a Roman palace for its king, would have been incomplete; it would have been an anomaly, according to the notions of those days. The possession of Rome was the logical end to the argument of Italian patriotism. Rome, as the glory of the world, must be the crown of Italy; yet Rome, as the political capital, must ever be the weak point in United Italy.

Was Victor Emmanuel right? The capital of Italy was transferred from Florence to Rome twenty-five years ago. Is the House of Savoy any nearer its downfall, or is its star still in the ascendant? Is the dynasty popular or unpopular? Is Italy still loyal to the ideas of 1870, or will the Pope again rule supreme in the Eternal City? Thoughtful men in the peninsula kingdom are asking themselves these questions. They are questions which have an interest far beyond the borders of Italy. King Humbert reigns over thirty millions of people; the Pope reigns over two hundred and fifty millions of souls throughout the world. The Vatican watches and waits. In an age of majorities, which king shall rule: the Papist, the Savoyard or the Democrat? We may assume that the Italians have a right to any form of government they choose. If not, no nation has such right. But under any form of government in Italy, Papal, Monarchical, or Democratic, Rome must always be the weak point in the political system so long as the Pope is deprived of his old-time sovereignty there. We may face the fact or we may ignore it, but the fact remains. Italy will not forget the men who have served her, the heroes who have made sacrifices for her; she will fight and fight hard to save herself, if need be; but I do not think she will cut off her right arm to save the House of Savoy, nor her left to restore the temporal power of the Pope. The King may be popular, but what of the throne? The Italians are not more prosperous than they were in 1870; they are not happier; they are not content. This is a time for men, not for pronunciamentos. The opportunity is at hand. Will it prove to be the opportunity of the Quirinal, of the Parliament, or of the Vatican? King Humbert cannot with certainty name his successor. His heir, the Prince of Naples, is a man of fashion and pleasure, and a general in the army at the age of twenty-seven. He bears the name of his illustrious grandsire. Whether he will prove to be another "saviour of Italy" no man can tell. He is an uncertain quantity, counting for naught, at this stage of the game.

ARTHUR WARREN.

THE LAST
IMAGE

ONG ago, in the days when men were three-fourths fools-that is to say, when only one-fourth of their time was devoted to the acquisition of wealth-there dwelt in Spain a weaver of industrious habits, with a kindly heart, and well beloved by his neighbours.

This weaver had a son, who was generally reputed to be a worthless fellow, destined to come to some bad end. In the presence of the virtuous he was usually silent, and when he did speak he never failed to assure his auditors of his incorrigible stupidity. With his boon companions he was however, another individual. Then none laughed louder drank deeper or swore more effectively than he. By them at least he was respected. Nor was he entirely invulnerable to the fascinations of the fairer sex, for he vouchsafed them no little attention-in his way.

It was in vain that his indulgent father besought him to restrict his attention to the mastery of that trade which, during the period of his own life, had secured him the means of earning an honest livelihood. It was in vain that his devoted mother with tearful eyes implored him to desist from his dissolute conduct. He heeded them not, but continued to live on as he had lived before.

At length, however, after his parents were assured that their protests were of no avail, a change came over the boy-for he was scarcely yet a man. It is true that he did not entirely discontinue his dissolute habits, but it was apparent to all that he had at last found some purpose in his life. His nights were oftentimes spent in revelry, but he was seldom seen in the company of his associates during the day. It was also observed that it had become his custom to pass the greater portion of his time in an unused stable which occupied a place at the rear of the dwelling of his parents.

One day his mother, while renovating the sleeping apartment of her son, came across the clay image of a woman. She surveyed it for a few minutes in silence; then hurled it summarily from the window.

"Oh, that boy!" she exclaimed, as she resumed the dusting of the furniture.

In the course of a few months numerous other images of a like nature were picked up in the vicinity of the dwelling of the weaver, and the neighbours whispered among themselves that the old man had either a genius or a fool for a son-the majority inclining, as in fact they had always done, to the latter opinion.

One day the lord of their domain honoured the humble cottage of the weaver

with a visit, his purpose being to inspect the work already done on a piece of tapestry which was being woven in accordance with his directions.

During his presence in the cottage one of these fragments of modelled clay met. his view. He examined it carefully, and then inquired of the weaver how it had come into his possession.

The old man shook his head sadly as he replied that it was the work of his worthless son.

The nobleman expressed a desire to see and converse with the lad, who was summoned in haste by his agitated parents.

The courtier took the youth aside, and a long conversation ensued between them; then together they visited the stable where the youth had been accustomed to spend his days.

The result of this incident was that the nobleman, believing that in the boy he perceived the latent genius of a great sculptor, resolved to secure for him a master who might fully develop it.

At this time, in a distant city, there dwelt a man who had been crowned by Fame with the greenest of her laurels. He was aged now, and his hands were far too tremulous and old to guide the chisel over the rough surface of the stone; but in his prime he had produced such marvels out of marble that, it was said, in all Spain there had never lived a man who could equal him in his art. His works were not numerous, but these were of such a nature that they excited the wonder of all who viewed them. They were remarkable not so much because of their exquisite beauty and symmetrical proportions as on account of their marvellous facial expression, for it was in the delineation of the emotions of the heart, as revealed in the lineaments of the human countenance, that this sculptor excelled all others of his brother-artists. No one who had once gazed upon the marble images of his creation could ever forget the smiles, the frowns, the love, treachery and hatred, which gave them character. It was because of his scrupulous fidelity to nature that he was known among his countrymen as "The Master of Life."

One day the weaver's son sat alone in the shed which had been appropriated to his use. Before him on a rude stand was a statuette which he was moulding from clay. The youth had already received initiatory instructions in the art of modelling from a sculptor whose services had been secured by his noble benefactor; and now so absorbed was he in his work that he failed to mark the approach of a stranger, who paused at the door and silently contemplated the progress of his labour.

The visitor was a man of tall stature. His white hair rose from a lofty brow which was deeply seamed with the wrinkles of age. His eyes, keen and penetrating, glittered beneath a pair of shaggy eyebrows. He was enveloped in a grey cloak, and carried a stout staff in his hand.

"Who is thy master, boy?" he asked at length, as he advanced and bent over the damp clay.

The youth raised his eyes and calmly surveyed his questioner.

"Lorello, señor," he replied.

"And yet thy work appears to be not of Lorello's school," returned the visitor.

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'Ah, no," replied the young sculptor-" not this indeed. Lorello is my master,

but I like another better."

"And who may he be?"

"The Master of Life,'" answered the boy.

The old man smiled, and took from the hand of the youth the little image upon which he had been at work.

"What is thy subject here?" he asked.

"Virtue," replied the youth.

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"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the old man, as he held the figure to the light, "and yet it is not carved badly; but thou hast added to the brow and eyes of a Madonna the nose and lips of an Aphrodite, until the face appears like that of a gospel-prating courtesan. This will not do, my boy, if thou wouldst be a disciple of mine." Then, raising the staff which he carried, he smote the little image to the floor, shivering it to fragments.

The youth started forward impulsively, but paused and gazed long and earnestly into the face of the destroyer of his work.

"Men call me so," responded the old man. "Thou hast many models on thy shelves. Let me see them, and if among them there is aught of worth, thou shalt be my only pupil and I will make thee my successor."

A flush of joy suffused the face of the youth as he turned and took from a shelf another image, which he placed before the master.

"Thy subject?"

"Love."

"Thou hast chosen a modern Spaniard for thy model.

Was it thy purpose

to express the regard of a brother for a sister, a son for a parent, or of a man

for a man?"

"Neither the regard of a relative for a relative, nor of a man for a man,” replied the youth.

"Then it is not Love," returned the master. "If thou hadst named it Affection, it were well done. It represents indeed the ideal love of Plato; but platonic love does not exist between man and woman in whose veins there flows no kindred blood. Thou shouldst have said Affection."

As he finished, the staff of the old man sent the image to join the demolished Virtue on the floor.

Then one by one the youth placed before the master the creations of his youthful fancy, and one by one were they shattered by the remorseless staff of the aged "Master of Life"; until at length he stood with bowed head and folded arms among the fragments of his images.

"Well, hast thou done? Hast thou shown me all?" asked the master.

The youth was silent.

Large tears welled from his eyes, and his features bore

the impress of despair. The old man surveyed him searchingly.

Hast thou shown me all?" he repeated

"There is one other," answered the youth; then, directing his steps towards a cupboard, he opened a door and slowly took from the shelf and placed upon the table an image somewhat larger than those which had been destroyed.

This, the last image offered by the youth for the inspection of the master, was the figure of a woman. The body was of exquisite proportions, neither stout nor frail. The limbs were beautifully rounded, and the hands and feet small and shapely. From the shoulders downward it was an almost perfect counterpart of the Venus Genetrix of the Villa Borghese, combining with the lithe gracefulness of a girl the maturity of a perfect woman. Yet in this, as in the masterpieces of the "Master of Life," the beholder could not but admit that the physical beauty of the body was subordinate in interest to the marvellous expression of the face. The luxurious hair was combed back from a brow which was neither so high as not to be lovely nor so low as not to be intellectual; the nose, ears and chin were

It was

delicately chiselled, and the lips and eyes-ah, who can describe them! upon these that the young sculptor had exhausted the resources of his art. The master contemplated the image long and earnestly, holding it first to the light and then in the shadow.

"This is indeed far better wrought than any thou hast yet shown me, for in this thou hast at length given the correct expression to a true conception of Life's