a proposal which may or may not be carried through Parliament, and about which Mr Gladstone in his second speech expresses himself much more dubiously. The account is illusory. No commissioner in bankruptcy would entertain it. It is based on the impossible assumption that the theoretical valuation by an actuary of a mass of life-interests may be taken as so much of realised capital of the Church. There is an old jest that £1000 a-year for one year is an Irishman's income. The new proposal is scarcely less laughable, for it would represent an annual income for half a generation as the permanent endowment of the Irish Church.

Perhaps some one will say that Mr Gladstone did not mean that this property would go to the Church, but to members of the Church. But would this be justice? It would be no compensation to the corporation and liverymen of London for confiscation of their revenues, that life - estates should be granted to their alder

men.

It would be no compensation to the poor who are benefited by St Bartholomew's Hospital if on its disestablishment pensions were granted to the surgeons and nurses. In the same manner, it would be no compensation to laity of the Church of Ireland for the confiscation of the funds that provide for their spiritual wants, that life-interests should be continued to their clergy and organists. Mr Gladstone, to do him justice, did not represent that life-pensions to a few individuals would be an equivalent for the disestablishment of the whole corporate body of the Church. He could not advocate an idea which is so clearly illogical.

But his argument was much more complicated and misleading. It was in effect as follows:-"The Irish clergy are to retain their lifeinterests, which to them as individuals are worth, by the actuaries'

tables, an average of fifteen years' purchase. They are to continue during their lives to perform Church services. Therefore, their life-interests are worth, to the Anglican Communion, fifteen years' purchase. But the Irish Church property is worth thirty years' purchase. Therefore the Anglican Communion will enjoy half the whole property of the Irish Church." But I demur altogether to the first therefore." It would be worth the while of no Church and no Corporation to spend the whole or even a fraction of their property in the purchase of life-interests which would be continually wasting away and expiring. To the Church the life-incumbent is the mere tenant of an hour, compared with the vast remainder of futurity for which she must provide. No honest trustees would consent to such an application of Church funds. It would be contrary to the permanent interests of the laity that it should be done. The syllogism utterly breaks down. To suppose that the Church will retain half her property by retaining half a generation of liferents, is to suppose an absurdity, and to argue upon a fallacy.

One other consideration deserves attention. Up to the present time our property reforms have been merely readjustments. Trust-property has always been applied by Parliament for similar objects, and within the same circle. But we are going to introduce a new and perilous precedent-a precedent of destruction. Who can limit the extent to which it will be followed? The State is like a glorious city, conspicuous upon the hill-tops with its Queen's palaces, with the castles of its nobles, with its English Cathedral, its Scotch Kirk, and its Irish Church. Till now, its people have been content to repair, to readjust, and to beautify. But now a crowd is seized with a passion to destroy, and they are thronging round the Irish Church with axes and crowbars. The crash of her

fall, if that fall should come, will re-echo through the world. But will they stop there? Already they menace the Kirk. And will they stop there? Even moderate leaders among them already talk of "the universal overthrow of Establishments." Where will the habit of destruction be stayed?

Let us look the question fairly in the face, without deluding ourselves by consolatory fallacies, and without shutting our eyes to natural consequences. We ought fully and soberly to recognise their existence, before proceeding to the final and irrevocable determination upon a matter of such vast importance.

June 3, 184-.-So here I am, fairly launched on the voyage to fame, fortune, and happiness. It certainly looks like it, considering what means and appliances I have for the journey. A table and two chairs, so that I shall not have to take my breakfast on the floor, and that is an advantage at all events; a bed at least such a thing as they call a bed in the Fatherland; a chest of drawers, some of which will really half open if you pull hard enough, and will very nearly shut again; a portmanteau, containing a reasonable quantity of clothes; a pipe; a box of cigars; an easel; and twenty-five pounds a-quarter of lawful English money. And yet I am better off than I ever was in my life before; and, above all, Grace loves me. Should I not be the most selfish, the most contemptible of men, if I do not work hard with her happiness in view Yes; to-morrow I will begin to work with the energy of a Hercules. Meanwhile I will descend from my attic and go and smoke a cigar on the Terrace.

VOL. CIII.-NO. DCXXXII.

June 6.-Two days in my new quarters. Tibald received me well and kindly, and seemed pleased to welcome an Englishman to his atelier. I like the man so farthere is largeness about him, and good-heartedness too, though his manner is dry and rough enough. As to his advice, why of course it is obviously sound; but then I am no German, and can't work eighteen hours a-day. Besides, he wants me to set to work as if every year had thirty-six months, as if it were Art that is short and life that is long; and I have to crowd so much into two years. I see I must guide myself a little, and be more than a little hard-mouthed, else I shall never get beyond a foot-pace, and that certainly would not suit me; nor, I think, Grace either.

June 15.-Ought I not to be completely happy? The accepted lover of Grace Owen, freed from the old days of want, engaged in that pursuit I choose, and would always choose, above all others, under the direction of its greatest living master, and surrounded by

2 X

its greatest existing works, ought I not to revel in joy? But, how can I altogether help fearing? Two whole years from her, and no means of hearing from her meanwhile or of letting her hear from me. I trust her, God knows; but still, what might not happen in two whole years? Oh, Grace, forgive me if my joy in your love is sometimes almost too great for me to bear.

June 27.-The voyage goes well on the whole, though of course diversified by many clouds and shadows of discouragement. Tibald and I are friendly, but I can't help fancying that he somehow looks rather down on my quickness and facility, and is always telling me what not to do. Besides, I have found out a great weakness in the master. He dogmatises, and either won't or can't argue. If I had twenty years before me, instead of not quite two, well and good; but to wait twenty years for Grace!

June 29.-So I have really seen it at last, the great Sistine Madonna, in the flesh. Is not that something to rejoice over ? But yet-Bah! I never pretended to enthusiasm when I did not feel it. Feel it today I certainly did not. There was, however, that 'La Notte' of Coreggio. I would have given-well, I would give up anything but Grace to have painted that; but I was certainly disappointed with the San Sisto. Nevertheless I must copy it, I suppose. Am I not an artist and at Dresden ?

July 4.-I have thought a great deal about Grace to-day. Is there anything in sympathy, I wonder, and dare I think she has been thinking of me also? Yes, I dare. I trust her with my whole soul, and I would trust her to wait a hundred years, if need were. What have I not won in winning her! Beauty, goodness, and all the love of a good and bright and beautiful girl. When I think of her I needs must think well of myself, otherwise I should pay her an ill com

pliment. But yet I cannot help feeling that I do not deserve her. What am I that I should have obtained her love?

But at least I can try not to be unworthy of my great happiness. I will be as true to her in thought and deed as she, I know, will be to me. I will become great for her sake. I have always loved Art, but hitherto without ambition. Now I have ambition, and of the highest kind-ambition for her sake, and for Art's sake through hers.

July 5.-The maestro was in a good humour to-day. He actually paid me a compliment. I appreciated it, for he seldom compliments. But what did he mean by that shrug of the shoulders ? Bah! What do I care for his compliments, or his shrugs either? I know myself pretty well by this time, I suppose.

July 7.-I wonder what she is doing at this moment. How shall I fancy her?-among her flowers perhaps; or, perhaps but what does it matter? Any way she is beautiful; any way she is doing that which best becomes her.

"Each your doing Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,

That all your acts are queens."

July 9.-I could scarcely attend to the music this evening; but I suppose it was good, as it filled my mind with thoughts of Grace. If I could but write to her and tell her how she is ever in my mind, how her image is always before me in work, in amusement, even in sleep itself! And yet the world will say that I marry for money. Well, let it say so. We shall be able to laugh at the world. I wonder, though, what her father really thinks about it. As a merchant, and one who has always looked well after the main chance, I should have fancied that he would have doubted me, were it not for his thinking me not unworthy to be the husband of his only child. That is strange; there I wonder with

the world. Yet why should not a merchant be unworldly among his own household, and as clear-sighted in matters of the heart as in those of the market? Surely these qualities are not the monopolies of artists; certainly not of the artists whom I know.

Any way, she at least knows that I love her; she at least will never doubt me, for she never will have

cause.

July 9-I am getting on with the San Sisto. But I do not feel it, and dislike my work. After all, I only try at it, I believe, because it is the fashion. The maestro himself called it stupid of me, and said I had better stick to form, and so on-and so I will. But, meanwhile, I have an idea-I will do something of my own--I will paint a picture. Meanwhile, I will smoke a cigar on the Terrace.

July 12.-Dear Grace! I wonder after all whether you think of me as much as I of you. I would try and paint your portrait if I dared, but I am not quite conceited enough for that. But I can paint it in my mind. What an age it seems since I said good-bye to you in London, since I held that little white hand, and looked into those pure grey eyes! Ah! you need not be afraid; I shall never see any eyes like yours, nor hear any voice half so sweet. No, my own Grace, if work must win you, here goes!

July 30.-I really think that the maestro is beginning to be pleased with me. He certainly seemed to be doubtful about me at one time. Emil says (what a chattering animal it is!) that he never does like men who are above their alphabet. Well, I agree with him, and I candidly think he was right in my case. However, I have done my share of work this week; certainly more than any of these slow Germans. So I will reward myself with a cigar or two on the Terrace.

August 2.-A letter at the Post Office for Herr Edward Maurice! -a wonder! and from her father.

So; I am in my own room again. I will read it before the picture that I am painting for her sake.

STREET, LONDON, July 29, 184-.

"MY DEAR EDWARD, I was very glad to learn from your letter that you are settled down and at work. I was at Dresden myself a great many years ago; in fact, it formed part of the tour I took with my poor wife; and I remember the place well.

"I trust you found no difficulty in duly receiving the money. You will apply for all future remittances to Messrs Rinck, the bankers, in the Gasse.

"Grace is very well.

"I hope that you will keep to work, and return home a great painter. Meanwhile, believe me, my dear Edward, yours most sincerely, RICHARD OWEN."

The devil! Is that all? One thing, however, is clear-he does not intend me to continue the correspondence.

August 11.-My picture is getting on. I never painted so well in England. The place seems congenial to me. Ah, Grace! we may not have to wait so very long after all.

August 20.-It was this day two years ago that I first saw her. How well I remember being introduced by Lawson, and how absurdly and unreasonably jealous I became of the poor fellow afterwards. By the way I ought to write to him. Well, I have nothing else to do just now,