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be found in England at all equal to some that exist in different churches in Spain, several of which were formerly at the Louvre.

"A Musical Party" (329) is a charming specimen of Giorgione's tasty and gallant manner of treating subjects of this kind. The feather in her cap is not more negligently gay and graceful in its air, than is the lady of this picture. In the centre of this last room, at the end, and forming the most conspicuous object in this gallery, is a very fine picture by Guido,-The Martyrdom of St. Sebastian. Its merit, however, consists chiefly in the design and colouring-there being, as usual, little tragic expression in it. There is great depth and richness in the shadows; and the centre part, where the bright light falls, is very finely coloured as well as drawn-though the flesh is rather too marbly to give the effect of life.

The only other picture I can trust myself to notice (for this paper has already run to twice the length that I intended any of them to reach) is 354-" A Cardinal blessing a Priest," by Paul Veronese. This picture, though including but two figures, is a capital specimen of that sacerdotal dignity of style of which this painter was so fond, and in which he excelled all his rivals. The Catholics of his day ought to have canonized him; for he did more by his works to draw respect upon their religion than half its saints have by their miracles. Nothing can be finer than the air, attitude, and expression of the cardinal, in this picture, as he bends over the kneeling priest, blessing him. He does it with an air that bespeaks an entire confidence in the efficacy of the act, as well as a consciousness of the dignity attendant on the privilege of performing it.

A FOREIGN SOLDIER'S FAREWELL TO HIS ENGLISH MISTRESS.

Why bleeds a heart once haughty, wild,

To be from England's shores exiled?
Are home and friends the endearing band?
No, these are in a distant land.

Is 't fear that on my heart lays hold?

I am not cast in coward mould-
I've braved the battle man to man,
And borne my banner in the van.

Why do I shudder then and weep,
To mount yon bark and plough the deep?
Whose stormy waves I lightly mind,
Heart-wreck'd in leaving thee behind!

Farewell! O met by fatal chance!
As eyes struck by the lightning's glance
See light no more: thus blind shall be
My soul to beauty, losing thee.

C.

BEING IN LOVE.

I HAVE often been in love, and often been disappointed by the intervention of some untoward circumstance, which before I was too deeply linked for my heart to disenthral itself, broke the chain, and restored me to liberty. I never was a blind lover, nor could I be accused of inconstancy. I never fell in love without a wariness, the lack of which has been the ruin of far better men than myself. This arose, I hope it will pardon the avowal, from too exalted an opinion of the sex. I once thought a portion of it to be faultless, and in my foolish judgment had almost decided that the errors of mortality belonged exclusively to man. When I found some peccadillo in the fair object of my regard of very little consequence in itself, I suspected others of greater magnitude to be still concealed, and made haste to stifle my incipient passion. This I effected by the aid of a notion of perfectibility which I conscientiously believed to exist in woman, and I was determined should be found in her with whom I was to enjoy the consummation of mortal happiness. The false opinions of youth are frequently preservatives from evil, and I am indebted to my erroneous notions of female optimism for my escape from an early and too green state of matrimony. Every instance of disappointment in this way, while it acted as a fresh stimulus in my search of the perfect being that existed only in my fancy, increased my caution in my advances. I was consequently no sooner "off with the old love," as the song says, "than I was on with the new." I was in love from sixteen to twenty-six at least half a dozen times. I remember one instance when I had advanced very far in my progress, even to what M. Beyle* calls, in his fanciful way, the seconde crystallization, when the mind passes and repasses between the ideas of the lady's perfectibility, "her love for me, and what I must do to obtain a proof of her affection." One of the most enduring sins of woman is coquetry; it may almost be said to commence in the cradle and linger beyond the wane of beauty. I had never dreamed of such a failing; my own ingenuousness was so apparent that I imagined its notoriety would operate as a safeguard, and that where deceit was not even dreamt of, it would never be used in return. The first fair object of my love visited at a mansion to which I had never been invited, and in that mansion she accepted the admira tion of another lover, and fed her vanity with the double incense offered from two honourable hearts at the same moment. It is but justice to declare that this failing is rarer with the male sex. Few men ever pay court with apparent sincerity to two ladies at the same time; but how many of the latter encourage a plurality of admirers without feeling a sincere attachment for any! In my case a misdirected billet-doux discovered my mistress's perfidy. I enclosed it in a note to my rival, congratulating him on his sharing with me the smiles of the writer; and though it by no means disclosed more than the advance of love on the lady's side to the seconde crystallization above alluded to, it exhibited a state of maturity that taught me it was of longer standing than my own. I sincerely loved, but, as I had not quite arrived at that point which hermetically seals up the eyes to all but the perfectibility

See his work entitled L'Amour.

of the object beloved, l'amour propre dictated that I should banish the fair hypocrite from my heart. I succeeded in doing so, but it cost me many an hour spent like Jaques' " in a melancholy of mine own." I was ultimately revenged on the lady, by witnessing the loss of both her lovers. Since that time she has passed the noon of life and beauty in the tantalizing state denominated "single blessedness." Thus the deity of love often avenges his outraged regality.

But wherefore, I hear the reader exclaim, detail your love adventures to me? I crave his pardon: if he be an unhappy celibataire who knows nothing about being in love, let him skip my lucubration, and leave it for the benefit of those who in time past have, or may at present be in that enjoying state-to the young, the wise, and the susceptible. Being in love then, to begin, by way of definition, is a state of pleasing excitement which nature and social life have created by mutual concessions to accommodate the intercourse of the sexes to the refinements of civilization. To avoid the intensity of natural passion and the rapidity of its approaches, slow advances, like those of an engineer towards a fortress, have been introduced. We must proceed pas et pas. In making these it is that all the hazards, pleasures, and pains, in M. Beyle's nomenclature, during the formation of crystallizations, happen. It was a considerable time after my previous disappointment that I again found myself advanced about two thirds of the way, to use simile still, to the fortress of which I hoped to obtain possession, and every thing seemed to indicate the fulfilment of my expectations. I had passed safely through the palpitating feelings which are experienced at receiving "first impressions." I had seen with triumph, that what the ladies denominate " particular attentions," were as gratefully received as I conjectured virgin coyness would allow them to be. My happiness seemed advancing to fruition; flowing on like an unruffled stream, reflecting the brightness of heaven and the luxuriant scenery of earth. I had even ventured twice to impress a kiss on the lips of the blushing girl at those opportune moments, of which, when chance gives them, lovers know how to take the advantage. All the visions of a paradisaical state danced before my sight in a long vista of years. A second time I knew what it was to be in love. How I went down the dance! -how my intoxicated heart poured out its gushing torrent of delight on meeting, after a short interval of absence! Absence sharpens love's appetite-hence the old and sound advice:

"When you woo a maid you should seldom come in sight," because fancy becomes active during absence, and is so ingrossed with the perfection of the beloved object, that it leaves no space for any other occupation.

Being in love may produce different feelings according to the temperament of the individual; but its pleasures and anxieties are of much the same character in all. Sometimes, as a farce-writer says, "it is the very devil of torment;" at others, it is a state of unvarying complacency. With the sanguine, it is, when thwarted, a whirlwind of raging storms. With some cold constitutions, its pleasures and pains exist in a state of negation. With myself it was a stimulant to activity. I was never long at rest: it kept me in a kind of bodily ebriety that admitted only of marching and countermarching. It drove sleep from my eyelids, and gave me a horror of immobility greater than I can

well express. Yet it was a state of delightful sensation when all went on prosperously. In love there is no room for any interloping intrusive desire, any craving after something novel to relieve the ennui of life. All is complete, all is satisfaction,—there is

No craving void left aching in the breast.

One object absorbs and fixes every thought and action; we live and move but to think and hope and desire the idol to whose worship we have devoted ourselves.

M-, for that was the name of my second mistress, received the congratulations of her acquaintance on her acceptation of a lover, and infidel indeed would he have been thought who credited that we were not the most faithful of enamoratos. But I found too soon that Mwas devoid of sensibility-she was without passion, and while I was the ardent lover that burned with an unquenchable flame, I found that its light fell upon an iceberg that was incapable of receiving or reflecting the warmth that love had thrown upon it. There are many constitutions in the world physically cold that would not be conjectured so from appearances. They marry and have families because others marry and have families around them, and jog through life as Prior says, "in a kind of as it were." Now this coldness in M- first caused fear on my part that I was not really beloved. Le doubt nait led to an endeavour to clear up all. I found my mistress's love was strictly antarctical-it was as frigid as the ice at Melville Island, and I became chilled by her indifference, though I am convinced she loved me as well as she was capable of loving at all. Love in my view consisted in "mutual and partaken bliss." I never had an idea of an affection in which I could not confer as well as receive pleasure. Day by day attachment diminished, but its progressive retrocession effected no change in the conduct of M, and this more and more lessened my regard for her. We parted at last, on her side apparently,

without the least regret

As though that we had never met;

while I felt alternately sorrow and satisfaction at my escape. M was the nymph of Pygmalion-the ivory statue of beauty, that felt nothing of the warmth it inspired. Peace to all such fair beings, who are best fitted for lovers like themselves, to live and die in the passiveness of congealed feeling and of unimpassioned existence. Of all earthly things, this neutrality between life and death, this foe to the energy of love's divinity, this "death of each day's life," is most repelling. The errors of passion admit of palliation; there is in them the seeds of all that is great and good. When duly regulated, they are a "rich compendium of bright essences; an extract of all that is valuable, good, and lovely in the universe." Without their incitement there can be nothing excellent-virtue itself is but the phosphoresence of stagnation.

One may have the misfortune of being in love by making a wrong estimate of the disposition of the object that first impresses us. We are exceedingly apt to interpret in our own favour every thing which tends to confirm our wishes. A glance of pure curiosity is construed into a token of tenderness, and a conversation that will admit of the kind construction of one sentence in support of our hopes, is treasured

as indisputable evidence of the correctness of our views. This may be called being in love by presumption.' If a lady discover the mistake of any one in this regard, let him not hope she will be generous enough to undeceive him, she will infalliby run him deeper into the mire, and make his disembarrassment a matter of greater difficulty. I had the misfortune to suffer once in this way myself. The signs by which I judged, did not appear a moment doubtful, and I pushed matters pretty rapidly, till an eclaircissement on the lady's side was unavoidable. How was I surprised on her informing me that she had never dreamed of any thing beyond friendship, and that I was much mistaken if I thought that myself or any of my sex had made the slightest impres sion on her heart-a few weeks after, she clandestinely married her father's clerk.

But I will not tediously detail all my love-adventures until I was fixed for life with one who, if not perfect according to my early ideas of woman, afforded me more happiness, I am convinced, than a faultless being could have done; and will consider a little the state of being in love in its general character. Being in love, like being in debt, is to be in a state of apprehension. From the first developement in our hearts of that sensation which informs us that an object is not indifferent to us, to the moment of certainty, there is a perpetual irritation that makes what may be styled the fever of the passion, which, as medical men would say, takes a variety of character, from the slower kind of temperate climates, to the intense paroxysms of tropical ones. The high-spirited man, warm in constitution and full of ardour, will generally find love a tropical affection; while the lover of a thin, diluted blood will be scarcely sensible of the insidious advances of his disorder. I imagine that love among the Quakers must be of the latter kind, and that all must proceed by chronometer movements, or, at least, that the Quakers possess the art of keeping down the tokens of what they style carnal impressions' in a way most edifying even for divines in some other sects. A Quaker in love seems to subdue all the exacerbations of this most ungovernable passion, by moving, regardless of heel and spur, in an easy, tranquil, "cheek by jowl" pace. His eyes rarely turn upon the straightlaced object of his regard, unless under cover of the most inviolable stealth; he groans his love upon tip-toe in the tabernacle, having first planned it with a scale and compass right mathematically, and with all the squareness of his sect. Perhaps he only feels what is called physical love, which he has an uncommon power of regulating, and is a stranger to that arising from sentiment, passion, or vanity. However he contrives it, love with him seems a very different thing from what it is with the rest of the world. A Parson in love appears only to keep the philosophy of the thing in view, as an Irishman does the proceeds of the lady's fortune rather than the fair dame herself. With some, being in love is merely a matter of calculation and contract; with others, it is a register of sighs and melancholy, of romantic sentiments and impractieable expectations. Part of the anxieties of this important period in human existence arise out of the conventional forms of society. The state of nature knows nothing but physical love; the other genera have sprung from refinement. Accordingly the most whimsical things have prevailed in love-affairs, invented, perhaps, to season the approaches of the lover with variety. One man advances as certain that love expires

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