not the least of its many ornaments is the Perseus of Cellini. Cellini completed his work in 1554. His autobiography is carried down to the year 1562, when it abruptly terminates. It appears that in 1558 he received the tonsure and the first ecclesiastical orders; but two years later on he married a wife, and died at the age of sixty-nine, leaving three legitimate children. His old age was passed in privacy at Florence, where the duke honoured him, and gave him a house near Santa Croce. He was buried splendidly in the chapter-house of the Nunziata, a funeral sermon being preached "in praise both of his life and works, and his excellent moral qualities." It would not appear from this statement, which we have quoted from a document written at the time, that his contemporaries regarded Cellini as an exceptionally wicked man.

It has not been our purpose to criticize Cellini's style of art, but rather to draw from his biography those passages which illustrate the temper of the man and the character of the times in which he lived. Yet if we turn for a moment to consider his works, we must admit that Cellini belongs to the second class of artists. He never rose above the affectations of his day, and followed rather than controlled its taste. His best productions were imitative of the style of Michael Angelo, whose genius he comprehended, and with the spirit of whose masterpieces he was thoroughly imbued. But, unfortunately, in his reproduction of the forms of Michael Angelo, he failed to represent the intellectual sublimity which makes us condone their exaggeration and mannerism. What Cellini did was absolutely without reflection or ideal unity. It does not appear from his memoirs that he ever thought his subjects out with difficulty, or even selected his models with care. He owed his success to fertility, technical skill, and passionate energy. His life was too noisy and disturbed; he thought too much about himself; he was too intent upon conceiving some new, tremendous, and startling effect, to produce a really concentrated work of art. In his day the study of great masters and antiquities had brought men to despair of originality in the highest branches of painting and sculpture. They were content with aiming at brilliancy, variety, and ornament. Cellini's trade of a goldsmith rendered him peculiarly liable to fall into this error. Accustomed to work on gold and silver plate, when he began a statue he simply enlarged the puppets of his urns and tankards. Omitting the thought and expression which should give life to sculpture, he lavished labour on mere decorative details. On this account his best works are over-wrought and inharmonious. Yet even here Cellini did not fall below the standard of his day. For vigour of design, boldness of execution, and accuracy of hand he surpassed his companions. The unmeaning groups of Primaticcio whom he rivalled at the Court of Francis, and the statues of Bandinelli whom he opposed at Florence, cannot be compared with his productions for elegance and taste. We only complain that, being so great, he could not rise above the effeminacy of his time, the cramping associations of his adopted art, and the frivolity of his own nature. With him the lamp of Italian sculpture went out. He knew it, and his eyes were always fixed upon the past. As a man he excites more interest than as an artist.

Armadale.

BOOK THE FOURTH.

CHAPTER III.

THE BRINK OF DISCOVERY.

T

HE morning of the interview between Mrs. Milroy and her daughter, at the cottage, was a morning of serious reflection for the squire, at the great house.

Even Allan's easy-tempered nature had not been proof against the disturbing influence exercised on it by the events of the last three days. Midwinter's abrupt departure had vexed him; and Major Milroy's reception of his inquiries relating to Miss Gwilt weighed unpleasantly on his mind. Since his visit to the cottage, he had felt impatient and ill at ease, for the first time in his life, with everybody who came near him. Impatient with Pedgift Junior, who had called on the previous evening, to announce his departure for London on business the next day, and to place his services at

the disposal of his client; ill at ease with Miss Gwilt, at a secret meeting with her in the park that morning; and ill at ease in his own company, as he now sat moodily smoking, in the solitude of his room. "I can't live this sort of life much longer," thought Allan. "If nobody will help me to put the awkward question to Miss Gwilt, I must stumble on some way of putting it for myself."

What way? The answer to that question was as hard to find as ever. Allan tried to stimulate his sluggish invention by walking up and down the room, and was disturbed by the appearance of the footman at the first turn.

"Now then! what is it?" he asked impatiently.

"A letter, sir; and the person waits for an answer."

Allan looked at the address. It was in a strange handwriting. He opened the letter; and a little note enclosed in it dropped to the ground. The note was directed, still in the strange handwriting, to "Mrs. Mandeville, 18, Kingsdown Crescent, Bayswater. Favoured by Mr. Armadale." More and more surprised, Allan turned for information to the signature at the end of the letter. It was "Anne Milroy."

"Anne Milroy?" he repeated. "It must be the major's wife. What can she possibly want with me?"

By way of discovering what she wanted, Allan did at last what he might more wisely have done at first. He sat down to read the letter.

a very

["Private."] "The Cottage, Monday. "DEAR SIR,-The name at the end of these lines will, I fear, recall to you rude return made on my part, some time since, for an act of neighbourly kindness on yours. I can only say in excuse, that I am a great sufferer, and that if I was ill-tempered enough, in a moment of irritation under severe pain, to send back your present of fruit, I have regretted doing so ever since. Attribute this letter, if you please, to my desire to make you some atonement, and to my wish to be of service to our good friend and landlord if I possibly can.

"I have been informed of the question which you addressed to my husband the day before yesterday, on the subject of Miss Gwilt. From all I have heard of you, I am quite sure that your anxiety to know more of this charming person than you know now, is an anxiety proceeding from the most honourable motives. Believing this, I feel a woman's interest—incurable invalid as I am—in assisting you. If you are desirous of becoming acquainted with Miss Gwilt's family circumstances without directly appealing to Miss Gwilt herself, it rests with you to make the discovery and I will tell you how.

"It so happens that some few days since, I wrote privately to Miss Gwilt's reference on this very subject. I had long observed that my governess was singularly reluctant to speak of her family and her friends; and without attributing her silence to other than perfectly proper motives, I felt it my duty to my daughter to make some inquiry on the subject. The answer that I have received is satisfactory as far as it goes. My correspondent informs me that Miss Gwilt's story is a very sad one, and that her own conduct throughout has been praiseworthy in the extreme. The circumstances (of a domestic nature, as I gather,) are all plainly stated in a collection of letters now in the possession of Miss Gwilt's reference. This lady is perfectly willing to let me see the letters-but, not possessing copies of them, and being personally responsible for their security, she is reluctant, if it can be avoided, to trust them to the post; and she begs me to wait until she or I can find some reliable person who can be employed to transmit the packet from her hands to mine.