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'Tis a picture in memory, distinctly defined
With the strong and unperishing colours of mind:
A part of my being beyond my control,

Beheld on that cloud, and transcribed on my soul.

Campbell.

WIFE AND MOTHER.

As a mother we behold woman in her holiest character -as the nurse of innocence-as the cherisher of the first principles of mind-as the guardian of an immortal being, who will write upon the records of eternity how faithfully she has fulfilled her trust. *** In assuming this new and important office, she does not necessarily lose any of the charms which have beautified her character before. She can still be tender, lovely, delicate, refined, and cheerful, as when a girl; devoted to the happiness of those around her; affectionate, judicious, dignified, and intellectual, as when a wife only; while this new love, deep as the very wells of life, mingles with the current of her thoughts and feelings, giving warmth and intensity to all, without impairing the force or the purity of any. S. Stickney.

POETIC PICTURES.

THE colours, nay even the forms in poetry, as in the kaleidoscope, already exist; accident here, and genius there, put them in new positions, and thus create new pictures.

W. Alexis.

SPIRIT OF PAINTING.

ONE bright sunshiny autumn day,

When the leaves were just beginning to fade,
I saw a gay and laughing maid
Stand by the side of a public way—
There she stood erect and tall;

Her flowery cheek had caught the dyes
Of the earliest dawn-and O! her eyes,
Not a star that shoots or flies,

But those dark eyes outshone them all.
She stood with a long and slender wand,
With a tassel of hair at its pointed tip;
And fast as the dews from a forest drip,
When a summer shower has bathed the land,
So quick a thousand colours came,
Darting along like shapes of flame,
At every turn of her gliding hand.
She gave a form to the bodiless air,

And clear as a mirrored sheet it lay;

And phantoms would come and pass away,
As her magical rod was pointed there.

Bryant.

APPLAUSE.

To please is a laudable and elegant ambition, and is properly rewarded with honest praise; but to seize applause by violence, and call out for commendation, without knowing, or caring to know, whether it be given from conviction, is a species of tyranny by which modesty

is oppressed, and sincerity corrupted. The tribute of admiration, thus exacted by impudence and importunity, differs from the respect paid to silent merit, as the plunder of a pirate from the merchant's profit.

Johnson.

MUSIC.

MUSIC, in her sovereign power,
Measured by a master hand,
Fills with joy the lover's bower,
Animates the patriot band—
Music, voice of nature! still
Lead me captive to thy will.

Inspiration of the soul!

Spirit of the painter's art!
Eloquence whose strains control
Boundless mind or bursting heart,-
Music, voice of nature! still

Lead me captive to thy will.

R. P.

SCOTT'S PENCIL.

I Do not by any means infer that I was dead to the feelings of picturesque scenery; on the contrary, few delighted more in its general effect. But I was unable with the eye of a painter to dissect the various parts of the scene, to comprehend how the one bore upon the other, to estimate the effect which various features of the view had in producing its leading and general effect. I

have never, indeed, been capable of doing this with precision or nicety, though my latter studies have led me to amend and arrange my original ideas upon the subject. Even the humble ambition which I long cherished, of making sketches of those places which interested me, from a defect of eye or of hand, was totally ineffectual. After long study and many efforts, I was unable to apply the elements of perspective or of shade to the scene before me, and was obliged to relinquish in despair an art which I was most anxious to practise. But show me an old castle or a field of battle, and I was at home at once, filled it with its combatants, in their proper costume, and overwhelmed my hearers by the enthusiasm of my scription.

Scott.

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THE SKETCHER.

YES, Sketch the landscape, fix each glowing hue,
Give earth's gay verdure and the sky's bright blue;
Let the fair scene upon thy paper live,

With all the truth thy graceful hand can give ;
For soon will winter come, with boisterous breeze,
Sweeping their leafy honours from the trees,
And sullen clouds impel the driving storm
The beauties of the landscape to deform.
Then all that now is smiling bright and fair
The sombre garb of winter drear will wear;
Then wilt thou joy thy graphic work to view,
Which brings thee back each graceful form and hue,
As bright and gay as when thy pencil sought
To fix the brilliant tints by Nature taught.

Blessington.

MUSIC.

WITH music it was even worse than with painting. My mother was anxious we should at least learn psalmody; but the incurable defects of my voice and ear soon drove my teacher to despair. It is only by long practice that I have acquired the power of selecting or distinguishing melodies; and although now few things delight or affect me more than a simple tune sung with feeling, yet I am sensible that even this pitch of musical taste has only been gained by attention and habit and, as it were, by my feeling of the words being associated with the tune.

Scott.

GREEK STATUES.

GONE are the glorious Greeks of old.
Glorious in mien and mind;

Their bones are mingled with the mould,
Their dust is on the wind;

The forms they hewed from living stone
Survive the waste of years, alone,

And scattered with their ashes, show
What greatness perished long ago.

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ALL men are in some degree impressed by the face of the world; some men even to delight. This love of beauty is taste. Others have the same love in such excess, that, not content with admiring, they seek to em

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