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tinently smile at what seem to us such patent illusions, we are obliged to recognise to how great an extent this idealizing tendency is an elevating influence. In a secondary sense, history and fiction provide us with the same effect. Next to the powerful humour of them, the great charm of Dickens' pictures of life, lies in his portrayal of domestic ideals-pictures which dwell with his readers as perpetual fountains of pleasure and elevation. The memory of Little Nell in "The Old Curiosity Shop," of Agnes in "David Copperfield," of Paul Dombey, and a crowd of others, with their innocence, simple-heartedness, and purity of motive, must ever tend to lead us in some sense to imitate that in them which makes us admire them. For the value and significance of an Ideal lies here, that whilst it is often mainly the outcome of ourselves, a figure clothed with the charms and virtues we most admire, it is the goal towards which we are ever moving, the type which we are always imitating. What we admire we must be growing towards. It does not often indeed seem so to us; we admire despairingly, but the very fact that we admire, involves a constant subtle attempt to be what we admire, and a constant grief that we are so different from our ideal. This is the principle of eternal growth. In the slow evolution of Eternal Life, we gradually assimilate to an ideal which grows more and more lofty as we advance.

It is worth while enquiring for a moment into the causes which make it appear, that in proportion as we become familiar with things do they become prosaic. The fact itself can hardly be questioned. In our knowledge of our fellowmen, it is proverbial that although a man may have such conspicuously noble qualities, as to gain the esteem and admiration of a whole nation, still "no man is a hero to his own valet." The contact is too close-the familiarity with the flaws spoils the picture. The same principle is illustrated by the sense of commonplaceness which inheres to the Present, as compared with the Past on the one hand, and the Future on the other. With few exceptions, To-day is ever prosaic; the daily life is a drudgery to be got through, whereas, we look fondly back at days gone by, clothing them with sentiment and affection, which we little felt they deserved when they constituted our present. Epitaphs tell the same tale. The dead, unappreciated whilst living, are an epitome of the virtues when lost to us. It is a shallow explanation to attribute this change of attitude towards things and persons passed away, to insincerity or hypocrisy. A phenomenon so universal lies deeper, and calls for a more profound explanation. Such an explanation may I think be found in the conditions of our imperfection in the first place, and of our growth in the second. All progress and growth seem to involve conquest, but there can be no conquest without opposition and consequent strife, and these in their turn involve suffering, hence actual progress requires the presence of pain and difficulty, often directly caused by an effort to live more nearly to a high ideal, in the midst of what seem to us mean and unwholesome conditions. These conditions are necessary elements in the struggle, but they so fill our view at the moment as to cause the whole range of the immediate prospect to seem low and sordid. When, however, distance

has cleared the atmosphere, these vanish like mists, and we see, standing out in memory, the pleasures and beauties that after all made up the bulk of the landscape. I have just been walking round my garden; it is in reality a fine, well-stocked garden, and one of which I can easily imagine myself envying the possessor. But as I went through it, I saw many weeds which I felt ought to have been cleared away. I noticed sundry weak places in the hedge, which sadly wanted filling, and many little things met my eye, which I keenly felt ought to be otherwise; these thoughts as they filled my mind, so differentiated the actual garden from the ideal garden of which I had a vision, that all my delight in it fled, and I was fain to get back to my books. If I were to lose the garden (being in reality very fond of one), I know that in recalling it I should forget all these things. I should remember the flowers and fruits, the singing birds and the sunshine, my children's voices and happy laughter, and the whole memory would be to me a pleasure and a poem. If however, I had not an appreciation of those defects which have just spoiled my morning's walk, the garden would permanently deteriorate, its deficiencies would not be remedied, and no progress would be made. Hence, in an imperfect condition, a strong (probably from a more extended view, an unduly strong) sense of the shortcomings of the present life is a necessary stimulus to improvement.

Imagination is the very handmaid of Religion, and Religion on the other hand is the most universal stimulus to the imagination. It has been contended, indeed, that Religion is merely the outcome of an irrepressible imagination. Anyway, it is quite evident that the subject which involves our relationship to the Unseen must in the very largest measure work through the only faculty by which we can see, hear, and feel, without the aid of the physical senses. It is no disrespect to Religion to say, that one of its chiefest benefits to mankind, consists in supplying it with high and noble ideals. No one can realize the influence on the world of the ideal character of Jesus of Nazareth, who has not contrasted it with that extant in the Roman Empire at the time of his Advent. Philosophers may have indeed realized the truth, that "greater is he that ruleth his spirit, than he that taketh a city," but the idea of heaping "coals of fire' on the heads of our enemies by means of loading them with benefits, was one that until then had not entered man's conception. It has indeed taken 2,000 years to plant itself there, even as an ideal. Who shall say how many more it will take for it to become the common practice ?

In pointing out the value of ideals, which are often merely subjective, I may be supposed to be giving support to Superstition. Superstition is indeed supposed to mean a belief, unsupported by reason, in an unseen power, or the attributing to a supernatural cause results which can be shown to arise from natural ones, and it is common to denounce superstition as degrading and enslaving its votaries. I confess this seems to me to be true in a limited sense only. So long as a nation's ideals are lower than themselves, as when a savage nation sacrifices to a vindictive God in order to propitiate him, so long must their superstition be injurious and

degrading. But when, as amongst the peasantry of Catholic countries, there exists a general belief in gracious help and sympathy, to be obtained from holy and loving beings, be they called Virgin or Saint, whose characters are such, that to imitate them must refine and elevate; although this may rank as technical superstition, it cannot be baneful. Dangers of course may result from a dependence on hypothetical help to the neglect of personal effort, but it is a question how far that is an effect which may not equally be laid to the charge of all religious faith. Do not let it be supposed that I am arguing in favour of accepting a belief for which there is no reasonable basis; on the other hand, I would fain that men would look far more closely to the reasonableness of their creeds; but I recognize none the less that all good Ideals, even though superstitious (ie. illusive as far as their objective existence is concerned) are ameliorating and softening influences.

Even were it true, as the Agnostics would have us believe, that the Great Mystery is impenetrable, and that it is a sad waste of time and energy-which might otherwise be usefully employed to the benefit of humanity to spend ourselves in speculations on Lunar Politics, it would still be idle to hope, whilst man remains a rational and imaginative creature, that he will give up this insoluble riddle; and I for one greatly doubt whether the riddle is not given to us, in order that in attempting its solution, we may through the play thus afforded to our minds and imaginations, grow stronger, as well as more patient and tender. SENEX.

THE "HÄNSELN."

(An ancient custom of St. Goar on the Rhine.)

N modern days, when Cook and Gaze
Make travelling so easy,

From Rea to Rhine, or Black-gang-Chine,
Or Iceland cool and freezy.

And tourists flee by land and sea,

To Paris, Rome, or Cairo ;

With book in hand, and journey planned

To suit the merest tyro.

When deeds of yore, and legend lore
Of Giant, Sprite, and Fairy,

Or false, or true, are brought to view
By Baedeker the wary;

One may try and try again,

But the search is all in vain

To light upon a subject for a rhyme,

And I know I shall be told

That my story's dull and old,

And I've wasted both my paper and my time.
I can only say tant pis!

Blame the editor-not me,

For he's worried me for copy night and day, t
So I've done my very best,

If it does not stand your test,

Turn the leaf and travel further on your way.

Where the Rheinfels ruins stand

Yet proud and hoary;

Scene of many a pageant grand,

And battle gory:

At its feet the flowing Rhine,
Brightly gleaming;

By its sides the clust'ring vine
With berries teeming ;

Lies the township of St. Goar,

With its linden-shaded shore. Could you see it, you would say, Oh would that I could stay!

Oh would that I could rest here evermore!

* Anglice-The Initiation.

† A poetic license with a vengeance.

But had you lived in good old days
When Charlemagne was King,
And heard about those good old ways
Whose praises some folks sing;
You had shunned its lovely shore,

And whispered-evermore

I will keep a proper distance from the township of St. Goar. But I'm assuming that like me,

You've renounced your S. and B.,

And a teetotal champion are, and true,
Which you're anxious to confess

By attaching to your dress,

The pretty little ribbon badge of blue.

And now to tell what once befell
A gallant Knight of yore,

Who riding late, approached the gate
That led within St. Goar.

The gate was closed, the warder dozed,
And yet the Knight could hear

A joyous throng, and dance and song,
Betokening good cheer.

Dismounting from his trusty steed,
Who, like his master, craved a feed
And bed whereon to lie,

With lusty blows he struck the gate-
For weary men are loth to wait-

When bed and board are nigh.

Up rose the drowsy warder then,
From out his little stony den,

And cried "What would you here?"
"Withdraw your bolts," the Knight replied,
In tones that would not be denied,

"I'll pay you well, ne'er fear."

The warder grinned a roguish grin,
Then drew the bolts to let him in,
And said, with solemn face,
"Right welcome, sir, but you must know
That strangers first must undergo

The customs of the place."

Then straightway rang a noisy bell,

Whose tones the townsfolk knew full well,

For in a moment more,

A hundred sturdy burghers came,

And led the Knight, in angry frame,

Up to the Toll-house door.

"What would ye, knaves," in vain he cried,

With hempen gyves his limbs were tied

And fastened to a ring.

Then spoke the chief with humble voice,

"Sir Knight, I pray you make your choice,

And say what we shall bring.

Wine or water! quick, decide, Sir!
Make your choice, and we'll provide, Sir,
Nor be long deciding!"

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