Charleses selected their own laureates: their successors left the selection to the lord chamberlain for the time being. Only look at the list of laureates in succession from Ben Jonson to Mr. Wordsworth : Laurence Eusden. Ben Jonson. Sir W. Davenant. Colley Cibber. Dryden. W. Whitehead. Shadwell. T. Warton. Nahum Tate. Pye. Colley Cibber, when dying, is said to have recommended Henry Jones to the Duke of Grafton (the then lord chamberlain) as his successor in the laurel. But the duke had a fancy for Whitehead, and Whitehead got it. One thing is pretty certain, we shall never see such laureates again as Shadwell, Tate, Eusden, Cibber, Whitehead, and Pye: "What, what! Pye come again! No more, no more of that!" Gray and Sir Walter Scott declined the laurel when it was offered them; but the greatest of our poets hereafter will accept it with pride, redeemed from courtly stains and Dunciud strains as it has been, by Southey and by Wordsworth. brarian, and he was under a promise to exert his influence in his behalf. The prince expressed his regret, and, under the circumstances, he could do The office of historiographer to the crown has been still worse bestowed among historians than the laurel of the court among English poets. Howell, the entertaining letter-writer, enjoyed the office for some time, and was succeeded by Dryden, who could have made but a slender title to the distinction. Shadwell succeeded Dryden, and Rymer no more. "God maketh poets," says Daniel to Lord Ellesmere, "but his creation would be in vain if patrons did not make them to live.' Ben Jonson got but 201. by all his works. Booksellers paid but a small purchasemoney there were few readers, and they could not afford to pay more. What was to be done? The poet relied on his patron for remuneration. Spenser has seventeen dedicatory sonnets before his Faery Queen; Chapman, sixteen before his translation of Homer. Shakspeare addresses his two printed poems to Lord Southampton in the language of one who would be glad of a reward. Dryden, the great master of praise in prose, drew the arrow of adulation to the head. IIe has three distinct dedications to his Virgil; Dr. Young has a dedication before each Satire (this is what Swift calls flattering knaves), and Thomson four dedications in verse before his Seasons. Well might Walpole affirm, that nothing can exceed the flattery of a genealogist but that of a dedicator. Let us, not, however, too severely condemn the poets who pursued the trade of flattery in a dedication. But booksellers, as new readers arose, improved the price of literature. The patron was no longer a necessary part of a poet's existence. Dr. Johnson could do without Lord Chesterfield; could substitute in satire the patron for the garret : "There mark what ills the scholar's life assail; succeeded Shadwell. The compiler Toil, envy, want, the patron and the of the Fœdera deserved the office, a compliment we are unwillng to pay to any one of his successors. Who has heard of Robert Stephens, Thomas Phillips, Richard Stonehewer, or even Mr. J. S. Clarke? For this same Mr. Clarke it was that Southey was refused the office. Both had written biographies of Nelson, but few have heard of Mr. Clarke's, while Southey's is, without question, the most faultless piece of biography in the language. The Prince Regent had something to do with this appointment. Mr. Clarke was his li gaol;" THE FIRST FLOWER-PAINTER. A LEGEND OF SICYON. "Life but repeats itself, all stale and worn; SICYON is among the most celebrated cities of ancient Greece, disputing the palm of superiority with Corinth itself, and laying claim to some of the most brilliant inventions of that much boasted capital, which it certainly excelled in its school of sculpture at least. Amid the names of those gifted ones who helped to make it famous, we find that of Pamphilus and Apelles, together with a long list of tradition haunted appellations, whose peculiar claim to be remembered has faded almost entirely away in the dim chronicles of the past. Lysippus was also a native of Sicyon; and Pausias, of whom is related a wild, sweet legend, well worth listen. ing to. He was the son of Bries, or Brietes, as some call it, and instructed by him in the first rudiments of an art in which he afterwards arrived at singular perfection, considering the age in which he lived, and subsequently studied encaustic in the school of Pamphilus. The word encaustic sig. nifies a kind of painting, in which, by heating or burning in (as the Greek term implies), the colours are rendered permanent in all their original splendour. But as neither Vitruvius, nor any other ancient author has left a clear account of the method employed, it may be reasonably doubted whether, among the various processes adopted or recommended by the moderns, the right one has yet been discovered. With this, however, we have nothing to do, further than briefly alluding to the extraordinary progress made by Pausias under his gifted master, which left all future competitors far behind. In every thing he undertook he was almost equally successful, and soon gained for himself a name engraven among the records of that bright land. And there it might have remained, covered with the dust of ages, blotted out with thousands more from the dim and time-stained annals of the past, or preserved only in dictionary lore, but for the halo of a sweet romance which circled round it like a glory, blending the classical and poetical together in the golden web of human sympathy and association. We can have but few thoughts and feelings in common ing so many centuries back; the city with that young Greek artist, exist. in which he dwelt retaining but the name of what it was then; his style, the very means by which he achieved celebrity, long since passed away. But when we read that in his youth he loved and was beloved-ay, even as it is with the young in our own times-the past comes home, as it were, to the heart, and we long to hear more, imagination promptly sup plying every broken link in the chain of bygone events. History tells us that the maiden's name was Glycera, that she was a maker of garlands, and he became enamoured of her in early youth. Why the very announcement reads like a poem! What a new perception of the beautiful broke over the mind of Pausias about this period, refining and idealising it in a strange manner! One might have detected it in every thing he set about; the harsh outline, and rude, unfinished conception which characterised some of his first productions, rapidly disdelicacy and polish unrivalled at that appeared, and were succeeded by a period. About this time he first began to paint flowers. How Glycera laughed, and clapped her little white hands joyfully together, when Pausias attempted to copy a wreath of roses which she was twining for a festival, laying the ori ginal down beside it, and smelling first to one and then to the other, as though she would fain have the young artist believe that she could not tell them apart! But though Pausias laughed with her-who could help it? he felt that they might have been better done, while with the feeling came the determination that they should be. Meanwhile Glycera took away the wreath to sell-for it was thus she earned her simple livelihood-asking leave to keep the copy; and, as he never refused her any thing, it was set up in her little studio, for that garland-maker was an artist, too, in her way-at least, no one could dispute her rare taste in the blending together of those glowing colours which formed her picturesque employment. When Pausias came to see his picture surrounded by the real flowers themselves, in all their beauty and freshness, he grew painfully alive to its many faults; but as Glycera, with a pretty wilfulness, absolutely refused to have it removed until he painted her another to put in its place, he was forced to comply with her request. Certain it is that the second was a wonderful improvement, although the artist himself was still far from satisfied, resting not until he gradually arrived at the highest perfection in that new art, of which he may truly be said to be the inventor-the first flower-painter! Glycera was, most likely, only a simple garland-wreather, and without much mind to comprehend the more ambitious aspirings of her gifted lover. But what did that matter, so she had the heart to love and reverence him as she must needs have done? had not noticed the defect before, would look so proud for a little moment, and then be quite angry at his fancying she meant to call it a defect, when it was nothing, positively nothing, or only what the least shade of colour would rectify in an instant. The alteration was made, and Pausias even thanked her for the suggestion; but Glycera, like a true woman, took care that this should not happen very often. After all, it is so much pleasanter to admire than criticise; so difficult to find any fault in the compositions of those we love. "How strange!" said Glycera, one evening, as she sat among her flowers; "these roses fade even before I can well make use of them, while yours will live for ever!" "Not quite," answered the artist, with a smile. "I wish it could be so." "And what is there to hinder it ?" "Nothing," replied her lover, with a wild enthusiasm that seemed to defy all earthly obstacles. "There is no barrier between genius and immortality; not even death itself, so it allow us time only to achieve greatness!" But in this new pursuit, which he had learned of her, or to please her, the maiden dearly loved to play the connoisseur. First of all, it was ten to one she would own that there was any fault in her eyes; but when Pausias was urgent that she should try and find some-for well he knew that, from constant association with the original, her taste for the picturesque and beautiful was pure and judicious, and liking, perhaps, to be taught of her, if it was only for the very novelty of the thing -Glycera would draw up her little graceful figure to its utmost height, and fixing her dark eyes, half playful ly, half deprecatingly,on his, as though wondering at her own temerity in schooling him, and looking ever gentlest when she chided, begin criticising with the softest voice and the sweetest smile imaginable. And when Pausias exclaimed that she was right, and he Glycera looked up wonderingly in her lover's face, without venturing to speak again, and it seemed to her like the countenance of a god. "Have I frightened you, dear one?" asked he at length. 66 No, I love to hear you talk thus. I, too, should like to be immortal." "You, Glycera?" And there was something of pity in the fond smile of the young artist as he bent towards her. "Yes, indeed, and it is in your power to make me so, if you will!” "If-but you are talking idly now, my Glycera!" "Why, what should hinder you drawing me, as well as yonder wreath? and then I, too, should live for ever through your genius!" The artist was struck with the idea; and the girl's perfect and trusting reliance on his skill and power to bring it to pass, seemed to gift him with superhuman strength. After all, even if he failed, there would be no great harm done; and should he succeed, and something whispered that it would be so, how glorious a triumph would be his! Yes, Glycera should have her wish-immortality through him, and their names be blended together throughout all ages! 66 Pausias, speak to me!" exclaimed his companion, startled by the pale cheek and burning eyes of her enthusiastic lover. "You are not angry, surely? But, perhaps, you think me too presumptuous ?" "Not a whit-it shall be done! You believe that I can do this, Glycera?" "I believe that you can do any thing!" "And yet it is a difficult task," observed the painter, as his flashing glance rested on that young and beautiful face. 'Nay, I will sit so still and quiet -only try." "We will begin to-morrow, then." "So soon! oh, what happiness!" Such was the origin of the famous" Stephaneplocos," or garlandwreather, as it was afterwards called. The following day Pausias commenced his labour of love; nor had all Glycera's little coquettish arts in the interim been entirely thrown away, for never did she look more beautiful; and the artist resolved to paint her as she was then, sitting among her flowers, and holding a wreath of them carelessly in her hand, as though she had just finished twining it. Truth to say, the original of that celebrated picture was charming enough to have inspired one even less gifted than the young Greek. The attitude, the timid consciousness of her own loveliness, beaming forth in that half-playful, half-bashful glance, although perfectly natural and unstudied, appeared the very perfection of artistic grace; and Pausias had only to suggest to his fair sitter-and it was a needless caution the necessity of her keeping her attention fixed upon him. Weeks passed on, and the picture grew in beauty beneath his mastertouch. Glycera, in her wild delight, knew not which to admire most, herself or the flowers, and would persist in maintaining that the former was flattered-for the pleasure, perhaps, of being contradicted by her lover, as a matter of course; and told, for the hundredth time, how utterly impossible it was for any human artist ever even to hope to delineate the changeful beauty of that radiant face. But Pausias had many other things to engage his attention, and, manlike, began to tire a little of being so constantly chained to one subject; and although he always hoped that the "Stephaneplocos" would be his chef-d'œuvre, and bestowed more pains upon it than upon all the rest of his works put together, he did not seem in any great hurry to get it finished, but lingered over the subject in a sort of playful dalliance, without making much visible progress. Pausias has been accused by his contemporaries, and not without some shadow of truth, of being a slow painter; and although the censure was effectually silenced at the time by his famous "Hemeresios," or work of a day, that being the brief period in which he completed the picture of a boy, executed with wonderful taste and delicacy, taking into consideration the shortness of the time allotted to his self-imposed task, the satire was, nevertheless, not entirely without foundation. what if it was so? The rivals who criticised him have passed into oblivion, while the artist is remembered still. All great things are born of time, and matured by study and reflection. But for that very slowness he might never have arrived at the eminence he afterwards attained in the skilful management of lights and shadows, for which the works of this great painter are peculiarly distinguished. And Glycera evinced, at length, so much impatience that the picture should be gone on with, that Pausias could not help inquiring with a smile, whether she was afraid all the flowers would fade away? "It is not the flowers only that are mortal, my Pausias!" replied the girl, turning aside her head. Struck by the sad tones of her voice, he gazed upon her more atchanged! Could it be the light tentively. Surely she was much which fell upon her? Or the crimson flowers wreathed amid her dark hair? They were enough to make any one look pale,--but not so thin, so strangely attenuated. "You are ill!" said Pausias. It was the first time he had noticed it ; but we often find it thus: those who love us best and truest are frequently the last to observe a change, long ago perceptible to the glance of others less interested. Glycera's young companions had often mentioned it of late; but she only laughed and shook her head, saying, and perhaps believing then, that it was nothing, and she should soon be well again. "You are ill!" repeated Pausias, once more; while she yet meditated how to answer, and whether to attempt any longer to conceal it from him. "No; but I fear to be. It is this feeling that makes me impatient sometimes. Pausias, you promised me immortality!" What mockery there was for him who loved her in those wild words! in the meek, trusting look with which she clung to him! How powerless, after all, is our vain, human worship!-Our purest affection! Is there nothing that we can do? If we were to lay down our very lives for them, of what avail would it be? None! In our strongest love we are as weak as little children to save the object of it from one corporeal pang. We can but pray for them. The young Greek repeated the word immortality with white lips. "Let me owe it to you!" whispered Glycera, again; and she pressed closer to him, and rested her drooping head upon his shoulder. "It was too much happiness to be with you here on earth; but to live in the memory of your future fame is life enough for me." it was sweet to die so loved and After this, Pausias devoted himself Pausias interrupted her with passionate lamentations. It was a sad triumph for her to learn in them how dear she was to him, and how well content he would be to give up all other ties of hope and ambition which the world held for him, to preserve the young life rapidly ebbing away. To be sure, these were mere words; taken from his art, Pausias would have been the most miserable man alive, and even Glycera's love have utterly failed to satisfy or console. But he did not think so then; and she-oh, it was so natural!-believed every syllable he told her, feeling strangely happy in consequence. And yet there was no selfishness in the heart of the young garland-wreather. She would not for worlds have purchased life itself, precious as it seemed to her now, at such a sacrifice; but 66 "Not half beautiful enough; and I do not mean the flowers, my Glycera! But you must have your way, I suppose ?" "To be sure;" and she went and sat down in her usual place. It was a strange notion; but Pausias could not help thinking as he worked, how many flower-wreaths had faded away since the picture was first began. It was a bright summer evening praise, fell soothingly on his ear. It was a wild supposition; but the |