A tremendous knock at the door here startled the company, and made the plate ring on the side-board. Even Mr. Kickshaw heard it dis

tinctly.

“What unseasonable hours some people take for visiting," said Mrs. Jenkinson.

"It's my good woman and the boys,' I dare say," stammered old Mr. Kickshaw," so don't alarm yourself, my dear."

Mrs. Jenkinson looked as if she never heard more alarming intelligence in all her life; but the intruders were not Mrs. Kickshaw and boys; the door opened-all the Hawkes!

Σ.

STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

WRITTEN FOR, AND INTENDED TO BE SUNG AT, THE LATE FESTIVAL.
BY ELIZA Cook.

OH! Robin! Robin! child of Song,
The nobly poor-the bravely strong,
Warm hearts have met to crown thy lyre,

And mourn the fate that quench'd its fire.
Like many another rare and great,
Thou wert not treasured till too late,
Thy "magic mantle's" glowing sheen,

Burst through thy shroud-cloth ere 'twas seen.

Oh! Robin! Robin! bards divine,

Fair wreaths for thee have loved to twine,
But none that deck thy memory stone,

Eclipse the laurels of thine own.
The craven hand would seek to fling
A shadow o'er thy richest string;
But never shall such coward slave,
Shut out one ray from Robin's grave.

Oh! Robin! Robin! princes now,

Will speak of him who "held the plough ;"
And many a pilgrim hails the spot,
Made sacred by the "ploughman's cot."
The lips that laugh-the hearts that grieve,
Chant forth thy strains from morn till eve;
For Nature ever fondly turns,

To hear her own sweet truth from Burns.

Though nought beside of hallow'd worth,
Marked Scotia's men and Scotia's earth;
Since Burns has sung, she needs no more,
To spread her fame the wide world o'er.
Oh! Robin! Robin! proudly dear,
Thy spirit still is with us here;
And Glory's halo round thy head,
Shines as we laud the mighty dead.

Sept.-VOL. LXXII. NO. CCLXXXV.

CONVERSATIONS WITH THE LATE W. BECKFORD, ESQ.

CONTRIBUTED BY VARIOUS FRIENDS.

No. III.

Ir was in the year 1831, and under the following circumstances, that I first had the honour of making the acquaintance of the late W. Beckford, Esq., and which I am proud to say continued until the period of his much lamented demise.

In early youth I showed a disposition for drawing, which was considered by my family to indicate some little promise. It was determined by my father, who had, like Mr. Shandy, his own original and favourite notions, that I should be permitted to follow it as a profession, for, said the good old gentleman, "I hold it to be one of the greatest errors a parent can commit not to let boys have their own way in the choice of a profession. I hold it as my positive opinion," he continued, "that no father is justified in making them shoemakers, when their inclinations prompt them to become cobblers." I had not long returned from Cambridge, where I had made some copies from the pictures in the Fitzwilliam museum, when Mr. the architect of Mr. Beckford, happening to call, and seeing these youthful productions, expressed a wish that this illustrious patron of art should be allowed also to look at them. My father, who had often wondered at this mysterious recluse, readily availed himself of the proposal, and two o'clock the following day was fixed. As this hour approached, the whole house was in commotion, the servants peeping through keyholes, my father preparing a thousand of his most favourite ideas, and myself in such a feverish state of excitement, that my head seemed to be looking out of every window in the house at the same moment. At last two o'clock struck, and, at the very moment, an outrider came galloping to the door, a chariot and postilion came rapidly following after, and before my mother had time to escape from the drawing-room, or my father had advanced to receive him, the author of "Vathek" was vigorously ascending the stairs, ejaculating as he advanced, "Oh! oh! ah!" Mr. -presented him to my father, and then to the less worthy representative of the family, myself.

His manner of bowing to me was most courteous and elegant, but as he fixed his peculiarly convex yet small piercing gray eyes upon me, I felt as though he would dive into my thoughts, even though it were through the points of my eyelashes. The character of his countenance struck me to be a mixture of the divine Dante, Lorenzo de Medici, and the Mephistophiles of Faust. His voice was agreeable, his manner energetic, and, when he became excited by conversation, and he allowed his imagination full play, knowledge and persuasion, sublime images and sarcasms, came flooding from his lips in such a powerful stream, that you were forcibly carried by it to the sands of admiration, and there left to bask in the splendour of his genius. He usually kept one of his hands over his mouth when in repose, or when looking at any thing; they were well shaped though thickly freckled. He scarcely ever sat down, but kept moving about, suiting his position to the persons he addressed, so as to watch and study them. He adapted his conversation to your powers, and led you imperceptibly to the subjects you were most master of, or on

which you were most enthusiastic. To those who gained his esteem he was ever gracious and affable, but where his displeasure was caused it fell like a dead blight. His dress was that of the last century (a little modernised), top-boots, knee-breeches, a green coat, frill, and white neckcloth. Such was the author of "Vathek" as he stood contemplating the copies I had made.

After remaining in the room about five or ten minutes, during which time his eyes darted toward every part with a rapidity peculiar to his microscopic vision, he turned his back upon the copies, and thus addressed me, "Well, well, they are good-vastly good-I like them much ;" and with a power of memory almost inconceivable, he commenced pointing out wherein they were successful in imitating the master, and in what they were deficient. The truth of his remarks were so obvious that I asked him if he had recently seen the originals, to which question he replied that he had not seen them since they were in the collection of the Duke of Orleans. "But you are aware," he added, "that the Viscount Fitzwilliam was more famous for his engravings than for his pictures." I then asked him if his lordship was not a man of great taste? Nobody but those who have conversed with or seen the author of "Vathek" can conceive the extraordinary, contemptuous, and mischievous expression his face would assume when his mind was occupied upon a subject uncongenial to his sentiments or his sympathies. He retreated two or three steps back, screwed up his face and frame, and, with a voice ascending to a higher key, replied, "Oh! gracious goodness, no. He was a poor good-natured sort of thing-a hollyhock-but he had an excellent judge, whom he employed to collect for him; the viscount found the money, and Mr. the engravings; but whether they were retouched with ink, or pure from the artist's hand, he was incapable of determining." He was much amused by my telling him that Earl --, then Lord who had seen these copies a few days before, disapproved of Titian's idea of beauty. "Oh-oh-oh, indeed? so I should imagine. I can well suppose that, were I to judge of his lordship's taste by his wife." His visit was but a short one; and whilst descending the stairs, on his way down, he suddenly turned, and asked me if I would like to see the interior of his house on Lansdown Crescent. I immediately asked him when I should come. "The sooner the better," was the reply. "Shall it be to-morrow? Well, then, let it be to-morrow at ten." Before I could give an answer he was again seated in his carriage, and the squire, as he was called by his servants, was out of sight.

For the remainder of that evening my mind was filled with this strange and original being. I could think of nothing else. He had taken absolutely possession of my faculties; in fact he haunted me; there was something so fascinating in his manner, and so amusing in his conversation-such a commingling of all that was impressive, affable, and kind, that, to use one of his own expressions, "I at once believed in him." As he had shown such punctuality when he honoured us with a visit, I felt it incumbent on myself to be equally precise. I accordingly left home at nine o'clock, and reached Lansdown Crescent long before the appointed hour. Mr. Beckford's dwelling, at that period, consisted of two houses, on the opposite sides of an open way leading from the front of the crescent to its rear; these were joined together by an arch being thrown across, of pure proportions and simple structure; the entrance was under

the archway, to the right hand. I stood upon the steps of the doorway just as the clock struck, and, with a nervous hand, gently pulled the bell: -I observed there was no knocker, so that his ever active spirit could not be disturbed by a fashionable rat-a-tat-tat, or, the double knock of Mr. Walker the twopenny postman. The chain was unfastened, and the door opened by a servant, who made a respectful bow. His dwarf was standing in the hall-that singular caricature of man whom I had so frequently seen galloping on his little pony to Weston-a strange creature to fascinate the heart of a sweet and lovely girl. How wondrous strange! And yet to those who know the hearts of women, and have observed their fanciful and capricious ways, it is as nothing.

'Twas he who led me to the room in which Mr. Beckford was. The hall was not particularly spacious. On a side-board were a few exotics, pleasing to the eye, and an emblazoned pedigree of the Beckford family was suspended in a frame to the right upon entering the apartment. The dwarf with his huge head and body, moving upon what seemed scarcely to be legs, announced me. I was received with open hands and cordiality, and "Vathek's" master-mind perceiving, as if by instinct, that my feelings were jarred by the appearance of his strange attendant, exclaimed, "Oh, what do you think of him, eh? Oh, he's a strange thing, isn't he?" turning to see whether he was still behind me. Mr. Beckford laughed, and with unearthly voice told me, "He is a Giaour, and feeds upon toadstools."

I looked at him as if I believed in Giaours, for I was passionately fond of the "Arabian Nights." After paying the usual compliments,

"Come," said he, "I will show you something better to look at than that devil-fish," and stopping before the head of St. Catherine-that exquisite gem which is now in the National Gallery-" Behold that--ah! ah! Oh, gracious heavens-is she not beautiful? What a mouth!-look at the corners of that mouth-no impure twistings-all purity; and the eyes-those eyes which seem to be looking into the very countenance of our divine Saviour with such a holy devotion. There-there, now you see what Raphael is!"

The door opened, and another visiter was introduced, who came waddling up to me. This was poor Tiny-a beautiful black-and-tan of the Blenheim breed. The animal seemed to understand perfectly that I was at liberty to be there, for when admiring it, Mr. Beckford looked at the dog, Tiny laid at his feet, as if its affection for the master was so intense that it felt happy merely by a look. Poor Tiny! thy master was not ungrateful for thy many years of devotion: he has collected together thy bones, and saved thy flesh, and from the destructive winds secure has placed them in a tomb or ark on Lansdown's summit, where ever green shrubs their shadows cast, and "Vathek's" tower darts its proud head unto the floating clouds, and where once stood that granite shell, of large Egyptian form, thy master fashioned for himself. We again turned to the picture of Raphael.

"It is," said he, " one of the very sweetest heads Raphael ever painted. I know of none so beautiful, except in his picture of the Perlaa.' But the finest of all Raphael's productions is the 'Spasimo,' which is in the Escurial."

"What," inquired I, "finer than the Transfiguration ?" "

"Yes, than as we know the Transfiguration,' for I saw it at Paris

with a swarm of picture-cleaners (those skinners of pictures), cleaning and scraping, and making spots over it like a group of bluebottle-flies; besides, there was a hole in the centre which was filled up. The Redeemer is very fine, but infinitely inferior to our Lord, as portrayed in the Spasimo,' who is bowed down to the earth by the weight of his cross and his sufferings, but in the expression of whom, Raphael has made visible an inward satisfaction struggling over pain, that he is yet to save the world.”

During the whole time that I was looking at this picture, which was hung-a line picture, as the aristocracy of the Royal Academy would call it-the light coming in from the left, and beneath which was placed a glass containing some three or five delicate and odoriferous flowers--he went on talking and describing its beauties; then opening the glass before it, he made me look close, to examine Raphael's method of pencilling. What with the flowers, and a sort of spicy perfume which seemed to come forth as he unlocked it, I observed that one might imagine she breathed, and that her breath was like sweet herbs and cinnamon.

He retreated-looked at me-rubbed his fore finger and thumb together, and said, "Ah-ah-good-so you might-I see you appreciate these sort of things."

The next picture we looked at was a Claude Lorraine, which hung above, to the right of the Raphael, and between two Vernets. The subject of the Claude, was "Christ appearing to Mary Magdalene in the Garden," and which has been since sold.

"Oh," he said, "you don't like that-quite right, it is a vile composition, and except for that peculiar and happy hue, like the bloom on a fresh-gathered plum, so exclusively Claude's, and which you find here purer than I ever saw it before, I would not keep the picture an hour."

I then called his attention to the "Mulino," in the National Gallery. "It is fine," he replied, "but that execrable Seguier has scrubbed away its bloom and virginity. I have an advantage though over you," he said, "for my sight is so acute, that I can see deeper into the paint than you can, and therefore can well imagine what it must have been."

I then pointed to one of the Vernets.

"Ah! clever-yes, yes, it's clever. I hang them there to show the difference of the schools. You have pasticcio and French broth at the same time."

The "Garafolo," now in the National Gallery, was likewise hung in this room. On the opposite side was his famous Gaspar Poussin, under which hung the well-known picture, called the Berghem gem (since sold), a very sweet little bit by Wilson, and some smaller ones by Dutch masters; to the left of these was the fire-place, by the side of which was a basket filled with fir-cone tops. To the left of the fire-place hung, what was decidedly the favourite picture of all his picked collection. I never during the many-many happy hours I have spent in this room, listening to his conversation, historical and family anecdotes, or to his reading autograph letters, correspondences with his daughter, the Duchess of Hamilton, works yet unpublished, such as his "Liber Veritatis," "Episodes of Vathek," &c.,-I never left this room without our mutually admiring this picture by West, the subject of which was "Lear." I would defy the determined hostility and bitterness even of a Peter Pindar not to have