Apelles to Erasistratus the physician, who was in the highest favour with the Queen, and resided within the precincts of the royal palace. Erasistratus received him with the usual forms of hospitality, touching his right hand, and conducting him to a seat. Combabus observed that he often smiled whilst reading the letter. Having read it twice over, he folded it up, looked at Combabus with frank familiarity, and said, "So, young man, you have made this voyage solely to behold the Queen of Syria." "To look," replied Combabus, "upon her who has inspired the divinest creation of the pencil of Apelles, and who is, on earth, the representative of the Queen of Love." "But how," said the doctor, "do you hope to behold the Queen, who lives not in the simplicity of Republican Greece, but surrounded by the pomp and pride of an Asiatic court?" "For that," replied Combabus, "I trust to the friend of Apelles." "And your own," rejoined Erasistratus : 66 you are now my guest. Here (continued he, whilst leading Combabus into his cabinet) you may pass your time until my return, with Homer, Plato, and my illustrious kinsman.*"

The physician's library was well supplied. Homer had the place of honour, like a presiding genius, in that compartment which held the poets and philosophers. His bust, a copy from the Apotheosis of the poett, by a pupil of him who is so celebrated among the Greeks for that admirable piece of sculpture, was placed full in view on entering the cabinet. The bandeau across the forehead, attached in a knot behind, and the absence of the veins on the sculptured surface, attested that the divinity of his genius had received the honours of Apotheosis. The form of the eyes indicated the blindness, true or fabled, of the poet; but without producing disfigurement or vacancy in the expression of the face, and rather blending with its elevation a feeling of pathos. It is doubtful whether the images bearing the name of Homer, of which there were several in the form of a Hermes, executed at different periods, and with various degrees of skill, were genuine likenesses, or only fictitious and conventional-and this doubt produces in the heart a sentiment of despondent privation. But let the race of man be consoled with having the authentic traits of his divine spirit in his immortal poems. Next, on the right hand, was seen, sculptured in relief, Calliope, the epic Muse, conversing with the poet; and on the left, Erato, the muse of philosophy, instructing Socrates in her moral

* Aristotle.

The "Apotheosis of Homer" was a work of great celebrity among the ancients, and is mentioned by several writers, Greek and Roman. A bust (or Hermes) agreeing almost exactly with the description in the text, and undoubtedly one of those heads which passed among the Greeks for likenesses of the poet, was discovered at Rome, making part of the garden wall of a Roman prince, in the time of Clement the XIIth. It was first observed by the antiquary Ficorini, and ultimately found its way into the museum of the Capitol, where it remained until the French Republicans despoiled the Capitol to adorn the Louvre. I have seen it placed carefully, indeed reverentially, in one of the covered vehicles which conveyed away the treasures of the Louvre in 1815, and never have I beheld funeral convoy more mournful.-(Translator.)

It is from this non-appearance of the veins, that the celebrated Torso of Belvedere is supposed to represent Hercules, after he had obtained immortality. The observation is made by Winkelman.-(Trans.)

song. There were also the busts of Plato, Aristotle, Hippocrates, Anaxagoras, Democritus, and other wise men, who diffused the light of knowledge over Greece. But the figure which particularly affected Combabus, was a funeral genius, under the form of a beautiful boy, standing erect, his eyes closed with an air of languor between death and sleep, his legs gracefully crossed at the ancles, his hands meeting above the head, and his back resting against a pine tree, the branches of which were spread above him, as if to cast their funereal shade upon the tranquillity of his eternal repose.†

Having satisfied himself with the contemplation of these objects, Combabus turned to the books. He took up Homer the first in order, and, after looking over some passages with a familiar eye, laid aside the volume with the care of one intending to resume it. Plato, Aristotle, Anaxagoras he restored to their places after a passing glance. Combabus had not yet reached the age of philosophy. Amongst the dramatic poets he seemed to regard Eschylus with more admiration than sympathy, and had scarcely read a scene when he abruptly laid down the book. Sophocles and Euripides detained him longer. He took up and read in them alternately, with the lingering indecision of equal admiration. Pursuing his survey, he was surprised to find no books on medicine, and thought the exclusion strange. Happening, however, to look into an obscure corner, he beheld a heap of books carelessly piled, and overstrown with withered plants and flowers, which Erasistratus had thrown aside after having examined or applied their medicinal qualities. This piled lumber consisted of books of medicine and poetry-the former chiefly written by women of Greece. It was singular that the Greek ladies gave themselves up to the healing art, when their practising it was forbidden by usage and the laws. The comic poets ascribed it to their love of contradiction. “Give them," said these latter, "leave and encouragement to pursue the study of the healing art, and you will not have one medical treatise written by a woman in ten Olympiads." But the comic poets have ever been remarked for the slanderous malice of their tongues. This predilection for medical studies should rather be referred to the humanity of the sex, which would seek the means of assuaging the sufferings and sustaining the infirmities of mankind, in spite of injustice and unkindness. Poetry, however, formed the larger portion of the pile ; and although Combabus had passed his life in reading, yet these neglected geniuses were as new to him as if they had never existed. Mournful destiny for men who set such a value on themselves, and were indeed the heads and limbs of schools in their day! Once in every body's hands-but now in nobody's, or only in those of some rustic re

* These figures were probably parts of a group of the Muses frequently represented on ancient sarcophagi with (somewhat strangely) Bacchants, Satyrs, and Sileni, on the covercles, in all the wild intoxication of feasting. One of these sarcophagi, with the above basso-rilievos in perfect preservation, was discovered in the vicinity of Rome about the beginning of the last century, and is to be seen, I believe, in the Vatican. (Trans.)

+ This figure is also common in rilievo upon ancient sarcophagi; and the French possess a precious and admired antique, which agrees with the above precisely in description. It is known by the name of genie funèbre. In this personification may be seen that characteristic trait of Greek imagination, which, ever studious of the beautiful, arrayed in beauty even the gloom and ghastliness of death. (Tran.)

turning in the evening from the market of Athens, with his half de cad's provision of fish, figs, and bacon. Combabus had the curiosity to look through several. A brief notice of these, though so utterly forgotten, may not be without interest, as illustrating the ephemeral successes of shallow pretension, and the capricious delirations of poetical taste. ************* ******.

[Here there is again a great chasm in the manuscript. It may well be called a hiatus valde deflendus.]

This assurance was delightful to Combabus; yet so far from rendering his thoughts steady or his mind at ease, it gave new activity to his imagination. Rapt wholly in his own reveries, he scarcely spoke a word intelligibly to Erasistratus; and the philosopher with equal wisdom and good-nature left him to himself. They met once more at the physician's evening repast. It was short and frugal, consisting of some cakes, fresh eggs, fruit, the gentle wine of Thasos perfumed with rose leaves, and diluted with water from a cool and limpid spring which Erasistratus had consecrated to the genii of Health and Temperance, who, according to the religion of the Syrians, were the children of Nature. The repast being concluded, a damsel who tended and consoled the very advanced age of Erasistratus, like the Hecamede of aged Nestor-like her blooming in youth, in innocence, and in the luxuriant abundance of golden-curled hair [see Homer,] appeared before them. She conducted Combabus to the door of the apartment in which he was to sleep, and having presented him with some laurel leaves, wished him happy dreams. Combabus having put on a snowwhite robe left upon his couch by "Hecamede of abundant tresses."* (so she was called by Erasistratus) placed the leaves of the prophetic plant [laurel] above his head, and lay down to rest. As well might one strive to fix the fluctuations of surface, and the changes of hue and shade, on the bosom of the ocean beneath the passing clouds, as to fix the visions that flitted round him in his sleep. One only was of a painful nature, and, alas! it alone left any distinct impression on his memory. He beheld the Apellean Venus in animated divinity, presenting to him a golden cup, which he was dying with desire to drink of, but which some invisible sorcery kept ever from his lips. The lovely vision, seeing his despair, dropped a tear into the cup, and let it fall from her hand, and the fancied noise awoke Combabus, exhausted and agitated. He soon, however, relapsed into a more profound sleep, to the enjoyment of which we will leave him for a while.

SECOND-SIGHT.

A SCOTSMAN, like his countrymen who travel
Southward, to find a happier clime,

Where verdant turf and flowers, not heath and gravel,
Cover the earth, and thistles yield to thyme,

And branching oak and beech luxuriant rise,
Shaming the broom beneath his native skies,
Where suns glow warmer, richer fruits are eaten,
And oaten cakes yield up the palm to wheaten-

• Ευπλόκαμος Εκαμήδη. Ηom.

Took up his distant dwelling,
When tired with selling

His pedlar wares: having his fortune made
By trucking, chaffering, haggling at his trade.

At Leighton Buzzard 'twas he fix'd his quarters,
And purchased bricks and mortars,

Built a neat house with praiseworthy frugality,
And then sat down for life

Idle-he took no wife

To pester the last years of his mortality.

One faculty of value he could boast,

That none, except his countrymen, possest,
Called Second-sight; by this at others' cost
He oft advanced his purse and interest;
Could see the ghosts at midnight steal away
From church-yard graves, and ramble till 'twas day;
And mark infernal imps, to tempt poor sinners,

Mix at their plays, and operas, and dinners.

One day our Sawney from a drunken frolic
Suffer'd the cholic,

And lay stretch'd out like a stuck pig, loud groaning;
Eve came and brought short respite from his moaning,-
He rose that he might hobble to a doctor

For some advice to cure his bowels sick,

And save his corpse and cash from priest and proctor.

Two Esculapians practised in the place,
He sought the nearest out to tell his case,
Regain his ease, and set at rest his doubt.
But stared at finding all the door about
Swarming with disembodied shades of those
Despatched to their repose

By BOLUS with his drops and pills,
Scarce gaining time to make their wills:
They stood as thick as bees in summer hives,
Relics of practice on a thousand lives.

"It's weel, it's weel, the hint is unco gude,"
Thought wary Sawney; and away he strode
To seek the other son of cataplasms,
Divining the phantasms

That haunted him might less in number be,
And this assuredly

Would be a rule to ascertain his skill.
With pain increasing now he reach'd the door
Where two poor ghosts stood miserably chill-
He saw but two, sharp as he look'd for more.
Now this was well, the suffering patient thought:
Errors might happen sore against the will,

From oversight the best might twice be caught— "I'll venture in, and get a little ease

From these cursed pains that on my vitals scize." He said, and enter'd, took a copious dose,

But when he rose to go away

The doctor thanked him, hugged him close,
Assured him that for many a day

He'd been despairing, patients were so few,
For till that hour he never had but two!

Ω.

LITERARY RECOLLECTIONS OF LONDON.

NO. II.

"The City of London, that is to me so dear and sweet,-in which I was forthgrown; and more kindly love have I to that place, than any other on earth."

Chaucer.

I AM never tired of walking in London. Whether I perambulate the broad pavement of Oxford-street, steal cautiously through the perilous passes of the Seven Dials, thread the mazes of oxen and sheep in Smithfield, or jostle rich city merchants on Cornhill, I never fail in finding an infinite fund of interest and amusement.

But let me give some account of my second peregrination. It was a clear autumn morning as I passed through the massy archway of Lincoln's Inn, and traversed the venerable square so rich with a thousand legal associations. The doors of the hall in which Bacon and Clarendon, and Shaftesbury, delivered their judgments, were open, and I stepped in. I am not, thank Heaven! versed in the intricacies of equity; but I could not help feeling a sentiment of the highest veneration, as I stood where the powerful intellects of the country had for ages displayed their powers. Upon the ancient wainscot was emblazoned many a noble escutcheon, and many an illustrious name, upon which the sun seemed glad to shed his rays, enriched and glowing with the various tints of the stained windows through which they passed. As I gazed on these memorials of ancient genius, I recalled the men whose names they commémorated; and first, with a stately and very measured step, came the lord keeper Hatton. Alas! the voice of Mr. Hart, moving, I think he said, to dissolve an injunction, at the same time, dissolved my vision.

In proceeding on towards Portugal-street, I passed the ViceChancellor's court, which, like America, is not old enough to possess any recollections. At the corner of Portugal-street, opposite to the shop of Messrs. Clarke, well stored with ponderous tomes of law, stands the modern Wills's-how changed from the Wills's of ancient days! but of that anon. Upon turning a corner, I emerged into the prodigious area of Lincoln's Inn Fields. To all who love virtue and honour, and freedom, this is indeed holy ground! From the centre of this square the pure and noble spirit of William Lord Russell fled to Heaven. How closely has the memory of this undaunted patriot, and his high-minded lady, entwined itself with the affections of every true English heart! The account of Lord Russell's last moments, as given by Burnet, is, perhaps, one of the most affecting biographical sketches in the language. How hard it is to refrain from tears when we find Lady Russell repressing hers, lest they should embitter the few remaining hours of her husband's life! Of his execution a very detailed account is given, from which I will transcribe a few particulars which enrich this place with the most interesting associations: "He went into his coach with great cheerfulness; Dr. Tillotson and Dr. Burnet accompanied him. As they were going, he looked about him, and knew several persons. Some he saw staring on him who knew him, and did not put off their hats. He said there was great joy in some, but that did not touch him so much as the tears he observed in the eyes of others, for that, he said made him tender. He sung within himself as