Where the summons never sounded Of the trumpet or the drum. There again we’ll meet our children, Who, on Flodden’s trampled sod, For their King and for their country Rendered up their souls to God. There shall we have rest and refuge, With our dear departed brave, And the ashes of the city Be our universal grave!” W. E. A. SUBJECTS FOR PICTURES. A LETTER TO EUSEBIUS. DEAR EUSEBIUS,—Your letter of inquiry reached me at Gratian’s, just at the moment we were setting off to pay a visit of a few days to our friend the Curate, who had ensconced himself in happiness and a curacy about an easy day’s ride from his former abode. From that quarter I have no news to tell you, but that the winning affability even of Gratian cannot obtain a smile or look of acknowledgment from Lydia Prateapace. She passes him in scorn. We found the Curate and his bride on his little lawn, before the door of the prettiest of clerical residences. She was reading to him, and that I know will please you; for I have often heard you say that a woman’s reading inspires the best repose of thought, and gives both sweetness and dignity to reflection; that then the true listener is passive under the fascination and sense of all loveliness, and his ideas rise the fairer, as the flowers grow the brighter that bend to the music of the sweet-voiced brook. If every reviewer had such a reader, criticism would fall merciful as the “gentle dew,”—ink would lose its blackness. They rose to greet us with the best of welcomes; and like less happy lovers, “That day they read no more.”