full upon him, and casts a dark shadow upon the wall behind, which suggests that terrible idea of the awful punishment of crucifixion so familiar to the Jewish mind, and at this shadow Mary gazes in awe-struck horror. Mr. Hunt's genius never displayed J itself more wonderfully than in this kneeling figure of Mary. Not the outline of her features is seen, but the attitude is extraordinarily suggestive of what is passing through her mind. And yet to the spectator the shadow itself does not appear to be as significant as a less artistic hand would have rendered it. Mary sees only with dim forebodings what is to come; the spectator knows what has come to pass, and in the form and attitude of the Christ he sees the Saviour standing in the workshop in precisely the same position as he has seen him oftentimes represented while suspended upon the cross. The action of the left hand especially reminds of that grasping of the nail which the older masters have shown us, and from the position of the legs we expect to see the cross behind. The face, too, wears that blended expression of suffering, nobility, and endurance, with which sacred art has long made us familiar; but still there is something wanting which it is difficult to define, and we feel almost impatient with those minute surroundings of detail which we are carefully informed have been worked out with the greatest desire to approximate to historical truth and accuracy. A printed description in the gallery informs us that the tressel upon which Jesus has been sawing the plank is of a form peculiar to the East. The saw itself, we are told, is of a shape designed from early Egyptian representations of this tool, and the form of the modern Oriental implement. It might be

added that it differs apparently in no way whatever from the handsaw used by the British workman of to-day. Then the tools on the rack are copied from a collection of ancient carpenters' implements bought at Bethlehem. The red fillet with the double tassel is the head-dress worn by the Jews when they were led away captives by the Assyrians. All these details are eminently interesting in themselves, but they sink into utter insignificance in relation to the great motif of the painting, and that is to exhibit Christ as 'he may have been seen by his brethren, while still gaining his bread by the sweat of his face, during his first but longest humiliation.'

No one can deny the excellence of the idea, nor fail in appreciation of the art with which it has been carried out, but the result is not that of entire satisfaction. There is something wanting. All who are familiar with the Christs of the old masters are aware how strongly they insisted upon the Divine character of our Lord, and how they never represented his purely human character apart from his Divine attributes; and hence it is, perhaps, that we experience a feeling of discontent when gazing upon Mr. Holman Hunt's portraiture of Jesus of Nazareth. It is true that Mr. Hunt appeals to all who admit the value of that sacred life, but unfortunately there are not wanting English critics who are intent upon depreciating that value, and wholly reject that notion of Divinity which is so unspeakably dear to Christians. I need not do more than point to Mr. F. W. Newman's article on "The New Christology,' which appeared in the Fortnightly Review' for December in last year. In the printed paper before referred to,

and written, we may fairly presume, by the artist himself, we are told that' It is an evidence of the Divine nature of Christianity, that as each age is called on to solve new moral and social questions, so new lessons are unfolded in the teaching of the life of Christ. One of the problems of cur age concerns the duty of the workman; his life, as now examined, furnishes an example of the dignity of labour.' It is to be regretted that such a paragraph was ever penned; it assuredly will not be taken by the workman' in the sense intended. And the son of toil may obviously reply, 'Jesus said, Give up all, and follow me. You rich men in your luxurious ease may easily talk to us of the dignity of labour, and give us Christ as our example. Why don't you follow his example yourselves?'

We will not say that there is any presumption in attempting to delineate that period of Christ's existence about which the Gospel narratives are so strangely silent. Into this domain the creative artist has certainly a right to enter; but Mr. Hunt's picture will suggest the question, If the artist is a Christian, has he a right to represent the Saviour from the purely human point of view? Is it possible, even in imagination, to separate those twin natures which Christians hold to be the very essence of the being of the founder of their faith? Perhaps we must content ourselves with considering what an age of strange, incongruous and illogical beliefs we live in, and remember that there are a great many excellent persons in existence who appear to believe everything about Jesus, except that he was God.

Ordinary Protestants are generally unaware of the many traditions that exist with reference to

the infancy of the Saviour, and it may not be uninteresting in this place to quote a story from one of the spurious gospels which was received by the Gnostics in the second century, as it relates to Joseph's carpentry. The story runs thus: Joseph, whensoever he went in the city, took the Lord Jesus with him, when he was sent for to work to make gates, or milk-pails, or sieves, or boxes: the Lord Jesus was with him wheresoever he went. And as often as Joseph had anything in his work, to make longer or shorter, or wider, or narrower, the Lord Jesus would stretch out his hand towards it, and presently it became as Joseph would have it. So that he had no need to finish it with his own hands, for he was not very skilful at his carpenter's trade. On a certain time the king of Jerusalem sent for him, and said, I would have thee make me a throne of the same dimensions with that place in which I commonly sit. Joseph obeyed, and forthwith began the work, and continued two years in the king's palace before he finished it. And when he came to fix it in its place, he found it wanted two spans on each side of the appointed measure; which, when the king saw, he was very angry with Joseph. And Joseph, afraid of the king's anger, went to bed without his supper, taking not anything to eat. Then the Lord Jesus asked him what he was afraid of. Joseph replied, Because I have lost my labour in the work which I have been about these two years. Jesus said to him, Fear not, neither be cast down. Do thou lay hold on one side of the throne, and I will the other, and we will bring it to its just dimensions. And when Joseph had done as the Lord Jesus said, and each of them had, with strength, drawn his side, the

throne obeyed, and was brought to the proper dimensions of the place. Which miracle, when they who stood by saw, they were astonished, and praised God.'

St. Valentine's Day is near at hand, and the unfortunate postmen will have their labours quadrupled by the vast amount of paper boxes containing those queer contrivances known as valentines, the invention and execution of which has now almost attained to the dignity of a fine art. The The prices of some of these valentines are almost fabulous, when we consider the cost of production and the intrinsic value of the article; and it is rather surprising that the guineas wasted on these elaborate follies are not expended in really useful gifts. Some excellent persons would like to do away with the observance of the festival altogether, and sternly set their faces against what they consider to be a childish and ridiculous custom. Let us hope, however, that these people will not eventually triumph. The traditions of St. Valentine's Day are now timehonoured, and they certainly afford most desirable opportunities for modest swains to tell their loves, and for chivalrous devotion to lay its offerings at the feet of its mistress, in the hope that they may be welcomed by at least a gracious smile. In many parts of the country it is held that on this day the birds choose their mates, and so from the eternal fitness of things it is, we suppose, on this day particularly that that period of the year commences when a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.' It used to be the custom among the lower classes on the eve of St. Valentine to write the names of a certain number of young women on slips

of paper, which were then folded and placed in a vessel; the young men then drew lots, and the issue was regarded as an omen of marriage. We are not aware if this custom is now wholly obsolete; probably it is; but there is something to be urged in favour of it. It would save a great deal of mental anxiety and searching of heart, if wives could be provided by the lot leaping forth from the urn. What endless jealousies and flirtations might be avoided if this principle of selection were universally adopted! Now and then the result might, perhaps, be unhappy, but the chances are that in ninetynine cases out of a hundred the matrimonial career would prove less thorny if it were not ushered in by an epoch of violent courtship.

In Brand's Popular Antiquities' we find the following curious quotation from the Connoisseur.' A young lady writes: Last Friday was Valentine's Day, and the night before I got five bay-leaves, and pinned four of them to the four corners of my pillow, and the fifth to the middle; and then if I dreamt of my sweetheart, Betty said we should be married before the year was out. But to make it more sure, I boiled an egg hard and took out the yolk, and filled it with salt; and when I went to bed, eat it, shell and all, without speaking or drinking after it. We also wrote our lovers' names on bits of paper, and rolled them up in clay and put them into water, and the first that rose up was to be our valentine. Would you think it? Mr. Blossom was my man. I lay abed and shut my eyes all the morning till he came to our house; for I would not have seen another man before him for all the world.' Happy Mr. Blossom! Speaking for myself, I am disposed to think that

I should look favourably upon a vision superinduced by a supper of egg-shell and salt.

There is another tradition about St. Valentine's Day. It is said that after sunset on this particular day, the spirits of the dead revisit the earth, and are sometimes seen in the flesh, chiefly by those who have been born on All-Hallow E'en. Perhaps I may here interest some of the readers of 'London Society' by telling them a story. Some few years ago I was travelling on the Continent, and at Venice I fell in with an English family, with some of whose members I was intimately acquainted. In their society I met a Hungarian gentleman, who was at that time serving in an Austrian cavalry regiment. It was before Venice was restored to Italy, but I need scarcely say that the cavalry regiment was not quartered there. This Hungarian officer was travelling on leave, and I will call him the Baron. Our common acquaintances were summoned back to England suddenly, and the Baron and myself, having found that we had many notions in common, lingered in the City of the Sea, very much enjoying our existence. He was an extremely pleasant and well-educated man, had seen a good deal of the world, was very fond of sport, and seemed to have much sympathy with English ideas, and of course my national insularity was pleased with this latter trait. He had never been in Venice before, and we 'did' everything together. He never talked much about himself till the last evening that we dined together. I was going the next day to Milan, and he was summoned to Pesth. I had been asking him for information about the Austrian army and Viennese society, and then I learned that in his youth he had had to put up with a great deal of the harder

side of life, and though a member of one of the oldest Hungarian families, he had been at one time in a state of something very like poverty. He had chosen the only profession that he thought, as a gentleman, he could take up, and that was, of course, the army. He entered the Austrian ranks as a common soldier, and looked to nothing but his education and courage to lead him to higher grades. Interest, he told me, he had positively none. After having served for about three years, a furlough of six weeks was granted to him. His title he entirely dropped, as he saw no chance of properly supporting the rank which was his by right. How he regained it had better be told in his own words.

'When my furlough was granted to me, I hardly knew how to employ it. All my tastes and inclinations bade me go to Vienna, but my purse warned me that I must restrain my wishes. Then I was taken with a strong desire to visit my one remaining possession, and this was an almost ruined chateau in Hungary. All the broad lands that had belonged to the family had, acre by acre, been sold, and there was nothing remaining but the chateau and the small forest in the midst of which it stood. The still habitable rooms were cared for by an ancient garde de chasse and his wife, and at intervals I had had communications from them and received small sums for the timber which was occasionally felled, and rent for the sporting rights which almost every season were taken by nomadic Englishmen. Homeward, then, I wandered. It was winter, the month of February, and the snow was lying thick upon the ground. I had sent no message forward, and I arrived at the inn of the neighbouring village, unexpected, and, indeed, unknown. I

did not care to tell mine host my real name, for it seemed so humiliating; three generations ago, and the chiefs of our family had been the feudal lords of all the adjacent territory. The inn was about two miles from the chateau.

It was on the afternoon of the 14th of February that I left the inn and plunged through the snow towards my deserted home. I had told the innkeeper of my intention, and he endeavoured to dissuade me from it. There was nothing to see, he urged, and I might be lost in the snow; besides, this was St. Valentine's Day, and ghosts were abroad as soon as the sun was down. Nothing daunted, I started on my expedition.

Ten years had passed since I had trod these paths, but I had confidence in my memory, and as the afternoon was clear and bright, I had no difficulty in finding my way at first along the great glade through the forest, which I remembered well. But by-and-by the glade grew narrower. Young trees and brushwood had sprung up, and at last I was fairly puzzled. I had counted on reaching the chateau long before this, and the shades that were gathering round me warned me that I must lose no time, or I might have to spend the night in the sombre wood; and as the sun went down, a great wind arose, and roared with hollow bellowing among the trees. The glade, as I have said, narrowed, and two paths lay open to my choice. Unhesitatingly I took that upon the right hand. Always go to the right hand has been my motto in life. I pressed onwards quickly as the night came on. The sky was clear above me, and the white snow around me prevented that darkness which would otherwise have been my despair. The wind through the trees made an almost

deafening noise, and as I had been travelling nearly all the previous night, I felt that my limbs were growing tired. Besides, these ghosts that the innkeeper had spoken of! We Hungarians are somewhat superstitious, you matter-of-fact Englishmen may believe; and if ever there was a place likely to be haunted, it was this forest. All the ghastly legends that I had ever heard rose, unsummoned, in my memory, and my imagination grew preternaturally keen. Imagine my delight at finding myself at last at the edge of the wood, and at seeing the grim grey towers of the chateau looming before me.

'I passed from the forest into the neglected, weed-grown garden, and as I gained the moss-grown steps that led up to the great front door, the wind shrieked mournfully behind me, and, overcome with excitement, I fell fainting on the stones. I was soon aroused by the door opening, and a footman in resplendent livery stepped out and assisted me to rise. I entered the hall, and to my astonishment it was brilliantly lighted up, and several servants were in attendance; and I heard my name called out with my full title, which, indeed, I had hardly, if ever, heard before, and, in a dream of amazement, I was ushered into the grand receptionroom. A brilliant assemblage was gathered there. I hardly know how to describe it to you, for I was perfectly dazed. All I remember is that I was saluted with the greatest deference and courtesy, and many persons spoke to me, and appeared to welcome me, but, as you may have experienced in a dream, I heard nothing but a confused murmur of voices, and did not seem able to catch the words that were said. Two things impressed themselves vividly upon me. One was that