laid her cheek upon it, and it stayed there till she dropped asleep for weariness

-Silken rest

Tie all thy cares up.

though her kind watcher, who was doubly thrown upon a recollection of that beautiful passage in Beaumont and Fletcher, by the suspicion she had of the cause of the girl's visit. “And yet," thought she, turning her eyes with a thin tear in them towards the church spire, "he was an excellent boy,-the boy of my heart."

When the stranger woke, the secret was explained: and if the mind of her hostess was relieved, it was only the more touched with pity, and indeed moved with respect and admiration. The dying girl, (for she was evidently dying, and happy at the thought of it,) was the niece of an humble tradesman in Venice, at whose house young Montague, who was a gentleman of small fortune, had lodged and fallen sick in his travels. She was a lively good-natured girl, whom he used to hear coquetting and playing the guitar with her neighbours; and it was greatly on this account, that her considerate and hushing gravity struck him whenever she entered his room. One day he heard no more coquetting, nor even the guitar. He asked the reason, when she came to give him some drink; and she said that she had heard him mention some noise that disturbed him. "But you do not call your voice and your music a noise," said he, "do you Rosaura? I hope not, for I had expected it would give me double strength to get rid of this fever and reach home." Ro saura turned pale, and let the patient into a secret; but what surprised and delighted him was, that she played her guitar nearly as often as before, and sung too, only less sprightly airs." You get better and better, Signor," said she, " every day; and your mother will see you and be happy. I hope you will tell her what a good doctor you had?" "The best in the world," cried he," as he sat up in bed, he put his arm round her waist, and kissed her. "Pardon me, Signora," said the poor girl to her hostess; "but I felt that arm round my waist for a week after:-aye, almost as much as if it had been there." "And Charles felt that you did," thought his mother; " for he never told me the story." "He begged my pardon," continued she, "as I was hastening out of the room, and hoped I should not construe his warmth into impertinence: and to hear him talk so to me,

who used to fear what he might think of myself—it made me stand in the passage, and lean my head against the wall, and weep such bitter and yet such sweet tears! But he did not hear them:-no, madam, he did not know indeed how much I-how much I—" "Loved him child," interrupted Mrs. Montague;" you have a right to say so; and I wish he had been alive to say as much to you himself.” “Oh, good God!" said the dying girl, her tears flowing away, "this is too great a happiness for me, to hear his own mother talking so." And again she lays her weak head upon the lady's hand. The latter would have persuaded her to sleep again, but she said she could not for joy: "for I'll tell you, madam," continued she; "I do not believe you'll think it foolish, for something very grave at my heart tells me it is not so; but I have had a long thought" (and her voice and look grew somewhat more exalted as she spoke) "which has supported me through much toil and many disagreeable things to this country and this place; and I will tell you what it is and how it came into my mind. I received this letter from your son." Here she drew out a paper which though carefully wrapped up in several others was much worn at the sides. It was dated from the village, and ran thus:-"This comes from the Englishman whom Rosaura nursed so kindly at Venice. She will be sorry to hear that her kindness was in vain, for he is dying: and he sometimes fears, that her sorrow will be still greater than he could wish it to be. But marry one of your kind countrymen, my good girl; for all must love Rosaura who know her. If it shall be my lot ever to meet her in heaven, I will thank her as a blessed tongue only can." As soon as I read this letter, madam, and what he said about heaven, it flashed into my head that though I did not deserve him on earth, 'I might, perhaps, by trying and patience, deserve to be joined with him in heaven, where there is no distinction of persons. My uncle was pleased to see me become a religious pilgrim: but he knew as little of the contract as I; and I found that I could earn my way to England better and quite as religiously by playing my guitar, which was also more independent; and I had often heard your son talk of independence and freedom, and commend me for doing what he was pleased to call so much kindness to others. So I played my guitar from Venice all the way to England, and all that I earned by it I gave away to the poor, keeping enough to procure me lodging. I lived on

bread and water, and used to weep happy tears over it, because I looked up to heaven and thought he might see me. I have sometimes, though not often, met with small insults; but if ever they threatened to grow greater, I begged the people to desist in the kindest way I could, even smiling, and saying I would please them if I had the heart; which might be wrong, but it seemed as if deep thoughts told me to say so; and they used to look astonished, and left off; which made me the more hope that St. Mark and the Holy Virgin did not think ill of my endeavours. So playing, and giving alms in this manner, I arrived in the neighbourhood of your beloved village, where I fell sick for a while and was very kindly treated in an outhouse; though the people, I thought, seemed to look strange and afraid on this crucifix,though your son never did,-though he taught me to think kindly of every body, and hope the best, and leave every thing except our own endeavours to heaven. I fell sick, madam, because I found for certain that the Signor Montague was dead, albeit I had no hope that he was alive." She stopped awhile for breath, for she was growing weaker and weaker; and her hostess would fain have had her keep silence; but she pressed her hand as well as she might, and prayed with such a patient panting of voice to be allowed to go on, that she was. She smiled beautifully and resumed :— "So when so when I got my strength a little again, I walked on and came to the beloved village; and I saw the beautiful white church spire in the trees; and then I knew where his body slept; and I thought some kind person would help me to die with my face looking towards the church, as it now does-and death is upon me, even now; but lift me a little higher on the pillows, dear lady, that I may see the green ground of the hill."

She was raised up as she wished, and after looking awhile with a placid feebleness at the hill, said in a very low voice"Say one prayer for me, dear lady, and if it be not too proud in me, call me in it your daughter." The mother of her beloved summoned up a grave and earnest voice, as well as she might, and knelt, and said, "O heavenly Father of us all, who in the midst of thy manifold and merciful bounties bringest us into strong passes of anguish, which nevertheless thou enablest us to go through, look down, we beseech thee, upon this thy young and innocent servant, the daughter that might have been, of my heart,-and enable her spirit to pass

through the struggling bonds of mortality and be gathered into thy rest with those we love :-do, dear and great God, of thy infinite mercy; for we are poor weak creatures both young and old." Here her voice melted away into a breathing tearfulness; and after remaining on her knees a moment, she rose, and looked upon the bed, and saw that the weary smiling one Indicator.

was no more.

PYGMALION.

WE are not aware that this piece of Rousseau's has hitherto appeared in English. It is a favourite in France, and very naturally so, on all accounts. To our countrymen there will perhaps appear to be something, in parts of it, too declamatory and full of ejaculation; and it must be confessed, that if the story alone is to be considered, the illustrious author has committed one great fault, which was hardly to be expected of him; and that is, that he has not made the sentiment sufficiently prominent. The original story, though spoiled by the rake Ovid, informs us, that Pygmalion with all his warmth towards the sex, was so disgusted at the manners of his country women, that instead of going any longer into their society, he preferred making images, in his own mind, and with his chisel, of what a woman ought to be; informing her looks, of course, with sentiment and kindness, as well as with the more ordinary attractions. It appears to us, therefore, that instead of making him fall in love, almost out of vanity, as Rousseau has done, it might have been better, in the abstract point of view above mentioned, to represent him fashioning the likeness of a creature after his own heart, lying and looking at it with a yearning wish that he could have met with such a living being, and at last, while indulging his imagination with talking to her, making him lay his hand upon hers, and finding it warm, The rest is, in every respect, exquisitely managed by Rousseau. But now we must observe, that while the charge of a certain prevailing air of insincerity over the French style in these matters, appears just in most instances, a greater confidence is to be put in the enthusiasm of the Genevese; for he was a kind of Pygmalion himself, disgusted with the world, and perpetually, yet hopelessly, endeavouring to realize the dreams of his imagination. This, after all, is perhaps the most touching thing in his performance. Pygmalion's self predominates

over the idea of his mistress, because the author's self pressed upon him while he wrote. The only actual difference between the fabulous solitary and the real one, was, unfortunately, that Pygmalion seems to have been willing enough to be contented, had he found a mistress that deserved him; whereas Rousseau, when he was really beloved, and even thought himself so, was sure to be made the ruin of his own comfort; partly by a distrustful morbidity of temperament, and partly perhaps by a fastidious metaphysical subtlety, which turned his eye with a painful sharpness upon the defects instead of humanities of his fellow creatures, and made the individual answer for the whole mass.

The Scene represents a Sculptor's work-shop, in which are several blocks of marble, sculptured groups, and sketches of statues. In the midst of these is another statue, concealed under a drapery of a light and shining stuff, ornamented with fringes and garlands.

Pygmalion is sitting, supporting his head with his hand, in the attitude of a man who is uneasy and melancholy. On a sudden he rises; and taking one of his tools from a table gives some strokes of the chizel to several of the sketches; then turns from them, and looks about him with an air of discontent.

Pygmalion. There is neither life nor soul in it; it is but a mere stone. I shall never do any thing with all this.

Oh, my genius, where art thou? What has become of thee! All my fire is extinguished, my imagination is frozen; the marble comes cold from my hands.

Make no more gods, Pygmalion: you are but a common artist-Ye vile instruments, no longer instruments of my glory, ye shall dishonour my hands no more.

(He throws away his tools with disdain, and walks about with his arms crossed, as in meditation.)

What am I become? What strange revolution has taken place in me?-Tyre, proud and opulent city, your illustrious monuments of art no longer attract me. I have lost my taste for them. All intercourse with artists and philosophers has become insipid to me: the society of painters and poets, has no attraction for me; praise and renown have ceased to elevate me; the approbation of posterity has no interest for me; even friendship has to me lost all her charms.