his father, may have been governor of Babylon, when the city was attacked by the combined forces of the Medes and Persians, and may have perished in the assault which followed; while Nabonadius, leading a force to the relief of the place, was defeated, and obliged to take refuge in the neighbouring town of Borsippa (or Birs-iNimrud), capitulating, after a short resistance, and being subsequently assigned, according to Berosus, an honourable retirement in Carmania. By the discovery, indeed, of the name of Bel-shar-ezar, as appertaining to the son of Nabonadius, we are, for the first time, enabled to reconcile authentic history with the inspired record of Daniel, which forms one of the bulwarks of our religion." The name is expressed by three monograms the first signifying the god Bel, the second Shar, a king, and the third being the same sign which terminates the name Nebuchadnezzar, and many others. It may be as well to state how we know that Belshazzar was king along with his father. Professor George Rawlinson says that no name is ever mentioned together with that of the reigning monarch, in the inscriptions, unless it be the name of a co-regent. a matrimonial alliance with the royal family. This had been a common practise in all lands and ages. There are many instances in the history of the East. Only six years had elapsed from the death of Nebuchadnezzar, when Nabonadius, the father of Belshazzar, ascended the throne. Suppose him to have strengthened himself by marrying a daughter of Nebuchadnezzar, then Belshazzar would be a grandson of the great king on his mother's side. This supposition has one remarkable confirmation. After the fall of Babylon and the death of Belshazzar, certain parties stirred up revolt against Darius. Twice in the reign of Darius a claimant to the Babylonian throne came forward. Perhaps he was an imposter, such as those which have appeared once and again in English history. But he declared, "I am Nebuchadnezzar, the son of Nabonadius." The magic of the name was sufficient to seduce the Babylonians from their allegiance. We know in our own day the magic power over the French of the name "Napoleon." That looks as if Nabonadius, having wished to associate his family and dynasty with the great Nebuchadnezzar, had given his name to a son younger than Belshazzar. It makes no matter whether the pretender were really a son or not. Nabonadius was the more likely to pass on the name, if, as is supposed, he had married a daughter of the great king. There is something more to be inferred from the pretender not assuming the name of Belshazzar, the eldest son. It confirms Daniel's account, that he was slain. It was notorious that he was killed, and therefore, for a pretender to assume his name would have been absurd. But if Belshazzar was probably the grandson of Nebuchadnezzar, why is he called his son? Because neither in early nor late Hebrew, nor in the Chaldee, is there any word for "grand-father," nor "grand-son." A grandfather is called, not even "father's father," but "father" simply. Ancestors generally are "fathers" or "father's fathers." The Old Testament is full of instances. Take one or two. Jacob says:"The God of my father, the God of Abraham."-(Gen. xxxi. 42.) God says to Aaron:-" The tribe of Levi, the tribe of thy father."-(Num. xviii. 2.) In some passages the actual father and remote ancestor are named almost in the same breath by the same word. Amaziah "did that which was right in the sight of the Lord, yet not like David his father: he did according to all things as Joash his father did."-(2 Kings xiv. 3). So, on the other hand, there is no one Hebrew or Chaldee word to express "grandson" or "grand-daughter." If in legal enactments, or other connections, it was imperatively necessary to refer directly to such relationship, the form of words would be, "thy son's son," "thy son's daughter," "thy daughter's son," "thy daughter's daughter." "Son" then stands for "grandson," and all reference to the actual father may be omitted. These then are the conclusions to which we have come about the personage whose name opens the fifth chapter of Daniel. Belshazzar was most likely the grandson, on the mother's side, of the great monarch and benefactor of Babylon. Between these facts and suppositions on the one side and the inspired history on the other, there is no contradiction whatsoever. Many corroborations, from time to time, are brought out of their graves on the Assyrian plain by the hand of God; and many more resurrections there may be for the comfort of the Church as the ages roll. When we go back again from these clay cylinders to the book of Daniel itself, we find that Holy Scripture in its turn confirms the testimony of these outside witnesses. The wise men came into the banqueting halls. The king invited them to read the writing, to make known the meaning. He promised them a splendid reward, if they were able. Amongst other endowments, the fortunate unraveller of the mystery should be made third ruler in the kingdom. Why the third? why not second? Here is one of those undesigned coincidences, which are so precious to him who really studies his Bible. In the history of Joseph, Pharoah speaks to him thus: "Forasmuch as God hath shewed thee all this, there is none so discreet and wise as thou art: Thou shalt be over my house, and according unto thy word shall all my people be ruled: only in the throne will I be greater than thou." That is, Joseph was to be second to the king. So, similarly in two passages of Daniel's own history. Nebuchadnezzar made him "ruler over the whole province of Babylon, and chief of the governors over all the wise men of Babylon." He was second after his royal master. So, afterwards, Darius "thought to set him over the whole realm." Why then did Belshazzar promise, first to the wise men, and then to Daniel, that the reader of the writing should be third? Who was second? Why, Belshazzar himself was second! His father, Nabonadius, was the first ruler. our own schools were recognising, in the productions of this foreign painter, that peculiar and subtle charm that has made his works so prized. He has given the world something it is the better for having, and, if he is not majestic and sublime like Michael Angelo, or seraphic like the half-divine Raphael, Scheffer knew how to paint sonnets with as much poetic feeling and sweetness as Jean Ingelow knows how to write them. Men will not soon weary of gazing upon his inimitable picture of St. Augustine and St. Monica, to generations yet to come it will appeal with undiminished power and truthfulness; it will bid the despairing mothers of prodigal sons still to hope and pray, it will tell the wanderer that a mother's love is an inexhaustible fountain, and that, however far astray he has gone, there is a way back to honour and to peace. Indeed, all Scheffer's compositions impress the mind by their purity and unaffected dignity. TWENTY years ago Ary Scheffer was of Art," the masters of colour in known on the continent as the most effective living painter in the walk of religious art, and within the last few years, numerous engravings from his pictures have been used to illustrate and embellish works of a professedly religious character. Yet, while the British public is becoming familiar with Scheffer's remarkable productions, the artist himself is entirely unknown, except to a very small circle of his ardent admirers. Considerable attention was drawn towards Scheffer in 1857, when his works were first publicly exhibited in this country. Notwithstanding the many defects of colour and form, that brought upon him much censure, his severest critics stood arrested and enchained before his pictures, acknowledging that here, indeed, was the work of one who possessed the coveted secret of kindling the intelligent sympathies through the medium of art. And while Scheffer himself was wandering amongst the treasures collected from our English storehouses, astonished and enchanted, calling it a “Paradise But to those unacquainted with Mrs. Grote's interesting memoir of this painter, the question may have arisen whether this man-whose aim seemed to be throughout life to lift mankind up to a higher platform, and who used his genius to awaken the better nature, and quicken the purest emotions in the human breast; whether he was inspired by deep religious convictions, or the mere poetic sentiment that has prompted so many artists, of ancient and modern times, to choose subjects of a sacred character. The The question is simple and natural, but to find the answer it is necessary to know something more of Scheffer than is revealed by his painted thoughts, though these disclose much of his real nature, which was free from affectation as a little child's. story of his life, as told by his friend. and biographer, Mrs. Grote, is full of interest, for his character and. actions as a private individual would have made him eminent, apart from his celebrity as an artist. Like nearly all great men, Scheffer owed much to his mother, who was a woman of "moral qualities of a high order," considerable mental culture, and the sacrifice she made for her three sons was only equalled by the care and tenderness they bestowed upon her when health and strength declined. To her judicious training may be traced those habits of thought and industry that made her eldest son Ary so distinguished in his own especial calling; and, following her wise counsels, he was beloved and revered by all who had the privilege of knowing him. Although not a Frenchman by birth,* he and his brothers threw themselves heart and soul into the *Scheffer was a native of Dordrecht. vortex of French politics. To free his adopted country from despotism, and establish the republic, became such an absorbing passion that he risked life and liberty again and again in that cause, and the love of his art often waxed cool, compared with the glow of his patriotism. His name stands associated with Tierry, Lamartine, Lafayette, de Tocqueville, and many other honourable Frenchmen, with whom he was on terms of intimate friendship, and had he been more ambitious, Scheffer might have taken a prominent place in the history of the eventful time in which he lived. He had a large and generous heart, loving his friends with an ardour of which only such tender, susceptible natures as his are capable. With the products of his labour, he was openhanded to a fault, for he could never turn a deaf ear to any applicant for assistance; writing to his daughter on the subject, he says, "With a little more selfishness, perhaps, I might have passed my life in superior comfort, and enjoyed greater composure of mind. I ought to have been capable of controlling that weakness in my character which makes me shrink from the sight of other people's vexation and distress." All his poorer brethren in art found a helper and friend in Scheffer, who not only assisted and encouraged them with his advice, but provided means for their education and advancement. Indeed, in all the relations of life, he showed himself to be a man of profound sensibility and an unusual elevation of character. The fragments that remain of his letters and composition are full of admirable maxims on charity, self-discipline and self-denial, on the consolations of labour, and the unselfish performance of duty; while his own life, spent in the conscientious practice of virtue, seemed to the world to be one beautiful, finished whole. His biographer evidently holds the same opinion, and does not seem conscious of any great omission, as she closes the touching final chapter with the following words "On the 15th of June, 1858, this great and virtuous man yielded up his last breath. It was a beautiful summer's evening, the calm splendour of which irradiated the scene of his departure from earth. Not more calm, however, not more serene, was the aspect of the heavens, than were the conscience and pure spirit of him who thus passed to his eternal rest, to suffer, to strive, no more ! Elsewhere Mrs. G. speaks of him "bearing within his breast the healing balm of a conscience void of reproach," while the same sentiments were constantly expressed by himself. "There is but one way of looking at fate, whatever that may be; whether blessings or afflictions, to behave with dignity under both. Believe me, the accomplishing of duties alone leads to contentment. We ought to seek to diffuse pleasure and enjoyment around us. To effect this has been the unvarying object of my life, perhaps my only claim to merit. . . . To be tolerant towards others, and severe for one's own conduct, is the first of all duties: to love one's fellow-men more than one's self, is the highest virtue. None of my memories are so pleasing as those which recall the practice of these maxims,"&c. The reading of a life like this affects the mind in much the same manner as the perusal of such books as "Ecce Homo"-to lay them down, charmed but disappointed, conscious of incompleteness throughout. In some persons the moral qualities are so happily developed, and the character thereby rendered so amiable and irreproachable that it is difficult to draw the line between the results of a high moral culture, and the effects of a simple faith that moulds the life by reference to a purer and loftier standard than the strictest moralist ever erected. And this difficulty presents itself most strikingly in considering the life and works of Ary Scheffer; there is so much worthy of imitation, and so much that is noble and beautiful, that it seems presumptuous for us to say in what he fell short, (surpassing, as he did, in his daily habits, the conduct of the mass of professing Christians;) but there is no room for any other supposition than that, while acknowledging a Providence, and regarding Jesus Christ as the pattern for all mankind to imitate, he knew nothing of the consolations arising from faith in Christ as his Saviour, and that the articles of his creed began and ended with a cold morality. The history of his inner life shows how unavailing was even the reflection of duties faithfully performed to give him peace. We see him as the despairing patriot, witnessing the last embers of republicanism in France, trodden out by the heel of the despot; we see him as the tender friend, watching those he cherishes decline and die one by one; and we see him at last sinking into his grave under the repeated wounds his loving heart had received; and as these " great outlets of his external sympathies " are closed there is nothing left but virtuous maxims with which to comfort his broken heart, or upon which to lay his dying head. |