“‘Come to Willington bazaar! Enter, neighbours, near and far. Pure delightsome harmony Welcomes all friends cheerily; Crops of pretty useful things, Philanthropy to market brings; Sympathy with ardour buys, What industrial zeal supplies!’ Do you think you could have done that? No, I’m sure you couldn’t!” And, in excellent humour with himself and with me, he took leave, waving his hand towards the book-case as he went, and saying:— “An elegant sufficiency! content, Retirement, rural quiet, friendship, books, Progressive virtue, and approving heaven!” * * * * * Guido Sorelli beautifully says, “I learn the depth to which I have sunk, from the length of chain let down to updraw me.” Without inquiring into his wisdom in publishing his “Confessions,” (written for the public, apparently, and _not_ for Silvio Pellico), they certainly have, as he says, a tendency to bring the reader to “a saddening contemplation of his own heart.” This sensitive Italian was converted by the Bible, which he, in the first instance, read for an hour daily, and completely perused in three months; never opening it without first praying for humility. Nor did he ever commence his daily seven hours’ task of translating “Paradise Lost,” without imploring divine assistance; and the last four years of his ten years’ labour of love, “bore the impress,” he tells us, “of a happiness almost beatific.” Such are the silent, satisfying rewards which high and virtuous art bestows on her children, wholly independent of fame or emulation. Like the exquisite _fanatico per la musica_, in La Motte Fouquè’s “Violina,” they “carry on their labour as a sweet secret, hardly knowing at the time whether they shall ever feel inclined to make it known.” The “last infirmity of noble minds,” is their seeking the confirmatory sentence of some master-spirit, whom the voice of the world, and their own cordial acknowledgment, place far above themselves. All beyond this opens the door to rivalry and uneasiness. Once know that you do a thing well, and the calm pleasure needs not to be augmented by everybody’s owning it. * * * * * If a botanist ranges over an entire meadow, and find one or two new specimens, he thinks his labour not in vain. And if I find one or two noteworthy passages in a book, I am glad I have read it. Here, now, is the life of Pollok. What true soul of art has not experienced, at some period of its existence, the depression and despondency, the suspicion of its own self-delusion, thus expressed by the young Scottish poet?—