travels into far countries, he provides beforehand the means thereto, and is thought to be only in momentary embarrassment, which may even befal the richest. Albert, however, endured much distress in foreign lands, and willingly suffered want from his unconquerable love for the arts, which carried him cheerfully through a condition that might perhaps have killed another, without such an opposing power. When such a letter came, Agnes was silent for days. He, however, had the fruits of his journey in his heart and in his mind—no one could rob him of these; and that he was in debt for them, and yet possessed them, appeared to him quite wonderful; and he was satisfied when he felt his power, and saw the means how, and how soon, and with what thanks, he would be able to pay! But if he reckoned up all his prospects to Agnes, she only cast down her eyes, or looked at him with doubting looks, whieh made his whole heart tumultuous within him. He was as certain of the thing as he was of his life, and yet his own wife discouraged him by her doubts ! His mind revolted; all his future works rose up within his bosom like fiery spirits; he felt himself raised by them above the evils of this life; he glowed, his lips quivered, tears flowed down his cheeks-and Agnes stole away from him speechless but not convinced—and, as he also plainly saw, not to be convinced; she was quite horror-struck, for she had never before so seen her gentle husband, so full of noble power! so full of inward holy wrath!

And yet he was soon again pacified, softened, yea dejected; for he was not always well able to procure for his Agnes the immediate necessaries of life, in the manner she, as mistress of a house, wished! As for her, she saw the fulfilment of her most reasonable hopes only so much the longer delayed—and he, by the same means, her satisfaction with herself and with him; and thus his own peace hovered over him like a scared-away lark, no longer visible among the clouds-till single notes of her song again penetrated down to him, as if the sun were singing and speaking to him.

Labour was life and delight to the master: for any one can make mention of his own industry as he would of a duty, and of the want of it as a sin of omission. But the artist is no machine, no mill-wheel that turns round and round day and night; his work is mental, and his works are mind, produced by mind. Thoughts and images slumber within him like bees in a hive; they fly out and feed and grow upon the sweets of the eternal spring without; themselves satisfied and strengthened, they bring home nourishment with them, and feed the young bees who as yet only flap their wings and buzz around; they cover the brood, till they impregnate their queen-Fancy;--and every new work is a swarm, which joyfully separating from the mother-stock, departs to the place it has traced out for a settlement. The swarm changes its voice by that of the queen who keeps them together; and when its bees and the bees of the mother-stock meet on the flowers, they no longer recognise cach other. Or as in spring, when it becomes hot, and the heavens are inflamed, and the thunder storm in the spring night, with its red flashes and great rain-drops, causes a thousand buds to spring, brings forth blossoms, opens up crocuses, violets and hyacinths-and they, when the heavenly blessing hangs over them, stand there in the morning, as if by their own power they had grown out of the earth, because they are so beautiful, and every one gives them credit for possessing the wonderful power of self-production-in like manner, an inward mental sun opens up as suddenly the flowers in the head of the artist! But they must all wait patiently till their tine comes, and he must wait patiently and wear them for a long time as germ and bud: and the restlessness, the laying on of the hand, the rubbing of the brow, and the painful self-torture, are of no avail ! all in vain! If he tries this, nevertheless, then he is only a child who tears up a still closed snow-drop along with its stalk, and forces it open with his mouth; or peels a

butterfly out of the chrysalis, and only beholds the wonder of incipient life-and then destroys.

Master Albert now often dreamed and delayed whole days; sat down, rose up, spoke to himself, drew with his stick on the sand, or began to make an eye or a nose with black chalk; and then Agnes called him a child, or thought that, dissatisfied with her, he held converse with his own soul. Or he walked up and down in the garden, stood for a quarter of an hour at a time before the trunk of a tree, and studied its wonderfully bursting bark; looked up to the heavens, and imprinted on his memory the forms of the clouds; or he sat before the door, and called thither handsome children, placed one quite in the shade of the roof, another only half, and made a third stand in the full sunshine, that he might adjust for himself the colours of the dresses in light and shade; or he accosted old men and women, who came to him just as if they had been sent by God. Then Agnes called to him, and said peevishly: My God! why not rather work! thou knowest well we nced it.

I do work, said Albert. My picture is ready.

God grant it! sighed she, as if he were lazy or incapable.

Just consider, my Agnes, said he then, smiling: does the carver carve the forms? does the pencil paint? these are my spirits and slaves, who do my will when I call them.

But still thou canst sit down.

I certainly can do so.

If thy pencil would only move of itself! were there such a pencil-then we should have our wants supplied.

I would burn, I would banish such a pencil, as if it were an evil spirit! I-I must do all myself, otherwise I should no longer be myself. That were just

the same as if a strange woman were to love and foster me instead of thee. Internal images now appeared to his mind, as if induced by constant devotion, and disclosed to his sight how the crocus, appearing out of the earth, tears its little delicate white child's shirt; and then the master glowed like a vessel full of molten gold, liquified and pure for the casting; so that he trembled, knew nothing more of the world, and what was revealed to him he transferred to the tablet with inspired haste;-then came Agnes, and called to him two or three times, always louder and louder, about some trifle. He then sprang up, neither knowing where he had been, nor where he now was; the portals of the spiritual kingdom closed suddenly, and the only half-conjured-up images sunk back into night, and into spiritual death, and perhaps never returned to him,-ah! never thus again. Then he recognised Agnes, who, angry at his demeanour, stood before him, and scolded him deaf and blind. Then his blood was like to a spring flood; he seized the charm-dispelling disturber violently by the arm-and held her thus till he awoke. Then he said, ashamed, Is it thou, my wife? I was not here just now! not with thee! Forgive me! To vex even a child is more inhuman than to see and paint all the angels, and to hear them and one's self praised is desirable. Thou also livest in a beautiful world-and that the sun and moon shines upon it, that makes it none the worse! Where thou art, where I am, with soul and feeling, yea, with fancy and her works, that is to me the true, the holy world! and now he smiled, and asked her mildly: what dost thou want with me, then, my child? But his eyes flashed.

She, however, believed that she had looked upon a demon! a conjuror of spirits! She examined the red mark on her arm, where he had seized her; tears gushed from her eyes; she bowed down and lamented: Ah! I know it, I have it always in my mind-thou wilt certainly one day murder me! Every time I go to bed, I

pray that I may not perish in my sins, when thou again art as thou art now! when I am nothing to thee!

She spoke in so soft, so desponding a tone, and yet so resigned to her fate with him, that he was moved to tears by her confused words and frightened appearance. Oh thou, my Heavenly Father! sighed he then, and stood with clasped hands; till at length he clasped his terrified wife, who could not comprehend him, who felt so patient, and so completely in his power, that she would not even scream, or call for help, if he should- -Oh! thou Heavenly Father!-till at length he clasped her in his arms, and felt her glowing on his cheek.

[EBENEZER ELLIOTT was a manufacturer of Sheffield, and subsequently enjoyed the rewards of a laborious life in a quiet retreat some few miles from that town. He died in 1849 aged 68. He was once thought of by many as a mere rhyming partizan of violent political principles; he is now known to more as a man of real genius. The following Half Hour' is from the Second Book of 'Love.']

Oh, faithful Love, by Poverty embraced!
Thy heart is fire, amid a wintry waste;
Thy joys are roses, born on Hecla's brow;
Thy home is Eden, warm amid the snow;

And she, thy mate, when coldest blows the storm,
Clings then most fondly to thy guardian form;
Ev'n as thy taper gives intensest light,
When o'er thy bow'd roof darkest falls the night.
Oh, if thou c'er hast wrong'd her, if thou c'er
For those mild eyes hast caused one bitter tear
To flow unseen-repent, and sin no more!
For richest gems, compared with her, are poor;
Gold, weigh'd against her heart, is light-is vile,
And when thou sufferest, who shall see her smile?
Sighing, ye wake, and sighing sink to sleep,
And seldom smile, without fresh cause to weep;
(Scarce dry the pebble, by the wave dash'd o'er,
Another comes to wet it as before ;)
Yet, while in gloom your freezing day declines,
How fair the wintry sunbeam when it shines!
Your foliage, where no summer leaf is seen,
Sweetly embroiders earth's white veil with green;
And your broad branches, proud of storm-tried strength,
Stretch to the winds in sport their stalwart length;

And calmly wave, beneath the darkest hour,
The icc-born fruit, the frost-defying flower.
Let Luxury, sickening in Profusion's chair,
Unwisely pamper his unworthy heir;

And, while he feeds him, blush and tremble, too!
But, Love and Labour, blush not, fear not, you!
Your children, (splinters from the mountain's side,)
With rugged hands shall for themselves provide.
Parent of Valour, cast away thy fear!

Mother of Men be proud without a tear!

While round your hearth the woe-nursed virtues move, And all that manliness can ask of love;

Remember Hogarth, and abjure despair,

Remember Arkwright, and the peasant Clare.

Burns, o'er the plough, sung sweet his wood-notes wild,
And richest Shakspere was a poor man's child.
Sire, green in age, mild, patient, toil-inured,
Endure thine evils, as thou hast endured.
Behold thy wedded daughter, and rejoice!

Hear Hope's sweet accents in a grandchild's voice!
Sce Freedom's bulwarks in thy sons arise,
And Hampden, Russell, Sidney, in their eyes!
And should some new Napoleon's curse subdue
All hearths but thine, let him behold them, too,
And timely shun a deadlier Waterloo !

Northumbrian vales! ye saw, in silent pride,
The pensive brow of lowly Akenside,

When poor, yet learn'd, he wander'd young and free,
And felt within the strong divinity.

Scenes of his youth, where first he woo'd the Nine,
His spirit still is with you, vales of Tyne!

As when he breathed, your blue-bell'd paths along,
The soul of Plato into British song.

Born in a lowly hut, an infant slept,

Dreamful in sleep, and, sleeping, smiled or wept:
Silent the youth-the man was grave and shy :
His parents loved to watch his wondering eye:
And, lo, he waved a prophet's hand, and gave,
Where the wind soars, a pathway to the wave!
From hill to hill bade air-hung rivers stride,
And flow through mountains with a conqueror's pride:
O'er grazing herds, lo, ships suspended sail,
And Brindley's praise hath wings on every gale!

The worm came up to drink the welcome shower;
The redbreast quaff'd the rain-drop in the bower;
The flaskering duck through freshen'd lilies swarm ;
The bright roach took the fly below the dam;
Ramp'd the glad colt, and cropp'd the pensile spray ;
No more in dust uprose the sultry way;
The lark was in the cloud; the woodbine hung
More sweetly o'er the chaffinch while he sung;
And the wild rose, from every dripping bush,
Beheld on silvery Sheaf the mirror'd blush ;
When, calmly seated on his pannier'd ass,
Where travellers hear the steel hiss as they pass,
A milkboy, sheltering from the transient storm,
Chalk'd, on the grinder's wall, an infant's form,
Young Chantrey smiled; no critic praised or blamed ;
And golden promise smiled, and thus exclaim'd;
"Go, child of genius! rich be thine increase;
Go;-be the Phidias of the second Greece !”

Greece thou art fallen, by luxury o'erthrown,

Not vanquish'd by the man of Macedon !
For ever fall'n! and Sculpture fell with thee,
But from the ranks of British poverty

A glory hath burst forth, and matchless powers
Shall make th' eternal grace of Sculpture ours.
Th' eternal grace! Alas! the date assign'd
To works, call'd deathless, of creative mind,
Is but a speck upon the sea of days;
And frail man's immortality of praise,
A moment to th' eternity of Time,
That is, and was, and shall be, the sublime,
The unbeginning, the unending sea,
Dimensionless as God's infinity!

England, like Greece, shall fall despoil'd, defaced,
And weep, the Tadmor of the watery waste.

The wave shall mock her lone and manless shore;
The deep shall know her freighted wealth no more ;
And unborn wanderers, in the future wood

Where London stands, shall ask where London stood !
As melt the clouds at summer's feet sublime,

The burning forests of noon's fiery clime;
So art and power, with freedom, melt away,

In long prosperity's unclouded ray.

Let soul-sick minstrels sing of myrtle bowers,
And diadem the brow of Love with flowers,

Matured where earth brings forth the rack and scourge,
And ruthless tortures languid labours urge.
Slaves where ye toil for tyrants, Love is not:
Love's noblest temple is the free man's cot!
What though each blast its humble thatch uptear?
Bold shall the tyrant be that enters there.
Look up and see, where, throned on Alpine snow,
Valour disdains the bondsman's vales below:
So, Love, companion of the wolf, may roam,
And in the desert find a boundless home;
But will not bow the knee to pomp and pride,
Where slaves of slaves with hate and fear reside.
What are the glories that Oppression throws
Around his vainly guarded throne of woes;
The marbles of divinity, and all

That decks pale Freedom's pomp of funeral?
Let Grandeur's home o'er subject fields and floods
Rise, like a mountain clad in wintry woods,
And columns tall, of marble wrought, uphold
The spiry roof, and ceilings coved in gold:
But better than the palace and the slave
Is Nature's cavern that o'erlooks the wave,
Rock-pav'd beneath, and granite-arch'd above,
If Independence sojourn there with Love!

Star of the heart! oh, still on Britain smile,
Of old thy chosen, once thy favour'd isle,
And by the nations, envious and unbless'd,