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TINE'S MAGIC LANTHERN.
Monk. No; for the Scripture menNo II.
tions no such thing. But what then?
Galileo. Why then, you must admit Galileo in the Inquisition. that time teaches things which were
unknown before. Galileo. So you are come to close the Monk. That is possible enough. shutters of my window before night- But now things are different; for my fall. Surely these bars are strong head is gray, and I have no faith in enough. I would fain have the con new discoveries. solation of viewing the heavens after Galileo.' We know not what time it is dark. My sleep is unquiet and may bring about. Perhaps the earth short, for want of exercise ; and when may yet be weighed. I lie awake, the roof of my prison pre Monk. Go on-you shall receive no sents nothing but a sable blank. "Do interruption from me. You perceive not, I beseech you, conceal from me that I only smile gently and goodthe blue vault, and those hosts of naturedly when you talk in this manlight, upon which I still love to gaze · ner. in spite of all my troubles.
Galileo. What is the matter what Monk. You must not see the stars. makes you look so wise ? It is the stars which have put you
Monk. Never mind. Go on. wrong. Poor man ! to think the earth Galileo. What is the meaning of was turning round.
this extraordinary look of tenderness Galileo. Alas! alas! Is it for this and benignity, which you are attemptthat I have studied ?
ing to throw into your features. Monk. Do you suppose, that if the Monk, When I consider what is earth had been turning all this while, your real condition, it moves my pity. the sea would not have drowned every For iny part, when the Cardinals made living soul? I put this to you, as a so much ado about your writings, I simple question, and level with the always thought they were trifling with most ordinary capacity.
their office. Galileo. My good friend, you know Galileo. I wish you would convince that I have recanted these things, and them of that; for all I desire is, to therefore it is needless for me to dis- have the privilege of looking through pute farther upon the subject. my, telescopes, and to live quietly
Monk. Your books were burnt at without doing harm to any man. I Rome, which, in my opinion, was an pray you, allow the window to remain idle business. In a few years they open; for darkness is gathering, and would have turned to smoke of their Jupiter already blazes yonder through own accord. 'Tis the way with all the twilight. So pure a sky !--and to new discoveries, for I am an old Chris- be debarred from my optical contrivtian, and have seen the fashion of the ances. world before now.
Monk. Study the Scriptures, my Galileo. Do you suppose that glass son, with care and diligence, and you windows were used in the time of will have no need of optical contrivAdam?
Galileo. I am well acquainted with suitable for the habitation of an imthe Scriptures; but as I do not sup- mortal spirit. pose they were meant to instruct man Monk. My son, my son, beware of kind in astronomy, I think there is no futile conjectures! You know not sacrilege in attempting to discover upon what ground you are treading. more of the nature of the universe Galileo. Does not the galaxy shed than what is revealed in them. forth a glorious light? How gorgeous
Monk. So you believe yourself ca is its throng of constellations !-To pable of succeeding in the attempt? me it seems like a procession of innuGalileo. Perhaps I do.
merable worlds, passing in review bea Monk. Would not your time before their Creator. better employed, my son, in perusing Monk. If the galaxy moves, why some rational book of devotion? Do may not the sun ? not allow yourself to be led away by Galileo. My judgment is, that they the idle suggestions of self-conceit. may both move, for aught I know, What is there to be seen about you, although at a very slow pace. which should enable you to penetrate
Monk. Now you speak sense. I farther into the secrets of the universe knew I should bring you round; for, than me or the rest of mankind ? I do to say the truth (and I say it between not ask this question with a view to you and me), if it had not been for wound your pride, but with a sincere my enemies, whom Heaven pardon, I wish for your good.
should have been wearing a red hat Galileo. Upon my word, you are too before now. Good night: and I shall kind to me. Pray, father, is there any immediately bring the book, which book of devotion which you would re- will help to put your thoughts in a commend in particular?
proper train again. Monk. Recommend in particular There is a book which it would not become me to-but no
No III. mend in particular Hum-I know
Rembrandt's Work-shop. not.
Galileo. Something trembles at your Rembrandt solus. Too much light tongue's end. Have you yourself writ- here still. I must deepen the shade ten any book of devotion?
ows even more, until the figures begin Monk. Far be it from me to speak to shine out as they ought. And now of my own writings. Of all books of for Pharoah's Baker, whose dream is devotion, my own was the remotest not yet interpreted ; so that he looks from my thoughts. But since you de- up earnestly in the face of Joseph, and sire to see it
receives a strong gleam through the Galileo. What are the subjects treat- iron bars. Somand again-so. Now ed of in it?
for the shadows again. To talk to me Monk. Life, death, and immortalie of Guido, with his shallow, gray, and ty. There is also a treatise upon the trivial open-lights ! Ah ha ! 'tis I who habitations of good men after death, am Rembrandt--and there is no other. and the delights to be found there. (a knock at the door.) Heaven send
Galileo. Your notions concerning a purchaser ! Come in. these subjects must be in a great Dutch Trader. Good morrow, friend. measure fanciful.
I wish to have a picture of yours to Monk. By no means. Good reasons leave to my wife, before I go to sail the are given for every tittle that is ad- salt seas again. vanced.
Rem. Would you have your own Galileo. And where do you suppose face painted ? the habitations of good men to be ? Trader. My face has seen both fair
Monk. Why, in heaven, to be sure. and foul, in its time, and belike it may
Galileo. Is it not possible that their not do for a canvass, for I am no fresh abode may be situated in some of the water pippin-cheek. constellations ? When gazing, as I was Rem. Bear a good heart. Your face wont to do, at midnight, upon Arc- is of the kind I like. There is no turus, or the brilliant orbs of Orion, I room for tricks of the pencil upon too have sometimes thought, that in the smooth a skin. blue depths there might exist worlds Trader, By this hand, I know nca
thing of these things; but my wife tainly fall, for you had too many on shall have a picture.
hand. Rem. A large hat would serve to Rem. My market shall not fall. I shadow your eyes ; and there should will see this collector at the bottom of be no light till we come down to the the ocean first. But come now, let point of your nose, which would be us be reasonable together. I will the only sharp in the picture. No- paint your portrait for thirty. Take thing but brownness and darkness your seat. every where else. Pray you, sit down Trader. Not so fast. My wife must here, and try on this great hat. be conferred with, and, if she approves,
Trader. Nay, by your leave, I will perhaps I may come back. Meanlook at these pictures on the wall first. while, good morning. (Exit.) What is this?
Rem. A curse on these pictureRem. It is a Turk whom I have dealing babblers. How shall Î be reseen in the streets of Amsterdam. I venged on them? My pictures are like to paint a good beard; and you as good as the oldest extant, and, if I see how angrily this man's beard is were dead, every piece would sell for twisted.
as much gold as would cover it. But I Trader. A stout Pagan, and a good see what must be done. Come hither, fighter, I warrant you. I feel as if I wife, and receive a commission. Gó could fetch him a cut over the crown; straight to the joiners, and order him for my ship was once near being run to prepare for my funeral. down by an Algerine.
Rembrandt's Wife. What is the Rem. Look at the next. 'Tis the meaning of this? Are your wits turninside of a farmer's kitchen.
ed? Trader. Nay, I could have told you Rem. My wits are turned towards that myself; for these pails of milk money-making. I must counterfeit might be drunk; and there is an old myself dead, to raise the price of my grandam twirling her spindle. When works, which will be valued as jewels, next I go to live at my brother Lucas's when there is no expectation of any farm, I shall persuade him to buy this picture. It shews the fat and plen Wife. Now I perceive your drift. teous life which he lives, when I am Was there ever such a contrivance ! sailing the salt seas.
You mean to conceal yourself, and Rem. Here is a sea-piece.
have a mock funeral ? Trader. Why, that is good also; Rem. Yes; and when my walls are but this sail should have been lashed unloaded I shall appear again. So to the binnacle ; for, d'ye see, when that after the picture dealers have a vessel is spooning against a swell, been brought to canonize me for a she pitches, and it is necessary to dead. painter, and when they have
Rem. You are right; I must have fairly ventured out their praise and it altered. How does this landscape their money, they shall see me come please you?
and lay my hands upon both. Trader. Why, it is a good filat Wife. How will it be possible for country; but exhibits none of those me to cry sufficiently, when there is great rocks which I have seen in fo- no real death? reign parts. I have seen burning Rem. Make good use of the present mountains, which would have made occasion to perfect yourself in your the brush drop from your hand. I part, for you may one day have to rehave sailed round the world, and seen peat it. the waves rising to the height of Haerlem steeple, and nothing but cannibals on shore to make signals to.
Rem. Well—and which of the pictures will you have? you shall have your choice of them for forty ducats.
“ A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament."
MILTOX. Trader. Nay, now you are joking: Who will give you forty ducats?
1. When at dinner with the burgo-mas
MARKED yethemingling of the City'sthrong, ter lately, I heard a collector putting Each mien, each glance, with expectation
bright? prices on your works. He said, if we would wait, your market would cers * This was a fact. See Rembrandt's Life.
ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS
Prepare the pageant and the choral song,
Yet, mortal! midst the bitterness of tears, Is it the voice of joy, that mummur deep ?- Kneel, and adore th' inscrutable decree! Away, be hushed, ye sounds of revelry! Oh! while the clear perspective smiled in light, Back to your homes ye multitudes, to weep! Wisdom should then have tempered hopes Weep! for the storm hath o'er us darkly past,
excess; And England's Royal Flower is broken by And, lost One! when we saw thy lot so bright, the blast!
We might have trembled at its loveliness ! 2.
Joy is no earthly flower-nor framed to bear, Was it a dream ! so sudden and so dread. In its exotic bloom, life's cold ungenial air. That awful fiat o'er our senses came ! So loved, so blest, is that young spirit fled, Whose bright aspirings promised years of All smiled around thee-youth, and love,
and praise ; Oh! when hath life possessed, or death de. Hearts all devotion and all truth were thine! stroyed,
On thee was rivetted a nation's gaze, More lovely hopes, more cloudlessly that
As on some radiant and unsullied shrine. smiled ?
Heiress of Empires ! thou art passed away When hath the spoiler left so dark a void ?
Like some fair vision, that arose to throw, For all is lost-the mother and her child !
Bright o'er one hour of life a fleeting ray, Our morning-star hath vanished, and the tomb Then leave the rest to solitude and wo! Throws its deep-lengthened shade o'er dis
Oh! who shall dare to woo such dreams again? tant years to come.
Who hath not wept to know that tears for
thee were vain ? And she is gone—the royal and the young! In soul commanding, and in heart benign; Yet there is one who loved thee-and whose Who, from a race of kings and heroes sprung,
soul, Glowed with a spirit lofty as her line.
With mild affections nature formed to melt; Now may the voice she loved on earth so well, Hismind hath bowed beneath the stern control Breathe forth her name unheeded and in vain; Of many a grief—but this shall be unfelt ! Nor can those eyes, on which her own would Years have gone by—and given his honour. dwell,
ed head Wake from that breast one sympathy again: A diadem of snow-his eye is dimThe ardent heart, the towering mind are fled, Around him Heaven a solemn cloud hath Yet shall undying love still linger with the spreaddead.
The past, the future, are a dream to him!
Yet, in the darkness of his fate, alone Oh! many a bright existence we have seen He dwells on earth, while Thou, in life's Quenched in the glow and fullness of its prime; full pride, art gone ! And many a cherished flower, ere now, hath
Smiled in serene defiance of his wrath!
Hears calmly, far below, the thunders roli We watched her childhood from its earliest
and die. hour, From every word and look bright omens
Her voice hath been th' awakener, and her While that young mind developed all its name power,
The gathering word of nations, in her might, And rose to energies of loftiest thought! And all the awful beauty of her fame, On her was fixed the Patriot's ardent eye, Apart she dwelt in solitary light! One hope still bloomed-one vista still was High on her cliffs alone and firm she stood, fair;
Fixing the torch upon her beacon tower; And when the tempestswept the troubled sky, That torch, whose fame, far streaming o'er She was our day-spring--all was cloudless the flood, there!
Hath guided Europe thro' her darkest hour. And oh, how lovely broke on England's gaze, --Away, vain dreams of glory_in the dust E'en through the mist and storm, the light Be humbled, Ocean Queen ! and own thy of distant days.