frankness, whose loss is experience's first lesson. Near it hung a landscape by Salvator Rosa; a sky, every cloud of which was heavy with thunder; a lake, the troubled mirror of a troubled heaven; bleak rocks, that seemed to reverse the law of nature, and say, "Here life comes not—life which, in an animal or vegetable shape, teems on all other parts of the globe; but to us clings not one blade of grass;” and black woods, where the wild beast had its lair, or wilder man, who, casting off all social ties, lived but to war upon his kind. Close beside was a lovely valley by Claude Lorraine. From this Charles turned away: what sympathy had he with sunshine?—The genius of Salvator and of Byron alike asked immortality of pain. To the majority of mankind misery is a familiar thing: the dark colour and the mournful word find a home and an echo in every human heart.—Beneath stood a table made of mosaic from Pompeii. How many would admire the intricate blending of its varied colours, without giving a thought to the scene of mortal destruction and desolation from which it came! On it was a model in ivory of that most perfect specimen of Hindoo architecture, the stately temple which Jehanghire built as a tomb for his loved sultana the mighty dome, the many minarets, the hundred steps, the lofty walls, were all exquisitely wrought in miniature.
"I like," said Charles, "this monumental magnificence; it is a superb mockery. The marble is
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