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old times; and this makes not only a us and from each other; and we are picturesque contrast, but gives a not quite sure that they would rebeautiful softness and youthful deli- pay our inquiries. Besides, to say cacy to the female faces opposed to the truth, we have already pretty them. Upon the whole, this series well exhausted our stock of critiof historic compositions well deserves cism, both general and particular. the attention of the artist and the The same names were continually connoisseur, and perhaps some' light occurring, and we began sometimes might be thrown upon the subject of to be apprehensive that the same obtheir authenticity by turning over servations might be repeated over some old portfolios. We have heard again. One thing we can say, that a hint thrown out that the designs the going through our regular task are of a date prior to Titian. But has not lessened our respect for the “we are ignorance itself in this !” 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 We now take leave of British Gal- greater love of it in our readers, we leries of Art. There are one of two shall think our labour and our anxiety others that we had intended to visit; to do justice to the subject most but they are at a great distance from amply rewarded.
OLD COREHEAD'S FIRESIDE.
BY ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.
The troubled sun was wading 'mid the mirk
His head's remaining snows Old Corehead shook,
gathering, deep and black,
Old Corehead sigh’d, and in his ancient chair
His young son laid aside free Burns's strain,
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 Rivali'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 Veild 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 shorts 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 vainBelieve 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.
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,
The old man went and sought his aged chair ;
THE KING OF HAYTI.
FROM THE GERMAN.
Six weeks after his death stood tion doubtless was to send a copy to the bust of the late stamp-distributor each of those loose companions of his Goodchild exposed to public view who helped him to run through his in the china-manufacture of fine estate: natural enough for him For what purpose ? Simply for this to propose as a spendthrift, but —that he might call Heaven and earth highly absurd for me to ratify as. to witness, that, allowing for some executor to so beggarly an inheritlittle difference in the colours, he ance; and therefore assuredly I looked just as he did heretofore in shall not throw so much money out life: a proposition which his brother of the windows." and heir Mr. Goodchild the merchant This was plausible talking to all flatly denied. For this denial Mr. persons who did not happen to know Goodchild had his private reasons. that the inheritance amounted to 25 “ It is true," said he, “my late thousand dollars; and that the merbrother the stamp-distributor, God chant Goodchild, as was unanimously rest him! did certainly bespeak affirmed by all the Jews both Christhree dozen copies of his own bust tian and Jewish, in L-, weighed at the china-works:—but surely he moreover in his own person, indebespoke them for his use in this pendently of that inheritance, one life, and not in the next. His inten- entire ton of gold.
The ostensible Reason. The china-works would certainly be ordered: and my brother may never have been put off with this have ordered them. But what then allegation; and therefore, by the ad- I suppose all men will grant that he vice of his attorney, he had in re- meant the busts to have some reserve a more special argument why semblance to himself, and by no he ought not to pay for the six-and- means to have no resemblance. But thirty busts. "My brother,” said now, be it known, they have no rehe, “ may have ordered so many semblance to him. Ergo I refuse copies of his bust. It is possible. I to take them. One word's as good neither affirm nor deny. Busts may as a thousand.”
CHAPTER III. “ In the second Place"-Dinner is on the Table. But this one word, no nor a thou- him, it was an injustice that would sand such, would satisfy Mr. Whelp cry aloud to heaven for redress if, the proprietor of the china-works. after all, his works were returned So he summoned Mr. Goodchild be upon his hands; especially where, as fore the magistracy. Unfortunately in the present instance, so much Mr. Whelp's lawyer, in order to beauty of art was united with the show his ingenuity, had filled sixteen peculiar merit of a portrait. It was folio pages with an introductory are fatal, however, to the effect of this gument in which he laboured to argument, that just as the magistrate prove that the art of catching a like arrived at—" In the second place," ness was an especial gift of God, his servant came in and said, “ If bestowed
very few portrait- you please, Sir, dinner is on the painters and sculptors-and which table." Naturally therefore contherefore it was almost impious and ceiving that the gite of the lawyer's prophane to demand of a mere unin- reasoning was to defend the want of spired baker of porcellain. From resemblance as an admitted fact, this argument he went on to infer à which it would be useless to deny, fortiori in the second place that, the worthy magistrate closed the where the china-baker did hit the pleadings and gave sentence against likeness, and had done so much Mr. Whelp the plaintiff. more than could lawfully be asked of