weep. Then the archdeacon explained that those who without definite intention entered on the right side of the gate always succeeded in their plans, but those who entered on the left failed in everything. Thus it became clear why all had gone well with the travellers, and Gervais somewhat inconsistently concludes his story with these words: "On Thy will, O Lord, depend all things, and no one can resist that will." Conrad of Querfurt, chancellor of the Emperor Henry VI. of Germany, has left a remarkable letter written from Sicily in 1194 to his friend the Abbot of Hildesheim, in which he tells the marvels which he saw in his travels. Italy at that time being but little visited by northern antiquarians, was regarded by them as a land of mystery and enchantment, and we need not be surprised to learn that Conrad saw with terror Scylla and Charybdis, and many other marvels of classic days. He, however, was not travelling as an archæologist, but had gone to Italy charged by Henry VI. with the execution of his tyrannous edict for the dismantling of the fortifcations of Naples. They had been built, Conrad declares, by Virgil himself, who had besides, as a Palladium, made a small model of them which he enclosed in an air-tight bottle. This would have been an effectual safeguard against armies and emperors, but for a small crack which was discovered in the bottle, sufficiently accounting for the ease with which Conrad fulfilled his master's orders. This legend takes another form as told by Caracciolo in his account of the fortress of the Castel dell' Ovo (Castle of the Egg), probably so called from the shape of the islet on which it stands. Virgil, according to the story, had much delight in this castle, and taking an egg, the first ever laid by a certain hen, he put it in a bottle which he enclosed in a small iron cage. This cage he suspended from a beam in a certain chamber of the castle, with strong doors securely locked. On the safety of this egg the existence of the castle was to depend, and as at the present day it I still stands on its rocky islet, frowning over the beautiful bay, who can say that the egg does not still hang in its secret chamber? The famous mineral springs of Pozzuoli, so efficacious in many disorders, were long believed to owe their healing powers to Virgil's spells, and in the "Chronicles of Parthenope" it is related that at a later period the physicians of the famous school of Salerno found their gains so materially diminished that some of them secretly embarked for Pozzuoli, where they effaced the inscription over the door of the baths, so that no one might henceforth know of their miraculous powers. But on their return voyage they were overtaken by a violent storm, and all were drowned between Capri and the headland of Sorrento, except one who was penitent and afterwards told the story of this evil deed. The subject of Virgil as an enchanter disappears from literature with the fanciful French and German rhyming romances of the thirteenth century, which have little value as literary productions. These, regardless of the facts of history, generally represent the poet in a somewhat discreditable light. They usually make Rome and the court of Augustus the scene of his achievements, and though often childish, are sometimes amusing. The poet's connection with the Eternal City lingered long in various local names. Near the Colosseum a ruined fountain where once the gladiators washed was long called the "Fontana di Virgilio," and the name "Tor de' Specchi" (Tower of Mirrors), still borne by a street near the Capitol, recalls a legend which says that here, like the Lady of Shalott, in a chamber in a lofty tower, he could see -moving through a mirror clear, and nothing that was passing even in distant lands could be concealed from him. This tower perhaps was also the scene of a gruesome tale of Virgil's death quoted by Sir Walter Scott in the notes to an early edition of the "Lay of the Last Minstrel." According to this, the poet-enchanter had discovered a means of renewing his youth, and with this object he commanded his faithful servant to kill him, cut his body in pieces, salt them, and put them into a barrel, placing the head above and the heart in the midst. The servant was to keep the secret close, and wait patiently for a certain time before working a charm which was to complete the process of rejuvenation. The emperor, uneasy at Virgil's long absence, obliged the servant to conduct him into the spellguarded tower. When they entered the chamber where the barrel stood, the emperor, concluding that his favorite had fallen a victim to the wickedness of the servant, killed the man at once, and thus the charm was lost, and Virgil never returned to life. We conclude in the words of old Bartolommeo Caracciolo, the Neapolitan chronicler: "Of the said Virgil I might tell many more things that I have heard, but be cause the greater number appear to me fabulous and false, I have not wished to fill men's minds with such follies, and because much has been said above of Virgil which I, the writer of them, believe less than any one else. I beg all my readers to hold me excused because I do not wish to diminish the fame of this most distinguished poet, and the good-will which he always bore to this renowned city of Naples. But God alone knew, and ever knows, the truth of all things, and this I truly say, that if I have written anything false or fabulous, I have duly advertised the reader thereof." K. V. COOTE. From Temple Bar. RECOLLECTIONS OF EDWARD AUGUSTUS FREEMAN. As one of the foremost writers of our day, and as one of our greatest historians, the late Mr. Freeman will not soon be forgotten; and the Dean of Winchester's interesting biography will help to preserve his memory. But events and persons succeed one another quickly; year by year the roll-call grows of those who are worthy to be remembered; and, whether we will or not, the vividness of the past fades away. Before it is too late, it may be worth while to retrace a few personal reminiscences of a man remarkable in many ways, a man of exceptionally vigorous intellect, and of an essentially true and generous heart. Often in great men their little ways of saying and doing are more really indicative of what they are than their public utterances and more conspicuous performances. It may be mere idle gossip that Marshal Soult was fond of stewed beef-steaks, or Professor Conington of sweet puddings, but there is a glimpse into character in Pitt locking his study door when called away hastily, instead of staying to put his papers in their drawers. There may be character in things so trivial as the way of sharpening a pencil or of shaving one's chin. Because these little things are less studied and more spontaneous, they are often a revelation of self. In Freeman, whatever there was eccentric is easily accounted for. His was a peculiar bringing up, under his grandmother, and a peculiarly sensitive temperament. He began life with very strong likes and dislikes, and these had room to develop themselves in the loneliness of his home-training. When a child, he could not bear to see the forks on the dining-table with the prongs upwards, and he would go round the table reversing them one by one. It was trivial, but it showed in embryo an idiosyncratic way of seeing things, and tenacity in standing by his opinions. Even if Freeman had ever been sent to a public school or into Parliament, his angularities would probably have been the same to the end. My first sight of Freeman was the day after my coming up to Trinity College, Oxford. To the freshman of yesterday everything was strange; but peculiarly so was the apparition in one's room of a youthful hirsute "don," especially as though the visit was friendly, there was nothing in the manner and demeanor to show it. To the last, though this shyness wore off, the brusquerie remained, and too often gave an impression of unkindness where none was meant. Had any one told Freeman that his tone to a servant was harsh or overbearing he would have been shocked. When I reviewed the first volume of his "Norman Conquest," Freeman asked the editor, through me, to insert a refutation of something which I had written. The editor's reply to me was that one so severe to others must not be sensitive himself. The "Bashi Bazouk of literature" some one called him, a title singularly distasteful to one so fiercely anti-Turkish as Freeman. While staying at Northampton, under his grandmother's roof, I made excursions with Freeman to the churches of the county famed for spires and squires. One fine morning in spring we reached the station just as the train for Wellingborough was starting. The policeman at the wicket-gate stopped us, of course. Freeman was very indignant, and strove to force his way in, loudly denouncing, what appeared to him, this vexatious interference of bureaucracy. But the man was doing his duty, and we were wrong; my friend's explosion of anger was typical of his dislike to officialism. Another time I witnessed a protest on Freeman's part with more provocation for it. In a travelling circus near Dursley acrobats were performing, one standing, usual, on the shoulders of another, the audience appauding noisily. When, however, a little child was hoisted up to stand on the outstretched palm of the topmost acrobat, Freeman shouted, "Shame, shame!" though the sightseers, angry at the interruption, drowned his voice with cries of "Turn him out." Freeman did not stop to consider that what to him was frightfully dangerous was very probably no terror at all to the circus-boy. A helpless child seemed to him to be ill-used, and, whether others were on his side or not, he would not sit by in silence. It was the same chivalrous resentment which fired him as in defence of the oppressed anywhere. Were he alive now, his voice would be loud on behalf of Armenia and Crete. On the Stinchcombe Hills, near Dursley, especially on the level summit of Uleybury, we had many a gallop. Freeman enjoyed riding, though not a good horseman, nor accustomed to it in youth. But he liked going fast and shouting the old Norse war cry "Ha Rou!" or a chorus from Aristophanes, or, like Walter Scott, declaiming Border ballads as he rode, he would repeat aloud some old monkish jingle, as "Tunc Rex Edvardus debacchans ut leopardus." He was fond of animals; the horses had pet names from Teutonic or Scandinavian legends-Rollo, Otto, Bruno; he liked their companionship, though knowing almost nothing about horses. His love for dumb creatures made him intolerant of vivisection, and his dislike to foxhunting as a cruel sport was intensified by his want of sympathy with the typical foxhunter. Even at Somerlease, where in his later years circumstances made him a country gentleman, he could not assimilate himself completely to his surroundings. When Freeman was our guest in Herefordshire, it was not always easy to keep the peace between him and our other guests. From a repugnance to what he regarded as mere conventionality he would not dress for dinner. One evening, when some one had tried to persuade him to conform, he came down to the drawingroom in white from head to foot by way of protest against fashion. Another time, when some visitors were announced and he was stretched at full length on the sofa, he moved not, only glared at them, and probably, had they accosted him, would have replied by a grunt or a growl. Yet he would have given his life to save a fellow-creature. That the small amenities of social intercourse have to do with the daily happiness and the daily duties of life was to him unintelligible; such things were dwarfed to him by the greatness of the questions, historical and political, which filled his mind. The most distinctive trait in Freeman was, I think, thoroughness. This gave force and directness to whatever he said, and deepened while it narrowed his sympathy. Sparing himself no trouble in verifying a name or a date in the dim past, he seemed unable to appreciate the same concentration of energy on very minute things in other departments of knowledge. He would insist again and again that "Karl," not "Charlemagne," is right, that almanac and calendar should be spelt with a k, that Hastings should be "Senlac," but he would not see that the same thoroughness is needed even about a butterfly's wing or a beetle's thigh. What he saw he saw with a clearness and distinctness almost unique, and could express with equal lucidity of style. His mind was like a map. When his other writings are forgotten, his Historical Geography will live on. Perhaps none but himself could have made such a synopsis of the ever-changing frontiers of nations, comprehensive, exact, alive with human interest. What he knew he knew thoroughly, and he knew when he did not know. He was especially intolerant of metaphysics. To him everything was either concrete or not at all. He abhorred cloudland. Freeman had the centrical point fixed and definite towards which every radius of the circle, unless life is to be purposeless and desultory, must converge, but he wanted the circumference. This narrowness, remarkable in so lively and energetic a nature, Freeman-I think not altogether unconsciously-fostered instead of combating. He would often profess utter ignorance if the subject lay beyond his own special range. On the other nand, he would be impatient and surprised if his own allusions to out-of-the-way incidents in history were not understood immediately. "Who is Alma Tadema?" he asked at a time when the artist's name was everywhere. Green of Oxford was to him as a matter of course his friend and fellow-worker, "Johnnie Green," as he called him, the historian; he shut his eyes to the fame of another "Green of Oxford" of the same date equally famous in another way. To Freeman, during his residence in Trin ity, the commoners were as though they were not. President, fellow, scholars to him were the college; passmen had no raison d'être for him. The words "Trinity College" to him meant Trinity College, Oxford, as if the great sister foundation at Cambridge, the greatest college in Christendom, had no exist ence. I have tried to illustrate what seems to me the idiosyncrasy of my friend, an individuality more strongly marked than any other which I have known. An Italian once epitomized Garibaldi to me as, "Gran cuore, piccola intelligenza." No one could apply the latter part of the description to Freeman, yet in many ways he reminded one of the Italian hero. There was the same leonine aspect, the same generous, unselfish ardor, the same nobleness of soul too rare among men. The world is poorer, darker, colder, when men like these pass away. I. G. S. From The Speaker. THE ART OF GEORGE DU MAURIER. The world of pictorial satire is still lamenting a grievous loss. Mr. Punch has not yet replaced Charles Keene; he will have still more difficulty in finding a successor to George Du Maurier. There are clever pencils at his command, but none of them has either the sphere or the particular breeding we associate with the creator of Mrs. Ponsonby de Tomkyns, Sir Gorgius Midas, Postlethwaite, and a dozen more types of the society in which Du Maurier found his quarry. Far inferior to Keene in technique, he had more origi al humor, a closer observation, a more distinct faculty for disentangling individuality from the crowd. Critics of black-and-white were apt to speak disdainfully of his later drawing. While Charles Keene is a draughtsman of European fame, Du Maurier constantly offended the canons of his art with his Minerva-like demoiselles, beetle-browed and ponderous in the chin, and usually about ten feet high. Mr. Phil May could give him points in artistic workmanship, and Mr. Bernard Partridge easily surpassed him in pure dexterity. But these young artists would be the first to admit that the Du Maurier tradition, like the Leech tradition, is a monument that overtops them. It belongs to the continuity of pictorial history, to that larger discourse which is occupied with the subject rather than the treatment. When we think of Mrs. Ponsonby de Tomkyns, we remember her as a social figure admirably observed, and forget the occasional defects of technical handling. Du Maurier's purely literary sense stood him in such stead that the shortcomings of his pencil were of comparatively little moment. We have a suspicion that the physiognomy of Sir Gorgius Midas is all wrong. Instead of looking like one of the least prepossessing denizens of the "Zoo," he ought to he a very sleek, well-groomed, not ill-educated animal, with plutocratic vulgarity exuding from all the fastidious appointments of a man about town. But Du Maurier rarely failed to catch the mental attributes of his characters with exceptional acumen; and it is just that important gift which is possessed in far less degree by the men who have carried the art of black-and-white to a perfection he never approached. On his literary side he had a portentous vogue which must have astonished him not a little. Charles Reade did not write novels till he was forty. Du Maurier turned to story-telling when he was nearly sixty, and achieved a popular success that Reade never dreamed of. That "Trilby" owed something to the author's drawings is likely enough, though his earlier novel, "Peter Ibbetson," which he also illustrated, did not attract any widespread attention. But the story of the model in the Quartier Latin, who, while in hypnotic trances, became the greatest singer Europe had ever heard, and remained totally unconscious of this celebrity to the day of her death, did unquestionably make an extraordinary appeal to the great mass of readers in England and America. Even Miss Marie Corelli, who is also a portent, has not enjoyed so prodigious a popularity. Mr. Du Maurier's head was not turned. He did not battle with his hostile reviewers, nor write splenetic letters about the gossips. Parsons with fashionable congregations did not write articles on "George Du Maurier as I know him," suggesting that his work was a Sinaitic revelation. He turned some reminiscences of his student days into a romance, which, with no pretension to literature, has a charm of its own even to mau who find its renown inexplicable. With absolute disregard for accuracy in his creation of a musical prodigy, he contrived, nevertheless, to convey the emotional effect of music as it has rarely been expressed in language. Moreover, there is something in Trilby herself which is singularly fresh and winning-something in the true roman. tic manner that atones for many pages of irritating commonplace and cheap sentiment. In his story, "The Martian," which is just begun in Harper's, Mr. Du Maurier describes his schooldays with that mixture of French and English which is one of the agreeable characteristics of his artless method, though he was too fond of writing French-admirable French-as if he were giving lessons in that tongue. A great master of English fiction set Mr. Du Maurier the example of this manner, though it would be absurd to make comparisons between the efforts of the deferential pupil and certain scenes in "The Newcomes." It is evident that the plot of "The Martian" is to be still more incredible than that of "Trilby," for the idea of a young gentleman who becomes the greatest writer in England by means of some inspiration from the planet Mars evidently belongs to fairy tale of the childlike kind. But although "Trilby" brought Mr. Du Maurier fortune, and the hysterical raptures of readers and playgoers in the British Islands and the American con tinent, he must have felt that his real reputation was bound up with Punch. A few years hence the name and fame of "Trilby" will be buried beneath heca |