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crouching at the feet of his master till he reloaded, he turned boldly round, placed his tail close between his legs, gave one howl, long and loud, and off he set, and stopped not till within sight of the kennel door.

He was a dog of spirit, and we beg to assure our readers that the modern Hogarth had him not in his mind's eye' when he designed the cut which heads this article.

CONSECRATIONS OF POETIC GENIUS.

[To us, enthusiasts in poetry-and may that enthusiasm survive even the season of brightness in the grass and glory in the flower,' which had now almost passed away-to us, who thought of poets as beings set apart from the world which their lays illumined, how solemn, how sacred, how sublime a delight---deaf and blind to all the sights and sounds of the common day---to look on the very house in which some great poet had been born, lived, or died! Were the house itself gone, and some ordinary pile erected in its stead, still we saw down into its old consecrated foundation! Had the very street been swept away---its name and its dust---still the air was holy---and more beautiful overhead the blue gleam of the sky !---Blackwood's Magazine.]

THE trees that laugh in light, the streams that bear
Their summer cadence thro' the lucid air,

The birds and flow'rs have drawn a spell from thee,—
Spirit of song! majestic Poesy!-

Thy tale is on the lips of youth and dame,—

They breathe thy fire, and consecrate thy fame;
From age to age thy sybil numbers live,
And Memory's sacred boon 'tis thine to give.
Oh, if perchance thy sons are doomed to shroud
Their magic dreams in Grief's oblivious cloud;
If, from this earth, they turn their pensive eyes,
And hail the hour which wafts them to the skies;
If scorn'd by pride, or wasted by distress,
They languish on in spectral loneliness;

Yet then, the touch that dimm'd their spirits' bloom,
Shall wake immortal glory from their tomb!
Go forth-and with the deepest rapture tread,
The scenes where inspiration hath been shed.

Mark the sweet flowers that close their lips at eve,
Amid the beauteous paradise of Neve ;*

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Where Dryden, priest of all the Nine,' did dwell,
And drew wild music from his classic spell.

The banks of Ayr' shall Burns's song illume,
And auld Kirk Alloway's' sepulchral gloom;
Still shall the Avon pour its golden wave

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Where gentle Shakspeare' hath a sainted grave;
From Hagley's bow'rs shall swell the hymn of love,
And White's sad spirit haunt its Clifton Grove.'
The skies of eve have not a lovelier beam
Than places witched by many a minstrel dream;
How glorious in their hallow'd light to stray,
When, from the hills, the sun hath passed away!
A light a fire more beautiful than his,
Shall elevate the heart with lonely bliss;
And in its earthly sepulchre prolong
The deathless spell-the sanctity of song!

R. AUGUSTINE.

IMPROMPTU ON LEAVING BRUSSELS.

ADIEU, my friends, a long adieu !
Time flies away too fast;

But still the memory of you,

And of the happy past,

Will, like a jewel, lie enshrined

In the recesses of my mind.

Adieu again!-perchance a thought

Of me may sometimes touch your hearts;

And if it is with pleasure fraught,

Or if it any joy imparts,

"Twill soothe the pain he fain would tell,

Who now sighs forth a last farewell!

The Vale of Neve was the retreat of the poet of the Leaf and Flower.' In a letter to a friend, Pope designates this part of Northamptonshire the land of the violet and nightingale."

R. A.

FRENCH PAINTERS AND PAINTING.

I HAVE walked two or three times through the gallery of the Louvre-but the finest paintings and sculptures of Italy are still too present to my recollection. It is strange that, considering the length of time during which the French were in possession of the most perfect models of Italian painting, they should not have endeavoured to imitate the style of that school. David has long been at the head of the art in France: one of his pupils, under whom I had studied, was wont to say, rather profanely, hors de l'attelier de David, point de Salut. Owing to this connexion between us, I was particularly anxious to examine his works :-I sought in vain for the mellow tints, the unconfined spirit of Italian painters, but found an ample share of the minute, stiff, affected style of the French artists.

As, in my opinion, the question of the French style of painting involves the consideration of the national character, some investigation of the subject may not be uninteresting. Works of feeling and imagination must ever bear the stamp of the habitual character of the mind; and I know not whether others may agree to my estimate, but it is founded on intimate personal observation, and I believe it to be just-in the French character you seldom find that sensibility which ought imperceptibly to unite the soul of the painter with that of his admirer, the soul of the poet with that of his reader. The French analyse strong feelings, and describe them in true colours; but, both in the character and in the literature of the nation, I seek in vain for that rather melancholy delicacy of sentiment which attaches and interests, because, being really felt, it is conveyed almost unintentionally, without affectation, without effort. I do not find that overflowing of the heart which is declared by the last word, which is destroyed by any attempt at effect. I do not find any token of the existence of those indefinite feelings that breathe through the unstudied works of real sensibility, and which, without being expressed, thrill the bosoms

of those who are able to understand the more gentle and eloquent workings of the inmost soul. To produce this effect, it is not sufficient that art should not appear-it must not even exist: it is as impossible for art to imitate what the barrenness of the heart denies, as it is for ingenious sensibility to conceal its silent workings: the more deep and intense the feeling, the less will it be dwelt upon; but, where any attempt to explain would either have exposed it to ridicule or have swelled it to bombast, it will glide into the breasts of others

'Like the stealing

Of summer wind through some wreathed shellEach secret winding, each inmost feeling Of all the soul echoing its spell !'

When, therefore, an artist really understands and feels the subject of his painting, let him, in some sort, confine himself to the execution of its principal features: when these shall have been well expressed, minor objects may be left to the imagination of the beholderand imagination is ever checked by details. Let the expression and the characteristic attributes of his personages be such as to speak to the soul of his admirer, and let him then trust to that soul to supply that, which, had it been represented, would have divided and drawn aside attention: for whatever be the subject of the piece, when the ground-work is correct, it can only be hurt by an excess of details. A finer fruit-piece than I have ever met with in any picture-gallery may be seen on a plaster wall beside the door of a wine-shop in the rue neuve des Augustins: it attracted my attention the other day, and I have never since passed through the street without stopping to admire the beautiful inviting bunches of mellow grapes in which the humble painter has only employed two or three colours.

But as the attention of the beholder is weakened by details, so the effect produced by the painting depends, in a great measure, on the plan which the artist follows. When he exclusively confines himself for the time to one part of his picture, and studies each part of it in

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succession, how is it possible that he should link together the minds of the different personages represented on the canvass? I will explain this by a short reference to David's much admired painting of the Rape of the Sabines here, all the prominent figures are fine, well drawn, and expressive. Yet there is no common feeling in these personages; they all feel, but not because their companions do so; they are all agitated by the same sentiment, but they are not agitated in common; the grief of the one has nothing to do with the grief of its neighbour; each forms a separate ring of the same chain of feeling, but the links that ought to unite them are wanting. The two principal figures, Romulus and Tatius, stand forth in an unmoved, warlike attitude, and seem perfectly unconscious of the presence of the beautiful being who has thrown herself between them: then, again, there is no thread which unites the sentiments of this figure with the sentiments of those she is endeavouring to separate; nor, indeed with those of the other woman who has cast her children at the feet of the two combatants. Even the common expression of this mother and her three children is not expressed in common--though each separately expresses what is expressed by the other.

In the gallery of the Luxemburgh, dedicated to the works of living artists, the want of reciprocal feeling and the excess of glaring colours are still more remarkable. There is scarcely a single painting free from the defect. An honourable exception may, however, almost be made in favour of a painting which announces itself as the work of F. Smith:' the simple but beautiful manner in which Andromache and Astyanax are there represented at the tomb of Hector, pleasingly arrests the eye, fatigued by the surrounding conceited vagaries of the French candidates for fame. I had never before heard of Mr. Smith; but I trust that the fruits of his national talent-his name seems to mark him as an Englishman-are not confined to this ornament of the French gallery.

B.

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