probably bring these exceptional parts into the region of certainty, just as the discovery of the two thousand fragments of the shrine of St. Alban led to the re-erection of that structure without a jot or tittle of new work or a single modicum of conjecture. Anyhow, what is aimed at is the exposure to view of an actual and ancient work -not its restoration, for, with few exceptions, it is there.

Another reason in favour of exposing to view this fine old work is that Canterbury differed from many other Cathedrals in having no canopied stalls excepting those of the two great dignitaries. In this it agreed with the sister (or daughter) Cathedral at Rochester, where we have evidences of the same arrangement. Tenison altered this by adding canopies to all the returned stalls, and thus ignored the traditions of the building.

It is the fashion of the critics to underrate the screenwork of De Estria, but we find Professor Willis describing it (the side screens-he never saw the western one) as consisting of "delicate and elaborately worked tracery," and again saying of it, "the entire work is particularly valuable on account of its well-established date, combined with its great beauty and singularity." He also speaks of "the beautiful stone inclosure of the choir, the greatest part of which still remained." The ancient obituary of Prior de Estria calls it "most beautiful stonework delicately carved."

The

Those who seek to underrate it also try to make the most of the restorations which followed the removal of the wainscot work in 1828; but Professor Willis speaks of it as "in excellent order." Mr. Parker tells us that he saw and studied the screen work when unrestored, and speaks of it as "a very beautiful piece of fourteenthcentury work.” No doubt it suffered much from the reparation of Tenison's mutilations, but if these authorities speak so strongly of its present beauty, what would they say to the parts still concealed which have never

been touched by reparation? Some parts of the side screens themselves retain their ancient colouring, so that even they cannot be so far gone from their old state as is described.

Mr. Loftie, in one of his letters, says "that very little is left of the construction of Canterbury Cathedral older than the present reign" (!) but Mr. Morris's fear is that "before long we shall see the noble building of the two Williams [of the 12th century] confused and falsified by the usual mass of ecclesiastical trumpery and coarse daubing." Let him be assured that, whether it be of the 12th or 19th century, there is no idea of touching it; on the contrary, in my paper read before the Institute of Architects in 1862, the following passage occurs, and the principles there advocated for the exterior may be supposed equally to actuate us in dealing with the interior:

'Imagine for one moment, by way of illustration, that unequalled 'history in stone,' the eastern half of Canterbury Cathedral, so admirably described and unfolded by Professor Willis, if the hand of undiscriminating restoration had passed over it! The works of Lanfranc, of Conrad, of William of Sens, and of the English William, whose intricate interminglings now form a history at once so perplexingly entangled and so charmingly disentangled; and which together present the very best illustration existing in this country of the changes of architectural detail from the conquest to the full establishment of Pointed architecture; and must ever form the very text-book of the architectural history of that period, as being at once the most perfect in its steps, the most completely chronicled, and the most admirably deciphered. Imagine, I would say, this treasury of art-history reduced to an unmeaning blank by the hand of the restorer, either all indiscriminately renewed, or one half renewed and the other scraped over to look like it; the coarsely-axed work of the early Norman mason, the

finer hewing of his successor, and the delicate chiselling of the third period, all scraped down to the semblance of the new work by the same undiscriminating drag, or replaced by new masonry, uniting all periods into one, or else making a mimic copy of their distinguishing characteristics! I take

extreme imaginary illustration, because the work in question, as it remains in its authenticity, forming the most precious page of our architectural history, is so well known as to place the principle I am speaking of in a clearer light than if I took a less marked example."

This Canterbury question is, however, as I have before said, a fair subject for fair discussion; and I will add no more than this- that, while I heartily sympathize with the new movement for the preservation of ancient monuments in its leading aims, I must protest against its being carried to the length of leaving our ancient buildings to fall into ruin, or to retain (in all

cases) the effects of mutilation, disfigurement, and decay. And, as quite a secondary objection, I would venture respectfully to suggest that the legitimate aims of the movement are hardly likely to be furthered by overstatement or misrepresentation.

GEORGE GILBERT SCOTT.

P.S.-It is rather comical to think how much more is said about moving Gibbons's returned stalls-if indeed they be Gibbons's-from the position they were made for at Canterbury, than about the removal of his corresponding stalls from the position they were made for at St. Paul's. This may, however, be accounted for on the ground of the latter being a fait accompli; but what will be said to spending 40,000. on obliterating Thornhill's paintings in the dome of St. Paul's in favour of mosaics of our own day, though arranged and directed by a "Committee of Taste"?

66

THERE has always been a great difference of opinion as to the characteristics and practical utility of diplomacy. Viewed from one side, it has been celebrated for its wholesome moral influence and beneficial effect on human affairs, while from another side it has been decried as mere craft and duplicity, or a hollow pretence of ordering events which are beyond its control. There can be no doubt that, in its best sense, diplomacy is, or might be, a great force in the world, and that momentous results from time to time depend upon its operations. Some years ago Mr. Gladstone glorified it as one of the highest kinds of civilization," inasmuch as "on the field of controversy between nations, where formerly nothing was settled except by the sword, the reason of man has now stepped in, and in fair argument the rights of nations are settled and upheld." It was probably a recollection of this declaration which led M. Guizot, during the FrenchGerman war, to address a letter to this statesman, in which he urged him to use his influence with his countrymen to bring about mediation between the belligerents. He pointed out that, while there had been many things in the general policy of Europe since 1815 to be condemned and regretted, there was at least "one great new principle which has met with universal recognition in Europe for more than half a century; there has never been any question of a war of ambition for the sake of conquest; no European Power has attempted by mere force to aggrandise itself at the expense of other Powers; and respect for international law and peace has become the fundamental maxim of international policy." This, he held, "was the most important and valuable political fact on record in the first half

of the century," and had had "more influence and power in helping to reestablish principles of right and justice as between governments and peoples, in promoting the development of the resources of the different nations, and the progress of civilisation throughout the world, than any other event during that period." M. Guizot cited the formation of Switzerland and Belgium into neutral States, under the protection of the Great Powers, as a proof of the good results of conjoined action; and suggested that this valuable principle was "capable of extended application, and that the Powers should exert themselves to maintain the balance of power, the tendency of which had been for four centuries to save Europe, in spite of her faults, crimes, troubles, and misfortunes, from being at the mercy of violence and chance." This

may be thought to be somewhat too favourable and sanguine a view of the subject; but there can be no question that the Treaty of Vienna and the arrangements as to Switzerland and Belgium had, on the whole, a tranquillising effect. Lord Dalling (Sir Henry Bulwer) has also given examples from his own experience of war being averted by timely interventions on the part of diplomatists; as when in 1840 the relations of England and France were strained by complications in the East; when afterwards, having threatened Spain and France to take possession of the African coast opposite Gibraltar, Sir Henry, without instructions, and on his own responsibility, settled the difficulty by getting Spain to withdraw; and further, when there was a danger of hostilities between the United States and England on account of a question in connection with the Nicaraguan Consul. Other evidence of a similar kind might no doubt be

quoted as to the beneficial effects of diplomacy when undertaken in good faith, in the way of substituting confidence and good-will for suspicion and hostility, and settling differences so quietly that they are never heard of.

66

one

On the other hand, there is no lack of hard things said about diplomacy and diplomatists. There is an old definition of "ambassador," as who lies abroad for the good of his country;" and the First Napoleon seems to have shared this opinion, for in his instructions to Prince Eugène Beauharnais as to his conduct as viceroy in Italy, he says: "An ambassador will not say any good of you, because his trade is to say all the bad he can. Foreign ministers are, in all the force of the term, titled spies." The Duke of Morny has also been credited with the mot that "diplomacy is the art of deluding others without appearing to do so." It is said that a Russian minister, Chancellor Bestoujef, who was a perfect speaker, feigned to stutter. In his conversations with foreign agents he was scarcely intelligible, and he complained of being deaf and not understanding what was said to him. He was also in the habit of writing his diplomatic notes in an almost illegible handwriting. There

may be some exaggeration in this story, but experience seems to suggest that, though diplomatists may not be all such deliberate impostors as the one just described, diplomacy is in a great degree a system of deceit. Macaulay, in one of his letters, mentions Talleyrand talking at Holland House about Metternich and Cardinal Mazarin, and distinguishing between them by saying, "Le Cardinal trompait, mais il ne mentait pas; or M. de Metternich ment toujours, et ne trompe jamais." The amount of veracity to be found in diplomatic communications is certainly open to suspicion; and not less so that Talleyrand has protested against the prejudice with regard to diplomatists on this point. "Diplomacy," he says, in a fragment which has been extracted from his as yet unpublished Memoirs,

"is not a science of ruse and duplicity If good faith is anywhere necessary it is above all in political transactions, for it is this that makes them solid and durable. Reserve is confounded with deception. Good faith never authorises the latter, but it allows reserve; and reserve often adds to confidence." The gloss on these observations may perhaps be found in the same authority's proverbial saying, that language was given to man only to disguise his thoughts. Truth in diplomatic usage is thus not, as a rule, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; and the suppression of an essential part of the truth is of course tantamount to falsehood.

Talleyrand himself may be taken as a characteristic type of the wily and unscrupulous diplomatist. Without being in any sense a great statesman, he had a quick eye for the drift of events, and rarely failed in the course of his long and devious career, in which he was on every side in turn, to identify himself with the winning cause of the day. It has been justly said that he was essentially the representative of la politique expectante. When asked at a critical moment what he meant to do, he replied, "To do? I never do anything. I wait." And in another case of doubtful conflict, he provided himself with cockades of the colour of each party, so as to be prepared for whatever might happen. In short, he was the man of the age who knew best how to profit by accomplished facts. It is needless to say that his reputation suffered from his unscrupulous ways, but even those who knew his treachery found him too useful to be thrown over. Towards the end of his life, he himself said to Thiers, "Do you know, my dear sir, that I have been for forty years the most morally discredited man in Europe, and yet I have always been powerful on the side of power." Guizot has said that, except in a crisis or Congress, Talleyrand was neither skilful nor prompt. "He excelled in treating by conversation and by the

use of social relations with isolated persons; but in the authority of character, fecundity of spirit, promptitude of resolution, power of words, sympathetic intelligence of general ideas and public passion, and all the grand means of action on men gathered together, he was wholly was wholly wanting. As a politician he was without scruples, indifferent to means, and almost to the end in view, provided that it tended to his personal success; coldly courageous in peril, he was suitable for the great affairs of an absolute government, but one with whom the open air and day of liberty did not agree." Mignet, who calls him "the prince of diplomatists," also says that if not the most dexterous of that class, he was at least the most roguish (le plus fourbe) and astute. Among the subordinate diplomatists of that day was Count Montrond, the tool of Talleyrand, who, without any visible means of livelihood, except gambling, managed to lead a luxurious life in Paris and London. Talleyrand was strongly suspected of going shares with Montrond in speculations on secret information as to foreign affairs; and a writer of authority has stated from his own knowledge that when Talleyrand was ambassador at London he used to leave Montrond in his carriage at the door of the Foreign Office during his interview with the Foreign Secretary, and that more than once Montrond, on receipt of a scrap of paper, suddenly drove off to the City by himself. He served as a spy under the Bourbons, and afterwards had a large pension from Louis Philippe for similar services.

Such men and such principles are certainly not calculated to win respect for diplomacy, and it is to be feared that even in modern days there are in some countries traces of the old taint. At any rate Talleyrand's theory as to the use of words is evidently not extinct. When Count de Karolyi, the Austrian ambassador at Prussian Court, asked Count Bismarck whether he intended to annul the

the

it

Treaty of Gastein, dividing the Danish Duchies between Prussia and Austria, the reply was, "No, I have no such intention; but if I had, should I have given you a different answer?" which, may be supposed, did not set at rest the Austrian ambassador's apprehensions. In fact, as the future showed, the Prussian Government did not desire to openly annul the Treaty, but preferred to keep it standing as a cover for more advanced designs. Again, at a more recent date, we find Prince Gortschakoff pledging himself to give information to the English Government as to the state of affairs in Central Asia, with the qualification that, though he might not tell everything, yet that everything he thought fit to tell would be strictly true-an example of the "reserve" which Talleyrand distinguished from a "ruse," though to most people they seem to be very much akin. There is another gift of speech which Mr. Kinglake attributed to Lord Raglan in his conversations with Marshal de SaintArnaud, and which represents another kind of reserve- "the power," as the historian puts it in his subtle analysis, "which is one of the most keen and graceful accomplishments of the diplomatist; the power of affecting the hearer with an apprehension of what remains unsaid; a power which exerts great sway over human actions, for men are more urgently governed by what they are forced to imagine than by what they are allowed to know."

Here the reserve is not so much a process of concealment as a stimulant applied to the imagination of the person addressed, which expands his ideas.

There is also a peculiar kind of outspokenness, which, as Lord Palmerston has pointed out, is conspicuous in the First Napoleon's political conduct, that, so far from hiding his designs, he purposely published even the most violent of them some time before they were put into execution, so that by familiarity people might become used to them, and that there should be no shock of surprise when they at last