of musing-the depression of a genius who sees heaven and cannot ascend to it! The lad who had stood as a model showed no astonishment on the occasion, but closed his lips when he saw his employer was doing nothing, and seating himself on the floor, took from the pocket of his dirty and tattered jacket a lump of coarse brown bread, and began to eat it with such impetuosity, that it was evident he had for some time been longing to begin. When he had finished his break. fast or dinner-whichever it wasenjoying it to the very last, he ventured to cast a timid glance on his employer; but he continued immovable in the same posture as before. After long waiting, when he perceived that evening began to draw on, the boy slipped out of the room, without the painter taking any notice of his movements. And so he sat, depressed and thoughtful; only showing by certain convulsive twitches that he was awake. Once only he raised his head, and, after looking all round, struck himself on the brow, and covered his eyes once more. Hours passed onhe ate nothing-night came; he had no sleep; and it was only at daylight on the following morning, that he thought of leaving the room-still depressed, but more with an expression of grief than of the despair which had characterized his looks at first. He seized his cap, with its bare and ragged plume, and his long cloak. By an almost involuntary movement, he gave a gayer twist to his scarcelyformed mustache, and with evident marks of past suffering in his sunken eyes and sallow cheek, he descended the stair; and after devoutly sprinkling himself with holy water, he sallied forth into the street.

II.

He was a good Christian, and a Christian of the sixteenth century-since the seventeenth was then only begun -and his first care accordingly was to betake himself to the neighbouring church. There he heard mass, and, after some further time, was just leav ing the church, when a hand lightly touched him on the shoulder, and a well-known voice said, “ Good morning, Master Diego."

The person who thus addressed him was a man of a little more than sixty years of age, tall, well made, and of a

graceful carriage; swarthy in complexion, but with the remains of good looks; lively dark eyes-the eyes of genius, which spoke of war and art; with the ardour of a soldier and the enthusiasm of an artist. The mouth was small, and reduced to a very slender complement of teeth; but the body was erect, and the presence dignified. He wore a long cloak of black camlet, old and threadbare; the doublet was of the same, embroidered and elegantly slashed, but not in better condition than its companion. He wore nether garments befitting his gentle condition, with gay-coloured ribands, a long and well-appointed sword, a cap borne with a soldier-like air on one side of his head-all giving token at a single glance of poverty and privation, but clean, and brushed with the most scrupulous nicety.

It was a strange sight, the meeting of those two men; one entering life, the other about to leave it-the one filled with hopes, the other with recollections and both struggling with fortune, and each looking at the other with eyes that spoke a glowing mind, a brilliant imagination, a soul which enthusiasm gnawed as the file does steel. Ah! whoever saw them would not have confounded them with the common herd; and would have said, "There is great good or great evil in those two men-a heaven or a hell. Suicide or glory will be the fate of one and the other." Alas! the other had undergone a thousand combats with a hard and implacable destiny. True, too true! The old man was a mighty poet, but unknown, or at most only valued by a few artists of talent, who at that time were the only persons capable of appreciating his wondrous powers. Our young painter knew him, loved and respected him, as a profound philosopher, good scholar, and brave soldier; he knew his verses by heart, and the young wits of Seville repeated his sonnets with enthu siasm. He seemed struck with the appearance of his friend. "This paleness," he said, "these sunken eyes-young man, you must not throw away a life that might be so glorious; you must not waste your heart in "

"'Tis nought," said the young painter, "but one night of sleeplessness and misery."He seized the arm of his friend, and sighed convulsively.

"Aha!-first love?" said the old

man,

in a tone of interest. "But no," he added; "I see other fires than those of love burn in these eyes; no, no, it cannot be. Boy! tell me what has befallen you?"

"What has befallen me!-the loss of fame-the melting of my wings-a fall !"

"You have tried something too high? You have not hit the moment of inspiration?"

"I have not been able to get beyond a certain point; and there to stick-to be confounded with the common crew-ah!"

"No, boy, you weren't born to be undistinguished; no-lift up your head -lift it up, I say, and think of fame! "Fame!-yes, I have dreamt of fame; and it is to you I owe those dreams that now drive me to despair. I wished either to live admired, or die; no half-and-half existence, wallowing in clay; but now, how can I rise above it?"

"If I had but your touch and your pencil," said the old man, " with my imagination!" His glance grew bright with poetry and enthusiasm."You know not the treasure you possess," he added; "work! and I ensure you fame!"

"'Tis all in vain," said the young man, with apparent indifference. "It has lost its charm for me. I should be worn out in the struggle before I burst through the cloud." He was silent for a moment. "But you also," he said, "have had your dreams of glory; you have written your odes and comedies-and what has it all come to? Is your glory shown in this cloak -in this doublet?"

"I am

"True," replied the old man, with a sigh. "True, I am poor, forgotten, weak, and persecuted. Such have been the fruits of all my labours. Fame-the ungrateful mistress!— I have courted, caressed, worshipped; and what is my reward? O God!" He bent his head for a moment. poor, it is true," he continued, "poor, but honourable. And the dreams of love and happiness-the characters I have created as if I were a god, with all their virtues, their thoughts, their passions, good and bad-those imagi. nary beings whom I love as if they were my children-those works that are my daughters-those moments of illusion and enjoyment-those thoughts, free, wild, and unconstrained-those

ideal worlds I live in-tell me, are these no compensation for the sufferings and misfortunes of life? Who can take them from me? What are the enjoyments and pleasures of a man compared to the felicity of a god?"

The deep wrinkles had left his brow, his eyes burned with the double light of youth and enthusiasm; his proudly elevated head, his majestic glance, which seemed to threaten the earth with the sceptre of heaven-no, he was not a man-he was a genius-a god-and, more than that, he was a poet, glowing with the ardour of inspiration!

The young painter felt himself subdued by the eagle eye and fascinating eloquence of the old man. He cast down his eyes, ashamed of his weakness, and when his friend said to him, "Let us go to your room-come!" he allowed himself to be led along without saying a word.

III.

The studio was in the same state in which we left it. Two men climbed up to it, who might have appeared to be father and son.

"Where is the canvass ?" said the old man.

"There!" said the painter, and raised it from the ground, dirty, and soiled, and blotted.

"What a shame!-there is no ex

cuse for you. You were not pleased with your work, weren't you? Then, in heaven's name, what would you be pleased with? You have destroyed a miracle of art. What expression!— this cheek is positively laughing—well coloured, admirably designed, and most delicately touched. This halfshade is the only blemish on the picture; why do you darken it, and work it up so highly?”

That's the very thing," answered the painter quickly; "that's the cause of my misery. I saw this darkened tint play round the lip of the model, and lose itself imperceptibly. I saw it. I thought I might get it into my picture."-He added, sorrowfully, "Is it not enough to drive me to despair?"

"No-take courage, friend; paint on, and raise yourself above the crowd. Follow your own genius; avoid imitation."

"What can I do? What is left me to discover? Hasn't Titian already

mastered the art of colouring with wonderful power and sweetness? Then comes Correggio with his exquisite taste and inimitable grace-his enchanting colours, his roundness, his relief, and his Virgins. What, then, do you make of my imagination, that you talk of? Isn't there Raphael with his grace, his expression, his fancy without end? Why was I born so late? What can I do now?"

"Imitate nature. All have altered it, some to improve it, others to degrade it; paint you it as it is-with its beauty-with the majesty imprinted on it by the hand of God-with its defects-with its strong lights and shades-exactly as it is; diminish nothing-add nothing; trust to these and to your own imagination; your pencil will do the rest. And after that when you have found the fame you now dream of-do not buoy your self up with hopes of happiness. No; if you hesitate if you dread envy and persecution if you shrink, or are afraid to make your choice between happiness and fame-you are not born for a painter. Break your pencil!"

"No!" cried the painter, worked into enthusiasm by the old man's words," No-I hesitate not! Let fame come! Give me but immortality, and I fear neither evils nor misfortunes. Let them come!-I despise them." He raised his head proudly, and looked as if his voice had had a power to make them come when he did call on them.

"As I expected-as I wished to see you, my son !" said the old man, greatly moved. "You are worthy of the gift intrusted to you by heaven. Ah! if I had been but master of your pencil-of your enchanting art-the world would have spoken of me, and I should have been less unhappy. Look at this brow-are not a thousand miseries engraved on it? I live in a world which cannot comprehend me. I was wretched. My spirit chafed within me, because I could not throw it into marble or on canvass-but I was poor, and I became a soldier. My soul needed an opening, or I must have died. Military ardour is exciting to youth-it promised me laurels and glory without end. I was a soldier," he said, with a proud but melancholy smile," and I swear to you I was not a bad one. But God saw fit to close that avenue against me.

Look !"-and he showed the painter marks of scars, and a wound that maimed him-" look, I was forced to give up the sword! But I could write; my pen remained to me; and with it I painted scenes with colours equal to yours-designs as correctscenes of life, and very difficult."

"And beautiful scenes they are!" exclaimed the painter, in a tone of admiration.

"But you have not seen my masterpiece"-continued the old man-"see, 'tis here, next my bosom-and shall be buried along with me. They fancied it was a libel; they persecuted me for it beforehand; but I like it all the more for the misfortunes it has caused me."

He took from his breast a very thick roll of manuscript, crumpled and dirty, and began to show its contents to the painter. A web of rich tracery - broidered with exquisite scenes-full of extravagances, follies admirably mixed up with deepest wisdom, and profoundest common sense with ridiculous love adventures; and, alternating with them, scenes of purity and tenderness with episodes that awoke the sweetest smiles, or melted into tears. Life itself, with all its joys and woes, its pains and pleasures, was presented on that wondrous tapestry, which displayed on it an existence, fantastic though true, and sublime amidst all the grotesqueness by which it was distinguished.

The painter, in the entrancement of the moment, forgot his desperation, his depression, and even his enthusiasm, and went on listening when the reader's voice had ceased.

"Now, then"-said the old man, more flattered by the enraptured looks of the painter than the applauses of a multitude-" now, then, paint!"

"Ah! what can I paint after what I have heard? That terrible half shade!"

"Paint unsophisticated nature, without alteration, and you will be original. The world will praise you. That shade, so blotched and heavy"

he added thoughtfully-"ah, I see! I will tell you how you may get over it, if you will promise to do as I bid

the easel, took his paints and brushes, and placed himself all ready to begin; but only then it occurred to him to ask what he was to paint.

The old man was prepared for his question. "That old water-carrier

in the leather jerkin."

The painter hesitated.

"Nay, man, paint me him as he is -with those weatherbeaten features and hardened looks with all his roughness, to the life. Place him on the canvass unchanged, rude and uncultivated as he is, and I will worship you as a creator."

In a moment the young painter seized the idea. The soldier took from his purse a few pieces of copper-his whole allowance for the day-and gave them to the rapacious Andrew, the model of the former day; and on a signal he disappeared, and brought the water-carrier back with him in triumph. That individual placed himself before the painter without saying a word. Absorbed in his subject, the young man could only thank the soldier with a smile. But what did it need more? The smile was understood.

Both were silent. Heavens! how the brush flew over the canvass! how the colours started forth in every variety of light and shade! And thus it went on hour after hour, till he had been six hours at work. The nearer he drew to a conclusion, the more attentive and interested grew the soldier. What truth in every touch!every angle preserved!- the colours so real, the leathery texture of that swarthy cheek so perfect! How the hard hands and sunburnt hide grew alive again on the canvass !

Even Andrew entered into the feeling of the picture, and placed himself before the water-carrier as if receiving a jar and in a moment the painter adopted the thought of the clever little rascal, who pretended a look of innocence all the time. Hours flew by: the work advanced-only interrupted by an exclamation, now and then, from the enthusiastic soldier, "Good! good! couldn't be better," and so forth.

The work was indeed nearly finished-the artist smiled; but suddenly his brow contracted-" That cursed half-shade again!" he cried; "'tis always there!" And he seized the brush, and was about to paint it out; but the soldier rushed between.

"Let me, I say!" exclaimed the painter-"Don't hinder me now, when I am full of the subject."

"I won't. You sha'n't add a stroke. Remember your oath!"

"I heed not an oath when immortality depends on a touch. Let me go!" he said, striving to reach the canvas.

"You shall kill me first," replied the soldier, resisting him with a strength not to be expected from his wounded body and advanced time of life.

"Let me go, sir!" cried the painter, clenching his teeth. "Let me finish the best thing I ever did!"

"Don't you see you are going to ruin it, insensate man! Rest your wearied eyesight for a while."

But the young man still struggled; and after some time, when he succeeded in getting to his easel, and stood before the picture, the halfshade, the difficulty, the blemish of his work, had disappeared. The picture was perfect-it was a masterpiece! The soldier smiled.

"Was I not right?" he said. "Did I not tell you that the shade you saw arose only from your eyes being fatigued by looking on the work so long? I begged you to rest your eyes you have done so: what fault do you now find with it? Touch it no more what it might gain in finish it would lose in power and expression. Look at your work! Was I not right in promising you fame? Persevere, and you will fill the whole world with your glory!"

And the young man, with a smile of gratitude and satisfaction-with a cheek glowing with pride and pleasure-with a hand trembling with agitation and happiness-placed at the foot of the picture-Velasquez,

PINXIT.

"You will be immortal, Diego Velasquez de Silva!" said the old man.

Velasquez then threw his arms round him, and weeping with joy said-" And you also, MIGUEL DE CERVANTES SAAVEDRA ! What you read to me will be immortal!"

When the reading of the story was concluded, the counsel for the defence resumed his speech. "I rejoice, my lord, that I have been able to meet my learned friend's objection with an extract like the one we have now heard; for you will have the goodness

to remember that the contents of this volume were declared not only to be bad in themselves, but bad in a particular way-by not being national. Why, my lord, the very defects of the story now produced, are national in the highest degree. The ravings about enthusiasm the flights of what, in plain English, appear, I confess, not very unlike bombast-are peculiarly Spanish on that very account. And, my lord, that brings me unavoidably to comment on the observations of my learned friend with regard to a national literature. I have promised not to follow him in his attempt to discover its genealogy, further than to agree with him, that it is produced in a great measure by the causes he specifies history, religion, manners, and geographical position. But you will allow me, my lord, to impress on your lordship and the jury, that national taste is also produced by the same causes-and therefore that we are perhaps not proper judges of the Spanish literary merit of this volume, not having it in our power to enter fully into the Spanish literary taste. The idylls of Sicily turn heroic ballads on the banks of the Tweed. Theocritus described the loves of shepherds and their nymphs; we, my lord, have Chevy Chase and Robin Hood. But I should not like to submit the merits of our finest minstrelsy to the tender mercies of the editor of the Syracusan Quarterly Review, nor would you be so well able to judge of the Bucolics of the ancient poet as if you had lived all your days in a snug cottage ornée in the vale of Enna. To qualify us to look with proper criticism on the tale you have just heard, or any of the other contents of this volume, you should hear it with Spanish ears-you should read them with Spanish eyes. Of its qualities as a story-of the manner in which the incidents follow each other, and the gradual development of the denouément, we are as well qualified to judge as a hidalgo of Castile; but the rest, my lord, we must take on credit. The language that may appear florid, the actions that may appear absurd, the euthusymuzy that may appear to us misplaced and childish, may, according to the national standard of taste and criticism, be all perfect and unim. peachable. It will be well, therefore,

to bear in mind, that Voltaire thought Shakspeare a savage-as undoubtedly he is, compared to the wits of Louis the Fourteenth, with their silver buckles, and velvet breeches, and bagwigs; and to the burly John-Bullism of Samuel Johnson, the great Corneille must have appeared a most pitiful poetaster. But, my lord, we must entertain wider and loftier notions of literary excellence. We must not, indeed, allow it to consist in its nationality; but still less are we to leave out of view the national taste according to which it was written. You will see, from these few observations, that I do not consider the cause of the prisoner in the slightest degree damaged by the concessions I made in the case of many of the extracts referred to by my learned friend. My lord, in an English dress they are insufferablein English eyes they are poor and spiritless; but at the same time I by no means admit that in Spanish words they are insufferable, or that they are poor and spiritless in Spanish eyes. Let a jury of Spaniards be empannelled to pass judgment on the powerful and eloquent speech of my learned friend-they would condemn it at once as utterly weak and contemptible, filled with rancour and spite, and arising rather from a regret at having spent three or four guineas, than from any virtuous care for the literature of Spain. In this they would perhaps not be wrong"

Here the accuser sprang up in great excitement" My lord, I claim a right of comment on that most ungentlemanly observation."

"I at once retract it, if my learned friend take it so seriously to heart; but, my lord, I consider that the illustration was a just one. The merits of this volume are very unfairly tested by the figure the extracts make, even in the best translation. Don Quixote himself, in order to be appreciated, must be read in the original; and if the enjoyment to us foreigners is quadrupled by reading it in the Spanish language, how doubly delightful must it be when perused with Spanish eyes- Spanish knowledge of lifeSpanish turn of mind-and Spanish literary judgment! The little historiette-but I hate French words, my lord, and prefer calling it the little anecdote-at page 127, seems a favourable specimen of light writing, if