Language—­in Sir J.E.  Smith, Humboldt, and Voltaire, large.

Comparison—­in Pitt, Roscoe, Raphael, Burke, John Bunyan, and Mr. Hume.

Casualty, or the connexion between cause and effect—­remarkable in the portraits and busts of Bacon, Kant, Locke, Voltaire, Dr. Thomas Brown; and in the masks of Haydon, Brunel, Burke, Franklin, and Wilkie, where it is largely developed.  In Pitt, and Sir J.E.  Smith, it is moderate, and in the Charibs and New Hollanders, very deficient.

* * * * *

SONGS BY BARRY CORNWALL.

PAST TIMES.

  Old Acquaintance, shall the nights
    You and I once talked together,
  Be forgot like common things,—­
  Like some dreary night that brings
    Naught save foul weather?

  We were young, when you and I
    Talked of golden things together,—­
  Of love and rhyme, of books and men: 
  Ah! our hearts were buoyant then
    As the wild-goose feather!

  Twenty years have fled, we know,
    Bringing care and changing weather;
  But hath th’ heart no backward flights,
  That we again may see those nights,
    And laugh together?

  Jove’s eagle, soaring to the sun,
    Renews the past year’s mouldering feather: 
  Ah, why not you and I, then, soar
  From age to youth,—­and dream once more
    Long nights together.

THE STRANGER.

  A stranger came to a rich man’s door. 
    And smiled on his mighty feast;
  And away his brightest child he bore,
    And laid her toward the East.

  He came next spring, with a smile as gay,
    (At the time the East wind blows,)
  And another bright creature he led away,
    With a cheek like a burning rose.

  And he came once more, when the spring was blue,
    And whispered the last to rest,
  And bore her away,—­yet nobody knew
    The name of the fearful guest!

  Next year, there was none but the rich man left,—­
    Left alone in his pride and pain,
  Who called on the stranger, like one bereft,
    And sought through the land,—­in vain!

  He came not:  he never was heard nor seen
    Again; (so the story saith;)
  But, wherever his terrible smile had been,
    Men shuddered, and talked of—­Death!

THE QUADROON.

  Say they that all beauty lies
  In the paler maiden’s hue? 
  Say they that all softness flies,
  Save from the eyes of April blue? 
  Arise then, like a night in June,
    Beautiful Quadroon!

  Come,—­all dark and bright, as skies
  With the tender starlight hung! 
  Loose the love from out thine eyes! 
  Loose the angel from thy tongue! 
  Let them hear heaven’s own sweet tune,
    Beautiful Quadroon!

  Tell them—­Beauty (born above)
  From no shade nor hue doth fly: 
  All she asks is mind, is love: 
  And both upon thine aspect lie,—­
  Like the light upon the moon,
    Beautiful Quadroon.