World, Art does not look to the promise of another, but to the purifying of this. In our struggle with the Flesh, Art strengthens us, not by deadening our senses, nor by lifting us above them, but by quickening them to truer perception. In our conflict with evil-or the Devil, Art animates us with visions of beauty of which it, or he, is the destroyer.

But it happens sometimes that Religion and Art go into action together-and we hear a mighty shouting, and we think that surely the World, the Flesh, and the Devil are overcome at last. When the smoke of battle has cleared away we see the old enemy still in force; and then we remember-that what Art seeks in Religion is motive, and that what Religion seeks in Art is articulate expression ;-that Religion, although bearing the lamp of divine truth, carries false lights also ;- that in either case it is itself dumb;—and that Art, through which truth finds expression, can give expression as articulately and as definitely to a lie.

IV.

THE ROBE OF AMETHYST.

O doubt the aureole is of gold, for Hope knows

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nothing of dross. But is the robe of amethyst? or is it purple only with the stain of wine spilled as a libation to the gods?

That is not to be discerned by the lamplight of any religion-even though it burns with the flame of divine truth. For Religion has no formula to determine what is true in Art, any more than Art has a formula to determine what is true in Religion. And yet Art has been so much in the company of the immortals, and has poured out so many libations—propitiatory and adoring-that we are apt to forget that she is not in one of the priest's offices. Always and everywhere Religion and Art seem to have been tied together in the relationship of mistress and handmaid. Among the Jews, Religion being the stronger of the two controlled Art; among the Greeks, Art being the stronger controlled Religion. The history of Art in Palestine,

in India, in Persia, in Assyria, in Egypt, in Athens, in Rome, in Christendom, is the history of so many conflicting creeds. It is only in very modern times that Art seems to have found an independent existence, or to have possessed any robes of her own at all.

But now Art has found an independent existence; and comes to us, not in the vesture of a sibyl or an acolyth, but in her own sober garment. Art is no longer the cup-bearer of the gods. Like Hebe she has been dismissed, and for the same offence. Is her robe now really of amethyst? or is it purple only with the stain of wine spilled by her unsteady hand?

Of course I take the word (åμéðvσtos) in its simple and primary meaning. The beautiful crystal of silica, tinged violet-blue with iron and manganese, which we call amethyst, is so named because of an ancient belief that it protected its wearer from the frenzy induced by excessive indulgence; and for that purpose it was worn upon the neck by revellers at their wine-feast. But that is a secondary use of the word, with which I am. not concerned. I claim for Art that its robe is of amethyst because I claim for Art no occult inspiration, no divine authority, no sacred privilege, no supernatural mission. From first to last, in its inception, in its mandate, in its rights, in its aim, I believe it to

be very and altogether human, and amenable only to the human standard of what is pleasant and good to human eyes.

And yet Art still finds itself perpetually in contact with Religion-just because Religion is in part human too. Where the human element ceases, and the divine begins there the connection between Art and Religion ceases also. If the pages of history closed with the record of to-day, Art would take up the story of our lives to-morrow; and if Religion had nothing further to tell us, Art would still go on, like the heavens, declaring the glory of God and showing his handiwork. The court of appeal is changed-that is all-but still there is a court of appeal. Art is now judged by its conformity not to theological but to scientific tests. The sculptured angels overshadowing the Mercy Seat must submit the articulation of their wings to the anatomist. The blue heaven of the painter must appear no more as a firmament, but must satisfy the astronomer that it has unfathomable depths. The light and shadows of the sky are no longer to be confused together under the family name of "clouds," they must be distinguished, even to the flightiest sister of the group, as nimbus, or cumulus, or stratus, or cirrus. The "brown tree" that used to figure as a matter of course in every landscape, blossoms-like Aaron's rod that budded—into

ash, and oak, and elm, and all the rest of the beautiful children of the forest in their own natural variety of colour. Even the Roman toga and sandals, that used to adorn the statues of English statesmen and soldiers, are giving place to the robes of office and regulation boots and swords.

It is like a transformation scene in a pantomime. The curtain rises. Tableau. Proserpina, a beautiful maiden, attended by nymphs, gathering flowers. On the left her mother, the stately Ceres, in garments of green which sweep across the foreground. In the middle distance, the grim figure of Pluto in his chariot, with sceptre and keys. He approaches Proserpina to carry her off to be his Queen in the infernal regions. More distant still, Apollo, also in his chariot, pursuing Aurora, whose white horses are now scarcely visible in the brightness of his coming. On the margin of a stream, among the rushes, bearded Pan, fashioning a flute, to the music of which the nymphs will presently dance. Slowly the scene changes. There is a tremor in the garment of Ceres-and lo! we see a field of corn with the breath of the wind upon it. The white horses of Aurora quite disappear in the pale mist of morning. Dazzled by the brightness of Apollo's face we close our eyes for an instant ;-when we open them again we see the sun rising beyond the hills, and instead of his fiery steeds the patient cattle yoked to the