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the face of the beautiful Miss Mon the part of the crowd that see and adore her. They all agree as to the quality of her complexion, the colour of her eyes, and the shape of her nose and mouth; but, among these palpable glories of her face, each has some secret idol-some pet enchantment, which his own peculiar eyes have discovered-a something amounting almost to a look, perhaps; an inexpressible kind of half-closing of-not both eyes-and yet not altogether of only one; a segment of some unprecedented sort of smileparticularly on the left side of the mouth; a dropping of the eyebrows no-not a frown, nor any thing like it; a movement of the chin, observable only when the mouth is neither open nor shut; and other exquisite diversities, which an artist might overlook, but which each proprietor thinks absolutely essential to the perfect loveliness of his mistress. In such a case, what is an unfortunate limner to do? There is some reason in insisting upon the utmost fidelity and nicety of imitation, as far as relates to every thing that you can positively swear to in a face, of a substantive form, however minute, whether of flesh and blood, or bone, or gristle, or horn. I would hold out to the end of time for an eloquent wart, and would as soon give up my life as a favourite mole; but for such phantasies and idealisms as looks or half-looks, and smiles of all descriptions and degrees, no man can equitably be responsible.

The greatest perplexities to which a portrait painter is exposed, spring, not so much from those with whom he is principally concerned, as from a crowd of monitors, at once indifferent and officious, who make it a duty to call upon the portraits of their acquaintance, and pass sentence upon them before their suspension. He must produce a likeness, that not only the person most interested shall consider perfect, but which all the friends of that person shall combine to pronounce a full transcript of all the nice whims and delicate pretensions, which they may feel or feign on the subject. He paints a portrait, for example, of a lady's daughter, and is happy to hear the mother admit, that he has done all she could desire.

This reward, poor man, is cruelly treacherous and transitory. The lady, in the fulness of her satisfaction, sends all her friends to admire the portrait; each of whom or how could he be a friend?-points out some distinct defect, but for which the likeness had been complete. However contradictory in their suggestions, the lady attends to them, one by one, with great candour; and day after day, as her difficulties arise, repairs to lay them at the door of the persecuted painter. "I am sorry, Sir," so she salutes him, " that I am come to find fault." "Fault! madam," replies the artist-" you may remember that but yesterday,—" "Yes-yes," interposes the lady, "that's very true-but, upon consideration, I must think there wants a little more colour-though that's not what I mean neither. My daughter has a description of bloom-not what we understand by colour-nor yet pale by any means a something very difficult to explain, or to paint, I dare say, but which Mr. Brown very justly thinks more characteristic of my daughter's style of beauty, than any other property of her face." The artist does something or nothing, and the lady is again satisfied; but only in consideration of having set her heart upon some new objection of equal importance. "Just the thing," she now observes,-" the very tint of nature. Mr. Brown, I am sure, will be quite easy now-the colour is exact-but the eyes, Sir, the eyes, there certainly is something wanting there." "Upon my word, Madam," says the artist, "I do not perceive the defect." "Nay, now do look again," continues the lady; " I don't want them too brilliant, and I would not for the world have them dull. My daughter, without doubt, has black, sparkling eyes-but at the same time, (with an expression be tween laughing and weeping) a kind of gay melancholy-you understand me, a sort of-of-the French now would tell you what I mean in a moment: it is something that one does not often see-and which, Mrs. Smirk assures me, is the thing of all others which makes my daughter's eyes so charming." The artist alters again

and so he goes on, quite in opposition to his own judgment and feel

ing, the blind drudge of unintelligible criticism, till he has entirely ruined the picture in his own estimation, affronted the lady past all colouring, and made enemies of the whole host of her friends, on a thousand grounds of irreconcileable contradiction.

These are no common hardships, we must allow; yet how provide a remedy? I am at a loss what to propose. In the first instance, an artist might fairly claim that his labours should be subjected to only conceivable principles, and practicable regulations. Further-if in the production of a portrait, he succeed in satisfying one-and one millionhe should be considered independent, I think, of an intermediate forty or fifty, the formidable band of friends, all conspiring to differ from him and from each other. Having conciliated the agreement of all cursory observers, and the severer judgment of any single intimate, it may be pronounced of him, that he has completed as perfect and comprehensive a likeness as can be expected from human artthough I by no means profess to despise those profound and exclusive detections, which induce Mrs. Tomkins and Mr. Simpson to think, as they say, for themselves; that is, to overlook what is plain to all eyes but their own. In spite of general rules, and the clearest definitions, people will indulge in these deviations and caprices; and, whatever partial inconveniences may result from them, they are, upon the whole, very beneficial to the comfort and concord of society. It would be a sad thing if all faces were to be beholden, by all, in the same point of view; if there were no partial versions, by which "lack lustre-eyes," wide mouths, and red noses, could be brought together, in the tender relation of lovers, and the useful connection of husbands and wives. As more than half the world must, conscientiously and in strict law, be accounted ugly, how consoling it is that the pliancy of taste and opinion on this subject can so qualify the most positive institutions-so limit and extenuate the most stubborn facts of the human face, as to supply a ready evasion from this apparent rigour of destiny. The ugliest may

take comfort from the persuasion, that in some corner of the kingdom, there is an individual-perhaps more than one-who could not only look at him and forgive him, but discover something, in all that is most exceptionable and mal à propos in his countenance, with power to captivate and endear. Let any one look around at the numerous fond couples of his acquaintance, who are peacefully smiling in each other's faces, in defiance of realities and the common verdict of mankind, and he must acknowledge, that beauty is but a name, and ugliness a chimera. In effect there are no such things. Poetry, and novels and romances, have made a certain combination of auburn hair, blue eyes, Greek noses, and pearl teeth, an indispensable part of the materièl of true love; but, in the commerce of the living world, this is all sheer nonsense. Depend upon it that, in spite of arbitrary standards, there is no one so ugly who has not his oglings, his amorous looks, and languishing smiles-and that somebody or other has the heart to relish and return them. Nay, beauty itself chooses ugliness for its mate, without thinking it ugly. Look at Mr. and Mrs. PHow balsamic is such an union to us that are ugly! I mean not to utter a word in disparagement of beauty-but I see no harm in extending its empire by multiplying its attributes. A man may have a just sense of all that is essentially, and by universal assent, most lovely--and yet, under some inexplicable illusion, fix his own final choice upon features that no one thinks agreeable but himself. He may make his quotations from twenty established belles, drink to the tyranny of all the reigning toasts—and then go and surrender up his soul for ever, to a mouth charmingly awry, and teeth divinely not in rows. This is as it should be. By such bye laws as these nature elicits harmony from the jarring elements of the world; thus, amidst all her seeming inequalities and inconsistencies, by a series of kindly compensations, she assimilates all conditions, and provides means for making every one contented and happy. R. A.

EUSTACE DE RIBAUMONT,

A BALLAD.

THE incident, on which the following ballad is founded, I met with in Froissart. The words spoken by Edward the Third, on giving the chaplet of pearls off his own head to Eustace de Ribaumont, after supper, on the day when the French knight was made prisoner, are almost a translation of those with which the historian records him to have accompanied the present. "Mon

seigneur Eustace, je vous donne ce chappelet, pour le mieux combattant de la journée de ceux de dedans et

VOL. VI.

de dehors; et vous prie que vous le portez cette année pour l'amour de moi. Je sai bien que vous estes gay et amoureux, et que voulentiers vous vous trouvez entres dames et damoiselles. Si dites par tout là ou vous irez que je le vous ai donné. Si vous quitte votre prison; et vous en pouvez partir demain, s'il vous plaist." Edit. fol. 1559, vol. i. ch. 152.

I have departed from history in making Edward present at the battle of Poitiers, in which Eustace was afterwards slain.

ON Poitiers field the hosts are met,
Sharp were the spears that day;
And every one his sword has whet,
As for a bloody fray.

Brightly each targe and burgonet
Was glancing in the sun;
And every knight thereto has set
His lady's favour on.

But who is he that foremost hurls
His javelin mid the foe?

Upon whose head that cap of pearls
Doth make a gallant show?

Yet fitter for the dance, I ween,

Or lover's serenade,

Than in the ranks of battle seen,
A cap with pearly braid.

That meed at English Edward's hand
The youthful warrior won,
The bravest he of Gallia's band,
Eustace de Ribaumont.

'Twas at a banquet after fight,

Where he was England's thrall,

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That Eustace won those pearls so bright

In good King Edward's hall.

Twice, said the monarch, on my knee
Thou hadst me down to-day ;

So good a knight I did not see

Amid your fair array.

Then, Eustace, take my cap of pearls,

Wear it for love of me ;

Thou'rt gay, and toy'st with dames and girls;
Tell them I gave it thee.

I quit thee of thy prison straight,
So henceforth thou art free.
Sir Eustace rose; and at the gate
Right willing forth went he.
2 B

And now on Poitiers field again
He meets the English line,
And foremost on the battle plain
His ashen spear did shine.

When out there rush'd a sturdy knight,
And ran a-tilt at him;

In sable armour he was dight,

That clothed every limb.

Long time they strove with lance in hand;
And many a thrust did try:

The lances split; and then his brand
Each loosen'd from his thigh.

So close they join, those pearls so bright,
That gleam'd on Eustace' brow,
In the black mail their balls of white,
As in a mirror, show.

But soon was changed that white to red;
For with a furious blow,

The sable warrior smote his head,

That fast the blood did flow.

King Edward from a neighb'ring height
Was looking on the fray:

And save, he cried, oh save the knight,

And bring him here straightway.

They brought him where King Edward stood,

Upon the hillock nigh ;

They staunch awhile the streaming blood;

And scant he oped his eye.

Edward, said he, behold the braid

Thou gavest erewhile to me:

For me it won the loveliest maid
That lived in Burgundy.

That maid for many a year I woo'd,
And she my love return'd;

But still her sire the suit withstood,
Till praise in war was earn'd.

That praise, O King, thy hand bestow'd,
To her the gift I bore;

And when our wedding torches glow'd,

This wreath I proudly wore.

That thou another boon wouldst give,
I came to ask this day-

That thou, who gavest me then to live,
Wouldst take that life away.

Amid the fight I saw thee not,
But saw thy princely son;
I knew him by his sable coat;
From him I had the boon.

The words thou badest me say, I said,

Of all to her alone;

She heard; and how she smiled, sweet maid,

And kiss'd the pearls, each one!

I've worn them since for love of thee,
Now love I nought beside:

For she is in her grave, quoth he;
Then grasp'd his hand, and died.

MEMOIRS OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF

TOBIAS SMOLLETT,

IN CONTINUATION OF DR. JOHNSON'S LIVES OF THE POETS.

TOBIAS SMOLLETT was born in the parish of Cardross, in Dumbartonshire, in the year 1721. His father, Archibald, a Scotch gentleman of small fortune, was the youngest son of Sir James Smollett, who was knighted on King William's accession, represented the borough of Dumbarton in the last Scotch parliament, and was of weight enough to be chosen one of the commissioners for framing the treaty of union between the two countries. On his return from Leyden, where it was then the custom for young Scotchmen to complete their education, Archibald married Barbara, the daughter of Mr. Cunningham, of Gilbertfield, near Glasgow; and died soon after the birth of our poet, leaving him, with another son and a daughter, dependent on the bounty of their grandFather. The place of Smollett's nativity was endeared to him by its natural beauties; insomuch that, when he had an opportunity of comparing it with foreign countries, he preferred the neighbouring lake of Loch Lomond to those most celebrated in Switzerland and Italy. Being placed at the school of Dumbarton, which was couducted by John Love, a man of some distinction as a scholar, he is said to have exercised his poe tical talents in writing satires on the other boys, and in panegyrising his heroic countryman Wallace. From hence, at the usual age, he was removed to Glasgow; and there making choice of the study of medicine, was apprenticed to Mr. John Gordon, a chirurgeon, who afterwards took out a diploma and practised as a physician. His irresistible propensity to burlesque did not suffer the peculiarities of this man, whom he has represented under the character of Potion, in Roderick Random, to escape him. He made some amends for the indignity, by introducing honourable mention of the name of Dr. Gordon in the last of his novels. A more overt act of contumacy to his superiors, into which his vivacity hurried him, trifling as

it may appear, is so characteristic, that I cannot leave it untold. A lad, who was apprenticed to a neighbouring chirurgeon, and with whom he had been engaged in frolic on a winter's evening, was receiving a severe reprimand from his master for quitting the shop; and having alleged in his excuse, that he had been hit by a snow-ball, and had gone out in pursuit of the person who had thrown it, was listening to the taunts of his master, on the improbability of such a story. "How long," said the son of Esculapius, with the confident air of one fearless of contradiction, "might I stand here, and such a thing not happen to me?" when Smollett, who stood behind the pillar of the shopdoor, and heard what passed, snatching up a snow-ball, quickly delivered his playmate from the dilemma in which this question had placed him, by an answer equally prompt and conclusive. Not content with this attack, he afterwards made the offender sit for his whole-length portrait, in the person, as it is supposed, of Crab, in the same novel.

In the midst of these childish sallies, he meditated greater things; and the sound of the pestle and mortar did not prevent him from attending to the inspirations of Melpomene. At the age of eighteen he had composed a tragedy on the murder of James I. the Scottish monarch, and about that time losing his grandfather, by whom he had been supported, and discovering that he must thenceforth rely on his own exertions for a maintenance, he set forth with his juvenile production for London. On his arrival there, failing as might be expected, to persuade the managers to bring his tragedy on the stage, he solicited and obtained the place of a chirurgeon's mate, on board the fleet destined for the attack of Carthagena. Of this ill-conducted and unfortunate expedition, he not only made a sketch' in his Roderick Random, but afterwards inserted a more detailed account of it in the Compendium of Voyages. After a short

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