Ir is the privilege, or rather the office, of the painter, to deal with the common incidents of life as if they were not of ordinary occurrence; or it may, perhaps, with more propriety, be said, that he is allowed to invest them with so much of poetical imagination as, while retaining their natural features, to give them a character and beauty not invariably their own-to wrap them in sunshine or in shadow as his fancy pleases. And, when left to follow the current of his own free thoughts, unfettered by commissions for given subjects, which he neither feels nor cares to feel, except as they may effect his interests or his reputation; the works of every artist are a tolerably sure index of his own mind, the reflex of his thoughts upon what has been presented to his observation, either personally, or through the medium of indirect channels, such as come to him by reading, for instance. And hence, they who have studied the pictures of the great masters of art, whatever their age or country, and have also become acquainted with the individual character of the painters, cannot fail to come to the same conclusion. Raffaelle could never have sketched the gaunt and miserable beings that Spagnoletto delighted to picture; nor could Guido have associated with the ferocious bands whom Salvator Rosa is said to have made his companions; simply because the artist would, in such cases, have had no sympathy of feeling with their models, living or only imaginary: the art which results only from the eye and the hand, and that expresses not the love of the painter for what he represents, as one delights in that which is agreeable, will be, perhaps, a piece of clever mechanism, but nothing more.

Now we know only by reputation the artist who painted the picture of "The Sicilian Mother," but we will venture to assert he would never have selected such a subject if he had not thoroughly felt it, and had some sympathy with the joyous pride of the young matron in her children. There is no doubt some such scene may have attracted his attention in the country to which he has assigned it; but he has thrown around it the charm of his own fancy, and tinged it with the poetry of life.

We have sometimes heard the question debated whether the father or the mother possesses the deeper affection for a child; yet the argument has never, to our knowledge, been satisfactorily settled. In Mrs. Hemans's "Siege of Valencia," she puts forth the claims

VOL. I. N. S.

of the latter very strongly; the quotation is rather long, but the language of her reasoning is so beautiful in its simplicity, and so natural in its fervour, that no apology need be made for repeating it. Elmina has been vainly attempting to induce her husband, Gonzalez, the governor of the city, to save the lives of her young boys, who have fallen into the hands of the enemy, by surrendering up the place: he continues determined in his refusal, and her entreaties give way to reproach :

"There is none

In all this cold and hollow world, no fount
Of deep, strong, deathless love, save that within
A mother's breast. It is but pride, wherewith

To his fair son, the father's eye doth turn,
Watching his growth. Ay, on the boy he looks,
The bright, glad creature springing in his path;
But as the heir of his great name, the young
And stately tree, whose rising strength ere long
Shall bear his trophies well. And this is love!
This is man's love! What marvel? you ne'er made
Your breast the pillow of his infancy,
While to the fulness of your heart's glad heavings,
His fair cheek rose and fell; and his bright hair
Waved softly to your breath! You ne'er kept watch
Beside him till the last pale star had set,
And morn, all dazzling as in triumph, broke
On your dim, weary eye; not yours the face,
Which early faded through fond care for him,
Hung o'er his sleep, and, duly as heaven's light,
Was there to greet his wakening! You ne'er
smoothed

His couch, ne'er sung him to his rosy rest,
Caught his last whisper, when his voice from yours
Had learned soft utterance; press'd your lip to his,
When fever parch'd it; hushed his wayward cries
With patient, vigilant, never-wearied love!
No! these are woman's tasks! In these her youth
And bloom of cheek, and buoyancy of heart,
Steal from her all unmark'd!"

The women of Sicily are, in general, remarkably handsome, very fascinating in their manners, but, unfortunately, scarcely less lax in their morals than the females of the other Italian states. The island has been so frequently colonized by both its European and African conquerors, Greeks, Carthaginians, and Saracens, Normans and Spaniards, that it sometimes is not difficult to trace the origin of certain classes of its inhabitants; but the Greek and Punic features and character seem to prevail most in the higher grades of society. Their fondness for music, the dance, and the song, their high degree of civilization, the beauty of the country, and its genial atmosphere, all contribute to render a temporary or even lengthened sojourn in the island most agreeable to the traveller, who may easily reach it from Reggio, at the extreme southern part of Italy.

CHAP. IV.

Matthew Whitelock, reclining in what he called his " easy chair," was musing, rather than thinking, over the inconsistencies of the most consistent, and pondering as to which was the more beautiful to contemplate-the love a mother bears her child, or the devotion a child renders to a parent; thinking how many instances there are of the former, and how, comparatively, few of the latter; hoping that the widow would really buy the wine and meat, as he desired; and having, like all genuine Englishmen, great faith in "creature comforts," he converted the worn, attenuated widow into a portly woman. Having arranged this, he indulged in a vision he had of late enjoyed so frequently, that it had become almost a reality-that Richard would turn out something like Whittington: his dreams of the future had gradually taken Richard in, first as a shadow, then as a substance, until he formed a portion of all his day dreams-wondering if he could tie up fishingflies, yet fearing to ask him, lest Martha might make it another subject of complaint; varying these fancies with probabilities as to whether he should have good fishing the first of the following June, when he made his annual journey to Teddington, and, be the day hot or cold, invariably returned with a swollen face, wonderfully helping Martha's sarcasms during the following summer and autumn months; indeed, she constituted it a red letter day-everything occurred "before" or after "master went bothering after the bits of fish, that the cat would'nt eat without butter, and got the bad face." Then again his thoughts would dwell upon Richard, whom he believed - and with fair show of reason-endowed with a rare capacity for acquiring knowledge, and turning it to the best account. He never thought of another power he had that of attaching to him those who seldom formed attachments. Some observation made by the lad, in a careless, off-hand manner, would frequently set his master calculating what he could do for him. He delighted in lending him books, and to draw forth his opinions upon them; devising many clever expedients to overcome Richard's shyness, and make him "speak out." As the lad's accumulated and

* Continued from page 184.

accumulating knowledge became better known to him, he felt almost inclined to apologize when it was necessary he should take out parcels; but what especially charmed him was the boy's unconsciousness of his own book improvement and superiority. Had it not been for the unaccountable fear Matthew Whitelock entertained of his housekeeper—which he only overcame by fits and starts-he would have forbidden Richard the kitchen, and seated him at his own little table in the dusty back room; but he knew that such a movement must lead to open rebellion. He had grown positively uncomfortable at the idea of Richard's brushing his shoes, and cleaning knives-"a lad capable of writing the Latin names of his books without a dictionary, and was a better penman than he was himself!" However difficult it may be of belief, considering his "calling," it is a positive fact that Matthew Whitelock reverenced literary acquirements; and when a clever book did not "sell," Matthew would take the part of the author against "the trade"- a proceeding which caused him to be considered "a fool" by many who are wise in their own conceits.

These and such like thoughts were passing through Matthew's mind, in a half-dreamy way; now lingering, now rushing onward, and then off, while Peter lay at his feet; and he began to long, as he often did, for Richard's return; for he enjoyed a chat with his messenger, as he used to enjoy a newspaper. Without his perceiving it, Matty entered, and shutting the door, as she always did when she had anything particular to say, placed her back against it, wreathed her bony arms together, and passing one foot over the instep of the other, stood on one leg, "shouldering" the door-case.

"Its my opinion, sir, that you make too much fuss entirely with that boy, and that he's forgetting his place."

"Is it-how ?"

"Well, thoughts is thoughts, and its hard to put them into words; but here they are! He'd rayther any time stay fiddling after one bit of dust or another, or stitching ould tataration books, that's going to the bad since the year one, or mending your pen-as if you had not eyesight (the Lord presarve it) to do it yourself than sit and rest his young bones at his supper; and as to rubbing over the knives, he does them in no time, without a bit of a stop

between; so that I never have a word out of him. And the paper! he reads it shameful! treating polyticks as if they war dirt; and so ignorant, that when he's done, he knows no more of the state of Europe than when he began. His mother says he lives without sleep, or as good as: there's a heart-break for a tender mother! I hate unnatural ways. The truth is, he's above his business."

"I quite agree with you."

66

"Then," said the contradictory Matty, "its

a sin and a shame for you to say so, sir. You have nothing to complain of: he's willing enough to do every hand's turn for you. I'm nothing in the house-just no-thing! He's as civil and smooth as crame with his good morning, and good evening, and fine day, Mrs. Cook! but that's professional-there's no love with it. He's all for learning and books. If he goes on this way, you'll have to take him into partnership."

"Poems! Hav'nt I heard you say many times that there was no good in books now, since there's such a many writers; that a book is no longer a book, only a rubbish; and that all the half of the writers do is to spile paper and pens, and waste ink. Them's your words, master, when you war in one of your pleasant humours, discoorsing upon the ruin that's come into the world. And now this boy goes and writes poems, and you'll print them!"

"Go down stairs, Matty, and bring me those poems."

66

And to be made a paper weight in my ould days-just to stand upon papers."

66

'Do as I desire you."

"I can't do you think I'd keep 'em in the kitchen? There they are!" she continued, throwing a roll of manuscript on the table; "there they are! As if he had any right to set up for a poet-as if his mother and him hav'nt gone through starvation enough without that. That's what comes of his neglecting the state of Europe, and hurrying over the knives: his mother wanted to tell you about it, but had no courage, and no wonder. Its asy to see what's before him now; and his poor mother blind

and desolate. Poems! Oh! no wonder my hair's grey! But its your fault, master-informing his mind! I wonder who ever troubled about my mind!" And out she flounced, while her master, not without some secret apprehension- -more anxiety, in fact, for Richard than he had ever felt before-unrolled the manuscript, and, after wiping and putting on his spectacles, commenced its perusal.

CHAP. V.

IN Harley-street, where the houses bear a near relationship to each other, and seem to have been erected by some grave builder, who was never ambitious of being considered an architect, but heaped brick upon brick, in the heavy, old-fashioned style; laying down solid floorings-putting in solid windows-bearing in mind that there might be dancing in the first floors, and dinners in the diningrooms--and so created (giving the walls time to dry, and the plaster to harden-doing, in fact, everything which builders do not do now) the long, solemn street, which so admirably illustrates the term "respectable." In one of the most sedate and self-important houses of this very respectable street, lived Mr. Francis Oldham. His name was upon a brass plate on the door, showing that he was not ashamed of it. The brass plate was as lustrous as if it had only been put up the previous day, and the door-steps were white and spotless as snow; the windows were bright in the lustre of unstained plateglass; the paint all fresh. Many beggars, well or ill-dressed, passed up and down that street, in sunshine and shower, but few knocked at that particular door, or addressed beggingletters to Mr. Francis Oldham, though his name could be read from the opposite side of the gaping street; indeed, if a beggar did knock at that bright-plated door, the policeman (policemen and dogs know beggars by intuition) on his lonely beat would have set the knocker down "as a real case, and no sham-a green one." No regular beggar would waste time on such an act, it being currently reported amongst the clique, that Mr. Francis Oldham never did an act of charity in his life, and never would do one.

The house without was an index to the house within it was so well ordered as to be positively uncomfortable; the bright bars had the effect of ice-it was impossible to imagine they had ever contained a fire; the polished oaken floor of the dining-room had a small, square Turkey carpet in the centre, upon which stood a

solid mahogany table, like a tomb-stone. There was a picture (how such a picture ever came there was a mystery) of Christ overturning the tables of the money-changers in the temple. It was gloriously treated. The figure of the Saviour in the foreground-calm and erect, the face more than half-turned towards the cowering crowd he had reproved, while withdrawing from a presence whose authority they dared not dispute-was full of the most sublime dignity of displeasure; the effect produced upon the people was the effect of will, rather than of words; the attitude was in itself all-eloquent-all-powerful. If you looked at the picture before you noted the frozen bars and tomb-like table, and desolate aspect of the room, you would never notice them at all--it would absorb your attention from the first to the last moment you passed in the shivering atmosphere of the rich man's inhospitable chamber. The Saviour's right arm was outstretched, yet not fully elevated; it seemed as though the tables of the money-changers had been crushed and broken while he raised it from his side-the arm of flesh being the symbol of the arm of the Spirit; there was a positive halo-a radiance-around the head, not painted in the ordinary way, as if brought there, but a tender light exhaling from the Christ. It was impossible to tell how the effect was produced, there it was, a thing to dream of; inspired, doubtless, after holy prayer and supplication, that it might be given to mortal man to show what Jesus was what Jesus did. The whole picture, in every effect, in every detail, was magnificently painted; and yet it was the Saviour, the Saviour alone, that rivetted attention. You would have given much that the face had been turned away from the multitude, and towards you; and yet who could look upon the severity of its beauty unscathed! Oh! rare painter--and wise as rare!

The wonder was, how Mr. Francis Oldham could endure the silent reproof of such a picture; for the tale was whispered that he had been, and was, a money-changerone who gave gold for bills, and took large interest. It might have been untrue, but so went the tale; and if true, then it is not to be wondered at that Mr. Francis Oldham rarely dined there, but partook of his solitary meal in a little back room, where the barred window looked into a small, square, paved court, surrounded by high, whitewashed walls, which even the Harley-street cats, could never scale!

The house, despite its glaring and ostenta

tious cleanliness, felt as if uninhabited; and there was a close atmosphere, caused by want of ventilation, which oppressed the spirits of those who were accustomed to breathe fresh air. It was also a silent house, nothing moving about it except a very beautiful little spaniel, of a bitter, unamiable temper, who attempted to bite every visitor, without the courtesy of a warning bark.

Contrary to his usual custom, Mr. Francis Oldham was pacing up and down the drawingroom. The chairs and sofas must have been rare and costly, to match the inlaid tables and buhl cabinets; but they were all carefully covered with brown holland-cold and glazed; the rich paper looked as if it had not been hung a week; and the dreadful holland that shrouded the carpet was spotless and chilly as a field of snow. The little dog paced after its master, pausing occasionally, as if wondering why he walked there at all: it was not at home in the room, seemed to have no place to lay down upon, and was thoroughly uncom fortable. A magnificent pendule, and two costly, but heavy and tasteless, lustres, were on the chimney-piece; and the old man (for he was old) never failed to pause before the clock, to see if time lingered as usual. He frequently glanced at the arm-chairs, as if intending to sit down—perhaps it was their cold and comfortless air which prevented his doing so, or perhaps he did not like to crease the covering. A very small fire was burning in a fire-basket within the grate, and yet the short November evening was closing in, with more than usual fog, and creeping, creeping cold—a cold which rhimed the windows, and made the streetlamps look dim and wet. Mr. Francis Oldham walked on; sometimes rubbing his dry, hard palms together, and feeling if there was another button to draw his coat still more closely over his narrow chest; he coughed frequently -it echoed like a death-knell in that still house. After a long time, a step was heard ascending from below; it came stealthily up, as if unwilling to disturb the silence. The drawing-room fire was nearly out, only one or two cave-like coals glowing at the back of the basket, and the mystified street lamps cast their palest light into the room; still Mr. Francis Oldham walked, and his shadow, broken off at intervals by the piers between the windows, to which the curtains were drawn tight back, and covered with that ghastly holland, came and went, a thin, crazy-looking shadow-now on the floor, now on the wall. How dim and homeless everything appeared in that chill, unsocial room-it was becoming positively