On reaching the quarter of the country where lay the lace of my nativity, I pressed on with eager longing to isit the habitation of my youth. I knew that my cousin ad succeeded to the inheritance which might have been nine; but I had been informed, that he had, with his vife, now delicate and consumptive, left the island for ome time in search of the more genial influence of coninental climates. I understood that my youthful home, he Abbey, dear to me in despite of all the sufferings which it had witnessed, was solitary and deserted :ruinous and decaying it had ever been, and fading like the setting star of the fortunes of our race; and with sorrowful pleasure I anticipated the prospect of spending a few hours among its silvan retirements. every nerve in my body to hear. I could not mistake it-it was my cousin's; and it was replied to by another, whose sweet low accents I knew likewise only too well. In the few sentences which passed between Colville and his wife, I learned enough to sting me into irrepressible indignation. She complained of neglect, of desertion, of cruel treatment; she spoke patiently of her own life as waning to its close; and she begged, with mild solemnity, that her few remaining hours might be spent in peace. And it was with boiling blood that I heard him answer her with a bitter sarcasm, which proved that his naturally unfeeling temper had been hardened by time into inhuman insensibility; and when, in the course of tossing over the articles in the room, I could see him throw a couple of swords on a table, I could hardly refrain from bursting forth and calling him to a deadly account for his wrongs to me and to her. It was a glorious summer's evening when I reached it, and as I passed westward up the straight avenue, the broad plane-trees threw down rich masses of shadow, now veiling, and now contrasting with the bright hues of the green carpet beneath them, and of the low, mossgrown broken walls with which they were on each side shut in. My heart beat as I approached the mean hoary range of buildings which excluded the view of the mansion-house, where the avenue separated into two walks, passing on each side of the tree-skirted lawn, and meeting at the ends of the house. I passed round the corner of the buildings, and scarcely knew for some moments whether the picture before my mind was produced by ac tual vision, or was held up to Imagination by Love and Memory, the eldest and most powerful of her slaves! The two flanking arcades of majestic patriarchal trees retired and darkened before me, enclosing in their grasp, like some sequestered forest-glade, the large half natural green whose soft and hillock-broken turf was illuminated by the countless tints of the departing day. And wandering on along that gorgeous surface, the eye rested on a dark shadow falling forward on its further extremity.he struck her! By my remorse, he did!-savagely I blessed that shadow even with tears as it met my view; for it was the shadow of my father's house,-of those old walls which in foreign solitudes I had seen with closed and brimful eyes,-those beloved walls whose memory shall be the last to leave the fading tablet of my soul! I looked up, and the house was there, unchanged as if I had but left it yesterday, closing the prospect to the west before me, with its three antique gables side by side facing the lawn, and standing up sombre and distinct in the red and spirit-like streaming of the sky. There was much too that I did not behold, and which rose swiftly into my fancy as I musingly advanced up the centre of the lawn. Behind the house, and stretching to the right, lay those spots which had been my favourite haunts when thoughtfulness or hardship drove me into solitude;-the scattered and devious wood with its beautiful mounds and rocks clothed with the rustling fern and the bushy tangles of the blaeberry; and the deserted and romantic quarries, where I had so often roamed to pluck the graceful fox-glove from their granite cliffs, or to plunge into the black tarns which lay numerous among the profound reTo the left of the mansion was the garden, and towards it I turned. He came out ; and my breathing ceased while I gazed on him. Even I was shocked at the change I behelddissipation, debauchery, sensual and brutal, had done its work; for him I was incapable of pity; but had my own wrongs been all, I could now have sternly despised him. His unhappy wife followed him, and urged some request I know not what it was-I heard not a word, for my head swam with agony, and I could hardly bear to look upon that face and figure, and think on the history of approaching dissolution which they so surely told. Feebly she followed him, and as she stopped to lean for support on the sun-dial before the door, I could hear the hollow panting of her breast, and see the tears falling silently down her thin and death-like cheeks. She raised herself with effort, and approached her husband. who stood within arm's-length of my covert. She clung to him; for she tottered, and must have fallen without support ; and the wretch shook her from her hold! He did more cesses. I entered, and had one wing of the house close on the right; and before me the cumbrous but delightful features of the place, those antique arrangements which find perfection in ruin and decay; the grassy walks, the mossy seats, the artificial arbours, and the old clumps of verdant box and holly; while the surrounding walls were richly mantled with the gloomy foliage of the ivy, or the more cheerful flowers and tendrils of the jessamine and Woodbine. I was standing behind some tall leafy shrubs, when I suddenly heard voices from the building, and looking from between the branches, I saw, through the two open windows of our old parlour, evident signs of inhabitants, or of preparations for their reception. I had scarcely time for consideration, when footsteps in the house struck my ear, and immediately afterwards a voice, which it shook and violently struck her, and the unfortunate fell on the burst back upon me in one appalling sweep, and my better angel was not near to save. I looked round, and saw the swords lying in the open room. I dashed in, snatched them up, and, throwing one of them to Colville, motioned him to defend himself. He retreated a step or two, and called anxiously to me, "Hold, Walden! what means this? Madman that you are, stand back!""Coward!" I shouted; and I could not have uttered another syllable though it had been to purchase the salvation of my soul. His eyes flashed fire, and we closed together in the resolute conflict of deadly and unquenchable hate. A few passes were enough to show that he was the better swordsman; and the conviction braced my nerves to something like desperation. One furious thrust had almost reached him, and in parrying it his sword broke across. Frantic with rage, I heeded not his quick and terrified cry for forbearance. In the next moment he lay, mortally wounded, at my feet; and, leaning on my bloody weapon, I watched with a steady eye the convulsive workings of his face, and smiled as I marked the last agonizing shudder which contracted his body as the spirit left it. What passed during the remainder of that terrible night, I remember but indistinctly; the recollection comes only in my most horrible moments, and I dare not invite them. With that night my concern with life terminated. My existence since has been a breathing agony. To some men my act might be as nothing; to me the memory of it has been an iron hand that crushes my very heart. There is blood upon my head,-blood which deserved to be spilt, but, oh! not by my hand! It cries up against me from the earth, and I hear it always. I have no rest; for there has not passed a single night since that dreadful one, in which I have not, in my perturbed sleep, acted over again that unnatural scene. The two who died that evening in my presence have a heavier slumber -would that it were mine! my punishment is greater than I can bear. The Abbey has been converted, fitly, into a mad-house; and it may be that my life will end there, where it began. AN ARTIST. And the hymns of the many birds are hush'd and their strains of love are o'er; When the proud and stately wild-deer from the heatby height goes down, And in his home of calmness dwells in sovereign pride alone; When the golden moon, so loved by all, walks forth in joy and mirth, And pours o'er hill, and dale, and rock, and heath, and gloomy moor, And garden gay, and woods of green, and hall, and lady's bower, And peasant's hut, the flood of love and light which is her dower. Oh, ye of the poet's glancing eye! oh, ye of the poet's fire! Go out to the woods on an autumn night with your passion-breathing lyre, And if high thoughts and feelings deep dwell not withi your soul, The seraph lip, the sunbeam pen, the eye that seeth all, The fairy charms of vision's realms, your meed ye may no call. One autumn night, the stars, the moon, the far-extendin sky, Brought o'er my brain and mind a trance of blissf ecstasy; And dreams like shadowy noonday clouds that flit befor the sun, Came, spell-like, o'er my wandering thoughts-my visio had begun! And now methought that I did dwell in the halls of th virgin moon, And traversed o'er its emerald paths unfettered and alone The light which there was shed around was the dazzlin light of star, But it was not the cold, cold gleam they give to the eart from the heavens afar. Each one had the mild and gentle flush of the sun wher he sinks to rest, Of the golden sun when he cools his brow on the ocean' soothing breast. And methought a thousand lands were held within her green embrace, Bright beauteous lands of fruit and flower extending o'e And ne'er upon the fruitful soil had winter set his feet, Or breathed the breath of tempest o'er its gardens soft and sweet. And now methought I gazed down on the dim far earth beneath, That our land with all its towers and spires, aud valleys rich and gay, And cities proud, are but as dew, in the sun's all-searching ray, Which brightly shines for a little space, and then dies all away! That earth whose proudest gifts are but the passing of a And it tells us that beyond the hills, and beyond their breath; I thought upon the deadly mass of pride, and hate, and fear, And envy pale, and malice cold, that lies in blackness there; A shadowy mist dwelt over all, like the mist in a maid en's eye, When her lover's away to a foreign land, or in lone captivity; Like the mist which breathes from the violet's breast in the depth of a summer day, Or the shadowy cloud which veils the sun, on an evening calm of May, When all the fainting earth is fill'd with its dim and melting ray. I look'd where oft on the summer morn I had gazed on the gold green sea, And watch'd bright wave chase after wave in wild and playful glee; Where oft like stars I had beheld the ships glide calmly on, Mocking the surge that lash'd their sides, with song, and sigh, and moan; But the sea was gone as an infant's tear, and its voice was hush'd and still, And each strong river now was dry, and each melodious rill. I look'd unto the mountains, whose proud heights I oft had trode, And gazing down on the valleys far, had wept unto my God; But the mountains with their golden heath that kiss'd the sunny clouds, And breathed soft scent to the sunbeams, were all hid in pierceless shrouds. I look'd to the woods, where at evening fall, I had often walk'd alone, And listen'd to all the birds might say, and watch'd the sun go down; But the woods were like a little stain on the snow-drop's virgin bell, And the bright, bright birds had fled away from the trees they loved so well. And I look'd for the village calm in which my boyhood's days were past, Those days whose pleasures, hopes, and fears, have flitted by so fast; But the village with its church and bells was no where to be seen, And its stately abbey, too, was gone, as if it ne'er had been. My dream doth hold a moral, but my words are weak and vain, Oh, that I could but lift my voice in a purer, loftier strain! It tells of the glories of the sky, of the bliss and gladness there, Of the love they feel in passion's calm, of the hopes undimm'd by fear; Of the lofty thoughts and feelings warm, and innocence divine, Which like the lights of a gemmy cave in each fair bosom shine; It tells that our earth is a blacken'd ball, suspended in the air, That we and all we boast are dark corruption everywhere; That our beauty is as nothing, and our genius but a thought; And that all our wealth, and power, and strength, and boastings, are as nought; heathy shrouds, And beyond the line of the mountain-sea, and beyond the mantling clouds, And beyond the stars,-in majesty, and glory, dwells our God, Who holds the earth in his monarch hand, and sways it by his nod. FINE ARTS. FOURTH EXHIBITION OF ANCIENT PAINTINGS AT THE ROYAL INSTITUTION. (Concluding Notice.) OTHER matters have somewhat interfered with the regularity of our notices of the Ancient Exhibition; but we return to the subject once more, though at a period when its first gloss of novelty is over. There was Having in former articles wound up the story of the mighty masters of Italy, we now turn to a less dazzling clime. We have already intimated our belief that the Dutch school of painting was merely an integral portion of the German, the earliest and finest specimens of which were produced by the artists resident at Cologne. At the time painting principally flourished in the Netherlands, religious enthusiasm, if it was encouraged at all, had taken a direction totally different from the imaginative, and occasionally fantastic, bent of Italy. The struggles of the infant commonwealth had stamped upon men's minds a sedate practical character. neither in their tempers, nor in the forms of nature and art which surrounded them, any such source of high poetical feeling as gave birth to the works of Rafaelle. The subjects which the artist loved to represent were those which were most germane to his fancy-the rich tints of fruits and flowers-the tranquil landscape-the sturdy expression of character in domestic life. painting of a Madonna, or of some mythological subject, by an Italian artist, a single happy touch gives interest, by recalling the whole story to our remembrance ;—a Dutch interior, on the other hand, can interest us only by the mastery of art displayed in its representation, but can derive no additional charm from any feelings awakened by its commonplace subject. Perhaps the triumph of mere art is, on this very account, more decided in the works of the Dutch school. In a To convince ourselves how much has been accomplished in this way, we need only consult the walls of the Exhibition, through which we now walk, prattling with the reader. Take Nos. 2, "Temptation of St Anthony;" 12, "Visit to the Nurse;" 21, "An old man and wcman;" 31,"An Interior, by De Hooge ;" 41, "A Serpiece, by Backhuysen;" 55, "Three Men Drinking ;" 64," A Winter Scene, by Berghen;" 70, "A Landscape," attributed to Hobbema, (more probably by Dekker;) 77, "A Landscape, with portraits of Teniers, his Wife, and Child;" 88, “A Landscape," (attributed to Hobbema;) 103, "Interior of a Stable, by Wouvermans;" 127, "A Stag-hunt, by the Same;" and last, and best, 25, “ A Cattle Piece, by Cuyp"-the gem of the Exhibition. In not one of these is there any thing poetical, or (with the exception, perhaps, of the Stag-hunt) even exciting; yet, what a charm in the beauty and harmony of their colours! It is like music to the eye. And there is a soul in them, vital, though not elevated. Teniers's Temptation of the Holy Anthony is a nightmare seen by daylight. There is, however, a school of Dutch artists, in which something of the spirit of the old masters of Italy revived The ter in this department, as well for the simple grandeur of his ideas, as for the marked character which he succeeds in impressing upon all his subjects. The small landscape (95) attributed to this artist, although placed in a bad situation, and tolerably dirty, will richly repay a narrow examination. Great though he be, however, he does not win upon our love like Claude-the rich and Hannibal is, un-lovely-the sharer of Nature's sweetest secrets. landscape, No. 14, has suffered much, but is still every inch a Claude. No. 53, on the contrary, though it attracts at first by its gaudy colouring, does not stand a nearer and long-continued scrutiny. Nos. 33 and 124 are by Salvator Rosa, and to these two pictures (particularly the latter) we are inclined to give the palm above all the landscapes in the rooms. They tell us of the baste of Rosa's execution, for the manner in which his colours are worked in show it, but the composition of his pictures speaks of long hours of study in the profound recesses of his own mind. deniably, the greatest genius of the three; the most learned artist, the most powerful drawer, and possessed of the greatest mastery of the pencil. There is a beautiful little piece by him in the Exhibition-Mercury and Argus (32.) Two Saints (18 and 29) are possibly from the pencil of Louis.-Guido Reni, the most distinguished scholar of the Carracci, threw into his earlier works strong masses of shade, intermingled with striking lights, after the manner of Louis Carracci. At a later period, he assumed, by the advice of Hannibal, a clearer tone of colouring, as more congenial to the cheerfulness which characterises his talent.- Domenichino excels in the management Of Rubens, Vandyke, and Rembrandt, who belong to of profoundly studied compositions, and has succeeded in the Netherlands, but whose works are full of Italian appropriating, by severe labour, much both of the grand-genius, we much regret that our limits at present do not eur and beauty of the antique.—Albano was a mere copyist of the forms of the Carracci, but without entering into their spirit.-Guercino, we know from his own confession, took the first suggestion of his strong shadows and piquant lights from the works of Louis Carracci. It is evident that he had but little feeling of the ideal. His Mercury and Argus, (6,) when brought into comparison with the same subject by Hannibal Carracci, (32,) will show pretty accurately the relation in which he stands to that master. His "Abraham on Mount Moriah" would be a fine picture, but for the expression of the Isaac's face, in which (if we may be allowed to parody the technical language of artists) the face of the sheep behind him seems to b repeated. The great merit of all these artists consists in their having struggled, with more or less success, to free art from the monotonous mannerism which had palsied it, to bring it nearer to truth and nature, and to extend its limits by the introduction of new and original forms and arrangements. It seems, however, the fate of all reformers, to be succeeded by a class of half-learned men, who distort their principles and render them hideous by half apprehending them. Caravaggio and his scholar Spagnoletto stand in this relation to the Carracci. Through a misapprehension of the true meaning of the word "natural," they not only renounced all mannerism, but all particular choice of form. Their Madonnas are mere common women, their Christs mere commonplace boys. Nay, they have carried it so far as to excite an occasional suspicion that they have sought, instead of avoiding, vulgar and disagreeable subjects. They are the Galts of painting. With all their faults, however, their works give evidence of much talent and experience; and their strong contrasts of light and shade are well calculated to allure the many. Spagnoletto's Philosopher (115) is a fair specimen of his style. Francis Mola may be regarded as holding an intermediate place between these two schools. During the earliest and brightest harvest of art in Italy, landscape does not seem to have been cultivated as a separate branch. Beautiful specimens of landscape are to be found in the works of the earlier masters, but, in general, employed only as a subsidiary ornament of some large composition. It is among the Tramontane artists that we must seek the origin of landscape painting. Vasari, when speaking of a landscape by Titian, mentions it as done after the manner of the "Tedeschi," who used to paint such subjects; and the first who devoted themselves in Italy exclusively to landscape painting were natives of Antwerp. The Italians communicated to it somewhat of the ideal character of their country's higher school of painting. Caspar Dughet, who was a brotherin-law of Nicholas Poussin, and who afterwards assumed his name, is deservedly looked upon as the greatest mas permit us to speak as we could wish. There is a fine St Simeon, (137,) and some exquisite sketches, by Rubens; a noble Belisarius by Vandyke; and by Rembrandt, "The Tribute Money," a work, whose rich mellow tones make every thing near it look feeble, except our favourite Cuyp. Nor must we forget to mention, that an “ Allegorical subject," by Jordaens, is the most gorgeous piece of colouring we have seen for many a day. 66 It is with no small pride that we turn from these classical schools to look upon the works of our own island masters which enrich this Exhibition. The portraits of the Duchess of Buccleuch and Lady Mary Montague, by Sir Joshua Reynolds, are, prejudice apart, the finest pictures in the room. The little landscape by Wilson (59) will stand a competition with any of its companions. And "The King," by the lamented Lawrence, notwithstanding all its faults of colouring, is worthy of the subject. The face is superbly modelled, and we see down through the clear transparent eye into the very soul. THE PSALMS OF DAVID. To the Editor of the Edinburgh Literary Journal. writing, in verse as well as in prose, there is no man to Ir good sense, Mr Editor, is the foundation of good whom I should more cheerfully consign the important task of revising our Psalmody, than to your anonymous correspondent in the last Number of the Literary Journal. His Paper gives a simple and most correct view of the subject; it is, in my opinion, worth all the palaver of all the enthusiasts put together. I mean no disrespect to Mr Tennant, however, of whom it may be justly said that he is even more celebrated for his genius than bis learning. Though no poet, I have ventured to try my hand, in compliance with the wishes of your anonymous correspondent; and, in doing so, I hope to set an example which men, infinitely my superiors, may not think unworthy of imitation. Here are a few of his exercises, o new readings of certain parts of the Psalms:Ps. i. 3. "He shall be like a goodly tree That grows the streams beside, I cannot think of parting with the neuter pronou which. Ps. iii. 7, 8. "Arise, O Lord, save me, my God! Ps. vi. 1. 8. Ps. vi. 9. 10. Ps. vii. 2. Ps. vii. 9. On cheek-bone thou didst smite Of the ungodly's spite. Salvation great is his; "In thy great anger, O my God, "Depart from me all ye that do In sinful works rejoice; For, lo! the Lord hath turn'd his ear While there is none to save." Ps. viii. 2. Or, "From mouth of babes and sucklings, thou 3. "When I consider well thy heavens, "When I consider well thy heavens, And look unto the moon and stars, 6. "O'er all thy works thou mad'st him lord, I have only room to say, that my earnest endeavour Dunbar, 31st March, 1830. THE DRAMA. more than some commonplace observations concerning the word "farewell"—a most threadbare theme, and a particular request that the public would behave as kindly as possible towards Mr Murray. This request is expressed in the highly poetical couplet "When I am far, my patrons, oh! be kind To the dear relative I leave behind." Then follow some lines in which she praises the "dear relative" in a style which appears to us in very bad taste. Had Sir Walter Scott thought more maturely on the subject, we do not believe he would have deemed it consistent with the dignity of the occasion, to make Mrs Siddons foist in by a side-wind a puff collateral to the present manager. All the world is aware, that she will naturally continue to be anxious for the success of her brother, whether he boasted "A Scottish origin-a Scottish name," or not; but why make a parade of this feeling, and thereby distract the attention from the main subject? The audience was assembled to hear her farewell, not to be cajoled into applauding Mr Murray, who must of course stand or fall by his own deserts. Observe, we do not mean to blame Mrs Siddons; we are finding fault with what was written for her. But were we a great actor or actress, and about to make our last public appearance, we should not accept of a poetical address from a conclave of all the best poets living. There is always something artificial, studied, cold, and repulsive, in a set of regular heroic lines. If we felt that our heart was truly touched -our feelings deeply agitated, how could we reconcile it to our conscience to study beforehand a copy of verses, written for us by another, and, when the moment came, march up to the stage-lamps, and pronounce them with becoming emphasis and discretion. Good heaven! if we saw a great multitude assembled to take leave of us, and knew that the slightest indication of a reciprocity of feeling upon our part would melt them all to tears, could we play the frigid declaimer, and take our departure amidst the heartless see-saw of an empty rhyme? No!-a few plain words of unadorned prose, the simple, manly, and sincere expression of the emotions actually passing within us, were worth an Iliad of hexameters. A poetical address is well enough upon certain occasions; but is altogether out of place when a favourite performer bids a final and solemn adieu to public life. Auber's opera of "Masaniello, or the Dumb Girl of The music of Portici," has been produced this week. this piece is, in many respects, very beautiful; and, considering the defective state of Mr Murray's operatic force at present, more justice has been done to it than we expected. The Overture is spirited and good ;-the finest passages are those in which the barcarole, the Market chorus, and Masaniello's march, are introduced. The orchestra is not effective enough to do it full justice, but, on the whole, it is respectably executed. The general character of Auber's music, though he is himself a FrenchHe has been accused of imiman, is essentially Italian. tating Rossini too closely, but we confess we cannot discover any undue resemblance in the opera of "Masaniello." In consequence of Montague Stanley, who played Don Alphonso, not being able to sing, a solo, duet, and a very spirited quartett and chorus, have been left out, but we are thankful that this has been done rather than the alternative adopted of entrusting the part to Larkins, who Wilson plays Mawould have murdered it altogether. saniello, and the performance, as a whole, has raised him As an actor, he is still a little highly in our opinion. THE event of the week in the Dramatic world of Edinburgh, has been the retirement of Mrs Henry Siddons from the stage, or, as the bills express it, from "the Edinburgh Stage," the meaning of which equivoque is, that Mrs Siddons conceived it possible she might at some future period be induced to accept of a short engagement in London, or elsewhere, and wished to leave the door open for her doing so. Let nobody contradict this statement "on authority," or in any other way; for we know it to have been the fact, though it is possible Mrs Siddons may have since changed her mind. The house, upon Monday evening, was filled to bursting, and the heart of every individual seemed as full as the house. But, having indulged in some very pretty pathos concerning Mrs Siddons a fortnight ago, we do not intend to draw any far-awkward and stiff, but not more so than his want of exther draughts at present upon our readers' good-nature. She made her final exit with great applause, as was fitting, and is going to spend some time in Paris. In a subsequent page will be found the Farewell Address, which was written for her by Sir Walter Scott. It is fully as poor as such compositions usually are; containing little As a singer, perience would naturally lead one to expect. We wish |