Spirit of Evil, when he beset me? Had he stood before me, visible, tangible, indeed, I might have hurled my inkstand at his head, after the fashion of Luther; but times are altered since the Reformation, and the Devil is more cautious than formerly. We have no witches or killcrops here, as in Germany, and our stock of conjurers has been much reduced. We occasionally, perhaps, hearone spoken of, and it is said, in palliation, that "Mr. is not much of a conjurer," &c. but even these accusations become less frequent. The Evil One himself seldom comes for ward, except as a mere phantom, or a desire, seizing upon our hopes or our fears; though now and then, indeed, he ventures abroad in the shape of a pig, or a bottle of wine at a parish or tythe dinner, and van quishes the sinful laity,—aye, even

-the parson of the parish, And the attorney: for there is no "benefit of clergy," I am told, with him; and as to the poor follower of law, he has always been held an animal "feræ naturæ," and liable to be hunted down without pain or penalty.

As to my amusements, my first love was Poetry. I remember many, many years ago, how I sate on the knee of my uncle's old housekeeper, and listened to her tales of Shakspeare. She was a woman who had known better days, and had some taste for books. She had an excellent memory, and repeated to me numberless stories, Clarissa,-The Vicar of Wakefield, Pamela,-(she repeated Pamela to me almost as minutely as Richardson)-and then she would tell me of Lear, that mad old king, and of his three daughters, (one so good and fair,)-of Richard, Hubert, and Arthur, Constance, &c. -interspersing her narrative with copious quotations from the plays. These pretty evening tales I was accumstomed to listen to hour after hour; always stealing from the parlour to my old friend's room at the time when she said "her work would be done," and never willingly return ing. What feasts were those! How I loved Cordelia, Arthur, Imogen! What tears and pity I showered upon them! How fond was I, too, of that

young and amorous story of Verona, which tells of times when morning shone upon the world, and Love was a god indeed. Oh! that bright couple whom Death and Hymen crowned together-whose sepulchre was hidden by roses!-I vowed that my first money should be spent upon Shakspeare, and I kept my word. It was a school present that I received, and just enough to compass a cheap edition. These books were a treasure to me. I read them through and through in my bedchamber, neglecting (or indifferent to) meals and exercise, and all other amusements while they lasted; and they lasted long, for a young boy reads but slowly. Then I burned to personate the heroes. I became Constance, and raved: I towered as Richard: I grew pensive as Hamlet: I was Othello, with a face all over soot (I could not get it off readily, I remember, and met with a reproof),- and, in short, in my way, I" played many parts ;” without an auditor, it is true, to applaud, but then there were no bitter critics, no inattentive loungers, no ladies who talked throughout all my performance, and I was satisfied and happy.

These pleasures were somewhat interrupted by my going to a public school. What excellent things I, a child, unlearned, when I became a denizen of that premature world! My imagination was seared by the light let in upon me. No mystery was left unexplained. I lost my faith in all fiction.-Do not smile at this: it is the straight road to all infidelity. An incredulous boy (that man without man's capacity) is odious. I distrust him as well as hate him. Oh! there is something fine in the confidence of youth. It is like the gentle reliance of women. They lean upon us, the sterner sex, how beautiful in their weakness! Fair creatures, who are in our eyes the models of angels, how excellent ye are! More true, more delicate, more heroic, more generous than we, how is it possible too much to praise ye! At what ENORMOUS USURY was the seventh rib of man lent out when it produced ye! If we could part with the others— but no: Nature has nothing of equal beauty left; and moreover we are all content.

ingly, from Spenser down to Beattie and Cowper, there was nothing that escaped me. Not that I had then much relish for the better order of poets: on the contrary, I read Dryden's and Pope's odes to Saint Ceci lia in preference to Comus or Paradise Regained, or Timon, or Antony and Cleopatra, or Pericles,—— the three last acts of which, by the bye, I maintain to be undoubtedly Shakspeare's. This period I consider to be that in which my perceptions were duller than either before or since. It was indeed a night of taste with me, when I read Dryden and Pope (and not their best writings, not their satires) in preference to our two great poets. However, I was soon fatigued, because never much delighted, and quitted the loftier muse for her sister-Music.

Music has been much celebrated by poets, much oftener than painting, and beyond it. This is very natural. There never could be much jealousy where the one is so inferior to the other. But between poetry and painting (though I hold the first to be clearly the higher and more comprehensive art), the distinction is not so great. It has been said, that there is a closer alliance between poetry and music, than between painting and poetry. I do not think so. A poetical sentence does not of necessity so much imply harmony, as that there shall exist in it some image, detailed or referred to. Like all things of smaller power, painting and music are, perhaps, more perfect, within their own limits, than poetry herself. But her range is magnificent and boundless-it reaches over earth and heaven, over air and ocean, and through all illimitable space. She can track the most subtle theories, the finest and most airy abstractions; passion, and prejudice, and the

shut soul of man, yield up their secrets before her: her touch is like that of the painter in his power, and her tones leave all melody far behind.

Music, then, became my study. I followed it, as I have done all pursuits, enthusiastically. My first attempts at producing a note on the flute were sufficiently ludicrous. I practised before a mirror, in order to attain the proper embouchure, and the distortions of face, and the hideous noises that followed, are still alive in my memory, like the "accidents and offences" of yesterday. I recollect with pain those horrid approxima tions to a tune; those creaking, jarring melodies,

Never ending, still beginning,

with which I was wont to serenade the neighbourhood from sunset till midnight. And then the difficultyI once read mathematics (by way of amusement!) and did not find them so insurmountable as I had apprehended. The " pons asinorum,” more especially, I passed over easily. But, in music, "Haydn's minuet," and "The Dusty Miller," were real problems, not to be mastered like lines and circles. They took an age of labour, a world of constancy. But then, what unmixed delight I felt when I was once master of a tune! The rooms and garden echoed with my strains. Every visitor became acquainted with my accomplishments, and every one with whom I was familiar was requested in turn to "hear me play." Spirit of Orpheus! what visions were mine-what a heaven of harmony was opened to my fancy! It was then that I bought "theories of music," and "dictionaries of music," and "practical lessons," and "introductions to the German flute." I talked of great musicians, and listened with a hungry ear to every tale concerning them. I heard of Corelli, who could play the most divine airs with the strings of his violin loose-of Farinelli, whose voice was so touching, that it held captive in its airy chains the wills of tyrants. Then it was, that the tale of Amphion was no more a fable, nor the story of Eurydice a poet's feigning. Music seemed to me the beginning and end of all:

the boxer. So much has been said lately about boxing, that it may be more agreeable to pass over this subject, adverting merely to one or two circumstances connected with it. Boxing (or rather sparring) is an amiable amusement. The Hypochondriac, however, should not rush at once into the pursuit, in the hope that, like a sudden plunge into the water, the shock may benefit his nerves. It should be contemplated and toyed with for a time, until the exercise becomes familiar. Flute playing is but an indifferent help to a Hypochondriac: at least, I discovered that leaning over a music book for six hours daily (which I did, at one time) by no means tends to brighten our visions of the future or to strengthen the nerves. A little even of that may be good, because it is an amusement, and withdraws the spirit from that fierce self-inspection which so much torments the melancholy man. Boxing, in moderation, is excellent; for that too is an amusement, and makes the body robust, and the spirit lightsome and brave. I and my friend H- devoted our souls to this fine art. We read how great fighters are trained, and adopted the system without delay. I must own that H- persevered more than I. He ran up hills wrapped in two or three great coats-he slept on the hard floor; he rose early (oh, what a sluggard then was I!);-he ate like a young fighter in his noviciate. I must own that his resolution here was greater than mine. My aspirations were as high-my hopes as great; but I had my infirmities, like a person who has never been melancholy. I liked the smoked atmosphere of a room in which there was a fire, better than the wholesome air of March, or the varying but lovely skies of April-I read idle stories, instead of looking at the opening bloom, or gazing on the green face of nature. I have been punished for this; almost, one would think, enough. I am now a lover of the fields, of clear skies and balmy airs; somewhat later perhaps than many love them,—but not I hope too

late.

When I became a law student I left music-(I returned to it afterwards-once, for a short time) ;--

and when the study of the law drew down upon me the evil spirit of Hypochondria, I resorted, as I have said, to the elder dramatists and poets, and their contemporaries, for relief. My delight, when a child, in plays and stories, had of course little to do with any critical faculty. Afterwards I read verse with somewhat of a diseased taste; and finally, I returned to it for comfort, at a time when my spirit was broken by ill health, though my intellect was better than it had ever been. It was now that poetry became to me a passion. Lord Byron had just published his "Childe Harold." I have no words to tell how I felt, how I fed upon his lines. I had seen him (several times), when I was a boy, and the recollection of his person riveted my attachment to his verse. Oh, the giddy pleasure of that time! Never shall I worship any thing again as I did then. His name, his fame, were holy things to me; and his lines, good or indifferent, I loved and defended them all. Some persons say that they are "rather (rather!) fond of poetry,"-and they believe it: they do not know that it is a story in verse which delights them,-a plot, a character, or an incident. My love required not such nourishment: it thrived upon the word and the sentiment alone, and turned aside from all grosser food. The world were then devouring the very amusing verses of Sir Walter Scott, or were giving up their minds to didactic rhyme: I was Spell-bound amidst the clustering Cyclades.

--

I lived in sunnier climes and on calmer seas. The blue skies of Greece, the Egean islands, the Asian shore (that heroic strand, where gods and men contended), Leucadia, Parnassus, Tempe were my domain; and the spirit that led me on was one with whom I had stood face to face in boyhood, and thought no more of than of "the idle wind which men regard not." Now, with what reverence did I turn back upon my old recollections, and trace every feature of a poet so illustrious !-with what deep regard did I think of him! I saw again his full and bold blue eye-his high forehead-his scornful lip. They were all before me. I remembered even a few of his ex

pressions, and they often solaced me in my sad retirement.

The love of poetry now begat in me a spirit of imitation; i. e. I my self strove to write poetry. My friends (those dangerous confidants) protested that it was "really not so bad." I kept it for a couple of years, and found out that it was execrable. Yet it was not worse than young beginners commonly write. It was simply not good;-neither more nor less. This, by some persons, would be

considered as worse than total failure. Even that witty wicked person Don Juan speaks of some good gentle

man

Sweating plays so middling, bad were better; but I cannot agree with the son of Don José on this more than on one or two other subjects. I wrote poetry, then-shall I confess that I derived great pleasure from my own verses? Yes; in truth it was so. A fresh image, a happy combination, a musical line, carried with them more than ordinary delight. It was not merely my own skill or fortunate invention that I was enamoured of, No; it was because they had high associations with them;-because they bore me back through years ages of romance,-by fable, and elegy, and holy amorous song,-past tales of love forgotten,

and

In time, poetry, to which I had turned for refreshment and comfort, excited me more than the study of the law. All the imagery of my rhymes haunted me. Throngs of radiant creatures which had eluded me in the day thronged about me at night;-tropes and metaphors of all sorts, personifications of Hope and Charity, of Love and Jealousy, and Despair, presented themselves. What golden couplets I composed! what lofty designs I meditated! but the morning came, with its cold and sober dews, and all the fabric of my nights dissolved. Sleep sobers the judgment wonderfully. I advise every young poet of heated imagination to put aside his verses for a week, and then to let them undergo inspection early in the morning. If they will bear this test, they are good VOL. VI.

for something: if not, let him try again.

The transition from poetry to painting is easy. I was instigated, I believe, originally by a line of Thomson to inquire into the beauties of painting. "The Castle of Indolence," has always been with me the most favourite of his works, though perhaps it is neither the best, nor the most characteristic of his genius. Therein you may read of enchanted things,of idleness and ease, of perfumes, and silken couches, of bright wines, and statues, and pictures, which

Showered all the Arabian heaven upon their nights;

and among others there are living landscapes, full of the light of setting suns, or solemn and classical, or wild,

Such as Lorraine light-touch'd with soften

ing hue,

Or savage Rosa dash'd, or learned Poussin drew.

There was a music in the names, (there These were magical words to me. is something fine,-is it from association?-in the names of all poets and artists) and I did not rest contented till I knew more of them, and and Bologna, of Venice and Rome. of their mighty brothers of Florence

It was not long before I saw beau ties in the elder artists which I could not discover in the moderns. I do not pretend to what is called "natural" taste: indeed, I do not believe in its existence. Taste in art is an acquired thing. It is unlike genius. It does not flash upon you like an inspiration: but it comes streaming and bright,--and brighter-and brighter still, through the channels of the intellect, clearing the eye and refining the opinion. Taste has been much abused. It is the "parcel of our fortunes" that is most valuable. It is a subtle operation of the mind, finer and more precious than the art of making true a theorem or unwinding an enigma.

My first introduction to the great painters was through the medium of prints,-an indifferent one, it is true, but it was the best in my power. I looked with profound reverence on the immortal features of their minds, spread through countless generations, or concentrated in a sin2 D