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By Mrs Godwin.

Keep, dear friends, when I am dead,

And green moss above my head,

Cherish with your tender care

My fond birds and blossoms fair.

Mother, father, sisters three,

Cherish them for love of me.

Azla, for my spotted fawn, Gather leaves at early dawn : Anasiya, in thy breast,

Let my playful lorie rest. Gently round my lonely bower, Train yon Camalata flower.

Mora, to thy care I leave

Flowers that shed their sweets at eve, And all timid birds that tune Melodies beneath the moon.

Thou, sweet sister, art like them, Born the pensive shades to gem.

Keep, my friends, when I’m no more, In your hearts the looks I wore ;

Let my memory haunt these bowers, Shrined in birds and fragrant flowers,— Mother, sisters, sire, to you

Ara breathes a last adieu.


MOTHERWELL’S POEMS. From Blackwood’s Magazine.

True poetry never palls, any more than true beauty on the face of nature or of woman. So far from breeding contempt, familiarity breeds admiration and love. We like—we delight—we adore. In that last stage of emotion, where we set up our rest,” in true poetry we instinctively see a thousand charms that were hidden under the veil of sense at the commencement, and during much of the progress of our blessed journey towards the shrine that stands within “the in- ner circle of the inspired wood.” The atmosphere grows rarer—the light more essential—the flowers exhale a sweeter odour—and every breath is music in that region, which is not of this noisy world, but silent and divine.”

We mean simply to say, that though there be love at first hearing, of a fine

poem, just as there is love at first sight, of a fine female, increase of appetite | grows with what it feeds on,”’ and for both there is not only enduring but still in- |

creasing affection. Passion, indeed, is subdued by perpetual and peaceful pos- session and perusal ; but it is succeeded by a temperate vital glow, that invigor- ates the heart beating equably and boldly in attachment.

We fear we have not said our say so simply as we wished; but we mean no more than this, that the better you know true poetry, the better you love it, and then best of all, when you have gotten it by heart. Then it becomes part and par- cel of yourself—and shutting your eyes and ears to all outward sights and

sounds, you see and hear but the sunniest and the sweetest inward ones, glad to |

feel that they all belong to your own Being. ‘Thus may your spirit be indepen- dent of mere material substance, and rejoice, in spite of chance, fortune, and even fate, in its own visionary, but imperturbable and indestructible world

They who complain of the dearth of genius, ought then rather to mourn over the decay or extinction of their own spiritual perceptions. In our land there is

no such dearth. We live, and breathe, and have our being in the midst of its |

creations. Imagine one day to be centuries long—from morn to meridian—and

no thonghts in your mind of night. Imagine the genius of a people in that one |

day—its powers and faculties the spirits of the elements. What fluctuations of « Beautiful uncertain weather, When gloom and glow meet together !” Dark and bright hours, that is, years, alternating! Winter, that looks as if it never would dissolve ; when, lo! more sudden than in Greenland, from snow the birth of Spring!

Genius never dies till men are slaves. But weare free. Look over the worid of haman life, and say you not that we are the “chartered libertines” that rule even the air’ We send our souls, like our ships, over the seas, to the uttermost ends of the earth, and there are none to say us—nay. Or away they waft them- selves on wings unshorn towards the sun like young eagles looking from their eyries to assay their pinions in the light, or the old birds of Jove fearless in their might, even when storm-driven to distant isles, where under the lee of cliffs they alight to prey! Liberty of speech is good—liberty of action better—but liberty of thought best of all—for the worst of all shackles are those rivetted into the soul

The light of poetry is now overflowing the land. It gives its beauty to the grass, its glory to the flower.” But if your eyes are dim, so will seem all they look upon—couch but the cataract, and again dark are you “with excessive bright.” Cherish the apple of your eye, as if it were the core of your heart, and the core of your heart as if it were the apple of your eye, and the spirit that is within you as if it were a dearer and a holier thing than both, and never will you mourn over the death or dearth of poetry—nor yet its departure ; for should you think you hear at night the sugh of flying-away angelic wings, fear not that they are but in wide circle sweeping the starry sky, and ere the moon drop behind the hill, returning will you hear them through purest ether, winnowing their way over the yellow umbrage of the old woods !

Have we not living pocts of inappreciable worth? Have you forgotten—ere they have become dust—the mighty dead!

So much for an introduction to our article. Nor is it inappropriate. For all poets belong to one brotherhood. Looking abroad, we see many of the brethren We know them by their flashing eyes ;”’ or by their eyes coinposed of quiet light, deep as wells. We know them by their foreheads—“ the dome of thought, the palace of the soul.” We know them by their lips, round which gathers like bees a swarm of murmuring fancies Kenspeckle are al! the sons of genius

We called not long ago on Alfred Tennyson. We singled him out to do him honour. And thousands on thousands delighted in some of his strains, who might, but for us, never have heard their music. Mana loves to scatter wide over the world the flowers of poetry—the pearls and the diamonds. Happier is she in that vocation, than in he aping vp for her husband gold, yea, much fine gold. Thus enricheth she many, without making one “poor indeed ;”

Flowers laugh before her in their beds, And fragrance in her footing treads ;”’ and thus her breath is ever as the breath of violets, and hers a perpetual spring

Strong sunlight she sees falling now on another worshipper of Nature, and she |

beckons him to stand forward.

And, like the murmur of a dream, He hears her breathe his name.”

A good name it is, in itself, and ennobled by the wearer—it speaks of a source of clear thoughts, and pure feelings. and fine fancies—of a perennial spring—pa- Tent of many lucid rills that sparkle their way in gree 2 rac nce” 8 ng the £ aded woods. Motherwe s the name—and will cont nue to shine well where it stands” at the place assigned it by nature on the roll of the poets of Scot


. - Mr. Motherwell has for some years been winning his way to publie favour a


to fame. He has hitherto been satisfied to shew himself in miscellanies ; and in

several of the Annuals his fulgent head star-bright apeared.” It has been for- | tunate with him that he belongs to rio. coterie. He is a provincial, yet has not

been spoiled by praise. Motherwell, a stronger-minded man by far and away | than Alfred Tennyson, and of equal genius, will estimate our praise at its real | value, gladdened but not unduly elated by it, knowing, as all who know us must | do, that we scorn all airs of patronage, and that our praise always flows freely | from the gushing fountain of admiration and love

| ‘We have said that he is a poet. All his perceptions are clear, for al! his sen- |

| ses are sound ; he has fine and strong sensibilities, and a powerful intellect. He has been led by the natural bent of his genius to the old haunts of inspiration, the woods and glens of his native country, and his ears delight to drink the music of | her old songs. Many a beautiful ballad has blended its pensive and plaintive pa- | thos with his day-dreams; and while reading some of his happiest effusions, we feel, “The ancient spirit is not dead, Old times, we say, are breathing there.” His style is simple, but in his tenderest movements, masculine; he strikes a few bold knocks at the door of the heart, which is instantly opened hy the master or mistress of the house, or by son or daughter, and the welcome visitor at once be- comes one of the family. [We are here obliged to omit a large portion of this beautiful article. ] Nor are the lines which follow less touching ; indeed their sadness is more pro- found—and it would be almost painful, but for the exquisite simplicity of the

an old story ; “Familiar matter of to-day, Which has been and will be again; but never before told more affectingly, or so as to waken more overflowingly from their deepest fount all our tenderest human sympathies for the Christian sufferer Love stronger than life, and unchanged while life is dimly fading away, possesses the bosom of the poor forgiving girl, along with pity for his sake almost over- coining sorrow for her own, with keen self-reproach and humble penitence for the guilt into which they two had been betrayed—once too happy in their inno- cence. "Tis not the voice of complaint but of contrition; and through her trou- ble there are glimpses of peace. In that anguish we hear the breathings of a pure spirit—pure though frail—and delicate though fallen—and fee! in such ruin how fatal indeed is sin. It is utterly mournful MY HEID IS LIKE TO REND, WILLIE. My heid is like torend, Willie, My heart 1s like to break— I'm wearin’ aff my feet, Willie, I'm dyin’ for your sake ! Oh lay your cheek to mine, Willie, Your hand on my briest-bane— Oh say ye'll think on me, Willie, When I am deid and gane!

It’s vain to comfort me, Willie, Sair grief maun ha’e its will— But let me rest upon your briest, To sab and greet my fill. Let me sit on your knee, Willie, Let me shed by your hair, And look into the face, Willie, I never sall see mair !

I'm sittin’ on your knee, Willie, For the last time in my life—

A puir heart-broken thing, Willie, A mither, yet nae wife

| Ay, press your hand upon my heart,

And press it mair and mair—

Or it will burst the silken twine,

Sae strang is its despair !

Oh wae's me for the hour, Willie, When we thegither met—

Oh wae’s me for the time, Willie, That our first tryst was set! Oh wae’s me for the loanin’ green

Where we were wont to gae— And wae’s me for the destinie, That gart me luve thee sae !

Oh! dinna mind my words, Willie, I downa seek to blame—

But oh! it’s hard to live, Willie, And dree a warld’s shame !

Het tears are hailin’ ower your cheek, And hailin’ ower your chin;

Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, For sorrow and for sin’

I'm weary 0’ this world, Willie, And sick wi’ a’ I see— I canna live asI ha'e lived, Or be as I should be But fauld unto your heart, Willie, The heait that still is thine— And kiss ance mair the white, white cheek, Ye said was red iangsyne

A stoun’ gaes through my heid, Willie, A sair stoun’ through my heart— Oh, haud me up, and let me kiss Thy brow ere we twa pairt Anither, and anither yet !— How fast my life-strings break '— Fareweel ' fareweel ! through yon kirkyaird Step lichtly for my sake !

The lav'rock in the lift, Willie, That lilts far ower our heid,

Will sing the morn as merrilie Abune the clay-cauld deid;

And this green turf we're sittin’ on, Wr dew-draps shimmerin’ sheen,

Will hap the heart that luvit thee As warld has seldom seen


But oh! remember me, Willie, | On land where’er ye be— And oh' think on the leal, leal heart That ne'er lovit ane Lut thee ! And ot think on the cauld, cauld, mools,

That file my yellow hair— That kiss the cheek, and kiss the chin, Ye never sall kies mar '

Ths poems are partly narrative and partiy thirty songs. Some of them are i

language, in which there is a charm that softens the pathos too severe.” "Tis

been quoting; Others of a gay and lively tone; and the rest of that mixed cha racter of feeling and fancy, when the heart takes pleasure in what may be called moonlight moods, when the shadow seems itself a softened light, and melancholy melts away into mirth—and mirth soon relapses intomelancholy, We quote one sad—and one happy song—from which you may guess the rest THE PARTING

On! is it thus we part,

And thus we say farewell,

As if in neither heart

Affection e'er did dwell t

And is it thus we sunder

Without or sigh or tear,

Asif it were a wonder

We e’er held other dear?

We part upon the spot,

With cold and clouded brow, Where first it was our lot

To breathe love's fondest vow ' The vow both then did tender Within this hallowed shade— That vow, we now surrender, Heart-bankrupts both are made!

Thy hand is cold as mine,

As lustreless thine eye ;

Thy bosom gives no sign

That it could ever sigh !

Well, well! adieu's soon spoken, "Tis but a parting phrase,

Vet said, | fear, heart-broken We'll live our after days !

Thine eye no tear will shed,

Mine is as proudly dry ;

But many an aching head

Is ours before we die '

From pride we both can borrow- To part we both may dare—

But the heart-break of to-morrow, Nor you nor I can bear!

lyrical, and among the lyrical are | of a kindred spirit with the lines we have now |

THE VOICE OF LOVE When shadows o'er the landscape creep, And twinkling stars pale vigile keep ; When flower-cups all with dew-drops gleam, And moonshine floweth like a wtreaim ; Then is the hour That hearts which love no longer dream— Then is the hour That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When shamefaced moonteams kiss the lake, And amorous leaves sweet music wake ; When slumber steals o'er every eye, And Dian's se!f shines drowstiy ; ‘Then is the hour That hearts which love with rapture sigh— Then is the hour That the vowe of love is a spell of power!

When surly mastiffs stint their howl, And swathed in moonshine nods the owl; When cottage-hearths are glimmering low, And warder cocks forget to crow ;

Then is the hour That hearts feel passions overflow—

Then is the hour That the voice of love is a spell of power!

When etilly night seems earth's vast grave,

Nor murhnur comes from wood or wave ,

When land and sea, in wedlock bound

| By silence, sicep in bliss profound ;

| Then is the hour

That hearts like living well-springs sound— Then is the hour

| That the voice of love is a apell of power!

Reluctantly we leave so sweet and solemn a stram; butthe name of the fol- | lowing little poem is delightful; and the pootn iteelf full of the dew of * primy | nature.” Sure it is, that All thoughts, all passions, al) delights,

} Whatever stirs this mortal frame, | All are bot ministers of love, | And feed his sacred flame.”

And on May-morn, all the most innocent ministers of love” are floating in the ait, inspiring youthful bosoms that begin to beat then, for the first time, with : pulsations that, ere the full June moon looks dowt on the yellow couch spread | aloft by the midsummer woods, will have ripened into panting passions, désirous | in vain of the blies for which, whether it be life-in death or death-in-life, so many | millions of beautifel insects. men, women, and butterflies, go careering together up into the sonny air of existence, but to drop down into dust But this joyous little poem has nothing to do with dust, but with the “morn and liquid dew of youth,” when, though contagious blastments be most umm nent, the sweetest flowers do yet escape them wholly,” and live to die with | gradual decay of beauty, in alinost unperceived—almost unfelt decay MAY MORN SONG,

The grass is wet with shining dews, Their silver bells hang on each tree, | While opening flower and bursting bud Breathe incense forth unceasingly ; | The mavis pipes in greenwood shaw, The throstle glads the spreading therm, And cheery the blythsome lark } Salutes the rosy face of morn “Tis early prune ; And hark ' bark ' hark '

His merry chime t Chirrapes the lark

Chirrup ! chirrap! be heralds in The jolly sun with matin bymn Come, come, my love! ar A May-dewe shake In pailfuls from each drooping bough, They'll give fresh lustre to the bloom That breaks upon thy young cheek now O’er hill and dale, o'er waste and wood, Aurora’s smiles are streaming free , W ith earth it ccems brave holyday, In heaven it looks high jubilee



And it is right, For mark, love, mark ' How bathed in light Chirrupe the lark Chirrup ! chirrup' he upward flies, Like holy thoughts to cloudless shies They lack al! heart who cannot feel The voice of heaven within them thrill, In summer motu, when mounting high, This merry minstrel] sings his fill Now let us seek yon bosky dell Where brightest wild-flowers choose to be, And where its clear stream murmurs on, Meet type of our love's purity, No witness there, And o'er us, hark ' High in the air

Zhe Alvion. May ] 1,

ing in large folde, like © of Samuel in Salvator’s picture of the Witeh | pression, at once ludicrous and hideous. Viewing the figure, as I did, tor the

of Endor ~ Soe a is time, and by the uficertain and wavering light, 1 must confess, that in my es The Painter coloured a little as I inquired what scene this sketch was intend- | the latter emotion predominated. .

ed to represent, I have no conception,” said he, after a pause, how that sketch “*Tt is really too bad,’ said I stepping back, as Chesterton, pressing one of

happened to be put up with the others. The truth is, | have not looked at it for | his springs, made the hands rise into the air, somewhat in the style of the Mj).

nearly ten years ; and the remembrance with which it is connected is not of so | lennian orator of the Caledonian chapel, ‘it is really too bad to allow these poor

pleasant a nature, that I should be anxious to recall it to my recollection.” He | bones no rest, either in life or death. I dare say, their unfortunate owner, who.

saw that my curiosity was roused, end went on. Since the subject has been | ever he was, little expected that after his Jabours on earth, he was not even to

alluded to, however, you shall hear the history of the sketch, though I am aware, | be allowed to sleep in his grave, but was still to be turned to account, and forceg

that in doing so, 1 shall very probably expose myself to ridicule. [assured him | to play Pulcinello im a painter's study

he had nothing to fear on that head ; so filling out another glass of wine, asif| “I cannot say I was sorry when the entrance of dinner and candles pnt a Stop

to prepare himscif for the effort, he proceeded to our contemplations. My friend replaced the mask and wig, threw the cloak “1 am not a very rich man now, Heaven knows, but I was poorer stil] when I | over the figure again, and we took our seats at the table.

came up to London from the country some ten years ago. J had long been con- Our conversation was long and earnest. Chesterton, who, in his two years’

vineed that if I was not allowed to be a painter, I should never be any thing else ; | sojourn in London, had studied both the world and his own art thoroughly, poured

and whatever may have been the case as to the former alternative, certain it is | out without reserve the results of his studies. He examined my sketches care.

I have kept my word as to the latter. I reached London with my only suit of | fully, pointed out with candour and discrimination their merits and defects, sug-

clothes on my back, my sketch-book in my hand, twenty pounds, the gift of an | gested the course of study I ought to pursue, and warned me of the many ob.

Chirrups the lark Chirrup! chirrup! away soars he, Bearing to heaven my vows to thee! [The above has already appeared in the Albion, but who will be unwilling to read it again’) It is amany long—long age ago since we were in love—but we remember, if not so distinctly, at least far more indistinctly than if it had been yesterday, our

| uncle, in my pocket, half-a-dozen shirts, and about a dozen daubings in oil and | stacles I should have to contend with, in my own overweening confidence, or the

water-colours, in my trunk. I smile now when I recollect what preposterous | self-love and jealousy of my competitors. As | listened to his strong and forej-

performances they were, but at the time, I remember well, I jooked upon them | ble observations, I felt myself beboming a humbler and a wiser man.

| as perfectly unique, and never doubted that in them, like Fortunatus's purse,| “Jn these discussions, sometimes enlivened, aud sometimes saddened by tales

I possessed a never-failing source of income. | of olden times, and school-boy recollections; of friends who had already closed My first object, whieh I looked upon as a very simple matter indeed, was to | a brief career on earth, and slept, some under the burning skies of India, some

emotions, one May morning, while walking through a hill-side wood, and some-

times sitting, with « maiden of the sweet name of Mary. Years afterwards she |

took a consumption—so we heard when at a great distance—and died—and where she was buried we never knew —but it was somewhere, we hed reason to be- lieve, among the upland parishes of the Lowlands, where they melt away into the Western Highlands yghts that had evanished from our hearts, like young birds that fly away from their nest and return never more, came fluttering about it in the hush that ensued on the pleasant perasal of these hively lines, and for a

obtain admission as a pupil to the Royal Academy. By the kindness of the | beneath the snows of the Pole, some under the green waves of the ocean, the clergyman of my native place, himself a tolerable amateur artist, | had been | long November evening wore away. More than once, however, in the course of | provided with letters of introduction to some persons of influence im the Acade- | our conversation, when the candles, neglected in the earnestness of discussion,

my ; and confident in my introductions, and in the possession of those invaluable | began to grow a little dim and cabbaged at the top, and the hight fell dull and

treasures which adorned my portfolio, | marched up. to the tnal at Somerset- | feeble on the farther end of the room ; I could hardly refrain from starting, as house, with all the assurance which the union of vanity and ignorance could | my eye accidentally rested on the lay-figure in the corner, standing as it had been | inspire. Conceive my astonishment and dismay when my drawings were | left with its hands erect, and its outlines faintly discernible beneath its funeral handed back to me with the observation, that though not without talent, they | drapery. At last it became late, and I retired to my own lodging.

did not indicate that progress in the art which would justify my admission as a |

moment we saw a face, the face of a Phantom smiling upon us, with eyes life- pupil | ' 2 aa pt vtuedionset ‘ao Poet ‘aalien such reminiscences ; but with At first the shock which my pride had received almost unnerved me ; but |

some beautiful verses of a different mood, we bid Mr. Motherwell and his de- the spirits of youth are elastic. Gradually I began to think of the matter with lightful velume farewell

, more calmness, and determining to shame the fools who had thus attempted to | THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS

suppress my rising genius, I walked with my portfolio under my arm towards the | The : ais ef Bosuty, Be iF pag om ne § y eds any ag do congregate, resolved to throw myself | y come ' the merry summer months o auty, Song, and Flowers ; on the liberality of a discerning public | They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leatiness to bowers | “T thought ro a smile on Me Ackermann’s face as he looked over my col- Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad, fling cark and care aside, lection, and observed the prices which J had ostentatiously emblazoned in pencil Seek silent hills, or rest thyself whete peaceful waters glide , on the corners. He said nothing, however, but opening a portfolio which lay Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree, | on the counter, he laid before me a number of drawings by the first artists in | Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in wrapt tranquillity London, which even my optics, disordered as they were by vanity, could not fail | The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand, | to perceive were infinitely superior to any thing I could yet hope to produce. And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland ; | «The best of these, young gentleman,’ said he, ‘sell at about half the price | The daisy and the butterfly are nodding courteously, you put upon yours.’ It stirs their blood, with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee “: [walked away without saying a word. My eyes were opened to my own |

And mark how with thine own thin locks—they now are silvery grey— defects, in comparison with the superiority of the rivals with whom I had to con- That blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering Be gay |" tend, and to the bleakness of my prospects; but I saw not how I was to cure the There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky, | former, or to improve the latter. As I passed a print shop in Fleet Street, on

my way home to my solitary lodging near the Temple Garden, I turned almost mechanically towards the window. It was crowded with engravings from Lau- rence’s portraits, West's historical pieces, and Turner's landscapes ; and some etchings by Callot lay inthe corner. I had never before seen any of this artist's works ; and I was strangely fascinated by the grotesque horrorsof those strange exhibitions of diablerie, in which the Fleming has displayed his « derful powers of drawing and composition, and the wild and ghastly fertility o ..» ima- gination. Another spectator seemed to be not less attracted than myself; for I found him gazing at them when J came up, and when I turned to go, he was still lingering over them, as if bound by some of those spells which they represented. | Curiosity induced me to give a glance towards him. It was my old school-fel- | low and fellow draftsman, Walter Chesterton, who had come up to London for

the purpose of pursuing his studies in the art, about two years before.

‘He recognised me the instant I laid my hand upon his shoulder. My heart

was opened by the recollection of our old acquaintance, and by the want I felt of | consolation and advice, so I poured out to him—not my plans, for I had none— | | but the whole history of my hopes and disappointments. He entered into my | | feelings with much warmth and cordiality. Your history,’ said he, ‘is that of | | most young artists from the country. I will not flatter you so far as to say, your | chance is great, or your prospects very inviting. I believe you have a very con- | | siderable turn for drawing ; but nothing but severe and regular study can ever Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by enable you to turn it to account. You must give up all thoughts of taking the When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold, ‘Town by storm, and submit to a steady course of professional study and applica- I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse—a heart that hath waxed old ' tion. In time, I have no doubt, you will do well: that is, as well as any of us,

<a THE LAY-FIGURE. shall talk the matter over more leisurely.’ A PAINTRR'S STORY. * Chesterton's lodgings were situated in one of the narrow streets running off

“No chance of the steam-boat sailing to-night, gentlemen,” said the landlord | from the Strand towards the river. The windows of his room looked out on the ef the Crown Inn at Dover, as he entered the room where I and another travel- | broad and Majestic Thames, on the surface of which, the shadows of the tall ler were seated, waiting for a passage to France. “The wind blows right off | buildings of Southwark, projected far out upon the stream by the almost horizon- Calais, and there is a surf on the pier half as high as Shakspeare's cliff.” | tal rays of a November sun, lay dark and gloomy. ‘The declining light, reddened |

It was about four o'clock of an afternoon in the end of autumn. The sun, | by the frost fog which had begun to ascend, streamed faintly into a large and | which in the early part of the day had made some feeble attempts to look out, | comfortably furnished apartment, crowded with portfolios, panels, painting imple- had fairly gone down, as if he had given up the attempt in despair; and the ap- | ments, sketches, fragments of armour, dresses, and all the usual litter of a pearance of things without, as the evening closed in, gave promise of a tempes- | painter's study. On the easel was a half-finished sketch, which excited my at- | tuous night. I cannot say, therefore, that the communication of the landlord | tention. No figure was visible in it, yet I have seldom seen a painting which | was altogether an unwelcome one, for the prospect of passing a night on the | told more impressively a story of terror. ‘The scene represented a bed-room, in Channel in such weather, instead of sleeping comfortably on terra firma, was | which the only light visible was from a lamp, which seemed to have been over- any thing but inviting. My companion on the extreme gauche side of the fire, | turned, and lay expiring on the floor. Its flickering ray fell on some glittering seemed to be much of the same way of thinking. We had hitherto been sitting | object, which seemed either a knife or a dagger ; a lady’s slipper, stained with | in that unsocial mood in which Englishmen are apt to indulge when they think blood, lay on the carpet. Behind, upon a bed, appeared extended on some vague | they are only likely to be suljected to one another's company for a short time, | shadowy indefinite heap, to which the fancy could not give either a figure or a and therefore eschew every superfluous observation, and determine not even to | name. A door intothe room stood half opened on the right, at which the foot, hazard a remark on the state of the weather, except upon sure grounds. But | and part of the leg, of a man were visible, as if leaving the apartment |

But hath ita own winged mariners to give it melody :

Thou see'st their glittering fans outspread all gleaming like red gold, And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold God bless them all, these little ones, who far above this earth,

Can make 4 scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth

But soft! mine ear upeaught a sound, from yonder wood it came ; The spirit of the dim green glade did breath his own glad name ,— Yes, it ishe! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind,

Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ; Cuckoo ' cuckoo! he sings again—bhis notes are void of art,

But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart ! Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me, To swell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree ! To suck once more in every breath their little souls away,

And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day, When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless truant boy, Wandered through green woods all day long, a mighty heart of joy ! I'm sadder now, | have had cause; but oh! I’m proud to think That each pure joy-fount loved of yore, I yet delight to drink Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,

added he, smiling. But come home and dine with me in the meantime, and we |

the announcement of our imprisonment for the evening, and the consequent ne- “*T have been trying an experiment,’ said Chesterton, ‘with this sketch. I cessity of making the most of each other during that period, went far towards | have always been of opinion, that we paint too much to the eye, and too little breaking thé ice between us. My companion, after an enquiring glance at me, | to the imagination, and that a more powerful effect might often be produced by ventured to suggest that the landlord should be instructed to get dinner ready as | indicating, rather than fully expressing, the idea intended to be conveyed Fu- | soon as possible, and that a bottle or two of his best port might be found of es- | seli understood this subject pretty well, but he could not resist the temptation of sential advantage in promoting the harmony of the evening. | myself, not less | parading his anatomical knowledge. and power of drawing “on hospitable thoughts intent,” immediately assented; and the landlord, with- | in his treatment of subjects of a terrible or supernatural cast, ruined his effects, out waiting for further orders, disappeared by crowding his canvas with figures, or attempting to embody, in visible outline, Dinner came at last, and went. It was such as might have heen expected | what should have been left in the palpable obscure of the imagination It is the from the short time we had allowed for its preparation; for a poem may be ex- | same thing with those etchings of Callot. Indistinetness is the true source of -temporized, but not a dinner. We were too hungry, however, to be critical, and supernatural terror ;—there can be no diablerie in daylight, and those hags and ithe productions of our host of the Crown, though tolerably cut up, were, on the | demons of his, which, palled in vapour or clouds, might have been solemn and whole, favourably received. impressive, seem odly crazed old women of bedlam, when brought into the fore- As the waiter removed dinner, and placed before me a bottle of very tolerable ground, and lighted up with those trumpery sulphureous flames, and the other py- I had leisure to look a little more particularly at my opposite neighbour. | rotechnic contrivances of the lower world. je seemed to be about thirty; tall, dressed in black, with an intelligent and * While he was speaking, I happened to cast my eyes towards the corner of good-humoured countenance. I observed he had laid upon one of the chairs a | the room, which was gradually becoming dusky, the sun having now dipped be- large portfelio, carefully secured from the weather by a leather covering. I set | hind the patent-shot manufactory on the opposite side of the river. I started ; him down at once for an artist. —fora figure, enveloped in a white mantle, seemed to be stretching out its hands Iam fond of painting myself, and have always delighted in the society of | towards me from the gloom artists, that is, of suchas are enthusiasts in their profession, and not mere me- chanical labourers for bread. It is a striking and attractive spectacle to see a young man, perhaps contending in a garret with the actual miseries of poverty, yet pursuing his art with the fond conviction that for all these privations he is yet

so he has tov often,

** Don’t be afraid,’ said my friend, smiling, as he saw me draw back, it is only my lay-figure, from which I had been sketching this morning, before we met, for a picture of the apparition in the tent of Bratus. By the bye,’ he continued, | stepping up to the figure, and removing the large cloth which had been thrown to be recompensed ; bating no jot of heart and hope, while every thing looks | over its limbs, ‘I am rather proud of this figure, for it is mainly my own work gloomy about him, and perceiving in the dim perspective of life, glimpses of | A jay-figure, of the best sort, as you will learn when you come to purchage one ‘comfort, and visions of future fame, where another person sees nuthing but clouds | js rather expensive: as you know I havea tolerable turn for mechanics, it poy and thick darkness. This sanguine and hopeful temperament communicates its | curred to me that I might manage matters atacheaper rate. I applied toa influence to their conversation, and imparts to it in general a warm and genial | young medical friend of mine to procure mea skeleton in good condition—fit to tone, a freshness and openness, which are seldom met with in the more ordinary | keep, as the advertisements have it, in any climate—which he did. How. or intercourse of society | where he got it, I did not then enquire—I conjectured from some resuriectionist

I soon found I was right in my conjecture. He was a painter, and had tra- | or other, for he was hand in glove with all those fellows,—but so it was. it was velled a good deal on the Continent. We talked of “the Pyrenean and the | as fresh and complete, and the bones as sound, as if it had never smelt cold earth river Po,”—the Rhine, the Tyrol, Switzerland, with all of which my companion | at all Perhaps, as Hamlet says, the man may have beenatanner. No matter appeared familiar. He told me, that as his health had not been good during the | with the assistance of a few springs and wires at the shoulders, elbows, and _ Lay _ on his way > Rome, where he intended te pass the win- knees, | soon found I could make it assume any position I might require, Just

" » f possible, to unite improvement in health with improvement in his art. | as well, if not better, than nine out of ten of the artificial figures to be found in I ventured at last to ask if I might be allowed a glance at his portfolio, which | the shops. I have covered its nakedness, as you see. with very decent raiment he at once produced. from my old wardrobe ;—and as the hollow of the skull used to look somewhat

I was much strock with some of his sketches, both in history and landscape. | gtinning and gloomy upon me in sketching by candle-light, I shaded them with an They displayed great freedom of hand and a liveliness of imagination, which | old mask, and a superannuated periwig of my father’s, which by some accident seemed only to require a longer familiarity with classical models to restrain its | had dropped into my trunk. The only thing that annoys me, is, that the skull rag ap de greater sobriety of aie both « ute drawing and colour- | seems to have a strange leaning to one side, as if the ewner had a crick in his like De l s called, to use the tec hni al phrase, a little fluétery, not un- | neck while alive. I have done all I could to correct this propensity, but I fear | ike Seam cit 2 Sten SF compnicn ss shall not get quit of it entirely without breaking the collar bone on both sides, maa g 1 nm might have been | which I am rather unwilling to do

“* So saying, he removed the mask and wig, and she bare and bleach-

As I was lifting the edges of the leather