certain things absent or present, we may be sure there is a reason for it. How are we to know what egregious incompatibilities we may sometimes ignorantly produce by capriciously tampering with natural arrangement? Everybody would see the absurdity of painting a Norwegian pine amidst the sands of Africa, or of putting an iceberg under the line. But who can say how far this principle may be carried? who has ascertained where it stops? We must, however, conclude, and conclude with Bewick.
Arrived at that period of life when many men become averse to new undertakings, Bewick is busy with aprojected History of Fishes. This might be expected from the strong and knotty character of his mind. A full-bodied vintage will improve in raciness for forty years. The oak grows for three centuries. We have been favoured with a sight of some of the cuts for this work, and can answer for their partaking, to the full extent, of the marked characteristics of his earlier works. We noticed, especially, two or three angling scenes, which might make the heart of a fisher leap at the recollection. Never were the mountain streams of Northumberland given as Bewick gives them. The Cockneys, to be sure, will not understand them, but that is of little import.
Mr Bewick is said to have noted down, from time to time, memoranda of his own life. We hope it is true. If we are not mistaken, it will prove one of the best presents to the art that artist ever made. Let him put down his beginnings and progress, his feelings, his conceptions, his conclusions, his difficulties, his success; in short, the mental formation and growth of his skill, and the record is invaluable. Above all, we conjure him to write from himself. Let him jot down his ideas as they rise, without clipping or straining them to suit any set of conceited rules of composition. Let the book be of Thomas Bewick altogether, and only. Let him shun, as he would the plague, all contact with the race who commonly style themselves grammarians and critics; and if he does not publish in his lifetime, we think he may as well, unless he has a particular reason to the contrary, not make Thomas Moore, Esq. his executor. There may be little danger in this case; but one really would not wish any Christian book, much more that of a man of genius, like Bewick, to run even the remotest risk of being put into the parlour fire to please "The Ladies."
THE CAMPEADOR'S SPECTRE HOST.
On the towers of Leon deep midnight lay;
Heavy clouds had blotted the stars away;
By fits 'twas rain, and by fits the gale
Swept through heaven like a funeral wail.
Hear ye that dismal—that distant hum?
Now the dirge of trumpet, the roll of drum,
Now the clash of cymbal; and now, again,
The sweep of the night-breeze, the rush of rain!
Hearken ye, now, 'tis more near, more loud—
Like the opening burst of the thunder-cloud;
Now sadder and softer,—like the shock
Of flood overleaping its barrier rock.
List ye not, now, on the echoing street,
The trampling of horses, the tread of feet,
And clashing of armour?—a host of might
Rushing unseen through the starless night!
St Isidro! to thy monastic gate,
Who crowding throng? who knocking wait?
The Frere from his midnight vigil there
Upstarts, and scales the turret-stair;
