apparition of the wicked one, how should we like it? And yet this child had another doll, radiant with all that real hair, and wax, and rolling eyes can impart to dollhood—a doll as much like Beauty as the one I saw was like the Beast. She liked the Beauty, but she loved the Beast. There was the difference. The one was good for company and show; but for consolation, for love, for tender affection, commend her to her grim and black-faced friend.

What then becomes of our definition of Beauty as “that which pleases the eye"? The doll gave pleasure to the eye, and to the mind too! Was it therefore beautiful? Or shall we say it was only a child and does not count?

Then take another case, and see if this apotheosis of ugliness is peculiar to childhood. In many a cathedral church-in Chartres, for instance, one of the finest in France-you may see any day, side by side with the

* A sketch of one of these curious images, the Black Virgin of Ypres, is given on another page. "Our Lady of Chartres" is said to date from a century before the Christian era, and to bear a prophetic inscription, “VIRGINI PARITURE." Rouillard says, as long ago as 1668, “La colomme de pierre qui soutient l'image, se void cavée des seuls baisers des personnes dévotes." And the culte has by no means died out. During the Revolution the image was lost. Amother, however, was made, and has taken its place. The most singular circumstance is that the new one is discovered to posses all the miraculous powers of the old one, which has since been found, and set up in the crypt of the cathedral. The two are known as La Vierge-noire-du-Puter” and “ Nostre-dame-de-Snut sterre?“

most precious works of the masters, a vierge noire, a doll such as the one I have described, the ugly black one, but crowned with gold, and robed in jewelled vestments. worth a king's ransom. You may see pilgrims, weary and footsore, from all parts of Europe, pressing to its shrine. And mark, it is not before the Madonna of Raphael that the pilgrims kneel. As with the child, so with them; it is to the black doll that they pour out the passion of their hearts.

So the vision of the Beautiful is not necessarily to the innocent eyes of childhood, nor to the keen gaze of after years. We must look elsewhere than to our untaught instincts of liking and disliking for any real standard. Children, and men, and nations have to learn it; have to learn it slowly and patiently. How many years did it take the people of England to discover that the "willow pattern" was not all that could be desired for dinner plates? How many centuries will it take to teach the Chinese that God knew best what shape to make a woman's foot? Dear child, the time shall come for thy blue eyes to see the King's Messenger. Weary pilgrim, the time may come for thee to see the King Himself.

But not at the first visit of Beauty does the transformation take place. "Tell me, Beauty," said the Beast, "do you not think me very ugly?" And Beauty, who could not tell a lie, replied sadly, "Yes! dear

Beast; but then," she added, "but then, you are so very good."

The poor Beast only sighed. "You are so very kind," said Beauty, earnestly, "that I almost forgot you were so ugly."

But when it came to the next question, "Beauty, will you marry me?" she answered in a very firm voice, "No, dear Beast."

And yet we know that she did marry him after all. But that is the sequel, and must not be anticipated.

We close the book, and look back through the long vista of the centuries, and what do we see? We see a people sunk in a black darkness like that which still reigns where the sweet light of Christianity is not known. We see them with outstretched arms in the darkness, as if trying to touch but the hem of His garment who sitteth upon the throne. First make your gods; this they proceed to do. Two pillars of stone, placed side by side, stand very well for Castor and Pollux, and a bar or slab laid across from one to the other suffices to express their mutual affection.

First make your gods;-ah, not so! That is the finishing stroke. The classic ritual began by the worship of just those things that could not be made-the sun, and moon, and stars. Then came the making of emblems; then hero-worship, and the ascription to the

gods of all the passions of our sinful natures. This is the history of the Pantheon: this is the history of Classic Art.

Two blocks of stone were all very well for Castor and Pollux, and Homer may have been content to worship them thus: but when he began to sing about their sister Helen it was a very different matter; he found that he must give to her all the supreme loveliness of real womanhood-only a real woman could do so much mischief as she did. Poets and Architects and Sculptors; we see the long procession for a thousand years, from Homer to Virgil, until the land is full of temples, and the temples are full of gods. And such temples! The Doric-strong as the youthful Hippomenes ready for the race. The Ionic-graceful as Atalanta as she stoops to gather the apples. The Corinthian—imperial as the Cyprian queen bringing the golden fruit from the Hesperides. And such gods!-not like the thing we have seen at Chartres- but differentiated from us only through the excess of splendour. These men knew, it may be dimly, but they knew that there is a King, and that Beauty is His Messenger. In other words, this was the first visit of Beauty to the Beast.

And Beauty, who had the tenderest heart in the world, felt her fear of the Beast gradually vanish. She ate her supper with a good appetite, and conversed in

her own sensible and charming way; till at last he terrified her more than ever by saying abruptly in his gruff voice," Beauty, will you marry me?"

And still, frightened as she was, Beauty would only speak the truth, so she stedfastly answered, "No;" adding, however, "I shall always be your friend, so try and let that content you."

And again, the legend says, "the poor Beast only sighed."

And well he might, for her dear visit was fast drawing to its close.

Again I lay down the book, again I see the long procession, but this time passing into darkness. The poet Virgil was the last to hear the sweeping of her garments as Beauty passed away; the sculptors of the Laocöon the last to see the splendour of her face. Then came a thousand years of darkness to the painter, and of silence to the poet, with nothing seen but blood, with nothing heard but the rush of armed feet that would tread down the new message, the message more divine, the message of love.

The story may be told in few words. Augustus, for whom Virgil wrote, and Vespasian, for whom the sculptors wrought, have passed away with the mighty empire of Rome. Ten times the Christians have been persecuted with cruel torments indescribable.

War