From the works of no one English artist have I received so much pure and unmixed pleasure and instruction as I have from those of Sir David Wilkie. He differs from all the great old masters, inasmuch as I think he possesses more vigor of pencil, and more natural and characteristic truth of expression than any of them. His style cannot, indeed, be said to possess the airy and enchanting graces of Claude, or the classic power and beauty of the Poussins, or the delicious sweetness of Paul Potter, or the sunny brightness of Wynants, or the elegant warmth of Both, or the delightfully rural and country-fied air of Hobbima. In fact, he has no peculiar or distinguishing style of _his own_; and this is his great and characteristic beauty. There is nothing in his pictures but what belongs positively and exclusively to the scene they profess to represent. When any of the above qualities are required in his pictures, they are sure to be found there; not because they are part of _his_ style, but because they are part of _Nature’s_, in the circumstances under which he is representing her. The _artist_ never obtrudes himself to share with nature the admiration of the spectator. And this is a very rare and admirable quality to possess in these days of pretence and affectation; when _subject_ is usually but a _secondary_ consideration, and is kept in submission to the display of style, manner, and what is called _effect_. * * * * * TO AMIE—UNKNOWN. BY L. J. CIST. They tell me, lady! thou art fair As pale December’s driven snow; That thy rich curls of golden hair Are bright as summer-sunset’s glow; That on the coral of thy lips Dwells nectar such as Jove ne’er sips; And in thy deep cerulean eye A thousand gentle graces lie; While lofty thought, all pure as thou, Sits throned upon thy queen-like brow! Lady! I love thee! though I ne’er Have seen that form of faultless grace; Though never met mine eyes the fair And perfect beauty of thy face: Yet not for that thy face is fair— Nor for thy sunny golden hair— Nor for thy lips of roseate hue— Nor for those eyes of Heaven’s own blue— Nor swan-like neck—nor stately brow— I love thee:—not to _these_ I bow! I love thee for the gifts of mind With which they tell me thou’rt endow’d; And for thy graceful manners—kind, And gently frank, and meekly proud! And for thy warm and gushing heart, And soul, all void of guileful art, And lofty intellect, well stored With learning’s rich and varied hoard; For gifts like _these_ (gifts all thine own) I love thee!—BEAUTIFUL UNKNOWN! * * * * * EDITH PEMBERTON. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.