would blush to say he had killed cock robin); and without leaving us, he lays in summer his tax on nature. No red-breast out of Great Britain is familiar with man.

I do not like to see these birds caged, nor do I think they thrive in confinement after the pairing time sets in, and it is therefore advisable to give them their liberty in the spring season; when their plumage looks ruffled you may be certain they will no longer repay your care; but if the place where they are emancipted affords shelter, they will, in gratitude, sing their song of liberty close by your window. To return to plain prose, their food should be varied-scraped meat, egg, and moistened bread is the best; German paste and crumbs also agree. It is customary to give grated liver added to the latter, but I prefer boiled veal grated, it is used as a substitute for mealworms in some cases; ants' mould pleases them on the sand-drawer; a totally dry diet will give robins paralysis. In sickness, and they show it by drooping rapidly, and looking anxious, give mealworms in castor oil; the objection to them as food is the dislike which insectivorous birds take afterwards to artificial preparations, and producing a craving for them; they bathe daily, and take the water so plentifully as to look black. I have never seen them eat green food or fruit.

So much has been written on the pugnacity of robins, that I am unwilling to add an additional stone to the cairn of its misdemeanours. That the subject is an old one, is proven by an old Latin proverb, signifying that ". one bush does not hold two robins"-" unum arbustum non alit duos erithacos." Erithacos, that

prettiest of generic names marked by the most scientific of writers! no, we would take thee in thy peaceful mood, associate you with the earliest recollections of happy childhood, and invest you with piety and love, and hail you as that sweet bird

66

who, by some name or other, All men who know thee call thee brother."

In this spirit, I transfer to these pages an idea truly beautiful. It is the legend of the robin. "It was on the day when the Lord Jesus felt his pain upon the bitter cross of wood, that a small and tender bird, which had hovered awhile around, drew nigh, about the seventh hour, and nestled upon a wreath of Syrian thorns. And when the gentle creature of the air beheld those cruel spikes, the thirty and three which pierced that bleeding brow, she was moved with grief, and compassion, and the piety of birds; and she sought to turn aside, if but one of those thorns, with her fluttering wings and lifted feet! It was in vain! She did but rend her own soft breast, until blood flowed over her feathers from the wound! Then said a voice from among the angels, Thou hast done well, sweet daughter of the boughs! Yea, and I bring thee tidings of reward. Henceforth, from this very hour, and because of this deed of thine, it shall be that in many a land thy race and kind shall bear upon their bosoms the hue and banner of thy faithful blood; and the children of every house shall yearn with a natural love towards the birds of the ruddy breast, and shall greet their presence in its season with a voice of thanksgiving!""

WERE we skilled in the art and mystery of novel-writing, or of inditing an amusing story, here is a subject that might tempt us to lead our readers into a labyrinth of plots as intricate as the web of Penelope, and as changing in their operations upon the characters mixed up with them, as the lights and shadows that play upon the landscape in an April day. It is true that, a letter "intercepted" in the way we find it in Mr. Wood's picture, suggests but one idea of its contents, for the often quoted line of our great dramatist,

"The course of true love never did run smooth," seems truthfully exemplified in the two figures

composing the work; in the downcast look of the charming girl, the story of whose heart undoubtedly is laid bare in those unfolded pages; and in the earnest, affectionate look of her mother. But then, who wrote the letterand how came it to be written-and how hap pened it to fall into the old lady's hands-and what did it actually say-and who is the young creature who has had the imprudence to fall in love, and the misfortune to have the secret thus prematurely discovered? These, and many other questions we should be compelled to answer, if we once made an attempt to unravel the mysteries of this "Intercepted Letter." One thing, however, we may affirm,

and it is forced upon us by the gentle, loving expression of the matron's countenance, that it was no idle curiosity that induced her to break that seal, but a mother's solicitude for the peace and happiness of her child. That there is a probability of these being compromised by what the epistle reveals seems not unlikely; or it may be the daughter is, after all, only receiving a just, but kindly reproof, for having kept back her secret from one who has a parent's right to know it, and a parent's heart gently to admonish, if unworthy, and to rejoice with, if deserving of sympathy. But a truce to fancy, and now for a few words about the class of art to which the subject belongs.

But

As a general rule, it must be admitted we English are not a poetical people, or in other words, that the physical constitution of our minds sympathises little with the purely ideal. Now it seems singular that this absence of, or rather disregard for, imaginative feeling, should exist in a country that produced Shakespeare and Milton, with a host of lesser luminaries, whose individual and united powers have transcended those of any single state, ancient or modern, in the whole world. this does not alter the fact, which might be easily proved by inquiry among a miscellaneous company of some twenty men of ordinary education, how many have read the entire plays of Shakespeare, and the Paradise Lost of Milton; we might safely affirm that not one in five would acknowledge to have done so. It may, however, be argued, that this is only a negative proof of our indifference to ideal composition, for it is possible to love the poetry of nature, yet not the poet's description of it; we may wander in an imaginary world of our own, but care not for one another creates for us. Here, again, we hold to our former position, by asserting that the appreciation and love of beauty depend upon the effect it has upon us apart from the accidental circumstance of production.

But to turn from books to pictures; what is the class of art most popular with us? We speak not of landscape, for all delight in that with more or less intensity, but of that class which comes under the denomination of history, public or domestic. Religious art, in its ordinary acceptation, is little esteemed

among us; we have not been educated to a love of it, nor had it brought before us so prominently as to influence our feelings and judgment; while the legendary Christian art, that yet forms no unimportant part of sacred worship in other countries, has never found a habitation in Protestant Britain. Historical painting, on a grand and comprehensive scale, finds abundance of admirers, but few patrons, and is consequently but little practised: had we more public galleries, our deficiencies in this branch of art would probably be better supplied; but so long as public aid is withheld from it, we must submit to the reproach that foreigners are pleased to cast at us—of being a nation indifferent to high art. Benjamin West found a patron in George III., and painted some excellent pictures, though not of the highest order; Hayden persevered in it and perished; Hilton also clung to it with the enthusiasm of a great mind, though he left most of his works unsold behind him; and Barry could scarcely earn a decent maintenance for himself, though he was a man of unquestionable genius; so, indeed, were the others, but, excepting West, they acquired a reputation and little else. It is, however, only right to express an opinion, that the historical painter is now in a fairer way of being recognised and appreciated than he was a quarter of a century since, though there is yet but little encouragement for him to launch out boldly on its wide

arena.

It is the ordinary incidents of life which, as pictures, commend themselves most favourably to the English people: crowds gather round a "Dame's School," by Webster; the "Selection of a Wedding Gown," by Mulready; and a “Court Yard,” full of dogs and horses, by Landseer, who glance only at a more elevated class of pictures, from the pencils of Eastlake, Cope, and Herbert. They can enter into the spirit and reality of what they know to be nature in its common aspects; but they cannot feel when the artist comes out from the usual haunts of the world, and would carry others with him into a nobler and more elevated region. We must have more of what the French term le spirituel in our mental composition, ere we shake off our attachment to the actuel.

CHAPTER III.

My extreme surprise, or, I may almost say, my consternation, on hearing the announcement with which the former chapter concluded, was so evident that I was naturally obliged to enter into an explanation, which was almost as painful to my feelings to make, as it must have been to those of my auditor to receive. For some time he could not bring himself to believe that I was not mistaken; but each fresh question served only to render the identity of Burrell with that of his English son-in-law more certain. Age, height, appearance, manner, all coincided; the time at which he had quitted England, the name of the London agent, (a person with whom I knew my Burrell to have some business connexion,) even a peculiar ring which he was in the habit of wearing, all tallied-the fact was indisputable. Charley Burrell, rescued, not a fortnight since, from the Turkish bowstring-Charley Burrell, the run-away husband of little Mary, daughter of the Crown Inn, at Portsmouth, had been and gone and committed bigamy, by espousing the lovely and accomplished Zoe! The discovery was a most unpleasant one. My poor friend, the merchant, was in a frightful state of mind, nor was I in a much more comfortable one; and I mentally cursed my evil fortune, which had first brought me in contact with so great a scoundrel as Burrell, and then forced upon me the ungrateful task of appearing as his accuser.

It was above an hour before my host became sufficiently composed for me to venture to leave him. When at length I did so, it was with a promise that I would revisit him before the ship sailed, and afford him any further counsel and assistance which it might be in my power to offer him. And so I took my departure, leaving the poor old man to explain to his daughter her uncomfortable position of widow-bewitched-hood, as best he might.

The following day, I again called on him, bringing Captain Flexmore with me, to relate his own version of the bowstring story, and so confirm what I could not but feel must have appeared a somewhat incredible narration.

* Concluded from page 264. VOL. I. N. S.

If any hope had lingered in the mind of the unfortunate father-in-law, my production of a slip of paper, containing a song which Charley had written out for me, must have effectually destroyed it. He even remembered to have heard his rascally son-in-law (as he not untruly termed him) sing the identical song. And so, having done our best (which in this case was about equivalent to doing nothing) to console him, we left him, breathing vengeance against the scoundrel who had thus cruelly deceived him, and wronged his unfortunate daughter.

At that time, Captain Flexmore and I fully intended, the moment we reached England, to follow up the affair vigorously, find out Master Charley, and in some way bring him to account for his misdeeds, even if we should be reduced to the unpleasant resource of horse whipping him, with the almost certainty of getting shot by him afterwards, as a reward for our chivalry. But the

"Best laid schemes o' mice and men
Gang aft agee,"

and this one proved no exception to the rule. The Atalanta was ordered to the West Indies, where she remained a year. Towards the end of that period, by the exertions of my friends, I obtained an appointment in Calcutta, so infinitely more lucrative than a first lieutenant's pay, that for an empty-pocketed Harrington to refuse it, would have been an act of folly too great even for me to commit. Accordingly, I did not hesitate to accept it, although to do so involved my proceeding thither direct, without a chance of revisiting my native land for more years than were at all agreeable to contemplate. But I could not afford to be sentimental, so I went, and thus my good intentions in regard to Charley Burrell assisted to repair the pavement of a certain place reported to be warmer even than Calcutta. Why Captain Flexmore did not execute those which he had formed I cannot say, except that, perhaps, as he was never able either to make up his mind, or to adhere to his decision when arrived at, for ten consecutive minutes, without my assistance, the same cause which prevented my astonishing Charley Burrell may have influenced him also.

Although the Harringtons are too poor to

Ꮓ

indulge in sentiment and such like luxuries, the prohibition does not unfortunately extend to liver complaints, and a residence of five years in Calcutta sent me back to England the proprietor of (what the rubric designates) "a notoriously evil liver." Slightly revived by the voyage, I patiently awaited in London the decision of the faculty, whether I was "to be, or not to be," a confirmed invalid for the rest of my days.

On an unkind morning, in the severe month of May, about which poets have written more lies than on any other subject-though that is a bold assertion-I was taking a constitutional down the sunny side of Piccadilly, buttoned up in a great coat, and inwardly anathematizing the east wind, when who should I meet, and almost run against, but my ci-devant commander, the Honourable Captain Flexmore. Although it must have been nearly six years since we had met, I recognised him immediately. He was considerably changed; the delicate, puppyish young exquisite having improved into a stout, manly, bronze-visaged sailor; but the expression of irresolution, which was the distinguishing characteristic of his features, was the same as ever, and by it I knew him instantly. Broiling for five years under a tropical sun, with liver complaint consequences, had, however, altered my outward man to a degree which rendered my identity much more doubtful; and it was not until I pronounced his name, that my old associate recognised me.

"Why, Harrington! bless my soul; to think of meeting you just at this minute. Gad, I wish I'd happened to run against you half an hour sooner! Well, to be sure, what an extraordinary thing; how dreadfully thin and yellow you look. Well, this really is the most singular-'pon my honour!"

Singular, that after I have been broiling for five years in a, if not the, black-hole in Calcutta, I should come home done brown, or, more properly, yellow, and should appear rather a concentrated essence of Tom Harrington, than the veritable Thomas you knew on board the old Atalanta? Really, considering the circumstances, the great fact that the Tom of other days has faded,' strikes me as melancholy, rather than singular."

"No, by Jove, it wasn't that-you certainly have got somewhat of a mummyish cut about you-the mulligatawney beginning to show through a little, as it does with all you old Indians; but that's not what has " Here, whilst I was shivering, he stopped to wipe his brow; then added: "Gad, it's quite upset me."

Of course, I again asked to what he referred; but so thoroughly confused, astonished, and, as he termed it, "upset" did he appear, that it was not until several minutes had elapsed, during the whole of which time he continued to apostrophize, in broken ejaculations, some mysterious abstraction, which never attained to the substantial dignity of a nominative case, that he was able to give me the following account:

"You must know that I've only been ashore a week, after a cruise of a year and a half; and this morning finding, on inspection, that my shore-going toggery was in a sadly dilapidated condition, I paid a visit to my tailor, who hangs out in Hanover-street. Having given my orders to the sapient schneider, I was making my way back to the club, when, at the door of St. George's, Hanover-square, I encountered a long array of carriages, containing the dramatis personæ of a fashionable wedding. As I happened to have an idle halfhour on my hands, which I did not know very well how to dispose of, I thought I'd just stroll in and see the victims turned off. One might pick up some hints how to behave when one's own fate might arrive. So, watching my opportunity, I slipped in unnoticed, and esconcing myself in a pew with high curtains around it, arranged a peep-hole through which, myself invisible, I might observe the proceedings. As the company assembled, it was easy to see they were all tremendous swells-splendidly dressed women, and thorough-bred looking men. I soon contrived to get a look at the bride's features she was quite a girl, scarcely above eighteen or nineteen apparently, but a sweet, graceful, interesting creature, that any man might have been proud to call his own. bridegroom was a tall, gentlemanly-looking fellow, but, from the position in which he stood, I could not manage to obtain a glimpse of his features. Well, the ceremony began, and progressed rapidly, till the time when the bridegroom has to repeat some of the responses. As he did so, his voice sounded so familiar to my ear, that I felt certain I had heard it before, and was cudgelling my brains to remember where, when suddenly he turned his face towards me. Imagine my astonishment, when at the first glance I recognised Charles Burrell, the man we saved from strangulation (which he richly deserved), when we were stationed, in the old Atalanta, off the mouth of the Dardanelles."

The

"Impossible!" exclaimed I, aghast; "why, to my certain knowledge, he has already two wives living."