Benvenuto Cellini, in his “Autobiography,” records an interesting conversation which took place between Francis I. and himself. The artist was submitting to his patron a drawing for a fountain at Fontainebleau.

“The king began by asking me,” says Cellini, “what I had meant to represent by the fine fancy I had embodied in this design, saying ... he knew well I was not like those foolish folk who turn out something with a kind of grace, but put no intention into their performances.” Cellini then addressed himself to the task of exposition, “showing the king that certain of his figures embodied those arts and sciences in which his Majesty took pleasure and which he so generously patronized. On the right hand was to be seen Learning, accompanied by emblems which indicated Philosophy, and her attendant branches of knowledge.” The Art of Design, Music, and Generosity followed in due place.⁠[412]

The design thus described is but a typical instance of the love of allegory which characterized the period. It would be idle to multiply examples, for their name is legion. Whether in the shape of personified qualities, such as are seen in the Polisy “carrelage” of 1545, or of inanimate emblems of learning, or of those minor forms of symbolism expressed by the all-popular “devise,” they permeate art in every direction. Classical allegories, resuscitated from their grave of centuries, are met half-way by the heraldic symbolism, the badges and devices called into existence by the wars of chivalry. The various forms of the Dance of Death contribute their peculiar quota to the prevailing tendency. North and South foster, each in its own kind and degree, the love of expressing things by riddles, the sense of which, half-hidden and half-revealed, was intended to afford some play to the ingenuity of the observer.

This was particularly the case with the “devise” or emblem now at the height of fashion, especially in France. The first edition of Alciati’s “Emblems,” which attained an almost incredible popularity, was published at Augsburg in 1531. But as early as 1522 a collection of one hundred emblems was made by him at Milan and privately circulated among his friends.⁠[413]

Beneath the level of finished elegance which had made Alciati’s emblems the classics of their domain, every amateur tried his hand upon these toys of the imagination. Every French nobleman, from the sovereign downwards, had his personal devise, or more often a series of them. Montmorency, for instance, had a variety of emblems of his own.

The publishers’ mark is among the few forms of this widely-spread taste which have survived to the present day. One such, that of the printer Gryphius of Lyons, has already enabled us to interpret the emblem placed by the Bishop of Auxerre on the Maison de l’Aûmonier at Polisy.

This tendency, so frequently exhibited in the art and literature of the sixteenth century, found its way naturally enough into Holbein’s picture of the two “Ambassadors.”

It is curious that while the emblems employed in sacred subjects (those, for instance, by which we recognize certain saints) are a matter of common knowledge, the symbolism used in secular art has been to a large extent neglected, and is occasionally treated as almost non-existent. Both branches were in reality expressions of the same spirit—a spirit that it is absolutely essential to take into account if we are to obtain any real grasp of the vein of thought illustrated in Holbein’s painting.

In the preceding chapters the origin of the picture has been traced, as well as a great part of its subsequent history. The lives of the two men whose outward and visible forms it has preserved for us have been followed in outline; and something has been seen of the circumstances which helped to mould them to the types presented by the painter. It now remains for us to examine in closer detail the work itself, and to ascertain what traces it bears, beyond the mechanical correspondence of dates and seasons, of the soil from which it sprang. The connection will be found to be even closer and richer than might have been anticipated. The picture reveals itself, in fact, as the exact logical outcome of the circumstances which produced it.

The very first thing which strikes the spectator, the contrast between the swordsman on one side and the gownsman on the other, is intensely characteristic of the era and profession of the two ambassadors.

Brantôme has an amusing passage which well illustrates this point. Himself a dashing swordsman, he inveighs with energy against the preference exhibited by Francis I. for the employment of “gens de robe longue” as ambassadors, rather than of those, in Brantôme’s opinion, far superior, “de robe courte.”⁠[414] He notes especially one occasion at Rome when, according to his ideas, the swaggering attitude of a swordsman would have better served the cause of the King of France than the tame verbosity which, in his view, constituted the only weapon of the man of the gown. The latter, in this instance, was doubly represented by the Bishop of Mâcon and Monsieur de Vély, with both of whom acquaintance has been made in the course of these pages.

“Une chose voudrois-je bien scavoir,” he exclaims, “si ... il y eust eu quelque brave et vaillant chevalier de l’Ordre du Roy, ou un capitaine de gensdarmes, ou autre valeureux gentilhomme de main et de bonne espée et bravache, ... encor si l’Empereur se fust tant advancé en paroles, s’il n’eust pas songé deux ou trois fois, quand il eust veu l’autre parler à luy et respondre bravement, quelquesfois mettant la main sur le pommeau de l’espée, quelquesfois au costé pour faire semblant de prendre sa dague, quelquesfois faire une desmarche brave, quelquesfois tenir une posture altière, maintenant son bonnet enfoncé, maintenant haussé avec sa plume,⁠[415] ores au costé, ores au devant, ores en arrière, maintenant laisser pencher à demy sa cappe⁠[416] comme qui voudroit l’entortiller à l’entour du bras et tirer l’espée.... Au lieu que M. de Mascon et M. de Vely, encor qu’il respondit un peu bien pour son estat et profession, ne pouvoit tenir autre contenance, sinon quelquefois avec les doigts rabiller son bonnet carré, racoustrer, et entendre bien, avec ses deux mains serrées et les pouces étendus, sa cornette de taffetas, retrousser sa grande robbe de velours ou de satin sur les costez; tout cela ne pouvoit donner la moindre terreur du monde, ny a penser rien de peur dans l’âme.” ...⁠[417]

So far the pen of the vivacious Brantôme. Without necessarily endorsing his reasoning, it may be said that his words form a striking comment on the costumes exhibited to us by Holbein, whose work must now be examined in detail.

Description of the Picture.—The Bailly of Troyes stands to the left, the Bishop of Lavaur to the right, of a solid wooden table, of two shelves, which occupies the centre of the painting.

Dinteville is richly clad in a slashed doublet of rose-coloured satin, a black jacket and surcoat. The latter is lined with ermine, with which the shoulder-puffs, further adorned with gilt tags, are piped. The oval medallion of the French Order of St. Michael is suspended from a gold chain worn round the neck. With the right hand he grasps a gold dagger, the elaborately-chased sheath of which bears the inscription: AET. SVAE 29. A large green and gold silk tassel, of surprisingly fine execution, hangs, with the dagger, from his girdle.⁠[418] The hilt of a sword, protruding from the surcoat, while its sheathed point may be seen in the shadow near the ground, shows that Dinteville followed the fashion, then almost universal in France, of wearing both dagger and sword.⁠[419] His left arm reposes on the upper shelf of the table: the tapering white fingers droop carelessly over its edge. The whole attitude bespeaks easy self-confidence. On his head a small black cap, worn jauntily on one side, is adorned by a diminutive silver skull placed on a fanciful shield.

The features of the Bailly of Troyes abound with vivacity and intelligence. The ample dark hair is cut square on the forehead, and worn full on either side of the face; the silky moustache and beard are of a rich chestnut-brown. Brilliant dark eyes, surmounted by strongly marked brows, look straight at the spectator. A tinge of mockery hovers in their glance, as well as in the curves of the small, firmly-closed mouth. Notwithstanding vigour of type, and a certain effect of burliness, partly due to the width of costume then in vogue, signs are not wanting of the delicate health from which the Bailly so frequently suffered. The excessive transparency of the warm, brown skin, the almost hectic flush on the high cheek-bones, the refined, sharply-cut eyelids and prominent eyes, all of which are rendered with extraordinary skill by the painter, tell of a constitution the reverse of robust.

A marked contrast to Jean de Dinteville, the serious and somewhat heavy figure of George de Selve next claims our attention. Dressed in a long gown of chocolate-coloured brocade of large design, lined with brown fur, the Bishop of Lavaur leans his right elbow on a closed book, probably intended to represent some portion of the Holy Scriptures.⁠[420] On the leaves of this book, which rests on the top shelf of the double table, are the words: AETATIS SVE (sic) 25. The square Catholic cap crowns a head that is grave beyond its years. Like his companion, Selve has abundant dark hair and beard. But, in his case, their hue is deeper and colder; and the eyes which look out from beneath the thick dark brows are still and lustreless. Indeed, the contrast of vitality between the two figures is so great as to suggest the fact we already know, that the bishop’s stay in England was of limited duration, and that his portrait was probably not completed from life.

The table which divides the two friends is covered by a Turkish cloth and is littered with musical and mathematical instruments. A celestial globe, placed near Dinteville, a sundial, a decagon, and other geometrical paraphernalia, are scattered on the upper shelf. The lower one is occupied by a terrestrial globe; a lute with a broken string (the case of which is seen beneath the table); an open German hymn-book, in which words and music are plainly legible; a German book of arithmetic, kept open by a square; a pair of compasses, and some flutes. The background of the picture is formed by a curtain of green damask, which half-conceals a small silver Crucifix, hung high up in the left-hand corner. The floor is a very beautiful one of coloured mosaic. But the most striking feature of all this remarkable mise-en-scène is a large oval object placed slanting-wise in the very centre of the foreground. Close examination reveals this to be a skull, or Death’s-head, distorted by reflection in a curved mirror.⁠[421]

The threads of this complex web are woven into each other with astonishing ingenuity. A few of the more interesting objects shall now be described separately, which will pave the way for some account of their significance in combination. The Death’s-head may serve as a starting-point; the conspicuous position assigned to it at once revealing its importance.

The Death’s-Head.—It has been pointed out by more than one observer, beginning with the late Dr. Wornum,⁠[422] that the composition of the “Ambassadors” bears striking resemblance to one of Holbein’s illustrations of the “Dance of Death.” The design in question is the last of the series, and is entitled “Die Wapen des Thotss” (“The Arms of Death”).⁠[423] On either side of a central erection culminating in an hour-glass and in a pair of skeleton arms in the act of projecting a huge stone, stand a man and a woman, symbolical no doubt of human life.⁠[424] In the foreground, corresponding exactly to the position occupied by the distorted skull of the “Ambassadors,” is a Death’s-head, displayed on a shield which resembles in general character the mount of the silver skull which Dinteville wears in his cap.

The repetition of the Death’s-head twice over in the picture of the “Ambassadors,” the singular resemblance of the composition to the design just described, the name borne by the latter, “The Arms of Death,” solve at least one of the mysteries of the picture. Dinteville had apparently made acquaintance in England with the “Dance of Death” series, and had adopted the skull or Death’s-head—“die Wapen des Thotss”—as his personal badge or devise.

It can hardly be doubted that this is the true explanation of the repeated symbols of Death that appear in the picture. Moreover, it may be remembered that in one of the early sets of the “Dance of Death,” which Dinteville may have seen, the design called “die Wapen des Thotss” bears the alternative inscription: “Gedenck das end”—memento mori.⁠[425]

The gloomy thought, perhaps, coincided with the ambassador’s mood. He was often ill. The vision of Death hovered constantly before his eyes. He declares to his brother that he is “the most melancholy ambassador that ever was seen,”⁠[426] and implores the Bishop of Paris to procure his recall lest he leave in this country “his skin and his bones.”⁠[427] The murder of Merveilles⁠[428] at Milan probably accentuated his sinister forebodings and added to them the anticipation of a speedy renewal of war. Under such circumstances the choice of the “Arms of Death” for his devise seems but a natural outcome of his frame of mind.

Holbein’s “Dance of Death” was first published at Lyons in 1538. The composition of the series belongs, however, to a much earlier date, and was in fact completed before Holbein left Basle in 1526. The death of the engraver, Hans Lützelburger, which occurred in the same year, long delayed publication. But Holbein no doubt possessed proofs of the engravings produced up to that period, several sets of which still exist.⁠[429] There is therefore no difficulty in supposing that Dinteville saw them when he was in England in 1533.

“The device,” says a well-known writer on the subject,⁠[430] “was assumed for the purpose of mystification—was, in fact, an ingenious expression of some particular conceit of the wearer containing a hidden meaning.” It was not to be “so plain as to be understood by all, nor so obscure as to require a sphinx to interpret.”

In exact accordance with the conditions thus laid down, the large Death’s-head in the picture of the “Ambassadors” is so ingeniously contrived that the real significance is not apparent until the spectator has discovered the proper spot from which to look at it. Then it stands revealed, at once and incontrovertibly.

The very shadow reflected in the glass has been painted in with the skull that throws it: thus adding to the mystification by making this shadow appear to fall in a different direction from the others of the picture. The painted reflection is indeed but the shadow of the shadow of Death; and, as such, not subject to the laws which govern things of solid substance. It is, in fact, an emblem; not a reality.

The Dagger.—Richly chased in arabesque fruits and foliage springing from the head and trunk of a satyr who occupies the centre of the sheath, the gold dagger clasped in Dinteville’s right hand is a highly characteristic specimen of Holbein’s design.

On the sheath, just above the bold and clear inscription: AET. SVAE 29, there is a confused appearance of further minute lettering. Although difficult or impossible to decipher now, it seems likely from their position and shape that these parallel strokes were once legible characters.⁠[431] Ornament of this form and in this place would be meaningless. Properly speaking, a devise was composed of two parts, emblem and motto; and here, if anywhere, the verbal half of the devise of the Death’s-head would naturally be sought, as it was a common practice to introduce a motto upon some part of a weapon. Further, such a motto would be likely to appear in a small and, probably, much abbreviated form, in accordance with the rule that the motif of a device should be concealed as deeply as possible.

In addition to abbreviation, a barbaric compound of more than one language occasionally figures as the motto of a dagger, intentionally increasing the difficulties of interpretation. In the museum at Basle,⁠[432] there is a design after Holbein for the sheath of such a weapon, which, on a space corresponding to that which, on Dinteville’s dagger, shows his age, bears the mysterious inscription: MORQUNOT. It has been suggested that this strange conglomeration might be resolved into: MORTE QUIESCAT NOT; a hotch-potch of Latin and German which may be translated: “Death stills all ills.” Precedents are not wanting in favour of a polyglot reading of this kind. In this instance the meaning, if correct, would gain satirical point by its position on a death-dealing weapon.

Something of this kind, perhaps even this very motto in further abbreviated form, may once have been expressed by the miniature strokes on the sheath of Dinteville’s dagger. The two German books open before him bring the supposed German ending of the motto within the range of possibility. This reading is, however, purely hypothetical; though there is a strong inherent probability that the opening letters MOR of the Basle design, contain an allusion to Death.

It is not necessary, however, to pin our faith to any particular motto. The number of adages that referred to Death was very large. The often-repeated “Disce mori” (Learn to die) was the motto of Sadoleto, Bishop of Carpentras, whose acquaintance has been made as the friend of George de Selve. “La Mort n’y mord pas” was that of the poet Clement Marot. Innumerable other instances might be quoted. The best known of them all, the familiar “Memento mori,” was, as has been seen, inscribed, in one set of engravings, over “The Arms of Death”; and through this circumstance comes into special consideration here.

The Order of St. Michael.—This Order was founded in 1469 by Louis XI., and was composed of thirty-six gentlemen with the sovereign for their perpetual head. It was called the “Ordre du Roi,” and was a coveted distinction for nearly a century after being instituted. The Order of St. Michael was, in fact, the French equivalent of the Order of the Garter in England, and of the Fleece in Spain. Throughout the reign of Francis I., and for some time subsequently, it stood alone as the one great order of France.⁠[433] The roll of the knights was unfortunately destroyed during the French Revolution. But the names of a good many of those admitted to the order under Francis I. and his predecessors can be gathered from the pages of contemporary literature, and show them invariably to have been persons in high office or of distinguished family.

The Grand Collar of the order, from which was suspended the image of the Archangel, was composed of cockle-shells linked together by a complicated system of chain-work.⁠[434]

On certain occasions, carefully enumerated in the statutes, the knights were, however, exempted from the obligation of wearing the Collar. These exceptions shall be quoted in the words of the statutes. After laying down the rule respecting the Grand Collar, article iii. continues:⁠[435]

“... excepté en armes, où il suffira seulement porter ledict imaige saint Michel pendant a une chainette d’or ou lacet de soye, qui ainsi faire le vouldra. Et pareillement quand ledict Souverain ou l’un desdicts Chevaliers iront par pays ou seront en leurs maisons a privée, mesmes en chasse, ou en autres lieux ou ils n’auront aucune compagnie ou assemblée de gens d’estat, ne seront point astrains de porter ledict Grand Collier, fors seulement ledict imaige de l’Ordre en la façon que dict est.”⁠[436]

It will be noted how precisely Holbein’s representation of the Order coincides with the rules laid down in this extract for the “Petit Ordre,” which Dinteville wears in the picture.

This “Petit Ordre,” as it was called in opposition to the “Grand Ordre” with the Collar of scallop-shells, was worn daily by the knights. They were forbidden to part with the Order, or to discard its use in one of the two forms, on any pretence whatever, even were it to save their lives.⁠[437]

The treatment of the pendant image of the saint came to vary considerably as time went on. When worn with the Collar, it was occasionally a clear-cut figure, without encircling rim, similar to the English “George.” But the oval medallion of gold depicted by Holbein was no doubt the usual and more correct form. It is to be seen in innumerable French portraits of about this date. Several instances may be found in the Louvre. In at least one of these—the portrait of Francis I., attributed to Clouet⁠[438]—the medallion, which here has a black enamel rim, is percé à jour in similar fashion to that worn by the Bailly of Troyes.

Another good example, because within a short time contemporary with the “Ambassadors,”⁠[439] is seen in the portrait of Alfonso I. d’Este, Duke of Ferrara, by Battista Dossi, which now hangs in the Gallery at Modena. Here the medallion of the order is wholly wrought in French colours, blue and gold. The border of the oval is of leaf-pattern worked in gold; while the figures, also in gold, of the Archangel and prostrate dragon are relieved upon a background of bright blue enamel.

Instances of these variations might, however, be multiplied indefinitely. Within certain general limits, a good deal of liberty was permitted to the designer. The forms of Archangel and fiend vary in every fresh instance. The one essential point was that the image should tell its story: that being given, individual taste settled the rest. Nothing could be more fallacious than to apply the standards of uniformity derived from an age of machine-work to the free fancy and unfettered pencil of the sixteenth century.⁠[440]

The Celestial Globe.⁠[441]—It has been a matter of some discussion whether or not this globe is meant to record an astrological observation. To settle the point, a photograph was submitted to the Astronomer Royal, who kindly gave as his opinion that it appeared to represent an ordinary celestial globe, which would also be used for astrological purposes, and in much the same way. It would therefore be impracticable to tell from the picture whether an astrological, or simply an astronomical observation were intended.

Astrology apart, however, the central position awarded to “Galacia,” the cock, a very ancient device of France, appears to suggest a secondary meaning of another kind. The furious attitude of the game-bird, apparently directed against the falling and flying vultures, would surely be unnecessary, supposing a mere constellation to be represented. It seems to symbolize the onslaught of France upon her foes, and their ultimate downfall and flight.

The celestial globe also stands here for Astronomy as one of the Seven Liberal Arts.

It is not known from what original this globe was copied.

The Terrestrial Globe.⁠[442]—Much interest attaches to this instrument both on its own account and for its special relations with Dinteville’s life and career.

From the point of view of the geographer it is interesting to find that this hand-globe of small dimensions is a facsimile in size and contours of that discovered in 1885 by the late Mr. Henry Stevens of Vermont.⁠[443] As such, it affords a second example of a globe of which only Mr. Stevens’ copy had hitherto been known to exist. The gores purchased by him—for the globe was not found in finished form—gave rise to a lively dispute among special students of the subject. Mr. Stevens at once identified his find as the lost globe of Johann Schöner of 1523. This view was maintained and further elaborated by the late Mr. C. H. Coote of the British Museum, who, on the death, in 1886, of Mr. Henry Stevens, edited that gentleman’s notes on the subject, and added to them a valuable introduction.⁠[444]

The attribution to Schöner was not, however, allowed to pass unchallenged. Among other competent geographers who disputed the claim, Baron Nordenskiöld and, in his wake, Mr. Justin Winsor,⁠[445] asserted their conviction that the gores in question were those of a spurious Hartmann globe dating from about 1540. The discovery that it was painted by Holbein in 1533 of course put an end to this theory.

The date of the production of this globe is thus narrowed to a possible range of about ten years. The track of the first circumnavigation of the world by the Spaniards, laid down upon it, proves that it cannot have been designed until after the return of that expedition in 1522. The fact of its appearance in Holbein’s “Ambassadors” shows that it must have been published before 1533.

All authorities agree in the opinion that this globe was made at Nuremberg. Amongst other indications, the name of that city is marked conspicuously in the centre of Europe, and rendered with equal emphasis by Holbein.

A curious feature is the line of demarcation fixed by Pope Alexander VI. to divide the Spanish and Portuguese possessions of the new world. This line is explained in the original globe and in its copy by Holbein by the words: “Linea Division̄is Castellorū et Portugallen̄.”

Two little ships are to be seen on the Nuremberg gores. They show the course of Magellan’s voyage, the line of which is traced all round the world. These two ships are reproduced by Holbein, one north, one south of the Equator, in about the same positions as those marked on the gores. But the line of circumnavigation is omitted, because Magellan’s voyage was not the point to which it was, in this case, intended to draw attention, nor the object for which the globe was depicted.

A careful comparison shows that the two globes have about a hundred names in common: identical save for one or two trifling variations of orthography.

A more striking divergence is seen in a number of names inserted in Holbein’s globe, which are not found upon the original. These additions are all in Europe, and principally in France and Spain. The writer is informed on highly competent authority⁠[446] that no professional map-maker would have crowded this quantity of names on to a hand-globe of small dimensions. All the extra words must have been added by an amateur for some special reason.

The truth of this observation is at once made manifest by the fact that “Polisy,” the name of Dinteville’s Château in Burgundy, is amongst the places marked in France.

A further curious point makes it doubly clear that the object was to invite the spectator’s attention to certain centres in Europe of peculiar interest to the ambassador. The position of the globe in the picture is such, handle downwards, that the names marked upon it, if copied exactly from the model, would naturally appear wrong side up. This is, in fact, the case with the large continent of “Affrica,” which had no connection with the purposes in view. But, in the continent of Europe, the names are placed by Holbein in reversed position, so as to be easily legible.⁠[447]

The places added, no doubt on Dinteville’s initiative, are nearly twenty in number. They consist of five provinces⁠[448] and four towns,⁠[449] including Polisy, inserted in France; four provinces in Spain,⁠[450] two cities in Italy;⁠[451] Sinus Adriaticus; and the telling names, Servia, Polonia, and Saxonia.

The additions are precisely such as an acquaintance with Dinteville’s life and career would lead us to look for.

France is naturally the country where he has chiefly increased their number. His native Burgundy; his home at Polisy; Paris and Lyons, where he had spent so much of his life at Court; Bayonne, the seat of many important negotiations during the troubles with Spain; Brittany, recently incorporated with the French Crown; Languedoc, of which his cousin and protector Montmorency was the Governor: these are amongst the first names we should expect to find, and do find, inserted.

Spain ranks second in the proportion of places added—a fact sufficiently explained by the relations of France with Charles V., which dominated the whole tenour of her diplomacy. Moreover, Spain was familiar ground to Dinteville’s brothers, if not to himself. Vanlay had been employed to carry despatches between France and Spain during the negotiations which preceded the Treaty of Madrid. Deschenetz had been brought up in the household of Henry, Count of Nassau, at the Spanish Court.⁠[452] Louis de Dinteville had been sent thither as ambassador by the Knights of St. John.⁠[453] Here then were links enough to give that country a prominence second only to France in the estimation of the Bailly of Troyes. But it was probably the political aspect which he chiefly intended to emphasize. The key to Dinteville’s additions to the globe, outside France, is to be found in the course of French diplomacy between 1525 and 1533.

Rome, placed by her great position in the forefront of public affairs, seems an addition natural enough to the map of Italy. The recent mission of the Bishop of Auxerre to the Holy See gave a touch of personal interest to the political importance of the name.⁠[454] Genoa, the second city added to Italy, was still claimed by the King of France as his rightful possession and included in his titles. Venice, the great emporium of South German commerce with the East, was already marked on the Nuremberg globe. Closely allied with France, the city of the Lagoons was the port through which all her secret negotiations with the Turk were conducted. Thence the various emissaries despatched by the French King traversed the Adriatic to reach the court of Solyman. It is therefore not surprising to find that Dinteville has included Sinus Adriaticus in his list of additions, and that Servia, whose capital, Belgrade, had been conquered by the ally of France, Solyman II., finds a conspicuous place among the countries of Southern Europe. Constantinople was already marked on the model globe.

Polonia and Saxonia are the two additions which remain to be considered. These names represent two further powers allied with France: Sigismund, King of Poland, and the Protestant princes of Germany, at whose head stood the Elector of Saxony.

Thus we have in Dinteville’s additions to the globe a kind of epitome of the foreign relations of France, in the period which immediately preceded the creation of the picture. It will presently be seen that the Lutheran Hymn-book, placed near the Bishop of Lavaur, is equally symbolical of her religious diplomacy.

The interpretation thus arrived at is the necessary corollary of the choice of names made by the Bailly for insertion upon the globe. To imagine those additions to be the result of pure chance would be to suppose an effect without a cause. The single fact among them of the word “Polisy” forbids such an idea. If it was worth while to insert them at all, they must have been the result of some principle of selection: a mere globe could have been simply copied from the model.

The following is a complete list of the names marked, in the given hemisphere, on either globe. Dinteville’s additions have been printed in italic type, for convenience of comparison. In a few instances, where the surface of the picture has been slightly damaged, portions of names have become obliterated; but in all cases where the words do not form part of Dinteville’s additions, the parent globe supplies the defective letters.