in honest, out-door labour they could have found the best antidote to mental and physical disease, but they each in turn were forced to become the centre of a mad crowd of greedy people, each seeking his own ends or the supremacy of the faction with which he supposed them identified. What a whirl of horrors are these religious wars, ruinous to all who took part in them and to religion in France. It is a solemn question : would these miseries, and countless others that have rendered European history so dismal and distressing, ever have happened if the Church had not turned itself into the worst of all worlds in utterly forsaking and setting at nought every principle of its Lord and Master? Into this world-church, at one of its agonising moments, when it raged like a maniac, tearing its own body to pieces, these unhappy kings came, weighted with the sins of the dissolute Macchiavellians who had got supreme power in Italy and France. Well might the most gifted among them have often wept over his miserable fate. When Charles IX., a little lad of ten years of age, was consecrated at Rheims King of France, the weight of his coronation robes was so great that tears began to run down his cheeks, fit beginning of a reign so rueful, that as he lay on his deathbed he declared himself thankful that he left no infant to succeed to his troubles.

The condition of this unhappy king was one which, without being manifestly insane, was perilously near to it. It was apparently a case

of nervous excitement, which drove the sufferer to acts of violence. Charles IX. had forges both at the Louvre and Amboise, where he loved to wield the blacksmith's hammer and assist in making arms and cannon. Still more violently did he pursue the chase, especially the slaughter, killing the wild boars with his own hand and then tearing out their entrails as if he had been bred a butcher. He would spend whole days and nights in the forest, careless of food or sleep, and that to such an extent that Catherine de Medicis urged his preacher Sorbin to remonstrate with him. And his mental disorder also showed itself in the spectral illusions by which he was haunted.

A week after the massacre of St. Bartholomew he woke up after having been two hours in bed, and made his people rise and fetch the King of Navarre that the latter might listen to a frightful noise in the air, for Charles affirmed that he heard a great choir of voices, screaming, groaning, howling, exactly like those heard on the night of the massacre. Believing it occasioned by a fresh outbreak, he sent guards off through the City to stop the murder, and when they returned asserting nothing was the matter, he still continued troubled, and indeed it would appear that both he and his court continued to hear the same noise upon seven successive days at the same hour. Nor need we suppose this a mere legend; its authority is the very man whom the king sent to be a witness of it, the King of Navarre, afterwards Henri IV.

This licentious court was full of persons who practised the Black Art, so that their consciences, darkened by a thick fog of magic, startled them by frightful apparitions. We see the same effect in the world of nature; on a dark day in November the sun loses its natural colour and becomes blood-red, and in a white fog in the winter everything becomes preternaturally large and ghostly. So the light that lighteth every man that cometh into the world may be completely misconceived, and appear under forms distorted by a diseased imagination. And this was so much the case at this period of French history that it is almost impossible, among the various stories of the time, to say how much is due to imagination and how much is fact.

A panegyrical account was published immedi ately after the king's death by his religious director, Sorbin, an account in which the writer candidly admits that he considers it his duty to suppress everything which might not redound to the honour of his sovereign, while the totally opposite stories of the horrible disease and poignant remorse which Charles IX. suffered are too dramatic to be accepted as matter of fact. Where, however, the pictures painted from such opposite points of view agree, is in representing Charles IX. as mentally wretched, and that to an extreme degree. His reverend director finding him full of contrition, assures him this is a sign of grace, and moreover bids him draw consolation from the fact that he has been permitted to suppress and destroy so much turbulence and heresy. No one, however, can read all the details of the story of the king's part in the great massacre and doubt that, forced

against his will to become not only an accessory, but the most passionate of all the accessories in a stupendous crime, he would, when he came to himself, be the prey of the utmost remorse. In his misery he had recourse to the old means of allaying the excitement of his nerves; violent exercise and music, and as he grew more and more weak he looked to the latter for the only relief possible. "How," exclaims the preacher Sorbin, "he loved music, both instrumental and vocal! And especially agreeable to him was that of a rare musician of his time, called Orlando, a servant of the Duke of Bavaria. His music pleased the king so very much that there was hardly any other in all points so agreeable to him."

The Orlando here mentioned is doubtless the Orlando di Lasso of this picture, the greatest composer, excepting Palestrina, of his time. This indefatigable worker composed two thousand four hundred pieces, more than half being sacred music. The manuscript of his Psalms of Penitence, dated 1565 and 1570, is preserved at Munich, and forms four quarto volumes illustrated with a number of finely-executed pictures. Among them Lasso appears at the head of his musicians, the whole appearance of the work testifying to the honour in which he was held in his time. Di Lasso was by birth a Fleming, being born at Mons in Hainault in the earlier part of the sixteenth century, probably about 1520. He was taken to Italy when very young by Ferdinand de Gonzague. At twenty-one he became chapel-master of the celebrated Roman basilica San Giovanni in Laterano. About 1549

he threw up this position to visit his dying parents, and for twelve or fourteen years nothing certain is known of him. In 1554, he was in Antwerp, where most of his works were published. Albert of Bavaria invited him in 1557 to Munich, and in 1562 appointed him his chapel-master Between 1560 and 1575 Orlando di Lasso was at the apogee of his career. In 1571 he came to Paris and lodged at the house of Adrien le Roy, a musician and a publisher of music. He was presented to Charles IX., possibly by the king's favourite singer, Etienne le Roy. He was received with a warmth Charles showed to no one else, and honoured with magnificent presents.

Nothing, indeed, could be a better passport to the king's favour than ability in music, in fact his pleasure in it led Charles IX. to try and disseminate the taste among his people. He founded an Academy of Music, the letters-patent of which affirm that the morals of a country depend on its music; where it is disordered and inharmonious, manners are depraved, where it is the opposite there men are easily governed.

This sounds very plausible, but a fine taste in music did not save Charles IX. from great crimes and a life full of inharmonies. Nor did great musical genius render Orlando di Lasso a truly moral man, for he not only set licentious poems to music, but he was willing to be the hired servant of a blood-stained king and court. True, his master, the Duke of Bavaria, urged him not to neglect so great a means of promoting his fortune, but that only shows the duke's standard

of morality was not more elevated than that of men who had no opportunity of hearing the lovely music that daily rose from his chapel. If we are to believe Tolstoi, music can transport a man into a condition not his own, so that under its influence he seems to feel what he does not feel, to understand what he does not understand, to be able to do what he is not capable of doing. His soul becomes confounded with that of the composer, and with him he passes from one state to another. He is, as it were, hypnotized. If this be so, it explains why

11

Charles IX. longed for the presence of Orlando di Lasso. In that age of magic he found no enchanter's wand so magical as the uplifted hand with which Orlando beat time. In his absence he found, it may be, the same wonderful transmutation of soul in listening to Orlando's Penitential Psalms. But when the music ceased, did its influence last? Possibly, for even Tolstoi admits that music excites to action. Certainly Charles IX. was penitent, but more we cannot say. Eternity draws the veil.

R. HEATH.

A

RAILWAY station is not exactly the place to which one would go if wanting to be refreshed with some of the tendernesses of life. There there is hurry and push, every man for himself or for his luggage, which, for the moment at least, seems as precious as himself; brown paper parcels, umbrellas, poodles, anything, everything, provided it is one's own, comes before the rushing to and fro humanities with whom one has but little to do. "Tis "By your leave" here, and "By your leave" there; and whether you give leave or not, you will soon have a truck-load of luggage down on your toes if, by a sudden hop or start, or, perhaps, a more dignified and leisurely step, you don't get out of the way. You might almost as soon go to pick a lily of the valley or a violet in a bed of Jerusalem artichokes, or in the middle of a gooseberry-bush, as go to a railway station at a London terminus to find the softer amenities of life.

Perhaps there is no time for them in a general way; though now and again, despite my figure of speech touching the violet, and the lily, and the artichoke, and the gooseberry-bush, they are to be found there. Yes, I am only speaking of the general bang-about of stations; for sometimes you will see the tendernesses of humanity very beautifully there. Many a frail body bending with years, many a young child who for want of years is frail too (frailty belonging to either end of life), is piloted safely to the carriage, or from it, by a porter's kindly hand. I have only a limited belief in the healthfulness of railway porters' minds and sensibilities in this matter, owing to a disease very prevalent amongst them called "Tips." This too often warps their minds, even if it energises their arms and legs; but now and again, yes, many a time, you will see something which as much as reproaches you, and says, "The heart need not be tipped."

And, in truth, never yet has a human heart been tipped-it has been touched, but never tipped. The influence of a gift upon a heart is because it "is given," not because it is a "gift."

I had a good many thoughts suggested to my mind by a little incident I saw at a railway terminus in London the other day. It was a very small incident indeed-probably the owner of the flowers and the railway porter who carried them would neither of them remember anything about it; but it made an impression on my memory, and awakened in me some thoughts.

A lady had brought up some flowers from the country, and she had to make her way amongst the throng pushing on to the barrier. I am not sure how it would have fared with her flowers if she had had to carry them herself, but a porter took charge of them; the hand that was ready to handle great boxes and trundle them about, was now carrying those fragile blossoms.

But how he carried them was what struck me: both hands were full-in one hand he held upright a bunch of some stiff-stemmed flowers; these did not seem as if they wanted much protection; but those he held in the other hand were far from being so independent; they belonged to some creeper, and had no strength for self-support.

These were carried turned downward, and with great care. Poor feeble things, away from the support to which they had clung in their country home, they had come up to gladden some chamber in the murky town; and they looked as though it would need great care to get them to their journey's end. They were a touching sight as they made their way through the bustling crowd, none caring for them but the one who owned them, and the one by whom they were carried.

In carrying out his little office, our friend the porter (tipped or untipped) made a difference. He had the one work to do, he had the one kind of material on which to do it; his left hand and his right both carried flowers, and his one object was to carry them both in safety. But the flowers were different; and, so the way in which each hand dealt with them was different too.

My friend the porter was much better than many who go on the rough-and-ready principle that one mode of treatment will do for all. All

66

or

the world are with them either "geese ganders," and their motto is, "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander." They are like people whose business lies entirely in ready-made shoes, they do not believe in any one's wanting a last of his own. Everything is with them turned out as it were by machinery, even one's very thoughts must run upon rails or in a groove.

And as they do not think of there being differences in the characters and circumstances of people, and they do not see that there is need of a difference in the instrumentality that is brought to bear upon them, they have the one food for all bodies, the one treatment for all minds, the same schooling for all hearts. It is their glory that they make no difference. Do not they act on principle, and what is higher than principle? But God Himself teaches us in nature that there is not to be the same dealing for all, there must be a difference between the fitches, and the cummin, and the bread corn; the "fitches are not threshed with a threshing instrument, neither is a cart wheel turned about upon the cummin; but the fitches are beaten out with a staff, and the cummin with a rod. Bread corn is bruised; because He will not ever be threshing it, nor break it with the wheel of His cart, nor bruise it with His horsemen. This also cometh forth from the Lord of hosts, which is wonderful in counsel, and excellent in working." The man who does all this is a man whose "God doth instruct him to discretion, and doth teach him' (Isaiah xxviii.).

Many a character in process of formation has been ruined, many a tender and susceptible heart has been broken, many a life has been spoiled, because those who had to do with them did not know the value of "making a difference."

Now, our friend the railway porter made a difference; and in doing so he brought into quick and common-sense play his powers of perception. They were nothing very particular, I dare say, just the ordinary perceptive powers which carried him along through life; they had no savour of talent about them, only common sense. Indeed in this case there was not much need of thought-the creeper must be dealt with according to its kind. It would be a good thing if we were able to act quickly on a right perception. How often we have to have it hammered into our heads by the consequences of our mistakes that we are going wrong. Mischief is being done under our very eyes, and we don't see it; we have not perceived the nature of the material we have to work upon; we don't treat it after its kind.

Now, although no long process probably passed through the porter's mind, still without perceiving it, he acted on the reasonableness of things, the same reasonableness that would enable him to fulfil any of the other functions of his daily life.

How very often in common life we are throwing overboard the reasonableness of things, and our own common sense, which ought to take it into account. The judicious Hooker tells us that "Reason is the director of man's will, discovering in action what is good, for the laws of well-doing

But many

are the dictates of right reason.' folk won't reason-they won't even perceive; and they go through life by a rule or by rules, though a thousand circumstances are occurring to which their rules do not apply.

And there was thoughtfulness in my friend the porter's action; and thoughtfulness was none the less true because it was swift and short. He had to deal with the peculiar and the fragile property of another; and the flowers held upright in one hand, and downward in another, were the fruit of thought. Nelaton, the great French surgeon, once said that "if he had four minutes in which to perform an operation on which life depended, he would take one minute to consider how best to do it."

God thinks, and in His thinkings makes differences, and great differences too, in His dealings with the children of men. The blessed Saviour carries the lambs in His arms, and gently leads those that are with young. God thought for the Israelites when Pharaoh had let them go. He could have slain all their enemies with as much ease as He had slain the firstborn of Egypt; but they were to be led forth as they were, in poor weak human nature; they were weak, and God dealt with them as the weak. "And it came to pass, when Pharaoh had let the people go, that God led them not through the way of the land of the Philistines, although that was near; for God said, Lest peradventure the people repent when they see war, and they return to Egypt; but God led the people about, through the way of the wilderness of the Red Sea" (Exod. xiii.).

We are told that "He knoweth our frame, He remembereth that we are but dust" (Psa. ciii. 14), that "He is very pitiful and of tender mercy (James v. 11). See how that infant is represented as being thought for in the Old Testament (Ezek. xvi.), and that poor wounded man by the Good Samaritan in the New (Luke x.). These all are the revelations of the mind of God-His thoughtfulness for others. "I will not contend for ever," says the Lord, "neither will I be always wroth; for the spirit should fail before Me, and the souls which I have made" (Isa. lxvii. 16).

We think a great deal of the power of God, we do not think enough of His gentleness. The two come together beautifully in the words of David's song (2 Sam. xxii.): "Thou hast also given me the shield of Thy salvation, and Thy gentleness hath made me great."

There are those who from their very nature can only be led to their home through the crowd and turmoil of life by the exceeding thoughtfulness and gentleness of God. And He who "will not break the bruised reed, nor quench the smoking flax," deals with them as this reed and this flax should be dealt with. He knows how to hold each of His people in His hand; what is carried unskilfully may be broken-lost.

Gotthold once wanted to seal a letter, and called for a lighted candle. The maid brought the candle too quickly, and the flame, which had not had time to gather any strength, went out. "Here," said Gotthold, "we have that which may