blackberries and roasted sloes-or, what is more | silvery tone of Teniers; the depth and likely, feared chastisement for his many ungrate- simplicity of Ruysdael; and the apparent ful doings—after a brief trial he ran away, and, finishing of Wynants." Of "The Cottage though brought back and forgiven by his kind- Girl with her Dog and Pitcher," Mr. Leslie hearted master, he wilfully threw away a much better chance than Dick Whittington started remarks, that "it is unequalled by anywith on his romantic journey to the thrice re- thing of the kind in the world. I recolpeated city sovereignty. At Gainsborough's lect it at the British Gallery, forming death, his widow kindly procured for Jack an part of a very noble collection of pictures, admission into Christ's Hospital. Here we lose and I could scarcely look or think of anysight of the boy; he is, however, immortalized by thing else in the rooms. This inimitable the painter's pencil; and amongst all Gainsbo- work is a portrait, and not of a peasant rough's studies of peasant children Jack is disalso in his picture of The Girl and Pigs,' child, but of a young lady, who appears which Sir Joshua purchased." tinguished by his personal beauty."-Pp. 132, 133. The famous picture of "The Woodman in the Storm," which won so much public admiration, and on which George III. bestowed especial commendation, was painted in 1787. It has unfortunately perished, but the composition is preserved by Peter Simon's print, and Mr. Lane's copy of the original sketch. Another fine landscape, Another fine landscape, of a somewhat earlier period, "The Shepherd's Boy in the Shower," is thus described by Hazlitt: "I remember being once driven by a shower of rain for shelter into a picture-dealer's shop in Oxford street, when there stood on the floor a copy of Gainsborough's "Shepherd Boy with the Thunderstorm coming on." What a truth and beauty was there! He stands with his hands clasped, looking up with a mixture of timidity and resignation, eyemixture of timidity and resignation, eyeing a magpie chattering over his head, while the wind is rustling in the branches, It was like a vision breathed on canvas." Gainsborough, however, in this picture committed the somewhat singular mistake of placing his shepherd boy on the wrong side of the hedge, so that the rain is blow. ing full upon him; and the mistake has been perpetuated by Earlom in his fine engraving from the picture. Two others of Gainsborough's favorite and later landscapes have been happily characterized by accomplished critics. Of one of them, "The Cottage Door," now in the Grosvenor Gallery, Mr. Britton observes "The picture may be said to be as strictly poetical as Thomson's Seasons; and, like that exquisite poem, is calculated to delight every person who studies it attentively and feelingly. Its late proprietor (Mr. Coppin) justly says, that it possesses all the rich coloring of Rubens; the thinness, yet force and brilliancy, of Vandyke; the *"Fine Arts of the English School." The circumstances connected with Gainsborough's death were of a singular before the event took place, he entertainand melancholy character; and a year ed a firm presentiment of its approach. Sir George Beaumont and Sheridan were among the painter's most valued friends. One day, in the early part of 1787, the three had dined together; Gainsborough had been unusually brilliant and animated, and the meeting had been productive of so much enjoyment, that the three friends agreed that they should again dine together at an early day. They met, but Gainsand happy, now sat silent and absorbed, borough, on the previous occasion so gay with a look of fixed melancholy which no effort of his companions was able to dissipate. At last he rose, took Sheridan by the hand, led him out of the room, and addressed him in the following terms: "Now, don't laugh, but listen. I shall die soon-I know it-I feel it-I have less time to live than my looks infer-but for this I care not. What oppresses my mind is this: I have many acquaintances. and few friends; and as I wish to have one worthy man to accompany me to the grave, I am desirous of bespeaking you. Will you come-ay or no?" Sheridan Gainsborough at once emerged from his gave the required promise; on which cloud, and for the rest of the evening was the soul of the party. The celebrated trial of Warren Has tings commenced in 1788, and the importance of the event allured Gainsborough from his easel. He was placed with his back to an open window, and suddenly felt something intensely cold touch his neck, accompanied by a sensation of great pain and stiffness. On returning home he mentioned the matter to his wife and niece; and, on looking at his neck, they saw a mark about the size of a shilling, harder to the touch than the surrounding parts, and which, he said, still felt cold. Medical aid was speedily procured, and the uneasiness felt was declared to arise from a swelling in the glands. Change of air and scene was tried, but in vain; and the symptoms becoming more serious, Gainsborough returned to London, and Mr. Hunter, on a reexamination, pronounced the disease to be cancer. All human skill was then useless; but the painter beheld the approach of death with composure, and proceeded to arrange his affairs, appointing his wife executrix of his will. Shortly before his death he wrote to Sir Joshua Reynolds, whom he felt he had not always treated with sufficient courtesy, requesting to see him; and their last meeting is thus described by Mr. Fulcher: as a token of respect to the abilities of her father." This vase is now in the possession of the painter's great-nephew, the Rev. Gainsborough Gardiner, of Worcester. Like Reynolds, Gainsborough painted standing, in preference to sitting; and his pencils had shafts sometimes six feet in length. He stood as far from his sitter as he did from the picture, in order that the hues might be the same. He was an early riser, commencing painting between nine and ten o'clock, working for four or five hours, and then devoting the rest of the day to visits, music, and domestic enjoyment. He loved to sit by his wife during the evenings, making sketches of whatever occurred to his fancy, most of which were thrown below the table, while those that were more than commonly happy were preserved to be af terwards finished, or expanded into pic "It is a solemn scene, that death-chamber-tures. the two great painters side by side, forgetful of the past, but not unmindful of the future. Gainsborough says that he fears not death; that his regret at losing life is principally the regret of leaving his art, more especially as he now began to see what his deficiencies were, which, he thought, in his last works, were in some measure supplied. The wave of life heaves to and fro. Reynolds bends his dull ear to catch Gainsborough's failing words: We are all going to heaven; and Vandyke is of the company. A few days after, at about two o'clock in the morning of the 2d of August, 1788, in the sixty-second year of his age, Gainsborough died."-Page 147. In disposition Gainsborough was generThe great defect in his character, says Mr. ous, impulsive, and somewhat irritable. Fulcher, was a want of that evenness of temper which Reynolds so abundantly possessed. "A conceited sitter, an ill-dressed dinner, a relative visiting him in a hackney-coach, disturbed his equanimity; yet, when his daughter formed a matrimonial engagement without consulting him, he was calm and collected, unwilling, he says, to have the cause of unhappiness lay upon his conscience.' He has been accused of malevolence; but to such a feeling his On the 9th of the same month, his re-appeased; and if he was the first to offend, he heart was a stranger. Soon angry, he was soon mains were borne from his house in Pall Mall to their last resting-place in Kew church-yard. His nephew, Mr. Dupont, attended as chief mourner, and the pall was sustained by Sir Joshua Reynolds, Sir William Chambers, West, Bartolozzi, Paul Sandby, and Mr. Cotes-whilst, sad dest of all the mourners, walked Richard Brinsley Sheridan, so singularly invited a year before to be present. In person, Gainsborough was eminently handsome, of a "fair complexion, regular features, tall and well proportioned;" and, when he wished to please, no one possessed a readier grace, or more attractive manner. He executed several portraits of himself, two of which stood in his gal lery at the time of his death, with their faces modestly turned to the wall. Of these, Miss Gainsborough gave one to the Royal Academy, whose members presented her with a vase, designed by West, was the first to atone. Whenever he spoke crossly to his wife, (a remarkably sweet-tempered woman,) he would write a note of repentance, sign it with the name of his favorite dog, 'Fox,' and address it to his Margaret's pet spaniel, Tristramn.' Fox would take the note in his mouth, and duly deliver it to Tristram. Margaret would then answer, 'My own dear Fox, you are always loving and good, and I am a naughty little female ever to worry you, as I too often do so we will kiss and say no more about it. Your own affectionate Tris."-Page 152. Gainsborough's facility and rapidity of handling were very remarkable. In his early days he finished highly, but afterwards directed his attention chiefly to the general effect; and many of his works, when viewed closely, present a rough and unfinished appearance. This facility is seen to most advantage in his drawings and sketches, which are spirited and masterly. His friend Jackson says: "I must have seen at least a thousand, not one of which but what possesses merit, and some in a transcendent degree." They were executed in oil and water colors, chalks, black-lead pencil, sepia, bistre, and Indian ink; indeed, there was scarcely any contrivance for picturesque delineation of which he did not at some period make use. On one of the finest of Gainsborough's drawings a portrait of Pitt in crayons, purchased by the Earl of Normanton at the sale of Sir Thomas Lawrence's collection-Sir Thomas had written the words, "Unique and inestimable." As a portrait painter, Gainsborough was undoubtedly the most formidable rival of Reynolds; and it is a somewhat curious fact, that the best picture finished by the greatest landscape painter of the age was a portraitthat of the Duke of Norfolk, now in Arundel Castle. His range in portrait was more limited, and his system of chiaro oscuro not so striking as that adopted by his great rival; but in purity of expression, and natural, unaffected grace, he has seldom been surpassed; his men thoroughly gentlemen, and his women entirely ladies; while, in his feeling for the simplicity and charms of infancy, he has not been excelled by Reynolds himself. are In conclusion, it is worthy of remark, that the lives of the two great founders of our present school of landscape painting do not present a greater contrast than their works. These, indeed, bear the divine impress of genius, and evince that fondness for nature, and love of the beautiful, which animated their authors, and so far they resemble; but, in almost all other respects, they are widely different. Wilson sometimes, indeed, forsook scenes of classic or poetic fame, and delineated subjects from ordinary nature, many of which possess an exquisite charm and freshness; but, in general, his landscapes are productions of the imagination rather than representations of existing reality; "his thoughts were ever dwelling among hills and streams renowned in story and song; and he loved to expatiate on ruined temples, and walk over fields where great deeds had been achieved, and where gods had appeared among men."* The landscapes of Gainsborough, on the other hand, though not, like those of Wilson, steeped in the glowing sunshine of Italy, were true and exquisite representations of the sylvan scenery of England. He delighted in forest glades and verdant swards, brooks murmuring along their stony channels, and picturesque cottages sheltered by umbrageous trees; and in all a deep pervading human sympathy unites us with the subject: for these delightful scenes are no solitudes, but are all animated by laborers and wayfarers, or by blooming peasant children, full of rustic grace and untamed wildness. It is just this essentially national character which constitutes the deep pervading charm of Gainsborough's landscapes; and though the whole book of nature was not open to this artist, and some of its most illuminated pages neither engaged his sympathy nor inspired his emulation, we trust we shall never cease to prize the pure taste and genuine British feeling which distinguish his delightful works. FRENCH LITERARY COLLABORATION.-A| trial, setting forth the secrets of collaboration, is reported from Paris. This was the contest betwixt M. le Marquis de Prato d' Armesano and Il Conte Pietro Adolfridi Tadini, on grounds like the following: The Marquis, it appears, had contracted with the Count to write five melo-dramas, price £40 each-the count to find the ideas, the Marquis strictly to follow them, and merely (says the official report) "to be responsible for purity of style and the harmony of verse." The work was to bear the Count's name, and two fifths of it-a "Ruy Blas" and an "Ettore Fieramosca ” were produced, in entire agreement with the conventions. On delivering Nos. 3 and 4-"The Count of Montreuil" and the "Chevalier de Bourbon"-the Marquis resolved to have his share in the glory, and demanded of the Tribunal de Commerce to justify him in forcing his name before the public, as the Count's betterhalf. A pleasant case of partnership, truly! The Court declared its incompetence to deal with the matter. * A. Cunningham's "Lives of the Painters,” vol. i. From Chambers's Journal. Ꭰ Ꭱ . KLINDINGER'S CREOLE SERVANT. ing calculated to promote the progress of humanity-an end which, it seems to me, is peculiarly within the province of true religion. Since, however, there exists a prejudice against them in the community of which I am a member, it is certainly desirable that they should be concealed as much as possible from public knowledge." The physician spoke these words with perfect courtesy, but accompanied with a sort of mocking, icy smile, which was, however, not perceived by his visitor. He was a man of middle age, whose very pallid face was warmed by no breath of human passion, but seemed informed solely by the clear, cold light of intellect. Opposite to him sat the worthy padre, with the veritable priestly visage which is known all the world over. MANY years ago, a certain Doctor Her- | agine, not of any reprehensible nature, bemann Klindinger came to reside in a small town in the south of Italy. With a profound store of practical knowledge, Dr. Klindinger was also known as a man singularly devoted to the pursuits of experimental science; sometimes so manifested as to cause no small amount of apprehension in the minds of the simple race around him. He had been heard to talk mysteriously of some curious secrets he possessed relative to the vital principle; and awful were the pranks he played on the bodies of two malefactors who had been executed for murder in a neighboring district; and which he had, though with some difficulty, obtained from the authorities. The good padre of the little town came at length to remonstrate against proceedings which every one said bore the stamp of diabolical agency, and which threatened to clash so seriously with the pious opinions of his flock. "Most worthy Dr. Klindinger," said the priest, "your experiments, though doubtless intended for an excellent purpose, are certainly quite opposed to the spirit of religion. It is a dangerous presumption with which men are now-a-days possessed-that of investigating those sacred mysteries of nature which Providence meant should be forever veiled from us in this life. Our Holy Mother, the Church, has always wisely discountenanced any tendency in that direction, as being subversive of true faith and simplicity of heart; and I would suggest to you, signor —who, being a heretic and a stranger, are very likely not aware of the objections which exist here to your scientific experiments the wisdom of at least confining them within narrower limits." As the padre spoke he gazed curiously at the physician, whose manner, however, betrayed neither annoyance nor alarm at this some what authoritative address. "Very reverend padre," said he, "the experiments you speak of, are, I should im The doctor again addressed his visitor : "Perhaps, excellent padre, you would condescend to partake of some refreshment in my house? Although devoted to the interests of science, I do not quite forget the wants of the body; and I can promise to set before you some of the very choicest vintage." "Thanks, worthy doctor," said the priest; "your hospitality I shall be very happy to accept." The doctor rose, and, walking to the door, was heard to give directions to a domestic on the subject of the proposed refreshment. In a few minutes the door opened, and a young man, dressed in a rich and fanciful costume, entered, bearing in his hand a salver, on which sparkled, like ruby, the rich and generous wine; but it was not on the wine, much as he appreciated its promised qualities, that the eye of Padre Boboli rested-he started up in terror, and a shock passed over his face. "It is only my Creole servant, Diego," said the doctor. "But my inoffensive attendant seems to produce a strangely unpleasant impression upon the good people of this village; thus it is that I so sel dom allow him out of doors. Within, he has but one to terrify, and that is my old housekeeper, Gianetta, whom I can scarcely prevail upon to sit with him in the same room." "Mother of God!" said the priest, with a shudder. Surely, signor, there is something more than natural in the aspect of your servant. His look appals me —it is diabolical! O signor, signor! surely here has been your art at work in some way-this man is a horrible lusus naturæ !" "Nay, nay, indeed, Padre Boboli. Poor Diego exists in perfect accordance with the usual laws of humanity, even as you and myself. Pray, look at him again, and you will find on closer inspection that he is really, if anything, a well-looking fellow." The padre did look, and shrank back again with even greater terror than before. Yet the doctor spoke truly when he called Diego a good-looking fellow-that he certainly was, so far as mere physique went he was tall, of a figure perfectly symmetrical, and with much of the indolent grace so characteristic of the Creole; his features were regular and delicately chiseled, but his complexion was of a colorless, almost livid hue, made more strikingly conspicuous by a mass of ebon hair and an eye of burning black. But the expression-ay, ay, there it was-the expression of that face was in truth appallingly horrible: it made the heart of poor Father Boboli actually bound and leap up into his throat; it was like no other face he had ever seen, and suggested the idea as of one divided from natural existence by some strange and indefinable barrier. By its means, all the physical perfection before described became transmuted into something a thousand times more repulsive than the presence of absolute ugliness and deformity; and yet in it there was nothing evil-only a terrible discordancy, as it were, with all that was perfect and admirable in the organization. Something great and sacred had been neutralized or profaned-it was impossible to say what; but this belief gradually stole upon the mind, that here had been violated some great law of being-in this human face, ruined and distorted, was apparent the diablerie of art in antagonism with the sanctity of nature. The priest, after a few moments of terrified silence, at length muttered something about taking leave, and moved hurriedly towards the door. "May I beg, Signor Padre," said the physician, "that you will not depart so soon, and without the refreshment already at hand? If the presence of my servant be repugnant to your reverence, I shall dismiss him forthwith. Diego," he added, "thou mayest now retire; we can dispense with thy attendance." The Creole looked up with a vacant stare, and, with a sort of crouching obeisance to his master, slowly left the room. Padre Boboli drew a long breath, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "Heaven be thanked," he said, "that this creature has disappeared! I protest, signor, I shall not soon recover the shock of his presence. Forgive my suspicions," said the priest, with a glance as keen as an arrow, "but I do apprehend, Dr. Klindinger, that there is some awful mystery connected with your Creole." The doctor smiled his icy smile, and with the most unruffled politeness and apparent good-humor, endeavored to dispel the impressions of the alarmed cleric. "Truly good padre," he said, "you are quite mistaken. My servant, I do confess, is certainly a singular-looking being, but that is explicable on very simple grounds: to say truth, when I first saw him it was as a supposed incurable lunatic. I once visited Porto Rico on some business connected with my profession, and in a barbarously neglected asylum for the insane this man attracted my particular notice. He had been for two years outrageously mad, in consequence of a severe brain fever. I proposed to take him under my care, and was allowed to do so without any opposition. A desire to test the power of my art, I confess, actuated me to this proceeding more than any feelings of benevolence, as it is one of my theories that no lunatic is incurable; and in this instance, my efforts to restore comparative sanity have been successful. Diego, as you see, has become my attendant, and is really a most trustworthy and devoted creature. He is still a little amiss in the cranium-there is a jar somewhere; but in time I hope to remove it. To convince you, worthy padre, of his perfect harmlessness, I can assure you he sleeps in a room inside that which I myself occupy." As the doctor gave this explanation, there was a triumphant mockery in his eye-too dimly visible, however, to strike upon the disturbed perception of Father |