while, several, apparently trifling, chances determined me against this mode of killing Time and humans. I was idle on the town-my blessed Art touched her renegade; by her pure and high influences the noisome mists were purged ;-my feelings, parched, hot, and tarnished, were renovated with a cool fresh bloom, childly, simple,-beautiful to the simple-hearted. The writings of Wordsworth did much towards calming the confusing whirl necessarily incident to sudden mutations. I wept over them tears of happiness and gratitude-yet my natural impatience, and I may term it fierce ness, was not altogether thereby subdued-rather condensed and guided against more fit objects-meanness― sordid worldliness, hardness, and real vulgarity in whatsoever rank it grew; at least, in such degree as I was capable of distinguishing them. But this serene state was broken, like a vessel of clay, by acute diseasesucceeded by a relaxation of the muscles and nerves, which depressed

me

low

As through the abysses of a joyless heart The heaviest plummet of despair could go,

hypochondriasis! ever shuddering on the horrible abyss of mere insanity. But two excellent secondary agents, a kind and skilful Physician, and a most delicately affectionate and unwearied (though young and fragile) Nurse, brought me at length out of those dead black waters nearly exhausted with so sore a struggle. Steady pursuit was debarred me, and varied amusement deemed essential to my complete revivification. At this time, the LONDON MAGAZINE was on the stocks-and its late lamented Editor, taking notice of my enthusiasm for Art, and pitying my estate, requested me to put down on paper some of the expression of feeling whereto I was from time to time excited by the mighty works of Michel, Raffaello, Correggio, and Rembrandt. With some modifications as to plan, I cheerfully prepared to obey him; not that I had any hope of carrying such attempt beyond two pages MS.-but it was a new thing. It struck me as something ridiculous, that I, who had never authorized a line, save in Orderly and

Guard Reports (and letters for money of course)-should be considered competent to appear in a new, doublegood Magazine! I actually laughed outright, to the consternation of my cat and dog, who wondered, I believe, what a plague ailed me. A reaction commenced, and I put so much gaiety and spirit into my First Contribution, that S. was obliged to cut sheer away every alternate sentence (that at least was the agreeable turn he gave to the cursed excision). However, out some of it came-I was amazed-that's weak-I was astonied astounded confounded. I said with John Woodville, "It were a life of gods to dwell in such an element:"-to see, and hear, and write brave things:

These high and gusty relishes of life Have no allayings of mortality. I read it, I don't know how oft-and I declare to you, I thought it the prettiest reading I ever had read. Why should I-anonymous, flinch? By our Halidom! I think so still!!

S's conduct, in some measure, justified this my opinion-he said, with Bottom, "Let him rear again, let him roar again!" And truly again (to the dictation of the above-named fairy-led weaver) did I aggravate my pen more gently than a sucking dove. Fortune once more flung over me the reflex warmth of her golden wings, and not above one third was abolished-Deo gratias.→ (That third was the best part for all that; I looked at it in my rough copy the other day-quite a curry, credit me! though not exactly conformable to Pegge's "Forme of Curie.") But why this tale of Oaks, as Hesiod or Homer says-I forget which, if I ever knew-suffice it that I continued to sentimentalize until S-, be coming aware that his friendly pur pose had taken its full effect on my mind and body, began to rap me on the head, as one sees a cat deal with an elderly kitten which retaineth its lacteal propensities over due season. Then came a blank.

Afterwards, shortly before his painful end at a wretched inn, on a squalid bed-Poor fellow!-at this moment I feel, fresh as yesterday, round my neck the heart-breaking, feeble, kindly clasp of his fever-wasted arm-his faint whisper of entire

trust in my friendship (though but short)-the voice dropping back again-the look-one stronger clasp! May the peace which rested over his last moments remain with him for ever!That I steadfastly confide in such consummation, this recurrence to his name will prove; were it not for that, I could not have uttered an allusion.

I must finish my involuntarily interrupted sentence. Afterwards there was some talk of a regular re-engagement, with an increase of five guineas per sheet; on what account I could never exactly discover (not that I tried much, to be sure it was too gracilely pleasant for the harsh touch of scrutiny.) Elia, the whimsical, the pregnant, the "abundant jokegiving" Elia, and our Mr. Drama, the real, old, original Mr. Drama! -par nobile fratrum, spoke flatteringly of Janus-shall I breathe it? -as of one not absolutely inefficient; not the worst of Periodical scribblers.

You, Padrone mio! know best how I was found on your establishment; whether my importunities for admission overmatched your rejective faculties. Proclaim then aloud, now at this my literary decease, that my reputation is unsmirched, unblemished, by any hateful scrambling after the loaves and fishes:-answer for me. Have I been forward with MSS? Have I ever displayed an unseemly alacrity with my quill? Have I ever been ready and forthcoming when first called on? The kernel of the above peroration lies, I take it, in the affirmation, that not a single sentence has been by me volunteered from the commencement of the LONDON MAGAZINE to its present robust and healthy growth.*

This digression has pulled out half an ell longer than I intended; and the only thing is to get it out of your head as fast as you can. Come! take a pinch of smuff and a sneeze "Heshsh hoo!"-God bless you! Now, what do you think of Miss F. Kelly? Not seen her? indeed! I was

sorry to see Charles Kemble, (how dare any one write him down "Kemble," without the baptismal prefix, while his great brother lives!) I was really sorry to see Charles Kemble on the same boards. He carries the gentleman in every motion.-He is not a bit like Romeothe young, the sentimental Romeo, for all that. The Italian Lovers were by Shakspeare steeped in poetry, the highest, the most absolute poetry, till it became infused through their substance, past re-separationhe has compelled and amalgamated together spirit and matter into a quicksilver too slippery and subtle for the mere corporeal hands of any given actor or actress.

The deep-sentient Charles Lamb hath protested against the competency of theatrical means to give an outward and visible representation of Lear. I think, for Romeo and Juliet, that "sweet hymn in praise of love! that harmonious miracle!" he might have done as much. †

All traces of the digression are now quite obliterated, I'll venture to say,

judging from myself at least-the fact is, I've forgotten whither this letter tended-I must turn to the first leaf-um-thirdly-um-um-O!"Remarks on the Mag. and its Contribs." Very good-so then, without further preamble-thus rush I, like Homer, Tasso, Ossian, or, to speak concisely, like all authentic epic poets of this terraqueous_globe, ιν μεδιας ρης, which bit of Hebrew means, gentle-no, not gentle, strictly

-

rather- sweet readers, into the middle of the Contributors' Club-room,

-I doubt, it is in some sort pedantic to interlard and garnish one's paragraphs with strange and outlandish sprigs, not personally plucked from the linguistical trees, but abstracted from the sample which genuine travellers occasionally expose to the marvelment of the commons-by which figure I imply, that a man to whom Latin is Greek,

6

and Greek Hebrew, might just as well-I don't know what I was going to say-might just as well not essay to decide the intertangled disputes on the authenticity of Aristotle's Poetics, in their present state, or to supersede Dr. Burney's Tentamen de Metris Eschyli.-I confess that the former member of the above sentence is not preparative, ad modum SchoJarum, to the final one; but never mind, it is the last time I shall ever cudgel my brains for a meaning, or you yours, to find it out.-There's something in that-isn't there?

Odds bobs! lo-another digression, I fear! which arises like a stream from a triple fountain-pipe, out of three incidents at my left hand, viz. a dish of strong coffee, a plate of crisp muffins, buttered to a fraction, and a glass of ruby Rosolio,-which is a vulgar-luscious-meretricious liqueur! (there! it's despatched). One table-spoonful of Johnson's fiftyyears-old pale Cogniac is worth a case full of the sickly Italian. Now, clear away these!-and-don't disturb me again till the last thing!when you can just warm me up an oyster pâté. Call the dog away with you! she snores, deuce take her, and puts me out.

Now, brother administrators to periodical delight-ye who rifle the fresh dewy (a matter-of-fact fellow would substitute dank) beauties of the Magazine one day before all the rest of the world!-be so kind as to read the next line or two over, till -convinced of their rationality.

Stand not on the order of your nominations! If I had acquaintance with your names, I would say my little say, and take my leave alphabetically. If I had the requisite judgment, ye should be arranged according to style and respective eminence therein or if my pate had the bump of calculation, (such a bump exists;) the paginary amount of your lucubrations should determine precedence. Being deficient in all these requisites for a lucidus ordo, I shall trust to circumstances (my usual way), and esteem my disarray un beau désordre, as the French wiseacres have dubbed the surviving lyrics of the Theban Swan.

And first, then, for JOHN CLARE; for first doth he stand in the sixth volume. Princely Clare," as Elia

would call thee, some three hours after the cloth was drawn-Alas! good Clare, never again shall thou and he engage in those high combats, those wit-fights! Never shall his companionable draught cause thee an after-look of anxiety into the tankard!—no more shall he, pleasantly-malicious, make thy ears tingle, and thy cheeks glow, with the sound of that perplexing constrainment! that conventional gaggingbill!-that Grammar!! till in the bitterness of thy heart thou cursedst Lindley Murray by all the stars.Not once again shall thy sweetlysimple Doric phrase and accent beget the odious pun. Thou mayest imbibe thy ale in peace, and defy Priscian unchecked,- for Priscian's champion is gone!-Elia is gone!Little didst thou think that evening would be the last, when thou and I, and two or three more, Messer Brunetto, Dugdale Redivivus, T-that anthery Cicero, parted with the humanity-loving Elia beneath the chaste beams of the watery moon, warmed with his hearty cheer-the fragrant steam of his "great plant,”—his savoury conversation, and the genuine good-nature of his cousin Bridget gilding all. There was something solemn in the manner of our clasping palms,—it was first "hands round," then "hands across."-That same party shall never meet again!But pardon, gracious Spirit! that I thus, but parenthetically, memorize thee-yet a few more lines shall flow to thy most embalmed remembrance. Rest then awhile!

One word at parting, John Clare! and if a strange one, as a stranger give it welcome. I have known jovial nights-felt deeply the virtues of the grape and the barleycorn-I have co-operated in "the sweet wicked catches" 'bout the chimes at twelve, yet I say to thee visit London seldom-shutting close thy ears in the abounding company of empty scoffers,-ever holding it in thy inmost soul, that love and perfect trust, not doubt, is the germ of true poetry. Thy hand, friend Clare! others may speak thee fairer, but none wish thee solider welfare than Janus.

Near the banks of Thames dwells one like the stream, placid and deep, Messer Brunetto! Many are the be

nefits I owe him in common with others-(his opus majus ; -his elegant Memoirs replete with candour and substantial criticism,his Early French Poets, a pleasureplot, quaintly pranked, laid open for public recreation); some peculiar to myself (his countenance and commendation). Let me apply to him the words of an author only undervalued by the dull and the prejudiced; "No man can be a true critic or connoisseur who does not possess a universality of mind, who does not possess the flexibility, which, throwing aside all personal predilections and blind habits, enables him to transport himself into the peculiarities of other ages and nations, to feel them as it were from their proper central point, and-what ennobles human nature,-to recognize and respect whatever is beautiful and grand under those external modifications which are necessary to their existence, and which sometimes seem even to disguise them.” That Messer Brunetto is endowed with this rare comprehensive apprehensibility cannot be denied-his translations are nearly unique for closeness and felicity, both as to style and expression. The poetry, however subtle, never evaporates during the transfusionneither is his penetration partial, but offers fresh proofs of its legitimacy in the sister art. His taste there is singularly grand, pure, and consistent. By the bye, our critics seem hardly

aware of the intimate connexion, or ra

ther of the identity, of the primal seeds of poetry and painting; nor that any true advancement in the serious study of one art co-generates a proportionate perfection in the other. If a man who did not feel Michel Agnolo, should talk of his gusto for Milton, depend upon it he deceives one of two persons-you or himself:-so likewise vice versa. The moment you entered Elia's room, you could swear to his selection of authors, by his selection of framed prints (Leonardos and Early Raffaellos). And it is impossible to read Barry Cornwall without a conviction that his cored loves were Correggio, Parmegiano, and Bolognian Giulio (which they are, and some choice bits he has too); Michel, Leonardo, Rembrandt, coming in only by way of relief-Rubens rejected altogether. I intend these

two instances as compliments. But to proceed. Hang these bastard sprouts! these suckers! Before quitting our Brunetto, high esteemed among the magnates of poetry, I must suggest two or three subjects for his pen-Pindar-Petrarchabut, perhaps, in that exquisite writer he may find "thoughts that lie too deep for tears." If so, we must sympathize and abandon hope. Occhi miei oscurato è'l nostro sole Anzi è salito al cielo, ed ivi splende: Ivi'l vedremo anchor: ivi n'attende; E di nostro tardar forse li dole.

Che lega, e scioglie; e'n un punto apre, e Morte biasmate; anzi laudate lui;

serra;

E dopo 'l pianto sa far lieto altrui. There are others from whom Enand delight his readers ;—we have no glished Excerpta might amuse him, specimen of an English Ariosto;~~ Pulci and Boyardo are quite unknown. Some green flowers surely might be picked from the chaplets of the Provençals, enumerated by Crescimbeni-or he might afford the involuntarily-unlearned an idea of the towering and severe Eschylus !

When the spring comes, there is joy on the hills of Cumberland, and the joy of thy smile, and the life of life in the streams of Nithsdale; but thy song, ALLAN! glow through the snow of winter-flourish sappy and green amid the adust summer.

Thou murmurest near the running brooks

A music sweeter than their own. Large art thou in body and soul! Thy broad brow and palm consort most fitly. If nature models her faces truly, there was never man less soiled by the foul smoke of Babylon. Thy poetry germinates from the divine seed-love of all things lovely and good. There find I set down, without straining and ambitious fustian, the elements of thine own mind-pathos, innocent hilarity, disdain of petty craft and cant, deep affections, native delicacy, and a noble enthu siasm for supernatural cheer.—In it we see how

wilderness and wood, Blank ocean and mere sky, support that mood,

Which with the lofty sanctifies the low. But what need of my lean praise?thou hast thy meed of fame ;-higher

hands have crowned thee with the wild-wood wreath. Farewell, pleasant Allan Cm! The last green glass over which we nodded to one another, was the last!-Ere Christmas Day, Janus will be even as Elia. Farewell! May thy seasons be ever smooth. Health to thee and her

To whom the warble of thy lip is dearest.

Mild and tasteful BARRY CORNWALL! old brother dilettante—friend of Elia! Poet of Woman! the most grateful title to thy ears-honeytongued singer of beauty and its mother-night!

Come from out thy dreams
Of green Sicilian fields,
And blue Sicilian streams!

Let Her smiling hair,

Untwisted, wind at length

To the wild wind's tricksome care,

while thou strikest a dying note in the hand of Weathercock. Adieu! -too sensitive friend! follow thy own blooming road-be thy own mind thy kingdom; and should the envious and the hard blow on thy tender flowers with their foggy breath, doubt not the advent of due guerdon. Fame is no plant that grows on mortal

soil;

Young THEODORE! young in years, not in power! Our new Ovid!-only more imaginative!-Painter to the visible eye and the inward ;-commixture of, what the superficial deem, incongruous elements!- Instructive living proof, how close lie the founts of laughter and tears! Thou fermenting brain-oppressed, as yet, by its own riches. Though melancholy would seem to have touched thy heart with her painful (salutary) hand, yet is thy fancy mercurialundepressed; and sparkles and crackles more from the contact-as the northern lights when they near the frozen Pole. How! is the fit not on? Still is "Lycus" without mate! Who can mate him but thyself? Let not the shallow induce thee to conceal thy depth. Leave "Old Seamen," the strain thou held'st was of a higher mood ;-there are others for your "Sketches from Nature," (as they truly call'em). ******** `******—and such small deer! As for thy word-gambols, thy humour, thy fantastics, thy curiously-conceited perceptions of similarity in dissimilarity, of coherents in incoherents, they are brilliantly suave, innocuously exhilarating:-but not a step farther, if thou lovest thy proper peace! Read the fine of the eleventh, and the whole of the twelfth chapter of Tristram Shandy; and believe them, dear Theodore! O most truly. For others (not for thee) is the following paragraph thence quoted: "Trust me, this unwary pleasantry of thine will sooner or later bring thee into scrapes and difficulties, which no afterwit can extricate thee out of. In these sallies, too oft I see it happens, that a person laughed at considers himself in the light of a person injured, with all the rights of such a situation belonging to him; and when thou viewest him in that light too, and reckonest up his friends, his family, his kindred, and allies,and musterest up with them the many recruits which will list under him from a sense of common danger,

'tis no extravagant arithmetic to say, that for every ten jokes, thou hast got a hundred enemies; and till thou hast gone on, and raised a swarm of wasps about thine ears,