still resided at Eakring, and died there, March 7th, 1708, in the seventieth year of his age.

It has been well said that a fervent piety, a humble resignation, a spirit that under circumstances peculiarly afflicting could sincerely say "not my will but Thine be done," a manly fortitude and a friendly generosity of heart, were blended together in the character of Mompesson.' As Miss Seward emphatically observes, his memory ought never to

die; it should be immortal as the spirit which made him worthy to live.' We travel far to see costly tombs and storied urns' of kings and conquerors, but is not a pilgrimage to such a grave as his a more worthy labour? for he has indeed triumphed over death, and of such is the kingdom of Heaven.'

THE MONUMENT OF EDWARD BIRD, R.A.

E remember, many years ago, being charmed by a picture painted by Mr. Edward Bird. We saw it in Bristol it was one of the earliest works of Art

that left a

'memory' with us after we came to England, probably from its peculiarly English aspect. It was called THE COUNTRY AUCTION.' We were

told it was not inferior, in any respect, to the more celebrated productions of that most amiable man and most excellent artist; that the persons in the pictorial drama were delineated with rare truth, and manifested most correct discrimination of individual character. To us it was a new volume of English rural life. We venerated the patriarchal soberness of the elder peasant, who had secured the volume he loved best-a Bible; the matronly providence of his partner, who wishes her son-in-law to bethink himself of the cradle rather than the punch-bowl; the meek joy of the young wife, proud of the provision for her tea-table; the hesitation amounting to suspicion of the gamekeeper-one of the bidders for a fowling-piece-contrasted with the blustering selfwill of the butcher, resolved that the disputed weapon should be his: the exquisite coquetry of the little maid, who, before a looking-glass, places on her head a burnished cullender; the prying curiosity of the country connoisseur, examining the merits of an old picture. But the merry group of little ones,' amusing themselves with a kitten they had confined in a warming-pan, delighted us as much as pussy' did them. The sportive

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character of that little episode was delicious; so full of life and childish nature so different in its moods and exercises from the grown-up nature of big people.' It was evidently painted by an artist who both understood and loved children-not as models, but as portions of his own heart. There were other pictures by the same hand, we remember, in the room: The Surrender of Calais,' 'The Burning of the Bishops,'-a subject full of painful interest, one of the last the painter ever undertook; and it must have been a trying scene to a man struggling with illness, and those distressing nervous affections which shatter intellect and stimulate beyond the bodily power of exertion or endurance.

We transferred our interest, naturally enough, from the picture to the painter, and became anxious to see the artist who had afforded us so much pleasure. At that time to have looked upon a man capable of producing such works would have made us happy beyond conception; but they told us he was dead, that he had been benevolent to the poor, a devoted husband, an affectionate yet judicious father, a most admirable son, a faithful friend, and an earnest lover of, and labourer in, his art, to which he had won his way by steady and undeviating perseverance, gaining respect by conduct in domestic life so praiseworthy that he commanded esteem no less than admiration. His genius was enshrined in home affections and home duties. The Bristol people (we were then informed) were so rightly proud of this good man and good painter, who had elevated the reputation-restored it we may say, for it had been lost-of their moody city by his virtues no less than by his talents, that they-gentlemen of Bristol-had honoured his remains with a splendid funeral. We were shown the spot where he was buried in the cathedral, and assured it was their intention to erect a monument to his memory!

We rejoiced to think that this people had grown wiser, as well as more generous, since the fate of Chatterton

'The marvellous boy who perished in his pride'—

had left a blot upon their character. We rejoiced to learn that wisdom had followed experience, and that the warning bequeathed by the unhappy child of genius had produced its anticipated effects; that the Bristolians,' no longer the Baotians-though neither as wealthy nor as prosperous as

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in the times of yore, when Bristol sent forth and received her golden argosies-had rendered their sea-city a queen among the provinces for justice and liberality. We shall see!

It was not, however, until a comparatively late period, that the picture of Mr. Bird (although it had often floated over our mind,) returned vividly before us. And what we had heard of his gentle nature contrasted so strongly with the resolute and stormy character of James Barry, that it was a relief to contemplate the career, despite its few gloomy passages, of a domestic painter-a man painting in the midst of his children instructing and regulating their minds while conveying to his canvass the knowledge and power that supplied them with food; a man whose whole life proved the compatibility of high talent with the Christian virtues; a man, who like Sir David Wilkie, made his Bible his guidebook,* whose life was an illustration of his faith-a faith without cant or severity.

We know one of BIRD's oldest companions. It is pleasant to hear him talk of the friend over whom the grave has closed more than thirty years, and whom he characterises as straight-minded and sound-hearted among his fellow-men.' 'Edward Bird,' he tells us, evinced his talent at a very early period. To keep him quiet, when not more than four years old, his mother would suffer him to have his liberty in a whitewashed garret, which he decorated according to his fancy with two armies in battle-array -the one party drawn in red, the other in black chalk; and he would every now and then, as he executed a figure, start back, clap his hands, and exclaim, "Well done, little Neddy Bird!' But it was not only with red and black chalk that little Neddy Bird' did well; his heart developed itself as much as his mind. Ned was sent to a dame's school about a mile from his home; and his tender mother, to prevent his walking too much, folded up his dinner in a little basket. One day the good schooldame came to inquire why her favourite was so frequently dispatched with an empty wallet; and Neddy' was compelled to confess that whenever he met a hungry-looking beggar on the road, he parted with his

*I have shown you all my preparations for foreign travel,' said this admirable man to one of his dearest friends, and now I must show you my GUIDE-BOOK :'-he produced his Bible.

dinner. In this it seems the child was father to the man,' for a touching story of a widow's child is recorded of him; and our venerable friend assures us the only incorrectness in the record is, that the incident occurred at Bristol and not at Wolverhampton-the painter's birthplace. The bereaved widow, after her child's death, brought a token of gratitude, a pincushion and a pair of scissors, to Miss Bird, mementos which her feeling mind appreciates to this day. What a heritage of high thoughts and heartfelt blessings does such a father bequeath unto his children-the noblest heritage of all!

'He died-and bequeathed to his child a good name!'

The early and industrious life of Mr. Bird calls for little notice. His first professional practice was with a tea-board painter in Birmingham ; but he removed after a brief noviciate, to Bristol-his home for the remainder of his days. Here he commenced a drawing-school. During intervals of teaching, he designed, and sketched, and painted, pouring out his thoughts, giving vent to his ardour, and at the same time disciplining his own mind. Sometimes he showed his productions to his friends, but not often. Mr. Murphy, the father of Mrs. Jameson, an artist whose heart was as warm as his judgment was sound, appreciated them as they deserved, and persuaded Bird to send them to the Bath exhibition, desiring him to mark their price. The modest painter noted them at ten guineas each; the judicious friend wrote them down at thirty, and they were immediately sold. His sketches were pictures-full of subject, and every figure true. The reputation of his genius brought around him friends and strangers, who multiply, with prosperous men, into acquaintances. He was never extravagant, but shared unostentatiously with new and old the simple hospitality of his house; painting away while conversing gaily with those about him, and instructing his children while developing some historical event.

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Of his Chevy Chase' the old gentleman speaks with raptures: says it was far and away his finest historical picture; full of the appropriate mournful feeling-that there was wailing in the very atmosphere-that it was a wonderful picture-that people could not look on it for their tears. The Marquis of Stafford gave three hundred guineas for it;