old times; and this makes not only a picturesque contrast, but gives a beautiful softness and youthful delicacy to the female faces opposed to them. Upon the whole, this series of historic compositions well deserves the attention of the artist and the connoisseur, and perhaps some light might be thrown upon the subject of their authenticity by turning over some old portfolios. We have heard a hint thrown out that the designs are of a date prior to Titian. But 66 we are ignorance itself in this!"

We now take leave of British Galleries of Art. There are one or two others that we had intended to visit; but they are at a great distance from

us and from each other; and we are not quite sure that they would repay our inquiries. Besides, to say the truth, we have already pretty well exhausted our stock of criticism, both general and particular. The same names were continually occurring, and we began sometimes to be apprehensive that the same observations might be repeated over again. One thing we can say, that the going through our regular task has not lessened our respect for the great names here alluded to; and, if we shall have inspired, in the progress of it, any additional degree of curiosity respecting the art, or any greater love of it in our readers, we shall think our labour and our anxiety to do justice to the subject most amply rewarded.

W. H.

OLD COREHEAD'S FIRESIDE.

BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

THE troubled sun was wading 'mid the mirk
And gathering clouds o'er Tinwald tower and kirk;
The cattle left green Mouse wold, while a cloud
Wrapt stately Moloch like a mighty shroud;
Fast on Dumfries the darkness dropp'd, and lay
In volumed wreaths on floating bark and bay;
The seaman plucks his mainsail down; and, hark!
He whistles loud, and doubly moors his bark.
Behind her thrown a broad and foaming line,

The port-ward ship comes breasting through the brine;
Flown from the flood, his dark wings' pluming dry,
The cormorant sits and utters a startled cry;

Birds seek the bower, steeds seek the stall-friends meet,
Nor know each other in the darken'd street.

His head's remaining snows Old Corehead shook,
And gazed to Heaven, as home his way he took;
Behind, above, he mark'd the shifting rack

Of cloud on cloud, fast gathering, deep and black,
And now and then the lightning, swift and blue,
Brighten'd the bellying storm, but broke not through;
He raised his latch-even then upon the roof
Big rain drops plash'd, and thunder roll'd aloof.
Ah, me! he said, yon tempest's coming sweep
Will shred the grain man's sickle's whet to reap.
Down dropp'd the wind-the barley's golden horn
Was rudely shook-loud rustled the standing corn.
The Clouden raised his moorland voice on high,
And the chafed Solway sent a hoarser cry.

Old Corehead sigh'd, and in his ancient chair
Sank and sat mute, and smooth'd his hoary hair;

His young son laid aside free Burns's strain,
O'er which he smiled, and wept, and smiled again;
His fair young daughter silenced her sweet tongue,
Low warbling o'er a wild and tender song ;
And from her thrift came forth the frugal dame,
And shut her shutters close, and trimm'd the flame.
“Ah! maids,” she said, "I mind in that sad year
When I was wed, there came a tempest drear-
The corn was shook; the fruit fell from the trees;
In their sweet chambers died the honey-bees;
For glad September's sunshine there came snow;
The song-birds' wings were frozen to the bough;
The sparrow on our hearth-stone sat; the swan
Came from the cloud to the abodes of man ;-
Ah! maidens, mark, that was a cruel hour
To knit fond hearts; scant was our winter store,
Thin were our garments, and the cricket's song
To our cold hearth came not the winter long.”

While thus she spoke, lo! there began to gush Huge rain from Heaven; the wind rose with a rush ; Thick darkness follow'd fast, flash after flash The lightning came, and the rude river's dash Rivall'd the thunder-o'er the battle mound Where Wallace fought it leap'd, and burst all bound; Dalswinton oak shook like a shepherd's wand, And the vex'd ocean sprang three roods on land. Ah! who unmoved may hearken to the sound Of torrents waked, and wild woods waving round, See Heaven's fierce lightnings flashing all abroad; Feel stedfast earth rock'd 'neath the foot of God? The old man knelt, Oh! for the righteous' sake Spare youth's green leaves, and, oh! the ripe ears take." And, as he pray'd, his long and hoary hair

Shone with the levin's swift and dismal glare.

His daughter knelt, her dark eyes from the flame

Veil'd with her hands, while fear shook all her frame;
Close to the floor her white brow did she lay,

And sigh'd, and seem'd to sob her soul away.

Steed snorts to steed, and startles in the stalls;
Deep answers deep-to mountain mountain calls;
Eternal ocean roars the mother wild

Throws her arms seaward weeping for her child.
God's steeds are loosed, the earth wide-shuddering feels
Fire from their nostrils, thunder from their heels.
A fearful brightness fills the house-the gleam
Casts o'er each face a swift and ghastly stream:
Gross darkness comes, and seems to swallow all,
And heaven above hangs o'er us like a pall.

The old man pray'd-his clench'd hands thus were thrust,
His eyes were closed-his white hairs in the dust,-

The old man pray'd-I knelt then by his side,
And say it now in meekness more than pride,-
The old man pray'd-ye who deem poets' strain
A shadowy fiction, profitless and vain-
Believe or doubt-even as he pray'd, the heaven
Dropt its last drop and quench'd its burning levin,
Made mute its thunder-bade the spirit begone,
That ruled the storm, with a reluctant groan.

a

Uprose the old man from his knees—I saw Light in his eyes that made me look with awe. He led his family forth, and gazing down, Saw far beneath him cottage, tower, and town; The heaven above, with thunder track'd and plow'd And sown with stars, in deep blue glory glow'd ; The wind smell’d sweet like air of summer-noon, And o'er the mountains came the round clear moon, The round clear moon came forth, and you might mark The foaming firth-Nith tumbling deep and dark, Save where its current caught a golden stain From fields whose riches made the farmer vain. From fair Dumlanrig and green Durisdeer, From thy dark woodlands mine own native Keir, There comes a voice to which the trumpet seems A baby's cry—the thunder of the streams; The cormorant calls in gladness from its rocks, The green hills give the low of all their flocks ; Doves sit and plume them on Dalswinton pines, Lights from men's windows stream in trembling lines ; And man comes forth, and, in a thankful mood, Blesses the sight, and owns that God is good.

The old man stood, the moon upon his face Spilt her soft light-he mused a little space Eastward he turn'd, a wild and fitful light Was glimmering there, his face grew glad and bright. Westward he look'd—there deep with thunder scars The heaven seem'd sick and dropping fast her stars ; Southward he look'd—his breath grew tight with aweThe wondrous shade as of a ship he saw; Her milk-white mainsail, decks, and pennons high Fill'd all the space between the sea and sky, And as she saild, from her deep sides she dealt That conquering thunder which proud France has felt.

A holy fire flush'd all the old man's brow; He read what none save those inspired know; He calls his children round, and as he stands, On them he looks, and heav'nward holds his hands : “ Dance all and sing-lo, I have had to-night My country's glory vision'd fair and bright, Go shear the fleece, go yoke the crooked plough! And reap in peace what ye in gladness sowDance all and sing. Let maidens bind their hair, The bridal gifts and bridal beds prepare ; Let the bride-candles greet the morning star, And cheer the flail and glad the harvest car. From hall and tower let prayer and praise be heardHeroic strains from the impassion’d bard, Strains such as make the soul dance on the tongue ; Strains such as Scott or hapless Burns has sung. Let words of joy come from the deep sea-brine; Let all our pulpits send a voice divine ; Be mute, ye lords and earls—how cold and weak Are your best words—and let George Canning speak. Come all and hear him, warrior, priest, and sireHim who warms wisdom with poetic fire.” Awhile he paused, and as he paused more pure The full moon shone-'twas nigh the midnight hour.

"Shall man see more such sights as I have seen,
"Twixt snowy sixty-seven and green nineteen?
I've seen the war-plumes fill the shore like snow;
I've heard the horn, but not to harvest blow;
I've seen the fierce artillery shower its rain;
And spears stand thick as that broad vale with grain,
I've seen a sea of plumed and helmed heads;
I've heard the thunder of ten thousand steeds;
From sunny Seine to Siber's dreary bourne,
I've heard the clang of many a martial horn-

I've braved blythe France, when sharpest was her sword,
And bearded Paul and his barbarian horde;

I've chased the Turk round Chios isle and Rhodes;
Tamed the proud Spaniard and his drowsy gods;
I sail'd with him who bade the Dane retire,
And gave him light from flaming fleet and spire-
I sail'd with him-on whom proud Victory's sun
For ever shone, who fell when all was won-
Nelson and Bronte-on the wide wild sea
Thou wert a god as much as man may be !
Round thee, my country, dark and dashing far,
The world like one wild ocean roll'd in war,
Strong men's ambition 'gainst thy glory burn'd,
They came with shouting and with wail return'd;
The sea was sick with blood, with slaughter'd bones
The earth was fill'd, and maids' and orphans' moans;
Fierce armies come-fast from the earth they melt,
Like April snow when May's first sun is felt;
Britain alone, like heaven's own quenchless flame,
Stood still unchanged, majestic, and the same;
From her proud island o'er the world look'd down,
Sad was her sinless brow with sorrows not her own."

The old man went and sought his aged chair; The moon came streaming 'mid his silver hair; He gave a glance, and all his children dear

Drew nigh, they knew the time of prayer was near.

God's holy word with reverent hand took he,

Said, "Let us worship God," and laid it o'er his knee;
Closer his children came, and meek and mute
Hemm'd him, like Joseph's vision'd sheaves, about.

As calm he read, with clear prophetic tone,

Each eye look'd down, each breath was gentler blown,
Each palm was spread, each head was meekly hung,
O'er them Devotion's charmed veil was flung.

He closed the book, a holy sign he made,

Fell on his knees, and "Let us pray," he said.

All lights were dimm'd, save those bright ones which keep
Close watch with seraphs when the righteous sleep.

All knelt and laying to the floor each face,
Breath'd low-'twas silence for a little space.
The old man pray'd-the slant moon-beam became
Five-fold more bright, and fill'd the room with flame.
His best beloved child look'd up, she saw
The wondrous light, she held her breath with awe,
And partly deem'd the glowing light that shone
Was lustre streaming from his blessed locks alone.

THE KING OF HAYTI.

FROM THE GERMAN.

CHAPTER I.

Six weeks after his death stood the bust of the late stamp-distributor Goodchild exposed to public view in the china-manufacture of L. For what purpose? Simply for this --that he might call Heaven and earth to witness, that, allowing for some little difference in the colours, he looked just as he did heretofore in life: a proposition which his brother and heir Mr. Goodchild the merchant

flatly denied. For this denial Mr. Goodchild had his private reasons. "It is true," said he, "my late brother the stamp-distributor, God rest him! did certainly bespeak three dozen copies of his own bust at the china-works:-but surely he bespoke them for his use in this life, and not in the next. His inten

tion doubtless was to send a copy to each of those loose companions of his who helped him to run through his fine estate: natural enough for him to propose as a spendthrift, but highly absurd for me to ratify as executor to so beggarly an inheritance; and therefore assuredly I shall not throw so much money out of the windows."

This was plausible talking to all persons who did not happen to know that the inheritance amounted to 25 thousand dollars; and that the merchant Goodchild, as was unanimously affirmed by all the Jews both Christian and Jewish, in L, weighed moreover in his own person, independently of that inheritance, one entire ton of gold.

CHAPTER II.

The ostensible Reason.

The china-works would certainly never have been put off with this allegation; and therefore, by the advice of his attorney, he had in reserve a more special argument why he ought not to pay for the six-andthirty busts. "My brother," said he, " may have ordered so many, copies of his bust. It is possible. I neither affirm nor deny. Busts may

be ordered: and my brother may have ordered them. But what then? I suppose all men will grant that he meant the busts to have some resemblance to himself, and by no means to have no resemblance. But now, be it known, they have no resemblance to him. Ergo I refuse to take them. One word's as good

as a thousand." CHAPTER III. "In the second Place"-Dinner is on the Table. But this one word, no nor a thousand such, would satisfy Mr. Whelp the proprietor of the china-works. So he summoned Mr. Goodchild be fore the magistracy. Unfortunately Mr. Whelp's lawyer, in order to show his ingenuity, had filled sixteen folio pages with an introductory ar gument in which he laboured to prove that the art of catching a likeness was an especial gift of God, bestowed on very few portraitpainters and sculptors-and which therefore it was almost impious and prophane to demand of a mere uninspired baker of porcellain. From this argument he went on to infer à fortiori in the second place that, where the china-baker did hit the likeness, and had done so much more than could lawfully be asked of

him, it was an injustice that would cry aloud to heaven for redress if, after all, his works were returned upon his hands; especially where, as in the present instance, so much beauty of art was united with the peculiar merit of a portrait. It was fatal, however, to the effect of this argument, that just as the magistrate arrived at-" In the second place," his servant came in and said, "If you please, Sir, dinner is on the table." Naturally therefore conceiving that the gite of the lawyer's reasoning was to defend the want of resemblance as an admitted fact, which it would be useless to deny, the worthy magistrate closed the pleadings and gave sentence against Mr. Whelp the plaintiff.