which the servant is removing; at the same time announcing in a whisper, as if he knew the intelligence must be unwelcome, the visit from the poor relations. While he has yet got his mouth to the ear of his master, who is in the act of asking what they want, and apparently endeavouring to recall his connection with the long-forgotten name, the group make their appearance. It is a widow, who is striving, for the sake of her children, to overcome the bitter sense of her humiliating situation, whilst the tears of involuntary pride and recent affliction are starting unrestrainably from her eyes. Her daughter, a beautiful girl of seventeen or eighteen, stands by her side in meek and patient submission: less skilled in life than her mother, her melancholy is only retrospective on her father, and she seems to be sensible of no degradation from the necessitous appeal, feeling from her own gentle disposition the impossibility of a denial, and the pleasure with which their relation will afford the required assistance. Her brother, a boy of ten or twelve, is slinking behind her with ragged elbows and a becoming awe of the magnificence which surrounds him. On the opposite side sits the madam of the house (the centre being occupied by the master and servant), with too much economy of complaisance to notice the strangers further than by a sidelong glance of pride, obduracy, and anger at their admission. Her implied rejection of the mother and the objects of her distress, is the more detestable because she has not the plea of being a mother herself; her only dependants are the adopted curs, one of which she has caught up into her lap with a fond assurance that no interlopers shall be suffered to dispute its interests; the other lies supinely before the fire, his tongue hanging lazily out of his mouth, and his eyes half open, as if he is curious to know what is the matter, but too crammed with buttered toast to raise his carcase for information. The performances of Mr. Etty have great merit; and, if we had not already gone further than we intended, we should give a copious account of them. He is a thorough master of what is beautiful in colouring and composition; but his drawing is occasionally too careless, and his everlasting blue back-grounds are an unworthy resource to throw out his flesh tints, which are too natural to require artificial assistance. Cleopatra sailing down Cydnus is a most poetical imagination; we only wish it had another title, for we are at a loss to conjecture where she could have picked up so many flying Cupids. But it is a sin to find fault with it. The Landscape by Vincent is remarkably clever; the touch is original, and the colouring reminds us much of our incomparable Wilson. Part of the sky, however, is blemished by Mr. Vincent's usual defect; he lays on his paint too thickly, and seldom leaves a cloud till it may be mistaken for a mountain. In such a numerous collection as that of the British Gallery, it will naturally be supposed by those who have not visited it, and granted by those who have, that there are many other pieces highly deserving of notice. In the remaining list the scenes of low comedy, perhaps, (amongst which Mr. Kidd's have obtained a deservedly prominent station,) carry off the palm of superiority. This department indeed appears to be as much on the advance as Landscape is on the decline. In every succeeding exhibition the imitations of nature have become more clumsy and unnatural; and the time and admirątion we were compelled to bestow upon them a few seasons ago, are almost a reproach to us for building too much hope upon a child whose early promise of ex cellence was doomed never to be fulfilled. Nevertheless we do think that there are many hands very capable of making a rally-why do they not? THE FUNERAL. "When trees do drop their fruits in autumn ripeness, In the church-yard at Woollaston, there is a tombstone with the following inscription: "In Memory of Francis Lyal, who died on the 23rd of December, 18—, aged 20 years." I saw this grave receive its tenant; and there were many circumstances of sadness connected with it, in addition to those inseparable from such a scene. Lyal was one of those interesting and gifted beings in whom "la lame use le fourreau." This class of persons is not unnumerous; and yet we feel towards each of its individuals as if he alone belonged to the race. There is a sacred halo round those whom we see in the bloom of years destined for the grave; who at the time when others are looking hopefully forward to the pleasures and prosperities of life, have their thoughts fixed solely on eternal issues. Their prospects are all beyond the grave-their hopes are all in Heaven. Lyal was at school with me; and being some years my junior, and his parents being known to mine, he was, in some measure, under my protection. I had thus occasion to witness the buddings of a mind which gave promise to be one of no common order. I have never seen a spirit so eager of distinction. When he was first raised into a form, he would strain every nerve to render his exercises equal to those of the boys at the head of it; and, though his frame was never strong, he used to engage with the extremity of eagerness in all games of vigorous athletic contention. We always feel interest for those who have looked up to us for help; no wonder, then, that that which I had towards one of such qualities as Lyal should be great. The difference of the few years which were between our ages,―a difference great in boyhood,-prevented all jarring of competition, all feeling of school-boy envy. I had a pride in the advancement and distinction of all kinds which my protégé was rapidly winning; and when I left school I prophesied and hoped that he would brilliantly outstrip his fellows. I was sent to an university on the Continent, and lost sight of Lyal for some years. At that age, health is little looked to, further than the absence of direct sickness; and he had not heeded, and I had not marked, signs which might have foretold what followed. As it was, I had no thought of finding him in the state I did. On my return from the Continent, I went down into the part of the country where his parents lived, and one of the first persons I asked for was Lyal. I was told that he was in a rapid consumption, and the first moment I saw him too fatally confirmed it. The deep red hectic spot burned in the centre of his cheek. The fire of genius was fading from his large grey eye, and was supplied by the false brightness of his deceitful malady. The skin of his forehead was of that perfect and transparent white which adds the mockery of beauty to the ravages of disease; and his bright brown hair had that silken flow which is common in persons of delicate frame. He had always been tall, and his form was now wasted to a fearful thinness;-but if his figure had the spareness of a greyhound, it had much of its elegance also. His gait was the flat-footed tread of weakness, not the bounding step which is common to youth. In a word, he was wasted to almost the utmost point of fragility to which the human frame can be reduced without dissolution. But it is remarkable that in this extreme degree of extenuation neither his figure nor his face evinced the least effeminacy. If the vigour of mighty intellect was gone, its mark was indelibly stamped upon the features. Genius might have sunk from its "throne of light," but it was plain that it had once been there. Its traces, indeed, will always be visible where it has once existed. A volcano may have passed away, but its vestiges will still remain. Lyal shewed great happiness at seeing me. He spoke. with tenderness of former days, and alluded, in a manner the most heart-touching to the frustration of the hopes which I had felt and expressed concerning him. He acknowledged that he also had once hoped to have done something which would have made his name live behind him; and it seemed to be his chief regret that he was going down to the tomb without having, as he expressed it, "done one thing for which it was worth while to have lived." He had been at Oxford, and had distinguished himself much during the short time his health permitted him to stay there. But he did not remain long enough at the university to attain any of its higher honours. It appeared, however, that he had lingered on there too long; that he had striven against declining strength, until he had sunk at once under increasing disease into the state |