whose current lulls the boatman to security, till, too late, he finds himself dashing o'er the rocks! Away! yon sun which gilds the western clouds with a lurid splendour, shall not set again ere the measure of my revenge be full. Soon shall the proud Fitz-Howard know the torture he has made this breast to feel!"

A shout of joy from his retainers rent the air, for every clansman of Glendhu hated the name of Fitz-Howard; many a time had the vassals of these hostile chiefs met in battle, and varying had been their success, fortune sometimes favouring one party, and sometimes another, until about seventeen years before the period at which our narrative commences, when the English lord, by a well managed ambuscade, had surprised the chief of Glendhu, and totally defeated him, with the loss of the flower of his forces, and, above all, of his infant son, whom his attendants had deserted in the conflict. For seventeen years had Malcolm brooded in silence over the event that made him childless, and long had he meditated a reprisal on his successful enemy. The weakening of his clan, however, by the fatal battle, had hitherto prevented his

meditated attack on Fitz-Howard, who, flushed with victory, apparently reposed in imagined security. He, too, had an only son, now a youth nearly of the age of manhood. Often had Malcolm of Glendhu heard of Fitz-Howard's inordinate affection for his offspring, and as often was the reflection it occasioned hot iron to his soul! as often did he inwardly determine to retaliate on his enemy by making him, like himself,-a childless man!

The banners of Glendhu, representing a large black eagle, were waving in the night breeze, and the armour of his clansmen glittering in the torch-light, when the warrior-chief himself vaulted on his fiery steed, to lead them to the South. The long array was just getting into mo tion, when an aged bard rushed to its head and caught hold of the bridle of the chieftain's horse.

"How now," exclaimed Malcolm, half in anger, have ye delayed your wishes for our success till now? Let go my horse's head, it is now too late to listen to your auguries! Stop till we return, laden with spoils; then, when the wine-cup is gaily circling around the

With these ominous words, the aged Fergus disengaged himself from the horse, and the chief of Glendhu, exclaiming,"The eaglet of Glendhu shall at least be revenged on the young hawk of FitzHoward,"-clapped spurs to his courser, and followed by his stalwart retainers, was soon beyond the ken of the dim vision of the old prophet.

The evening of the second day after the foray had set out, the bands of Glendhu were once more seen approaching the walls of the castle, and not in silence, or with any mark of disappointment. Fatigued, they seemed, indeed, but all rode proudly on, with the gleam of success, and of satisfied revenge, in the quivering eye. The old minstrel's warning was now forgotten, or, if remembered, despised and laughed to scorn. They had taken the Lord Fitz-Howard, now an old and feeble man, so completely by surprise, that he could not venture to offer even a show of resistance, but was glad to escape by a precipitate flight, leaving his riches to be the prey of his conqueror. His son, alone, attempted to stop his progress; surrounded by a few faithful vassals, he had made a desperate resistance, but when Glendhu himself approached, he submitted to him without any farther attempts to escape. He, with the most easily removed and valuable articles of his patrimony, composed the spoil of the triumphant chieftain of Glendhu.

Again plenty reigned within the walls of the castle of Glendhu; again did the sparkling goblet many a time pass around

the festive board; again all was mirth and revelry!

A few days passed, when a flag of truce arrived from the defeated and dispirited Fitz-Howard. Malcolm received the officers who bore it in the hall of his castle, surrounded by his retainers, decked in the spoils of their late victory, and amid the triumphant hymning of his bards. No harp was silent, save one-that of the sage and venerable Fergus, who, apart from the rest, seemed wrapt up in his own thoughts, and, perhaps, in new visions of the second sight.

The English visitors explained their errand; they came to solicit the life of the young heir of Fitz-Howard, and to offer for his release a princely ransom.

"Ransom!" exclaimed Malcolm, roused to fury by the word, "let the Saxon talk to me of ransom when he hath restored to me my child. No!no! let the proud Fitz Howard come and beg his cub of me himself, and I will tell him what ransom a childless man puts on the son of the enemy who made him so!Away! I will hear no more save from Fitz-Howard in his own person.'

The Englishmen were forced to obey. With heavy hearts they retraced their steps to their bereaved lord. When they reported the haughty message of Glendhu, the disappointed father, who had thought by that time to have clasped his muchloved son in his arms, seemed wrapt in motionless despair. He soon aroused, however, and accompanied by the same officers who had borne his offer of ransom, bent his way to the castle of his successful rival.

Glendhu received them in the court

yard of his castle, surrounded by his bards and clansmen. Fitz-Howard, in humble terms, repeated his request; again it was haughtily refused.

66

"Proud Baron of Fitz-Howard!" exclaimed Malcolm, while the subdued fire of exultation flashed from beneath his shaggy eye-brows, no land or treasure can make Glendhu forget that he, too, once had a son to cheer his hearth; and the heart of the childless rejects with loathing the honeyed nothings of flattery from the mouth of a defeated enemy!I told thee I expected other ranson than gold."

"What? say what wouldst thou have?" exclaimed the frantic Fitz-Howard; "if it is any thing in the power of man, it shall be thine!"

"I accept thy offer!" cried Glendhu, while his eye gleamed with maniac fire, and his whole visage assumed the expression of a demon's,-"I demand 'REVENGE! and thus I take it!"

He stamped on the pavement of the court-yard with the iron heel of his armour three times. Too well was the signal obeyed!-the massy door of a dungeon between the chair on which he sat, and the now kneeling Fitz-Howard, was flung open, and the head of the young prisoner, just severed from his body by the sword of the ferocious henchman of Glendhu, rolled between the hereditary enemies! "Mistaken man!" exclaimed FitzHoward, with a mingled yell of agony and terror, "thou hast become the mur

derer of thy son!"

"How! my son! it cannot be ! 0, unsay the cruel words, or by heaven, I cleave thy skull in twain! Unsay!Unsay!"

"It is too true!" faltered the trembling Fitz-Howard, "I preserved him in the battle in which he was supposed to be lost, and, having no children of my own, adopted him as mine. The truth was known to none save one of thy clansmen, and he was bound by an oath of secresy, taken to save his life and that of his young lord!"

Glendhu turned to the minstrel.

"Is it true?" he cried, in a supplicating tone,-Fergus nodded assent-Malcolm hid his face in his hands; strong convulsions racked his stalwart frame; the silver headed bard uncovered his visage, and the chief of Glendhu was no more! he had perished in that silent struggle with his passions.

Fergus wildly struck a few notes on his disused harp, and sung in a plaintive and melancholy tone

"If the eaglet of 'Dhu from its eyrie shall fly, Let the eagle pursue not, for both then shall die:

The eaglet of 'Dhu from its eyrie hath flown,
And the eagle hath followed,-O, Glendhu !-
ochone !"
J. WOOD.

LONDON.

IMITATED FROM JUVENAL.
(For the Clio.)

"Quicquid aqunt hommes-nostri est farrago libelli."

My theme is man. I follow o'er the road
So much frequented, and so often trod.
Why I too venture o'er it, would you know?
Go on the rhyme beneath attempts to show.
The groaning press still teems with some-
thing new,

And why should I not turn a scribbler too;
When poets rise in every man you meet,
And would-be bards are seen in every street.
1 neither write for honour or for cash,
The vices of the age demand the lash.

In vain hath Justice bent her awful brow, For when had cards or dice such charms as now?

Sad is the sight!-but turn your gaze awhile, Where yonder mansion rears its stately pile !* Behold the field of roguery and crime,

Ck(8.

Where lords and nobles waste the lingering time!

No" paltry hundreds" glitter on the plate,
But on a cast is set a whole estate.
O! need I tell you how the heart recoils,
To see the winners share the golden spoils;
To mark the ruin'd victim trembling there,
Rage in his mien and in his face despair;
A beggar now, without a wish to live;
Without resource, save what despair can give,
That last and only refuge now is left,
Of every comfort-of his home bereft;
And he who gloried in his ample stores,
Now turns his servant naked out of doors!
Or view the stage, where foreigners connive.t
Where eunuchs prosper and Italians thrive;
Where foreign accents only meet the ear,
For native merit finds no welcome here.
And see, where flows the gay voluptuons dance,
What shameless objects in the troop advance!
They fly, they twirl, they flutter here and
there,

With motion luscious, steps as light as air;
The leg uncover'd, and the wanton knee
Exposed to view-to common eyesight free.

O'er the whole town extend your ample view, For high-bred vices claim our censure too;

Few will be found who do not lead a life
In open converse with another's wife.
The grateful lover dallies with the fair,
And yet the husband sits contented there;
Well skill'd is he to play the cypher then-
Gaze on the ceiling still, and gaze again;
And, lest his presence should annoy the pair,
The willing cuckold slumbers in his chair.
The prize is dearly earn'd-let such an one
Receive indeed the price his shame hath won;
Let him forego the blessed sweets of health
For restless ease-for luxury and wealth,
Who, deaf to honour and the voice of shame,
Thinks wealth is better than an honest name.
Ah! when the great and wealthy lead the

way,

And slight decorum in the face of day,
Forgeting titles cannot cover shame,
Nor vice be sanction'd by a noble name,
The strong contagion travels far and fast,
The poor will follow in their steps at last,
And fearless treading where their betters trod,
Forget themselves, their conscience and their
God!

And let the poor man, from the city far,
Seek not to revel in a world of care,
For worth, unaided by the charm of gold,
Can never rise where every thing is sold.
A scene of misery awaits him there,
To see the splendor that he cannot share;
To hear with patience while the rich deride,
And bear the insults and the taunts of pride.
Oh! what has want in store for the distress'd,
So hard, so bitter as a sneering jest?.

Toward Park or Quadrant wend your curious

way,

And mark the various follies of the day;
See, as they pass, an actress or a →→→
Dash down the pavement in a coach and four.
Observe the numerous upstarts of the age-
See barbers travelling in an equipage.
Oh! when such sights as these attract the eye,
They cannot, must not, pass unheeded by:
"Tis but to take the avenging pen in hand,
And fill your ample pages in the Strand!

And say, ye fools, ambitious of renown, What charms, what pleasures can endear the town?

The barren hills of Wales should more entice,
And Scotland's mountains were a paradise;
For, oh! what dangers hourly meet the sight,
Of houses falling, and of fires by night;
In constant dread of every man you meet,
Or being murder'd as you walk the street;

+ King's Theatre.

the dear relative and the faithful friend. Nor can it excite surprise; in the wellexecuted portrait, the soul is implanted on the countenance, holding converse with the attentive beholder; the reflective powers of the mind are developed by the genius with which it is infused in the features by the eye-the mouthwe can generally pronounce the habit of thought of the individual.

Nor is this the only important end which portrait painting subserves. It teaches beneficial lessons. It calls to mind the example of great men, when they are fled beyond the reach of observation. As the absence of the sun is supplied by artificial lights, so well-executed and faithful portraits compensate the loss sustained by the removal of the originals. An Athenian courtesan, in the midst of a riotous banquet, accidentally cast her eye on a philosopher's portrait, hung opposite to her seat. The character of temperance, depicted in the philosopher's countenance, contrasted with her own unworthiness, struck her so forcibly, that she instantly quitted the room, and became an example for virtue, as she had before been of debauchery. And is not the impassioned lover of both sexes indebted to portrait painting?Hayley in the following lines thus expresses the obligation of lovers

Blest be the pencil! whose enchantment gives

To wounded love the food on which he lives,
Rich in this gift, tho' cruel ocean bear
The youth to exile from his faithful fair,

He in fond dreams hangs o'er her glowing

cheek,

Still owns her present, and still hears her

speak.

Much stress has been laid by Mr. Allan Cunningham, in his recent work on Sir Joshua Reynolds, on the latter's constant reference to the works of Michael Angelo in his writings and lectures to the students, and practising so little, if any of that feeling himself. Mr. C. in this respect, has either shewn great illiberality, or great deficiency in the knowledge of human nature. Sir Joshua was gifted with a mind which could duly appreciate the merits of every painter; he saw the beauties in the severe style of M. Angelo; he knew, that if he could instil a feeling among the rising and future artists, fully to value and understand the principles which it was ever his ardent wish to propagate, he was aware, that not only individually, but universally the artists and the arts would be greatly benefited. It would shew them how much a painting increased in merit and value, and how much less it was open to criticism, when

executed in a grand and simple style. M. Angelo's style is severe, from the loftiness of his subjects, the simplicity of his colouring; from the total absence of all superfluous aids to strengthen his pictures, from the boldness and correctness of his drawing. Even if Sir Joshua did not go beyond lecturing upon this point, he would deserve the gratitude of the country for endeavouring to diffuse so great, so just an example; but who that has examined his works, and will not declare that in them are to be found that severity of manner for the non-practice of which he has been accused. In lecturing upon this point, he did not wish students to run into extremes, but imitate the general principle. In his works there is great severity; for instance, his Count Ugolino, Mrs. Siddons as the Tragic Muse, Marquis of Granby, Marquis of Rockingham, and even in the two heads in the National Gallery.

Much good is always to be derived by the close study of his productions; it must excite emulation, while it offers models for the imitation of our aspiring artists; from which instruction may be most profitably gleaned. In them the artist may study grace, colouring, expression, the wonderful application of the chiaro scuro, elegance of outline, firmness, yet easy flow of pencilling, harmony united with force, and almost every beauty which contributes to the main end of painting-that of giving delight.

The works of Sir Joshua furnish a his

The

tory of the art; they embrace the whole space of a long life spent in anxious endeavours to attain perfection, especially in colouring-the most fascinating, if not the highest branch of the art. failure, in a few instances, conveyed as useful a lesson as the perfect success in others. It is as necessary to know what to avoid, as it is to know what we ought to imitate. Sir Joshua returned from Italy in 1752, and from that period to 1791 (he died February 23rd, 1792) he so applied his talents to the improvement of that profession to which he had done so much honour, as not only to acquire the highest fame, but to leave the art in a state of elevation which it had never before enjoyed in England; and achieve more than was ever achieved by any single artist in any age or country. Our national character in the art has been elevated above envious criticism.

As Reynolds drew the mastery evident in the heads of his portraits from Raphael in the Vatican, so may our students acquire similar skill from him, who has thus naturalized the splendours of the