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altar and one God--but illuminated with a thousand John Newton, there are some silver, and there are other varied lights, and radiant with a thousand ornaments; golden books, but there is but one book of bank-notes.' it has substantially only one declaration to make, but Religion and poetry have been united in the finest it utters it in the voices of the creation-shining forth specimens both of poetical genius and of religious chafrom the excellent glory, its light has been reflect- racter. There is in the minds of many a prejudice ed upon us from an innumerable crowd of interven- against poetry, as if it were a godless thing; and against ing objects, till it has been at length attempered for poets, as if it were part of their profession to be irreliour weak and earthly vision-it now beams upon us at gious. We assert, on the contrary, that the poet who is once from the heart of man and the countenance of na- not religious is so far untrue to his high calling-so far ture; it has arrayed itself in the charms of fiction; it a traitor to the awful trust committed to his charge. We has gathered new beauty from the works of creation, and assert that genius is a gift of God, and therefore divine; new warmth and new power from the very passions of and that it is by desecration only that it can be, or has clay. There is nothing that is lovely, or refined, or ma- been, perverted to purposes of evil. We assert that the jestic, but has come in to lend its light and beauty to the greatest of poets have been the most pious; and that the illustration of the word of God. The Hebrew prophet most pious of saints, on the other hand, have often been was a poet-a poet of the most singular character. He carried, by the mere breath of their devotion, into the was essentially a lonely man, cut off from all human ties regions of the loftiest poetry. Look at Milton, “whose and tender associations; he had no home; the foxes had soul was like a star, and dwelt apart,' and whose song holes, the birds of the air nests, but seldom had he any sometimes reminds you of a 'voice from a loftier sphere,' where to lay his head; the power which came upon him and might, says Foster, “have mingled harmoniously cut by its fierce coming all the threads which bound him with those strains which, on the plains of Bethlehem, to his kind, tore him from the plough or from the pas- proclaimed the coming of the Messiah. What muse did toral solitude, and hurried him to the foot of the tyrant's he invoke? Not · Dame Memory and her syren daughthrone, or to the wheel of the triumphal chariot. And ters'-not even Urania, but a greater than she—the dorehow startling his coming to crowned or conquering guilt! like Spirit of God! What was the fountain of his inspiraWild from the wilderness—the fury of Heaven gleaming in tion ? It was • Siloa's brook that flowed hard by the his eye-his mantle heaving to his heaving breast-his oracle of God.' Where did he lay the brightest crown words stern, swelling, tinged on their edges with poetry, which poesy ever wove for her votaries ? At the foot his attitude dignity-his gesture power-how did he burst of the Cross. And when a vail of blindness fell over upon the astonished gaze-how abrupt and awful his en- those glorious eyes of his, and shut him up within his trance-how short and spirit-like his stay-how dreamily own soul, whither did he turn the silent pleading of dreadful the impression left by his words, long after they his sightless cyeballs, and the high aspirations of his had ceased to tingle on the ears—and how mysterious the unconquerable soul ? It was to the Power which sits besolitude into which he seemed to melt away. Here surely tween the cherubim, and it caught him into heaven. were vehicles for the conveyance of the very highest Then there is Jeremy Taylor, who, if he had not been poetry. Here were poets in the noblest sense of the the greatest preacher, might have been the greatest poet, term--trumpets filled with the voice of God-chariots of of his day; and in whose youth, writes one of his friends, fire carrying blazing tidings-meteors kindled at the eye ' his graceful air, his deep, piety, his young and florid and blown on the very breath of the Eternal.

beauty, and his sublime and raised discourses, made men It will be recollected, too, how we find in Scripture take him for a young angel, newly descended from the every variety of poetical composition. Is it the first and climes of glory! Then there is Spenser, whose Faery simplest of all the forms of poetry, the pastoral? Where | Qucen contains eridences of exalted piety as well as of shall we find anything so tender, so chaste, so true, as the most gorgeous imagination. And can we forget that Psalm which every child knows and can repeat- rough old John Bunyan, whose Pilgrim's Progress places • The Lord's my shepherd. I'll not want.

him, in point of genius, not far from the side of ShakHe makes ine down to lie

speare himself, and which is at once the best child's book, In pastures green; he leadeth me The quiet waters by.'

the best allegory, and the best system of theology, in Is it the far-resounding and magnificent ode? The reader Dante, and Klopstock, and Fenelon, and Pascal ? Nor can

this or any language ? or such illustrious foreigners as will recall the 18th Psalm, which, in our own version, is we omit Young, who uttered the memorable sentence sublime, and which, strange to say, has for once inspired on a stormy night, “ It is a very fine night; the Lord is even Sternhold and Hopkins, whose Psalms are generally abroad ;' and wrote the Night Thoughts, the most elothe merest doggrel, but whom this tempestuous song up- quent pleading ever put forth for the immortality of lifts in spite of themselves into such lines as these

man? or poor Cowper, who was scarcely, indeed, perOn Cherub, and on Cherubim,

mitted to realize his own line, • True piety is cheerful as Full royally he rode, And, on the wings of mighty winds,

the day,' and whose sun went down in clouds; but who Came flying all abroad.'

was one of the gentlest and strongest of spirits-gentle Is it the elegy? Can we find any strain of sorrow more as one of the tame hares he loved and fed so fondly, and touching than the lamentations of Jeremiah, or the bitter strong as a Son of the morning; and who, though he was, wail which David pours out over Saul and Jonathan, who, in his own pathetic complaint, a “stricken deer that left as they were lovely in their lives, were not in their deaths the herd,' yet was not forgotten, even in his deepest divided, whose shield, in the mountains of Gilboa, was darkness, by · one who had himself been hurt by archers,' vilely cast away. Is it narrative? What have Homer, or and has, we believe, emerged from the gloom of despondHerodotus, or Richardson, or Scott, more interesting and ency into the light and joy which are unspeakable and romantic than the story of Joseph and his brethren ? Is full of glory? Or need we mention the name of Robert it the grandeur of the epic? We find it in the raptures Hall, who, possessed of powers almost cherubic in their of Isaiah, in the sudden bursts of Paul, and in the awful clearness, and almost seraphic in their fire, was yet a allegory of Daniel? Is it natural description ? There Christian so humble, that, after a little heat and exaspeare,' says Hazlitt, descriptions in the book of Joh more ration of temper in debate, he was heard exclaiming to prodigal of imagery, and more intense in passion, than himself in tones of bitter remorse, “Lamb of God! anything in Homer. Is it the shifting scenery, the thick- Lamb of God ! calm my perturbed spirit”. The reader ening incident, the solemn suspense, of the drama ? We will remember, too, the silver pieces' of purest poetry find all these in the Revelation, where the events of time, which such minds as Pollok, and James Montgomery, and the cycles of eternity, are blended in one tremendous and Wordsworth, and Wilson, and Heber, and Millman, tragedy, and enacted on one obscure and visionary stage. and many more, have brought in to the altar of God Ay, with regard to literary, as well as moral and spiri- and the shrine did not darken at the offering, and the tual value, we may fitly employ the words of the pious | voice did not break forth in indignation or derision of

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the gift-'Who hath required this at your hands ?' And gulf of the French Revolution, melt and kindle, as it never let it be forgotten that Coleridge-whom we do looked in at that window whence, forty years before, had not hesitate to rank among the most gifted spirits of his looked out, now in misery and now in mirth, the darker age—who was at once a poet, a logician, a metaphysician, and more brilliant eye of Robert Burns. And while we a scholar, a theologian, and the first converser of the day knew that the genius of the one was not much inferior to --lived and died a Christian; and that the last words that of the other, we rejoiced to reflect that the selfhis majestic spirit uttered ere passing into eternity were, control and virtue were greater far. And as we turned God be merciful to me, a sinner!' and that these were away we could not help rolling over in our mind the the closing lines of an epitaph which he wrote to be in- epitaph which poor Burns had written for himself. scribed on his own grave :

Would that it had been his warning! and would that it Mercy for praise, to be forgiven for fame,

were still a beacon to those who may feel tempted to ape He sought, and found in Christ. Do thou the same. his errors, though they cannot emulate his genius! The instances of disconnexion have been rare. We

• The poor inhabitant below speak not of the hundreds who set up for poets, with

Was quick to learn, and strong to know;

And keenly felt the friendly glow, little capital but conceit, and no stock but sin-who

And softer flame; spice their pitiful verse with irreligion, to make it both

But thoughtless follies laid him low, putrify and pay ; we speak not either of the vast host of

And stained his name.' clever persons, in the present day, who write clever If the opponents of religion are disposed to class Byron verses, but who are not true poets ; nor do we refer to among their allies, we have no wish to dispute the claim, the 'one-eyed leaders of the blind'-the captains of the and wish them joy of the accession. army of scepticism, the Voltaires, the Volneys, and the And as to Shelley, we have long been obliged to acPaines. All these were men of vigorous talent, of readi- count for his opinions and some parts of his life on the ness, of information, of great powers of irony—but they supposition that, on this one particular subject, he was were not poets : they wanted the loving and the wor- insane. And, alas ! how many have set themselves to shipping characters of genius ; they were essentially imbibe and to circulate his insanity, who can neither scorners-scoffers at all that was holy, lovely, and good. appreciate the true merits of his poetry, nor emulate the But we speak not of versifiers, but of bards—not of men private good qualities which made some who detested his to whom poetry was a mechanical art, but of men to principles, deplore his errors, and shed tears over his whom it was a kind of inspiration : and we remember untimely fate. His end was truly melancholy. He had only three in this country worthy of the name poet in repaired in a small skiff to meet his friend Leigh Hunt, its highest acceptation, who have either openly avowed who had come to Italy, on his return to his home and themselves, or been commonly claimed, as enemies of the family. His boat was overtaken by a fearful hurricane, faith of Jesus : their names are Robert Burns, George and all its crew perished. To a gentleman who, at the Gordon Byron, and Percy Bysshe Shelley.

time, was, with a prospective glass, overlooking the sea, Poor Burns! We do not set ourselves up as his apolo- the scene assumed a very peculiar appearance. A great gists, far less can we coldly trample on his ashes. We many vessels were visible; and amid them one small skiff, would wish to blend pity and blame in severe and equal which attracted his particular attention. Suddenly a storm proportions, as the true libation over his grave. For he was of that tremendous sort which is peculiar to Italian clia great sinner and a great sufferer; he knew the right, mates, attended by thunder and columns of lightning, he did the ill; he abused transcendent powers, and lost swept over and eclipsed the prospect. When it had the noblest opportunities, perhaps, ever possessed or passed he looked again. The larger vessels were all thrown away by Scotchman, to benefit his country and safe, riding upon the swell ; the skiff only had gone down his kind. He was, we repeat, a great sinner and a great for ever; and in that skiff was the hapless poet, perishsufferer, but an infidel he never was. Witness the Cot- ing thus ere he had completed his thirtieth year. Pertar's Saturday Night!' witness his • Address to a Young haps, had he lived a few years longer, his strange and Friend!' witness the fact that, during the whole course dark delusion might have passed away; and, like the of his last illness, and it was long continued, he was poor maniac of old, he might have been seen clothed seldom seen out of doors, or in, without a Bible in his and in his right mind.' But vain such conjectures. Here, hands. Who but must largely blame him? But who in this Bay of Spezia, he was met by the angel of death. will refuse to blame still more severely those who first Wert thou, () religious sea,' only avenging on his head spoiled and then insulted him far more ? Here is a the cause of thy denied and insulted Deity ? Were ye, specimen never published of the way in which he was ye 'elements in your courses,' commissioned to destroy treated :-He was invited to dine at a gentleman's house him? Ah! there is no reply. The surge is silent; the in East Lothian. He went, and found that a large party elements have no voice. In the eternal counsels the were invited to meet him ; but found also, to his intense secret is hid of this man's early and melancholy death; mortification, that he was not thought worthy of dining and there, too, rests the more solemn secret of the with them. Oh, no! He was to dine with the butler character of his destiny. Let us close the book, and clasp and the lady's maid ; and then, after dinner, the greatest the clasp. mind in Britain was to be brought in with the wine- Finally, we have reason to expect, between religion this Samson to make his betters sport. He took his and poetry, an everlasting union. Many have fears that dinner sulkily enough, waited, like a good boy, his sum- our age is getting too mechanical for poetry; that what mons to go in like a bagpipe player, and amuse by his with steam-presses, and steam-boats, and steam-carwit, or perhaps wickedness, his honourable entertainers. riages, it's all over with the poor poet, who must become The bell rang, in the ploughman-poet stalked, and walk- as silent as a singing bird when a kite is in the sky, if ing up to the table, and glaring at the brilliant circle not take himself off to some other world at once, where with his great flashing eyes, he poured out a torrent of railways have not as yet made their appearance. We do ridicule and bitter invective, and, turning on his heel, not share in this fear; for we believe that as long as left them to digest his disgust and their dinner as they man's blood is warm, as long as woman's face is fair, as best could. Poor Burns ! The writer of these pages saw, long as the sky is blue, the earth green, and the rainbow little more than a year ago, his proud mausoleum in beautiful, poetry, like seed-time and harvest, summer Dumfries, erected by those who denied him bread,' and and winter, shall not cease. And as poetry, in former gave him a stone instead; saw also, on the evening of times, has often fanned the flame of devotion, so we anthe same day, with deeper emotion, the poor humble ticipate that religion will return its aid with interest. house where he died-saw it in the company of two of The earth has often helped the woman, the woman shall the most gifted men of the day. Yes; we saw the yet help the earth. The spread of the religious spirit dark eye of Thomas Carlyle, which had seen and shown, shall at once purify and prolong the reign of poetry, till in the most graphic and powerful of histories, the that happy era come, when poetry shall see her fairest dreams realized, and prophecy her oldest predictions eyes rolled and flashed in delirium ; his lips, usually so verified, in the sight of a holy and happy world—when silent, muttered wild and incoherent words. In days still, in the language of Hall, learning shall amass her of health, poor Duhobret had his dreams, as all artists, stores, and genius emit her splendours; but the former rich or poor, will sometimes have. He had thought that shall be displayed without ostentation, and the latter the fruit of many years' labour, disposed of to advantage

, shall shine with the softened effulgence of humility and might procure him enough to live, in an economical way, love.' Nay, we believe, that after this earth has passed for the rest of his life. He never anticipated fame or away-after these stars, which have been called the fortune; the height of his ambition, or hope, was to pos

poetry of heaven,' have disappeared, like the forgotten sess a tenement large enough to shelter him from the inmelodies of an elder day—that as the first word, which, clemencies of the weather, with means to purchase one falling from the Divine lips, broke the eternal silence, was comfortable meal per day. Now, alas ! however, even that a word of poetry, so not till the last sound subside into hope had deserted him. He thought himself dying, and the eternal silence again, shall the voice of poetry be thought it hard to die without one to look kindly upon lost; and so long as it speaks, it will speak in piety and him; without the words of comfort that might soothe his in praise.

passage to another world. He fancied his bed surrounded

by devilish faces, grinning at his sufferings, and taunting THE ARTIST SURPRISED.

him with his inability to summon a priest to exorcise

them. A length the apparitions faded away, and the A REAL INCIDENT.

patient sunk into an exhausted slumber. He awoke unIT may not be known to all the admirers of the genius of refreshed; it was the fifth day he had lain there neglected. Albrecht Durez, that the famous engraver was endowed His mouth was parched; he turned over, and feebly with a better half, so xantipical in temper, that she was the stretched out his hand towards the earthen pitcher, from torment not only of his own life, but also of his pupils which, since the first day of his illness, he had quenched and domestics. Some of the former were cunning enough his thirst. Alas! it was empty! Samuel lay a few moto purchase peace for themselves by conciliating the ments thinking what he should do. He knew he must common tyrant—but woe to those unwilling or unable to die of want if he remained there alone ; but to whom offer aught in propitiation. Even the wiser ones were could he apply for aid in procuring sustenance ? An idea spared only by having their offences visited upon a scape- seemed at last to strike him. He arose slowly, and with goat. This unfortunate individual was Samuel Duhobret, difficulty, from the bed, went to the other side of the a disciple whom Durez had admitted into his school out room, and took up the picture he had painted last. He of charity. He was employed in painting signs, and the resolved to carry it to the shop of a salesman, and hoped coarse tapestry then used in Germany. He was about to obtain for it sufficient to furnish him with the necesforty years of age, little, ugly, and humpbacked; was the saries of life for a week longer. Despair lent him strength butt of every ill joke among his fellow-disciples, and was to walk, and to carry his burden. On his way he passed picked out as a special object of dislike by Madame a house about which there was a crowd. He drew nigh— Durez. But he bore all with patience, and ate, without asked what was going on; and received for an answer, complaint, the scanty crusts given him every day for dinner, that there was to be a sale of many specimens of art colwhile his companions often fared sumptuously.

lected by an amateur in the course of thirty years. It Poor Samuel had not a spice of envy or malice in his has often happened that collections made with infinite heart. He would at any time have toiled half the night pains by the proprietor, were sold without mercy or disto assist or serve those who were wont, oftenest, to laugh crimination after his death. at him, or abuse him loudest for his stupidity. True- Something whispered the weary Duhobret, that here he had not the qualities of social humour or wit ; but he would be the market for his picture. It was a long way was an example of indefatigable industry. He came to yet to the house of the picture-dealer, and he made up his studies every morning at daybreak; and remained at his mind at once. He worked his way through the crowd, work until sunset. Then he retired into his lonely cham- dragged himself up the steps, and, after many inquiries

, ber, and wrought for his own amusement.

found the auctioneer. That personage was a busy, imDuhobret laboured three years in this way, giving him- portant little man, with a handful of papers ; he was inself no time for exercise or recreation. He said nothing clined to notice somewhat roughly the interruption of to a single human being of the paintings he produced in the lean, sallow hunchback, imploring as were his gesthe solitude of his cell, by the light of his lamp.

tures and language. But his bodily energies wasted and declined under in- • What do you call your picture at length said he, cessant toil. There were none sufficiently interested in carefully looking at it. the poor artist to mark the feverish hue of his wrinkled * It is a view of the Abbey of Newbourg—with its filcheek, or the increasing attenuation of his misshapen lage-and the surrounding landscape,' replied the eager frame. None observed that the uninviting pittance set and trembling artist. aside for his mid-day repast, remained for several days The auctioneer again scanned it contemptuously, and untouched. Samuel made his appearance regularly as asked what it was worth. ever, and bore, with the same meekness, the gibes of his "Oh, that is what you please—whatever it will bring;' fellow-pupils, or the taunts of Madame Durez ; and answered Duhobret. worked with the same untiring assiduity, though his hands · Hem ! it is too odd to please, I should think I can would sometimes tremble, and his eyes become suffused promise you no more than three thalers.' -a weakness probably owing to the excessive use he had Poor Samuel sighed deeply. He had spent on that made of them.

piece the nights of many months. But he was starving One morning Duhobręt was missing at the scene of his now; and the pitiful sum offered would give him bread daily labours. His absence created much remark, and for a few days. He nodded his head to the auctioneer, many were the jokes passed upon the occasion. One sur- and retiring, took his seat in a corner. mised this, another that, as the cause of the phenome- The sale began. After some paintings and engravings non ; and it was finally agreed that the poor fellow must had been disposed of, Samuel's was exhibited. have worked himself into an absolute skeleton, and taken • Who bids at three thalers? Who bids p' was the his final stand in the glass frame of some apothecary; or cry. Duhohret listened eagerly, but none answered. been blown away by a puff of wind, while his door hap- · Will it find a purchaser ? said he, despondingly, to pened to stand open. "No one thought of going to his himself. Still there was a dead silence. He dared not lodgings to look after him or his remains.

look up, for it seemed to him that all the people were Meanwhile the object of their mirth was tossing on a bed laughing at the folly of the artist who could be insane of sickness. Disease, which had been slowly sapping the enough to offer so worthless a piece at a public sale. foundations of his strength, burned in every vein ; his • What will become of me p was his mental inquiry. I • That work is certainly my best ;' and he ventured to

UNPARALLELED CHASE. steal another glance. Does it not seem that the wind Mr L- had with him a young Kentuckian, named actually stirs those boughs, and moves those leaves ! How D-, a fine, daring fellow, with a frame of iron, the transparent is the water! what life breathes in the ani- speed of the ostrich, and the endurance of the camel. mals that quench their thirst at that spring ! How that He was fortunate, moreover, in the retention of a halfsteeple shines ! How beautiful are those clustering trees! breed, called Mal Bæuf (Bad Beef), who, notwithstandThis was the last expiring throb of an artist's vanity. ing his name, was considered of hardly less merit than The ominous silence continued, and Samuel, sick at heart, D—; and between the two men, consequently, a keen buried his face in his hands.

rivalry existed. D— had travelled on foot from the • Twenty-one thalers ! murmured a faint voice, just Blackbird Hills to Fort Lisa, a distance of ninety miles, as the auctioneer was about to knock down the picture. in thirteen hours! Mal Bæuf also boasted some astoThe stupified painter gave a start of joy. He raised his nishing feats of bottom;' and both were stationed at head and looked to see from whose lips those blessed the fort, during the time we speak of, for the purpose words had come. It was the picture-dealer to whom he of providing venison. One evening in July, the weather had first thought of applying.

extremely warm, the glass high, and the post unfurnished Fifty thalers,' cried a sonorous voice. This time a with meat, the two men were playing at cards, when tall man in black was the speaker.

their employer came up, reproached them with their neThere was a silence of hushed expectation.

gligence, and ordered them to start, the first thing in the "One hundred thalers,' at length thundered the pic- morning, on a hunt. Obedience was promised of course; ture-dealer.

but the game continued, each moment growing more des"Three hundred."

perate, the spirit of rivalry pervading their hearts in Five hundred.'

everything, till, finally, the morning broke as the halfOne thousand.'

breed declared himself to be broken. They fell asleep Another profound silence; and the crowd pressed around on the spot, and the sun was well up when Mr Lthe two opponents, who stood opposite each other with informed of the case, again approached, in no pleasant eager and angry looks.

humour it may be supposed, and aroused the delinquents, 'Two thousand thalers !' cried the picture-dealer, and who, a little ashamed, took their guns and started for glanced around him triumphantly, when he saw his ad- Pampillon Creek, on the edge of the prairie, about five versary hesitate.

miles off. There they discovered a gang of elk, when - Ten thousand !' vociferated the tall man, his face the Keutuckian suggested a plan of approach that would crimson with rage, and his hands clenched convulsively. enable them to get a good shot. The half-breed, rank

* The dealer grew paler; his frame shook with agitation; | ling at his friend's triumph the night previous, observed he made two or three efforts, and at last cried out, sulkily, 'I don't kill elk with my gun, but with my * Twenty thousand!'

knife. The pluck of the other was roused in an instant, His tall opponent was not to be vanquished. He bid rightly interpreting the vaunt as a challenge to a trial of forty thousand. The dealer stopped; the other laughed speed and bottom;

and, on his saying proudly, that what a low laugh of insolent triumph, and a murmur of admi- his companion could do he could do also, both hung ration was heard in the crowd. It was too much for the their guns on a tree, and, approaching the band as near dealer; he felt his peace at stake. “Fifty thousand !’ex- as possible, they suddenly raised the Indian yell, which claimed he, in desperation.

has a most paralyzing effect upon the animals. Off they It was the tall man's turn to hesitate. Again the went across a low prairie a few miles in width, leaving whole crowd were breathless. At length, tossing his arms their pursuers far behind. But steadily the latter conin defiance, he shouted One hundred thousand!' tinued their pace nevertheless. They reached the bluff,

The crest-fallen picture-dealer withdrew; the tall man ascended, crossed, descended, one resolve uppermost in victoriously bore away the prize.

their minds, ' never to say fail.' The chase and race How was it, meanwhile, with Duhobret, while this ex- continued, until, approaching Elk Horn river, a disciting scene was going on ! He was hardly master of his tance of twenty miles, by mutual agreement they took senses. He rubbed his eyes repeatedly, and murmured a circuit with an increase of speed, got a-head of the elk, to himself, ' After such a dream, my misery will seem and actually prevented them from crossing. Leagues more cruel !'

and leagues, upon a new track, the chase continued, the When the contest ceased, he rose up bewildered, and animals by this time so exhausted by heat, thirst, and, went about asking first one, then another, the price of the above all, fright--for the hunters had incessantly sent picture just sold. It seemed that his apprehension could forth their yells

, in this case as much a scream of mutual not at once be enlarged to so vast a conception.

defiance as an artifice of the chase—that they scarcely The possessor was proceeding homeward when a decre- exceeded their pursuers in speed. The latter, foaming pit , lame, and humpbacked invalid, tottering along by the and

maddened with excitement, redoubled their efforts, aid of a stick, presented himself before him. He threw until the elk, reaching a prairie pond, or sink,' the him a piece of money, and waved his hand as dispensing hunters at their heels, plunged despairingly

in, lay down,

and abandoned themselves, heedless of all else, to the May it please your honour,' said the supposed beggar, gratification of their thirst. The frantic rivals

, knife I am the painter of that picture !' and he again rabbed in hand, dashed in after their prey, began the work of

slaughter, paused not until they had butchered sixteen, The tall man was Count Dunkelsback, one of the rich- dragged them from the water, and cut up and prepared est noblemen in Germany. He stopped, took out his the meat for transportation to the fort, whither they had pocket-book, tore out a leaf, and wrote on' it a few

lines. to return for horses. Had the

race ended ? No! For Take it, friend," said he ; .'it is a check for your money. victory or death was the inward determination, and as yet

neither had given way. Off dashed again the indomiDuhobret finally persuaded himself that it was not a table half-breed, and at his side the unyielding Kendream. He became the master of a castle, sold it, and tuckian. Rise and

hollow, stream and timber, no yelling resolved to live luxuriously for the rest of his life, and to now, in desperate silence, were left behind. The sun was cultivate painting as a pastime. But alas for the vanity sinking: blind, staggering, on they went

. They reached of human expectationHe had borne privation and toil; the fort

, haggard, wild, and voiceless. A crowd gathered after, when an indigestion carried him off

. "His picture now lay fainting, still side by side, a long time before remained long in the cabinet

of Count

Dunkelsback; and they were enabled, by signs and whispers, to tell that afterwards passed into the pos:session of the King of they had run down sixteen elk, and yet couldn't say

which was the best man.-Simmonds' Colonial Magazine.

with his thanks.

his eyes.

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MISANTHROPIC HOURS. The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which

BY N, P, WILLIS. we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to

(An American Poet of some celebrity, born in 1807 at Portland in Maine, and

now or lately living in retirement in the western part of New York State. Born heal-every other affliction to forget; but this wound we after completing his studies he travelled through Europe, and published his ob. consider it a duty to keep open-this affliction we cherish servations under the title of Pencilings by the way."

I sometimes feel as I could blot and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who

All traces of mankind from earth, would willingly forget the infant that perished like a

As if 'twere wrong to blast them not, blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a

They so degrade, so shame their birth.

To think that earth should be so fair, pang! Where is the child that would willingly forget the

So beautiful and bright a thingmost tender of parents, though to remember be but to

That nature should come forth and wear lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget

Such glorious apparelling

That sky, sea, air, should live and glow the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the

With light, and love, and holinesstomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved

And yet men never feel or know when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing

How much a God of love can bless,

How deep their debt of thankfulness ! of its portal-would accept of consolation that must be

I've seen the sun go down, and light, bought by forgetfulness ? No; the love which survives

Like floods of gold, poured on the sky, the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul. If

When every tree and flower was bright, it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when

And every pulse was beating high,

And the full soul was gushing love, the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle

And longing for its home above. tear of recollection—when the sudden anguish and the

And then, when men would soar, if ever,

To the high homes of thought and soul convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we

When life's degrading ties should sever, most loved is softened away into pensive meditation on

And the free spirit spurn controlall that it was in the days of its loveliness—who would

Then have I seen (oh, how my cheek

Is burning with the shame I feel root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may

That truth is in the words I speak) sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of

I've seen my fellow-creatures steal gaiety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom,

Away to their unhallowed mirth,

As if the revelries of earth yet who would exchange it, even for the song of pleasure

Were all that they could feel or share, or the burst of revelry? No; there is a voice from the

And glorious heavens were scarcely worth tomb sweeter than song; there is a remembrance of the

Their passing notice or their care dead to which we turn even from the charms of the liv

I've said I was a worshipper

At woman's shrine. Yet, even there, ing. Oh the grave! the grave ! It buries every error,

I found unworthiness of thought. covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment. From

And when I deemed I just had caught its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender

The radiance of that holy light

Which makes earth beautiful and bright, recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even

When eyes of fire their flashes sent of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb, that he

And rosy lips looked eloquentshould ever have warred with the poor handful of earth

Oh! I have turned, and wept to find

Beneath it all a trifling mind. that lies mouldering before him?

I was in one of those high halls

Where genius breathes in sculptured stone,

Where shaded light in softness falls, Many dwarf the intellect, and dissipate the power of

On pencilled beauty. They were gone thought, by flitting from subject to subject. This week

Whose hearts of fire and hands of skill they are down in the bowels of the earth with the geolo

Had wrought such power; but they spoke

To me in every feature still ; gist; the next they are soaring through the stellar spaces

And fresh lips breathed, and dark eyes woke, with the astronomer. Now history is all the rage with

And crimson cheeks flushed glowingly,

To life and motion. I had knelt them; and the next time you meet with them they are

And wept with Mary at the tree arm in arm with Milton or Shakspeare. Now they are

Where Jesus suffered : I had felt encircled with glasses, and jars, and blowpipes; again the

The warm blood rushing to my brow analysis of matter has been given up for the analysis of

At the stern buffet of the Jew

Had seen the Lord of glory bow mind, and the chemical gases supplanted by the mists of

And bleed for sins he never knew metaphysics. To-day they are skipping through the Ely

And I had wept. I thought that all sian fields of poetry and romance; to-morrow they are

Must feel like me: and when there came

A stranger bright and beautiful, attempting to square the circle or discover the perpetual

With step of grace and eye of flame, motion. They begin Greek to-day, and exchange it for

And tone and look most sweetly blent, German to-morrow. This month is spent in magazine

To make her presence eloquent,

Oh! then I looked for tears. We stood and review reading; the next they are mastering gram

Before the scene of Calvary. mar and composition. To-night they are off to a popular

I saw the piercing spear, the blood, lecture; the next they are spouting at a debating club.

The gall, the wreath of agony.

I saw his quivering lips in prayer Thus the mind is never permitted to settle itself to con

Father, forgive them !-all was there. tinuous and concentrated action; its capacities are frit

I turned in bitterness of soul, tered away; it loses the tone of health and soundness; it

And spoke of Jesus. I had thought becomes sickly and capricious like the bodily appetites of

Her feelings would refuse control;

For woman's heart I knew was franght the man who is continually passing from dish to dish,

With gushing sympathies. She gazed asking a slice of this and a spoonful of that, now some

A moment on it carelessly, thing hot and then something cold, now something sweet

Then coldly curled her lip, and praised

The High Priest's garment. Could it be and then something bitter, crowding and enfeebling his

That look was meant, dear Lord, for thee ! stomach with the strangest and most incongruous mix

Oh! what is woman-what her smiletures.-Rev. John Edwards.

Her lips of love-her eyes of light

What is she, if her lips revile

The lowly Jesus ? Love may write
It is difficult to conceive anything more beautiful than

His name upon her marble brow,

And linger in her curls of jetthe reply given by one in affliction, when he was asked

The light spring flower may scarcely bow how he bore it so well. It lightens the stroke,' said he,

Beneath her step-And yet-and yet

Without that meeker grace, she'll be to draw near to Him who handles the rod.'

A lighter thing than vanity! THE WAY TO BE HAPPY IN OLD AGE. He that would spend the latter part of his life with Printed and published by JAMES HOGG, 122 Nicolson Street, honour and decency, must, when he is young, consider

Edinburgh; to whom all communications are to be addressed.

Sold also by J. JOHNSTONE, Edinburgh; J. M'LEOD, Glasgow that he shall one day be old; and, when he is old, that W. M'COMB, Belfast; R. GROOMBRIDGE & Sons, London, and he was once young.

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