irrational as when it becomes sentimental. On such principles, Sir Boyle Roche's memorable rejoinder almost ceases to be an absurdity: "Posterity! I should like to know what posterity has ever done for me!" On the whole, I venture to repeat my position, that our quarrel with the agnostics is not so much that they apply their disintegrating scepticism relentlessly, but that this is precisely what they do not do, that they quietly assume that the moralities of life are to go on when the bases on which they have rested are withdrawn, although this is just the very first point to which they should address themselves. Men are asking, will not your agnosticism unsettle the elementary conceptions of right and wrong, which keep people from being thieves, and liars, and adulterers? and to this they will demand not a slow and tentative reply, but one clear, explicit, and practical. Is it only about theological questions that men differ? Is there a single moral question which is not more or less under discussion at the present moment? Is not the question of marriage a burning question for many minds? Are not men asking for the grounds on which the institution of property rests? We hope much if we can but induce the advocates of nescience to be logical. You remember, probably, the weird story, how the German student, having fabricated a gigantic human form, succeeded in infusing into it the principle of life, and how this creature stalked through the world, doing the most dreadful deeds, which its maker was utterly powerless to prevent. Before you send your creature agnosticism into the world, you may as well ask whether his power is likely to be genial and beneficent, or baneful and ruinous. You will not convert the world, for your system is an indolent one. "Think," says Mr. Gladstone, "of twelve agnostics, setting out from some modern Jerusalem to do the work of the twelve Apostles." Imagine a crusade to proclaim the progressive, the life-inspiring doctrine that nothing is certain! It may, indeed, do mischief, for, alas ! in this world, it is easy to do mischief. It may, as has been said, inflict upon mankind a bad quarter of an hour." But one thing is beyond all controversy that the world cannot do without convictions, and that the teachers and the systems which help them to these will, in the long run, sweep before them the teachers and the systems which have nothing but negations to offer, as chaff is swept from the threshingfloor. THE WRESTLERS. BY EDWARD FOSKETT. (Suggested by Shakespeare's "As You Like It;" to follow Act i. Scene 2.) Near Oliver's House. A DAM. Alas! to think that these dull ears should hear Of fair Orlando !—all that here remains Of good Sir Rowland. Yet, my princely boy! Is hanging o'er thee, and the curse of Cain I saw thy features, hideous to behold, Writhing in ghastly smiles, when thou didst plot- O heaven! assist my twofold purpose, aid Who bears the name of old Sir Rowland's son. To guide me in mine action. [LE BEAU passing. Gentle sir! Canst thou inform me of the day's events? LE BEAU. Charles, the Duke's Wrestler, hath been overthrown! ADAM. By whom? by whom? LE BEAU. I am in haste the news will soon be spread ADAM. But tell me, I beseech thee, how the youth Yet to this youth am bound to life's last span, At his great victory. LE BEAU. Enough! the moisture in thine eye reveals Anon the Duke strove to dissuade the youth And, breathless, watch; then wondering scan the form Have grasped his dire opponent's waist; who now, Which, like a band of iron, circles him : And all uncertain still the coming end. But now with strength refreshed, and bitter thoughts Is well alert, but desperation lent The Champion double powers.-His arms are freed! Must follow. Both are writhing, and the youth * * So ended this most memorable day! The weightier reason yet remains why I * Have thus responded to thine earnest wish : 6 * The youth is known to thee; beloved,' thou said'st; Then, by the love thou bear'st him, use the power Of love's persuasive art to draw him hence, For if he stay, the jealous darts of hate Will stop his bright career, and seal his fate. ADAM. Hear, noble sir! LE BEAU. I wait for no reply: [Exit LE BEAU. ADAM. Ay, so I will! and with him will I go, THE UNWRITTEN MUSIC. BY J. MORISON. 'HROUGH the gates of Sense enters into the soul what gladdens or distresses us. By one and the same sense-gate come the fresh fragrance of new-born flowers and the fetid odour of graves. By the portals of another we keep watch for the rising sun and all that follows in his train,-all that is bright and beautiful, and much that is not so, for by this same eye-gate enter beauty and deformity,Venus and Caliban pass in together. Through the gate of the singers come the mingled sounds of harmony and discord: at no gate do we listen and linger as at this; our sympathetic emotions are taken captive; we beat time to the stately march, dance to the gayer tones, and feel the awe of sound as we feel the awe of storms. strangely touched by the first cry of the new-born babe, and we heave sigh for sigh with the dying. There comes a felt joy from the prattle of young voices on the play-ground, and a deep dread from the simultaneous shouting "A bas l'Empire !" of maddened Communists on the Boulevard. There is deep pathos in the whisk of the lash in the ear of the doomed slave. The sibilation of shell in the air is more telling on the cadet's ear than the appeal of most eloquent thunder, and it strikes pain into the closed wounds of the old campaigner. Music is the poetry of sound. sparkling on the cut facets. We are Sound is the gem, music the light Sound is speech, music is speech in rhythm, and the speakers are our singers. All of us are vassals to the great chiefs of written song: Handel and Mendelssohn rule over more subjects than the Czar. We gladly acknowledge their sway, yet feel ourselves none the less loyal to them, that we love the simple notes of untutored nature, those unwritten and unwritable tones that touch our many-sided sympathies. There is no language like unwritten music; it speaks to the universal ear, lisps with the lisping infant, and thunders with all the eloquence of Demosthenes. How little has been caught and kept of the unwritten music of the past. Think of all the forgotten voices of those bygone ages, of all the performers in the great opera of time. Think of the multitudinous clear soprano voices chanting of the youth and joy of life, of the soft |