that's all," said the count, carelessly twirling his hat, and rising to take leave. Maldura roused himself, and, making an effort, said, "No, sir, there is one person whom you have only named -Alfieri; what did he say?"—"NOTHING!" Piccini pronounced this word with a graver tone than usual: it was his fiercest bolt, and he knew that a show of feeling would send it home. Then, after pausing a moment, he hurried out of the room. ALLSTON. WASHINGTON ALLSTON, universally acknowledged as of the first eminence among American painters, was born in Charleston, South Carolina, November 5th, 1779. He received his early education at the school of Mr. Robert Rogers, in Newport, Rhode Island, entered Harvard College in 1796, and received his baccalaureate degree in 1800. Immediately after leaving college he chose his vocation, embarked for London in 1801, and became a student of the Royal Academy, of which Benjamin West, the distinguished American painter, was then president. Here he remained three years, and then, after a sojourn at Paris, went to Rome, where he resided four years, and became the intimate associate of Coleridge. In 1809 he returned to America for a period of two years, which he passed in Boston, where he married the sister of the Rev. Dr. Channing. In 1811 he went a second time to England, where his reputation as a painter was now well established. He received by his picture of the "Dead Man raised by the Bones of Elisha" a prize of two hundred guineas, at the British Institute, where the first artists in the world were his competitors. Here he published a small volume, “The Sylphs of the Seasons, and other Poems," which was rcprinted in Boston the same year. This year his wife died, an event which af fected him deeply. He returned home in 1818, and resumed his residence at Boston. In 1830 he married a sister of Richard H. Dana, and removed to Cambridgeport. His lectures on art were commenced about the same period, four only of which were completed, and these did not appear until after his decease. Besides his lectures, his poems, and many short pieces which have since been given to the public, Mr. Allston was the author of “Monaldi," a story of extraordinary power and interest, from which the above extract is taken. He died very suddenly, on the night of the 8th of July, 1843, leaving but one painting incomplete, "Belshazzar's Feast, or the Handwriting on the Wall," upon which he had been engaged at intervals for nearly twenty years. in III. 60. THE SENSITIVE AUTHOR.' DANGLE, SNEER, SIR FRETFUL PLAGIARY. ANGLE. Ah, my dear friend! We were just speaking of your tragedy. Admirable, Sir Fretful, admirable! Sneer. You never did anything beyond it, Sir Fretful,—never your life. 1 In this scene from "The Critic, or a Tragedy Rehearsed," Sheridan caricatured the foibles of Richard Cumberland, a vain and sensitive, though excellent man, a writer of several plays, who died in 1811. Sir F. Sincerely, then,-you do like the piece? Sir F. But come now, there must be something that you think might be mended, hey?—Mr. Dangle, has nothing struck you? Dan. Why, faith, it is but an ungracious thing, for the most part, to Sir F. With most authors it is just so indeed; they are in general strangely tenacious! But, for my part, I am never so well pleased as when a judicious critic points out any defect in me; for what is the purpose of showing a work to a friend, if you don't mean to profit by his opinion? Sneer. Věry true. Why, then, though I seriously admire the piece upon the whole, yet there is one small objection; which, if you'll give me leave, I'll mention. Sir F. Sir, you can't oblige me more. Sir F. You surprise me!—wants incident? Sneer. Yes; I own, I think the incidents are too few. Sir F. Believe me, Mr. Sneer, there is no person for whose judgment I have a more implicit deference. But I protest to you, Mr. Sneer, I am only apprehensive that the incidents aro too crowded. My dear Dangle, how does it strike you? Dan. Really, I can't agree with my friend Sneer. I think the plot quite sufficient; and the first four acts by many degrees the best I ever read or saw in my life. If I might venture to suggest anything, it is that the in'terèst rather falls off in the fifth. Sir F. Rises, I believe, you mean, sir Dan. No; I don't, upon my word. Sir F. Yes, yes, you do, upon my word,-it certainly don't fall off, I assure you. No, no, it don't fall off. Dan. Well, Sir Fretful, I wish you may be able to get rid as easily of the newspaper criticisms as you do of ours. Sir F. The newspapers!-Sir, they are the most villainous— licentious-abominable-infernal-Not that I ever read them! No! I make it a rule never to look into a newspaper. Dan. You are quite right,-for it certainly must hurt an author of delicate feelings to see the liberties they take. Sir F. No!-quite the contrary; their abuse is, in fact, the best panegyric-I like it of all things. An author's reputation is only in danger from their support. Sneer. Why, that's true,-and that attack now on you the other day Sir F. What? where? Dan. Ay, you mean in a paper of Thursday; it was completely ill-natured, to be sure. Sir F. O, so much the better-Ha! `ha! ha!-I wouldn't have it otherwise. Dan. Certainly, it's only to be laughed at for- Sir F. You don't happen to recollect what the fellow said, do you? Sneer. Pray, Dangle-Sir Fretful seems a little anxiousSir F. O no!-anxious,-not I,--not the least. I But ono may as well hear, you know. Dan. Sneer, do you recollect?-[Aside to SNEER.] Make out something. Sneer. [Aside to DANGLE.] I will. [Aloud.] Yes, yes, I remember perfectly. Sir F. Well, and pray now-not that it signifies-what might the gentleman say? Sheer. Why, he roundly asserts that you have not the slightest invention or original genius whatever; though you are the greatest traducer of all other authors living. Sir F. Ha! ha! ha! Věry good! Sneer. That, as to comedy, you have not one idea of your own, he believes, even in your commonplace-book, where stray jokes and pilfered witticisms are kept with as much method as the ledger of the Lost and Stolen Office. Sir F. Ha! ha! ha! Very pleasant! Sneer. Nay, that you are so unlucky as not to have the skill even to steal with taste: but that you glean from the ref'use of obscure volumes, where mōre judicious plaġiärists have been before you; so that the body of your work is a composition of dregs and sediments,—like a bad tavern's worst wine. Sir F. Ha! ha! Sneer. In your more serious efforts, he says, your bombast (bum'bast) would be less intolerable, if the thoughts were ever suited to the expression; but the homeliness of the sentiment. stares through the fantastic encumbrance of its fine language, like a clown in one of the new uniforms! Sir F. Ha! ha! Sncer. That your occasional tropes and flowers suit the gcneral coarseness of your style, as tambour sprigs would a ground of linsey-wolscy; while your imitations of Shakspeare resemble the mimicry of Falstaff's Page, and are about as near the standard of the original. Sir F. Ha! Sneer. In short, that even the finest passages you steal are of no service to you; for the poverty of your own language prevents their assimilating; so that they lie on the surface like lumps of marl on a barren moor, encumbering what it is not in their power to fertilize! Sir F. [After great agitation.] Now, another person would be vexed at this. Sneer. Oh! but I wouldn't have told you, only to divert' you. Sir F. I know i-I am diverted-Ha! ha! ha!-not the least invention!-Ha! ha! ha! věry good! very good! Snecr. Yes-no genius! Ha! ha! ha! Dan. A severe rogue! ha! ha! But you are quite right, Sir Fretful, never to read such nonsense. You are quite right. Sir F. To be sure-for, if there is anything to one's praise, it is a foolish vanity to be gratified at it; and if it is abuse,— why, one is always sure to hear of it from one good-natured friend or another! R. B. SHERIDAN. SECTION XII. I. C1. ANCIENT AND MODERN WRITERS. HE classics possess a peculiar charm, from the circumstance Tthat they have been the modèls, I might almost say the masters, of composition and thought in all ages. In the contemplation of these august teachers of mankind, we are filled with conflicting emotions. 2. They are the early voice of the world, better remembered and more cherished still than all the intermediate words that have been uttered; as the lessons of childhood still haunt us when the impressions of later years have been effaced from the mind. But they show with most unwelcome frequency the tokens of the world's childhood, before passion had yielded to the sway of reason and the affections. They want the highest charm of purity, of righteousness, of elevated sentiments, of love to God and man. 3. It is not in the frigid philosophy of the Porch and the Academy that we are to seek these; not in the marvelous teachings of Socrates,' as they come mended by the mellifluous words of Plato; not in the resounding line of Homer, on whose inspiring tale of blood Alexander' pillowed his head; not in the animated strain of Pindar,' where virtue is pictured in the successful strife of an ath'lēto' at the Isthmian games; not in the torrent of Demosthenès, dark with self-love and the spirit of vengeance; not in the fitful philosophy and intemperate cloquence of Tully,' not in the geniäl libertinism of Horace,' or the stately atheism of Lucretius. No: these must not be our masters; in none of these are we to seek the way of life. 8 4. For eighteen hundred years the spirit of these writers has been engaged in weaponless contest with the Sermon on the Mount, and thcso two sublime commandments on which hang all the law and the prophets. The strife is still pending. Heathenism, which has possessed itself of such sīren forms, iз not yet exorcised. It still tempts the young, controls the affairs of active life, and haunts tho meditations of age. 5. Our own productions, though they may yield to those of the ancients in the arrangement of ideas, in method, in beauty |