with such a medium, that they cannot be reproduced with anything like an adequate result. If we were deprived of the actual work of Sir Frederick Leighton or of Mr. Millais, these masters would still live for us in engravings and photographs. But no process reproduces Mr. Watts's pictures successfully. The engravings of one or two of them, published in THE CENTURY for August, 1883, are the best that have been made, and these are very unsatisfactory. Therefore, if the ship that takes this argosy over to New York should founder in mid-ocean, Mr. Watts, as one of the chief glories of our national art, ceases to exist. There actually was once a Royal Academician whose entire works went bodily to the bottom of the sea, and now toss with shells and dead men's bones in the surge of the Bay of Biscay. Mr. Watts's pictures, moreover, are, in a large measure, not the property of private persons, but hoarded by him for a public purpose, and many of them destined at last to be a gift to the nation. No wonder, therefore, that friendship is alarmed and reluctant.

Mr. Watts, however, has consented. He first proposed to send a set of large photographs, painted up in monochrome under his personal direction, so as to give to America the scheme and sentiment of each picture, and everything, indeed, but just the color. To this and other proposals short of entire concession the Metropolitan Museum returned a steady refusal; and now Mr. Watts is gathering together a typical collection of the best pictures of his life-time to send to New York this winter. In the article in THE CENTURY to which I have just referred, Mr. Prothero gave an enthusiastic account of the pictures as they were seen at the Grosvenor Gallery. Most of what he so warmly described will shortly be seen in America -the portraits of men of genius, the "Paolo and Francesca," the "Psyche," the "Orpheus and Eurydice," and above all, the solemn and beautiful "Love and Death." There will, moreover, be certain important recent works not yet seen by the English public-in particular, an exquisite "Love and Life," which is only just finished, the ambrosial god leading the timid feminine incarnation of life up a narrow and rugged mountain pathway - a picture than which the artist has finished none more full of delicate imagination and tender beauty.

My vocation, however, here is not to stand upon Mount Gerizim, but upon Mount Ebal. I must not indulge in the privilege of praising. Mr. Watts desires rather, through me, to warn America of certain qualities which run throughout his work, which are part and parcel of its being, and which may cause disappointment to those who have only read the panegyric of his admirers. We understand in this country that American amateurs take but scanty interest in the development of our art as English art. They are interested, no doubt, in certain English artists, but not in English art. French art, on the contrary, we are told, is almost more interesting to them than French artists. They like the courageous training of the Parisian schools; the undaunted execution, the splendid brush-power, of the young Parisian painters. The youths that paint a piece of a street, with a barouche in it as large as life, or a pilot-boat of the natural size breaking on a reef that seems to roar with the surf,- these, no doubt, present us with a sort of art

which is fascinating, marvelous, and peremptory in its demand on the attention. Any one who has been a little behind the scenes knows how these "realists" will pirouette upon their stools before an empty canvas half a year, praying for one little idea, even somebody else's old idea, to descend upon them and give their skillful hands something to exercise that skill upon. We suppose, here in England, that when America contemns our sentimental English art, and looks to Paris, it is this skill that she admires, and that the want of thought that underlies the skill escapes her. Mr. Watts, at least, believes that the one goes with the other; that all this excessive cleverness in execution, in imitation of surfaces and textures, all this wonderful chic and brio and tricks that are pschutt, are signs of artistic decline. Without judging Paris or any living school of art, he is anxious to have it understood, for fear of disappointment, that this cleverness of imitative execution, the fruit that deceives the bird, the curtain that deceives the slave, has never been a matter of solicitude with himself; that in such work as he has carried through, the idea has been preeminent; and that in short he has always approached art from the point of view of a poet, rather than of a mere painter.

I do not think that it would in the least amuse Mr. Watts to be told that any one had fancied his garlands to be composed of real roses, or his nymphs to be hung about with real jewels. This has not been his aim. But if any observer should sincerely say that the "Love and Life" possessed a Virgilian perfume and tenderness, that the "Paolo and Francesca " translated the real sentiment of Dante, or that the Greek landscapes breathed the spirit of Sophocles, that, I think, might be conceived to please him. That Americans should be prepared to find a meaning in the pictures which are about to cross the sea, not that they should be looking forward to dazzling executive effects and juggling with the brush, that seems to be Mr. Watts's desire. That he has never neglected the executive part, and that he might make his boast of his skill if he chose, that is not for me, as his mouthpiece, to insist in this place.

LONDON, ENGLAND.

Edmund Gosse.

A Word from the Organ-loft.

In our ordinary congregations, from one-fourth to one-third of the time spent in public worship is given to musical exercises of some kind. The management and direction of divine service is entirely in the hands of the minister. He either reads the prayers prescribed by the Liturgy, or offers prayer ex tempore. The selection of the Scripture read is in most cases his own, while the subject and matter of his sermon are left entirely to him. For these duties careful preparation has been made during his years in divinity schools, and he feels his competency to direct. But is he competent to direct the Service of Praise? In most cases he is not; and realizing his insufficiency in this respect, his want of knowledge of musical matters, he naturally turns to those who are, or ought to be, proficient, and delegates to them the direction of this part of the service.

Why should he delegate the management and direction of his Praise Service more than prayer or sermon? "A minister," says Mr. Taylor, "is one who actually or habitually serves at the altar. The clergyman who delegates his functions is not a minister."

In so important a matter as that of the proper conducting of this one-fourth of our service, as thorough and complete preparation, it would seem, should be afforded students in our seminaries as for the other duties of the sacred calling; but inquiry made of thirteen of our leading theological seminaries develops the remarkable fact that in not one of them does music form any part of the studies of its course. Is it to be wondered at, in view of this startling fact, that things even more repugnant to good taste and to the proper conduct of the Service of Praise do not take place than have been recorded in these columns? I venture the assertion that careful inquiry into all the ludicrous cases narrated in Dr. Robinson's letters would develop the fact that not one occurred in a church where the minister was a good musician, and was in weekly consultation with his choir director.

The want of proper musical knowledge upon the part of the minister, the possession of which would

enable him understandingly to direct, together with the want of consultation with the chorister, which should be in time to arrange for the Sunday's services, -here is where the fault with the "music in our churches" is to be largely, if not mainly, sought and found.

The remedy, I believe, is of easy application; let our theological seminaries provide competent instructors in music; let there be among the students free and full consultation and criticism in musical matters; let this study be not an "annex " to the course of study, but let it take the place it deserves to occupy among the preparations for the ministry; let the opportunity be given the students for instruction in this important part of the conduct of public worship whether there be musical talent or not among them; - let this be done, and then, with as careful preparation in musical matters as in their other studies, it will doubtless be found after a while that the minister will have no more trouble with the conduct of this part of public worship than with the other parts, for all of which he is equally responsible, and should be alike qualified.

Diapason.

In Arcadia.

And though full well I know I seem
Quite out of place in scenes like this,
You can't imagine how much bliss
It gives me just to sit and dream,
As your fair form goes flitting by,
How I, too, dwelt in Arcady.

For, sweetheart, in your merry eyes
A vanished summer buds and blows,
And with the same bright cheeks of rose
I see your mother's image rise,
And o'er a long and weary track
My buried boyhood wanders back.

And as with tear-dimmed eyes I cast

On your sweet form my swimming glance, I think your mother used to dance Just as you do, in that dead past, Long years ago, yes, fifty-three,When I, too, dwelt in Arcady.

And in the music's laughing notes

I seem to hear old voices ring
That have been hushed, ah! many a spring,
And round about me faintly floats
The echo of a melody
I used to hear in Arcady.

And yonder youth - nay, do not blush,
The boy's his father o'er again;
And hark ye, Miss, I was not plain
When at his age-what! must I hush?
He's coming this way? Yes, I see
You two yet dwell in Arcady.

R. T. W. Duke, Jr.

Uncle Esek's Wisdom.

You can encourage the timid, restrain the bold, punish the wicked, but for the weak there is no help. THE most reliable people we have are those whose brains are located in their heads.

THERE is nothing like necessity to quicken a man,I once knew a man who was the laziest fellow on earth, until he lost a leg by accident, after that no ablebodied man could get around the village as quick as he could on one leg and a crutch.

DON'T go back, my friend, after many years, to your old home expecting to be made happy; for, if you ever happened to commit an indiscretion in your boyhood days, people will remember nothing but that, and most of them will remind you of it.

WHAT the world wants the most is novelty and dispatch. Civilization has so quickened all things, that, before another hundred years rolls around, we shall require a quicker kind of lightning than we have now to do our telegraph business with.

THERE are those so pure that they are continually repenting of sins they haven't the pluck to commit. LEARNING seems to be rapidly driving all the common sense out of the world.

Love Passes By. (FROM THE SPANISH.)

Uncle Esek.

THE pure invisible atoms of air
Palpitate, break into warmth and glory;
The Heavens descend in rays of light.
Earth trembles with silent, unspeakable bliss,
A pang of delight, too dear!
Strange shocks and tumults of harmony
Swell on the winds, and fall and die!
In broken music I seem to hear
Confused, half-told, an exquisite story,
A murmur of kisses and rustling wings.
My eyelids close. What can it be
This marvelous presence so far, so near,
This unseen vision, I dare not see?
Love passes by!

Mary Ainge De Vere.

Not Too Early, Pretty Doves.

How is it, little lady mine,
That you in silence sit and pine?
Well in your teens, and have not heard
How worthless is a youngster's word!
Why, if he'd meant it, kept it true,
It had been worse for both of you.
Boyish vows are better broken,
Misses' secrets never spoken :
Sing well-a-day,
If lasses would say nay
The lads would stay away.

Aha, my stripling, sighing there,
And staring into empty air,

The rustle of a rustic gown

Will trap a fellow fresh from town!

Up, sir, for shame! let folly go,

And thank your stars she served you so.
Shallow brains are better parted,
Soon are cured such broken-hearted:

AMY, of old a bold knight,
Naming his lady-love true
Ere he went forth to the fight,
Conquered a foeman or two;
Victory surely I might
Claim for my love, for I, too,
Whisper your name in my plight,
Amy aimée, m'aimez-vous ?

Amy, je t-aime, that is trite,
Tell me how better to woo;
Shall I an Iliad write

Or a perfumed billet-doux?
No-are you satisfied quite,
Tell me, my sweetest, are you?
Answer me, mischievous sprite,
Amy aimée, m'aimez-vous?

Amy, why turn from my sight
Eyes of such lovable blue?
Is it for fear that I might

Guess what is hidden from view? Do your fair cheeks, that were white, Blush a soft "yes" when I sue; Do your eyes fill with love-light, Amy aimée, m'aimez-vous?

My Mural Chum.

THAT queer old pattern on the papered wall
Has been my boon companion, so to speak,
From tick to tack of clock, by night and day,
Through many a morbid, melancholy week.

The quaint old pattern, with its tawny blots,
With crack, and scratch, and countless colored stain,
Has furnished me with numerous wondrous scenes,
To please my fancy on this bed of pain.

I've grown familiar with its grim old face;
I've learned to love its blue and yellow chart;
Its meaningless and odd contorted forms

Have won their way into a sick man's heart.

Here is a butterfly, and there a face;

And here, where last year's snow has trickled through, Blending in one the red and yellow scrolls, I have a most enchanting mountain view.

Here is a ruined castle on the Rhine,

With distant hills and knights in grand array;
There is the river, flecked with blue and white,
Reflecting boats at anchor in the bay.

There, where a bureau has abrased the wall,
Behold the prairie, with a caravan:
Long sinuous teams of snowy, covered carts ;
And in the foreground a Red Indian.

A smear of ink,- a boy and dog at play;
Some fruit-stains, with the pattern mingled, make
A sunset glow on sheet of water fair:

Lucerne, Loch Lomond, or sweet Como's lake.

And there's a goblin glaring with round eyes,
With pointed beard, and ears, and curling nose;
Who taunts me while awake in pain I writhe,
And haunts my dreams when I would seek repose.

It even seems to me, some objects move,
Wagging their heads or smiling back my smiles,
The people in that patterned paper queer,

Are filled with quips, and quirks, and elfish wiles.

Yet still I love it, that old, stained, absurd,
Preposterous, prismatic, rheumy thing,
For it has been a solace in my pain,
And robbed grim loneliness of half its sting.

Frank Bellew.

Could She Have Guessed?

COULD she have guessed my coward care?
I knew her foot upon the stair,
Her figure chained my inmost eye;
I only looked a lover's lie,—
I feigned indifference, felt despair.

My very blood leaped up, aware
Of her free step and morning air;

She raised her head, she caught my eye

Could she have guessed?

I faced her with a chilly stare,

With words so common and so bare!

Her whispering skirts, as she went by, Swept every sense - a thrilling sigh! Ah, would her heart have heard my prayer, Could she have guessed?

Elaine Goodale.

Jones, reduced to poverty by reverses in Wall Street, enters a Bowery "Restaurant" for dinner, and to his astonishment the waiter who presents himself is his old friend, that great gourmet, Walker.

JONES.-"Great Scott, Walker, you here, and a waiter!"

WALKER (also reduced from the same cause, with dignity) -"Yes; I wait here, but I don't dine here."

To Modjeska as Rosalind.

WHEN from the poet's brain fair Arden's glades
Were peopled with the lightsome folk we know,
A shade of discontent was seen to grow
Upon his brow, as he through long decades
In vision saw this loveliest of his maids

By beardless boys enacted, and her show
Of maiden grace obscured and hidden so
In guise of youths half won from boyish trades.

Soon changed the vision and through centuries far
A group of women fair he then did see,
Whose hearts, one after other, were beguiled
By some Orlando's youth and bravery,
And in the throng, and radiant as a star,

On thee, the mighty master, looking, smiled!

A conversation in that groove

Where chosen words quite clearly prove

The subject hidden.

And then the knitting's laid aside;

Grandfather's Rose.

DOES yo' see dem yaller roses clingin' to de cabin wall,
Whar de bright sunshine twinkle all de day?
I's got a yaller rose dat's sweeter dan dem all,
An' I's gwine to gib my yaller rose away
Dat pesky dandy Jim, wid his button-hole bouquet,
He knows I's gwine to gib my rose, my yaller rose,
away.

Oh, my yaller rose, it growed close to de cabin flo',
And its mammy lef' it 'fore it 'gun to climb,
But it run kind o' wild in an' out de cottage do',
An' it got roun' de ole man ebery time
I's mighty loth to do it, but I hasn't long to stay -
So I's gwine to gib my wild rose, my yaller rose, away.

Now, dandy Jim's de parson's son - dey growed up side by side,

My yaller rose an' dat ar harnsome boy,

her pride;

Sense she's a leetle creepsy ting, dat Jim has been

But now an' den she grows a leetle coyBut I spec's it's 'cause I tole her - 'twas on'y t'other day

Dat Jim had got his cabin done, an' I was gwine away.

She put dem little han's in mine, her head upon my breas',

An' dar she seemed to sort o' sob an' sigh.

I couldn't tell de matter, but it wasn't hard to guess Dat she moaning 'cause de ole man gwine to die; So I coax my pretty wild rose wid kisses, and I say, "De ole man gwine to lib, perhaps, dese many an'

many a day."

Leads both his hands to haply hide

Two others whiter.

I listen, and a mellow note

Slips through the rosy, rounded throat:

I hear the happy lover quote

The novel's writer.

I see the faces slowly meet,
And shy, uncertain glances greet:
The knitting's fallen to her feet;
And on his shoulder

Her head in golden glory lies,
While, fathoming her lovely eyes,
He reads the tenderest replies, -

Love growing bolder.

But, while I dream in idleness,

And wonder whether she will bless

His hearing with a whispered "yes,"

With drooping lashes;

The picture fades from sight afar

As pales at morn a silver star;

I seek the light of my cigar,

And find but ashes.

So she axed de king ob de garding to take my rose away.

Dear lamb! she sleeping sof'ly, widout a tear or sigh,

Wid de wild flowers on her little cabin bed,

An' we's a-settin' side ob her, poor dandy Jim an' I, An' a-wailin', an' a-wishin' we was dead.

I'd a-g'in my life for her an' Jim, why couldn't He

let her stay?

Frank Dempster Sherman.

George Birdseye.