writing-the story of Perling Joan is touching, and that of the Glasgow shoemaker, who murders a guest, and goes on his way praying, and who dies praying for the hooting crowd around his scaffold, is not without its awed admirers.

Of Mr. Lockhart's "Spanish Ballads," a fellow-countryman and brother poet has said, that fine as were the original verses, they certainly lost nothing (as did the shield of Martinus Scriblerus) from being subjected to his modern furbishing; but that, on the contrary, what was tame he inspired, what was lofty he endowed with additional grandeur, while even the tender-as in the lay of "Count Alarços and the Infanta Soliza"*- -grew still more pathetic beneath his touch. Another fellowcountryman and brother poet-well versed in Border minstrelsy-admiringly recognises all the simplicity, and energy, and picturesque beauty, and more than the flow of the ballads of the Border, in these translations from the Spanish and Moorish. "The fine old Bible English into which they are rendered, gives the antique hue so natural and becoming in the old minstrels; all other translations fade away before them."t Mr. Hallam, too, always a cautious judge, has awarded no faint praise-that damning sentence of cautious judges-to these bold and buoyant lyrics.

We reckon it blessing rather than bane that our limits defy us to be prosy about that glorious piece of biography, the Life of Scott. It is far too interesting and valuable to be a present text of controversy, about the Ballantines "and a' that :" the man who reads such book with fussy critical pretensions, should be required to name one poor half-dozen of biographies that equal it in matter and manner. The Life of Burns, again, is a pleasant compilation-vigorous in narrative, and set off with fit reflections, the germ of other and deeper ones, in the essays of Wilson and Carlyle.

Still more emphatically may we count ourselves happy in being without space to discuss the Editor of the Quarterly Review. One word, nevertheless, against the not unpopular impression of his "merciless" disposition, and "implacable" opposition to opponents. The personal characteristics. foisted on him by certain scribblers, have been commonly identified with his editorial ideal-making up an austere man, haughty, reserved, recklessly satirical, and somewhat vindictive withal. Tom Moore could discriminate between editor and man, when he introduced Lockhart's name among "Thoughts on Editors :"

Alas, and must I close the list

With thee, my Lockhart, of the Quarterly,

So kind, with bumper in thy fist,

With pen, so very gruff and tartarly.

Now in thy parlour feasting me,

Now scribbling at me from thy garret,

Till 'twixt the two in doubt I be

Which sourest is, thy wit or claret.

"Than which, as rendered by Mr. Lockhart, no finer ballad of its kindmore gushingly natural, or more profoundly pathetic-probably exists in the poetry of any nation."-David Macbeth Moir. (A.)

† Allan Cunningham.

May-VOL. CI. NO. CCCCI.

F

Mark, believer in the bilious "personal talk" of N. P. Willis and his sympathisers, how Thomas the Rhymer here recognises in the man what it was his fate to miss in the reviewer. Only because of the vulgar acceptation of the aforesaid personal strictures do we thus trench on what is a personal province. But one so often hears allusions founded on what has been sketched by the Penciller by the Way, that it is but fair to point to testimony recently given, incidentally enough, by other popular writers, whose opinions happen to be on record, and may be taken for what they are worth: we will confine ourselves to two-John Sterling and B. R. Haydon-both men strikingly diverse in party and tendency from him they refer to. "I found him," says Sterling, describing an interview with Lockhart on the subject of S.'s Strafford, "as neat, clear, and cutting a brain as you would expect; but with an amount of knowledge, good-nature, and liberal anti-bigotry, that would surprise many. The tone of his children towards him seemed to me decisive of his real kindness.”* “L., when we became acquainted," says Haydon, "felt so strongly how little I deserved what had been said of me, that his whole life has since been a struggle to undo the evil he was at the time a party to. Hence his visits to me in prison, his praise in the Quarterly, &c. . This shows a good heart, and a fine heart L. has; but he is fond of mischief and fun, and does not think of the wreck he has made till he has seen the fragments."+ Very like Haydon, truly; but let that pass.

THE ALLIANCE OF BRITAIN AND FRANCE.

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL.

JOIN hands, ye gallant men!

O'er the long feuds, the hatreds of the past,
The waters of oblivion wisely cast;

England and France are love-knit sisters now,
Smiles on their lips, good-will on each smooth brow:
The victories both have won,

Since glory's race begun,
Shall rouse no memories up,
To poison Friendship's cup;

And nought again but pure and generous wine,
Shall in that ivy-mantled goblet shine,
The drinkers quaffing to the Island-Queen,
To whom old Ocean's stormy billows yield,

And Gaul, the bold of heart, the

The dauntless in the field.

* Carlyle's Life of Sterling.

gay of mien,

† Autobiog. of Haydon.

Join hands, ye gallant men!

Though harness'd ye may stand in warfare's pride,
Spurs on the heel, and falchion at the side,
Both are too wise to dream of conquest now-
Conquest in Error's tomb long laid;
Not that your valour hath decayed,

It sits serene on each free noble brow;
And this shall find, the Vandals of the North,
Who, to break Europe's peace, have issued forth.
Think they, as their rude sires crushed tottering Rome,
To whelm the South once more,

And make on smiling plains their savage home,
And bathe free lands with gore?
No, ours is not decrepitude, but power

Rome knew not in her palmiest, mightiest hour:
Albion and Gaul shall sweep the torrent back,
The lions that shall scare the wolves' wild pack,
And to their steppes send Russ, and rude Cossack.
Moslems may cheer them yet,
Their crescent shall not set,

Like them the Western warriors sworn to die,
Ere the Aggressor's blood-stained banner fly
From Stamboul's minaret!

Join hands, ye gallant men!
No more in rivalry, and hostile pride-
March to the field, and battle side by side;
Your warfare not for power or glory made,

Ye combat that the world may justice see,
That truth and right sink not, in ashes laid;
Ye fight that peace may be !

To stay barbaric inroad, whose wild course

Might give the rule to one o'erweening lord; Ours is the march of mind against brute force, The freeman's shield against the tyrant's sword: We stand for the oppressed, and so our cause Hath good men's wishes, and just Heaven's applause, And future years shall one more story tell

Of Truth that triumphed, and of Wrong that fell.

Then gallant men, join hands!

'Tis meet that vengeance' shaft should now be hurled By the two foremost Nations of the world;

For Gaul and Britain still, on land and deep,
The destinies of sheltered nations keep:

Proud is the trust, and faithful they will be,

And bounds and law prescribe, great Czar! to thee: Then valiant men, join hands!

British and Gallic bands,

On, on, to victory!

A PEEP INTO ARTISTS' STUDIOS IN ROME.

By C. P.

ONE of the most pleasant ways of getting through the day in Rome, when you begin to get a little weary of the regular sight-seeing, is by paying a visit to some of the Artists' Studios; it is an agreeable change from old churches, old ruins, old pictures, and old statues, to see what can be achieved now-a-days-to heave a sigh over the melancholy falling off in talent and execution, if you are one of those true desponding characters who do not believe in anything but the antique; or if you are of a more cheerful frame of mind, to see if there may not be some small spark of the ancient flame still left.

Rome perfectly swarms with artists of every nation and every walk; there is scarcely a house in the place that has not "pittore" or "scultore" on some of the doors; but unless you are well up in the topography, or have a guide, it is one of the most difficult things in the world to find out exactly where the particular Studio is situated that you may wish to visit. First of all, the houses all look exactly the same; all have a large open doorway looking into the street; this leads to a dirty stone staircase, where the most profound darkness reigns, and indeed it is well if darkness be all. Then when you begin the ascent, these staircases are regular traps to the unwary. You may mount from piano to piano in vain looking for the door you want, for each house is like a rabbit-warren, and there are all kinds of little galleries and suspicious-looking passages leading you cannot tell where; so that unless you are used to the kind of thing, you soon get bewildered, and very likely give up the attempt in despair. You may ring over and over again at doors and get no answer; or if anybody does come, they seldom know anything about the other lodgers. It almost appears as if the artists were of such retiring and modest disposition that they shunned the world altogether, and had no wish that their works should be seen, so carefully and studiously do they conceal their places of abode. Suppose, however, you get to the door at last, and give a knock with your knuckles, or ring the bell, if there is one; it will still probably be a minute or two before the door is opened, and you hear a slight scuffling as if somebody was absconding herself. On entering you find yourself in a place that looks rather like a coach-house, lit by a large window high up in the wall, or if there are more windows, they will all be carefully closed in order that the light may fall properly. There will be some little sketches probably nailed up against the walls, early efforts of the artist; and in the middle of the room two immense screens, from behind one of which, perhaps, you hear a gentle rustling, and the sound of breathing. you were to go and look, or by any chance the screen were to come down, you would be rather astonished at the sight of a lovely young creature crouching down behind, attired only in a transparent scarf of many colours, or some such light and airy costume. You see her portrait on the easel in an unfi

nished state. There is a beautiful garden with purple flowers blooming in every direction, and trailing creepers forming a kind of fairy bower, in which the young creature is swinging herself, on a chain of roses which is suspended from two of the overhanging trees. There is a large yellow moon which lights up the scene with her soft mellow beams; it is a lovely warm summer night, as indeed it ought to be, or it would be most imprudent for the fair creature to be out in such a costume. This is one walk of art; in other studios you find views of the Campagna, with peasants in the foreground, and a cart with oxen, a long row of red arches part of an ancient aqueduct, the Sabine hills in the distance enveloped in a purple haze; or it may be the Lake Nemi, and ruins of so-and-so, with female figures in costume, the principal one supporting a jug on her head; or, perhaps, fishing-boys with liquid eyes, pifferari with olive complexions and floating locks; or if it be a high art Studio, studies for a grand historical subject, and a canvas sixteen feet by twelve, with ghastly figures in armour or mediæval costumes just sketched in. High art and historical painting are, no doubt, very fine things when the artist can achieve them; but how many are there, who ever do, of those who make the attempt? and oh! what melancholy and humiliating extravagances most of them perpetrate-the failure is ten times more apparent than it would be in a subject with less pretension. And yet I suppose there always will be a race of men, who think it their calling to make gigantic daubs which, presuming the almost impossible case of anybody wishing to possess them, could scarcely be hung in any private house. If every young painter who has a turn for that line were to read the life of B. R. Haydon before commencing, it might be of use, and, perhaps, act as a wholesome warning. A more melancholy picture was never drawn, and yet, poor creature, he had not only fully persuaded himself that he was a great painter, the one destined to reform the world and induce a taste for a higher walk of art, but also a great man and a martyr. Such was evidently the idea under which he wrote his voluminous journals, thinking that sooner or later posterity must do him justice and duly estimate talents, which his own age was too insensible to appreciate. That autobiography is one of the most melancholy books ever published; it is a touching thing to see how self peeps out everywhere, how by his own writing he convicts himself of the most pitiable and trivial weakness, stubbornness, bad taste, and even want of principle. This, however, is a slight digression, and has nothing to do with the subject in hand.

The great attraction this winter has been Mr. Gibson's studio. "Have you been to see the coloured Venus yet?" is the question everybody asks you at the tea-fights.

"Well, and tell me what did you think of it ?" and then you immediately plunge into a long and interesting discussion as to whether the Greeks coloured their statues-whether colour is applicable to some subjects and not others; and you talk away till you begin to think yourself quite a man of taste, and extremely learned on art. Not one of the least of the merits of this statue is the inexhaustible fund of conversation which it has supplied for these agreeable little reunions, which are sometimes apt to get rather heavy unless there is something of this kind to fall back upon.

In the first street on the right, leaving the Piazza del Popolo by the