ent, reverent faith in Nature as they see her, their
knowledge that the ideal is neither to be invented nor abstracted,
but found and left where God has put it, and where alone it can be
represented, in actual and individual phenomena;--in these lies an
honest development of the true idea of Protestantism, which is
paving the way to the mesothetic art of the future.'

'Glorious!' said Sabina: 'not a single word that we poor creatures
can understand!'

But our hero, who always took a virtuous delight in hearing what he
could not comprehend, went on to question the orator.

'What, then, is the true idea of Protestantism?' said he.

'The universal symbolism and dignity of matter, whether in man or
nature.'

'But the Puritans--?'

'Were inconsistent with themselves and with Protestantism, and
therefore God would not allow them to proceed. Yet their
repudiation of all art was better than the Judas-kiss which Romanism
bestows on it, in the meagre eclecticism of the ancient religious
schools, and of your modern Overbecks and Pugins. The only really
wholesome designer of great power whom I have seen in Germany is
Kaulbach; and perhaps every one would not agree with my reasons for
admiring him, in this whitewashed age. But you, young sir, were
meant for better things than art. Many young geniuses have an early
hankering, as Goethe had, to turn painters. It seems the shortest
and easiest method of embodying their conceptions in visible form;
but they get wiser afterwards, when they find in themselves thoughts
that cannot be laid upon the canvas. Come with me--I like striking
while the iron is hot; walk with me towards my lodgings, and we will
discuss this weighty matter.'

And with a gay farewell to the adoring little Sabina, he passed an
iron arm through Lancelot's, and marched him down into the street.

Lancelot was surprised and almost nettled at the sudden influence
which he found this quaint personage was exerting over him. But he
had, of late, tasted the high delight of feeling himself under the
guidance of a superior mind, and longed to enjoy it once more.
Perhaps they were reminiscences of this kind which stirred in him
the strange fancy of a connection, almost of a likeness, between his
new acquaintance and Argemone. He asked, humbly enough, why Art was
to be a forbidden path to him?

'Besides you are an Englishman, and a man of uncommon talent, unless
your physiognomy