LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2141, 5 January 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTERY

LOUD BRACKENBURY; A NOVEL. BY AMELIA. B. E'JWA^Di?, Author of "Barbara's History," •'tebenbam's Vow," &c. (Continued. Chapter XXIX. DIVrNE PHILOSOPHY. Horace Cochrane had a certain favnsrite 1-ad habit a habit bo deeuly roofed and ;o long churifched that it had become, if no', a necessity of life, aa indispensible adjunct to one of the Hrst necessities of lif~ —nr.mely sleep. Be used to read iu lied. 11l or WcU, early or late, he carried up hi- bouii as regularly U 3 he carried up h'.s candJe ; and no matter how tired he might be, he could not deep—or, which is the samo thing, fjneiod he could no'o cle<tp -without it. So, although it was past two o'clock whea. he bade Lancelot goodnight, h-, as usual, provided himself with what he wat pleased to call his ' literary nightcap ' But his nigh: cap on this occasion played him false, and kept him broad awake. It was tbe same book of which he had carelersly turae.i noma fifty pagss or so that evening of Mr Marrable's visit, wh n a certain conversation already recorded took place in the f-tudso after dinner. A new book then ; just launched, uncut, nnrc-ad, ucreviewed—an old now, according to the chronology In force at circulating libraries ; but in another seni-e for ever new, seeing that it h&s paißisd iuto a classic, and promises i o last as long as the tongue in which it ie written. .Returning it with, ev ry disposition to ullp it presently under his pillow and go to sleep, Cochrane read on snd en with increasing Interest, till he Lu.d himself it the end of the volume. Then he put out his lamp and resolved to go to sleep. But his head was full of what he had been reading, and he tried in vaiu to think of other things -of falling water, of armies marching past, of waves breaking on the beach, and the like. Then he tried counting from one to five thousand; but long enough before he reached the end of the first thousand he caught himself running after a dozen different trains of thought, mixing up the people and. places of the book with the people and places among whom, and which he was now living, till past and present, poetry and prose, faces and scenes the most incongruous, chased each other in a kind of domon ront through his brain. Weimar, old Lois, Goetz von Berlichigen, Langtrey Grange, " The Sorrows of Werter" and the Brackenbury law-suit; Kotzebne, Karl-August, and the ounteas C'astelrcsso, La Spezzu, with its untold tale of crime mystery ; Winifred Savage and her flock of scow-white pigeons ; Frankfort, and Downing street, and the Bride Stones with their apocryphal legend ; L;»dy Symcs, leaac Plant, and Mr Marrableti. . . . He bore it till he could bear it no longer. Then, in sheer desperation, he struck a light, partly dressed, and stole downstairs in search of the second volume. All was dark below, and so silent that all could hear the clock ticking is the kitchen, and a cricket shrilling on the hearth. He csme softly down outside the studio door. Then he softly turned tho handle. It yielded noiselessly. To his surprise he found the room full of light and Lancelot still np. He had brought out hiij unfinished ps in ting and placed it on a chair close under the lamp. His back was towards the door. His attitude indicated profound absorptionarms folded ; head bent, eyes and thoughts intent upon the canvas. For a moment, Cochrane hesitated to disturb him ; and in that moment—bo capricious are the ways of memory—he suddenly remembered all about, that vaguely-roool-lected head which he fancied he had seen in the Venetian Gallery. 'So ! not gone to bed ?' he said rattling tho door-handle, and coming in with an air of well feigned unpremeditation. 'Don't look bo startled, my dear fellow. I can't sleep to-night, and I've come down for tbe Fecond volume of that " Life of Goethe." Bot what business have yon to be flirting with the fine arts at this unearthly hour of the morning?' ' None wnatever, only I thought I would just glance at my picture with a fresh eye, not having seen it for several days.' And, but for Cochrane'a hand upon his arm, he would have hastily replaced the canvas with its face to the wall.

•Not ho fast, if you please,' interposed the intelligent observer. ' I should like to look at it again.'

It is an upright subject, containing two figures, half life-size, in media.™! coßtume—student seated, a woman standing, a tabic between them. The wom&u wears a green and white dress, edged with dark for. Young, beautiful, earnest-looking, she gazes out of the picture with a rapt expression. Her left hand rests upon a globe of irideaeent glass. The youth (in a short surcoat of riolet velvet, black hose and pointed shoes) sits with his back towards the f-pectator, his face upturned, his hand grasping the arm of his chair, in act to rise. Pale, eager-eyed, breathless, ho listens and his soul seems to hang upon her lips. The table was strewn with mathematical icstrnments and writing materials. An illuminated missal lies open on the floor. Tho ba'kgronnd represents a gothio interior seen in the warm glow of a stained glaee window, one pane of which, being open, lets in a flood of pure light upen the faco and figure of the girl. The picture, half real, half symbolic, tells its story easily. The artist calls it '* Divine Philosophy." 'Humph !—just eo," said Cochrane, after contemplating it f r some moments in silence. ' Yon don't know what a compliment I have been paying you, my artist friend. I have actually been taking yon for Pa.is Bordono.' • Paris Bordone ?—well, I have often wished that the soul of Titian had elected to enter into this poor body of mine; bnt I'm not so sure that I would care to afford .-. local habitation to P.ris Bor-one. Whi.t put that comparison into your head ?' ' Divine Philosophy herself. I recognised that head the moment I saw Miss avagc with her hat off ; yet I could not conceive whore I had seen it. I made sure it wa<i in some painting of tho Venetian school . , and there is a follng of rorrione in it—a w«rm flesh-snd-blood solidity—a directneiß—a fr. sbness by Jove I Braesenbary, it's a mighty nice bit oi painiing.' " I wish I oald think so,' said the artitsi, with some embarrassment * Why didn't you tell me it was a portrait of M.-ss cavage ?' ■lt is not a portrait,' said Lancelot, reddening. Coobrae looked first at him. then at the picture, acd lifted his eyebrows incredulously. ' That 1b to say, it is not altogether an ide%l hand, I-1 m.y havo taken a hint ' ' Mis 3 Pavaga did not sit for it, then V ' Certainly not.'

Cochrane made a teWcrpe of his hand: ; drew back ; and, whittling softly, inspected the picture from various distances. ' For a portrait—painted—from memory,' he said slowly, ■with a pause between each word, 'it is revlly—aa uncommonly—good likeness. Awi whatever you ri;ay say, my frieud, a portrait ' ie' u portrait—whether the pe;sjn represented eits for it or not. The complexion is cipital—pes-j of the head very cleverly iiianagod tha eye, too earnest, luminous, frank . . . you have caught tho expression, given it just that touch of elevation which the suoject demands.' Then with a sudden change from criticism to sarcasm, he added meanicgly—- ' " Hoi' eyes, her lips, her check, her thrpr, her features £cem to he drawn by Love's own baud— By Love himsolf in Jove ;" —who that, by the way P Kot Shakespeare P' (To be continued.)