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of his new life over their full-blown sum- word along the file that water is in sight. mer glories.

Though each little party that follows in No huinan being can rest for any time a foot-track of its own will have it that in a state of equilibrium, where the de- the water to which others think they are sire to live and that to depart just bal hastening is a mirage, not the less has it ance each other. If one has a house, been true in all ages and for human bewhich he has lived and always means ings of every creed which recognized a to live in, he pleases himself with the future, that those who have fallen worn thought of all the conveniences it offers out by their march through the Desert him, and thinks little of its wants and have dreamed at least of a River of Life, imperfections. But once having made and thought they heard its murmurs as up his mind to move to a better, every they lay dying. incommodity starts out upon him until The change from the clinging to the the very ground-plan of it seems to have present to the welcoming of the future changed in his mind, and his thoughts comes very soon, for the most part, afand affections, each one of them packing ter all hope of life is extinguished, proup its little bundle of circumstances, have vided this be left in good degree to Naquitted their several chambers and nooks ture, and not insolently and cruelly forand migrated to the new home, long be- ced upon those who are attacked by illfore its apartments are ready to receive ness, on the strength of that odious foretheir bodily tenant. It is so with the knowledge often imparted by science, bebody. Most persons have died before they fore the white fruit whose core is ashes, expire,--died to all earthly longings, so and which we call death, has set beneath that the last breath is only, as it were, the the pallid and drooping flower of sicklocking of the door of the already desert- ness. There is a singular sagacity very ed mansion. The fact of the tranquillity often shown in a patient's estimate of his with which the great majority of dying own vital force. His physician knows the persons await this looking of those gates state of his material frame well enough, of life through which its airy angels have perhaps,--that this or that organ is more been going and coming, from the moment or less impaired or disintegrated; but the of the first (ry, is familiar to those who patient has a sense that he can hold out have been often called upon to witness so much longer,--sometiines that he must the last period of life. Almost alwave and will live for a while, though by the there is a preparation made by Nature logic of disease he ought to die without for unearthing a soul, just as on the small- any delay. er scale there is for the removal of a milk The Little Gentleman continued to fail, tooth. The roots which hold human life until it became plain that his remaining to earth are absorbed before it is lifted days were few. I told the household from its place. Some of the dying are what to expect. There was a good deal weary and want rest, the idea of which is of kind feeling expressed among the almost inseparable in the universal mind boarders, in various modes, according to from death. Some are in pain, and want their characters and style of sympathy. to be rid of it, even though the anodyne The landlady was urgent that he should be dropped, as in the legend, from the try a certain nostrum which had saved sword of the Death-Angel. Some are somebody's life in jest sech a case. The stupid, mercifully narcotized that they Poor Relation wanted me to carry, as may go to sleep without long to sing from ber, a copy of " Allein's Alarm," about. And some are strong in faith etc. I objected to the title, reminding and hope, so that, as they draw near the her that it offended people of old, so that next world, they would fain hurry toward more than twice as many of the book it, as the caravan moves faster over the were sold when they changed the name sands when the foremost travellers send to " A Sure Guide to leaven." The good old gentleman whom I hare men. So the Koh-i-noor thought be fool tioned before has come to the tiine of begin, as soon as they got into the pan. life when many old men cry easily, and by knocking his man down, and with the forget their tears as children do – He intention swung his arm round after the was a worthy gentleman, – he said, -a fashion of rustics and those unskilled is very worthy gentleman, but unfortunate, the noble art, expecting the young fello - very unfortunate. Sadly deformed John to drop when his fist, baring con about the spine and the feet. Had an pleted a quarter of a circle, should come impression that the late Lord Byron had in contact with the side of that young some malformation of this kind. Had man's head. Unfortunately for this the heerd there was something the matter ory, it happens that a blow struck out with the ankle-j*ints of that nobleman, but straight is as much shorter, and therehe was a man ot talents. This gentleman fore as much quicker than the rustie's seemed to be a man of talents. Could swinging blow, as the radius is shorter not always agree with his statements, than the quarter of a circle. The mathethought he was a little over-partial to this matical and mechanical corollary was, city, and had some free opinions ; but was that the Koh-i-noor felt something hard sorry to lose him, — and if there was bring up suddenly against his right eye, anything he could --

which something he could bave sworn In the midst of these kind expressions, the was a paving-stone, judging by his sengentleman with the diamond, the Koh-i- sations; and as this threw his person noor, as we called hiin, asked, in a very somewhat backwards, and the young man unpleasant sort of way, how the old boy John jerked his own head back a little, was likely to cut up, - meaning what the swinging blow had nothing to stop money our friend was going to leave be- it; and as the Jewel staggered between hind.

the hit he got and the blow he missed, The young fellow John spoke up, to he tripped and “ went to grass," so far the effect that this was a diabolish snob- as the back-yard of our boarding-house by question, when a man was dying and was provided with that vegetable. It not dead. - To this the Koh-i-noor re- was a signal illustration of that fatal misplied, by asking if the other meant to take, so frequent in young and ardent insult him. - Whereto the young man natures with inconspicuous calves and John rejoined that he had no particul'r negative pectorals, that they can settle intentions one way or t'other.— The Koh- most little quarrels on the spot by i-noor then suggested the young man's “knocking the man down.” stepping out into the yard, that he, the We are in the habit of handling our speaker, might “slap his chops." - Let faces so carefully, that a heavy blow, 'em alone, – said young Maryland, – taking effect on that portion of the surit'll soon be over, and they won't hurt face, produces a most unpleasant surprise, each other much. - So they went out. which is accompanied with odd sensations,

The Koh-i-noor entertained the very as of seeing sparks, and a kind of electricommon idea, that, when one quarrels cal or ozone-like odor, half-sulphurous in with another, the simple thing to do is character, and which has given rise to a to knock the man doron, and there is the very vulgar and profane threat sometimes end of it. Now those who have watched heard from the lips of bullies. A person such encounters are aware of two things : not used to pugilistic gestures does not first, that it is not so easy to knock a instantly recover from this surprise. The man down as it is to talk about it; sec- Koh-i-noor, exasperated by his failure, ondly, that, if you do happen to knock and still a little confused by the smart a man down, there is a very good chance hit he had received, but furious, and conthat he will be angry, and get up and fident of victory over a young fellow a give you a thrashing.

good deal lighter than himself, made a

desperate rush to bear down all before the programme of her career I may herehim and finish the contest at once. That after allude to. is the way all angry greenhorns and in- I never thought he would come to good, competent persons attempt to settle mat- when I heard him attempting to sneer at ters. It doesn't do, if the other fellow is an unoffending city so respectable as only cool, moderately quick, and has a Boston. After a man begins to attack very little science. It didn't do this time; the State-House, when he gets bitter for, as the assailant rushed in with his about the Frog-Pond, you may be sure arms flying everywhere, like the vans of there is not much left of him. Poor Eda windmill, he ran a prominent feature gar Poe died in the hospital soon after of his face against a fist which was travel- he got into this way of talking; and so ling in the other direction, and imme- sure as you find an unfortunate fellow diately after struck the knuckles of the reduced to this pass, you had better beyoung man's other fist a severe blow with gin praying for him, and stop lending the part of his person known as the epi- him money, for he is on his last legs. gastrium to one branch of science and Remember poor Edgar! He is dead and the bread-basket to another. This second gone; but the State House has its cupola round closed the battle. The Koh-i-noor fresh-gilded, and the Frog-Pond has got had got enough, which in such cases is a fountain that squirts up a hundred feet more than as good as a feast. The young into the air and glorifies that humble fellow asked him if he was satisfied, and sheet with a fine display of provincial held out his hand. But the other sulked, rainbows. and muttered something about revenge.

I cannot fulfil my promise in this - Jest as y'like,—said the young man number. I expected to gratify your cuJohn.- Clap a slice o' raw beefsteak on riosity, if you have become at all interto that mouse o' yours 'n' 't'll take down ested in these puzzles, doubts, fancies, the swellin'. (Mouse is a technical term whims, or whatever you choose to call for a bluish, oblong, rounded elevation them, of mine. Next month you shall occasioned by running one's forehead hear all about it. or eyebrow against another's knuckles.) The young fellow was particularly pleas - It was evening, and I was going ed that he had had an opportunity of to the sick-chamber. As I paused at the trying his proficiency in the art of self- door before entering, I heard a sweet defence without the gloves. The Koh-i- voice singing. It was not the wild melnoor did not favor us with his company ody I had sometimes heard at midnight: for a day or two, being confined to his - no, this was the voice of Iris, and I chamber, it was said, by a slight feverish could distinguish every word. I had seen attack. He was chop-fallen always after the verses in her book; the melody was this, and got negligent in his person. new to me. Let me finish my page with The impression must have been a deep them. one ; for it was observed, that, when he came down again, his moustache and whiskers had turned visibly white — about

HYMN OF TRUST. the roots. In short, it disgraced him, and rendered still more conspicuous a ten- O LOVE Divine, that stooped to share dency to drinking, of which he had been Our sharpest pang, our bitterest tear, for some time suspected. This, and the On Thee we cast each earthborn care, disgust which a young lady naturally We smile at pain while Thou art pear! feels at hearing that her lover has been

Though long the weary way we trend, " licked by a fellah not half bis size," in

And sorrow crown each lingering year, duced the landlady's daughter to take that No path we shup, no darkness dread. decided step which produced a change in our hearts still whispering, Thou art near! ART.

When drooping pleasure turns to grief,

And trembling faith is changed to fear, The murmuring wind, the quivering leaf

Shall softly tell us, Thou art near!

On Thee we fling our burdening woe,

O Love Divine, forever dear, Content to suffer, while we know,

Living and dying, Thou art near!

PICTURES AT SEVILLE AND MADRID.

Serille, January, 1859. I do not know whether I ought not to take you to the Museo on so bright a morning, although I should like better to stroll with you on the Paseo by the pretty river across which I look to the faintly seen hills of Ronda, with the rich palmtrees in the foreground, and a great stone pine in the middle distance, which would recall to us the Campagna and Italy. Many people have said to me, “ You cannot judge of Murillo till you see him at Seville," — they, of course, having been at Seville. This is so far true, that his best picture is undoubtedly in the Cathedral here; but in all other ways, Murillo is perfectly to be seen in other cities. You know, there. fore, just what the pictures and the Museo have to say to you. They speak of a most clever artist, who evidently consulted Nature conscientiously, and who perceived and understood very often many phases of her grace and beauty. The most masterly of his fifteen or twenty pictures in the gallery is the one of Saint Thomas of Villanueva giving Alms to the Poor; and it is, certainly, charmingly arranged, with great breadth of effect and clever drawing, - on a cool scale of color throughout. The Saint is in a black robe, relieved against a light background of gray wall. The beggar who is receiving alms is capitally understood, and carries the light broadly through the picture. A charming little boy leans against his mother in the lefthand corner, in half shadow, and shows her the coin in his hand. A few other heads fill up the right-hand of the picture behind the Saint. A red drapery, of a dull color, and a touch of brown-red here and there, warm the agreeable grayness of the rest of the canvas. I like much, also, a

“Conception,” in many respects like the usual picture which Murillo repeated 50 often; but the Virgin in this one is represented as very young, - about twelve or fourteen years old, - and the whole effect is most silvery and delicate.

But the Saint Antonio in the Cathedral is, I should say, his great picture. It is very simple, and full of feeling. The Saint, half kneeling, stretches forward to the vision of the Christ-Child, which descends in a glory of cherubim toward him. The great mass of light falls directly upon the kneel. ing figure and the upturned face, and throws strong shadows on the ground. One is reminded, in some of the angelfigures, of the brilliant light and shadow on the little flying cherubs in the “Assumption," at Venice. Here all is sil. very, where in Titian all burns with the glory of a Venetian sunset. But this picture of Murillo seems to me what one must call an eminently “happy" picture. It gives one the idea that the painter enjoyed painting it, for the expressive movement of the Saint is most admirably given, and the extreme simplicity of every part of the picture is most agreeable ; so that we are ready to give great praise to Murillo for what he did, and to say that he was earnest and tried to represent what he really felt. And when we say that, we say a great deal; do we not? But we cannot, for a moment, compare him to the great Venetians. He did not attempt what they did, because he did not feel it at all ; and, as a painter, he is not comparable to them. One sees that he executed with rapidity and a sort of dash, as it were. The Venetian concealed his execution, as Nature does, and attempted to render the most subtile things which he knew his art alone

could give, in their full force and beauty. As a painter, therefore, he cannot be compared with men who wrought from so different a principle. And when we think of the lovely elevation and noble thought in the great Venetians, we must quietly rest grateful for those great blessings, — grateful and happy that they exist, and that we, in some measure at least, understand and appreciate their meaning. Is it not delightful to think of them and know them in their precious old corners and over their dear old altars?

Madrid, March, 1859. You see that we have at last left Andalusia, and are here in what is like a bit of Paris, - shops, dress, carriages, and now and then the smell of asphalt pavement being renewed. Still, mantillas are the coverings for the female head, and peas. ants in costumes drive mules and donkeys through the crowds in the busy streets, and one is still in Spain. We came, you know, for the gallery, and the first glimpse of it showed us that we have enough to do to see that, during our proposed stay of a month. I must tell you just a few things about the pictures, and give you a peep at Madrid through my cyes, since you are not here to use your own.

Murillo is here the same as everywhere else. I very much prefer his pictures in Seville. Velasquez, however, is to be really seen nowhere so well as here. I do not know how many pictures there are here by him, but a great quantity, it seems to me : Philips without number, in childhood, youth, and age; Dons with curled mous. taches; Queens with large hoops and dis. figured heads; an actor, full of life and character, one of his very best. But his greatest picture, and really a wonder, is his portrait of himself painting the little Infanta, who is in the foreground of the picture with two young girls, her court ladies, her dwarf, and a diminutive page. It is quite like a photograph, in clear, broad effect of light and dark. From the other side of the room, full of truth and vigor, as you approach it, you find it is dashed in with a surety of touch and a breadth truly extraordinary, - no details, no substance eren ; painted with one huge brush, it would almost seem, all is vigorous, dash

ing, clever, the triumph of chic, as shown by a master hand. The dog in the immediate foreground is capital, the page pushing him playfully with his foot. The dwarf stands next, full of a sort of quaint truth, with her big head and heavy chin. The mass of light falls on the Infanta, who takes a cup of something, chocolate, I suppose, from one of the kneeling girls, while the other makes a reverence on the other side. Beyond are a nun and a guardadamas, and in the mirror at the other end of the room are most cleverly indicated the portraits of Philip and his wife. Velasquez stands on the left of the picture, behind the Infanta, painting, with his canvas turned back toward us as we look into the room. The black figure of an attendant has passed out of the apartment and is going up a stair against a clear white wall. The skilful way in which you are led into the picture is astonishing, and the whole thing is quite by itself as a piece of painting. There is no attempt at anything subtile or even delicate in the treatment, speaking from the point of view of a result achieved by paint on canvas,- no texture, no difference of handling, no imitation; all is paint, admirably put on, for the effect across the room. I think we must set Velasquez quite by himself as a truthful and surely most gifted portrait-master. With a peculiar gift, - genius, I think we might say,- certainly he is like no one else, and nobody else is like him. Then there is his equestrian portrait of Philip IV., of which you may remember the sketch in the Pitti Gallery, - also one of the Duke of Olivarez, fresh, dashing, and spirited. But I prefer the portrait of — some actor, I am sure,- full of character, against a gray wall background, - one of those faces one is sure one has seen somewhere in Spain, and he is declaiming evidently with the most capital action. - So much for Velas. quez.

But I hardly dare attempt to tell you of the glory of the great Titian, who seems almost newly revealed, in many perfect works. Nothing can equal the superb style of a portrait of Alfonso of Ferrara ; it is like nothing but Nature, - a splendid, dark, manly face and figure, standing and looking thoughtfully at you, or rather, beyond you, caressing in an absent way a little silky dog who puts his paw up to attract his master's notice. The glowing flesh,

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