and offensive alliance between the two Republics, adding to this astounding proposal' one still more startling, the partition of the globe between them. England was to take America as her share, the Dutch Republic, Asia; there was to be a war of conquest against both Spain and Portugal, and missionaries were to be sent to all people willing to receive them.

the

'It scarcely needed this last touch to blast the whole project in eyes of later generations. To evoke a Protestant alliance, not for the purpose of defending oppressed Protestants, but to wrest America from Spain and Portugal for the benefit of two Protestant nations, involves the utilizing of religion for purposes of self-interest, of which the modern world has learnt to be ashamed—at least, in its public professions. Yet the conviction that religious zeal might rightly lead to national aggrandizement and personal enrichment had been a dominant note with the Elizabethan adventurers whose exploits held so large a place in Cromwell's mind. . . . No one living was more eager to make the best of both worlds, and the tragedy of his career lies in the inevitable result that his efforts to establish religion and morality melted away as the morning mist, whilst his abiding influence was built upon the vigour with which he promoted the material aims of his countrymen.'

Is it then an illusion that the British flag is something to be proud of; and was last year's celebration a celebration of nothing more than successful selfishness? We should be sorry to think So. 'The Mission of England' is neither more nor less a cant phrase than the Protestant Cause.' In both, material interests have counted for much, but not for everything. We believe that there was some honesty in the Protestant fervour of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, and that England may be proud of the warlike and civilizing spirit which worked with her commercial instinct; and that the commercial instinct itself is not a thing to be ashamed of.

The prospect of a joint instead of a rival commercial advantage might have had more attraction than that of a double-headed Republic; but here, too, the Dutchmen saw more risk than profit, and feared to sail down the commercial no less than the political stream in such unequal company.

The result of the quarrel of 1651, set on foot by national pride and commercial jealousy, was the Navigation Act, and following upon that the Dutch War; acts of carnal policy and selfseeking, and scandalous to the saints, it might be supposed, if the saints had not been the authors of them. In his dealings with the Dutch in 1653 Mr. Gardiner compares Cromwell to Chatham, fostering maritime power with a view to commerce. In his dealings with France and Spain as Protector in 1654 he rather

rather resembled Mazarin. It is difficult to imagine Cromwell, Milton's Cromwell, the Defender of the Protestant Faith against Louis XIV., the Duke of Savoy, and the Pope, selling the help of England to the highest bidder of a few thousands of pounds, haggling at the same time with France and Spain for the possession of Dunkirk or Calais, and at last, with Queen Elizabeth's name in his mouth, leaving Condé and French Protestantism to compound with Mazarin, and making war upon Spain for the prospect of plunder in the West Indies. To the two Continental Powers it seemed that England was put up to auction, and that Oliver was the salesman.'

We do not always expect our rulers to act from the highest motives; but we sympathize with Mr. Gardiner when he turns with something of disgust from the 'sorry spectacle' of the man of deliverances aud visitations making alliances for sordid advantage, and conjuring up to deceive himself and his countrymen the antiquated spectre of the Pope, the Spaniard, and the Devil,'

It may have mattered little in the long run whether England was allied with France or Spain. Cromwell could not foresee the grand siècle. Spain was likely in any case to become an appendage to France, and the natural expansion of England was in the Spanish main. The Navigation Act, the Dutch War, and the Conquest of Jamaica, were steps towards the maritime supremacy of England, and led in time to the greater wars of the eighteenth century; but at the time they were the result of no far-sighted policy, but rather the action of men imperfectly acquainted with Continental affairs, the hand-to-mouth expedients of inexperienced statesmanship.

'An attentive consideration of Oliver's variations' (says Mr. Gardiner)' leads to the conclusion that the desire to attack Spain was the dominant note in his mind. . . . From time to time indeed he turned to Spain, but it was when he imagined himself to have reason to believe that the French Government was purposing to oppress the Huguenots, and to connive, if not to do more than connive, at a Stuart restoration in England. It was, indeed, a necessity of his nature to convince himself that whatever he did was done for the good of religion, and now that the danger of the French Protestants was seen to be imaginary, he was able to regard the attack on the Spanish West Indies as being in some way or other an attack on the Pope and the Inquisition.'

And we may add that Cromwell's speeches, both at this time (1654) and later, bring this aspect of his foreign policy into prominence.

Mr.

Mr. Gardiner proceeds :

That the control of the sea should belong to England and not tc Spain was the object for which these men of the seventeenth century were in reality striving, and it was on this material side of the conflict that the eyes of those men were mainly fixed.'

Rarely indeed does it happen in human affairs that nations make war for a pure idea; still more rarely, that they continue war for an idea. The Wars of Islam, the Crusades, the European wars of religion, the Napoleonic wars, the Spanish conquest of America, the Cromwellian conquest of Ireland and Scotland, were all floated as grand ideas; but the sordid side of national feeling soon made itself felt in all. Wars are begun from resentment, from loss of liberty, from desire of glory, from devotion to a leader or a cause. Treaties of peace are made on commercial considerations.

It is this predominance of material interest which made the resolution to send a fleet to the West Indies a turning-point with Oliver, and even with the Commonwealth itself. The return

of the mundane spirit announced itself in the Dutch war, in the break-up of the nominated Parliament, and now-more distinctly still-in the attack on the West Indies. What is yet more noteworthy is that the attitude of Oliver himself towards these changes is gradually modified. He opposes the Dutch war, he accepts the abdication of the nominated Parliament, and he urges on the mission of the fleet. It cannot be denied without the gravest injustice that the Puritan spirit is still strong within him; but he has now given the first place to mundane endeavour. If the Restoration is to be regarded, not as a mere change of the forms of government, but as a return to a mode of thought anterior to Puritanism, it may fairly be said that the spirit of the Restoration had at last effected a lodgment within the bosom of Oliver himself.'

These final sentences of Mr. Gardiner's volumes summarize the lesson of the period, that the noblest designs and the most energetic well-doing are likely to fail when they are not supported by the feeling of the nation. We hope, as we take leave of Mr. Gardiner, that he may soon be in a position to give us more, and, if possible, more frequent, instalments of the much narrated and little understood history of the Commonwealth, progressing as it did from noble fanaticism to humdrum but necessary common-sense, from revolution through absolutism to restoration, from the spirit of Pym to the spirit of Monk, from the reign of the saints on earth to the hurdle, the gibbet, and the quartering-block of Charing Cross, by which ten years later they passed to their reward.

ART.

ART. VIII.-1. Animals at Work and Play: their Activities and Emotions. By C. J. Cornish. London, 1896.

2. Life at the Zoo. By the Same. London, 1896. 3. Heligoland as an Ornithological Observatory. The Result of Fifty Years' Experience, &c. By Heinrich Gatke. Edinburgh,

1895.

WE

E live in an age when problems-in the old-fashioned sense of the word, i.e. Questions proposed,' if not for solution, at least for minute dissection-are becoming more and more the one thing to be aimed at in almost every class of literature. This spirit has invaded not only the various domains of Science, from that of Theology to those of the newest upstarts. Not even the remoter kingdoms of Poetry and Romance have escaped invasion. How,' why,' and 'whence' have come to be points of vital import to the well-being and value of three-fourths of the thousands of new books which every season produces.

6

It was not to be expected that so tempting a field as Natural History should remain unannexed. How far the external world of Nature, as it appears even to the countless tribes of insects, and the wider and less known race of animals, at all agrees with its aspect in the eyes of men, is a question of curious interest that until of late years has hardly been asked, much less answered. How much they see, hear, discern, and think as we see, hear, and distinguish-how far their intelligence resembles that of man—are matters worth careful enquiry. To these and other kindred speculations Mr. Cornish has devoted his attention, and in his two volumes mentioned at the head of this article gives us the results of his studies. Wielding a ready pen, and writing in a style that is always clear, and often brilliant, he possesses a vein of pleasant humour which rarely crops out in the work of specialists. Though occasionally discursive, and prone to strain his theories too far, he is a delightful companion, especially for a walk through the Zoo.' We turn, therefore, to Animals at Work and Play,' before touching on his more finished work on 'The Effect of Music on Different Animals,'

The ordinary life of animals, taken as a whole, might seem to the casual observer to be more or less monotonous, excepting, of course, that of birds, whose day is one of endless variety, activity, and change. Our author calls it a life of pure routine' —a daily, limited series of actions, most of which seem to afford satisfaction rather than pleasure, making up the sumtotal of animal happiness. They develope no new wants, and rarely

rarely appear to care for change or excitement of any kind; even the Carnivora wander only just so far as is necessary to find their prey. But, to a closer glance, this apparent routine reveals many features, varying, distinctive, and interesting. Thus, for instance, Mr. Cornish tells us how many animals' make their beds'-beds of their own, or which they appropriate. A few, especially the prairie dogs, make them every night; throwing away the old grass or straw, and hunting about in all directions for fresh blankets; or turning round and round among the withered leaves and herbage until they have contrived a new and cosy retreat. Even in the Zoological Gardens, they cling to their old ways. There each has his own box, into which a handful of straw is put every other day. Every morning, however, each dog carries out every scrap of his previous night's bed, and throws it into the cage. Nay, more, about 3 P.M. in the cold wintry days, the dogs suddenly recollect that the beds are not made,' and fly off in a hurry to get it done before dark. Common straw, dragged in as it is, will not suit them; it has all to be cut up to a certain length, in bundles, and 'made up inside. Mr. Cornish's words are worth quoting :—

'Each dog sits up on end, cramming straw into his mouth in an awful hurry, holding the straws across, and breaking them off on each side with his paws. As soon as he has filled his mouth till it can hold no more, he gallops off into his sleeping-box, arranges the cut straw, and rushes out again for a fresh supply; while from time to time the whole group will jump into the air and bark, as if suddenly projected upwards by a spring, like so many Jacks-in-the-Box.'

This last item has an element of fun in it that is rarely found among any animals, not even in the merry dormouse or squirrel. For dormice make beds for winter, but in a far neater and quieter fashion, being by no means so particular about a change of blankets. In their wild state, they often take possession of an old bird's-nest, filling up the inside with scraps of moss and wool, and fitting it with a roof of leaves that is somehow proof against cold and wet. A tame dormouse, with whom we were well acquainted, suddenly disappeared one autumn day, and after a long search was given up for lost. Early in spring he as suddenly reappeared from the top folds of a thick window curtain, where he had built himself a cosy nest of odds and ends of string and cotton, and shreds of wool, and slept soundly for five months, without a change of bedclothes.

But of all hibernating animals the strangest is the badger, though his bed is but a handful of dry grass, which he does his utmost to keep clean and free from every scrap of offensive

matter.