the artist whose skill was the most undeniable, to be determined by the merit of the pictures which stood veiled on either side of the altar. Van Deg glanced triumphantly around at this proclamation, and striding to the picture he had painted, he uncurtained it to their view. A burst of applause rose from the audience as he did so-and well merited was that cry of approbation. The scene of the piece was the chapel in which they stood, and the whole represented to the life. There was the priest all but breathing, while the bride and groom and their friends appeared as if in the full flush of joy. Algini was about to speak in raptures of the performance, when suddenly the other curtain was drawn aside, and a cry of horror burst from the multitude as they pressed forward to behold! Van Deg gazed breathless in wonder, and Algini uttered a wild shriek of despair"My daughter!" It was the delineation of Quintin's dream; each countenance in the picture was easy to recognise except that of the youth, which was buried in the bosom of the bride. But ere, with wondering eyes, they had fully scanned it all, it was thrust aside, and another appeared in its place. This represented a lovely arbour in which Algini was, advanced to old age, dandling a beautiful infant on his knee, which bore an expression in its face of Elzia, who sat on an opposite seat with her head resting on the bosom of a young man, whose arm encircled her waist. Every one was charmed and delighted beyond measure; and as they beheld the youth they recognised him in a moment, and every tongue cried "The blacksmith !" "Blacksmith no more," said Quintin, stepping from behind the canvas, "but the artist, who demands his reward!" It is unnecessary to say more than that genius was rewarded; and to the happy husband, Quintin Matsys, once blacksmith of Antwerp, the world owes some of its finest relics of art, and, among the rest, the inimitable painting of "The Misers," now at Windsor Castle. WELL AND BETTER. O NEVER can my soul forget Subdues my haughty eyes to tears! Unmitigable sorrows swell My bosom, when I would forget her; And yet, 'tis true she loved me wellBut then-she loved another better! How oft the quiet lanes along, At morn, at noon, at gentle eve, I led her steps, and told in song The bliss that mutual hearts might weave! With downcast eyes she trod the dell, Complained that doubts and fears beset her, Then told me that she loved me well But, ah! she loved another better! Her friends combined to urge my suit, While I, with passionate outpouring, Struck all expostulation mute, And soon to heavenly bliss was soaring. She gave her hand-and need I tell How much I thought myself her debtor? She manifestly loved me well- And finding mate and nest both gone, Is not more dreary, desolate, Than I, one evening left alone; My faithless spouse had toll'd the knell Of all my joys-for in a letter She left me word she loved me well— But that she loved another better! AN ILL-USED GENTLEMAN. (Concluded from p. 138.) CHAPTER II. THE Monday evening of the ensuing week saw me quietly seated in the stagebox of the temporary theatre at BIt was a building used for all the great events that occurred in that marvellous little town. All sorts of mountebanks, jugglers, travelling portrait - painters, equestrians, quacks, lecturers on elocution, and other birds of passage, hired it during their brief sojourn in it the B- Debating Society expended its weekly accumulation of eloquence: divines of every persuasion, without any stationary congregation, held forth beneath its sheltering and impartial roof; and in it the several Auxiliary Branch Societies of the district annually gathered themselves together. In times of great political excitement, however, its mere local notoriety was merged in its astounding national importance. Public meetings were held in it to overawe the government; and it was well understood by the inhabitants of Bgenerally, and by the leading speakers especially, that the passage of many important measures lately, was owing (though government did not like to confess it) to the overflowing floods of declamation that had issued from this very edifice. At present it was in the hands of Weazle, who had selected it as an eligible place from whence to distribute a knowledge of Shakspeare and the legitimate drama over the surrounding district; and with the exeption of the scenery, machinery, dresses, decorations, company, and orchestral department, the arrangements certainly did him credit. It was a capital house; nearly the whole of the aristocracy of B—, consisting of the principal grocer, butcher, linen-draper, hatter, and publican, with their respective families, crowded the boxes with beauty and fashion, while several farmers and farmeresses in the vicinity represented the agricultural interest. The rest of the audience consisted of the usual miscellaneous contributions of a county district. Altogether, there had not been such a house in B within the memory of the oldest play-going inhabitant. It contained upward of eighteen pounds sterling; and the austere of the neighbourhood predicted that some great calamity was certain to follow such a scene of gaiety and dissipation. It is not my intention (did I possess the power) to systematically criticise the entertainments of the evening. Parts of the performance were a very fair counterpart to the account furnished me of Hamlet, notwithstanding the audience maintained that grave and decorous demeanour which ought always to pervade a house on the representation of a tragedy. I cannot, however, refrain from a passing notice of the Othello and Desdemona of the evening, personated by my friend and Mrs. Weazle. I have seen Kean as the Moor, and though much gratified on the whole, candour compels me to say, in justice to an unknown great man, that in numerous respects he was decidedly inferior to Wiggins-that is, Stanley. I know very little about such matters, butit appeared to me that Kean neither stamped nor tore his hair (wool) with half the fury, nor rolled his eyes until nothing could be seen but the white, with one quarter the effect. In the celebrated scene about the loss of the handkerchief, there was no comparison. Wiggins reiterated his demand for "the handkerchief! the handkerchief!! the handkerchief!!!" with a force-increasing the volume of his voice at each interrogation of which Kean was physically incapable. Opinions may differ about different shades of excellence, but facts are stubborn things; and it was ascertained that the village blacksmith, on the opposite side of the street, distinctly heard Wiggins during the operation of shoeing a horse. This speaks volumes. His exertions drew down thunders of applause, and proved, among other things, that whatever might be the state of the pockets, or prospects, or habiliments of the "illused gentleman," his lungs, at least, were in excellent condition and free from the slightest taint of pulmonary affection. In the more pathetic portions of the character, I cannot say that I felt tearfully inclined; but this I rather attribute to a want of becoming sensibility on the part of myself; as the frequent application of a white handkerchief to the eyes and adjacent features of sundry farmers' daughters and dress-makers, incontestably proved that my friend knew how to "move the waters." In short, to use the emphatic words of the judicious and discriminating critic of the B- Advertiser, with whom Wiggins used to smoke his pipe and take his glass-"it was one of the most powerful, pathetic, terrific, and energetic performances ever witnessed on any stage in any age." Of the Desdemona of Mrs. Weazle, I cannot speak so highly. The fact was, she was not exactly the figure for the part, being truly, as my friend had described her—"five feet eleven, with a beard." She was, too, extremely stout in proportion even to her height, and had a stride like a grenadier's, so that she fairly put one in mind of the heroines of the gender masculine in the ancient times, when, in the words of an old poet, men acted "that were between When you called Desdemona— She was, in good truth, a formidablelooking lady; and as I gazed at her, I thought, despite his faults, with sorrow and commiseration on Mr. Weazle. In her earlier years she might have had a waist, but at present such an article did not constitute a portion of her anatomy; so that there being no connecting link, her shoulders had the appearance of directly resting on a much more substantial pedestal. A glance, too, at the extremity of the most prominent feature of her face, was enough to convince the most sceptical that the insinuation respecting her attachment to spirituous liquor, was not without foundation. In addition to all this, she was labouring under a very decided hoarseness, and her white satin dress, from some cause or other, formed anything but a contrast to the colour of her lord's complexion; so that taking all this into consideration, she did not exactly come up to one's ideas of "The gentle lady wedded to the Moor;" and when her father, before the senate, described her as "A maiden never bold; Of spirit so still and quiet, that her motion Blush'd at herself," his finger laid very significantly on one side of his nose. Desdemona, too, heard and understood the purport of the " hem," and turning suddenly round, caught Othello in the fact, looking very knowing, with his finger as aforesaid. Her face assumed at once a most terrific expression; she made but three strides to the side-wing, and had the gallant Moor not effected a precipitate retreat, heaven only knows what would have been the consequence. A cry of "order," however, induced her to wave her private resentments in order to contribute to the gratification of the public, and the scene proceeded harmoniously. Three days afterward, a gentleman called upon me. It was Stanley. He was in extravagant spirits, and a suit of second-hand clothes gave him quite an imposing appearance. He had taken his place in the London coach, and after -paying his fare, retained the almost incredible sum of seven pounds ten shillings sterling, in his pocket-book, on a spare leaf of which was pasted the criticism from the "B- Advertiser." Fame and fortune, he said, were now within his grasp-he had only to stretch forth his hand. If he succeeded, of which he did not entertain the slightest doubt, "untold gold," he assured me, would be but a slight acknowledgment for my kindness. He intends, however, once more to change his name, as a "provincial reputation," he said, was rather injurious than otherwise in London, in consequence of the superciliousness of the metropolitan critics; but under whatever cognomen, after his first decided hit, I should indubitably hear from him. A glass together, an It exchange of snuff-boxes, and we parted. the grocer's heiress, who had been at a watering-place on the coast, and knew something, looked very significantly at the publican's daughter; upon which the publican's daughter shrugged up her shoulders. The play, however, all things considered, went off very decorously, with the single exception of one scene, when I was a little apprehensive that there was going to be tragedy in earnest. occurred after Othello has applied that very improper epithet to his lady, which gives rise to Desdemona's delicate piece of circumlocution Two years have now elapsed, and I have not heard from him. Poor fellow ! I am apprehensive his benefit at Bhas been but a partial gleam of sunshine, and that he is still kept back by the "Des. Am I that name, Iago? Tago. What name, fair lady? Des. Such as she says my lord did caprices of fortune, the blindness of say I was." Just as Mrs. Weazle had made this interrogation, I heard a most expressive "Hem!" and on looking to the sidewing from whence it proceeded, saw my friend Othello winking at me in evident allusion to the question that had just been put by Desdemona, and the wellunderstood frailty of Mrs. Weazle, with managers, and the envy and ill-will of his brother actors-in fact, a regular conspiracy of the whole world. Never mind-he may be pennyless, but he can never be poor while he retains his buoyant spirits and affluent imagination ; though I am afraid he still continues, in his own opinion, what I found him, "a very ill-used gentleman." W. C. A SKETCH-FROM LIFE. F is a bachelor-what is worse, an old bachelor-and what is worse than all, he is fifty-six ! I beg his pardon, however, for disclosing the true sum total of his years, for if I had not told you, I am sure you would never have found it out. To believe him, had even a Venus de Medicis, though clothed in veritable flesh and blood, attempted to lay siege to the citadel of his heart, she would have been driven thence with the same hostility as a Meg Merrilies, a Meg Dods, or even Xantippe herself. According to his outward creed, the arrows of Cupid should all have been broken long ago, and the poor little god himself burnt on his own altar; as for Hymen, he should be driven to the frigid zone, there for ever to remain, unless called back to assist at the rites of Mammon. It is a fact, that although bachelors are always older than they allow themselves to be, they are by no means as cold and insensible to the charms of the fair; on the contrary-witness my bachelor. The fact is, when he was young, he took it into his head that it would seem" careless, bold, and free” to rail against love and matrimony; so then he talked long and loud from pride, now he talks long and loud from necessity. Neither do I think my old bachelor is very different from other old bachelors; they all suffer alike, poor souls! if they would but own the truth. Independent and redoubtable as is now my hero, he has been twice refused within six months. I will tell you how it was. One day, looking in the glass, (for bachelors do sometimes follow a lady's example,) he discovered two additional crow-feet, and he also discovered that his dentist would make a fortune out of his mouth. A married man, thought he, has no need of teeth, but woe to the naked jaws of a bachelor! Moreover, he had overheard a silly, pert little chit say, that he was almost too old to get married. " Almost is not quite," exclaimed he, manfully, “and I will get married; for after all, this bravery is but a feeble show. I am but a poor d-1. Old bachelors are all poor d-ls, that is a fact. Yes, I'll desert the fraternity and get married." So after due preparation with renovators of youth and beauty, down goes our youthful Adonis to the pretty Miss Lamb, a charming girl of seventeen. I cannot tell you all the sweet and tender things he uttered; suffice it to say, after a week of ogling and languishment, be finally popped the question. "Ah!" sighed he, "my dear Miss Lamb, you will be surprised when I tell you I am miserable!" "I should think you would be," most sympathisingly answered the lady. "Yes," he rejoined, "I am most miserable; and with you, dear Miss Lamb, rests my fate. I shame not now to own that I am in love, and seek that blessing-a wife." "Now you are joking-you in love! you get married!" and the merry damsel laughed outright. "Ah! Miss Lamb-Miss Lambmy dear Miss Lamb, do not mock meyou can render me the happiest of men. Does not your heart tell you what I mean? Does it not whisper who is the goddess I adore?" and the poor bachelor let fall a pearly tear. "Yes, I believe I can guess who you mean," replied Miss Lamb. 66 Charming, charming girl-ah! and will my goddess prove cruel ?" "I hope not, I am sure,' ," replied the charming girl, with much naïveté. "Shall I ask her?" "Ask her!" interrupted our lover. "Ask her! you—you, dear girl, are the idol I worship!" Mercy ! " almost screamed the lady, with unfeigned amazement. "Me! I thought you meant aunt Katy! I am sure I thought she was younger than you, and she is forty-eight!" Two additional crow-feet, did I say? the next morning six more were plainly visible. So, bolting the door, our bachelor threw himself into his easy chair, and began to cogitate upon old age- - nephews and cousins driving tandem with his money over his grave-sickness-dying bedno wife to hold his aching head, to soothe and comfort him-his relations all eager for the coffin, tomb, and the will. Poor fellow! the tears ran down his cheeks at the faithful picture drawn by himself of his own anticipated misery; and starting up, he once more exclaimed, "I will get married!" But this time our bachelor did not humble himself to be led captive in the capricious chains of a young miss just emancipated from the nursery; no, he fixed his eyes upon a discreet maiden of thirty-six-one who had figured in and out for eighteen seasons, without being once asked to lead down the dance of matrimony. Here he felt sure of success unfortunate man! Such a glowing description did he draw of her irresistible charms-of her virtues, and of his love and adoration, that the maiden, nothing loth to believe, concluded it were a shame to surrender to such an old man; so, drawing herself up with great dignity, she dismissed him at once by saying: "You are too old, sir-too old, sirtoo much disparagement in our ages, sir! it would be very ridiculous in you to think of one so young as myself, sir!"— "Alas! poor Yorick!" There are trials in life almost too much for human nature to support-at least the nature of a bachelor. This was one; but our bachelor, though driven to the very verge of fate, reflecting that he to be talked about among his acquaintance, as a poet and a contributor to the popular magazines. Fortunately for the public, not one-thousandth part of the talented number succeeds in this difficult vocation; and even the one in a thousand, if he succeeds in making his name familiar to a little circle beyond the pale of his own acquaintance, is a fortunate man if he can maintain a reputation for the period of ten years. There are, however, a few instances of complete success, and we need not go far to put our finger on those whose chance to a century's career is not opposed to very formidable odds. Now I would have the reader believe that I am not one of those who pant after a literary reputation, as a hart panteth after the water-brooks, although I confess that the cacoethes scribendi has occasionally visited me, and caused "Who loses his love, a new one can get, would serve to supply a moderate rethe destruction of more paper than But a neck that's once broken can never be set," wisely concluded not to commit suicide. So now, doubly fortified by barbers, perfumers, and tailors, he again boasts of his youth-esteems a married man a mere cipher-and the ladies, one and all, young and old, as mere puppets. This is the bold broadside of the picture, which he holds up to public view; but if we peep behind the canvas, we shall find that in the solitude of his own chamber, after driving the cat out of his room, lest even poor puss might pry into his secret thoughts, he allows to himself, with bitter truth, that he is a poor, forlorn man! And does he never exclaim, "Oh! that I were married?" Yes. Does he never look at a pretty face and sigh, "Oh! that she were mine!" Yes. Does he never wish for a" dear little papa in miniature?" Yes. And, finally, don't he think that of all creation an old bachelor is the most pitiable object? Yes-yes-yes! SCRIBBLINGS. WRITTEN STANS UNO IN PEDE. Ir is astonishing what a propensity people have to write. A hundred years ago, authors were comparatively scarce; but now, every well-dressed young gentleman is a scribbler, and is ambitious tailer for six months. Why, then, it will be asked, do you write? I reply, simply to afford myself, and possibly others, a little amusement. Do you believe it? No. Then enough has been said on that subject, and I proceed with the business in hand. While I was strolling the other day in Hyde Park, I amused myself, as I frequently do, by remarking the vast variety displayed in the " getting up" of the human form, the different expression of countenance, the thousand gradations of beauty and size, and the various degrees of taste manifested in decking out these "frail tenements of clay." "Here," said I to myself—(and it was only a truism after all)—" among this moving mass of humanity, may something be found to please the eye of the most fastidious beholder, to charm the man of refined taste, to throw into ecstasy the man of bad taste, and to afford some pleasure, if pleasure it may be called, to him who has no taste at all." Among the promenaders, I observed a belle of eighteen or twenty, whose neck was long and swan-like and of the most delicate whiteness, and which rested on one of the most perfect busts that the imagination of a sculptor could conceive. One of the companions of my youth, that devil-may-care fellow, Jack Arden-(peace to his manes, for he is dead, poor boy)—would have been enraptured at the sight of such a neck, and followed its owner on foot to the |