paths of puddled peace. We could wish for one dirty pig in the company to suggest some deep poetic meaning in the spotlessness of his fellows. Nor-for we are nothing if not critical-can we bestow our undivided praise on the background, which seems to us too much subordinated, even slurred. Where the foreground is so filled with objects of essentially prevailing interest, whence the eye may not easily wander to remain, the painter is under no necessity of subduing remoter objects to an unsatisfactory, and even false, indistinctness. In the "Farm-yard" the dimness of the background is greater than the distance, nor is there that opaqueness in the air which would suffice to explain it. On seeing the picture a third or fourth time we wish, more than at first, that the character of the house in the trees was more clearly defined, and that the trees themselves, foliage, branches and trunks, were not confounded in that common greenness which could only be the effect of a distance greater than seems intended here. Still, despite this possible check to our admiration, the "Farm-yard" is a most delightful picture, wherefrom we sniff the country air, and catch a country appetite. It is full of vitality, health and solacement. With felicitous skill the painter has collected and arranged all that can entertain the eye and the imagination, appertaining to the country and a country life, and has diffused through and over all a sunny radiance quite enchanting. As Washington Irving says of the aspect of an English rural landscape, "it is associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, well. established principles, of hoary usage and revered custom." To Mr. Geo. Patterson, the successful engraver of the "English Homestead," the task has been set of reproducing this charming picture, and we may soon expect a beautiful work from his hands.

Let us turn now to another picture wherein is an abiding charm for the English scholar-Mr. James Faed's plate of "Shakspere and His Friends," after John Faed-Shakspere in the club-room of the Mermaid Inn, with his literary brothers and noble patrons about him. It was, perhaps, from Gifford's account that Mr. Faed took the hint for his subject and its treatment: "About this time (1603) Jonson probably began to acquire that turn for con

viviality for which he was afterward noted. Sir Walter Raleigh, previous to his unfortunate engagement with the wretched Cobham and others, had instituted a meeting of beaux esprits at "The Mermaid," a celebrated tavern in Fleet street. Of this club, which combined more talent and genius than ever met together before or since, our author (Jonson) was a member; and here for many years he regularly repaired, with Shakspere, Beaumont, Fletcher, Selden, Cotton, Carew, Martin, Donne, and many others whose names, even at this distant period, call up a mingled feeling of reverence and respect." These club meetings were not merely convivial, and the painter, with a fine discretion, has chosen their purely intellectual features-the urbani and eruditi of their famous company. In the centre of the picture the prominent figure is Shakspere seated. His right arm rests on the table, and his left hand holds a closed volume; his forefinger between the leaves shows that he has been reading from it, probably aloud, and now he turns to the rest with something choice of philosophy or poetry that its pages have afforded, or called up. In various and, we may suppose, characteristic attitudes of attention, his friends receive his words, well nigh divine with wit and wisdom. A little behind him we have rare Ben Jonson, brusque, impulsive, honest. On his left stands the renowned scholar, poet, wit, courtier, soldier, adventurer, Sir Walter Raleigh, leaning familiarly on the shoulder of Shakspere's noble friend and generous patron, the Earl of Southampton; Raleigh's is a most agreeable portrait. Near these an especially attractive figure is that of Sir Robert Cotton; with his back toward the spectator, as he turns naturally in his seat to listen to the speaker, his attitude is graceful and striking. A portrait evidently-not less so than the Shakspere or Raleigh of the picture--is the figure of Thomas Decker, seated apart on the extreme right, the characteristic sneer of the cynical dramatist on his somewhat singular face. On the opposite side, and standing behind the rest, is Joshua Sylvester, the quaint and erudite author of "Tobacco Battered and Pipes Shattered," a formal fellow enough with his imposing ruff and priggish beard, as unlike his vis-a-vis, the nonchalant, debonair Raleigh, in his character as in his clothes. Seated at the centre of the table,

with his hat on, a grave man and of magisterial demeanor, is "the wisest, greatest, meanest of mankind," the famous Lord Bacon; near by Fletcher, the dramatist, sits leaning on his hand, and Beaumont, his partner, whispers to the young and handsome John Selden, distinguished from the others by his flowing locks. Beside these, there are Daniel, the poet-laureate, and Donne, Dean of Saint Paul's, Camden, the historian, and Sackville, Earl of Dorset. The distribution of the figures is impartial, and the composition of the entire picture most happy. A massive curtain, the texture of which is exquisitely reproduced in the engraving, lends its rich comfort to the room, and the architecture, adornments, and furniture have a certain keeping with that Elizabethan company.

We are promised a sight, ere long, of the work which has achieved a more sudden and complete popularity than any other British picture for many years--a picture so full of human interest, one that so seizes and holds fast the hearts of the British people. made keenly sympathetic by the horrors and sorrows of a recent war, that the crowd weeps before it, even the Queen bestowed her tears, and critics turn from it with nothing to say. We allude to Mr. Noel Paton's "Home," The Return from the Crimea. Messrs. Williams & Stevens have admitted us to a sight of a photograph, which, imperfect as it is, still affords a touching idea of the intense pathos of its simplicity and truth. A tall guardsman, torn, dusty, jaded, emaciated, has just returned to his cottage home. Evidently he entered unawares, for it is the speechless, tearless shock of the picture which holds us silent and bowed before it. The soldier has sunk into a chair before the fire; his wife lies at his feet, her arms about him, her head on his breast; behind him his old mother buries her face in his neck; the baby sleeps in the cradle; with long swinging pendulum the old clock ticks--you can see it tick-on the wall; through the cottage casement soft twilight settles down upon a peaceful landscape and begins to veil the village spire; the fire-light flickers, and grotesque shadows dance on the wall; the grandmother's spectacles lie where they have just fallen, on the open page of the Bible; on a chair by the fire lies the work which the happy wife flung there when she threw herself with a sup

pressed scream into the arms (alas! he has but one!) of her brave husband; inside the box-bed hangs the old fiddle, dumb now, once for all; on the floor are the stick and bundle, and a Russian helmet, a trophy plainly, and cumbersome present to the wife. There is the medal with a double clasp that tells of gallant exploits; and there are the bandaged temples that tell of close quarters and sharp slashing; and there is the empty sleeve that tells of bombs and the trenches; and there are the sunken cheeks that tell of the hospital. The soldier gazes vacantly into the firenot a word, not a tear; he has not gathered his wits together yet; as yet the old pain is too much for the new joy. The wife rests, at last, upon his sturdy breast-a swooning pallor overspreads her face, and her eyes are closed-not a word, not a tear, not a movement, unless, perhaps, some habitual feeling for that absent hand. The old mother has a story in her weeds, her cap trembles, her hands are clasped convulsively, we do not need to see her face to know the look it wears. We know that no sound escapes her. Nothing breaks the silence but the ticking of the clock; it is the picture's hush which makes you also silent. Of it a London paper says: "Out of war, the dreadfulest of all the miseries of Time, comes this appeal to the deepest, gentlest, purest affections of our common nature. Thus it is that such art, of imagination all compact, instinct with the beauty of truth, and the truth of beauty, 'serveth and conferreth to magnanimity, morality, and delectation,' and by so doing, doth raise and erect the mind." "

In our election-phobia we have music to get away to. Since Maretzek, disgusted, broke his operatic wand and retired into the seclusion of dollar concerts, we have been regaled with some most delectable feasts in that kind--Lagrange and Adelaide Phillips, assisted by Amodio, Briguoli, Coletti, and Ceresa, serving us with the choicest lyric fruits, gathered principally from the gardens of Verdi and Meyerbeer. The Trovatore and L'Etoile du Nord in what may be called civil dress-that is, without their bravery of scenery and costume-have filled the Assembly Rooms with delighted guests, to whom the fatigue-dress freedom of those reunions afforded an agreeable relaxation from the formal lorgnetted lines of the Academy.

THE HE labors of an insignificant insect have dotted the sea, around the southernmost portion of our republic, with coral islands, or keys, of all dimensions, from the extended area of Key Largo, to a minute clump of mangroves, hardly larger than an ordinary-sized breakfast table. But these islands are indebted to the coral insect for their first foundation only. As soon as they reach the surface, the industrious architects cease their labors, and all further growth is dependent on other causes. These are many and various. A plank, torn from a wreck, and tossed about by the winds and waves for many days, may at last rest upon the surface of the coral. Sheltered from the waves by this slight barrier, the insects spread a broad flat rock under its lee, which soon becomes covered with sand and earth, thus forming the first rudiments of a soil. This spreads and elevates itself--the first piece of wreck, perhaps, catches another, and a larger bulwark against the violence of the waves is erected, till quite an extent of ground has risen like magic in the very midst of the ocean.

This soil, teeming with the elements of fertility, does not long remain barren and useless. Perhaps some sea-bird, wearied with its protracted flight over the stormy waters, may pause for an instant on this welcome resting-place. A seed, borne by the bird from some more favored spot, drops upon the luxuriant soil, thirsting to receive it, springs up, VOL. VIII.-36

blossoms, and bears fruit. Other birds rest in the branches of the newly-born tree, and scatter the seeds of other and different plants. Protected still more from disturbing influences, by the barrier it has itself provided, the land grows, like the vegetation upon it; until miles upon miles of territory are rescued from the empire of the sea. Such is a brief and simple sketch of the most usual method of formation, wherever the coral insect builds. Around the coast of Florida, however, most of such changes took place many hundreds of years ago, and now, while some keys increase in extent, others diminish. The cause of this lies in the numerous currents, which the tides, in their.intricate windings through so many islands, unavoidably excite. Thus a portion of one key may be slowly and steadily washed away. The particles of earth, however, are not lost, but serve to swell its more fortunate neighbor, which, in its turn, may be robbed at some part, to benefit a third.

It is both instructive and amusing to observe the gradual increase of somehow they stretch out long narrow points like arms, striving to pull more land from the bottom of the ocean. At first we see nothing but a long bank, which is almost hidden by the sea at high-tide, and reveals itself as a soft mass of mud and shells, when the waves retire. Finally, sometimes at the very extremity, sometimes in the middle, a combination

of currents heaps up a mass above the highest level of the water. As if some unseen hand had planted them, for no eye beholds whence they come, a million points of mangrove emerge from the mud. Perfectly straight, and hardly thicker than a quill, they bear a fanciful resemblance to the growth of the human beard. They soon lose that appearance, however, for the uniform stem forks and divides again, grows and puts forth leaves, until the whole surface of the mud gives place to a fresh and lively green.

This beautiful green meadow-for such from a distance it appears-loses much of its charm as we approach, and possesses none at all should we be rash enough to trust ourselves upon it. The mingled mass of pulverized coral, sand, and shells, that forms the soil, is not only extremely soft and treacherous, but the young mangroves, spreading out into a chain of arches, trip up the unwary foot in a moment. Any thought of running over such a surface would be rash, in the broad light of day, but at night would become simply ridiculous. On a fair average, the fugitive and his pursuer, too, would have the task, not only of picking their way, but of picking up themselves at every other step. However, as the level of the mud, which is almost as uniform as the water around it, gradually rises, a short grass springs up, and the earth dries and hardens. The mangrove arches, like many nobler structures, fall into ruin, as the plants increase in height, till the scene assumes the appearance of a grassy level, dotted thickly with mangrove bushes, seldom more than six or seven feet high.

These changes may all be observed at one spot, as the edges of most keys gradually shade off from their ancient forest-covered centre, to their muddy and daily-increasing circumference. We speak of a central forest, for other and larger trees spring up and unite with the mangrove in sheltering the interior from the scorching rays of the sun.

Indeed, most of the keys are covered with a dense growth of the various woods, though, here and there, we encounter plains of the most exact level, carpeted with a short ash-colored grass, and spotted thinly with low mangrove bushes, or single trees. The lagoons in the islands are very abundant in such localities. These are strictly ponds; for

they scarcely deserve the name of lakes. The water finds its way into them by subterranean channels. Some are as salt as the ocean, while the brackish water of others proves that the rain has a large share in their composition. But the term lagoon is often more broadly applied. Many keys contain large interior spaces filled with water, which enters from the ocean outside, through a narrower or wider channel, as the case may be. If these are so extensive as to deserve consideration, they are honored with the name of sounds, but, if small and unimportant, are merged under the general term, lagoon.

The shore of the keys varies much. On one side it is generally rocky-the grass and soil ceasing at a line that denotes the high-water-mark. When the tide recedes, a greater or less space of the rock is left bare, amounting, sometimes, to several hundred feet. The other side is either covered with mangroves, whose arched and interlaced stems grow far into the water, and form a dark green fringe, entirely concealing the land; or it is a bank of mud, into which one may sink above his knees. These two appearances designate the character of the shore, whether it grows or wastes away. No key increases in every direction. The numerous currents, set in motion by the tides, while they heap up sand and shells on one side, endeavor to carry away soil from the other. But here the rocky founda. tion of the keys preserves them. It is only at high-tide that the water can sweep off the earth above, and during the comparatively long period through which the tide ebbs and again rises, all its strength is wasted on the iron surface of the rock. Still it makes an impression even there; for we find the coral worn and honey-combed in a thousand places, and changed to a dark slate-color by the sun and air. Thus, the increase and diminution of the keys are not in the same ratio; and, perhaps, at some distant day, the sea may be driven from every inlet and channel, and all the keys become consolidated into

one.

In the numerous sounds, that cut up the interior of many keys, this difference of shore is very striking. One side may be rocky, up to the limits of the tide, where the ground rises abruptly, and, covered with short grass, extends back to the edge of the woods. The few yards

thus left open afford excellent walkingground for the most delicate foot. We push on, and turn the point. The aspect of the other shore is hidden by the forest, until we reach the very extremity of the dry land. No sooner does the knowing eye catch a glimpse beyond this curtain, than all hopes of a pleasant excursion, if such were ever entertained, are abruptly disappointed. Perhaps the shore may be veiled beneath a thick border of mangroves, whose green leaves touch the water, and are clearly reflected in its crystal depths. What a lovely shore! How charmingly the dark green of the mangroves contrasts with the brilliant mirror that bathes their feet. And they are beautiful to view from a distance, or to float by lazily in a boat. But let the unwary explorer endeavor to pass, by wading, as the writer once did, not, however, to gratify his curiosity. He will find himself not only up to his waist in water, but knee-deep in a coarse mud, filled with shells of all sizes. If the shore be not thus treacherously fair, it throws aside all disguise, and boldly presents itself as it is-an unmitigated mudbank.

The sounds, to which we have just referred, perfectly represent, in miniature, the great oceans and gulfs of our earth. One, in particular, about twenty miles northeast from Key West, offers every variety of shore, shoal, and channel. The large key that contains it, and which rejoices in the sweet name of Sugar-loaf is almost dissolved out by the sea. The entrance is by two creeks or winding channels, on opposite sides of the island. The smaller would be a treasure, could some enterprising Yankee transport it north, as an inexhaust ible magazine, from which to draw unfailing supplies of superior romantic scenery, at so many dollars the square yard. Though the distance, between the outer sea and the sound into which it pours, is barely half a mile in a straight line, the creek winds for the distance of two miles. In some places it is several yards wide, in others so narrow, that a boat passes with difficulty, while its depth varies from three or four feet to as many fathoms. Its banks are ornamented with every charm of Florida scenery. Here we have tall trees, arching over head, in green and whispering domes, until the hot beams of the sun are completely excluded; and our boat

floats on, in an atmosphere of the most delicious coolness. We hear the plash of the water, among the million arches of the mangroves that line the banks, echoing and reëchoing in a continuous murmur. A more sleep-compelling sound cannot be imagined. The breeze outside is somehow caught by the trees, at the mouth, and a welcome current of cool air follows our upward progress. We emerge into the open sunlight. The current hurries us on more rapidly, for the depth has become less, and one is a sure index to the other. The banks are covered with bushes, on many of which we may see shells, high in air. They are adventurous shell-fish who adhered to the plant, while it was yet imbedded in the mud, and, as it rose, soared aloft with their supporter. We may find their parallels elsewhere than in Florida. Again we have a ghastly forest of dead trees. Thousands of white skeleton limbs are twisted into every imaginable shape. At night, especially, when thrown into strong relief by the cold light of the moon, they present forms of horror, numerous enough and fearful enough to terrify a hundred children. We speak thus moderately, as we doubt whether a larger number could be found on all the keys.

The creek, at the other extremity of the sound, is broader, and less winding. Beautiful grassy slopes, with a few trees scattered here and there, to break the monotony of an extended meadow, border its banks. The water, though deep, is still so clear, that the shells and sea-weed, nay, even the smallest fish swimming along the bottom, may be easily perceived. Outside, extensive shoals prolong its windings, and show plainly the process of its formation.

Near the former creek, resides the Robinson Crusoe of the key-Happy Jack. He was originally a sailor, and a member of a certain band, that meandered over all the keys, and lived where and as they could. Their names, as least of the most distinguished, were as follows: Jolly Whack, Paddy Whack, Red Jim, Lame Bill, and old Gilbert. Whether Paddy and Jolly were brothers, as the similarity of their surnames would seem to indicate, remains doubtful, as the history of the family is shrouded in as deep obscurity as the origin of the Pyramids. Red Jim was certainly not an Indian, for the Floridians have little in