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her past sufferings appearing as nothing to her before even a month of love; and even sorrowful habit having endeared it to her. Tancred, and his knights, and learned clerks, came in a noble ship, every oar having a painted scutcheon over the rowlock: and Gualtier and his lady feasted them nobly, and drank to them Ist music Hippocras,-that knightly liquor afterwards so renowned, which she retained the secret of making from her sage father, whose name it bore. And when King Tancred, with a gentle gravity in the midst of his mirth, expressed a hope that the beautiful lady no longer worshipped Diana, Gualtier said, " No indeed, Sir ;' and she looked in Gualtier's face, as she sat next him, with the sweetest look in the world, as who
“ No indeed :-/ worship thee and thy kind heart*."
SALE OF THE LATE MR. WEST'S PICTURES.
It is a villainous thing to those who have known a man for years, and been intimate with the quiet inside of his house, privileged from intrusion, to see a sale of his goods going on upon the premises. It is often not to be helped, and what he himself wishes and enjoins; but still it is a villainous necessity,-a hard cut to some of one's oldest and tenderest recollections. There is a sale of this kind now going on in the house we spoke of last week. We spoke of it then under an impulse not easy to be restrained, and not difficult to be allowed us; and we speak of it now under- another. We were returning the day before yesterday from a house, where we had been entertained with lively accounts of foreign countries and the present features of the time, when we saw the door in Newman-street standing wide open, and disclosing to every passenger a part of the gallery at the end of thé hall. All our boyhood came over us, with the recollection of those who had accompanied us into that house. We hesitated whether we should go in, and see an auction taking place of the old quiet and abstraction, but we do not easily suffer an unpleasant and vulgar association to overcome a greater one; and besides, how could we pass? Having passed the threshold, without the ceremony of the smiling old porter, we found a worthy person sitting at the door of the gallery, who on hearing our name, seemed to have old times come upon him as much as ourselves, and was very warm in his services. We entered the gallery, which we had entered hundreds of times in childhood, by the side of a mother, who used to speak of the great persons and transaction in the pictures on each side of her with a hushing reverence as if they were really present. But the pictures were not
* This story is founded on a tradition still preserved in the Island of Cos, and repeated in old romances and books of travels. See Dunlop's History of Fiction, vol. 2, where he gives an account of Tirante ile While.
there--neither Cupid, with his doves, nor Agrippina with the ashes of Germanicus, nor the Angel slaying the army of Sennacherib, nor Death on the Pale Horse, nor Jesus healing the Sick, nor the Deluge, nor Moses on the Mount, nor King Richard pardoning his brother John, nor the Installation of the old Knights of the Garter, nor Greek and Italian stories, nor the landscapes of Windsor Forest, nor Sir Philip Sydney, mortally wounded, giving up the water to the dying Soldier. They used to cover the wall; but now there were only a few engravings. The busts and statues also were gone. But there was the graceful little piece of garden as usual, with it's grass plat and it's clumps of lilac. They could not move the grass plat, even to sell it. Turning to the left, there was the privileged study, which we used to enter between the Venus de Medicis and the Apollo of the Vatican. They were gone, like their mythology. Beauty and intel·lect were no longer waiting on each side of the door. Turning again, we found the longer part of the gallery like the other; and in the vista through another room, the auction was going on. We saw a throng of faces of business with their hats on, and heard the hard-hearted knocks of the hammer, in a room which used to hold the mild and solitary Artist at his work, and which had never been entered but with quiet steps and a face of consideration. We did not stop a minute. In the room between this and the gallery, huddled up in a corner, were the busts and statues which had given us a hundred thoughts. Since the days when we first saw them, we have seen numbers like them, and many of more valuable materials; for though good of their kind, and of old standing, they are but common plaister. But the thoughts and the recollections belonged to no others; and it appeared sacrilege to see them in that state.
Apollo from his shirine
Can no more divine:
And each peculiar Power foregoes liis wonted seat. Into the parlour, which opens out of the hall and into the garden, we did not look. We scarcely know why; but we did not. In that parlour, we used to hear of our maternal ancestors, stout yet kind-hearted Englishmen, who set up their tents with Penn in the wilderness. And there we learnt to unite the love of freedom with that of the graces of life; for our host, though born a Quaker, and appointed a royal painter, and not so warm in his feelings as those about him, had all the natural amenity belonging to those graces, and never truly lost sight of that love of freedom. There we grew up acquainted with the divine humanities of Raphael. There we remember a large coloured print of the old lion-hunt of Rubens, in which the boldness of the action and the glow of the colouring overcome the horror of the struggle. And there, long before we knew any thing of Ariosto, we were as familiar as young playmates with the beautiful Angelica and Medoro, who helped to fill our life with love.
May a blessing be upon that house, and upon all who know how to value the genius of it.
THE BEE AND THE KISS.
The following is an extract from the Editor's Translation of Tasso's Amyntas, which is now ready to appear. It is Amyntas himself, who is speaking
One day, Sylvia and Phillis
But while into my
And now three times the naked reaper
Printed and published by JosepH APPLEYARD, No. 19, Catherine-street, Strand. Price 2d. And sold also by A. GLIDDON, Importer of Snuffs, No. 31, Tavistockstreet, Covent-garden. Orders received at the above places, and by all Booksellers and Newsmei).
There he arriving round about doth flie,
No. XXXVII.-WEDNESDAY, JUNE 21st, 1820.
A RAINY DAY. The day that we speak of is a complete one of its kind, beginning with a dark wet morning and ending in a drenching night. When come down stairs from your chamber, you find the breakfast-room looking dark, the rain-spout pouring away, and unless you live in a street of traffic, no sound out of doors but a clack of pattens and an occasional clang of milk-pails. (Do you see the rogue of a milkman? He is leaving them open to catch the rain.)
We never see a person going to the window on such a morning, to take a melancholy look out at the washed houses and pavement, but we think of a re-animation which we once beheld of old Tate Wilkin
But observe how sour things may run into pleasant tastes at last. We are by no means certain that the said mimetic antique, Tate Wil. kinson, was not Patentee of the York Theatre, wore a melancholy hat tied the wrong way, and cast looks of unutterable dissatisfaction at a rainy morning, purely to let his worthy successor and surpasser in mimicry, Mr. Charles Mathews, hand down his aspect and countenance for the benefit of posterity. We once fell into company with that ingenious person at a bachelor's house, where he woke us in the morning with the suspicious sound of a child crying in another room. It was having it's face washed; and had we been of a scandalizing turn, or envied our host for his hospitality, we should certainly have gone and said that there was a child in his house who inherited a sorrowful disposition from somebody, and who might be heard (for all the nurse's efforts of a morning) whining and blubbering in the intervals of the wash-towel ;-now bursting into open-mouthed complaint as it left him to dip in the water; and anon, as it came over his face again, screwing up it's snubbed features and eyes, and making halfstifled obstinate moan with his tight mouth. The mystery was explained at breakfast; and as it happened to be a rainy morning, we were entertained with the re-animation of that 6 living dead man" poor Tate aforesaid, --who had been a merry fellow too in his day. Imagine a tall thin withered desponding-looking old gentleman, entering his breakfast-room with an old hat on tied under his chin the wrong way of the flap,-a beaver somewhat of the epicene order, so that you
do not know whether it is his wife's or his own. He hobbles and shrinks up to the window, granting gently with a sort of preparatory despair; and having cast up his eyes at the air, and seen the weathercock due east and the rain set in besides, drops the corners of his mouth and eyes into an expression of double despondency, not un