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moment comes for his emancipation, and he is to be as free as mountain winds, he hovers near his master just long enough to be assured that his services have been appreciated. Then he darts away-the king of infinite space.

4. Caliban (too fascinating, after all, to be quite omitted) has some pathetic traits. Unacquainted with man, he is familiar with the world of spirits, and knows better than to resent the wrongs they do him at the tyrant's behest. He is familiar, too, with other children of nature- the blind but quick-eared mole, the nimble marmozet and "scamels of the rock" (herein being more learned than the commentators). His perceptions are true within their narrow range-even his ear for music is not at fault. Ilis will, too, is keen and not soon thwarted. He knows the fresh and briny springs, the barren place and fertile. He has felt the stillness of midnight in the open air, and is not insensible to kindness, although ignorant how it should be repaid. He has a strong sense of the savage independence and wild monarchy which he has lost through the advent of civilised man. But though he has no idea of goodness or

wisdom, except as a stronger witchcraft, to be feared not loved, he at last learns his lesson, "to be wise and seek for grace." Nay, he, too, has his idealisms, and in his dreams sees riches dropping on him from the clouds, and his intellectual pride is hurt at the prospect of being turned into an ape, "with forehead villanous low."

5. The blessed work of retribution, "delaying, not forgetting," and the gripings of remorse, as of a poison "given to work a great time after," are not less truly pictured than the noble exercise of power in clemency, that where faults are repented of will push advantage "not a frown further."

The personal application of all this to Shakespeare, who in retiring to New Place is supposed to have broken his wizard-staff-a fancy which Thomas Campbell seems first to have made popular -must, I fear, be classed with other fancies which are more attractive than substantial. Yet it is allowable and natural to feel that here, more than in most of the other plays, we are brought near to the man Shakespeare, and overhear his very thoughts.

Word-wafted to wise Prospero's magic isle
(Once the wild winds his art calls forth are "whist "),
We gaze enraptured, pondering as we list

The shapes that, mirrored yonder, frown or smile.
Far off the spell-doomed world withdrawn the while
Looms like a dim-seen land through dazzling mist,
And lips like those our childhood fancy kissed
With air-bred harmonies the spirit beguile.

The charm dissolves; we linger-till a breeze,
No tempest now, a peace-attempered gale,
Risen all unwist, bears us on bright smooth seas
Back to the world, with steadied course to sail,
Freighted with wisdom, patience, and heart's-ease,
A treasure that with years shall more prevail.

TRANSFIGURATION.

By JAMES H. STODDART.

I.

AMONG the flowers, upon a sacred morn,
A traveller, with severe and earnest face,
And full of youth, nor void of tender grace,
Was passing, with the gait of one who seemed
To travel, so, the deep thought in him wrought,
Half-living, and half-nurtured, as he dreamed,
Might be invigorated, and the thought
Into a fair and holy action brought.

II.

Thus travelled he, and as the sun arose
Above the hilly country that he trod,
And dried the dew-drops on the grassy sod,
And called the tune-birds from their light repose
To greet the sweetness of the glowing god-

All that has life must sleep, and life awoke,
All that has life must die, and death is sleep,
And death shall waken, when a brighter sun
Arises on its slumbers long and deep,

And melts the long-glued eyelids with the stroke
Of light celestial; and the dreamless one
Shall shiver into being, new, unknown.

III.

And he who travelled might have thoughts like these,
For, sanctified as is an angel's face
That bends for ever at the mysteries

Of the unpenetrated Throne of Grace,
Was his fair features, and a glory spread
Upon his brow, and o'er his shapely head-

The soul shines outward from herself and gives
Her beauty to the place wherein she lives!-
So Moses, he who stood where man ne'er stood,
Nearer to Godhead than th' Archangels are,
Returning from the mount where he communed
With the Eternal, glorified and pure,

His soul shone outward and his face illumed,
And even a holy action unalloyed

Glows softly in the sweet face of the doer.

IV.

The earnest traveller's face shone like to hope
Seen by the eye of youth, ere time can soil
The well of vision with the dust of toil;
He bent his footsteps to a high hill top.

V.

It was an ancient land of hills and vales,
Renowned in stories of the oldest date;
A land of promise, and of strangest fate:
Its brooks ran to the music of old tales—
A goodly land, that Abram journeyed o'er,
Where angels lighted and re-preened their wings
There David, by the brooks of Bethlehem,
Sang sweetly, as the Jewish maiden sings,
And wielded power, and the prophetic pen;

And there the great Isaiah, sheikh of seers
And chief of all the oracles of men,
Poured forth his rhapsodies; and, after him,
Lamenting Jeremiah; and, the spell

Still potent, through the long encumbered years Of the grim prophet-priest Ezekiel.

VI.

A greater far than these now mounted high
Upon the sun-lit mount, and as he stood
Upgazing, prayerful, even as man should
Before the dreadful splendour of the sky,
Seen from a mountain-top in sunny lands,

Lo! heaven opened on him, far above,
And angels swift, the messengers of love,
Clove thro' the ether in resplendent bands;
And with them Moses, he who had before
Endured transfiguration on the peak
Of Horeb; and Elijah, man of war

On Baalim's prophets, whom death did not seek
But heaven found, upon the burning car
And fiery horses, and whose mantle fell

For ever upon earth, a prophet's spell.

VII.

And these communed with the fair traveller
In high communings; none shall ever know
The perfect words that from His lips did flow;
But they were words of love for all that err,

For all the human race; and pleadings sweet
For the debased and lowly, such as greet
The bitter morning, with unslept-off toil,

And such as hardly in the prophets' eyes
Moved him to shudder, on his ancient soil,
As stately, godlike, and with face on high
He traversed o'er it. But the halo dimmed
On Moses and Elias as he spoke,

And with a great redoubled splendour rimmed
The youthful traveller's face!-

Then he awoke

From his communings and his prayers-alone,
On the high sun-lit mount; its guests were gone.

MY FIRST SUCCESS.

support, so I was fain to trudge there three times a week.

At last I reached my destination, and, after climbing four sets of stairs, gained the small parlour and still smaller bed-room, which comprised all I called home. Throwing off my bonnet, I sat down to rest before preparing the everlasting tea, for which the appliances stood ready on the table. Hard bread, half-melted butter, sugar, then milk, and-wonderful to relate

By ISABELLA STUART, Author of "The Golden Path," &c. OW hot and tired I was! Princes Street, Edinburgh, in a hot August day, an east wind and lots of dust, is not a pleasant place under any circumstances, but it is still more detestable if, as in my case, you are hungry, thirsty, and footsore. How I envied the ladies lolling lazily in carriages, and even those foot passengers who could afford cool summer dresses and large sunshades, while I trudged along in my hot old black gown, carrying my heavy portfolio. "The world is very unfairly divided," I thought, as I turned from a confectioner's door, dismissing the idea of a glass of lemonade as an unjustifiable extravagance. I was a poor, very poor, teacher of drawing, attending a few pupils at their own houses for a very few shillings weekly. I often wonder if people make rich by the pennies they scrimp off poor drudges such as I was. Surely they do, for my richest pupils always ran me down most, and I have been forced to accept florins, in place of half-crowns, by ladies whose drawing-room ornaments must have cost more money than would have made me independent for life.

It was holiday time in Edinburgh, most people being out of town, I mean most well-to-do people. It was holiday time for me also, in a sense, for I had no pupil save one. She lived at the Grange, a long, weary walk, but she was literally my sole

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a letter! Quite a marvel; I had so few friends, I do not think I got four letters in the year. Still more wonderful, the letter contained an invitation. It was from a distant relation, who had been a school-fellow in happier days. She had been abroad for some years, and now wrote to say that her father had settled near a small town in Fife and would I come to stay with them for a few weeks? It was very tempting to me, wearied and ill; my sole remaining pupil had just three more lessons to get, and though the journey involved some expense, that would be met by the saving of board and lodging.

So the end of the week found me on board the steamer which crosses the Forth, with my drawing materials along with me, and even a cheap, new summer "costume" in my modest travelling basket.

My holiday in Fife passed swiftly and happily, my friends were kind, without being condescending, and I enjoyed their ample meals and cheerful evening parties as only the poor and lonely can enjoy such things. My stay, though twice prolonged, was drawing to its close, for I could not afford, by absence, to lose the chance of a single pupil.

One bright September evening, the last day of my sojourn in the peaceful haven, I went out with my drawing materials to finish a sketch at which I had been labouring, in the view of offering it for exhibition at the Scottish Academy;

a form-alas! as yet an empty one-through which I, in common with many other struggling artists, passed yearly.

The point of view which I had chosen was in no ways remarkable. Only a little river, swollen with autumn rains, winding between low banks studded with picturesquely-twisted alder-trees, with a waving background of low hills. Yet the scene seemed passing fair and tranquil, flushed by the setting sun, as I strove to transfer it to my paper, marking on the edge the various colours I used to produce its glowing autumn tints.

The spot was a lonely one, so I was startled to hear a low cry. Again; yes, it came from the river, and was the cry of a cat in distress. I am fond of cats, and was rising to go to the rescue, when I saw a young man approaching the opposite bank of the river apparently with the same intent. Here was exactly the "bit of real life" that my picture wanted, so I sat still in my concealment behind some whins.

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A slightly-built young man, evidently belonging to the better class." He drew near the river, and as if bent on giving me full opportunity of copying him in," he knelt on the edge, and throwing off his hat, stretched out one arm, and grasped the branches of an alder-tree that grew in the midst of the swollen current, amongst whose boughs the poor cat seemed to be clinging.

It took some minutes to tempt the terrified creature to cross the bridge formed by his arm, so I easily sketched the slight, nervous figure, the long neck, and close-curled hair. His profile was turned towards me, and showed clear against the evening skies. A remarkable face, low broad forehead, highly-arched nose, and deeply cleft chin; and after he had rescued the poor little morsel of

a kitten, he sat long enough on the bank, cutting off a string from its neck, to permit me to catch the red-gold hue of his curly hair.

At last he rose, and after tossing pussy up and down playfully for a while, put her in his pocket, and walked briskly off, while I put up my paper, &c., and went slowly in the opposite direction.

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IT was a cold, wet, windy day in February. I was shabbier and poorer than ever; but, oh, so happy! I stood in the Exhibition of the Scottish Academy in front of my own painting, accepted! Yes, and hung exactly as I would have hung it myself, neither "skied "nor "floored."

It was my river-side sketch, enlarged and developed into an oil-painting, and named "The Rescue." I was turning away, when a man spoke

"I beg your pardon, will you kindly lend me your catalogue for a moment?"

I looked, and saw the original of my picture! "Certainly," I said.

He took the book, and turning to the end where the names of the artists are given, copied something into his pocket-book, silently returned the catalogue, bowed, and hurried away.

Pondering on this strange coincidence, I too hurried home, for I had a lesson to give, and though my pupils often kept me waiting for them, they were very wroth if they had to wait for me. I was late, so I hastened along the windy street, ran up the steep stairs, and entered my room,

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somehow, we both burst out laughing. Nothing banishes shyness like a laugh. I am naturally very backward; but somehow I felt quite at my ease with this stranger, who proceeded

"Your name, I see from the catalogue, is Miss Catharine Home; and though you know me very well, judging from the accuracy of your likeness, you perhaps do not know my name; it is Archie Dunbar."

I bowed, and he hurried on, speaking in the quick, clear accents that seemed just suitable to his slight active figure and clear-cut face.

"Now, Miss Home, you must come away with me at once-or, rather, you must sit down and listen to me."

I thought of my pupil and of her anger, but then I looked at Mr. Dunbar, and came to a conclusion, in which long experience has since confirmed me, namely, that the best way to deal with that gentleman was to give him his own way, so I sat down and invited him to do likewise.

"To begin at the beginning of the matter," he resumed, "I want you to prove an alibi for me— you can so, if you can remember the day and hour on which you drew that picture which you have now in the Exhibition."

I rose, and taking up my portfolio, turned to the original sketch and pointed to the name of the place and 15th September, 18-, written under it.

"The hour I can be certain of," I said, " for I remember looking at my watch-it was a quarter to six when I left the river."

"Hurrah, that is all right," cried my visitor, clapping his hands; "now, let me explain."

He then proceeded to tell me that he had lived all his life with his uncle, "the best of uncles,” a wealthy merchant who seldom refused him anything. Last September they were living together in his country house in Fife, situated about nine miles from the scene of my picture. On the forenoon of the 15th, Archie asked his uncle to give him a large sum of money-£200 in fact. The debt had been contracted for a purpose of which Mr. Dunbar disapproved, and he somewhat sharply refused the request. It chanced that at the moment he held in his hand some bank-notes to more than the amount required. The young man jestingly attempted to snatch them, and being repulsed, turned away, saying half angry, half joking, "You may as well give me them now, for I will get them in the end."

This was between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, and Archie set out to walk off his chagrin, and arrived at the river edge at the time I saw him. After the rescue of pussy, he set off homeward, bearing his prize with him. It was after eight o'clock when he reached home. His uncle had finished dinner and had retired to his library, so Archie Dunbar sat down to dine alone; if we do not count the foundling cat anybody, for it, poor thing, seemed as nearly dead of starvation as drowning, and pitifully entreated a share of

the good things on the table. He had finished his meal, and was sitting over the fire in a comfortable mood, stroking pussy's thin back, and quite at ease as to money matters, saying to himself, "Uncle always comes right at last," when the door opened, and that gentleman walked in. Putting his hand on Archie's head, he said—

"I thought better about the cash, but I see you have been beforehand with me, you rogue." "Why, uncle," exclaimed the young man, "what do you mean?"

"Mean? why, just that you helped yourself to the money in my desk."

"Uncle, I never touched it; I have never been near your room; I walked straight to Fernhowe, and have just returned."

"Nonsense," replied Mr. Dunbar, testily, "don't tell me."

"But, uncle, do tell me what happened about the money."

"Just this. About six o'clock I put my pocket-book in the desk and locked it. While I was out of the room, dressing for dinner, I thought I would give you the money. I returned to the library, unlocked the desk, and found the money had been taken from the pocket-book. There's no joke in denying it, Archie. Don't be nonsensing. The lock is a patent one, and you have a duplicate key. No one but you could have opened the desk. I never grudged you money, Archie. I can't conceive what you mean by denying "

"I mean that you do me a great injustice," interrupted the young man. "At six o'clock I was nine miles away from your desk, fishing pussy here out of the Eden, as she would tell you if she could speak."

And so the argument went on, until Archie Dunbar and his uncle separated in anger for the first time since the orphan child had come to that home, some five-and-twenty years ago.

Certainly all the appearances were against Archie. He wanted the money, he and he alone knew of its existence, and he had a key to the desk. Mr. Dunbar was positive he was only out of the room for half an hour about six o'clock; so, of course, if Archie could prove that he was nine miles away at a quarter to six, it was impossible that he could have abstracted the money; but, unfortunately, Fernhowe was a lonely spot, and he could not recall that he had even met any one on his way.

After many fruitless arguments, the subject was dropped; but, of course, was not forgotten. Beyond stopping the note at the banks (the money had consisted of one Scotch bank-note for two hundred and fifty pounds), Mr. Dunbar took no step in the matter, an attitude which his nephew keenly resented, as clearly implying continued suspicion; while the uncle bitterly reproached him for his unjustifiable obstinacy and want of confidence. Of course, this state of matters could not continue, and though no ope:1

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