mise of talent, my young friend, but the bustle of this moment is such as to prevent all calmness of judgment."

The youth retired with the humility of manner, and respect for seniority, which formed one of the characteristics of that epoch.

"I don't think, Michael," continued Kay, turning to the first speaker, "you render justice to Alost; he has not much imagination, I admit, but he has a ready pencil."

"But," replied Coxcie, "he has not been to Italy; and as long as a young man has not passed that ordeal, his thoughts must remain as cold and colourless as the sky of our own country, and his manner cramped, from his not having had the opportunity of considering well the great

masters."

"Certainly," said Frank Floris, warmly, "when one has, like you and me, drunk deep at that fountain of inspiration,-when one has come within the influence of such a master spirit as Raphael's, and caught some of the emanation of its light,-when one has basked in the sun of Italy, gazed on her blue sky, blue waves, and into the dark love-fraught eyes of her daughters, it is then, and then only, that the world of poetry and fancy is opened to him."

"Perhaps," said Paul; "but not that of excellence exclusively,— native talent may be permitted to find the secret road to that gate." "What have we of native talent?" said Michael Coxcie, scornfully.

"Breughel the droll," ventured Cornelius.

"Say, rather, Breughel the low," replied Coxcie. "I grant that he takes nature to the life, but nature in all its grossness."

“Nay,” said Kay, "I cannot altogether agree with you; to copy nature in its innocent and lawful solaces is not to select grossness for one's model."

"And I, for one, confess," added Paul, looking fixedly at Coxcie, "that an individual bent, of whatever kind, is preferable to the servile copying of what may be most beautiful."

Perhaps the extensive intercourse which his commercial operations afforded Paul van Meeren with persons of all sorts and climes, more. especially with Italian merchants, had given him an opportunity of learning, not only how Coxcie could admire, but also borrow, the fruits of Raphael's genius; his words seemed to move Frank Floris not a little, for he answered somewhat sharply:

"It is not the fault of the Flemish school if this country is so deficient in objects capable of firing the imagination."

"Flanders boasts already a Van Eycke, and a Hemling," resumed the elder Van Meeren; "and I hope-nay, I am certain," he continued, with increasing warmth, "the day is not distant when our country, perhaps our very town, may give to the world and to posterity as great and shining lights as ever rose in the South." Then turning to Kay, he added, “I suppose it is useless for me to come to you again until the emperor has left our town ?"

"Oh, perfectly so,” replied the painter; "we cannot call our very thoughts our own just now, you see," said he, pointing to several persons who were respectfully waiting their turn to claim a share of his attention. "But, surely, you will not go without taking a morning cup?"

Having complied with this necessary etiquette-for a refusal would, at

that period, have been a breach of Flemish courtesy-Paul and Cornelius took their departure. Scarcely had the door closed upon them, when Frank Floris exclaimed:

"How I hate to hear the uninitiated enter into the mysteries of our art! They condemn and praise with such an inability of appreciation; and to hear them discuss what they don't understand quite upsets me. I have no patience with their absurdity."

"Yet, permit me to remind you, my good friend,” replied Kay, "that to please these very uninitiated of whom you speak, is the chief aim to which tend all our endeavours-the toils of our youth, our distant travels, and many a sacrifice of our individual tastes and opinions. I never hear any of our fraternity speak slightingly of the opinion of the public, or of that of any particular individual who, after all, be his understanding what it may, forms a fraction of that awful body, without thinking of those ladies who affect to speak disparagingly of our sex. appears to me as little sensible as the other. What would beauty be without admirers?—or an artist without a public to decide on-and, alas! in many instances, to pay, his merits? Certainly, if we were to gain neither fame, friends, nor honours-in short, if we were to labour merely to please ourselves, I doubt but few would be found to follow our profession."

One

"Doubtless," said Coxcie; "and it must be confessed these Van Meerens are the most worthy people in the world."

"Paul," continued William Kay-who, as we have already said, felt nothing by halves, and was sincerely attached to the brothers, from whom he had received numberless marks of friendship-" Paul is no common character. He is what many are often miscalled, a true patriot-a man not of many words, but sincere in his professions-a man of thought and energy.

"Oh! if he be so patriotic, that explains at once your warm interest in him," said Floris, who, during Kay's animated discourse, had paid his devotions to the fine Rhenish wine that had been offered to the brothers, but which they had scarcely tasted; "but for all that, I'll be bound the pale-faced worthy drinks nothing but cold, insipid stuff; your thoroughgoing republican is always a water-drinker, and his heart gets as cheerless, and his spirit as dull, as the source from which he slakes his thirst."

Coxcie and Kay interchanged a meaning look and smiled.

"No one can cast such a blame in my face; but," added he, glancing accidentally at the large, beautifully-ornamented clock fixed upon the opposite wall," these times make sad idlers of us all-I must back to work; so farewell, my masters." And taking a most cordial leave of his friends, the so-named " Raphael of Flanders" made his exit.

THE RECLUSE.

BY CORNELIUS COLVILLE.

THERE they are, folio, quarto, octavo, duodecimo! The shelves groan under their prodigious weight. The dust of years has imparted to them a sage and a venerable aspect. The lapse of ages has conferred upon them a dignity and a grace which the works of modern times have in vain attempted to rival. There they are, the ponderous, goodly volumes, tightly pressed together, as though they were afraid their precious contents-the immortal thoughts-the high-toned sentiments with which their pages are enriched, should evaporate! Behold the depositaries of mind-the receptacles in which are enshrined the outpourings of man's gigantic intellect. Upon their tiny, unsubstantial leaves, that a breath would blow away-a spark consume-the hand of time crumbles into dust, is engraven the immortal part of man! Upon how frail a tenure, how flimsy a basis, does he hold his sublunary immortality!

Here within these walls-amidst the dust and the web of the obnoxious spider, are heaped the treasures which have cost the world centuries to collect! Generations have passed away and been forgotten-ancient forms and customs have been superseded by modern taste and invention -cities have been swept from the face of the earth-languages have dwindled into obscurity and become obsolete; but these small, insignificant caskets, in which are deposited the diamonds and precious stones of every country and generation, have survived-proud trophies of genius, lasting monuments of human greatness!

They are the links that unite us to, and enable us to identify ourselves with, the great human race, from the earliest ages of the world-the mirrors which exhibit the counterparts of ourselves, whose actions, passions, sufferings, rejoicings, hopes and fears in every period of the world's history, assimilate to our own. They are our monitors and guides; for, by pointing out the errors and failings of our predecessors, they enable us to escape the dangers and difficulties with which we are surrounded. They are the chroniclers of mighty deeds-hence the achievements of the warrior, the poet, the statesman, the philosopher, are handed down from age to age, enabling generations, far remote from the period in which they lived themselves, to appreciate their genius and venerate their Whatever injustice may have been done to a man whilst living, he will be tried by another tribunal after he is dead. Party feeling, jealousy, animosity, subside after the grave has closed over his remains, and these invaluable records are the only evidence by which the great men of former ages will be judged by posterity.

renown.

Surrounded by treasures such as these, associated by constant proximity with the most gifted minds that ever illuminated the universe with their wisdom and their learning, is it a marvel-is it a matter difficult of comprehension, that a person so situated should wean himself from the world, its vanities, its cares, and its pleasures-withdraw himself from society, and cling to these instructive and fond companions as a solace and a refuge?

Seventy years have passed over the head of Winkletoppen. Poverty and death have shed their baneful influences over his home and heart. There was a time when Mr. Winkletoppen rode in his carriage, when his wife and his children stood around him; but it is past, and the old man is resigned.

When Mr. Winkletoppen had determined upon withdrawing himself from the world, he sought for a retired spot where he could indulge his taste for reading and reflection, without being exposed to the intrusion of the curious or the meddling. It was not without difficulty that he found such a place as he required. He did not want an entire house, because it was unnecessary, and besides, would involve him in too heavy an expense; neither did he want apartments in a house in which other tenants resided, for he conceived that a circumstance of that nature would frustrate all the schemes he had formed of quietness and seclusion.

In the course of his search, a large house, in a suitable situation, attracted his notice. It stood alone, at the distance of at least a mile from any other habitation. It was fast falling to decay; and the garden in front, surrounded by iron palisading, was choked with weeds and grass. Many of the window-frames of the house were shattered to pieces, and three-fourths of the panes were broken. Two vases, placed upon pedestals in the garden, and immediately opposite the entrance of the house, were filled with the most noxious plants. The place, in a former day, had evidently presented a different appearance, for there were sufficient indications about it to show that its inhabitants must have been persons of taste and refinement. Winkletoppen was struck with the mournful grandeur of the spot: its appearance charmed him; possibly from its bearing a striking resemblance to his own shattered fortunes. It was preposterous to suppose that he could afford to become the tenant of so spacious a mansion; but he could not conceal from himself the fact that, if his means had admitted of it, it was the very place that he would have selected.

Actuated probably by curiosity rather than anything else, he inquired as to the reasons of its having stood so long empty; and was told that several persons were desirous of occupying it, but that the owner and they had not been able to come to terms. Mr. Winkletoppen was not satisfied with this answer, and he determined to call upon the owner himself; which he accordingly did.

"Mr. Buckle ?" said Mr. Winkletoppen, interrogatively, when he was shown into the presence of a strange, repulsive-looking mortal, about sixty years of age.

"Buckle, sir-not Mister! Plain Buckle. No etiquette-no politeness. Give me the substance, I don't want the shadow. Buckle, sir-go on!"

Mr. Winkletoppen trembled.

"I-I beg pardon," stammered out Mr. Winkletoppen; "perhaps I intrude?"

66

"A little, I confess. No matter; I forgive you. chair that will bear you, sit down."

"I-I thank

you. I would rather stand."

"I'm sorry I've called so inopportunely."

"No apologies. It's enough-I've forgiven you. If you wish to shorten this unpleasant interview state your business."

Mr. Winkletoppen was completely overpowered with nervousness; and he was greatly afraid that, in explaining his business, he might be touching on dangerous ground.

"I-ahem!-in short, I think there is a house—”

"I think I comprehend you. You inquire about the house which is to let ?"

"Ah!-ye-es. Precisely so."

"What's your name?"

"Mister-"

"Leave out the Mister-it's shorter."

"Winkletoppen."

"Are you acquainted, Winkletoppen, with the only conditions on which I consent to let that house ?"

"I am sorry I have—”

"No circumlocution, if you please.

Are you acquainted, I say, with

the only conditions on which I consent to let that house?"

"I am not, sir."

"I will tell you in a few words. The house is in a state of decay. It is my wish that no one shall arrest the hand of time, or the destructive effects of the elements; but that it shall be suffered to fall to ruins, till scarcely one stone stands upon another. Are you prepared to take the house upon these terms?"

"If it is not beyond my means, yes."

"The terms will suit you in other respects. There are the keys; examine it."

Mr. Winkletoppen was only too glad to be favoured with so excellent an opportunity to escape.

"Good morning," he said.

Buckle closed the door after his unwelcome visitor.

Mr. Winkletoppen found the deserted house in a much worse state of repair than he had anticipated. Several apertures in the roof admitted the light of heaven freely into the attics, and the rain, by this means, had communicated with almost every room. The walls were deplorably stained, and the webs of the spider pended in various places from the ceilings. The skirting-boards bespoke the presence of rats and mice in great abundance, and the dust had so coated the panes that many of the rooms were in total darkness.

There was only one apartment that Mr. Winkletoppen conceived to be inhabitable. It was of an oblong form, and had evidently once been used as a library, for on all sides were ranged empty shelves for the reception of books. There were traces of grace and elegance still visible in this room. The walls were covered with a paper of an elegant damask pattern, although, from the length of time the house had remained unoccupied, it was in anything but a good condition. The ceiling still displayed the remnants of wreaths and flowers, with which it had at one time been decorated.

Terms were agreed upon, and Mr. Winkletoppen took possession of the apartment. He had disposed of almost everything but his books, and they now filled the shelves already referred to. Poor old Andrew

Winkletoppen! There he is, with his long grey hair tied behind in a queue; his pepper-and-salt coat with horn buttons; his grey breeches, and worsted stockings, and buckled shoes, wandering from shelf to shelf in search of a volume by some favourite author.

"Let me see," mused Mr. Winkletoppen, "is the passage from Horace or Virgil? Neither, neither-it's in Cicero."

Down came the volume, and Mr. Winkletoppen commenced his search for the passage that was floating in his mind. It was a long time before he found it; but when he had done so, he rose from his seat with an air of triumph, and replaced the volume on the shelf.