That causes us no wonder. It is a name that would have made Coleridge himself tremble, a civilized man; and it is enough certainly to scare a Saracen. Christabel at home heard of his doings, although not exactly through the medium of the public prints

For her inmost soul knew well
That he hoped, and spake, and thought,
Only of his Christabel,
That he lived, and loved, and fought
Only for his Christabel;
So she felt his honor hers,

His welfare hers, his being hers,
And did reward with rich largesse
The stray astonished messengers
Who brought her so much happiness.

One of these, on a milk-white mare, with a gilt harp, green chaplet, and white beard (quite the picture for a sign-board), is 'Bracy the Bard.' We may say generally that this troop attends upon an old gentleman, Roland de Vaux, of Tryermaine, who now comes out of Coleridge into Tupper, taking this opportunity to say that he has lost no daughter, but that he wishes to be reconciled to Leoline. The reconciliation between these old gentlemen is told in fine Tupperics :

Their knees give way, their faces are pale,
And loudly beneath the corslets of mail
Their aged hearts in generous heat
Almost to bursting boil and beat.

They do not quite burst their above-mentioned boilers; but the description of their feelings goes on in the same strain, until, at last

With 'Oh, my long-lost brother!' To their hearts they clasp each other.

And the old gentlemen conclude the scene by a quiet kind of bursting—into tears, like cherubs weeping, the poet says

As children, yea, as cherubs weep.

Geraldine, now entering, excites the admiration of these two old men, who, running out of one cherubic state into another, kneel before her with an amorous senility, and ask her whether she is not 'Our Lady of Ferness?' They are about to say to her

Bless us for thy wondrous son,

When there occurs a hiss and a twist of a serpent on the ground, which checks their piety. Geraldine assures them that she is a simple innocent maid; and the old gentlemen are about to put the cap upon their folly—

-full of love these ancient men Full fired with guilty love,—

as when dank willows cluster, Weeping over marble rocks.

A troop of men arrives at her father's cas-
mounted upon black and
gray horses-

tle,
A mingled numerous array
On panting palfreys, black and gray,
With foam and mud bespattered o'er.

within the chamber door, Softly stole Sir Amador,

and they, accordingly, slink out. Embraces follow. Christabel steps in. She comes to the pair, stands by and wrings her hands, and looks up to the Virgin

It is done, he is won! stung with remorse, He hath dropt at her feet as a clay-cold corse.

So now each lover has had a drop. The suddenness of the repentance is extremely startling. Christabel proceeds to kiss her knight, at which proceeding Geraldine is so rude as to glare and gnash her teeth. At this juncture, Bard Bracy outside, who probably has just finished his dinner, strikes up a hymn by way of grace, and Geraldine, who has not put her fingers in her ears, becomes a serpent for a thousand years.

In the conclusion to this part and to the poem a spirit comes

Not swift but soon, next day at noon,
Just at the wedding hour,

Board of Health, our duty is performed when we have issued a report upon the nuisance. We declare the water of the great pool of Muffin-Morality to be a brackish and unwholesome fluid, which ought to produce a sense of sickness in a healthy stomach. We have called attention to the pool, and lifted up our caution by the side of it.

To put the rest of what we have to say in the Tupperian proverbial form that is best suited to its nature:

The sun sets in the west; darkness envelops the earth.

Light is something, we have said it; when the sun sets something is gone.

Speech is the light of thought; silence is dark

The spirit said, and all in light,
Melted away that vision bright,
My tale is told.

So ends the poem; and we spare our readers any farther illustration of the empty vanities of Mr. Tupper. A writer so weak and vain might fairly have been overlooked by us, in the belief that his works soon would perish of their own inanity. But if we have specified an individual, it has been to illustrate a class. The author of Proverbial Philosophy is a man eminent at tea-tables, who displays in a marked manner those characteristics which go to make up an idol for the weaker section of religious readers. Other such sources of absurdity are pouring every year into one muddy pool, the driblets, or the drainage, or the sluggish rivers of their dulness. As members of a literary

CRUIKSHANK.-Some days before you left Scotland, I had the pleasure of meeting George Cruikshank at dinner with Professor Wilson, the Sheriff, Blackwood, and Jay from America. Although I have had some pleasant letters from Cruikshank, I never had an opportunity before of taking his hand. We are very apt to form erroneous notions of the personal apperance of men who have particularly interested us, and in spite of ourselves the mind will-must, I fancy-form an ideal portrait; but with me fancy and fact met in Cruikshank; the reality was exactly what I had expected. Could this be from the perfect truth and originality, which he has imparted to his creations, being only reflections of himself? We were friends in ten minutes, and he gave me some curious and

When the sun sets, thought ends; silence should come, but it does not.

Speech which is light goes on, yet how it is light we marvel.

Speech without thought is heavy; heavy and light are dissimilar.

Speech, then, is light and heavy; there is unity in contradiction.

We talk but we have nothing to say; such talk is proverbial.

Give us a form of speech, give us a manner of speaking.

Sentences please on the lip, if the mouth will utter them roundly.

Matter to say we have none, but we speak in the manner of Tupper.

Manner will make the man, and as for the matter-what matter?

Yet it is good to pause in a thing that might go on for ever.

Milk is sweet, nuts are hard, bricks are red,

but white occasionally.

Let the voice die on the lip, the words of the wise are ended.

most interesting details of his early life and progress. "The Drunkard" and "The Drunkard's Children" I had both admired and shuddered over; but I must say, in spite of this, that the only thing in him I was not prepared to meet with was-the Tee-totaller. Be he right or wrong for himself, one thing requires consideration. I have known several men of talent and genius who, under the impression that they had been accustomed to live too fully, had become water-drinkers; and it has struck me that the abstraction of the wine might also be noted in the abstraction of that vigor and originality by which their compositions were formerly distinguished. It is a curious subject, and worthy of investigation.-Moir's (Delta) Life.

In the year 1470, there was at Antwerp a celebrated blacksmith, who employed many industrious and able-bodied workmen, and whose forge rang daily to the sound of the hammer, and glowed in the fierce red light which imparts so fantastic and strange a character to every object that it illumines. Amongst his workmen was one who seemed never to have been destined by nature for so laborious an employment. He was one of those exceptional beings who afford striking evidence of the power of the will, united with physical debility; for in this young man, who was no other than Quentin Metzis, it was moral energy that supplied the place of strength. He felt that it was art and not labor for which he was qualified; yet he had patience to resign himself to his destiny, and a spirit of emulation which taught him to excel even in this laborious profession. He was the blacksmith's best workman, and his master loved him, despite the apparent singularity of his character; for, inwardly conscious of a capacity for better things than striking the anvil or shoeing a horse, he did not share the habits of his comrades. It was not that he despised them; but they wearied him, and when once his task was done, he liked better to be alone with his own thoughts than to drink with them.

One evening that the smith's workmen were going to a neighboring tavern, they invited Quentin Metzis to accompany them. He thanked them kindly, but declined.

"What is the matter with him?" asked one of the workmen of his companion, when Metzis was out of hearing.

He is in love," was the reply. "Well, what does that signify? That is no reason for not drinking; but rather the

who is too rich and too handsome for you, and that is what has happened to our poor comrade, who is madly in love with the daughter of a man who will only bestow her upon a painter; and as no man can make pictures with a hammer and anvil, the poor fellow is quite out of heart, and unless the father changes his mind, which is not likely, Quentin Metzis will probably never marry his sweetheart."

And the two speakers returned to their bottle, without troubling themselves further about the sorrows of their comrade.

row.

As to Metzis, he had, as we have said, left his companions, and, his eyes fixed on the ground, had turned down a well-known road, under the guidance of his heart rather than of his will. Suddenly he stopped before a door which he had no right to open, and concealing himself in the shade, waited, with his eyes fixed on one of the windows of the house, for that which he similarly awaited every evening-for that which gave him strength for the toil and burden of the morThen, when he had seen the window open-when, as in a celestial vision, a silent gesture had answered his gaze, and after this long-desired moment of happiness the window closed again, he retraced his steps, repeating to himself, as he did every evening, "She loves me ;" and on these three words he based all his visions of the future. Sometimes a gleam of hope shot across his soul; but when, on quitting some church where he had been praying, he contemplated the chefs d'œuvres of the period, and reflected that he must do as much before he could gain his object, the momentary hope vanished, and he felt that it was impossible.

Returning home after this transient happiness, he found his mother, whose constant prayers were for her son, awaiting him. He embraced her affectionately, saying,

"Good evening, dear mother."

"How are you this evening, Quentin ?"

he retired to his chamber, where he was alone with his dreams.

Hence arose the long, feverish hours of watching, in which the workman dreamed of art, the humble blacksmith of glory, the unhappy lover of love; hours which consumed half of the night, and left him sadder and more powerless than before.

There are sorrows which can be held under sufficient control to conceal them from the eye of strangers, but cannot be hidden from a mother's love; and every morning, when Metzis went forth to the forge, his mother gathered from her son's pale face how many sleepless hours he had passed. Without ever having learnt it from his own lips, the poor woman fully comprehended that her affection was no longer sufficient for her son, and she waited till he was gone to let her tears flow without restraint.

One morning, however, he was so dejected, and looked so deadly pale, that his mother would not let him go out; and in the evening, at the hour when he was wont to seek the spot where all his happiness was centred, he was too feeble to leave his bed.

"To cure you," replied his friend. "The procession in behalf of the sick has just taken place, and some of these wood-cuts have been distributed; and as I know what wonderful cures they effect, I have brought you one." "But there are illnesses which they cannot cure," said Metzis, "and mine is one of those."

"Why should you be so discouraged? It is that which does you harm. Try and divert your mind, and you will get well. If it only serves to occupy your thoughts a little, it will do some good. Take it, and amuse yourself with copying some of these figures of the blessed saints; it will help to pass the time, and that is something when one is ill."

The blacksmith then shook hands with him and went away, leaving the miraculous wood-cut on his bed.

When Metzis was alone he relapsed into his usual reverie, without appearing to remember his friend's words. His mother, absorbed in prayer, was watching beside him like a guardian angel; but at length perceiving that he was falling asleep, a rare blessing for him, she rose and left the room.

When he awoke he found the wood-cut still lying on his bed, where the blacksmith had left it, and took it up mechanically, saying, "It is not that which can save me!” Yet he no longer looked at it with indiffer

It is in moments such as these, when all hope forsakes us, that we cling to the blessings which still remain ; and Quentin Metzis, unable any longer to seek the daily solace of a glimpse from his mistress, turned for comfort only to his mother's love.

He opened his whole heart to her; and the poor woman, who had nothing to give but her own life for that of her son, perceived at once that, unless it pleased God to work a miracle, that son must die.

One of his brother workmen, who often came to visit him, reached his door one day, at the very moment that a procession in behalf of the sick was passing along the street; he held in his hand one of the wood-cuts which were distributed by the members of the brotherhood.

"Well, Metzis, how are you?" asked the blacksmith, on entering.

"Much the same, thank you." "I have brought you one of the wood-cuts given by the brethren."

"What for?" asked the sick man.

attention, and then with prayer, till the tears filled his eyes, and it seemed to him as if these quaint figures of saints smiled upon him, and whispered to him the words of hope, to which in suffering we are all so eager to listen. He dashed away his tears, regarded the wood-cut with increased attention, then rose from his bed, went to the table, seated himself, and began to copy the figures of the saints, whose countenances still smiled upon him. He appeared rather like a somnambulist obeying the dictates of some hidden influence, than a waking man acting in accordance with his own will, so immovably fixed were his eyes, so low and feeble was his breathing. Yet an occasional smile gleamed upon his face, for now his copy began to assume form and likeness to the original--his own saints began to smile encouragingly upon him. It seemed as if the miraculous cure foretold by the blacksmith were really in process; for Metzis began to perceive with his own eyes the goal of which hitherto he had only dreamed. At the end of half an hour he stopped; drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead, as upon that of a man awaking

from an agitating dream. He looked at his work

The likeness was perfect-the joy had well-nigh turned his brain!

His poor mother, bending over his chair, had understood all his sufferings, entered into all his dreams, and doubtless, while her son had worked, she had done her part in prayer. Certain it is, that when his task was done, and Metzis rose, he met the eyes of his mother beaming upon him through tears of joy-they had no need of words to understand each other, and were soon locked in each other's arms.

At this moment his visitor of the day before made his appearance; Metzis hastened towards him, and to his surprise embraced him eagerly.

"You have saved my life," said he. "How so?"

"With your wood-cut."

"Ah! I knew that-and so you will come back to the forge?"

"No, I am no longer a blacksmith." "Dear me! what are you then?"

"I am a painter."

You? a painter ?"

"He told me that he had promised her in marriage to a painter, and could not give her to any other, unless he were a better artist; and when, on his asking me what I had done hitherto, I told him that I had worked in iron, he laughed in my face."

"And what did you do?"

"I merely said to him, 'give me six months' time, and if in six months I do not bring you a better picture than your son-inlaw elect, you may give him your daughter.' He went on laughing, and challenged me to do it. I accepted the challenge, and I am going to set to work immediately."

66

You are quite right there; you should

"I see, the illness has taken a different form, and touched the brain. Your son is out of his mind," said the blacksmith to Quentin's mother.

"God is great and merciful, and he has had pity on him," said the old woman, "that

is all.'

We shall see," replied the man. "I shall wait till he comes back," and he sate down beside the table at which Metzis had been working, and upon which he perceived both the original wood-cut and the copy. He was struck dumb with amazement, the miracle was obvious and palpable. He awaited with impatience the return of lus friend, the cause of whose sudden departure he did not understand, and was curious to learn.

Half an hour later Metzis reappeared. "Where have you come from?" asked the blacksmith.

"From my father-in-law's house."
"Are you married, then?"
"No; but I soon shall be."

The blacksmith reverted to his original idea that his friend was mad. He, however, wished to be sure of the fact before he left him, and asked him whom he was going to

smith, who borrowed his figures of speech from his profession.

"And now many thanks to you, my good friend, for it is to you that I owe all this. In six months' time you will come to my wedding."

And the two young men parted, the one to go and tell the news at the forge, the other to commence his task.

Then began an obstinate struggle between the artisan and the artist, which, as it became more arduous, entailed many an hour of deep discouragement, in which the poor votary of painting gave way to exhaustion and despair on beholding how little he had effected, and how much yet remained to be done. He had not, indeed, mistaken his calling so strangely revealed to him by the woodcut, but so much study and labor were required in order to attain his end, that but for his undying love, for the gratification of which. renown was an essential condition, he would have abandoned his design as impracticable. But time rolled on, and Metzis, absorbed in the pursuit of his object, disappeared from his accustomed haunts, or only came forth occasionally to take breath before renewed efforts. At length he reappeared amongst men, pale and wan from victory, as others are from defeat, but with a glance of triumph