Literature.

heart disease . The Athciueim describes his peculiar talents very fairly : — "Though not a man of strong genius , —sentimental and safe rather than daring and great , —ho had tbat touch of native inspiration which sets an artist apart from the crowd of mere imitators ancl mechanists . His " pictures havo a quality of their own , in subject , style , ancl colour : he saw nature in the jboudoir ; ancl was tbe poet of chess-table , flirta

tions , and pianoforte embarrassments . But in this line he was unrivalled , though he had numberless imitators , from the moment he had shown the way to a new success . Ho may almost be saicl to have founded a sect among the painters—believers in the unheaved sigh and the causeless tear ! " Mr . Stone was born in Manchester , on the 23 rd of August , 1800 . At thirty-one he came to London , and began to exhibit at tho Water Colour Society . At forty ho sent his first oil picture to the

Academy . At fifty-one he was elected an Associate . For many years his works have taken a good place among tho attractions of the exhibition . Among these are , " The Last Appeal , " " Cross Purposes , " " Impending Mate " and " Mated , " and " The Old , Old Story ! " Five or six years ago the painter made a summer residence in Boulogne ; and the effect of that slight change of scene has been visible in nearly all his subsequent works . The hale , rugged beauty of the fish wives of

Boulogne seems to have fired his imagination and steadied his hand . A breadth , a texture , avid a simplicity unknown to his earlier worts , began to show that tho artist , though past his fiftieth year , was still capable of advancing in his art . Tho sea side claimed him to the last ; and at the time of his death he had just completed his arrangements for spending the winter at work in the Isle of Thanot .

Poetry.

Poetry .

SELECTIONS FROM POETEY OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY . II U M A N LIFE * BY TIIOSIAS -XAI . DBN . THEN will penurious Hoav'n no moro allow I

No moro on its own darling man bestow ! Is it for this ho lord of all appears , A nd bis great Maker ' s image bears I To toil beneath a wretched state , Oppress'd with miseries ancl fate : Beneath his painful burthen groan , And , in this beaten road of life , drudge on ! Amidst our labours we possess

No kind alloys of happiness : No soft ' ning joys can call our own , To make this bitter drug go down ; Whilst death an casio conquest gains , And the insatiate grave in endless triumph reigns . AVith throes , ancl pangs , into the world we come , The curse and burthen of tho womb : Nor wretched to ourselves alone ,

Our mother ' s labours introduce our own . In cries and tears our infancy we waste , Those sad prophetick tears that flow , By instinct of our future woe ; And ev ' n our dawn of life with sorrows overcast . Thus we toil out a restless age , Each bis laborious part must have , Down from tho monarch to the slave , Act o'er this farce of life , then drop beneath the stage ,

ir . From our first drawing vital breath , From our first starting from the womb , Until we reach the destin'd tomb , AVe all are posting on , to the dark goal of death . Life , like a cloud that fleets before the wind , No mark , no kind impression , leaves behind , that blow

'Tis scatter'd like the winds , Boist'rous as them , full as inconstant too , That know not whence they eonio , nor where they go . Hero we're detain'd awhile , and then Become originals again : Time shall a man to his first self restore , And make him intiro nothing , all . he was before , No part of us , no remnant shall survive ! live

And yet we impudently say , we : No I we but ebb into ourselves again , And only eome to bo , as we had never been . * AA ist ] om of Solomon , chap , ii .

in . Say , learned sage , thou that art mighty wise ! Unriddle me these mysteries : AVhat is the soul , the vital heat That our mean frame does animate V AVhat is our breath , the breath of man , That buoys his nature up , and does even life sustain ?

Is ifc not air , an . empty fume , A fire that does itself consume—Avarmth that in the heart is bred , A lambent flame with heat and motion fed ? Extinguish that , the whole is gone , This boasted scene of fife is done : Away the phantom takes its flight , Damn'd to a loathsome grave , and an eternal night .

The soul , th' immortal part we boast , In one consuming minute ' s lost ; To its first source it must repair , Scatter with winds , ancl flow with common air . AVhilst the fall'n body , by a swift decay , Resolves into its native clay : For dust and ashes are its second birth , And that incorporates too , with its great parent earth .

IV . Nor shall our names or memories survive , Alas , no part of man can live ! The empty blasts of fame shall die , And even those nothings taste mortality . In vain , to future ages , we transmit Heroick acts , and monuments of wit :

In vain , ive dear bought honours leave , To make our ashes gay , aud furnish out a grave , Ah treacherous immortality ! . For thee , our stock of youth we waste , And urge on life , that ebbs too fast ; To purchase thee with blood , the valiant fly , And to survive in fomo , the great and glorious die . Lavish of fife , they squander this estate ,

And for a poor reversion wait : Bankrupts and misers to themselves they grow , Imbittcr wretched life , with toils and woe , To hoard , up endless fame , they know not where or how . v . Ah think , my friends , how swift tbe minutes baste ! The present day intii-oJis out- oivn

y , Then seize the blessing ore 'tis gone : To-morrow—fatal sound ! since this may be our last . Why do wo boast of years , aud sum up days ! 'Tis all imaginary space : To-day—to-day is OUT inheritance'Tis all penurious fate will give , Posterity' 11 to-morrow live , Our sons crowd on behind , our children drive tis heuce .

AVith garlands then your temple crown , And lie on beds of roses down : . Beds of roses we'll prepare , Eases that our emblems arc . Awhile thoy flourish on the bough , And drink large draughts of heav ' iily dew : Like us , they smile , are young , and gay , And like us too . aro tenants for a day , Since with night's blasting breath they vanish swift away .

VI . faring cheerful wine , and costly sweets prepare : " 'Tis move than frenzy now to spare : Let cares and business wait awhile : Old ago affords a thinking interval ; Or if they must a longer bearing have , Bid them attend below , adjourn into the grave .

Then gay aud sprightly wine produce , Wines that wit ancl mirth infuse : That feed , like oil , th' expiring flame , Revive our drooping souls , and prop this tofct ' ring frame . That when the grave our bodies has cngross'd , , AVhen virtues shall forgotten lie , AVith all their boasted piety , . Honours , and titles , like ourselves , be lost ;

Then our recorded vice shall flourish on , And our immortal riots bo for over known . This , this is what wo ought to do , Tho great design , tlie grand affair below ! Since bounteous Nature ' s plac'd our steward here , Then man his grandeur should maintain And iu excess of pleasure reign , Keep up his character , and lord of all appear .