shrill sound, (one of discordant loud- ran up a short flight of stairs that led ness to his morbidly sensitive ear,) broke the deep silence. It was the awaking note of Millicent's canary bird, whose cage hung near the window-and as the little creature began to plume itself on the perch, and pour out a more sustained matin in its innocent joy, Vernon looked reproachfully at the unconscious favorite. But his attention was soon directed to other objects (all to him how eloquent!) and at last it rested on a vacant spot on the wall opposite. He started at perceiving that Colonel Aboyne's picture, which used to hang there, had been removed, but only as it seemed to a table in the middle of the room, on which lay a framed picture together with a white paper parcel, which was placed upon its glazed surface. Vernon felt as if the whole current of his blood rushed suddenly to the heart and brain. A moment he stood gazing as if spell-boundthen, with one desperate impulse sprang forward, caught up the parcel -ascertained that the portrait beneath was indeed his friend's-his promised legacy! and tore open the paper, which was superscribed in faint and uneven characters, "For my dear Horace." Franticly he tore it open-but one glance at its contents, and his fingers relaxed their hold-his sight became dizzy, and he reeled back for support against the wall. What baleful aspect had paralyzed him thus ? That only of a withered rose, and a long lock of glossy raven hair. In some minds-(happily constituted are those !)-how indigenous how indestructible-how elastic is hope! After a while it faintly revived in Vernon's bosom, from the seeming annihilation that succeeded that sudden shock. But feeble indeed was the reviving struggle-an expiring effort a last stand against despair. Almost the worst was known. But still a possibility remained, the thought of which perhaps helped to nerve Vernon's resolve to know all immediately. Without farther pause or deliberation, but still with noiseless footsteps, he to Millicent's sleeping room-and, with cautious tread, and held-in breath, stole to the half-open door. All within was profound stillnessand he stopped on the threshold to listen, and to send forward one fearful glance. The white curtains of the bed were close drawn on the side towards him, as he stood still half behind the door-but he fancied-surely it was not fancy-that there was a stir of life of breath-a gentle and scarce perceptible rustling—as if some one moved. His heart beat quicker, as he advanced a step onward, and then beheld Nora seated in a highbacked chair at the farther corner of the bed's foot, towards which her face was turned, and her eyes fixed in the direction of the pillows, with that solemn and profound interest, with which we watch the slumbers of those who are "sick even unto death." But apparently, she had only desisted for a moment from an employment, the nature of which Vernon's first glance eagerly detected. Her fingers still held the strings of one of Millicent's plain morning caps-(he knew it well) the broad hems of which she had been running and crimping with accurate neatness, and across her knees and the arm of the chair, lay a long white dressing-gown. Was there not evidence of life in those provident preparations? He began to fearOh blessed fear !—that he might disturb the dear one's slumbers, should his unexpected appearance too suddenly startle her faithful nurse—whose strongly marked countenance told a fearful tale to Vernon, of all she had lately undergone. But just as he was shrinking back from the chamber, her eyes slowly returning from this mournful contemplation to her suspended task, caught sight of his receding figure-and strangely was she affected by the apparition. No word—no exclamation or sound escaped her lips; -nor did she move from her chairnor otherwise testify her consciousness of his unexpected presence, than by drawing up her tall gaunt figure,' as she sat erect and rigid, to its utmost dimensions, and fixing on him her large dilating eyes, with a ghastly undefinableness of expression, which chilled his very heart's blood, though he had no power to withdraw his own from the unnatural fascination-and when, after a few seconds of that wordless communion, she arose slowly, and standing still and upright on the same spot, without one feature relaxing from its stony fixedness, beckoned him forward with one hand, while with the forefinger of the other she pointed to the bed's head, he obeyed mechanically-almost unconsciously-till he felt the grasp of that cold bony hand, and following with his eyes the direction of her pointing finger, beheld—all that was still mortal of Millicent Aboyne. The immortal spirit had ascended to Him, "with whom is no variableness, neither shadow of turning." THE PILGRIM OF COMPOSTELLA. "THE Pilgrim of Compostella" is not equal to its predecessor; for Mr. Southey never succeeds well without infernal assistance. There are, however, three or four miracles which, in some measure, atone for this deficiency. The story is very simple :-The pilgrims, a father, mother, and son, on their way to the shrine of Compostella, stop at an inn. At this inn is a female, whose dispositions are thus revealed to us by Mr. Southey : "Now, the innkeepers, they had a daughter, Sad to say, who was such another As Potiphar's daughter, I think, would have been, If she followed the ways of her mother." This naughty young lady, having in vain assailed the virtue of the more youthful pilgrim, denounces him to the Alcayde as a thief; the Alcayde condemns hin, and he is hung; having first exacted a promise from his parents that they will proceed on their journey. They do so; and, on their return, they still find their son hanging in great comfort upon the gallows, and are consoled by his positive assurance, "That he could not complain he was tired, And his neck did not ache in the least." The parents go to the Alcayde, who is at dinner, and mention the circumstance. He disbelieves it, and says, he could as soon believe that the fowls upon his dish would start to life as that Pierre was still breathing. The consequences of this rash remark are detailed in the following lines: "Four weeks they travelled painfully, They paid their vows, and then To La Calzada's fatal town Did they come back again. "The mother would not be withheld, But go she must to see Where her poor Pierre was left to hang Upon the gallows tree. "Oh tale most marvellous to hear, Most marvellous to tell! Eight weeks had he been hanging there, And yet was alive and well! "Mother,' said he, I am glad you're return'd, It is time I should now be released: Though I cannot complain that I'm tired, And my neck does not ache in the least. "The sun has not scorch'd me by day, The moon has not chilled me by night; "Go you to the alcayde, "Now, you must know the alcayde, About to begin his dinner. "His knife was raised to carve The dish before him then : A cock and his faithful hen. But that most hasty judge unjust "Think not,' quoth he, to tales like this, "And pointing to the fowls, o'er which 'As easily might I believe These birds should come to life!" "The good Saint would not let him thus The Mother's true tale withstand; So up rose the fowls in the dish, And down dropt the knife from his hand. "The cock would have crowed if he could; To cackle the hen had a wish; And they both slipt about in the gravy Before they got out of the dish. “And when each would have opened its eyes, . For the purpose of looking about them, They saw they had no eyes to open, And that there was no seeing without them. All this was to them a great wonder; They stagger'd and reel'd on the table; And either to guess where they were, Or what was their plight, or how they came there, Alas! they were wholly unable : "Because, you must know, that that morning, A thing which they thought very hard, "The hen would have pranked up her fea thers, But plucking had sadly deformed her; And for want of them she would have shivered with cold, If the roasting she had had not warm'd her. "And the cock felt exceedingly queer; He thought it a very odd thing That his head and his voice were he did not know where, And his gizzard tucked under his wing. "The heads saw their way to the bodies, In they came from the yard without check, And each took its own proper station, To the very great joy of the neck. "And in flew the feathers, like snow in a shower, For they all became white on the way; And the cock and the hen, in a thrice were refledged, And then who so happy as they! "Cluck! cluck! cried the hen right merrily then, The cock his clarion blew, The rest of the poem is occupied with accounts of the canonisation of the Cock and Hen, and the fame of their posterity. THE COLOSSUS OF THE APENNINE. WITHOUT the quadrangular railing of Pratolino, about six miles from Florence, is an open space or parallelogram, 300 feet long and 100 feet wide, open on one side to the palace, and backed on the other sides by beech and fir-trees, the stems of which are concealed by masses of laurel, in which are niches for statues. Three-fourths of this opening are covered with grass; and at the extremity is a semi-circular basin of water, behind which rises the colossal statue of the Apennine, the wondrous achievement of Giovanni di Bologna. Thus backed by the dense foliage of the park, this Colossus can be seen only in front, and is first discovered by strangers from the windows and terraces of the palace, the point of view intended by the artist. Mounted upon a lofty and irregular base of rock-work, which is approached by two staircases following the semi-circle of the basin, the Colossus appears, at the first glance, like a pyramidal cliff, and reminds the spectator of the gigantic conception of Stasicrates, who proposed to chisel Mount Athos into a statue of Alexander the Great. A nearer inspection, however, enables the beholder to discern, in the Colossus of Pratolino, the commanding genius of a distinguished pupil and competitor of Michel Angelo Giovanni di Bologna, inspired by the study of antique lore, has here endeavored to realize the Jupiter Pluvius of Greck mytholgy, an appellation much more appropriate than that of the Apennine. The execution of this daring conception is full of grandeur, and the To character of the head is admirably effective. The lofty brow appears to brave the elements, and looks like the abode of eternal frost; the hair falls like icicles upon the enormous shoulders, and the immense beard descends like a mass of stalactites; the huge limbs appear to be loaded with hoarfrost, through which, however, the accurate contours and well developed muscles are easily discernible. increase the extraordinary effect of this Colossus, jets of water were originally contrived to issue around the head like a brilliant crown; and the sparkling waters, falling upon the shoulders, rolled in streamlets over the statue, which, thus invested with their sparkling radiance, glittered in the sunbeams with a dazzling and supernatural splendor. The position of the Colossus is imposing, although evidently planned to lessen the difficulties of the construction. Seated upon the rock, and inclining forward, the watery god supports himself with one hand upon the cliff, while with the other he presses the head of a marine monster, from which issues a considerable volume of water into the basin below; and, although this stooping position deducts considerably from his elevation, his head rises above the trees, in bold relief against the blue of heaven, and seems to touch the clouds. The surrounding foliage, like the framing of a picture, contributes to bring out the immense design; and the large basin of water, in which every object is inversely reflected, isolates the enormous figure, and makes it appear as if suspended in infinite space. It is impossible to imagine a composition more picturesque, and more perfect in its proportions. The beholder views it with unspeakable astonishment; and yet, so absolute is the symmetry, and so well does the Colossus harmonize with the surrounding scenery, that he is not entirely conscious of its immense proportions until he compares with them the persons of the gazers below, who, at some distance, appear like pigmies. When, however, he approaches the giant mass, the huge dimensions of the trunk and limbs excite involuntary terror; for such is the magnitude, that if the figure stood erect, the elevation would reach one hundred feet. Indeed, this extraordinary object would stroke even an artist with dismay, if he could forget that this monster, whose finger is the measure of a man, was the creation of a human being. The interior of the trunk contains several apartments; and in the head is a fine Belvidere, to which the eye-balls serve as windows. The extremities of the figure are constructed of stone, in layers. The trunk is formed of bricks, coated with a cement which has acquired the solidity of marble, but which was easily modelled into the desired proportions while in a humid state. The great difficulty in constructing this immense pile, was to give it a monumental durability, and the artist happily accomplished this object by blending the rules of architecture and statuary; and thus he succeeded in combining the solidity of the former with the beauty of the latter. He made all the parts to bear upon a centre of gravity; and so disposed the limbs as to make them supporting arches to the trunk, without however sacrificing the imposing grandeur essential to the subject. In short, the beauty of the proportions, and the wonderful art developed in the execution and finish of this immense design, render it an invaluable study to all artists who wish to undertake a statue of colossal dimensions. Baldinucci relates, in his life of Giovanni di Bologna, that several pupils of this artist, after being employed in a manipulation so different from that which is applied to works of common dimensions, found their accuracy of eye and sleight of hand so much impaired, that when they resumed their wonted avocations the habit of working on the huge muscles of the Apennine made them spoil several statues. It is even said, that one of these pupils, who had previously displayed great ability, became mentally imbecile in consequence of his labors upon this Colossus. SKETCHES OF CONTEMPORARY AUTHORS, STATESMEN, &c. No. IX.-PROFESSOR LESLIE. ONE of the most promising improvements in the literature of modern times is that which has taken place in the recording of time as it passes. From the ancient periods almost the only thing that has come down to us, detailed in anything like a circumstantial manner, is the success with which one part of the species harassed and destroyed another, and the instruments and means which they employed for that purpose. In spite of the wars and desolations, the over-runnings, depopulatings, and carryings into captivity, of which ancient story is so full, the sciences must have been studied and the arts cultivated; because, apart from the written records that have come down to us, the memorial of the conqueror is seldom found except in the ruins which he made of the labors of others. It is true that we have some particulars of the philosophers, and one or two anecdotes of mathematicians and artists; but the former are the histories of systems rather than of men, or of the means by which they arrived at those systems-and the second have more affinity to those baseless marvels which we are accustomed to hear about the mechanics and artists of our own times, than to any analysis of the process by which grace of form is delineated, or efficiency of combination effected. There is hardly a country of which we cannot name the conqueror, either in ancient or modern times; and we come not to a ruin, without being able to name the man by whom, and the year in which it was razed. But when we pass from the progress of evil, and turn our at tention to that of good,-when we turn from the spoilers of mankind, and seek to know what were the steps and proceedings of those by whom they have been civilized and benefited, we find it less than a blank. We are well informed as to who have most largely prevented the culture of the fields, or trampled down their produce after they have been cultivated; but as to who invented the plough or the spade, the record of fact is silent, and the record of fiction bears imposture upon its front. Look into any history of inventions,-take even the labors of such interminable turners over of leaves and collaters of codices as Professor Beckmann; and to what conclusions do you arrive even by the most labored and level of their ways? The general conclusions are these: first, the great uncertainty as to who was the inventor or discoverer of the substance or the operation in question; and secondly, equally great uncertainty as to whether the ancient substance or operation was identical with, or totally different from the modern one of which the inquirer is laboring to find the origin. Of all that has come down to us from periods earlier than the fifteenth or even the sixteenth century, we have the result merely; but we must receive the operator with extreme caution; and of the operation itself we know nothing. Now it is not the thing done, but the how to do it that forms the permanent value of human labor; for the choicest result may be deranged and must decay; but the process by which it is produced, when accurately registered and duly remembered, is permanent as the human race. The truths of geometry hardly form an exception to this; for though we know in whose writings they are first recorded, we seldom have any collateral evidence that the recorders were the inventors; and as they are generally first mentioned in a synthetical form, and must have been arrived at by the analytical process, the presumption, amounting to more than a probability, is, that they were discovered long before the date of the record. It is the same in all nations: those whom we call the ancients went back to the gods and the demi-gods: the |