here in state; the noisy idle cricket dwells beside her: but how unlike each other! The locust, that sad scourge of nations, has quitted his destructive occupation. The dragon-fly spreads out his double wings, that radiant shine with green and gold. The industrious silk-worm, that, like the careful bee, labours for creation's lord, is seen beside the gaudy butterfly, and foolish moth, the silly moth, that flutters round the flame, with many a turn and wheel, nor can perceive the danger until it is consumed! Attracted by the glare of regal pomp, what are you better, vain ambitious man, who headlong drive to join the splendid blaze? It only brighter shines in fierce combustion, and you are quite extinguished by its beams.

The gloomy bull, and savage buffalo together stand, with stern defiance graven on their front: and, over all these children of nature, great and small, the mild giraffe raises aloft his towering front, and seems to gaze across his native plains.

But is this all, this house of wonders? No; yonder stands another, where nature, stript of all her ornaments, her gaudy clothing, and her pleasing forms, shows only naked bones, and monstrous shapes that chill the mind with horror. That tawny beauty from Cafrarian land, here finishes her travels and her shame; nor needs she now a silken veil to cover what her vile possessor only wished to show. There stands the assassin, under whose ruthless dagger the celebrated Kleber closed his eyes; his high enthusiasm for his country brooked not to let escape even one solitary sigh to gratify the ear of his cruel tormentors. There other ghastly shapes of animals and men, avariciously withheld by grasping science from the craving tomb, and those unseemly, hideous abortions of nature, that never were intended to look upon the sacred light of day, are there preserved, to gratify the view of prying wisdom, or the empty gaze of idle folly folly that looks with equal unconcern on nature's beautiful and frightful things.

Here are the halls of wisdom, where science keeps her court; where every tree, and shrub, and animating odoriferous flower, and microscopic plant, are carefully explained to all who choose to hear. And, not an opening bud, or fibre, colour, or shade, or VOL, IX.

sexual intercourse by subtile penetrating dust, lies concealed.

There, too, is traced, and openly displayed, through all its secret springs and deep recesses, the mechanism of that beautiful, graceful, and noble being, man. That man, whose limbs at once combine both strength and grace; whose expressive visage displays his penetrating, lofty, soaring soul, that scorns the narrow bounds of space and time, marks him the image of his great Creator, and lord of all below. And you too, tender, soft, endearing woman, his better half; whose bosom heaves with warm benevolence, whose modest love, and animating smile, inspire him to deeds of valour and of fame; nurse of his tottering old age and tender infancy, the partner of his cares, hope of his youth, and fountain whence his purest pleasure flows. Why do you ever wear the face of sadness! or, like the siren, smile but to deceive!

Say then, ye sages, after ye have traced each bone, tendon, and nerve, and named them all, and pointed out their uses, where dwells the soul? How does she impress her arbitrary commands, that are, and must be obeyed? How can pure and immaterial being act upon matter gross, impure? I find you cannot answer this, or answering, only shew how extravagant and vain are all your wild conjectures. Employ your wisdom then on mortal things, to heal our wounds, to lessen mortal woe, and leave the rest to worlds beyond the grave.

This iron railing, and that little grove that skirts the margin of that hollow pool, yield a protection and solace to these winged prisoners. The garrulous duck, the sea-gull, and the diver, or press the rapid race, or flounce along, or in an instant disappear, then, rising quickly to the surface, flap their oily wings, and in their eager sport seem to forget they are no longer free. The bold majestic swan, arrayed in virgin white, spotless and pure, sails proudly forward like a barge of state, looks with contempt upon these petty crew paddling around him; half raising up his wings, and giving to his neck a better curve, he seems to swell with pride and self-complacency. Some in the grove or on the margin of the lake repose. The slender peacock walks amongst

C

them. Then, after kindly billing with his spouse, he raises up his splendid circling fan, the most magnificent the universe can boast, observes it with an eye that sparkles with delight, looks at it, looks again, then shakes his wings, and screeches out his hoarse repulsive note to testify his ecstacy of pleasure. Yonder sits the raven, that sad portentous bird, and croaks his frightful note, foreboding woes to come: the mighty vulture hears the welcome sound, looks round with eyes of flame, and sharps his claws preparing for the prey. The chattering jay, the screeching parrot, and the siren linnet, mind not these ominous forebodings. The winking stupid owl, that hates the light of day, sits solitary sighing for the moon. The powerful falcon sits upon his perch, lively, as though prepared to wing his airy course after the rapid whirls of flying partridge, or hasty timorous hare.

These small inclosures all have their inhabitants. Some browse upon their native herbs, and find solace under those trees that grow spontaneous on their native plains, or shady wave upon their mountain tops.

There grazes at his ease the noble stag, and spreads the branchy honours of his head; here dwells the fleet, the gentle, timid, mountain roe, that seems to have forgot its Alpine solitudes, and flies no longer from the face of man. The audacious goat presents his horny head, and learns the little ones to butt and play. The sheep, of various races, various lands, like travellers in their native costume, here appear. This comes from where the overflowing Nile rolls over his slimy bed his thousand waves, backward beating the sea with such recoil, that Neptune's emerald throne owns for a moment the tremendous shock. The other owns a far more distant land: his fathers dwelt where Africa presents, in proud disdain, a towering barrier to the Southern Ocean; and spreads a table high and broad, where all the Gods that on Olympus dwelt, or wild imagination ever knew, might feast and revel in licentious mood, nor want sufficient space.

Within that hollow den the tusky boar lives with his family; he wallows in the mire, like all his filthy race, to cool his burning skin, then shakes himself, displays his horrid teeth, and bristles up his mane, to show how ter

rible he is when roused. Near him the bear plays off his clumsy tricks: he gently tumbles down upon his back, and grasps his hinder paws, and mounting on his pole up to the very top, stands like a mighty lubber looking round to find applause; then, slow and cautiously descending, after he has reached the ground, he drags along his great unwieldy bulk, and like some petty lap-dog, sits him down with arms extended wide, and gaping jaws, to catch the little morsel he has earned. How mild and docile he seems! and yet he pardoned not the daring soldier who went into his den for love of gain.

That loud tremendous roar of Afric's brindled lion, mixed with the yelping of the eager fox, and howling of the hungry, discontented wolf, thrills on the vital chords that touch the heart, inspiring terror. How awful, were it heard on Afric's burning plains, rousing the weary traveller from his short repose, with humid brow, with parched and trembling lip, with burning veins and hollow languid eye, without a shelter or the means of flight! though here it is harmless and innocent as the bleating of the lamb, the troubled air forgets not to perform her functions in giving notice of the dreadful sound.

But let me have one glimpse of these terrific forms, whose awful voice makes animated nature tremble. The restless leopard walks from side to side, shows his spotted clothing, then stops short, and sets his piercing eyes, and squats him down as though prepared to take the murderous spring. No, children, do not fly, there is no danger; these bars would hold him though his powerful muscles were strong enough to raise him to the clouds. The porcupine embattled sits encircled with his spears, ready at once for close attack or distant missile war. The rest, except that grumbling fierce hyæna, are hushed in silence. What cannot time and human art perform! Look how that mighty lion, with horrid shaggy mane and outstretched paws, lies slumbering in his den, and in his bosom fearless lies the dog: man's mightiest enemy, and kindest truest friend of all the animals in nature's wide domain, united in the cordial bonds of peace.

What is this ticket larger than the others that bear the names of all these plants? "These Medicinal Plants are

cultivated here for the use of the Poor." This is good indeed! In this immense profusion of nature's stores and rarities, how kind to think but for a moment of the poor! How few in this wide world of pride, of tyranny, of grasping avaricious selfishness, think of the sorrows of the suffering poor! who, swelling in their gorgeous shows of state, groaning beneath the burthen of their wealth, the produce of the poor man's sweat, and labour of his hands, dare think at all of such a despicable being? Yet there are some who see with purer light, who see that men are equal in their nature and their rights; that those who enjoy a brighter intellect or more liberal fortune, must use their influence to make men happy, or be unjust. And could you, laurelled Blucher, think but for a moment, to place your lawless army on this sacred spot! Alas, your laurels here had perished like opening buds before the northern blast! Here wisdom has laid up her stores, here sages long have toiled, and bright persuasive eloquence has flowed to spread the light of science over the world.

There, keeper, take your fee, and let me pass the bridge of Austerlitz. It has no fault except the name.

Strange, must it for ever be, that one man's honour is another's shame! Must these proud monuments of one nation's glory be raised to throw disgrace upon another? Where is the merit, if we can only boast the weakness, or the crimes, or the mistakes of our opponents in the race of fame and strife for empire? I fear the merit is but small on either side. For he who loses lays the blame on fate; and he who gains applauds himself, his well-laid schemes, and daring execution. So thus alternately we own free will and fate, according as they suit our purpose.

There, there is the place where stood that dreadful pile that frowned on groaning France, unable to sustain the load of slavery. But Liberty once roused-0 glorious Liberty! the Bastile sunk a mass of ruins, and all her dungeons, dark resounding cells, and clanking chains, and sounds of woe, ceased to exist for ever. No man now with an iron mask is there complaining of the cruelty of his inexorable tyrants, who, not content to rob him of his liberty, permitted not even his visage to be seen, except by dark and gloomy

walls, that tell no tales of sufferings or crimes. No miserable wretch is now dividing his small pittance with the mice, in kind return for their welcome company: No lonely sorrowing soul, within his solitary loathsome dungeon, obliged to spend his weary lingering days in training spiders on the dusty walls, to keep the mind from losing all its powers, or bursting into madness. How well for man were all these dreadful ills banished for ever from our mortal sphere, to visit it no more! But tyrants still will reign, by whatsoever name they may be called; and suffer ing humanity still will weep, and give its plaintive murmurs to the winds, that dare not whisper them too loud on the oppressor's ear, because he is engaged, and must not be disturbed.

Here is a funeral; come, let me follow it to where the wicked cease from troubling. How few the mourners are! and even those few do not seem sad. They only wear the garb of sorrow. Perhaps the departed was poor, or little known, or useless to society. Perhaps he was a stranger; like me, a poor ne glected solitary stranger, a lonely wanderer in a foreign land; deprived of all the ties of blood, and claims of friendship, that sweeten social life, that fondly try to throw a veil upon our errors, and eagerly attempt to render less se vere the rugged gloomy passage to the tomb. Perhaps he was-but no, no more; conjectures here are vain: the Cemetery of Pere la Chaise presents a place of rest and silence to the benighted pilgrim, to whom all other cares are now superfluous. The narrow house now opens to receive its new inhabitant. Our mother earth, like a kind parent, receives again her weary child into her lap, and spreads around his head such solemn stillness, that bursting worlds might roar in wild convulsive thunders round his bed, without infringing on his deep repose. Yes; here is one friend still left. See how that spaniel leaps into the grave, and will not quit his master. Menaces are not enough; he will not stir: he must be torn out by force. The grave is closed, and yet he will not quit it. He scrapes away the earth, and mourns with such a lamentable voice, he almost makes me weep. Now, though bound, and drawn away by force, he still looks back with eager eye upon the spot. What strange fidelity is this! It seems

beyond the powers of instinct. I do not understand it. I leave it then to you, ye mighty reasoners, who count, or think you count, the links of that infinite chain, from man up to the great

ODE WRITTEN IN THE

THE evening mild, the sky serene, The zephyrs through these poplars whispering low,

And all around this solemn scene

That gives the mind a melancholy glow, My weary, wandering steps retain, Where peace, and rest, and silence reign.

Declining nature feels decay,

Touch'd by October's ever-withering hand;

Her fruits, her flowers, her foliage gay, That Spring disclosed, and Summer saw expand,

She sheds, and soon her smiling face
Turns pale in Winter's cold embrace.
Paris, expanded to the eye,

Her barriers wide and palaces displays; Her lofty towers that kiss the sky,

Receive the tribute of a parting blaze, Ere yet the sinking sun retires To western worlds with all his fires.

Paris, thou type of ancient Rome, Thou haughty queen of arts and nurse of war,

In thee bright science finds a home,

Youth enveloped in clouds, a leading star, Whose rays the mystic paths explore Of wondrous worlds unknown before.

In thee the gamester dwells secure ; Venus, led by the dance, the song, the lyre,

Unblushing vends her joys impure,

And many virtues in her arms expire: But here no more her incense burns Midst graves and monumental urns. Paris, behold thy kindred dust!

Here poets, heroes, friends, and lovers sleep.

Canst thou a tear spare for the just ?
Or hast thou charged the stone for thee to
weep?

And taught with care the doleful yew
To bear thy sorrows ever new?

Here sleeps Delille, his harp at rest:

There Heloisa, with her sage of yore, Their loves rejoin'd, their wrongs redrest, By envy's poison'd shafts assail'd no

more.

Oppression here in vain would try
To draw a tear or force a sigh.

That little cross, that snow-white rose,
Emblem of virtue, innocence, and youth,
Tell where the mortal spoils repose,

Of beauty adorn'd by piety and truth: A simple tomb! but want could spare No more to tell a mother's care,

A mother's hope, a mother's woe;

Reft of her last sad hold to life-her child, And, like a reed amid the snow,

Bending beneath the storms of winter
wild.

Real, undisguised affliction here,
Sheds on the grave a bitter tear.
That sculptured figure seems to weep,

In graceful attitude of studied grief
Watching a husband's final sleep;

But gilded sorrows often find relief Where graves must never spread alarms, To wound a youthful widow's charms. What dost thou here, imperious pride?

Must then the virtues of the dead be told In this abode where worms reside

And reign supreme, in letters writ with
gold?

No pious rites thy labours crave
To gild the borders of the grave.
Death mocks thy care, and scorns thy rage;
He clips ambition's wing, and lays him
low;
Gathers the spoils of age to age,

Heaps up confused the wreck of friend
and foe,

And from amid the ruins high
He throws his dart, and nations die.

What marble tomb attracts my view,

That seems to scorn the wasting hand of time,

Bearing its sculptured honours new,

And solid pyramidal front sublime? Ah! is Massena then no more,

His sword then sheathed, his battles o'er ? And so thou scaled the Alps, and bore

Terror and ruin o'er Italia's plains, Saw proud Germania drunk with gore, And trembling Lusitania dread thy chains:

For what? to hide thee here, and never

Wake more the voice of war for ever. Here, too, THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE Lies low, wrapp'd in obscurity and shame; No flower breathes fragrance o'er his grave,

Nor simplest monument relates his name: He rose, he shone, his course was bright As meteor's glare on brow of night.

What sound is that I hear? the sigh

Plaintive it seems of some departed shade: Ah no! look there; the smother'd cry

Yet heaves the bosom of that love-sick

maid.

See how, convulsed, her tender heart Laments its better, dearer part.

The garland wove with tender hand
She lays upon her lover's lowly bed:
Hoping with time it may expand,

She plants the honour'd laurel o'er his head.

The stars of night advance apace,

tell

The anguish of that last farewell!

She quits the grave as if unseen.

Now let me read who silent dwells below.

"Sleep, my Eugenio-thou hast been The brightness of my soul-that now shall know

Nor ray of hope, nor pleasure shine
Till Julia's heart is cold as thine."

O simple, pleasing Lafontaine,

O Moliere, prince of the comic muse, Before your tombs who can refrain,

Or who the tribute of a sigh refuse To brilliant genius slumbering laid In night's impenetrable shade!

But ye are not forgot, ye few

Whose modest virtues, from the world
retired,

Sought not the glare of public view;
Whose deeds of purest charity inspired
Th' afflicted soul, the poor to bear
Their load of misery and care.

To heavenly harps your lofty praise,
Amid the silence of your sleep profound,
Angelic voices pure shall raise;

And you shall be with lasting glory crown'd,

Glory immortal, as your beings pure, When these material worlds no more endure.

THIS is an interesting and instructive little volume, and ought to be read with attention by every student of painting, who is anxious to rise to distinction in his art. It is written in an easy and familiar manner, and reflects credit on Mrs Graham's good taste and critical discrimination. To these qualifications, so necessary to the success of her undertaking, the authoress appears to add, in speaking of British artists, a degree of candour and liberality, which it is not often our good fortune to meet with in the strictures of modern connoiseurs; it was, therefore, with peculiar pleasure that we perused the following passage, which, coming from a person who appears so well qualified to judge in such matters, we select with real satisfaction from the preface." The English school of painting, though far inferior to either the first or second splendid periods of Italian art, is now the best in Europe. It has fewer faults. For the truth of this the Academy may appeal with confidence to the thousands of Englishmen who have lately visited the continent, and looked impartially at the foreign exhibitions. The German artists have the best feeling abroad; they imitate the old masters, but have mistaken reverse of wrong for right; and avoiding the extravagant action, glaring colour, and false feeling of the French, they

have adopted babyish simplicity. The Italians are nothing in painting. The example of Canova has drawn all the rising talent of his countrymen towards sculpture; and there is not a painter in Italy, who, in the various provinces of art, can compare with any one of our academicians; not to speak of the splendid talents we possess unconnected with the Academy."

In writing the memoirs of so illustrious and excellent a man, as Nicholas Poussin, we can readily imagine that our authoress required no other stimulus than the "pleasure" she must have derived from the employment, and the consciousness she must have felt of the utility of her labours to the rising generation of artists in her own country, by placing before their view, in strong and vivid colours, the bright example of one of the most eminent characters that has ever adorned the art of painting. With the single exception of colouring, we know of no artist, either modern or ancient, who can be so safely relied on, by the young student, as a faithful and unerring guide in the devious and perilous road to excellence ; in saying this, however, we would not be understood as recommending the mere copying of his works, nor the imitation of his manner, nor the adoption of the peculiar medium through which he was accustomed to view the