PROCESSION AND HYMN IN HONOUR
OF PAN.

Leading the way, young damsels danced along,
Bearing the burden of a shepherd-song;
Each having a white wicker overbrimm'd
With April's tender younglings: next, well-trimm'd,
A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks
As may be read of in Arcadian books;
Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe,
When the great deity, for earth too ripe,
Let his divinity o'erflowing die

In music through the vales of Thessaly:
Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground,
And some kept up a shrill and mellow sound
With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these,
Now coming from beneath the forest trees,
A venerable priest full soberly

Begirt, with ministering looks: always his eye,
Steadfast upon the matted turf he kept,

And after him his sacred vestments swept.
From his right hand there swung a vase, milk-white,
Of mingled wine out-sparkling generous light;
And in his left he held a basket full

Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull;
Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still
Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill.
His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath,
Seem'd like a poll of ivy, in the teeth

Of Winter hoar. Then came another crowd
Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud
Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd,
Up-followed by a multitude that rear'd

Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought car,
Easily rolling, so as scarce to mar

The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown.
Who stood therein did seem of great renown
Among the throng; his youth was fully blown,
Showing like Ganymede to manhood grown;
And, for those simple times, his garments were
A chieftain-king's: beneath his breast, half bare,
Was hung a silver bugle, and between
His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen,
A smile was on his countenance; he seem'd
To common lookers-on like one who dream'd
Of idleness in groves Elysian :

But there were some who feelingly could scan
A lurking trouble in his nether-lip,
And see that oftentimes the reins would slip

And all ye gentle girls, who foster up
Udderless lambs, and in a little cup
Will put choice honey for a favour'd youth:
Yea, every one attend! for, in good truth,
Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan.
Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than
Night-swollen mushrooms? Are not our wide plains
Speckled with countless fleeces? Have not rains
Green'd over April's lap? No howling sad
Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had
Great bounty from Endymion, our lord.
The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd
His early song against yon breezy sky,
That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity."

Thus ending, on the shrine he heap'd a spire
Of teeming sweets, enkindling sacred fire;
Anon he stain'd the thick and spongy sod
With wine, in honour of the Shepherd-god.
Now, while the earth was drinking it, and while
Bay-leaves were crackling in the fragrant pile,
And gummy frankincense was sparkling bright
Neath smothering parsley, and a hazy light
Spread greyly eastward, thus a chorus sang :

"O thou! whose mighty palace-roof doth hang
From jagged trunks, and overshadoweth
Eternal whispers, glooms, the birth, life, death
Of unseen flowers in heavy peacefulness;
Who lovest to see the hamadryads dress
Their ruffled locks where meeting hazels darken,
And through whole solemn hours dost sit and hearken
The dreary melody of bedded reeds,

In desolate places, where dank moisture breeds
The pipy hemlock to strange overgrowth;
Bethinking thee how melancholy loath
Thou wert to lose fair Syrinx-dost thou now,
By thy love's milky brow,

By all the trembling mazes that she ran,
Hear us, great Pan!

"O thou, for whose soul-soothing quiet turtles
Passion their voices cooingly among myrtles,
What time thou wanderest at eventide
Through sunny meadows that out-skirt the side
Of thine enmossed realms: O thou, to whom
Broad-leaved fig-trees even now foredoom
Their ripen'd fruitage; yellow-girted bees
Their golden honeycombs; our village leas
Their fairest-blossom'd beans and poppied corn ;

And think of yellow leaves, of owlet's cry,
Of logs piled solemnly.-Ah, well-a-day!
Why should our young Endymion pine away?

Soon the assembly, in a circle ranged,

Stood silent round the shrine: each look was changed
To sudden veneration: women meek
Beckon'd their sons to silence: while each cheek
Of virgin-bloom paled gently for slight fear;
Endymion, too, without a forest peer,

Stood wan and pale, and with an unawed face,
Among his brothers of the mountain-chase.
In midst of all, the venerable priest
Eyed them with joy from greatest to the least,
And, after lifting up his aged hands,

Thus spake he:- Men of Latmos! shepherd bands!
Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks:
Whether descended from beneath the rocks
That overtop your mountains; whether come
From valleys where the pipe is never dumb;
Or from your swelling downs, where sweet air stirs
Blue harebells lightly, and where prickly furze
Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious charge
Nibble their fill at Ocean's very marge,
Whose mellow reeds are touch'd with sounds forlorn,
By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn:
Mothers and wives! who day by day prepare
The scrip with needments for the mountain air;

To sing for thee; low-creeping strawberries
Their summer coolness; pent-up butterflies
Their freckled wings; yea, the fresh-budding year
All its completions-be quickly near,
By every wind that nods the mountain pine,
O'Forester divine!

"Thou to whom every faun and satyr flies For willing service; whether to surprise The squatted hare, while in half-sleeping fit; Or upward ragged precipices flit To save poor lambkins from the eagle's maw; Or by mysterious enticement draw Bewilder'd Shepherds to their path again; Or to tread breathless round the frothy main, And gather up all fancifullest shells For thee to tumble into Naiads' cells, And, being hidden, laugh at their out-peeping; Or to delight thee with fantastic leaping The while they pelt each other on the crown With silvery oak-apples and fir-cones brown;By all the echoes that about thee ring, Hear us, O Satyr-King!

"Oh hearkener to the loud-clapping shears, While ever and anon to his shorn peers A lamb goes bleating: winder of the horn, When snorting wild-boars, routing tender corn,

Anger our huntsmen; breather round our farms
To keep off mildews and all weather harms:
Strange ministrant of undescribed sounds
That come a-swooning over hollow grounds,
1 And wither drearily on barren moors:
Dread opener of the mysterious doors
Leading to universal knowledge-see,
Great son of Dryope!

The many that are come to pay their vows
With leaves about their brows!-

Be still the unimaginable lodge

For solitary thinkings; such as dodge
Conception to the very bourn of heaven,

Then leave the naked brain: be still the leaven
That, spreading in this dull and clodded earth,
Gives it a touch ethereal-a new birth:
Be still a symbol of immensity;

A firmament reflected in a sea;

An element filling the space between ;

An unknown-but no more: we humbly screen
With uplift hands our foreheads lowly bending,
And giving out a shout most heaven-rending,
Conjure thee to receive our humble paan
Upon thy mount Lycean!"

Everwhile they brought the burden to a close
A shout from the whole multitude arose
That linger'd in the air like dying rolls
Of abrupt thunder, when Ionian shoals
Of dolphins bob their noses through the brine.
Meantime, on shady levels, mossy fine,
Young companions nimbly began dancing
To the swift treble pipe and humming string:
Ay, those fair living forms swam heavenly
To tunes forgotten, out of memory;

delicate and finest work by the Duke of Devonshire and other men of taste amongst the high nobility, was struck with a small picture -a cattle piece-in a shop-window in Greek Street. On inquiring for the artist, he could hear no tidings of him; but the people of the shop promised to find him out. Time after time our persevering lover of the arts called to repeat his inquiries, but always unsuccessfully, until about three months after, when he found that the person he sought was a Mr. Thomas Sydney Cooper, an English artist, who had been for many years settled at Brussels as a drawing-master, but had been driven from that city by the revolution, which had deprived him of his pupils, amongst whom were some members of the Royal Family, and, unable to obtain employment in London as a cattle painter, had, with the generous selfdevotion which most ennobles a man of genius, supported his family by making lithographic drawings of fashionable caps and bonnets, I suppose as a puff for some milliner, or some periodical which deals in costumes. In the midst of this interesting family, and of these caps and bonnets, Mr. Cribb found him; and deriving from what he saw of his sketches and drawings additional conviction of his genius, immediately commis

KEATS'S Endymion.

Note 2.Let not Stephen Lane's conduct be called unnatural! I do verily believe that there is no instance that can be invented of generosity and delicacy that might not find a parallel amongst the middle classes of England, the affluent tradesmen of the metropolis and the great towns, who often act as if they held their riches on the tenure of benevolence. With regard to Stephen Lane's purchase, I happen to be furnished with a most excellent precedent a case completely in point, and of very recent occurrence. It was told to me, and most charmingly told, by one whom I am proud to be permitted to call my friend, the Lady Madalina Palmer, who related the story with the delightful warmth with which generous people speak of generosity;-and I have now before me a letter from one of the parties concerned, which states the matter better still. But that letter I must not transcribe, and Lady Madalina is too far off to dictate to me in the pretty Scotch, which, from her, one likes better than English; so that I am fain to record the naked facts as simply and as briefly as possible, leaving them to produce their own effect on those who love the arts, and who admire a warm-hearted liberality in every rank of life.

Some time in November 1831, Mr. Cribb, an ornamental gilder in London, a superb artist in his line, and employed in the most

subject and at his own price, making such an advance as the richest artist would not scruple to accept on a commission, conjuring him to leave off caps and bonnets, and foretelling his future eminence. Mr. Cribb says he shall never forget the delight of Mr. Cooper's face when he gave the order-he has a right to the luxury of such a recollection. Well! the picture was completed, and when completed, our friend Mr. Cribb, who is not a man to do his work by halves, bespoke a companion, and, while that was painting, showed the first to a great number of artists and gentlemen, who all agreed in expressing the strongest admiration, and in wondering where the painter could have been hidden. Before the second picture was half finished, a Mr. Carpenter (I believe that I am right in the name) gave Mr. Cooper a commission for a piece, which was exhibited in May, 1833, at the Suffolk Street Gallery; and from that moment orders poured in, and the artist's fortune is made.

It is right to add, that Mr. Cooper was generously eager to have this story made known, and Mr. Cribb as generously averse from its publication. But surely it ought to be recorded, for the example's sake, and for their mutual honour. I ought also to say, that it is only in heart, and pocket, and station, that Mr. Cribb resembles my butcher; the former being evidently a man of fair education and excellent taste. Oh! that I could have printed his account of this matter! It was so natural, so naif, so characteristic, so amusing. I dared not commit such a trespass

If Mr. Leslie erred on the side of unpretend

MATCH-MAKING.

THE proudest of all our proud country gentlewomen,she who would most thoroughly have disdained the unlucky town ladies, who are destined to look on brick walls instead of green trees, and to tread on stone pavements instead of gravel walks, was, beyond all doubt, my good friend Mrs. Leslie.

Many years ago, a family of that name came to reside in our neighbourhood, and being persons thoroughly comme il faut, who had taken, on a long lease, the commodious and creditable mansion called Hallenden Hall, with its large park-like paddock, its gardens, greenhouses, conservatories, and so forth, and who evidently intended to live in a style suited to their habitation, were immediately visited by the inmates of all the courts, manors, parks, places, lodges, and castles within reach.

Mr. Leslie was, as was soon discovered, a man of ancient family and good estate, who had left his own county on the loss of a contested election, or some such cause of disgust, and had passed the last few years in London for the education of his daughters. He was, too, that exceedingly acceptable and somewhat rare thing, a lively, talking, agreeable man, very clever and a little quaint, and making his conversation tell as much by a certain off-handedness of phrase and manner, as by the shrewdness of his observations, and his extensive knowledge of the world. He had also, besides his pleasantry and good-humour, another prime requisite for country popularity; although greatly above the general run of his neighbours in intellect, he much resembled them in his tastes;-loved shooting, fishing, and hunting in the morning; liked good dinners, good wine, and a snug rubber at night; farmed with a rather less loss of money than usually befalls a gentleman; was a stanch partisan at vestries and turnpike meetings; a keen politician at the reading-room and the club; frequented races and coursing meetings; had a fancy for the more business-like gaieties of sessions and grand juries; accepted a lieutenancy in the troop of yeoman cavalry, and actually served as churchwarden during the second year of his residence in the parish. At

his example: she had pretensions enough of all sorts to have set up twenty fine ladies out of her mere superfluity. The niece of an Irish baron and the sister of a Scotch countess, she fairly wearied all her acquaintance with the titles of her relatives. "My uncle, Lord Linton-my brother-in-law, the Earl of Paisley," and all the Lady Lucys, Lady Elizabeths, Lady Janes, and Lady Marys of the one noble house, and the honourable masters and misses' of the other, were twanged in the ears of her husband, children, servants, and visiters, every day and all day long. She could not say that the weather was fine without quoting my lord, or order dinner without referring to my lady. This peculiarity was the pleasure, the amusement of her life. Its business was to display, and if possible to marry her daughters; and I think she cherished her grand connexions the more, as being, in some sort, implements or accessories in her designs upon rich bachelors, than for any other cause; since, greatly as she idolized rank in her own family, she had seen too much of its disadvantages when allied with poverty, not to give a strong! preference to wealth in the grand pursuit of husband-hunting. She would, to be sure, have had no objection to an affluent peer for a sonin-law, had such a thing offered; but as the commodity, not too common anywhere, was particularly scarce in our county, she wisely addressed herself to the higher order of country squires, men of acres who inherited large territories and fine places, or men of money who came by purchase into similar possessions, together with their immediate heirs, leaving the younger brothers of the nobility, in common with all other younger brothers, unsought and uncared-for.

Except in the grand matters of pedigrees and match-making, my good friend Mrs. Leslie was a sufficiently common person; rather vulgar and dowdy in the morning, when, like many country gentlewomen of her age and class, she made amends for unnecessary finery by more unnecessary shabbiness, and trotted about the place in an old brown stuff gown, much resembling the garment called a Joseph worn by our great-grandmothers, surmounted by a weather-beaten straw-bonnet and a sunburnt bay wig; and particularly stately in an

evening, when silks and satins made after the newest fashion, caps radiant with flowers, hats waving with feathers, chandelier ear-rings, and ermine-lined cloak, the costly gift of a diplomatic relation-("My cousin, the envoy," rivalled in her talk even "my sister the countess")-converted her at a stroke into a chaperon of the very first water.

Her daughters, Barbara and Caroline, were pretty girls enough, and would probably have been far prettier, had Nature, in their case, only been allowed fair play. As it was, they had been laced and braced, and drilled and starved, and kept from the touch of sun, or air, or fire, until they had become too slender, too upright, too delicate, both in figure and complexion. To my eye they always looked as if they had been originally intended to have been plumper and taller, with more colour in their cheeks, more spring and vigour in their motions, more of health and life about them, poor things! Nevertheless, they were prettyish girls, with fine hair, fine eyes, fine teeth, and an expression of native good-humour, which, by great luck, their preposterous education had not been able to eradicate.

Certainly, if an injudicious education could have spoilt young persons naturally well-tempered and well-disposed, these poor girls would have sunk under its evil influence. From seven years old to seventeen, they had been trained for display and for conquest, and could have played without ear, sung without voice, and drawn without eye, against any misses of their inches in the county. Never were accomplishments more thoroughly travestied. Barbara, besides the usual younglady iniquities of the organ, the piano, the harp, and the guitar, distended her little cheeks like a trumpeter, by blowing the flute and the flageolet; whilst her sister, who had not breath for the wind instruments, encroached in a different way on the musical prerogative of man, by playing most outrageously on the fiddle-a female Paganini!

They painted in all sorts of styles, from "the human face divine," in oils, crayons, and miniatures, down to birds and butterflies, so that the whole house was a series of exhibition-rooms; the walls were hung with their figures and landscapes, the tables covered with their sketches; you sat upon their performances in the shape of chair-cushions, and trod on them in the form of ottomans. A family likeness reigned throughout these productions. Various in style, but alike in badness, all were distinguished by the same uniform unsuccess. Nor did they confine their attempts to the fine arts. There was no end to their misdoings. They japanned boxes, embroidered work-bags, gilded picture-frames, constructed pincushions, bound books, and made shoes. For universality the admirable Crichton was a joke to them. There was nothing in which they had not failed.

During one winter (and winter is the season of a country belle) Mrs. Leslie traded upon her daughters' accomplishments. Every morning visit was an exhibition, every dinner-party a concert, and the unlucky assistants looked, listened, yawned, and lied, and got away as soon as possible, according to the most approved fashion in such cases. Half-a-year's experience, however, convinced the prudent mamma that acquirements alone would not suffice for her purpose; and having obtained for the Miss Leslies the desirable reputation of being the most accomplished young ladies in the neighbourhood, she relinquished the proud but unprofitable pleasure of exhibition, and wisely addressed herself to the more hopeful task of humouring the fancies and flattering the vanity of others.

In this pursuit she displayed a degree of zeal, perseverance, and resource, worthy of a better cause. Not a bachelor of fortune within twenty miles, but Mrs. Leslie took care to be informed of his tastes and habits, and to offer one or other of her fair nymphs to his notice, after the manner most likely to attract his attention and fall in with his ways. Thus, for a whole season, Bab (in spite of the danger to her complexion) hunted with the Copley hounds, riding and fencing* to admiration—not in chase of the fox, poor girl, for which she cared as little as any she in Christendom-but to catch, if it might be, that eminent and wealthy Nimrod, Sir Thomas Copley, who, after all, governed by that law of contrast which so often presides over the connubial destiny, married a town beauty, who never mounted a horse in her life, and would have fainted at the notion of leaping a five-barred gate; whilst Caroline, with equal disregard to her looks, was set to feed poultry, milk cows, make butter, and walk over ploughed fields with Squire Thornley, an agriculturist of the old school, who declared that his wife should understand the conduct of a farm as well as of a house, and followed up his maxim by marrying his dairy-maid. They studied mathematics to please a Cambridge scholar, and made verses to attract a literary lord; taught Sunday schools and attended missionary meetings to strike the serious; and frequented balls, concerts, archery clubs, and water-parties to charm the gay; were everything to everybody, seen everywhere, known to every one; and yet at the end of three years were, in spite of jaunts to Brighton, Cheltenham, and London, a trip to Paris, and a tour through Switzerland, just as likely to remain the two accomplished Miss Leslies as