of Young; such poems of his own as those included under the name of the "Prophetic Books," some of them strange visions and strange prophecies which we take to be more curious than finally satisfactory.

To return, with however short a treatment, to the story of his outward life. He lived long in Lambeth after he was in Broad Street-Hercules Buildingsthe abode, if we mistake not, of another neglected genius, the Triplet of "Masks and Faces. Hayley, the biographer of Romney, and himself quite a considerable poet in his own day-people estimated him, of course, a good deal by his riches and by the excellence of his country house-Hayley encouraged Blake for awhile, and induced him to remove to Felpham in Sussex, at the foot of that Sussex Down country which Copley Fielding afterward painted, and which Mr. Hine, in our own day, is painting with even more wonderful subtlety. Hayley lived in that countryside-had the good house of the district-it was there that the too frequent painter of the "Divine Emma" came on his annual visit. And Hayley gave Blake commissions, during Blake's residence there. But at length the almost inevitable fussiness of a wealthy dilettante of absolute leisure began to annoy Blake very much -began to disturb and to thwart him. He wrote to London friends that he felt bound to return. He locked for the day of his deliverance, and at last it came. In London, at that period, Mr. Butts was his best patron: the friendly and always businesslike purchaser of so many of Blake's designs. Interesting accounts between them are furnished in Mrs. Gilchrist's new edition of her husband's book.

Returning to town, and living long in South Molton Street, Blake was associated more or less with Flaxman and Stothard; he was considerably wronged, it seems, by Cromek; and he had the faithful friendship of John Linnell. Linnell lived then at a remote farmhouse on the far side of Hampstead, and there Blake used very often to visit him, unbending, giving himself out in genial. chat. It must have seemed pretty clear to the poet by that time that no wide popularity was coming to his versesthat no great prices, such as the most

impudent of incapacity cheerfully asks in our own day, were ever to be got for his pictures. But he, and his wife with him, went contentedly on-she, believing altogether in her husband; he, believing altogether in the paramount importance of his spiritual world, the comparative insignificance of material things. Poverty closed round him. He had no studio rich with the spoils of the East and of Italy, and adroitly enhancing to the innocent purchaser the value of all work done in it. He had now a few bareish rooms in Fountain Court, out of the Strand. There ill-health and enfeebled age fell upon him. He engraved what plates he could-realized what inventions he could-sometimes even when confined not only to his rooms, but to his bed. Getting out, now and again, he fetches his own beer from some public house at the corner-meets, under those circumstances, an artist who is just sufficiently celebrated to be careful with whom he is seen, and not exalted enough to be indifferent to what may be thought of the company he chooses to keep. And the just sufficiently celebrated artist does not, under those circumstances, think it prudent to speak to him. goes home, only a little amused by the incident, to the rooms in Fountain Court.

Blake

There he was known by, among other artists, an artist then quite young, and now venerable-Samuel Palmer. Mr. Gilchrist wanted Mr. Samuel Palmer's impression of Blake, and in a very graphic, touching, and significant letter, Mr. Palmer gave it. This is how he concludes:

"He was one of the few to be met with in our passage through life who are not in some way or other double-minded' and inconsistent with themselves; one of the very few who cannot be depressed by neglect, and to whose name rank and station could add no lustre. Moving apart, in a sphere above the attraction of worldly honors, he did not accept greatness, but confer it. He ennobled poverty, and by his conversation and the influence of his genius, made two small rooms

in Fountain Court more attractive than the threshold of princes."

Such, in the testimony of one who knew him-of one who was able to appreciate him-was William Blake. And so died on the 12th of August, 1827watched chiefly by his wife-the great in

ventor, the seer of visions so powerful and so terribly direct, engaged at the last in "composing and uttering songs to his Maker." His wife, Catherine, thought them so beautiful that the poor old man had need to tell her his belief that they were not his songs; he was but the instrument that uttered them. A lowly neighbor, who went away when

the old man had finally sunk, declared that she had been at the death of an angel. Was there then, in that humble room, any vision to gladden him like to his own most beautiful and most impressive design, "the Morning Stars singing for joy"-the expression of an aspiration of his life, at last, after long years, to be realized?—Temple Bar.

A STRANGE Stillness and darkness, a gray, black twilight everywhere, broken only by a whiteness beneath; yet the darkness and stillness were nothing to me save as conditions that existed, but in which I had no concern. I passed out of the room, though no door opened for me, and down the stairs. There were faces I knew dimly, as in a dream; they went by sad and silent, not even seeing me. In a room beneath, where a flickering candle burned, were two human beings, the one a babe sleeping in its cot; I stood by its side for a moment, not knowing what made me stay, but I saw the child's face, and felt a strange comfort from the sight. The other was a man sitting by a table, his arms stretched out across it, and his head resting down upon them. He did not move or stir, his face was hidden, but I knew that he was bowed down by sorrow, and there was something that drew me to his side, that made me long to comfort him, to say pitying words, telling him how short were sorrow and sleep, how long were thought and waking. But the longing was undefined, and had no power to shape itself into action, and I stood silent and still. Then I put out my hand and touched his shoulder. He did not raise his head, but for the first time he moved, his frame was suddenly convulsed, and he sobbed bitterly. And so the night passed, he weeping and I watching, and stealthily and cruelly the morning light crept in at the staring uncurtained windows.

I was in the upper room again; I knew not how, nor how long after, for time and space had no more measure for me. I looked round the room; it was draped with white, and at one end there was a bed, and on it the outline of a hu

There

man form covered by a sheet. seemed some dim memory hanging about the room; but that was all, for consciousness returns but slowly, and knowledge remains but of few things, and only of those beings that have made a mark upon our souls that even death cannot efface. The door opened, and the man who had been weeping below entered, and suddenly I remembered and knew my husband. His face was sad and pale, his eyes were dim, his head was bent, but he raised it for a moment as he entered, and looked nervously round the room. I held out my arms to him, but he passed me by taking no notice; I called him by his name, but he did not hear me. He went up to the bed, and, kneeling down, took the handkerchief from over the dead face; step by step I went forward to look at it.

It was my own!

"Ah! no, no, no!" I shrieked, "it is not I! I am here beside you, my husband! Oh! my love-my love-it is not I! I am here! Look at me, speak to me-I am here!" but the words died away, and he did not hear them, and I knew that sound had gone from me for ever. And still he knelt by the dead, giving it dear names, and showering down kisses upon it; and I stood by longing for all that was given for love of me, and yet not to me; stood looking with strange fear and shrinking at the white face and the still lips and the closed eyes-at that which had been my own self and was myself no more. But still he knelt there calling it me, and crying out to that which heard not, and saw not, and was but waiting for the black grave to hide it.

At last he covered the face with the handkerchief again, and rose and left the room. I could not follow him, and

waited in unutterable longing, to weep, but having no tears; to speak, but having no words; to die, but finding that time and death had passed by-that to death I had paid tribute and yet remained.

:

I looked round the room, and slowly there came dim memories of many things-of pain, and sorrow, and parting; of pain, that death had conquered, and that lay forever vanquished in that still form; of sorrow, that death had left, and that only one soul could conquer a soul still living within a human body. I knew the room now it was the one I used to sleep in and had called my own; they had covered the furniture with white, and yet around and about lay things my hands had fashioned -hands that never more might stir a single leaf or move one atom from its place. Suddenly, in a corner of the room, I saw the uncovered lookingglass, and, wondering, remembered; and fearing and shrinking with a strange terror, I went forward, and standing before it, looked and saw-nothing. All else I saw-the room, the shrouded furniture, some fading flowers in a vase, the outline of the dead woman lying on the bed -everything; but of me that stood before it there was no sign, no trace-nothing-nothing. And still, scarce believing, and holding out my hands to it in my agony, I stood before it, but the vacant glass gave no sign, no trace; showed nothing-nothing. Then I understood then I realized-that sight and sound knew me no longer, and that the eyes I loved were blind to me in their waking hours-blind for evermore while time should last and time, that heaps dust on all things, would heap it up higher and higher between the memory of my face and him. But did he not feel my presence? did he not know that I was by him, and would be by him, until, at last, from out of the worn body, the soul should slowly lift itself into that which is but one step higher in the universe?-till meeting should be again, and sorrow and parting no more? For as the clay-fetters fall, dear, and the earthly chains one by one give way, our souls shall draw nearer and nearer, until slowly the mist shall clear and we shall see each other once NEW SERIES.-VOL. XXXIV., No. 1

more face to face, and out of the darkness of human pain shall come everlasting light. How the knowledge of this would help you! how it would comfort you to know that though sight and sound have gone, yet there is one thing that links the worlds together-one memory that binds the mortal to the immortal! For love, that is stronger than life, shall be stronger than death, and, passing on, shall look back upon death

the love that came to us from without, and shall pass out with us into that which ever has been and shall be, unto which no end is.

Through all the long days that followed I was with him, through all his lonely hours and passionate grief. I stood by him while he slept, and whispered loving words into his ears, and he heard them and was comforted. And we traveled back together along the dream-road to all that had been in the far-off time, and the remembrance of old sweet days came before his sleeping eyes; but things were not as we had left them, but shaped themselves differently, and wore strange and terrible faces that made him start from his sleep and look round the dark room, half fearing, half wondering, and he saw, not me standing beside him, but only the black hopelessness of the night. Or I would say strange words to him as he slept-words that in life I had never said, so that he might know there was a meeting-time yet to come, for of that I dared not speak; but he would not hear them.

Come to me in my waking hours,' he cried, and I could make no sign, no response. It is only in dreams that the dead have power over the living, for theirs is the land of which the living see only fitful gleams in their sleep-a land where, to the living, all seems, and nothing is, and nothing earthly has an abiding place. "It is only a dream," he would cry out in his despair; it means nothing, it is only the fevered picturemaking of my own brain. Yet a world of our own creation we can in some way control; but in the world that we enter in our sleep, we have no power, no control.

At first I was always with him, for his thought and will and longing had power to bring me, to give me a voice in his

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dreams, to grant me a sight of his face, but I could not tell him; I could but wait and hope and wait again.

Dear, was it only the clay that held you, was it only the touch of my hands that caressed you, the tone of my voice that ever had tender words for you, and the sound of my eager feet that hurried swiftly toward you ever, and stayed before you waiting? Was it not my soul you loved, and its human form but as the house in which that soul dwelt? For the body is but a mere accident, a chance garment flung aside and dropping to decay when no longer strong enough to hold the soul it covers, a refuge in which for a time we take shelter and use human symbols to do our work and say our say; a place of lodging for that which has been and is for ever, and which, while it stays in the body, is fed and strengthened and beautified, and then goes forth again, or is weakened and starved and disfigured, and at last is scattered to be gathered up no more. Was it not my soul you loved, dear, and that is not sleeping in the dead woman? Life was not only in the beating heart and aching head, but in the hurrying feet and tender hands and the little eager fingers, in every atom of flesh, and from every one of these it has gone forth and waits till you shall choose whether eternity shall be ours or not.

I came to him and knew by his face that a long time had passed since our last meeting, and he was changed. Strange faces were around him, and strange voices pleased him, and the old tenderness was not in his eyes when he thought of me, and my flowers were no longer on his table, my portrait no more before him, and songs that had not been mine were on his lips. The brightness came back to his face and the happy ring to his voice, and he passed on into a world in which I had no part or memory. But I knew that it must be so, I would not have had him grieve always, and is not life sweet, even to those to whom death will be sweeter?

Fearing and dreading, I stood by his side once more, but only to know that the thought of me saddened him, to watch him struggle with the past, and try to shut out the remembrance of the dead face we had stood beside. . and with him there was a woman, young and

fair, fairer than I even in my fairest days, and in her eyes there was a look of love, and on her lips were tender words, and he looked down upon her face and listened to her, just as long ago, he had looked down at my face and listened to my words. I stood beside him and put my hand upon his arm, and he started as if he felt a deathly coldness. I tried to look into his eyes, but shudderingly he turned away. I whispered old words into his ear, and he heard them in his heart and remembered them, and I knew that thoughts of me were strong upon him; yet with a sigh he turned away and wound his arms round the woman who had taken my place. "He is lonely and sad," I cried; "he cannot be always alone, without mortal hands to soothe him, and human tones to comfort him; it is this that draws him to her, for he is yet human. It is her humanity he craves to help him along the lonely road; the sound of a voice, the sight of a face, and all that I can be to him no more; but it is me he loves, it is my face he shall see once more before him in his dying hour, when the companionship of human life is ended.

It is not her soul that will know his when only love gives recognition, and only love may guide him over the great threshold.

He rested his head down upon her hair, and she whispered longingly, "If I had only had your first love!" He looked at her sadly and gravely, and into his voice there came a sweetness I had never heard, as he answered her slowly, "You have my best love.". And still I stayed looking at him and listening to him, knowing that I should do so nevermore-that now indeed was the great parting between us. For that which he had called love had been but a delight in sound and sight and touch, born of the flesh and dying with it, and not worthy of the naine, and nothing else could bring me to him. And I would have been content, since he had willed it so, had she that was with him had power to give him a perfect love; but I knew that it was not so. And still I stayed, even while he clung to her until he shut his eyes so that in fancy he might not see me, and hid his face so that he might not hear me, and with a wrench he shut all remembrance of me out of his heart

and turned to her again. And then I fled out into the night, knowing that if we met again there would be no memory of me with him, for memory dies with the body unless it is strong enough to outlive death, or love is there to carry it on. And even if he saw my face again in some dim future of which I knew not yet, it would be strange to him, as a flickering thought that can be identified with no past and which we dare not call memory, is strange. For as the body knows much the soul may not remember, so has the soul secrets that can never be known to the body And I cried out to the darkness in my anguish, and the wind lent me its voice and shrieked in at the crevices and beat against the windows; but I knew he standing within heard not or took no heed, and thought of nothing save of the woman beside him. "Oh, could you but know!" I cried, "could you but know how with our own hands we make our heavens and hells of those we love!" For that which is in our hearts to the end is always, and so ourselves do we work out our own immortality. The choice is with us, and the material in our own hands, to live or die even as we will; but to live the soul must have strength-strength that is greater than death, greater than the power that comes after to gather us in until separate life is ours no more, and the strength that is greatest is born of love that is perfect. And of perfect love are all things born, of love that in its highest has gathered beauty and knowledge and wisdom to itself, until the mortal life has become immortal and passes on with all things in its hands.

I do not know how far I went, on and on, into what strange lands, on and on, borne by the wind and hurried by the

storm, making no sign, leaving no footprint behind. Sometimes it seemed as if the wind that met me understood, and went by moaning and pitying, and carried on, perhaps to him, some sad message, for in its tone there seemed a cry of parting and despair that was my own And then I went back once more to see the babe that had slept in its cot the night I had first stood beside my husband in his sorrow. There is only one being with which one's soul longs for affinity, an affinity born of love and sympathy; and now my soul knew that this was denied it, my thoughts went back to the child that was mine and his. And I loved it chiefly for the life that was in it-life that was his once and might know me still. I stole in the darkness through the quiet house and found the room where the child lay sleeping in its bed. I saw its face and its soft hair and closed eyes, and heard the sweet sound of breathing that came through its parted lips, and I longed for human life again, and would have given my soul up thankfully to have had my flesh and blood back for one single instant, to have held that little one in my arms. And I stooped and kissed it, but it turned shrinkingly away even in its sleep, and then, affrighted, woke and cried "Mother, mother!" And from an inner room the fair woman came; but I stood close to the child still, and touched it softly; and again, shrinking and affrighted, it held out its hands to her and cried Mother, mother!" and she took it into her arms, and the child looked up at her face and smiled, and was satisfied. And I passed

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out into the night, and on and on for evermore, farther and farther away-on and on, seeking the infinite and finding it never. -Macmillan's Magazine.

MODERN Science declares that every subtance consists of an aggregation of extremely small particles, which are called molecules. Thus, if we conceive a drop of water magnified to the size of the earth, each molecule being magnified to the same extent, it would exhibit a structure about as coarse-grained as

shot; and these particles represent real masses of matter, which, however, are incapable of furter subdivision consistently with their existence as matter. A lump of sugar crushed to the finest powder, retains its qualities; dissolved in water, the mass is divided into its molecules, which are still particles of sugar, though