Now, if I were an artist, (which the kindly divinities didn't see fit to make me,) I should sketch that picture somewhat after this wise. So far as I know, the field is yet open, and no one has done it.

circle of the setting moon, casting In this, near the centre of the pic

To the right should be the full across the water a wake of light. ture, should be a fishing boat, with its full sail only partially silvered by the moonbeams, lying dark against her disk. Below, in the foreground, I would place a rocky coast, lying low, and in such a position, that the boat should appear as if viewed from its height, and I would let it run up on the left into a cove, with nets spread to dry, a general accumulation of fishing materials and a cottage, through whose open door should be seen the wife with her work, the child in its cradle, and the red fire-light shining across the sands. Back of this, and running far up into the sky, should rise a huge cliff, within whose shadow the but should stand, where the moonlight should but barely penetrate, and beyond it, on the right, should break the open sea. Such would be my picture of that little scene. But where is the painter who should sketch the music of the mother's song, or the soft murmur of the "wind of the western sea?" There is where poetry rises beyond its kindred art.

As to the points of the compass, why, some one more skilled than myself should make that all straight.

The second passage of poetry is one which needs nothing to heighten the effect of the words-it is a thoroughly artistic thing. It is the opening verses of "Hyperion."

"Deep in the shady sadness of a vale

Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon and eve's one star,
Sat grey-haired Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair,

Forest on forest hung about his head,
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer's day
Robs not one light seed from the feather'd grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity

Spreading a shade: the naiad 'mid her reeds
Pressed her cold finger closer to her lips.

"Along the margin sand large footmarks went
No farther than to where his feet had strayed,
And slept there since. Upon the sodden ground,

His old right hand lay nerveless, listless, dead,
Unsceptered; and his realmless eyes were closed;
While his bowed head seemed listening to the earth,

His ancient mother, for some comfort yet."

The sad solemnity of the rest of the deposed king is here expressed as none, save the most inspired artist could portray it. Others would give you nothing but the prone old man, the timid naiad, and the dreary day, not showing the real depth of that passionate sense of loss, of utter, irremediable loss, which the words of the poem give us so well.

that of a little piece, only the imagination, And, in passing, how

The other instance of this word-painting is a couple of stanzas long, and which stirs, not but many another stronger and deeper feeling. strange it is, that men can strike off with so few sharp touches the full form and shape of what they wish to show. I remember once seeing a rough pen and ink sketch of the removal from his dungeon of the dead body of a prisoner, whose sole crime had been his political views, and who had died from want and cruelty. The scene was ghastly beyond all description. I looked but once, but the image has haunted me ever since, and it was, I remember well, the product of few, very few lines.

The poem I mean runs as follows:

""Twas a little drummer, with his side

Torn terribly with shot;

But still he feebly beat his drum,

As though the wound were not.

And when the Mameluke's wild horse

Burst with a scream and cry,

He said, "O men of the Forty-third,

Teach me the way to die."

Then with a shout that flew to God

They strode into the fray;

I saw their red plumes join and wave,

But slowly melt away.

The last who went-a wounded man,

Bade the poor boy good-bye,

And said, "The men of the Forty-third

Teach you the way to die."

You have seen Church's Niagara,' haven't you?

Well, when you

saw it, did you notice, floating down with the current, above the rush and roar of the great waters, a gnarled and twisted tree-trunk? It

has evidently been washed away, and one more plunge will bear it over the Fall. If you have seen the picture and noticed that, you will readily say that in it is concentrated much of the poetry of the painting. It gives you a pity for the poor log, to see it sweeping down so steadily, and the pity changes to awe, when you are led thus to think of the immense rush of the river, and the boiling and seething mass of waters below. So, even a tree-trunk may be a means of exalting a picture, for it may be as well to add, that there is no life in sight, except this single fate-impelled bit of timber.

Then, for another one, there is that "martyrdom of Huss," in the Dusseldorf Gallery. It verges as nearly on the sublime as it is possible for the artist's skill to approach. The pale uplifted face of the hero-martyr, as he prays for the forgiveness of God on those who are about to take his life, is a whole epic. It is Germany, past, present, and to come.

And right across the Gallery is a third, which I have always looked on with peculiar interest, as an emblem of the resistless force of an idea which swallows up all else, and claims for its own an entire life. It is that of the "Battle of Ascalon." Calm old Godfrey of Bouillon as he sits on his white horse in the centre, is a fine representation of perfect courage and steady determination. The "Deus lo volt," on the banner above his head, explains all. But I always look to the right, in the lower corner, for the best figure of the picture. There charges a knight on a black horse, with his sword in hand and his arm swung behind him to give more force to the thrust. He is bareheaded, and his dark hair swings backward on the wind. Straight into a host of Saracens he is dashing, hurling them right and left, but though the snorting black steed, with his steel panoply, cleaves into the press, and though they aim blows at him from either side, yet the rider heeds them not. His eyes are fixed on something beyond the limits of the painting. Towards that, and that only, he rushes on, and for that alone has he a thought. The sweep of the sword that the arm is ready to give is kept in store for that enemy, and when the time comes, it shall be dealt with a will.

Perhaps I may be a little too enthusiastic on such a subject as this of which I am writing. Pardon me, then, for I have written as I felt. But remember, though I have not said it till now, that at the bottom of true painting, as of true poetry, lies common sense, and that when this is not present, there is no brotherhood, no relationship between the two, nor are they worthy of the title by which they are called.

S. W. D.

Loneliness.

WE are all naturally selfish, conceited, ambitious. There is no denying it. As far as we modify these normal qualities, we attain our manliness. These original principles are at the base of our self-reliance, and thus exert an indispensable influence on the man. Yet, radical as these inborn tendencies are, their ultimate subdual, or rather habitual restraint, tends to imbue the spirit with a desire of support. There grows up in the breast a yearning for something more than self can furnish, as a guiding star. There is an element in the soul which causes man to lean upon a friend, and to mourn when his friends are not about him. Can there be anything nobler or better than a pure social spirit? Have we anything to be more grateful for, or any tendency we are more bound, duty-bound to cultivate? But the hours do come, when we must be alone, and these hours are just as much a part of our life, of our responsibility, as the happy hours of social commingling.

Let us look at them closer. Are they not our most profitable seasons? Do not the reflections, the resolutions of solitude lend to our manliness? When do we look forward to our future, and lay our foundation of principle and determination, save in our secret meditations? The Angel of Memory is with us then, and the pictures of the Past rise in their loveliness, and the virtues of the known and departed cheer us on. Then we scan the clouded paths of the future, and wonder where our lot shall fall, aud whether a propitious star smiled on our nativity. We see the footsteps of others, and though we know that many have failed in their life-work, our hope stimulates to earnest endeavor, that we may emulate those who have won the guerdon of

life.

Solitude is the hour of Thought. We are a race of thinkers, and he who thinks the deepest and clearest, must bear away the palm. The flippant conversation of social entertainment is the bane of true thought, and though it may be a pastime, is a pastime only. I should not say so without limitation, for when social intercourse is what it should be, it is the arena of argument as well as the font of instruc tion. To be great, we must be thoughtful. The corruscations of brilliant, though shallow conversation, may dazzle the multitude, yet

the discriminating man will ever penetrate to the emptiness. In the hours of secret thought, we compare the virtues of honored men, and are enabled to choose their worthy qualities without their faults, as our models. Thought is the child of Solitude, her noblest offspring. "Forests of Aricia, your deep shade mellowed Numa's wisdom,

Peaceful gardens of Vaucluse, ye nourished Petrarch's love;"

Castle-building is often the fruit of reverie, and though utterly profitless in itself, still, its inanity, when we awake from the spell, bitterly warns us against its recurrence. We cannot estimate the effect, that our youthful hours of loneliness may have upon our destiny. They may present but a worthless record of speculation, or they may act vigorously in moulding our characters.

We are natural when alone. Children of influence as we are, we are never free from some restraint.

"Yea, let a dog be watching thee, its eye will tend to thy restraint."

But when solitude wraps the soul in its mantle, and the urging presence of others is removed, the genius of the man comes forth, and originality takes the lead. Loneliness, too, never influences to selfishness. The man who is wrapt in musing, if his mood be contemplative, turns not to himself in pride; it is to others and their examples. When we are striving with our fellows, that is the time for thoughts of self. In the maze of life we are ever alone; our path, however many it may cross, is single and individual, and leads to a separate goal. Our lifework is ours alone, and neither the kindness of friends nor the coldness of foes can affect our characters. We stand alone as individuals, as men, and the sooner we awake to the fact, the better for us. Individual, separate, defined character must be ours, and no social relation can fashion our life and its result.

We may be lonely amid a multitude. Loneliness is not, necessarily, the result of physical seclusion, for we may be sensible of it as much among strangers to friendship and sentiment, as in solitude, and we can never mingle heartily in any circle, till we find some community of thougnt and feeling. As the years roll by, we shall grow lonelier, as friends depart and kind faces vanish, unless there be a principle of Christian manliness in the soul, that true principle, whose possessor can never be lonely, and never without sympathy. We know, then, that the meaning of Loneliness is sadly perverted; that the idea of seclusion has been tortured into a sentiment of pain. Solitude may be the bearer of the choicest fruits of thought and refinement, and the