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over her lap with both her hands. "It is a pull up the stairs after one's been hard at it all day, and a little drop of comfort like this does one no harm, whatever they may say against it, more especially when it's like this, and not the vitriol and mahogany shavings which they sell by the quartern at the Goldsmith's Arms. You didn't bring this from France with you, did you, ma'am?"

"Oh no," said Pauline, with a half smile. "It is a long time since I left France." "Ah, so I should think," said Mrs. Mogg, by your civilised ways of going on, let alone your speaking our language so capital. Mogg, meaning my husband, was in France once, at Boolong, with the Foresters' excursion, and thought very high of the living he got during the two hours he was there."

but whatever fancy she may have indulged
in as to the idea as to who might be her
visitor, was speedily dispelled by hearing
the short sniff and the apologetic cough
with which Mrs. Mogg was wont to herald
her arrival, and being bade to come in,
that worthy woman made her appearance,
smiling graciously. It was Mrs. Mogg's
habit to fill up such leisure as her own
normal labour and active superintendence
of the one domestic slave of the house-
hold, known as Melia," permitted her,
in paying complimentary calls upon her
various lodgers, apparently with the view"
of looking after their comforts and tender-
ing her services, but really with the inten-
tion of what she called "taking stock" of
their circumstances, and making herself
acquainted with any peculiarities likely,
in her idea, to affect the question of her
rent. Having thoroughly discussed the
possibility of getting rid of the German
teacher with her husband, and it being
pleasantly arranged between them that
that unfortunate linguist was to be decoyed
into the street at as early a period as pos-
sible on the ensuing morning, and then
and there locked out, his one miserable
little portmanteau being detained as an
hostage, Mrs. Mogg was in excellent
spirits, and determined to make herself
agreeable to her new lodger.

"Good evening, ma'am," she commenced, "time being getting late, and this being your first night under our humble roof, I took the liberty of looking in to see if things was comfortable, or there was anything in the way of a Child's night-light or that, you might require."

Almost wearied out with the weight of the wretched thoughts over which, for the last forty-eight hours, she had been brooding, Pauline felt the relief even of this interruption, and answered graciously and with as much cheerfulness as she could assume. 66 The room was comfortable," she said, "and there was nothing she required; but would not madame sit down? She seemed to be always hard at work, and must be tired after climbing those steep stairs. Perhaps she would not object to a little refreshment?"

Mrs. Mogg's eyes gleamed as from her neat hand-bag Pauline produced a small silver flask, and pouring some of its contents into a tumbler, handed the waterbottle to her landlady, to mix for herself.

"Thank you, ma'am," said Mrs. Mogg, seating herself on one of the two rushbottomed chairs, and smoothing her apron

"Ah, you have a husband," said Pauline, beginning to lapse into dreariness.

66

Oh, yes, ma'am, and as good a husband as woman could wish, a hard-working man, and taking no holidays save with the Foresters to the Crystal Palace, Easter Mondays, and such like. He's in the docks is Mogg.'

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"In the docks!" said Pauline; "he would know then all about ships?"

"Oh no, ma'am," said Mrs. Mogg, with a slight toss of the head, "that's the Katherine's Docks you're thinking of, where the General Steam goes from. Mogg is in the West Injia Docks: he's in the saleroom-borns and hides, and other foreign produce."

"Then he has nothing to do with ships?" 'Nothing at all, ma'am. It would be easier work for him if he had, though more out-door work, but his is terrible hard work, more especially on sale days. He's regular tired out to-night, poor man, for to-day has been a sale day, and Mogg was at it from morning till night, attending to Mr. Calverley's consignments."

"Mr. Calverley!" cried Pauline, roused at last. 'Do you know him ?"

66

"Oh no, not I, ma'am," said the landlady, "only through hearing of him from Mogg. He's one of the largest merchants in horns and hides, is Mr. Calverley, and there is never a ship-load comes in but he takes most of it. Mogg has done business for him-leastways for the house, for when Mogg knew it first Mr. Calverley was only a clerk there- for the last thirty years." "Is Mr. Calverley married ?"

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Oh yes, ma'am. He married Mrs. Gurwood, which was Miss Lorraine before

she married Mr. Gurwood, who killed himself with drink and carryings on. A pious lady, Mrs. Calverley, though haughty and stand-offish, and, they do say, keeping Mr. C.'s nose to the grindstone close."

"And Mr. Calverley, what is he like?" "Not much to look at, ma'am, but the kindest and the best of men. My nephew Joe is light porter in their house, and the way in which Mr. Calverly behaves to himhalf-holiday here, half a crown there, Christmas-boxes regular, and cold meat and beer whenever he goes up to the house-no tongue can tell. Likewise most bountiful to Injuns and foreigners of all kinds, Spaniards and that like, providing for children and orphans, and getting them into hospitals, or giving them money to go back to their own country."

"Where is Mr. Calverley's address-his business address; his office I mean ?"

"In Mincing-lane, in the City, ma'am. It's as well known as the Bank of England, or the West Injia Docks themselves. May I make so bold as to inquire what you want with Mr. Calverley, ma'am ?" said Mrs. Mogg, whose curiosity, stimulated by the brandy and water, was fast getting the better of her discretion; "if it's anything in the horn and hide way," she added, as the notion of something to be made on commission crossed her mind, "I am sure anything that Mogg could do, he would be most happy."

"No, thank you," said Pauline, coldly; "my inquiry had nothing to do with business.'

And shortly after Mrs. Mogg, seeing that her lodger had relapsed into thought, and had replaced the silver flask in her hand-bag, took her departure.

"What that Frenchwoman can want with Mr. Calverley," said she to her husband, after she had narrated to him the above conversation, "is more than I can think; his name came up quite promiscuous, and she never stopped talking about him, while I was there. She'd have gone on gossiping till now, but I had my work to do, and told her so, and came away.'

Mrs. Mogg's curiosity was not responded to by her husband, a man naturally reticent and given in the interval between his supper and his bed to silent pipe-smoking. "They're a rum lot, foreigners," he said, and after that he spoke no more.

Meanwhile Pauline, left to herself, at once resumed the tiger-like pacing of her room. "I must not lose sight," she said,

"of any clue which is likely to serve me. Where he is she will be, and until I have found them both and made them feel what it is to attempt to play the fool with me-me, Pauline Durham-I shall not rest satisfied. I must find means to become acquainted with this man Calverley, for sooner or later he will hear something of Tom Durham, whom he believes to have gone to Ceylon as his agent, and whose non-arrival there will of course be reported to him. So long as my husband, and the poor puny thing for whom he has deserted me, can force money from the old man Classon, or Claxton, or whatever his name is, they will do so. But in whatever relations she may stand to him, when he discovers her flight he will stop the supplies, and I should think Monsieur Durham will probably turn up with some cleverly concocted story to account for his quitting the ship. They will learn that by telegraph from Gibraltar, I suppose, and he will again seek for legitimate employment. Meanwhile, I have the satisfaction of striking him with his own whip and stabbing him with his own dagger, by using the money which he gave me to help me in my endeavours to hunt him down. The money! It is there safe enough!"

As she placed her hand within the bosom of her dress, a curious expression, first of surprise, then of triumph, swept across her face. "The letter!" she said, as she pulled it forth, "the letter, almost as important as the bank-notes themselves, Tom Durham called it. It is sealed! Shall I open it; but for what good? To find, perhaps, a confession that he loves me no more, that he has taken this means to end our connexion, and that he has given me the money to make amends for his betrayal of me-shall I- Bah! doubtless it is another part of the fraud, and contains nothing of any value."

She broke the seal as she spoke, opened the envelope, and took out its contents, a single sheet of paper, on which was written:

I have duly received the paper you sent me, and have placed it intact in another envelope, marked, "Akhbar K," which I have deposited in the second drawer of my iron safe. Besides myself no one but my confidential head clerk knows even as much as this, and I am glad that I declined to receive your confidence in the matter, as my very ignorance may at some future time be of service to you,

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This letter Pauline read and re-read

over carefully, then with a shoulder shrug returned it to its envelope, and replaced it in her bosom.

"Mysterious," she said, "and unsatisfactory, as is everything connected with Monsieur Durham! The paper to which this letter refers is of importance, doubtless, but what it may contain, and who 'H. S. may be, are equally unknown to me, and without that information I am helpless to make use of it. Let it remain there! A time may come when it will be of service. Meanwhile I have the two thousand pounds to work with, and Monsieur Calverley to work he is the only link which I can see at present to connect me with my fugitive husband. Through him is the only means I have of obtaining any information as to the whereabouts of this pair of escaped turtle-doves. The clue is slight enough, but it may serve in default of a better, and I must set my wits to work to make it useful."

upon;

So the night went on, and the Mogg household, the proprietors themselves in the back kitchen, the circulating librarian in the parlours, the Italian nobleman, who dealt in cameos and coral, and bric-a-brac jewellery, in the drawing-room, the Belgian basso, who smoked such strong tobacco, and cleared his throat with such alarming vehemence, in the second floor back, and the German teacher in ignorance of his intended forcible change of domicile in the attic, all these slept the sleep of the just, and snored the snores of the weary, while Pauline, half-undressed, lay upon her bed, with eyes indeed half closed, but with her brain active and at work. In the middle

of the night, warned, by the rapid decrease of her candle, that in a few minutes she would be in darkness, she rose from the bed, and taking from her carpet-bag a small neat blotting-book, she sat down at the table, and in a thin, clear, legible hand, to the practised eye eminently suggestive of hotel bills, wrote the following letter:

19A, Poland-street, Soho. MONSIEUR,-As a Frenchwoman domiciled in England, the name of Monsieur Cal

verley has become familiar to me as that of a gentleman-ah, the true English word! -who is renowned as one of the most constant and liberal benefactors to all kinds of charities for distressed foreigners. Do not start, monsieur, do not turn aside or put away this letter in the idea that you have already arrived exactly at its meaning and intention. Naturally enough you think that the writer is about to throw herself on your mercy, and to implore you for money or for admission into one of those asylums towards the support of which you do so much. It is not so, monsieur, though, were my circumstances different, it is to you I should apply, knowing that your ear is never deaf to such complaint. I have no want of money, though my soul is crushed, and I am well and strong in body though my for which, even in England, there are no heart is wounded and bleeding, calamities hospitals nor doctors. Yet, monsieur, am

I one of that clientèle which you have so distress. Do you think that the only disnobly made your own, the foreigners in tressed foreigners are the people who want to give lessons, or get orders for wine and de magasin, the emigrés of the Republic cigars, the poor governesses, the demoiselles and the Empire? No, there is another kind of distressed foreigner, the woman for the rest of her days, in penury if she with a small sum on which she must live manages ill, in decent thrift if she manages well. Who will guide her? I am such a where I have lost all ties, and where remain woman, monsieur. To my own country, to me but sad memories, I will not return. In this land where, if I have no ties, yet have I no sad memories, I will remain. I have a small sum of money, on the interest monsieur. You, the merchant prince, the of which I must exist, and to you I apply, patron and benefactor of my countrymen, to advise in the investment of this poor sum, and keep me from the hands of charlatans and swindlers who otherwise

would rob me of it. I await your gracious answer,

Monsieur, and am

Your servant,

PALMYRE DU TERTRE.

letter to the office in Mincing-lane, and The next morning Pauline conveyed this asked to see Mr. Calverley, but on being told by a smart clerk that Mr. Calverley was out of town, visiting the ironworks in the North, and would not be back for

some days, she left the letter in the clerk's hands, and begged for an answer at his chief's convenience.

MODERN SCULPTURE.

IN TWO PARTS. PART I.

SCULPTURE is one of the few arts in which the moderns have not improved upon the ancients. More even than that, it is an art which has necessarily deteriorated for political, social, and religious reasons, which are inconsistent with such admiration and encouragement as were bestowed upon it by the Greeks under whom it attained its highest perfection. Sculpture is essentially pagan, mythological, and poetical in its origin and progress, and all the masterpieces which the world owes to the sculptors of Grecce, as well as those, not few in number, which it owes to the modern professors of the art, derive all their beauty and grandeur from these sources. Without these elements sculpture is little better than image-making. In music, poetry, and sculpture, the divine idea of creation is always latent, otherwise an organ-grinder would be considered a musician, a versemaker a poct, and a wood-carver a sculptor. In modern sculpture the divine idea has gradually been lost sight of, and threatens, more especially in our public monuments, to be wholly extinguished. The mission of music is to inspire joy, hope, and adoration, and to express courage, love, and a pleasing melancholy. The mission of poetry is to excite the human soul to the love of the beautiful and the true, to exhibit the soul of goodness that may lie in things evil, and to run over the whole range of human thought for the purposes of its elevation. The mission of sculpture is to dignify, to exalt, to ennoble, to spiritualise the human body; that body which we are told is made in the image of its Creator, and than which nothing more beautiful exists on this earth, a body in which no improvement can be suggested or imagined.

Without going back to the first rude attempts at sculpture by savage and semicivilised races, we shall find that sculpture owes its refinement as well as its origin to religion. Its earliest and best efforts in Greece, its home and school, if not its cradle, were images of the gods and goddesses, personifying the beneficent forces of Nature. These images, as grand, as sublime, as lovely as the imagination of a highly imaginative people could make them,

were erected in the temples set apart for public worship, as well as in the highways and market-places, and in the houses of the wealthy citizens. Next after the gods and goddesses came the heroes and heroines of history and tradition, the conquerors, the lawgivers, the sages, whose memory the people delighted to honour, whose statues were erected by a grateful country, to excite the emulation of the living. In an age when gods, goddesses, and demi-gods are only recognised in mythology and fiction, sculpture must of necessity live upon imitation of its past glories, or accommodate itself to the forms and wants of a new civilisation.

So little in our time is known of the true principles of this divine art, that about a hundred years ago the great lexicographer, Doctor Samuel Johnson, defined sculpture as "the art of carving wood and hewing stone into images." Most, if not all, of his successors, following in the groove he had hollowed out for them, adopted his bald and erroneous definition without attempting an improvement. Doctor Worcester, whose dictionary, imperfect as it is, is about the best which the English language yet possesses, goes into further details than Johnson, and explains sculpture to be "the art of carving or chiselling in wood, stone, or other materials, or of forming images or statues of visible objects from solid substances." If either the first or the second of these definitions could be accepted as correct, it would follow that the men who made children's dolls or rocking-horses, and who carved figure-heads for ships, and the wooden and painted Highlanders that formerly stood at the doors of snuff and cigar shops, were sculptors, and that Madame Tussaud's wax-work exhibition is a gallery of sculpture. It is proverbially difficult to define poetry, wit, or humour, and other great words that sent great ideas, but it ought not to be difficult to define sculpture, as the ancients understood it.

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horse or a fox, than Sir Thomas Lawrence from painting a beautiful woman; and whether the painter chooses animate or inanimate nature for the display of his art, the world is alike pleased with his work if it be well executed. To the painter all the realms of nature and humanity in all their moods are open-the grand, the graceful, the solemn, the ludicrous, the grotesque. He can choose what he will, and if he prefers to leave humanity unrepresented, and to confine himself to the lower creation, to the landscape, the sea-scape, the garden and the forest, it is open to him to court, to deserve, and to receive the admiration of the world. Not so the sculptor. It is his function to deal with humanity alone. Underlying the whole scope, purpose, and function of ancient and modern sculpture is the idea of grace, beauty, tenderness, grandeur, and sublimity, as represented in the human form. Sometimes, but only in connexion with a human action or interest, the sculptor is allowed to exercise his art in the inferior creation, and to represent the horse, the lion, the dog, the antelope, or some other animal to whose form or motions the idea of grace, beauty, or power is attached. In the rudest idolatrous times, figures of cows and other animals were set up to be worshipped, but when sculpture really became an art, no sculptor thought of executing a statue of any animal, except in conjunction with some dignified representation of man or woman. Comic, vulgar, and ludicrous figures, whether carved in stone or wood, or cast in molten metal, do not appertain to the sculptor's art. They are mere carving and casting, and are the work of the artificer and the mechanic, and not of the artist and poet.

Although the ancient Greek sculptors sometimes coloured parts of their work, it gradually became recognised by the greater artists that colour was inadmissible. A mere image might be coloured; but a statue depended for its beauty and excellence upon form alone. Sculpture may, therefore, be defined as the art of representing by form alone the noblest and most beautiful objects that exist upon our earth men, or women representing them without adornment, and in their highest aspects and most perfect developments-pure, exalted, dignified, idealised, ennobled. The nude statue of a beautiful woman representing all the beauties that are possible in all women, or the nude statue of a man in the prime of his youthful manhood, representing in like manner the

strength, the courage, the wisdom, the virtue, the perfect harmony of a great soul in a noble body, are the most admirable works that a sculptor can produce. It is true that the ancient sculptors represented their deities under these forms of grace and beauty, but the fact remains that the forms were human, and that the sculptor presented to the world in his works the highest ideal of what the human form might be under its noblest aspects. And it is only because the forms are human that they excite our admiration. Next to these, in grace, dignity, and majesty, are the draped or partially draped figures of similar men or women, single or in groups. All other forms of sculpture are inferior to these, for reasons that will be exhibited hereafter.

Modern sculptors can appeal but imperfectly to the religious sentiment of our day. They may give us their ideas in bronze or marble of the majesty of Zeus, the divine beauty of Apollo, the entrancing loveliness of Aphrodite, the martial vigour of Ares, the proud, self-sufficient womanhood of Juno, and the serene wisdom of Hermes; but these, however beautiful, appeal only to classic traditions. They charm the poetic instinct, and gratify the imagination, but they cannot touch the heart. The religious aids of which advantage can be taken by the sculptor in our day are but three, either in Protestant or in Roman Catholic countries. The first is the Crucifixion, which, artistically speaking, is not one that ministers to the feelings which the noblest specimens of the sculptor's genius are calculated to inspire; second, the Virgin Mary and the Apostles, which are of necessity draped forms whenever represented, and which would not be tolerated in the nude; and, third, the figures of cherubim and seraphim, and the angels generally. These last, whether nude or draped, and however beautiful on the painter's canvas, are, when represented by sculpture, monstrosities. The figures of stately men or beautiful women, with wings superadded, are doubtless more pleasing to look at than dragons, griffins, and other outrages upon taste and nature, which we owe to the Heralds' Colleges and the barbaric notions of our ancestors, but they are not to be defended upon any principle of beauty, of anatomy, of nature, of art, or of reason. The lovely proportions of the divine forms of the Apollo Belvidere, of Aphrodite Kallipyge, or of the Venus di Medici, would be utterly destroyed were a sculptor to affix wings to their shoulders. Every

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