side in the dress she wore on the day of victory, the sight of which, it was thought, with the arguments which they meant to use, would prevail upon the assembly to urge her to a revocation of the bequest. Her women dressed her whilst she was almost unconscious of what they were doing, for she had now begun to fade quickly, body as well as mind. They put on her the white garments edged with silver waves, in remembrance of the stream of Inachus, the founder of the Argive monarchy; the spear was brought out, to be stuck by the side of the throne, instead of the sceptre; and their hands prepared to put the same laurel on her head which bound its healthy white temples when she sat on horseback and saw the prisoner go by. But at sight of its twisted and withered green, she took it in her hand, and looking about her in her chair with an air of momentary recollection, began picking it, and letting the leaves fall upon the floor. She went on thus, leaf after leaf, looking vacantly downwards, and when she had stripped the circle half round, she leaned her cheek against the side of her sick chair, and, shutting her eyes quietly, so died.

The envoys from Argos went to the court of Calydon, where Doracles then was, and bringing him the diadem upon a black cushion, informed him at once of the death of the queen, and her nomination of him to the throne. He showed little more than a ceremonious gravity at the former news; but could ill contain his joy at the latter, and set off instantly to take possession. Among the other nobles who feasted him, was one who, having been the companion of the late king, had become like a second father to his unhappy daughter. The new prince observing the melancholy which he scarcely affected to repress, and seeing him look up occasionally at a picture which had a veil over it, asked him what the picture was that seemed to disturb him so, "If it be the portrait of the late and why it was veiled. king," said Doracles, "pray think me worthy of doing honour to it, for he was a noble prince. Unveil it, pray. I insist upon it. What! am I not worthy to look upon my predecessors, Phorbas?" And at these words he frowned impatiently. Phorbas, with a trembling hand, but not for want of courage, withdrew the black covering; and the portrait of Daphles, in all her youth and beauty, flashed upon the eyes of Doracles. It was not a melancholy face. It was drawn before misfortune had touched it, and sparkled with a blooming beauty, in which animal spirits and good nature contended for predominance. Doracles paused and "The possessor of that face," said he, inseemed struck. quiringly, "could never have been so sorrowful as I have heard?" "Pardon me, sir," answered Phorbas, "I was as another father to her, and knew all." "It cannot be," returned the prince. The old man begged his other guests to withdraw a while, and then told Doracles how many fond and despairing things the queen had said of him, both be. "Her wits to fail" fore her wits began to fail and after. murmured the king; "I have known what it is to feel almost a mad impatience of the will; but I knew not that these gentle creatures, women, could so feel for such a trifle." Phorbas brought out the laurel-crown, and told him how the half of it became bare. The impatient blood of Doracles mounted, but not in anger, to his face; and, break. ing up the party, he requested that the picture might be removed to his own chamber, promising to return it.

A whole year, however, did he keep it; and as he had no foreign enemies to occupy his time, nor was disposed to enter into the common sports of peace, it was understood that he spent the greatest part of his time, when he was not in council, in the room where the picture hung. In truth, the image of the once smiling Daphles haunted him wherever he went; and to ease himself of the yearning of wishing her alive again and seeing her face, he was in the habit of being with it as much as possible. His self-will turned upon him, even in that gentle shape. Millions of times did he wish back the loving author of his fortunes, whom he had treated with so clownish an ingratitude; and millions of times did the sense of the impotence of his wish run up in red hurry to his cheeks and help to pull them into a gaunt melancholy. But this is not a repaying sorrow to dwell upon. He was one day, after being in vain expected at council, found lying on the floor of the room, dead. He had torn the portrait from the wall. His dagger was in his heart, and his cheek lay upon that blooming and smiling face, which, had it been living, would never have looked so at being revenged.

47

OUR opinion, precisely, " much better expressed" by the wor-
thy editor of the Spirit of the Times, of a fine artist and
an honour to his country. Those who have the pleasure
of an acquaintance with the original will acknowledge
the fidelity of the sketch:-

Henry Inman, the poet, wit, and painter-as ardent a
disciple of old Izaak Walton as ever threw a fly, and who
never wet a line out of season, is about to sail for Europe,
having recovered, we are delighted to add, his usual health.
Like West, Newton, and Copley, and more recently Stuart,
Leslie, Vanderlyn, Allston, Greenough, and Powers, with
others of kindred genius, Henry Inman goes abroad to do
honour to his country and himself. We leave to abler pens
the grateful task of commending him to the genius and in-
telligence, the rank and fashion, of the Old World; he has
troops of friends" who "sit in high places," that have his
interests at heart, and who will hear with equal pride and
pleasure of his success. Personally, and purely from selfish
impulses, we hate to hear of his going abroad at all! Who
shall now put us up to the trick of hornswoggling a salmon
trout of forty pounds? Who will teach us the art and mys-
tery of fabricating a fly that will induce a sockdollager to
"rise" at its first pirouette, though lying over a spring-hole
in ten feet water? Who else can we take for a partner at
the Knickerbocker Club, and "raise" the ex-Santa Fe Pri-
soner and his best friend" out of their boots?" Well may
there be a "sound of revelry by night," and by day, too,
among the small fry of the Kalikoon and Beaver-kill, at his
departure! Rejoice, ye speckled denizens of the Long
Island waters, and leap with joy, ye spotted cannibals of
Lake Pleasant! Inman, who angles "not wisely (in bad
weather) but too well," is to leave you to those who will
ere long "fright the Isle from its propriety," yourselves in-
cluded, may be! We expect ere May-day to "catch you
at it," paraphrasing Childe Harold after the following scaly
fashion:-

The scene is changed!-and such a change! Oh hook,
And snell of Inman's, ye were wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dun fly to salmon! Far along
From pool to pool, the roaring brooks among,
Leaps the live salmon! Not from one lone stream,
But every river now hath found a tongue,
And Stump-Pond answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the Johnny Trouts who call to her aloud!

Thank heaven, Inman is not to leave you, my fine fellows, without having one more "taste of your quality," in consideration of which, and as it is our particular request, we trust you will give him the pleasure of your company at dinner!

Mr. I. determined to visit Europe some time since, but
has been obliged to forego this intention until now, from ill-
health. Already has he received several highly flattering
doubt not he will at once occupy there his appropriate posi-
and munificent orders to be executed while abroad, and we
tion-among the most distinguished painters of the day. We
have it " under his hand and seal" that he has no idea of
ed to him, by the universal suffrages of his countrymen, that
quietly reposing on his laurels, notwithstanding it is accord-
he is "great in mouths of wisest censure." Inman con-
veyed to his friends last season, his burning enthusiasm to
Literary Ga-
distinguish himself, in the following beautiful "lines," which
appeared in "The Gift, for 1844,"-a Philadelphia annual
and which were quoted by the London "
zette" lately, as quite the finest among all the poetical con-
tributions to any of the souvenirs of the year:-

"Now listless o'er time's sullen tide
My bark of life floats idly on;
Youth's incense-laden breeze has died,
And passion's fitful gusts are flown.
While sadly round her aimless course
Now lowering brood the mental skies,
The past but murmurs of remorse,
And dim the ocean-future lies.
And must this be? My soul, arouse!
See through the passing clouds of ill
How Fame's proud pharos brightly glows,
And gilds thy drooping pennant still.
Stretch to thine oar, yon beam thy guide-
Spread to ambition's freshening gale;
Friendship and love are at thy side,

While glory's breathings swell thy sail."

THE EMBLEM OF THY LIFE, DEAR GIRL.

This placid lake, my gentle girl,
Be emblem of thy life,
As full of peace and purity,

As free from care and strife;
No ripple on its tranquil breast
That dies not with the day,
No pebble in its darkest depths,
But quivers in its ray.

And see, how every glorious form
And pageant of the skies,
Reflected from its glassy face,
A mirror'd image lies;

So be thy spirit ever pure,

To God and virtue given,

And thought, and word, and action bear
The imagery of heaven.

THE CLOISTER.

FOUR O'clock and the Pomeridian of an April day. The Brigadier's audiences are suspended to make room for a session of the Committee, and the door is closed-printers, poets, engravers, stitchers and folders, (these female,) advertisers, carriers, agents, stereotypers, ruthlessly excluded. Truly, as Shakspeare says, every man hath business and desire," (for the Brigadier's society,) "such as it is." Long last his suaviter in modo" his "fortiter in re !"

66

Brigadier. To business, my boy! What lies in that fourth pucker of your eyelid? Smile and let it drop away easy!

Committee. Thirteen letters by to-day's mail, containing propositions to publish immortal works by living and mortal American authors, most of them never before heard of postage nine and sixpence, of which please make a memorandum in my favour.

Brigadier.—Ha! ha! my boy! my dear boy!
"That all the sweetness of the world in one-
The youth and virtue that would tame wild tigers-
Should thus be cloistered up!"

Who else wants to gild a gold leaf in the Mirror Library?
Committee.-Seven and two are nine-seven poetesses
and two he bardlings-pleading for print! We are
"Loath to refuse, but loather for to grant,"

-will you write the declinatures, dear Brigadier!
Brigadier.-Make a regret-circular, my boy! Say that
we are a partnership of Posterity. They must die, to quali-
fy. The "Home Library," and the "Parlour Library,” and
the "Drawing-Room Library," and the "Knickerbocker
Library," and many more-(
-(for whose names, see puffs and
advertisements)-these publish for the equivocal immortals
now living. We publish only for the immortal dead, or for
the buried alive, disinterred with our own pick and shovel.
Write that out, and I'll have it lithographed to save time.
What next?

Committee.-We want a new head.

Brigadier.-Speak for yourself, my boy!

Committee.-A new caption, then, (if you will be critical) in the Mirror. Where can I praise things, now? There's Headley's new book on Italy, worth the best laurel-sprig of my picking. There's "Amelia," of the Louisville Journal, who has written some poetry about hearing a sermon, that traverses your back-bone like electricity, and where to praise that! George Flagg has painted a delicious sketch of my Glenmary-born Imogen, and I will praise him! I want a place to praise

Brigadier.-Hire a pew!

Committee. Will you give me a column?
Brigadier. To your memory, I will.

Committee. Well, my memory wants a column, to re

Brigadier.-Fifty-nine cents each to the cause of unbap. tized literature! Are we not involuntary martyrs, my boy! Why the mischief don't you last-page the fact that we pub-cord the good things I should not forget to praise. lish exclusively for the trans-Atlantics and the trans-Styxians!-never for those who can cross the water to "settle!" Committee. It shall be done, but there is one applicant who deserves a hearing. One of the most gifted women now living has employed her leisure in compiling a book to be used as a round game played with forfeits, or as a parlour fortune-teller. The book is to be called "ORACLES FROM THE POETS." Questions are proposed, and by the choice of a number the inquirer is referred to an answer, in a passage selected from the poets. The selections are made with great taste, so as not only to convey apposite answers, but to make the reader familiar with the most beautiful passages of poetry. What say to that?

Brigadier-Take it-take it—but for Heaven's sake be pert and pithy, crisp and critical! Nothing so dull as praise to everybody but the praisee. Anything more? Committee.-Yes

"The loving mother that nine months did bear
In the dear closet of her painful side
Her tender babe, it seeing safe appear
Doth not so much rejoice,"

as I to inform you of the approaching delivery, from the
press, of "Pencillings by the Way." My travels have

seemed interminable.

Brigadier. Well, as I assisted at their birth once before, I can certify now to their being" born again." Is that what you want?

Committee.-No-for, half the book was never a book before, not having been published except in the old Mirror. I want you to make it trip

Brigadier-Worth lots of money to Riker or Appleton, my boy, but we are in the rapid line, and that sort of work takes time. Besides, (and here the Brigadier looked modestly at his nails,) we couldn't bring our minds to make " 'as merry as a grig, money out of the sex, my boy! Fancy a lovely woman And brisk as bottled ale," calling on us to fork out, as her publisher! Odious word, that I may hurry into "calf" all I have written up to last "publisher !" It has been too long a synonym for " pirate" year, and start fresh from my meridian with "Dashes at and "Philistine." A few of us immortal bards have Life," and gossips in the cloister. For, as says old Wotton washed and donned the gaberdine of late, but we must let in the "Reliquiae," "Though I am a cloistered man in the it air, my boy, we must let it air, before wearing it abroad-condition of my present life, yet, having spent so much of at least into a lady's presence! Think of the maid's asking you to "step into the back room," if you called on a lady and sent up your name as her " publisher!"

Committee.-Ah! my illustrious friend and song-builder, dignity is a Minerva that needs no nurse. It jumps out of your head and walks alone. I would not only publish, but peddle from two tin boxes, if my wants would not bear di. minishing, and if only this would supply them! We're earthy ants, not chartered butterflies!

mine age among noise abroad, there still doth hang upon me, I know not how, a certain concupiscence of novelty." Brigadier.-Verbum sap. sat. Shall the committee rise by getting down off the table?

Committee-Yes!-one minute! Have you read the proof-sheets of that glorious-GLORIOUS-say "glorious !”— Brigadier.-Glorious.

Committee.-Hood's "Midsummer Fairies"-the most delicious "Rococo" conceivable? Yes? Be off!