In the middle space upborne, Titiana smiles--and from the wave The form returns the smile she gave : She spreads her arms-with winning grace But when she fondly strives to clasp The beauteous shade-it flies her grasp, Amid the broken billows lost; And all the enchanting scene is tost, Athwart the bosom of the tide ! We are sorry we cannot speak so highly of the next engraving, The subject is the wellknown tradition of the Italian lady seeing Milton asleep under a tree, and leaving some verses beside him descriptive of his beauty. The design is by Westall, but it is altogether unworthy of so romantic and pleasing a subject. Westall is utterly destitute of invention, and his style is deformed by a very disagreeable mannerism. His figures are all cast in the same mould, and that a very formal one." The Embarkation, painted by Whichelo, and engraved by Brandard, is a bright and beautiful production; but it reminds us too much of Turner, whose popularity has beguiled many of his brother artists into the vice of imitation. Turner himself is a splendid painter, whose very faults have a character of magnificence. His gorgeous skies and strong and startling contrasts of light and shade indicate in him an originality of conception and a masterly spirit, but we are less willing to be pleased when these peculiarities are repeated by other hands, in however skilful a manner. We forgive Turner his peculiar trees, that rise up like circular black clouds against a dazzling sky, because we admire the boldness and vigour with which his contrasts were first conceived and executed, but we see little merit in the artist who merely ventures on a repetition of the same effects. The engraving of The Orphan, (painted by Holmes,) is a very pretty portrait of rural beauty, but the artist has not studied Gainsborough to much advantage, or the orphan would have had a different and more natural look. Her foster-sister, however, is introduced into the picture in a very judicious manner, and realizes our idea of a happy and healthy country girl. She has quite an out-of-doors air about her. In justice to the artist we ought to observe, that the Orphan is described in the letter-press as a rather delicate maiden, and if the artist illustrated the story, he is in some respects correct in his delineation, but there was no occasion to represent her as in the slightest degree lacadaisical ;-and yet, notwithstanding this fault, we are half inclined to retract our censure, for the girl is a very pretty little creature after all. It is rather undignified in a public critic to betray such indecision as this, but we have our first and second thoughts as well as other people, and sometimes waver a little in our judgment as we gaze upon a picture or read a poem. “The Palace”" is the next embellishment that claims our notice, and we feel no hesitation, in this instance, in forming and expressing our opinion. It is engraved in a very sharp, and spirited, and sparkling manner by E. Finden, after a drawing by William Purser. Mr. Purser is a clever artist, and has resources of his own, and, therefore, he is not to be forgiven for purloining a couple of Turner's trees and an effect of light and shade. His picture, however, is not altogether a plagiarism, but has some excellent points for which the artist is entitled to the praise of originality. Our young friend Wood, for so we call him, not on account of a personal acquaintance, but the interest we take in his progress as an artist, has a very sweet picture in this volume, entitled Myrrhina and Myrto." The forms and attitudes of the figures are elegant and pleasing, though a critic, if he pleased, could talk rather disrespectfully of the shape and thickness of the right arm of Myrrhina. The fancy of this young artist is poetical exceedingly,' though he sometimes fails in the minute handling of his pictures. But if his small details are occasionally inaccurate, he is free and flowing in his outlines, and the general effect is extremely graceful. We believe we have now noticed all the engravings that are worthy of especial mention, and shall take our leave of the Friendship's Offering for 1832, in the best of humours with the Editor himself, and all those writers and artists, who have contributed to support its character as one of the most tasteful of the London Annuals. 66 LOG BOOK-No. II. At the close of the year 1811 my father had become weary of the monotonous existence of a country life, which his official duties confined him to, and he decided on retiring into that "vale of obscurity," Half Pay, and fixing his future head quarters in his native town, Plymouth, where, amidst all the active bustle of war, he would be " among them but not of them." He could feed and nourish his old associations by being, if I may so express myself, on the battle field of his former days, and whenever he met an old Crony, why, he could "shoulder his crutch and show how fields were won." These considerations determined him to this step; so the application was made for supercession, and granted accordingly. This change was highly acceptable to me, and much did I rejoice at it, for though, like a young bird when first essaying its wing, I could not be supposed to have many joys and sorrows of my own, I would prefer the country because I was there, ever free and unfettered, roaming and roving over hill and dale, inhaling the pure air of Heaven and idolizing that ocean which stretched far and wide in front of us, and which, for a number of years, I had been accustomed to contemplate and observe in all its varieties of grandeur. Still the town, the town, where I should see soldiers exercise, go on board ships of war, and revel in the ever infinite variety of such scenes, overbalanced any incipient feelings I may have had for the retired and romantic beauties of Nature. Alas! how different are the aspirations of my heart now, and with what thankfulness would I offer up my prayers to the Great Author of Nature, could I be assured that, even at this eleventh hour of the day, I should yet be able to retire to some village or homely cottage in my native country, with a humble competency " before I depart hence, and be no more seen. The reader will pardon this digression; but, like the Isrealites of old, when they wept their sorrows on Euphrates' banks, and mourned the loss of their once hallowed home, so my heart turns with filial yearnings towards that dear land in which, in spirit at least, " I live, and move, and have my being!" Proceed we to our story.-Having "pitched our tent" in our new abode, where I was surrounded by every object that could make it interesting to a young and ardent boy, (I was born in July, 1800,) my father urged my application to my studies with redoubled energy, and promised, as the "golden apple of temptation," that the sooner he could, with credit to himself and me, recommend me to a captain, as a youngster worthy his patronage, the sooner I should be released from the trammels of domestic discipline. This was sufficient; I wanted no other incitement. I returned to my studies with pleasure, which, as I before stated, consisted of Navigation, French, and History; and, by way of an experiment, my father suffered me to choose my own hours to take them up at will, and lay them down at pleasure. This was an advantage, and a great one, for, instead of considering him as an inexorable task-master, and my books as the instrument of torture, I regard. ed them as the means by which I should one day rise to eminence and fame, (alas! alas! how much I have been mistaken.) In the neighbourhood of Plymouth was a French prison, wherein were confined both officers and men, (distinct from each other, of course.) The Matron of this place was the sister of an old Naval friend of my parent. I used frequently to visit her for the purpose of mixing with the French officers, speaking their language, and hearing them record their peninsular exploits. In return for those benefits I would give them the political news of the day. Poor fellows! I well remember with what shrugs and grimaces they heard the failure of Bonaparte's Russian campaign, for I was a faithful historian you may be sure; indeed I think I sometimes exceeded the truth, by way of experiment on their feelings; but what struck me as a moral phenomenon, was their unshaken devotion to their chief. I could not conceive how they could continue their attachment to a man against whom fortune seemed to be waging an irreconcilable opposition, and who only used his troops and led them forth as the broken tools which tyrants cast away by millions." But no! no reverse he suffered drew from them a condemnatory exclamation of his rashness. All was “Cher Empereur, pauvre Empereur. Ah! Les Allié's l'ont trahie pentetre!" Yes, I said, the Prussians had forsaken his standard and declared against him. Ah, les villains Prusses! les poltrons Prusses! il leur faut un autre champ de Jena et d'Eylan," they would say. There was one rather partial exception to this general rule, as respected the obstinacy of Bonaparte. 99 66 66 I was introduced, by a French officer, to the brave general Phillippon, who so gallantly defended the fortress of Badajoz, in Spain, when stormed by the Anglo-Spanish Army,-as "un petit garcon de sagesse et precoce. The general was a gentlemanly, soldier-like man, with a commanding, dignified exterior; he took me by the hand, patted me on the head, and said, in the blandest accents, "Eh bien mon jeune brave, comment va la querre? Oh, mon seigneur le general, on dit qu'on va faire la paix. "Comment!" said he, with pleasurable surprise; but I rejoined, "Le crois que c'est abandonné a cause de l'opiniatre de Napoleon." Now this was a hatched story of my own, for I was cunning enough in those days to play off a joke on a Frenchman's feelings. Oh! diable, diable," exclaimed the agitated general, “repetez moi tout ce qu'on a passé." Here was a paller for me, for I was not prepared with a well strung thread of twisters, but fortunately for the credit of my veracity, and probably my head too, I was well acquainted with all the warlike politics of the day, and the relative positions of the French and allied armies. As quick as thought I said, the British government had deputed some great big my Lord Anglois to proceed to Napoleon's head quarters, in Germany, and, in conjunction with the allied ambassadors, terms were proposed which had been rejected, but there was still some small chance-a glimmering of hope left, which, if rejected by his imperial master, would make the war interminable, or until it ended with the destruction of Napoleon altogether-I little dreamt I was fortelling what absolutely came to pass afterwards. "Oh j'espere, j'espere," added the general, addressing himself to a group of 66 officers of all grades, by whom he was surrounded, " que l'Empereur ne seroit pas insensible an bonheur de la France et de l'Europe, cette fois, et que nous retournerons bientot a notre pays." His Excellency then playfully put several questions relative to myself who I was, and what I was. I was not slow in telling him all the ins and outs of me, and in particular, that I was the son of a naval officer, who, I believed, had killed, (taking care to qualify my language.) as many of the enemies of my country as Hector did at the seige of Troy. Bon, bon!" said the general, with a hearty laugh and a shake of the hand, in which he was joined by all present; "et vous, vous serez guerrier aussi?" "Yes," I said. I was to be like my father, officer de marine Anglois." "Ah! brave garcon, brave garcon!" And putting his hand into his waistcoat pocket, he gave me a half crown. "Voici-allezvous-en, et retournez demain avec plus de nouvelles. " I took my leave with many thanks, vowing to myself that my future stories shou'd be in favor of the French-with a reservation always in favor of the English, for I had a good sprinkling of the blood of Hannibal in me, and my country must be, I thought, pre-eminent in every thing. (I was not acquainted with the character of a Tory then, or else I should have tuned my pipe to a different note.) 66 Now, reader, it happened that in the direct route between this prison and my father's house there lay a confectioner's shop, and as I was already a bit of a navigator, and the wind blew fair, I up helm," trimmed sails, and dropped anchor in this very identical" apple tart harbour." The mistress of the shop knew who I was very well. I entered, not with my usual puling school-boy air, with "please Ma'am for a pen'north of sweetmeats," but fierce and ferocious like the "whiskered Pard." "I want some of those tarts, I said. "Where's your money to pay for them, demanded the owner. "Here it is," I replied, with the air of a man conscious of his independence of pocket, showing her at the same time the money. "Where did you get that from?" she demanded, eyeing me with a most scrutinizing look. "What business is that to you," I said, "will you give me the tarts, or will you not?" "I'm sure," she impudently asserted, " you didn't come by that money honestly, and I'll tell your father of it." Oh! this was an electrificr. I knew my father's high notions of honor too well to risk the chance of his hearing it, for had it been Bonaparte himself who offered me cash, while a prisoner or in open arms against my country, he would have considered it the worst of treason to have approached within boathook's length of any thing belonging to him; so I was glad to come to a compromise with my worthy hostess of the tart-shop, and tell her the whole truth. She believed it, because, like all those beldames of a country town, she knew more about other people's business than her own, and, besides, was not unwilling to deliver over to the carnivorous maw of a youngster one half the stock in trade with which her shop windows were garnished, and when I asked for the damage, I was lilo a ruined gamester cleaned out and out! On one occasion I forgot that general urbanity and politeness of behaviour it was my pride to show to Frenchmen. I was returning to |