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ALCESTIS.

A LEGEND OF THE ANCIENTS.

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GREAT was the lamentation and wailing throughout the palace of Admetus, king of Thessaly. On that day had the Fates ordered that the queen, the young and beautiful Alcestis, should die for her husband. metus had been doomed to death by the inexorable sisters; but at the instance of Apollo, who had been an inmate in the palace, had granted him another life, on the condition that a willing victim should be found to appease the infernal deities. Throughout the kingdom not the lowest slave would undertake the dreary pilgrimage for his lord. The aged parent of the king, though tottering to the grave, still clung to life; but his young and much-loved wife claimed it as a boon.

Apollo stood against a marble pillar in one of the halls of the palace, close by the altar of Vesta. His countenance was bathed in sorrow, and in his hand was an unstrung bow. "Alas!" cried the god; "and is it thee, fair-haired daughter of Pelias, on whom the blow has fallen ? Did I avert the axe from the noble trunk that it should fall on the beautiful branch? Weep, daughters of Thessaly, for the fairest among ye lies low! Prepare the lustral water and the shorn hair, for never death had such a victim! Ha! do I behold thee? Monster! Art come so soon to claim thy prize?"

"What! wouldst thou a second time deprive me of my right?" murmured a hideous apparition. It was tall and gaunt. Flesh it seemed to have none, and the skin which encased its bones was dark and cadaverous. Long and grey was its scanty hair, and its voice seemed like a distant echo of sounds past.

"Would that I could, fell destroyer!" said the god; "but powerful as I am, I cannot conquer Death. I envy thee not the aged-but the young."

"Ha ha!" cried Death; "there is my triumph-and beware, proud immortal-beware again of the wrath of the mighty one-thy sire the omnipotent-once hast thou braved him

by the foul slaughter of the Cyclopsforgers of the thunderbolts, for which thou art here a slave; another such a deed, and thou mayest taste my sting. Ha! fair god! thou wouldst be a dainty morsel! ha ha!" and the foul monster impotently poised his dart.

But wrathful looked the eyes of Phoebus, and a gleam of the godhead came over him.

"Odious to mortals, and hated by the gods, dare not to threaten mepass on, accursed one!"

Death cowered at the awful voice; and when the god looked round, he beheld the priest of the dead gliding noiselessly towards the inner chambers.

The queen had commanded that she should be brought into the light, and in a spacious chamber, gleaming with the sun's refulgence, lay the dying Alcestis. She was supported by her husband; two little children were kneeling at her feet-they wept because others wept-and around her were her weeping handmaids.

"O Sol!" she exclaimed; "thou light of day, let me again behold thee! And thou, green laughing earth-and the fleet clouds-the palace roofsand my bridal couch-the couch of my paternal Tolchos-once more gladden my eyes; for already do I see the two-oared boat and Charon the dark ferryman of the dead !'

The king bathed her brow, and his tears fell fast upon her pale face. "Dost thou love thy children, Admetus ?"

"Dearer than light!" sighed the king.

"I have to beg a boon before I die!"

"Name thy wish, and I will respect it as the command of the gods !"

"Admetus, when all others deserted thee, I alone was true. Thy aged father, and thy mother feeble with years, feared to end their lives with glory. But I, with the graces of youth still fresh around me, have preserved to the people their king, and to my children their father. For this, I make of thee but one request. Say that, when I am gone, my babes shall have no second mother, and that in due time they shall be rulers in these palaces."

"I swear it-by the right hand of Jove!"

"Take then the children from my hands, and be to them father and mother both." The king clasped the little children to his heart.

"My eyes grow dim-the darkbrowed Pluto gazes impatiently-Charon's right arm is bare-he grasps his oar he beckons me-why do I delay? Farewell, my husband - my children--I come-ha! grim-visaged monster, thou art close upon me now, I see thee-I see thee poise thy dart." And uttering these broken sentences at intervals, she sunk upon the bosom of her husband, and with a gentle sigh the good and beautiful Alcestis died!

The news of the queen's death quickly spread amongst the crowd that thronged the court of the palace, and lustral water was placed, and shorn hair was strewn in the porch.

Whilst detached groups of the busy crowd were whispering together, a He was stranger approached them. much taller than the tallest of men, and his huge limbs seemed to be of bending steel, so hard were they, yet so subtle. His hair was short and curling, and the expression of his countenance was stern, though not gloomy. A huge lion-skin was wound around his loins and shoulders, and in his hand he grasped a mighty club. He trod the earth majestically in the consciousness of power.

"Good Thessalians, shall I find Admetus in his palace?" enquired the stranger of one of the bystanders.

"The son of Pharos is in his palace, O Hercules!" answered the person addressed, with great reverence. "But what brings thee to the land of the Thessalians?"

"I have made a vow to the Tirynthian Eurystheus to bring back with me the four-horsed chariot of the Thracian Diomede."

"Ha! know you the labour you have undertaken ? Know you that they eat the flesh of men, and that their mangers are soiled with blood!" "I am doomed to labour!" "But one man can put bit into their mouths-it is he who feeds them-he is the son of Mars, the King of the Golden Thracian Buckler."

"Twice have I conquered the children of Mars! What dares not the son of Jove?" and the hero looked around him proudly. "I will bring back the steeds; yes, even if they breathe fire from their nostrils-I have said it!"

"But here comes Admetus, the king;" said the former speaker, observing the bereaved monarch advancing slowly from the palace.

"Hail! great son of Jupiter, thou of the blood of Perseus,” cried Admetus, the moment he beheld the new comer.

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"What! wouldst thou bring dishonour on my house?" exclaimed the king; never shall the gates of my palace be closed upon an honoured friend-no, O Hercules; I have rooms set apart for guests; follow thou my officer-he will provide thee with meats and wines, and all that can cheer thee and support thy strength. I will perform my rites; and when thou art refreshed we will converse, for I have much to say."

The mighty Hercules followed his conductor into the palace.

"And now, my friends, let us perform our last sad duty to the remains of the noblest and the best ;" said the king to those around him. "Let those whom I govern mourn for her who is gone; let them shear their hair and put on the black garment, and let pæans be sung to the implacable gods below; and yoke together a fourhorsed chariot, and from the necks of the colts of the single-horsed chariots, cut the manes with a sword; and let there be neither sound of flutes nor of lyres for twelve whole months.

O daughter of Pelias, for me dost thou inhabit the sunless dwelling, and thou art worthy of all honour. Now raise the pæan to the infernal deities; make known to Pluto, the black-haired god, and to the aged ferryman, who sits at his oar and rudder, that never has one before of such virtues crossed the Acherontian lake in the twooared boat."

Before the sun went down, the sad procession moved on to the tomb.

In the mean time he of the club and lion-skin had taken the recommendation of his host to its fullest extent. He had stretched his mighty limbs upon the soft couch, and before him were placed in quick succession the luscious meats which as quickly disappeared. The attendants, though used to ample feasting, marvelled much at the appetite of the guest. Forasmuch as he exceeded all men in strength and prowess, so did he in all things; and his silver goblet was filled to the brim with the unmixed and sparkling juice of Chios, and was drained often and filled again. He crowned the goblet with shoots of myrtle, and bade the attendant bring him garlands of flowers, and shouted such-like snatches of songs in praise of the vine :

"Hail to the vine!
Great fount of joy :-
Thou dost decoy
And in thine arms entwine
The nimble-footed laughing Hours.
With thee they glide along

In mirth and song,
And dance on flowers!
On flowers!

Hail to the vine!

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carousing whilst they placed the beautiful Alcestis in her tomb." He mused awhile. "I will do it!" he at length exclaimed. "What dares not the son of Jove?" and he seized his ponderous club, and poising it in the air, swung it round and round until it sounded like the rushing of a mighty wind. The slave fell upon his face for fear; and when he arose, the hero had departed.

In the evening Admetus was alone in his palace, mourning his wife, and sorrowful for the abrupt departure of his honoured guest, when, behold! the son of Jupiter entered, leading a veiled woman. His face was flushed, and triumph sat upon his brow.

"King of Thessaly!" he exclaimed, "I have been a victor, and have won this woman; keep her here till I return with the Thracian horses, and have slain the tyrant!"

"O Hercules, do not ask me this," replied the king; "I have sworn to receive no woman within my walls."

"Ha! and wilt thou not? but I swear by the hand of Jove thou shalt."

The brow of the king grew dark; but Hercules withdrew the veil which concealed the face of the woman.

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Omnipotent! what do I behold? My wife! my Alcestis!" and the king fell at her feet, thinking she was already immortal. She looked at him, smiling, and her countenance beamed like that of a goddess; but she spoke not.

"Receive thy wife, Admetus," said the hero; " she is restored to thee. She is my captive; I won her from Death! Yes," he continued, "I sought the monster at the tomb. He was drinking the sacrificial wines before he bore her to Hades. I sprung upon him, and we strove. He left his prize, and fled shrinking away! But remember it is not lawful to hear her voice till the third day, when she will be released from her obligations to the gods below. Farewell!"

"O noble son of the mighty Jupiter, farewell," exclaimed the king as the hero strode away; "altars shall be raised to thee, for thou hast conquered Death and the Fates!"

PORTRAIT PAINTING.

PORTRAITS! portraits! portraits! nothing but portraits! It is enough to give a man a touch of misanthropy. Some time ago it was discovered by one of the wise men of Greece, and it has been exemplified in a variety of ways since, that there were many assertions made in this world not strictly founded in truth; nevertheless, it may be pretty safely asseverated and sworn to, that no decent man walks through a modern exhibition of pictures without audibly or inaudibly execrating the art of copying the "human face divine," as it has been, considering it in the mass, somewhat courteously designated. And, certes, he hath some reason. Yet is the art (despite of its professors, and the public to back them) a very charming art—a right noble art, when nobly and worthily used, redeeming as it does, grace and beauty from the grasp of time and the mortality of the grave, and transmitting the lineaments of the good, the great, and the gifted, to the anxious and enquiring gaze of unborn generations. When we lay down the volume of a glorious poet, or study the works of a great artist, or read the sayings and doings of heroes, sages, navigators, statesmen, and all who, by deed or word, have raised themselves above the mediocrity of humanitythe dead level of common-place, we naturally feel a portion of Lady Rosalind's curiosity-we wish to know "what manner of men they were we wish to look upon the grand and expansive foreheads-the deep mysterious eyes-the expressive mouthsin fine, we want reverentially to gaze upon the exteriors of intellect. This is laudable. It is but proper that the unborn world should know how Scott, and Byron, and Wordsworth looked, while moving in the flesh among the pismires of their day and generation. But to have copies of all the ordinary skulls, noses, eyes, and mouths of all the Simpkinses, and Jenkinses of this "work-day world," unceremoniously obtruded upon your notice, under the everlasting title of "Portrait of a Gentleman," is a very different mat

ter. It is this that makes so many worthy people break the commandment, and unthinkingly consign to unpleasant regions a very noble art. It gets the better of their morality.

But the temperate blooded must excuse them. There is much to be said in extenuation of such denunciations, especially if the weather be hot. We all know that patience is a virtue, but there are limits; but really these constantly recurring "Portraits of a Gentleman"-" another, and another, and another "-are rather unfavourable to the exercise of the Christian qualities. What the deuce have the public to do with their mouths and noses? Is not the inevitable sight of them in every-day life, in the name of loneliness, sufficient? Certainly a man has a sort of right to exhibit the visage that nature has given him, be it what it may, before his fellow-creatures. He may walk up and down the streets with it-he may carry it to the fashionable promenade or take it to the theatre, the concert-room, the tea-garden-in fact, submit it to public inspection at first hand as much as he pleases, and no great-no very great harm done. But to sit coolly and deliberately down and call in the assistance of art to obtrude a duplicate of it upon the world, is a different matter. It is not well done, it is exceeding his natural privileges. The world is entitled to some consideration as well as his face. It is making too much of a good (or indifferent) thing. It is wrong; it is indecorous; it is indelicate: and should the man happen to have any moral or physical obliquity about him—should he squint, or have failed in business-it is both injudicious and unseemly-very.

They may say of portrait painting as they say of spirituous liquors, it is not the use but the abuse thereof that is pernicious; and certainly no art has been treated in so reprehensible a manner since, (as Burton says,) "The enamoured daughter of Deburiades the Sicyonian first introduced it to notice, by taking the person of her lover, with charcoal, as the candle gave his shadow on the wall," up to the present time, as this same art of portrait painting. Instead of being ap

propriated to embalm beauty and preserve the externals of wit, wisdom, genius, courage, and intelligence, half the Hobbses and Dobbses in creation have availed themselves of it to inflict upon the much-enduring public facsimiles of their interesting physiognomies. This is but an ill compliment to the memory of the fair Deburiades. All the ill-usage principally proceeds from that sex who ought to have more gallantry and good sense than wantonly to bring the discovery of a lady into disrepute; for visit what exhibition of modern art you may, the numerical proportion of hirsute faces over those of the more endurable sex, is most grievous. Besides, the ladies are in no case to be complained of. Almost anything in the semblance of a woman, original or copied-is pleasant to the eye of man; and though there may be some truth in honest John Webster's observation, when he says

"With what a compell'd face a woman sits

While she is drawing! I have noted divers

Either to feign smiles, or suck in their lips

To have a little mouth; ruffle the cheeks

mark the resolute compression of his lip, and the fiery sparkle of his eye! How fiercely intelligent he lookethin his own esteem! By his side hangs a fat, flabby face, enriched with "wreathed smiles" of the most dangerous and insinuating character. One gentleman affects a pensive thoughtfulness another, а commanding frown! Some arch their eyebrows, and have their right hands deposited in their left breast; others recline with their elbow resting on the book-covered table, their fingers the while tapping their literary and scientific foreheads, as much as to say, "what a world of thought is here!" Again, a gay young man" chooseth to be painted with a look of the most languid satiety, or misanthropical indifference; while some outrageous merchant's clerk, who reads Byron, and hath an ill digestion, is depicted with his hair thrown back from his "pale" forehead, and his mouth screwed up to that precise angle which denoteth that he has imbibed

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"That vital scorn of all, As if the worst had fallen that could befall."

In short, instead of having their features transcribed in a natural and un

To have the dimple seen; and so dis- assuming state of repose, the majority

order

The face with affectation."

Yet what are those trivial matters -the manoeuvring for a smile or a dimple-in that sex to whom affectation is at times so natural and easy as to be almost becoming, to the horrible, violent assumption of it by the hecreatures staring at you from the walls in every direction? You are in an exhibition room. Well, just turn your eye around, and note how uncommonly handsome, and noble, and graceful, and animated the gentlemen are all endeavouring to make themselves! Look at the haughty sublimity of the folded arms, and the easy propriety of the outstretched limbs ! Observe the studied negligence of the attitude, and the "admired disorder" of the adored hair! Ah! incautious fair, turn, turn away your gaze before it be too late! Here stands an irresistible, spare young man, with an infinity of whiskers :

of the gentlemen think proper to have some fleeting or transitory passion fixed upon the canvass, thereby certifying to the judicious observer the somewhat asinine qualities of the originals; and it is not going too far to say, that there is more petty, paltry, repulsive affectation exhibited in the portraits of any two dozen males, than in those of all the women that were ever painted. Truly, John Webster might have spared his sneer.

Portrait painting has one peculiar virtue. It has a stronger claim upon the AFFECTIONS than the noblest branches of art; its dull, literal, matter-of-fact transcripts are more dear to those with whom the fate of the original are linked, than the brightest and loveliest beauties of ideal beauty. Through its medium, friends and lovers gaze into each other's faces at the uttermost ends of the earth. It preserves to you unchanged by death or decay, or the mutations of the

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