_By J.A. St. John_.[3]
[3] We have abridged this tale to suit our limits, though we trust
not at the expense of the interest of the author. The style is
rich and tender, and well suited to this class of works,
although we cannot help thinking some of the details
unnecessarily protracted. In the volume it occupies 22 pages.
In an ancient chronicle of Arezzo, which still remains in manuscript
in the church of St. Angelo, in that city,[4] there is found the very
extraordinary story of the painter Spinello Aretino, to which Lanzi
alludes briefly, in his History of Painting in Italy. No farther notice
has, I believe, been taken of it by any other writer whatever, although
it appears to me to be singularly well calculated to gratify or to
excite the curiosity of those who love to pry into the mysteries of
human nature, and to mark the strange avenues by which mortals sometimes
approach the gates of death.
[4] Vide Catal Manuscript. Sanct Ang. No. 817. 4to. Rom. 1532.
When Spinello first arrived at Arezzo, he took lodgings in the house
of an artist, who, although he possessed no great share of genius, had
contrived to amass considerable wealth. This artist was no other than
Bernardo Daddi, whose son, also named Bernardo, afterwards became the
pupil of Spinello, and almost eclipsed his father's reputation. Besides
this son, Bernardo had several other children, and among the rest a
daughter named Beatrice, then just verging upon womanhood. With this
daughter it was to be expected that Spinello would immediately be in
love; but our young artist had left behind him, in his native village,
a charming girl, to whom he was in a manner betrothed; and he was the
last man in the world to look upon another with a wandering heart. He,
therefore, lived in the same house, and ate at the same table with
Beatrice, without even discovering that she was beautiful; while they
who merely caught a glance of her at church, or as she moved, like a
vision, along the public walk, pretended to be consumed with passion.
Fathers, whether their children are beautiful or not, are often desirous
of preserving an image of them during their golden age, when time, like
the summer sun, is only ripening the fruit he will afterwards wither,
and cause to drop from the bough. Bernardo was possessed by this desire;
and as he never dreamed that any pencil in Arezzo, but his own, could
reproduce upon canvass the lovely countenance of Beatrice, he spent, as
from his opulence he could now afford to do, a considerable portion
of his time in painting her portrait. The girl, however, who was not
greatly addicted to meditation and could not read, for books had not
then come into fashion, grew melancholy during these long sittings,
and her father perceived it. At first no remedy presented itself. He
endeavoured, indeed, to converse with her a little in his uncouth way;
but he had not cultivated the art of talking, and quickly exhausted his
topics. He next introduced his son Bernardo, the junior of Beatrice by
one year, whose efforts at creating amusement, being constrained and
unnatural, for he came against his will, were little more successful
than his own. At length the idea of engaging the services of his lodger,
with whom he had observed that Beatrice sometimes laughed and chatted
of an evening, occurred to him, and he forthwith mentioned the subject
to Spinello. The young man entertained a very strong affection for
Bernardo, who, if he wanted genius, was far from being destitute of
amiable and endearing qualities; and therefore, notwithstanding that he
felt it would greatly interfere with his studies, and trench upon his
time, he immediately determined to comply with the old man's desires.
The next morning saw Spinello installed in his new office. Beatrice was
seated like a statue in an antique chair with her arms crossed upon her
bosom, her eyes fixed upon vacancy, and her features screwed in spite
of herself, into an expression of weariness and impatience. By degrees,
however, as Spinello conversed with her, now of one trifle, then of
another, her eyes involuntarily wandered to that portion of the room in
which the young dialectician sat involved in shadow, and exerting all
his eloquence and ingenuity to awaken her attention. The experiment
succeeded. Spinello was entreated to be present the next day, the day
following, and, in fact, every day, until the portrait was completed,
or, at least, nearly so. He gazed, as I have said, upon the face of
Beatrice, and would sometimes spend a moment in examining the inanimate
representation of it, and in instituting a comparison between it and
the original; until one day forgetting in his idolatry of loveliness
the respect due to old age, he snatched the pencil from the hand of
Bernardo, and with singular ardour and impatience exclaimed--"Let me
finish it!" Without uttering a word, the old man, awed by the vehemence
of his manner, yielded up the pencil; and Spinello proceeded, as if in
a dream, to embody upon the canvass the idea of beauty which inhabited
his soul.
Spinello, thus entrapped by his own enthusiasm, could do no other than
proceed with the portrait. Though infinitely desirous not to wound the
feelings of Daddi, he perceived at once that it would be necessary
to recast the whole design of the piece to change the style of
colouring--in a word, to paint a new picture. Daddi, who loved his
child still more than his art, and wished to preserve and transmit to
posterity a likeness of her, by whomsoever painted, was not offended,
though he was a little hurt, by this freedom, and without murmur or
objection allowed Spinello to accomplish his undertaking in whatever
manner he pleased. The young man went to work with a satisfaction and
alacrity he had never before experienced; and the image of Beatrice,
passing into his soul, to be thence reflected, as from one mirror upon
another, on the canvass, shed the light of Paradise over his fancy--as
the musk-deer perfumes the thicket in which it slumbers.
Though this picture is greatly celebrated in Italy, and especially
at Arezzo, I shall not pause to describe it minutely. Beatrice is
represented as reclining, in a chaste and thoughtful attitude, on an
antique couch at the foot of a pillar: flowers and flowering shrubs
appear to shed their perfume around; and a spreading tree, with a vine
loaded with grapes climbing up its trunk and branches, stretches over
her. In the back ground the sky only, and a few dusky trees, appear.
The design, it will be perceived is meagre enough, but the execution
is incomparably beautiful; and it may be safely affirmed, that if
immortality upon earth was all that Bernardo coveted for his child,
his prayer has been granted. A thousand pens have been employed in
celebrating this picture, and Italian literature must perish ere
Beatrice be forgotten.
I shall not pretend to say by what means, since it was not by words,
Spinello discovered that he was beloved by Beatrice: but assuredly the
discovery gave him considerable pain. The form of Beatrice would rise up
both in his sleeping and waking dreams before his fancy, among his most
cherished associations; and her features, although he observed it not,
mingled themselves, as it were, with the elements of every picture he
painted.
While this was the state of his mind and feelings, Spinello was engaged
to paint his famous picture of the "Fall of the Angels," for the church
of St. Angelo at Arezzo. The design of this great work, which has been
celebrated by Vasari, Moderni, and other writers on Italian art, was
at once magnificent and original; and the countenance and figure of
Lucifer, upon which the artist appeared to have concentrated all the
rays, as it were, of his genius, were conceived in a manner fearfully
sublime. Spinello disdained the vulgar method of binding together, by
an arbitrary link, all the attributes of ugliness, which artists have
generally pursued when they would represent the greatest of the fallen
angels; and, after meditating long upon the best mode of embodying
the principle of evil, determined to clothe it with a certain form of
beauty, though of a kind not calculated to delight, but on the contrary
to awaken in the soul all those feelings of uneasiness, anxiety,
apprehension and terror, which usually slumber in the abysses of our
nature, and are disturbed only on very extraordinary occasions.
From the moment in which he began to delineate this miraculous figure,
a singular change seemed to have taken place in his whole nature.
His imagination, like a sea put in motion by the wind, appeared to
be in perpetual agitation. He was restless and uneasy when any other
occupation kept him away from his picture. As his health was good, and
his frame vigorous though susceptible, this state of excitement was at
first rather pleasing than otherwise. He indulged himself, therefore,
with those agitating visions, as they may be called, which the
contemplation or recollection of his Lucifer called up before his mind.
At length, however, the idea of the mighty fallen angel, whose form he
had delighted to clothe with terror and sublimity, began to present
itself under a new character to his mind; and instead of being a subject
to be fondled, as it were, and caressed by the imagination, seemed as
it approached maturity to manifest certain mysterious qualities, which,
engendered terror and apprehension rather than delight.
Spinello's _studio_ now began to be a place of torture to him, and
he turned his eyes towards the amusements of the world, which he had
hitherto shunned and scorned. He frequented the society of other young
artists, with whom he often strolled into the woods, or rather groves,
for which this portion of Etruria was always remarkable, sometimes
traversing or descending the Val d'Arno, at others roaming about the
ruins, or visiting the site of Pliny's Tuscan Villa. On returning in
high spirits from one of these excursions, he learned by the letter of a
friend that the object of his first love had proved unfaithful, and been
united in marriage to another. This event, though it had no connexion
whatever with his former cause of uneasiness, threw a new gloom over his
imagination, in the midst of which the figure of Lucifer, dilating, like
an image in the mists of the desert, to superhuman dimensions, stood up
to scare and torment him afresh.
The unhappy young man, wounded in his feelings, and haunted by the
shadow of his own idea, now fled to Beatrice for relief; and her tone
of thinking, which had in it something of the Stoic cast, united with
a manner at once playful and dignified, delighted him exceedingly. They
conversed together on many occasions for whole hours; and the trains of
thought which at such times swept like glorious pageants through his
mind, followed too rapidly to allow of the existence of melancholy.
Sometimes, indeed, Spinello would observe that when he gazed in rapture,
rather than in passion, upon the face of Beatrice, a certain something,
like a ray of light, or a spark of fire fallen upon an altar, would
penetrate his soul, and kindle a sudden and fierce pain; but it usually
passed quickly away, and was forgotten. By degrees, however, its
recurrence became more frequent, and the pain it inflicted more intense;
and consequently there soon mingled a considerable portion of uneasiness
in his intercourse with his fair and beautiful friend.
At length the picture was completed, and placed in the church of St.
Angelo, above the altar; and Spinello felt relieved, as if the weight of
the whole universe had been removed from his spirit. He now chatted with
Bernardo, or with his pupil, and the other young artists of Arezzo; or
enjoyed the passionate and almost solemn converse of Beatrice, who from
a lively, laughing girl, had now been transformed, by some hidden
process of nature, into a lofty-minded, commanding woman.
His constant and almost devotional application to his great picture
had considerably shattered his nerves, and he felt his natural
susceptibility so much increased, that, although it was now summer, the
horrible idea which had so long haunted him soon returned; and a cloud
spread itself over his imagination, which all the hurricanes that vex
the ocean could not have blown away. To dissipate this unaccountable
sadness, he wandered forth alone, or with Beatrice, over the sunny
fields; but he felt, as he wandered, that his heart was a fountain which
sent forth two streams,--the one cool, delicious, healing, as the rivers
of Paradise; the other dark, bitter, and burning, like the waters of
hell; and they gushed forth alternately, accordingly as his thoughts
communicated with the recollection of his own picture, or with the
landscapes around him, painted in celestial colours by the hand of God.
Beatrice, who walked by his side, was herself a mystery. To feel the
pressure of her hand, to hear her breathe, to listen to the music of her
voice, was a bliss unspeakable; and there was a sovereign beauty in her
countenance which seemed to cast forth rays of joy and gladness upon
every thing around her, as the sun lights up with smiles the cool
waves of the morning. Yet Spinello felt that as often as this fragment
of Paradise, as it might justly be termed, was turned towards him,
lightnings appeared to gleam from it which dismayed and withered his
soul. At such moments a piercing cold darted through his frame; and when
it passed away, a tremor and shivering succeeded, which withered all
his energies. In fact, whether in the society of Beatrice or not,
Spinello now found that the terrible form of Lucifer, which his genius
had created, was ever present with him, standing, as it were, like a
mighty shadow, between him and the external world, and eclipsing the
glory of earth and heaven.
The summer passed away in this manner, and autumn drew near; and as the
glories of the sun became dimmer, the figure of Lucifer appeared to
increase in dimensions and brilliancy, and acquired more power over
the imagination of Spinello. Tortured by an enemy who appeared to
have passed by some dreadful process into the very core of his being,
Spinello felt his energies and his health departing from him; while his
imagination, into which every faculty of his mind appeared to be fast
melting, increased in force and volume, as a wintry torrent is increased
by the waters of every neighbouring streamlet. At length it occurred to
him that perhaps this demon of his fancy, which he was well convinced
was an unreal phantom, yet could not banish, might possess no
resemblance to the figure his pencil had produced; and might disappear,
or at least be reduced to the condition of ordinary ideas, by a
comparison with the bodily representative of his original conception.
This thought presented itself to his mind one night in October, as he
lay tossing about in sleepless agony upon his bed. He instantly started
up, dressed, threw on his cloke, which the coolness of the night, windy
and dark, rendered necessary; and seizing a lighted torch, issued forth
towards the church.
The holy edifice stood in those days, when Arezzo was but a small place,
at some little distance from the dwellings of the citizens, and was
surrounded by a thick grove of sycamores mingled with pine trees.
The townsfolk had long retired to rest, and the streets were empty and
desolate. Not even the shadow of a monk flitted by him as he passed,
with his torch flaring in the wind, and casting an awful and almost
magical light upon the houses, painted, according to the fashion of
the time and country, in broad stripes of deep red and white. As he
approached the church, the wind, whistling through the pine branches,
which swung to and fro, and flapped against each other, like the wings
of the fabled Simoorg, or of some mighty demon struggling with the
blast, sounded like numerous voices issuing from the black roof of
clouds above him, and shrieking as he passed. At length he entered the
church, which in those times stood open day and night to the piety of
the people, and drew near the altar. Upon the walls on both sides were
suspended rude images of the Saviour carved in wood, and blackened by
time, and numerous antique scripture pieces by Giotto, Cimabue, and
other fathers of the art, which seemed to start into momentary existence
as Spinello's torch cast its red light upon them. At every step, his
heart beat violently against his side, and appeared as if it would mount
into his throat and choke him. But his courage did not fail, and he
ascended the Mosaic steps of the chancel, and, with his torch in one
hand, climbed up upon the altar and lifted his eyes towards the picture.
As he stood on tip-toe on the altar and passed his torch along the wall,
the mighty ranks of the fallen angels, in headlong flight before the
thunderbolts of heaven, seemed to emerge from the darkness, with the
awful form of Lucifer in the extreme rear reluctantly yielding even to
Omnipotence itself, while blasting lightnings played about his brow and
eyes, that flashed with the fires of inextinguishable fury. On first
casting his eyes over his picture, a feeling of self-complacency and
pride stole over the soul of the artist. But as he continued to gaze
with a kind of idolatry at the work of his own hands, his imagination
became excited by degrees, and life appeared to be infused into the
figure of the gigantic demon. In spite of the singular beauty of the
features, which looked like those of an archangel, the face before him
appeared to be but a mask, beneath which all the passions of hell were
struggling, gnawing, and stinging, and devouring the heart of their
possessor. "The baleful eyes, that witnessed huge affliction and
dismay," appeared to flame in the obscure light, like the fabled
carbuncle of the Kaianian king; and the mighty limbs seemed to make an
effort to free themselves from the canvass, and spring forth upon the
floor of God's temple. As this idea rushed upon the mind of Spinello,
the wind, moaning through the aisles, and multiplied by the echoes,
sounded like the voices of wailing and desolation, which, the
imagination may suppose, mingled in dismal concert when the spirits fell
from heaven; and the artist, overpowered by the crowd of horrors which
fastened like hungry vultures upon his fancy, sprang from the altar,
and, stumbling in his haste, extinguished his torch. His imagination,
now wrought up to a frenzied pitch by the awful scene, distinguished
in every moan of the blast the shrieks of a fallen spirit; and the
wind, as if to increase his misery, raised its voice and swept through
the sacred building with tremendous power, howling, and shrieking, and
gibbering as it passed. The demoniac excitement of the moment now became
too great to be endured. Spinello sunk upon the ground, struck his
forehead against an angle of the altar, and fainted away. How long he
remained in this condition, he could never conjecture; but when he
recovered his senses, all around him appeared like the illusion of a
dream. The wind had died away, the darkness had disappeared, the moon
had risen, and was now throwing in its mild and beautiful light through
the long windows upon the checkered pavement; and, rising from the
ground, he crawled out of the church and reached his lodgings.
The next day he was too unwell to leave his bed; and Bernardo, with his
whole family, who loved the young man, and were anxious to discover and
remove the cause of his misery, came to see and console him. Beatrice
was the first who entered; and when Spinello heard the sound of her
footsteps, which he could most accurately distinguish, a beam of joy
visited his heart, a tear of delight trembled in his eye, and he blessed
her fervently. When he lifted his eyes to her countenance, however, the
vision of the preceding night seemed to be renewed, and the hated form
of Lucifer, with all his infernal legions, swept before his fancy.
Ignorant of what was passing through his mind, and with a heart yearning
towards him with more than a sister's love, Beatrice approached his bed;
and, kneeling down beside it, took hold of his hand which was stretched
out languidly towards her. She felt that it was burning with fever, and
that his whole frame was at that moment agitated in a fearful manner. He
spoke not a word; but turned away his face, as if by a desperate effort
to recover his composure, while he held her hand with a convulsive
grasp. She saw his chest heave, and his eyes roll awfully, as he
gradually turned towards her. And at length, finding it was vain to
struggle any longer to conceal his feelings, he threw himself upon
his face, pressed her trembling hand to his lips, and burst into a
passionate and uncontrollable flood of tears. Beatrice, surprised
and overcome by the scene, hid her own face in the clothes and wept
with him; while her father, her mother, and the whole family, stood
motionless upon the floor of the apartment, transfixed with sorrow
and oblivious of every other consideration.
By degrees the young man recovered his composure, as persons generally
do after shedding tears, and his heart seemed to be relieved. Beatrice
also experienced the same change; and her father, a humane and
compassionate old man, supposing that love might have some share in the
misery of his lodger, after motioning his whole family to leave the
room, drew near the bed, and inquired of Spinello whether his affection
for Beatrice had any share in his present unhappiness; and whether her
hand, for her heart he perceived was already his, would make any change
in the state of his mind. At this new proof of the old man's love,
Spinello could scarcely contain himself. For the moment Lucifer left
him, while visions of delight and joy painted themselves upon his fancy.
To reveal to Bernardo, however, or to any other human being, the real
cause of his misery, would, he was fully persuaded, expose him to the
suspicion of insanity. His expressions of gratitude, though few and
brief, were vehement and sincere; and his mind becoming wholly occupied
with this new idea, his fever soon left him; and in a few days he was
again able to breathe the balmy air, with his future bride by his side.
His health still appeared, however, to be but feeble; and the benefit of
change of residence being understood in those times as well as in our
own, Spinello was counselled to remove for a season to some sea-port
town on the coast of Naples. Through mere chance, and not from any
classical predilection, he chose Gaëta, anciently Cajeta, whither
Laelius and Scipio used to retire from the politics of Rome, to amuse
themselves with picking up shells upon the sand. To render the excursion
more pleasant and profitable, Bernardo determined to accompany his
intended son-in-law, and to make Beatrice also a partner of the journey;
and their preparations being soon completed, they departed in good
spirits, and in due time arrived at the place of their destination.
Lodgings were taken in the neighbourhood of the town, near the beach;
and the lovers, now comparatively happy, daily strolled together along
the margin of the Tyrrhene sea, which, rolling its blue waves in
tranquil succession towards the shore, broke in soft murmurs at their
feet.
They had now been some months at Gaëta, when Beatrice was suddenly
called home by her mother, who had been seized with a dangerous illness.
Her father of course accompanied her on her return: but Spinello, in
spite of his entreaties and remonstrances, was compelled to remain where
he was; as Beatrice, who feared that Arezzo might recall all his gloomy
ideas, peremptorily insisted that he should never return, but settle at
Gaëta, or remove to Naples. He therefore submitted, but with a heavy
heart; and saw his guardians, as it were, depart from him, and leave
him to himself.
What he seemed to fear when they left him, soon came to pass. With
solitude Lucifer returned; and he now presented himself so frequently,
and in such awful colours to Spinello's mind, that the little fabric of
health which had been reared with so much care, was quickly thrown down,
while visions of horror swept over the ruins. His health, which now
declined more rapidly than ever, was soon irrecoverably destroyed; his
frame wasted visibly away; and as his body grew weaker, his visions
increased in horror, until at length the intellect tottered upon its
basis, and almost gave way beneath their intolerable pressure. In
a few weeks he was shrunk to a skeleton, while his eyes shone with
preternatural brilliancy; so that the people of the house where he
lodged, were terrified at his appearance and avoided his looks. For his
own part, he was scarcely conscious, of the existence of the external
world, every thing around him appearing like the creations of a
dream--mere shadows with whom he could have no sympathy. There seemed,
in fact, to be but two beings in the universe--himself and Lucifer; and
he felt that he was engaged in a struggle which must terminate the
existence of the one or the other. When he succeeded in freeing himself
for a moment from the fangs of this vision, and could repel it to some
little distance from his mental eye, he perceived, as distinctly as
possible, its illusory nature, and wondered at the power it exerted over
his imagination. If, however, he obtained a momentary respite of this
kind, it was not, as in the case of Prometheus (whose vulture was of the
same brood as his demon), by night, but at sunrise, when the god of the
Magi stepped, as it were, upon his throne to receive the homage of the
earth. The hour of repose, as night is to the fortunate and the happy,
was to him the hour of torture; and he daily lingered about the
sea-shore, anxiously watching the setting sun, and trembling more and
more as the glorious luminary approached the termination of his career
and disappeared behind the purple waves. As soon as darkness descended
upon the earth, Lucifer, if absent before, invariably alighted with
it, and stood beside his victim, who clapping his hands upon his eyes,
would fly with a howl or a shriek towards the habitations of men.
At length he became convinced that his last hour drew near; and he
blessed God that his struggle was about to terminate. As soon as this
idea took possession of his mind, he grew a little more tranquil; and,
excepting when he thought of Beatrice, awaited the final hour with
a kind of satisfaction. In this pious mood of mind, he one evening
wandered to his usual haunt on the seaside. The sun had set--the
moon and all the stars were in heaven--and the earth and the sea
were sleeping in the silver light. He set him down on a lofty rock
overhanging the sea, which was deep and still in that part; and with the
waves on his left, and the earth in all its loveliness on his right, he
raised his eyes towards heaven, and was absorbed in devotion. At that
moment, a face of unutterable beauty presented itself in the bright
moonlight before him. With a single glance, he discovered it was that
of Lucifer, but softened to angelic loveliness. Uttering a wild and
piercing shriek, he started from it towards the edge of the precipice.
Beatrice for it was she--instantly caught him by the hand to drag him
back; and pronounced his name. The words and the touch dissipated his
illusion; and with the rapidity of lightning revealed to his mind the
fatal secret of his misery. He now saw that, having been occupied with
thoughts of her when he painted his picture, he had lent a portion of
her beauty to the fallen archangel; and hence the pain her looks had
occasionally inflicted on him. While this conviction darted into his
mind, he was already falling over the precipice; but he still grappled
at the rock, and made desperate efforts to recover himself. Beatrice,
also, finding that he was going and drawing her after him, for she still
held him by the hand, caught hold of a tuft of grass which grew on the
edge of the cliff and grasped it convulsively. In this situation they
hung for an instant, suspended over the abyss; but the grass-tuft by
which she clung gradually gave way; and in another instant a sullen
plunge in the deep waters below told that the loves and miseries of
Spinello and Beatrice were ended.
_Note_.--The passage of Lanzi, to which I referred at the
commencement, is as follows:--
"The 'Fall of the Angels,' still remains in St. Angelo, at Arezzo,
in which Lucifer is represented so terrible, that it afterwards haunted
the dreams of the artist, and, deranging both his mind and body,
hastened his death. Bernardo Daddi was his scholar."--_History of
Painting in, Italy_, vol. i. p. 65. _Roscoe's Translation_.
* * * * *
First in the poetry is the Bechuana Boy, an affecting narrative, by Mr.
Pringle, as may be implied from one verse:
He came with open aspect bland,
And modestly before me stood,
Caressing with a kindly hand
That fawn of gentle brood;
Then meekly gazing in my face
Said in the language of his race,
With smiling look yet pensive tone--
"Stranger--I'm in the world alone."
The Irish Mother to her Child, a Song, by Mr. Banim, has great force and
feeling, with the date 1828, significantly appended to this stanza:
Alas! my boy, so beautiful! alas! my love, so brave!
And must your manly Irish limbs still drag it to the grave?
And thou, my son, yet have a son, foredoomed a slave to be?
Whose mother, too, must weep o'er him the tears I weep o'er thee.
Here, too is an exquisite snatch--on Memory:
Fond Memory, like a mockingbird,
Within the widow'd heart is heard,
Repeating every touching tone
Of voices that from earth hath gone.
Queen Catharine's Sorrow is a ballad of mournful minstrelsy. Next is
the Bard's Address to his youngest Daughter, by Mr. Hogg--beginning
Come to my arms, my dear wee pet!
My gleesome, gentle Harriet!
with all the sweetness and affection of shepherd love. The Poet's Oak,
by Allan Cunningham, is a beautiful finish to the volume, which is
altogether equal to any of its compeers.
The Illustrations, twelve in number, may challenge comparison with those
of any similar work. Lyra, the frontispiece, after Wood, by T.A. Dean,
is one of the loveliest creations of art; Vesuvius, after Turner, by
Jeavons, is a most elaborate picture of that sublime spectacle of
Nature; Echo, from Arnald's picture in the last exhibition, is finely
executed by Goodall; and with still greater fidelity, Wilkie's Reading
the News, is engraved by H. Robinson; but spirited and finished as
it is, we must object to the quantity of smoke from the joint on
the baker's board, and more especially from the pie; besides which,
the bakehouse must be at some distance. The picture has a pleasant
accompaniment, by Mr. Charles Knight. Catharine of Arragon, and Mary
Queen of Scots and the Commissioners of the Scottish Church, are so
purely historical as almost to tell their own tale; the first, after
Leslie, by W. Humphreys, is in every line a lesson. The remainder of the
plates are of unequal merit, and the elegantly embossed plum-colour
leather binding is even an improvement on that of last year.
* * * * *
The Amulet.
This has always been with us a favourite work, and we rejoice to say
that the present is equal to any of its predecessors. It is more
sprightly than its title implies, and even less sombre than the
_Friendship's Offering_; and the interest of most of the prose
articles is far from perishable. Two of them by Dr. Walsh--Are there
more worlds inhabited than our globe?--and the First Invasion of
Ireland,--are excellent papers, though too _azure_ for some who
have not the philosophical mind of Lady Mary S----d. Among the Tales,
the Two Delhis; Annie Leslie, by Mrs. S.C. Hall; the Glen of St. Kylas,
by Mr. Carne; the Anxious Wife, by the Editor; a Tale of Pentland, by
the Ettrick Shepherd; and the Austral Chief, by the Rev. Mr. Ellis,--may
be read and re-read with increasing interest, which is not a general
characteristic of "Annual" sketches. Our extract is one of the most
buoyant pieces in the volume--